The To-Don't List

We have recently been doing home improvements to my parents' old house. They decided to sell it after the renters moved out. Like any home improvement situation, it has been endless, frustrating, and time consuming. At first, I was deeply sentimental about their putting the old homestead up for sale. Now, I'm starting to hate it and probably wouldn't even care if it got swallowed by a sinkhole or taken out by a F5 tornado.

The other night during a particularly arduous linoleum removal operation, Husband and I discussed how the helpful home shows you watch on TV are always giving you to-dos, when really they should be giving you to-don'ts. So with the help of my handsome assistant, I am providing a handy list for your reference:

1) DON'T sand and restain cabinets. Its a lot of effort for very little return. In fact, they will look so crappy you will just end up painting them, then realize it would have been 300% easier if you had done it in the first place, which will lead to self-loathing

2) DON'T let your 13 year old and her friends do anything, even extremely simple tasks such as painting the front door or pulling weeds, without close adult supervision when there is a cute boy living across the street. You may as well make a poster for counterproductivity.

3) DON'T think that if you start peeling up a corner of linoleum that was installed in 1967 (and hasn't been attractive since 1970) that the whole thing will just come off. It won't. Arm yourself with screwdrivers, scrapers, flat headed shovels, back-support braces, and hand grenades.

4) DON'T let family members who are not home-improvement savvy work in your absence without very specific instructions, or else they might spend an entire day vacuuming cobwebs out of the far corners of the attic and think they actually accomplished something helpful.

5) DON'T let your children pick out colors for interior decor. Royal blue trim is one of those things may seem like a good idea at the time and it might even look pretty good, but painting over it is a serious pain in the butt. Choose your paint colors in accordance with how easy they will be to paint over. Blaming said child for the color choice 20+ years after the fact is pointless.

6) DON'T let your sweet little dog run free in the house when the freshly painted cabinet doors are laid out to dry on the floor. You may find little footprints all over them. I'm speaking hypothetically, of course. My Sam would never do such a thing.

7) DON'T set an unrealistic timeline like, say, two weeks to paint an entire house, totally rehab a kitchen and bathroom, polish 1000 square feet of hardwood floors, and clean top to bottom. You can only fail, and failure is discouraging.

8) DON'T buy cheap painter's tape. When you remove it, some of the paint will come with it regardless of how soon you pull it off or how long you wait. This time around I accidentally bought the blue tape that cost twice as much; worth every penny, I tell you. Even after a few days, it came up easily and didn't pull any paint off with it. Best erroneous purchase I ever made.

9) Likewise, DON'T buy cheap paint. You will end up having to paint extra coats to get even coverage, and then as you paint your extra coats the coats beneath will get mushy and you will have to paint yet another coat on top of that. Buy the Valspar stuff with the primer in it. It costs, literally, five times as much but is soooo worth it.

10) DON'T try to mix your own paint. Leave that to the creepy friendly guy with a random extra "e" in his name at the Home Depot paint counter. You may think that adding white to brown will make tan, but it will actually be pink. Then you will have wasted a ton of paint. Again, this one is purely hypothetical.

If you follow our helpful to-dont's, perhaps you will emerge from your home improvement projects with a shred of your sanity intact. Or, if you are like my parents, you will just ignore any and all home improvements until the last second, when you can just make your children worry about it.

Church Magazines + An Evil Child = Disaster

When I was a kid, I loved The Friend Magazine. I couldn't wait until I got my next issue. I loved the stories where they used a picture of an eye instead of the word "I", a picture of Planet Earth instead of the word "world", etc. and the Friends in the News. I wanted to be a Friend in the News so bad, but apparently I wasn't cute enough or diverse enough or whatever it was you had to be to get chosen. I would read the whole issue front to back and then I would read it again. I still loved it when I got older and begged my parents to renew my subscription, even though by 1984 I should have been more interested in the teen-friendly New Era. They got me that too, but the articles in the New Era were all words and there were no puzzles, so I left it in its plastic package and read The Friend. My parents encouraged this. They figured that reading a magazine in which most of the articles were about Jesus would encourage me to develop strong moral convictions and stuff.

It occurred to me sometime in college that I could not recall being babysat or being left home alone very often as a child. At the time, I decided that it was because my parents were either very devoted or very boring. I realize now that it was because I was such a turd that no one in their right mind would want to babysit me and/or they were afraid of what I would do if I was home alone. This turned out to be a completely valid concern. (Note: Foreshadowing)

There I was, home alone on a very rare occasion on a summer afternoon, when the Mailman pulled up and delivered The Friend. Yippee! The last article was awesome. Not about Jesus, but about one if His greatest creations - potato chips! - and how they were made. "Hmmm," thought I, "all it takes to make potato chips is oil, salt and potatoes. I have oil, salt, and potatoes. I will make my own potato chips!" Like all my childhood ambitions, i.e. the second grade talent show, doing cartwheels in the choir seats during church to make Kenny Klingler love me, being a successful adult, etc., this one was doomed to be a spectacular failure.

My experiences with cooking had been limited to opening cans of Spaghettios for my dad to heat up, but I didn't let that put a damper on my enthusiasm. I pulled out a five gallon jug of imported Italian olive oil and filled a large pot to the top. I turned the burner on high and sliced up a potato. This was going to be awesome. It took forever for the pot to come to a boil. I figured the little bubbles didn't count so I waited patiently for the big ones. I speared my first chip with a fork and stuck it in the oil, which bubbled ominously. I was oblivious to impending doom because my chip was perfect and delicious. I speared my second chip and stuck it in the oil, which reacted by blowing up and spurting flames all over the kitchen. The force of the heat knocked me over, probably saving me from some vicious burns.

Fortunately, I also had a subscription to Ranger Rick and had read its numerous articles on fire safety. And although I may lack a certain degree of common sense, I am a quick thinker. I knew that water would not put out an oil fire but baking soda would. I grabbed the baking soda out of the cabinet and quickly doused the fire. Unfortunately, quick thinking and fast action can not hide the effects of a column of flames on kitchen cabinets. The heat made the stain bubble and crack on the cabinets above and below the stove and there was a gigantic scorch mark on the ceiling. There was no hiding this one.

I was debating whether or not to call the fire department to make sure the fire was actually out when my parents arrived. My mother, who has a way of being positive about selected tragedies (meaning, a tremendous capacity for denial) praised my quick thinking and was glad I was OK. My dad didn't say anything and cleaned up the grease spattered walls. I didn't touch the stove again until college, when my roommates had to teach me how to cook pasta and brown ground beef .

The moral of the story is, letting your children read church magazines can be more harmful than you think.

My Mother the Vegetable Pimp

Meal time in my house could be described as barely controlled chaos. My dad cooks; most of the time it is delicious, sometimes its just OK, and once in a blue moon his experimental cooking goes really, truly, awfully, horribly wrong. Regardless of the outcome, the meal always starts the same way - six of us gathered around the table, waiting, whining, begging, and pleading for my mother to come to the table so we can eat. In my mother's universe - which is a totally seperate place from where the rest of us live, by the way - the eating of unblessed food is a cardinal sin.

When Mom finally breezes into the kitchen, instead of going straight for her chair, she casts a critical eye upon the table to see what we have missed. No matter how hard we try, its always something. "Is that yesterday's water? No? Do we have enough napkins? What about knives? I know we're eating macaroni and cheese, but you must have a knife. Those are salad forks. Where are the dinner forks? Does anyone need a napkin? Who sat in my chair? There are crumbs by my plate. Charles, was it you? Is that a spot on the tablecloth? ARE YOU EATING AN UNBLESSED CROUTON? Is there a serving spoon for the squash? Napkins?" I wish I were exaggerating, but this is really how it goes. By the time she sits down, we are all hungry, edgy and ready to shank her with a soup spoon.

One of the girls gives a quick blessing on the food, and Mom immediately launches into a criticism of the prayer. Too short, talking too fast, lacking in deep metaphysical meaning, etc. I am certain that the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, mercy, and understanding, knows that the person giving the prayer is irritated, hungry enough to eat the contents of the recycling bin, and above all else, a child. I mention this to my mother, at which point she turns from prayer critic to parenting critic, and complains about my "relaxed" parenting and how silly it is of me to allow my children to make choices for themselves. Then, the real fun begins: The dinner conversation. It starts out with me asking someone about their day, which invariably leads to:

No. 3: Well, me and Elizabeth went to the park and -

Mom: Elizabeth and I went to the park

No. 3: (Sighs) Elizabeth and I went to the park and down by the creek there was this -

Mom: Does anyone need a napkin?

No. 3: Anyway, down by the creek there was a frog and -

Mom: Who would like some Lima beans?

(No. 3 growls in frustration and rolls eyes)

Me: I'm listening, tell me about the frog.

No. 3: So we tried to catch it, but Elizabeth-

Husband: Hey, isn't Wipeout on tonight?

No. 3: (With visible irritation) But Elizabeth hit her head on a tree branch and then -

Mom: There aren't enough vegetables on the table. Who wants a carrot?

No. 3: (Slightly louder) Then she fell in the creek, and-

Mom: Celery? Would anyone like celery?

Me: I'm still listening. Is Elizabeth OK?

No. 3: Yes, but her pants-

Mom: Did you eat some lima beans? What about carrots?

No. 3: BUT HER PANTS RIPPED-

Mom: Has everyone had some vegetables? Who wants the rest of these lima beans?

No. 3: (Stands up) AND SHE SKINNED HER KNEE!! (Agressively puts dirty dishes in the sink and stomps off, followed closely by No. 1 and No. 2)

Mom: Where do you think you're going? We are having a family conversation here!

At this point, the conversation comes full circle and the topic returns to my piss-poor parenting skills.

Time Management, or Lack Thereof

Its been a while since I posted something. I have been working on some entries but haven't had time to finish them. My problem is that I have a hard time scaling my ideas down to fit the time I actually have available. This principle applies to my life in general and not just my blog. My ideas are grand and detailed, and I have a full time job, a husband, three kids, parents, a dog, and mountains of dirty laundry. Does this stop me from making my daughters' dresses for special occasions? Tackling complicated home improvement projects? Severely overestimating my abilities? No, but it sure interferes with my sleep patterns and sanity.

Last night is a good example of this. I got a call at work in the morning asking me to sub for ballet class at 6:30, which of course I was delighted to do. There was no CD player there, so I would have to bring my own. Not a problem, I told myself, regardless of the fact that I do not possess a CD player. I would just buy a ballet class album from iTunes since I needed one anyway and take my daughter's iHome. I had a CD with a track on it I was going to use to teach a variation, and I would just have to load that in to my iTunes and put it on my iPod.

My dad called to say he was busy getting the floor at their old house ready for new tile to be laid, so I would need to cook dinner. There was a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove and all I needed to do was cook the pasta and a vegetable or two. Not a problem, I told myself, I will have plenty of time.

I got home at 5:20, threw some pots of water to boil on the stove, fired up the laptop, and rummaged through the freezer in search of broccoli. First speed bump: iTunes needs to be updated. Of course, iTunes ALWAYS needs to be updated. So I set it to download and install, and tossed the veggies in the microwave. I checked on the computer's progress, and wouldn't you know it, some stupid Java popup stopped my iTunes update. Grrr. I cleared it up and started it over.

I tracked down No. 3 and put her on setting the table, made the rounds of talking to the husband and No. 2 to see how their days had gone, came back to the kitchen, searched iTunes for the album I wanted, and started the download. No, not really, I just hit another speed bump. It was in my daughter's account and I didn't know the password. I texted her, got the password, and again... No, the password was incorrect. So we tried my husband's. No luck. Everyone in my house except for me has an iTunes account, and no one knew their stinkin' password.

It was now 5:50 and dinner was ready. Through some miracle, my mother actually just came in the kitchen and sat down and ate, which was a pleasant change from her usual 412 distractions: "Napkins? Spoons? Water? Napkins? Is this pitcher OK? We need more condiments... Does everyone have a napkin? Everyone? Are you sure? What about spoons? Water? Does anyone need a napkin?" (I'm not making this up. It really is that bad, every single night. Except for last night.)

By 6:00 I was done eating and decided enough with the messing around, I just needed to make my own iTunes account. More speed bumps were encountered, such as "You forgot to choose a salutation", because apparently it is just not possible to make purchases from iTunes unless it knows if you are a Mrs., Ms., or Miss. At 6:10 it finally started downloading the album while I changed into my clothes for class.

Those of you intimately familiar with iTunes are probably laughing at me right now. I don't know where, in the neurons and synapses of my brain, my concept of time became so warped that I thought this whole thing was going to work out. But there I was at 6:15, with 2 of 53 tracks completed, believing that somehow this was all going to work out.

When it was 6:18, I had to admit defeat. Not only had I downloaded a paltry 4 of the previously mentioned 53 tracks, I hadn't even gotten the music from my CD to load on my iPod because it was to full. Remember that part about me not having a CD player? Still a problem. At this point I pretty much freaked out. I ended up grabbing my daughter's alarm clock which has a CD player in it and running out the door. I was halfway to the studio when I realized I had forgotten my class plan and my water bottle.

At this point, a weaker person might have cried; I just called my husband and guilt tripped him until he offered to bring my stuff to me. I got to the studio right on time at 6:30, ran in and...discovered that no one was there. In the end, a few people showed up for a class which had to be danced to ballroom music because the alarm clock/CD player did not have the firepower to kick out classical music loud enough to be heard over the roar of multiple electric fans, one of which is a genuine relic from the Stone Age. (Going without the fans was so not an option; there is no air conditioning and this is upstate New York in August.) I was distracted and frazzled and kept churning out exercises that didn't work because I had lost all sense of space and time. We did the Four Little Swans variation from Swan Lake to music we couldn't hear and nearly died of heatstroke in the process.

What can we learn from this? When I try to do too many things at once in too short a time, everything melts into crap.

The End.