no. 642 – Wrapping It Up

The pictures are scheduled Thursday evening. Each session is only 10 minutes long so I know it’s not going to be an elaborate set up. I appreciate y’all weighing in either by vote or comment or both. We’ll go with the majority vote and once we get the picture, I’ll show you the final results.

It was also nice to hear from several of you that I haven’t for a while. It’s often pointed out that the best way to get comments is to bemoan the fact that you aren’t getting comments. I’ll try not to do it too often, potentially wearing out the pity-factor.

I guess I’m lucky that there’s nothing else going on to warrant pity or empathy. Case in point: last night I realized that thinking of the time remaining on this pregnancy in a "count down" manner is more encouraging than thinking in either "three more months" or counting up to 40 weeks.

That means next week, once I make it through my 28 wk growth scan, I’ll have just 11 weeks to go, max. While of course I’m feeling anticipatory, I’m also a little scared.

no. 641 – Opinions and Validation

The church is taking pictures for the Directory (of Ridicule). Which combination of clothing do you like best?

(if any one is still out there…hello? any one?)

421_019 Option #1

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421_020 Option #2

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421_023 Option #3

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Here’s the poll:

I thought about creating another poll to see if I’m really that boring, but my ego can’t take it.

no. 640 – Flip This House

We are doing our best to make our home’s personality borderline schizophrenic. After living here for just shy of two years, the following changes have occurred (some even before they were ever enforced) – or will occur shortly:

On the blue prints, it was the "Formal Dining Room."

The idea of a formal dining room chafed Mr. DD so much, that it ended up becoming a "Den."

The den actually is the "Game Room" where we send XBoy to play his Leap Frog, Nintendo, Atari, L-Maxx, etc. I find Mr. DD in there a lot, too.

The game room is getting converted into the "Spare Bedroom."

On the blue prints, it was the "Baby’s Room."

During construction, I miscarried. It immediately became the "Spare Bedroom."

The spare bedroom will once again become the "Baby’s Room", but I don’t think I’ll be able to say that out loud for a long time.

On the blue prints, it was "XBoy’s Room."

It will remain XBoy’s room, but I will finally let him have a decision in how he wants it to look for the next few years, since I went very neutral (read: bland) in paint selection and decor. Oddly enough, this room will be the most labor-intensive.

I have a lot of work in front of me. A chair and sleeper sofa have been ordered for the spare bedroom, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. They will take about six weeks to arrive. I’ll sit on my thumbs until then.

The chicks have been returned to be with their brethren on the farm. My mom and agree that XBoy has very little animal instinct in him, unlike his mother. While some things (like mice) now can send me shrieking, I was bummed that I couldn’t move fast enough to catch the gardener snake in the yard to show XBoy. I think my mom’s shrieking fit scared it.

More on that for another time.

no. 639 – School Daze

I’m always envious of those of you who talk fondly of their school days. The friends you made and still have; your first crushes; your dances and whatnots.

I hated school. I can only remember the name of my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Stingley. She was the antonym of her name. The sweetest and oldest lady. Of course, she was probably only 40 at the time. Actually I remember Mrs. May. Ironically enough, she was a dour hag. I think she was my first grade teacher. And then there was Miss Something who I recall showing up to class with hickeys. Hickeys! She was a young teacher, very sweet. When I heard that she was dating Mr. Romohr, it was my first introduction to the Huzz. *blargh!*

So, yeah. I do remember some of the teachers, I guess.

However, it’s totally not the point of my post. Sorry, I got a little sidetracked.

I figured once I made it to the real world, all that bullshit would be left behind to fade to dust in my aging brain. No one prepared me for the fact I would have to relive all those glory days when you have a kid. XBoy has already had three "years" of school at the tender age of 6. He has also (in no particular order): used his scissors to cut a school-mates shirt ("She always gets to be first!"; popped a kid in the nose ("He was choking me and he wouldn’t stop and none of the teachers would help!"); and of course, was an accomplish in the kidnapping of his "best" friend, Zeke (you’ll love this: the same kid he biffed in the face).

He is already trying to keep up with the Joneses:

"All the kids bring their WebKinz. Can I have a WebKinz?" We gave in, got him the lion, and now he wants the chihuahua (Thank You, Paris Hilton, you stupid, stupid cow), to which I answered, Hell No.

"I hate these pants! No one else wears this color!" Uniform pants need to be tan/khaki. They are just a little darker then his others and refuses to wear them, even though the are the last to not have holes worn in the knees.

Then there’s, "Bigmouth MaGoo says he has a hundred-million-thousand dollars in his bank. How much money do I have?" So we tell him that he has "enough" (even though I think it’d be really freaking awesome to say, "Tell Bigmouth that you have enough to make him your Bitch." except I know that wouldn’t be really appropriate. Or true. But could you imagine Bigmouth going home and telling his parents? "XBoy said I’m going to be his Bitch! Is that good?").

It’s just not XBoy trying to keep up, we as his parents find ourselves trying to make sure we don’t come across as bumbling, mouth-breathing idiots so the other parents don’t think that we are the real life version of Raising Arizona. Unfortunately, we haven’t been very successful.

We have forgotten to pick XBoy up when the school has had an early dismissal; we don’t check the cafeteria menu so there are days he goes without lunch (because they are serving something unholy – like spaghetti – yes, it’s true: we have the only child in the world who hates spaghetti, which also means he won’t eat the "cold" lunch of PB&J since he hates jelly and they won’t make it without); or on holidays we don’t send him to school with treats for the class (May Day baskets, for example); and of course, let’s not forget the participation in the Zeke kidnapping.

This almost blew up in my face last night. I finally had crawled into bed at 9:00 instead of 11:00 like the past couple of nights. For some reason, I thought about XBoy’s backpack and that I hadn’t reviewed the contents. And then I remembered that XBoy was responsible for bringing treats the next day to commemorate the letter "X" (he’s the only kid with an X in his name). "Sonofa…!" said in my best Chris Farley impersonation as I whipped back the covers and headed for the kitchen.

So there I was last night, at 9:30, baking cookies (thank you, Lord, for Pillsbury sugar cookies!), frosting them (thank you, Baby Jesus, for the left over frosting from the letter "M" treat-day!), and stenciling the letter "X" on them with sugar sprinkles (thank you, God, for… uh … sprinkles (?)).

XBoy woke to find that Mommy had pulled it out of her ass, once again. After two decades off from school, it looks like my future will now include another two decades of this crap. I guess I could always home school…with the assumption that I could actually teach my kid Reading, Rite-ing and ‘Rithmatic, which is comical since I can’t even seem to keep him from wiping boogers on his pants.

* NEWS FLASH * NEWS FLASH * NEWS FLASH *

Chick Update? Both not only made it through 24 hours, but now are on 36 hours healthy, hearty and noisier than two fighting tomcats. After calling my mother I was informed that she had no intent to leave them permanently at our home. She had purchased some pullets and thought XBoy would enjoy a couple of them for a few days. She will stop by Saturday to pick them up.

Good thing. I was trying to figure out how to finance one of these suckers (thanks, Tonya, for the link).

no. 638 – Now What Part Exactly Do Chicken “Fingers” Come From?

Coincidently to the prior post, I notice the door to the laundry room is open while we were sitting down to supper. I bit my tongue instead of creating a scene ripe for a food fight and once we had finished eating, went to address my OCD wife-iness.

Before I shut the door, I saw a zip lock bag sitting on the floor full of yellow, powdery stuff. "Aw, hell, now what hazardous material has that man brought into our house now?" I thought. First let me show you what I saw:415_078

It looks innocuous enough, doesn’t it?

I go to stand over it, while also trying to figure out why that stupid bucket is sitting in the middle of the floor (I have a few like that in the basement and there are several in the shop, leftovers from our cat-owning days, so it didn’t immediately strike me as whacked).

When I did, something in the bucket moved. I startled. I leaned in for a closer look…

MOTHERFUCK!!

Literally.

Kind of.

My mother dropped these off for us, presumably for XBoy.

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Don’t ask what will happen next to them. Mr. DD is less than pleased with his MIL and asked if I was going to take them out and shove them down a badger hole. After briefly considering it, of course I told him no.

We haven’t told XBoy yet. I’ll wait to see if they make it 24 hours in the house, which is unlikely. It’s probably not warm enough for them, even though I have the bucket situated over that heat vent and have the opening draped with a towel to reserve heat. I even threw in some easter grass for them to sit in instead of that lid with food.

Normal kids get goldfish. Grandchildren of farmers get livestock. And since it will be impossible (whether physically or mentally) to flush these poor bastards down the toilet if they die, I’ll also be out in the field somewhere digging a shallow grave.

no. 637 – Ask You Once, Shame On Me; Ask You Twice, Nag On You

Do you know what the difference is between politely requesting a domicile task and nagging?

When you’ve made the request tenfuckingmillion times already, it becomes nagging.

Here’s a list of the things I now nag about:

If you had to open the door to get into the room, shut the door when you leave it, e.g. the laundry room door, especially when the 20 year old dryer is grinding and pounding as if a rabid badger was trapped inside. This makes it impossible for me to hear Tyra Banks snark on one of the model wannabes inability to look "fierce".

Put your clothes in the hamper. Not just your pants/shirt. The underwear and socks, too. Especially the underwear and socks since they are completely vile and it’s bad enough I have to touch them at some point to transfer them to the washing machine. Make a game of hoops out of it, if you have to. I don’t leave my pregnancy panties strewn about, now do I?

On a related note: Do not put your dirty socks on the kitchen counter, because Duuude! that is so fucking janetjacksonnasty! And c’mon, you just walked by the laundry room (that you left the door open on….again), how hard is it for you to just put your socks in the basket?

Throw your nose tampons in the trash. Do not leave them on the bed/couch/counter/nightstand. (What? You don’t know what a nose tampon is? It’s when you take a tissue and roll it up into a tampon-shaped device and shove it up your nose to clear out those pesky boogers that won’t come out through regular blowing.) Again, I don’t leave my tampons around the house, all willy-nilly.

When you are done with the dishcloth, please rinse it, wring it, and lay it next to the sink. Now this one, being multi-directional, can be confusing, but please….a dishcloth shouldn’t be an all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with a fountain drink, to errant cockroaches and mice.

And finally after you come inside from the garage, please take off your shoes and put them away. Yes, those shoes that you have tracked through spilled motor-vehicle paint, solvents and adhesive from work. No, I don’t care that you are going to put them back on, because you aren’t going to be putting them back on for at least another two hours since you will insist on taking a break to lounge around on the couch in your spilled motor-vehicle, solvent and adhesive soaked work clothes to watch America’s Next Top Model with me (even if you make some really funny remarks about Tyra’s current weave).

I’m going to put my shoes back on in 12 hours, but I don’t leave them somewhere a pregnant woman could trip and fall over. Plus, you see this area that divides the garage from the kitchen? It’s a "mud room"! With built in cubbies! For each of us! To hang your coat and put your shoes in! How fucking awesome is that! I know it’s been only two years since we’ve lived here and it can take you a decade to figure these things out. I respect that in you, a man, who is oblivious to anything that doesn’t have gears, or control buttons, or a flat screen. I still love you.

Of course, you could always refer to this website about why women nag and how men should respond to it. I’m not quite sure why the very simple solution to nagging wasn’t mentioned and that is LIVE IT – LEARN IT the first time and then, Dear Heart, you would never have to hear me mention it again.

Otherwise, there’s the old stand-by, Common Sense, right? Oh, yeah, you’re a man. Never mind. I lost my head there for a moment. I can’t be the only one…am I?