Dad doesn't hear so well these days. Mom finds it highly irritating; the rest of us find it highly entertaining.
Last night we had spaghetti for dinner. At some point in the meal my mother asked for the cheese in the green can. I reminded her that she prefers Romano Cheese, and she insisted that the green can was Romano Cheese. A brief argument ensued over what kind of cheese comes in what color can (because why just read the labels and eat the cheese you want when you can argue about it?) and then No. 2 asked what the difference was between Parmesan and Romano.
I told her, "Parmesan tastes better."
This answer did not satisfy my mother, who of course knows everything. She launched into a long explanation about the history of Romano cheese and Italy in general. After what seemed like an eternity, she segued into, "Now, Parmesan cheese comes from Parma..."
At this point, Dad had had enough. He pounded his fist on the table and bellowed, "PARMESAN CHEESE DOES NOT COME FROM CHINA!!!"
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Excuses, Excuses
As you can see, my New Year's Resolution to do a blog entry every week is coming along just swimmingly. I was going to try to do one tonight but then, as usual, my plans went awry.
It all started when my Dad called me at to work to tell me that my rear tire looked low. He said the Hess station on the Parkway had air so I headed there after work. Now driving on the Parkway at 5PM is the equivalent of descending into the seventh circle of hell as far as I am concerned, but I did it anyway in the interest of not having a flat tire. I arrived at Hess with my sanity barely intact after getting stuck behind a moron in a Hummer to find that the air was out of order.
I took a brief moment to reflect on the fact that if the good Lord didn't want me to swear He should not provide me with car trouble in the winter when my husband is out of town and calmly headed home, where I could fill up the tire using the air compressor before dark if I hurried. It was still light when I got there and I found the nozzle thingy you have to attach to the hose to blow up tires without any trouble, so I erroneously assumed this operation would go smoothly. (There is probably some technical term for the nozzle thingy that but heck if I know what it is.)
I dragged the compressor hose through the garage and out into the driveway still in my dress pants and heels. I didn't want to lose precious daylight changing my clothes. The compressor was on and full of air but nothing was happening. When I tried to put air in the tire it just kept getting flatter. My mood, which was none to rosy to begin with, took a sharp turn south. It took me, my dad, a flashlight, and a bike pump - in 16 degree temperatures - to get my tire to an acceptable level of air. I trudged back through the garage with my useless compressor hose seething with rage.
For most people, here is where the bad day would end with the aid of copious amounts of chocolate. But not for me! When you are me, when you try to put everything away the compressor hose, as a result of, um, maybe not being attached properly, shoots off at 150+ psi and nails you in the ear. You then spend your evening alternating between googling traumatic brain injuries, applying ice packs to your swelling cranium, and worrying obsessively that you will end up with cauliflower ear like a boxer gone to seed.
And that is why I suck at blogging.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Chicken Incident: A Schnauzer's Tale
My Sam is the bestest dog in the whole world. He is everything a dog should be: cute, smart, furry, housebroken, cuddly, non-shedding, and awesome in every way. He is perfectly behaved 99% of the time.
This story is about the other 1%.
We had just moved in to a new (to us) house and met our delightful next-door neighbors, their lovely daughters, and their chickens. Upon being introduced to Mr. Cheeps, we had the following thoughts:
No. 1: Um...
No. 2: &%$#@! (See "The Happiest Place on Earth" post)
No. 3: Cool!
Husband: Er...
Me: Ew.
Sam: Yum!
At this time, we had just started letting the girls be home alone for short periods of time with No. 1 in charge. Every time before we left, we delivered the same lecture: Keep the doors shut and locked, stay inside, don't let Sam out no matter what. One fateful day, I ran to the store. I was literally gone for 12 minutes and came home to find the front door open, the back door open, both gates unlatched, and pieces of Mr. Cheeps all over the front lawn. I found my sweet Sam in the back yard, blissfully happy, covered in chicken blood.
I snapped in to angry mother mode. I gathered the girls together, supplied them with latex gloves, and told them to clean up the mess. After much whining, crying, and dry heaving the evidence of the massacre had been cleaned up, conveniently at the same time Mr. B arrived home. We walked next door and I made the girls tell him that Sam had done Mr. Cheeps in.
No. 2: We're sorry we let Sam out and he ate Mr. Cheeps.
No 1: (Sobbing)
Mr. B: Well, thank you for telling me.
No. 3, ever tactful: There was blood spurting out of his neck.
Mr. B: I didn't need to know that...
No. 1: (Sobbing)
Mr. B: Don't worry about it, I never liked him anyway. Mrs. B and the girls will get over it. Did you at least give him a proper burial?
Me, lying through my teeth: Of course!
What was left of Mr. Cheeps was in my trash can.
That evening at 11:00, Husband and I went out and dug a grave for a chicken in our back yard, without the benefit of a flashlight, so the neighbors wouldn't find out what a liar I was.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Ho Ho Noooo...
Last night we had our family Christmas party. Mom thought it would be fun to play that game where one person opens a present and the next person can steal it and then the first person has to open another present. The next person can then steal either present and so on. This can be a lot of fun when the gifts are good.
My brother went first and opened up a purple t-shirt with a torch on it. Hmmm. My sister-in-law was next and, taking a pass on the snazzy t-shirt, opened a cube of note paper. Niece the Second opened an Eddie Bauer flashlight/alarm clock which was marginally desirable. Niece the First opened a t-shirt from Speidiefest 2008, child size small. (Please bear in mind that no one present is child sized.) No. 1 opened a pair of purple tights, size large. (Please bear in mind that no one present is a size large either.) When Nephew the Second opened up a Tortenplatte (cake plate) my Mom had purchased at WMF in Stuttgart when we were there in 1983, I was overcome with a wave of hysterical laughter so severe I couldn't breathe.
My mother had come up with 21 presents nobody wanted.
Mom considers herself a great shopper and prides herself on buying people fantastic presents they absolutely love at bargain prices.
What follows is a completely factual and true list, in no particular order, of items my mother has given as Christmas gifts:
Top sheets and bottom sheets that do not match, but are name brand and very high quality
BandAids
A book the author had signed "To Grace, Best Wishes!"
Hot pink placemats*
A t-shirt with a squirrel on it that said, "All The People Who Drive Me Nuts Are In My Family", purchased at Cracker Barrel (Given to me 3 years ago)
Silver utensils inscribed with someone elses initials; very high quality, of course
Hideous clothing containing shoulder ruffles well after 1980
Bright orange placemats*
Tennis player oven mitts, given to people who do not play tennis
A staple remover*
A bright turquoise sweatshirt, size XXL, for a 6'4" tall man
A collapsible gardening hat
Pink velvet couches (very high quality)
*items given to my brother-in-law
Needless to say, as a child I found the holidays somewhat disappointing. Each year on Christmas morning, my friends would call and we would have a conversation that went something like this:
Me: Uh... Irregular sweatpants.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I formed my excellent sense of humor.
Merry Christmas to you all!
***UPDATE***
This is what Mom gave my brother for Christmas this year:
Yep, that's a jar of Orange Marmalade.
My brother went first and opened up a purple t-shirt with a torch on it. Hmmm. My sister-in-law was next and, taking a pass on the snazzy t-shirt, opened a cube of note paper. Niece the Second opened an Eddie Bauer flashlight/alarm clock which was marginally desirable. Niece the First opened a t-shirt from Speidiefest 2008, child size small. (Please bear in mind that no one present is child sized.) No. 1 opened a pair of purple tights, size large. (Please bear in mind that no one present is a size large either.) When Nephew the Second opened up a Tortenplatte (cake plate) my Mom had purchased at WMF in Stuttgart when we were there in 1983, I was overcome with a wave of hysterical laughter so severe I couldn't breathe.
My mother had come up with 21 presents nobody wanted.
Mom considers herself a great shopper and prides herself on buying people fantastic presents they absolutely love at bargain prices.
In reality, Mom buys the worst presents ever, shopping with an utter disregard for the tastes, wants, and preferences of the recipient. One of her favorite things to do is buy items on extreme clearance and leave the tag on, so the recipient can enjoy the gift more knowing what a good deal she got.
Top sheets and bottom sheets that do not match, but are name brand and very high quality
BandAids
A book the author had signed "To Grace, Best Wishes!"
Hot pink placemats*
A t-shirt with a squirrel on it that said, "All The People Who Drive Me Nuts Are In My Family", purchased at Cracker Barrel (Given to me 3 years ago)
Silver utensils inscribed with someone elses initials; very high quality, of course
Hideous clothing containing shoulder ruffles well after 1980
Bright orange placemats*
Tennis player oven mitts, given to people who do not play tennis
A staple remover*
A bright turquoise sweatshirt, size XXL, for a 6'4" tall man
A collapsible gardening hat
Pink velvet couches (very high quality)
*items given to my brother-in-law
Needless to say, as a child I found the holidays somewhat disappointing. Each year on Christmas morning, my friends would call and we would have a conversation that went something like this:
Friend: I got a Guess sweater, five pairs of jeans, a juke box, a pinball machine, an Atari, and a gold necklace. What did you get?
Me: Uh... Irregular sweatpants.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I formed my excellent sense of humor.
Merry Christmas to you all!
***UPDATE***
This is what Mom gave my brother for Christmas this year:
Yep, that's a jar of Orange Marmalade.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Happiest Place on Earth
No. 2 is a good kid. She is helpful and clean, friendly and hardworking. She is pretty, athletic and gets decent grades. How lucky Emily is, you may think with a twinge of jealousy as you read my blog, to have such a perfect child. But let me tell you, every girl must go through the awkward, horrible, traumatizing pre-teen years and I have been through them three times. (Four times if I count myself, which I don't because my preteen years were not at all the armpit of my life. Nope. Not at all.)
All my girls were unbearable in their own way between the ages of 12 and 14 - just recently we have been able to withstand prolonged periods of exposure to No. 3 - but No. 2, wow, her pre-teen years were rough. See, where No. 1 cried and No. 3 chattered and shrieked like a rabid squirrel on a sugar high, No. 2 was angry. Really, really angry.
We were worried about her. We met with doctors, teachers, even a psychiatrist. ADHD, they all said. She is just angry because she can't concentrate. Lets put her on Adderall and she will be able to focus.
She was able to focus, all right. Adderall gave her the ability to focus, with laser beam intensity, on her rage. She kicked, bit, clawed, and punched; threw temper tantrums for hours at a time; and peeled off the outer layer of finish on the bathtub with her bare hands just for spite. She was an absolute nightmare.
Right around this time the family was taking a trip to Disneyland for Spring Break. Husband and I debated amongst ourselves about even taking her on the trip with the way she was behaving, but ultimately decided if we didn't. we would always be the parents who left her home and took everyone else to see Mickey Mouse. Off to California we went, to Disneyland, California Adventure, and the beach. Everyone had the time of their lives.
Everyone except No. 2.
She was absolutely miserable. She hurled insults at the Pacific Ocean like a Republican at a Healthcare Reform Support Rally*. She growled at Jasmine, sneered at Snow White, and stared down the deformed bird-things from Chicken Little until they slowly backed away. She screamed and sobbed as we, the most horrible parents on planet earth, made her ride through the Haunted Mansion. She laid down on the ground inside the entrance to Monsters Inc, rolled her way through the line, and didn't get up until we physically picked her up and stuffed her in a seat. She screeched, "I HATE MONSTERS, INC!!!" for the entire ride. As any one of you who has gone to a Disney park can attest, there are more temper tantrums per capita than mouse ears, but very few of them are thrown by 12-year-old girls. Needless to say, it was a little embarrassing.
Husband and I eventually figured out that the medication was making her worse and took her off it. She was still mad, but we no longer feared that she would kill us in our sleep or poison our mouthwash. And we have four rolls of photos from our family trip to Disneyland to help us remember the good times that were had by all.
Well maybe not "all"... See, No. 2 was so toxic she spread misery to all the passengers on board The Columbia. I like to call this one, "Take the &#$#@ picture already!"
My original intent was for this to be a picture essay - there are plenty of hilarious pictures from this trip - but I realized that it would be a little unfair to post dozens of embarrassing pictures of No. 2 when I haven't posted any of the other two. So you will have to settle for just this one.
All my girls were unbearable in their own way between the ages of 12 and 14 - just recently we have been able to withstand prolonged periods of exposure to No. 3 - but No. 2, wow, her pre-teen years were rough. See, where No. 1 cried and No. 3 chattered and shrieked like a rabid squirrel on a sugar high, No. 2 was angry. Really, really angry.
We were worried about her. We met with doctors, teachers, even a psychiatrist. ADHD, they all said. She is just angry because she can't concentrate. Lets put her on Adderall and she will be able to focus.
She was able to focus, all right. Adderall gave her the ability to focus, with laser beam intensity, on her rage. She kicked, bit, clawed, and punched; threw temper tantrums for hours at a time; and peeled off the outer layer of finish on the bathtub with her bare hands just for spite. She was an absolute nightmare.
Right around this time the family was taking a trip to Disneyland for Spring Break. Husband and I debated amongst ourselves about even taking her on the trip with the way she was behaving, but ultimately decided if we didn't. we would always be the parents who left her home and took everyone else to see Mickey Mouse. Off to California we went, to Disneyland, California Adventure, and the beach. Everyone had the time of their lives.
Everyone except No. 2.
She was absolutely miserable. She hurled insults at the Pacific Ocean like a Republican at a Healthcare Reform Support Rally*. She growled at Jasmine, sneered at Snow White, and stared down the deformed bird-things from Chicken Little until they slowly backed away. She screamed and sobbed as we, the most horrible parents on planet earth, made her ride through the Haunted Mansion. She laid down on the ground inside the entrance to Monsters Inc, rolled her way through the line, and didn't get up until we physically picked her up and stuffed her in a seat. She screeched, "I HATE MONSTERS, INC!!!" for the entire ride. As any one of you who has gone to a Disney park can attest, there are more temper tantrums per capita than mouse ears, but very few of them are thrown by 12-year-old girls. Needless to say, it was a little embarrassing.
Husband and I eventually figured out that the medication was making her worse and took her off it. She was still mad, but we no longer feared that she would kill us in our sleep or poison our mouthwash. And we have four rolls of photos from our family trip to Disneyland to help us remember the good times that were had by all.
Well maybe not "all"... See, No. 2 was so toxic she spread misery to all the passengers on board The Columbia. I like to call this one, "Take the &#$#@ picture already!"My original intent was for this to be a picture essay - there are plenty of hilarious pictures from this trip - but I realized that it would be a little unfair to post dozens of embarrassing pictures of No. 2 when I haven't posted any of the other two. So you will have to settle for just this one.
* Happy Election Day! Go Vote!
Friday, October 22, 2010
This Moment in Bad Parenting is Brought to You by Walt Disney
No. 1 is brilliant. I'm not just saying that because I am her mother, I'm saying it because its true.
She absolutely loves to read. In third grade, they had to dress a soup can up as a character from a book. We glued tree bark to the can, covered the top with spanish moss, and chopped the legs off an old Happy Meal toy to create Old Man Willow from The Fellowship of the Ring, complete with Hobbit feet sticking out of the bottom. She was absolutely adamant that her project represent a character that was not in the movie so her teacher and fellow students would know she actually read the book.
When she was eleven, they sent home standardized test results for reading comprehension which included a helpful list of books approriate for your child's reading level. No. 1's results put her on the level of a sophomore in college, and the books suggested for her were by Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Shakespeare.
Last year, she read the entire unabridged version of Moby Dick partly for ten points of extra English credit, but mostly out of sheer spite.
So when her sixth grade Social Studies class required her to read a historical novel and sent home a list of books to choose from, and she (still a Disney Princess junkie) chose The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I made her read the unabridged version. I figured she was up to the challenge. With the help of a French-English dictionary, she plowed her way through Victor Hugo.
It was a little rough at first, but after the first hundred pages or so she really got into it. Every night at dinner she would update me on the book and compare what was happening against the beloved Disney classic. One evening, she informed me that she only had 40 pages left and that she was going to finish the book that very night. She finished her food and disappeared to her room.
I was in the kitchen when the screaming began. I didn't remember until that very second the Disney-fication of the ending.
No. 1 was inconsolable. "Why, Mom, WHY?!?!? How could Phoebus marry someone else? They hung Esmerelda!!!! And Quasimodo lies down next to her corpse and starves to death? WHY DID YOU MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK?!?!?!?"
My bad.
*NOTE: In all her brilliance, No. 1 pointed out my typos and now they are fixed.*
She absolutely loves to read. In third grade, they had to dress a soup can up as a character from a book. We glued tree bark to the can, covered the top with spanish moss, and chopped the legs off an old Happy Meal toy to create Old Man Willow from The Fellowship of the Ring, complete with Hobbit feet sticking out of the bottom. She was absolutely adamant that her project represent a character that was not in the movie so her teacher and fellow students would know she actually read the book.
When she was eleven, they sent home standardized test results for reading comprehension which included a helpful list of books approriate for your child's reading level. No. 1's results put her on the level of a sophomore in college, and the books suggested for her were by Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Shakespeare.
Last year, she read the entire unabridged version of Moby Dick partly for ten points of extra English credit, but mostly out of sheer spite.
So when her sixth grade Social Studies class required her to read a historical novel and sent home a list of books to choose from, and she (still a Disney Princess junkie) chose The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I made her read the unabridged version. I figured she was up to the challenge. With the help of a French-English dictionary, she plowed her way through Victor Hugo.
It was a little rough at first, but after the first hundred pages or so she really got into it. Every night at dinner she would update me on the book and compare what was happening against the beloved Disney classic. One evening, she informed me that she only had 40 pages left and that she was going to finish the book that very night. She finished her food and disappeared to her room.
I was in the kitchen when the screaming began. I didn't remember until that very second the Disney-fication of the ending.
No. 1 was inconsolable. "Why, Mom, WHY?!?!? How could Phoebus marry someone else? They hung Esmerelda!!!! And Quasimodo lies down next to her corpse and starves to death? WHY DID YOU MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK?!?!?!?"
My bad.
*NOTE: In all her brilliance, No. 1 pointed out my typos and now they are fixed.*
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
No. 3: Please Don't Eat the Berries
I have been awful at posting lately. I got a new job, which I start on Monday, and have been spending the past few weeks at the old one training my boss's son to take over for me. It is not going well. These people can't even function when I take the afternoon off to go to the dentist, so I fully expect this place to implode when I am gone.
Between work, the kids' sports and my mother's rampant insanity, I have been rather short on down time lately. I have actually started about ten entries (I'm not exaggerating) but I keep getting interrupted - usually by my mom, and usually when I am writing about her - and then its hard to get back in to the flow of things. So today I am starting from scratch and not letting myself have lunch (Fries, the lunch of champions!) until I finish.
I thought a good child story was in order to cleanse your palate. So let me present daughter number three, who is a brilliant child with many fine qualities, but like all other children has some moments of, shall we say, questionable judgment.
She was seven years old when Husband and I got married and moved into a large old house. The first time we brought her over to see the house, I pointed out the bushes clustered around the front porch.
"See those little red berries?" I said. "They are poisonous, DO NOT eat them." When we moved in, I repeated the warning on a daily basis for at least the first week. Regardless, No. 1 came rushing in the house a month or so later to tell me No. 3 was eating the berries.
To say I became hysterical is an understatement. I had visions of my sweet child vomiting, Excorcist-style, then dying in my arms.
I was going to call the Poison Control hotline, but realized they were going to ask me what kind of berries they were and I had no idea, I just knew they were the kind you weren't supposed to eat. I decided to call my dad, since he knows everything, but I couldn't dial the phone because my hands were shaking so badly. No. 1 had to call him for me while I sobbed in the background, convinced that No. 3 was going to start convulsing at any second.
Dad wasn't sure what kind of bush it was and suggested I ask my next door neighbor. We had not known each other long and my only interaction with her had been The Chicken Incident*, so I was a little afraid to ask, but this was a matter of life and death so I sprinted next door. I was not by any means calm or rational so the fact that she helped me so kindly, especially after The Chicken Incident*, is a testament to her fabulosity. She was pretty sure it was a Pyracantha** bush, and being a hoarder of course she had a book about bushes and berries and we were able to make a positive ID.
I called Poison Control, still nowhere near a state of calmness and emotional control, and reported that my child had eaten an undetermined number of Pyracantha** berries. The dispatcher informed me that they were not fatally poisonous and that they would just make her sick. It was at this point that I quickly transitioned from blind panic to relief to murderous rage. All that worry and stress, which undoubtedly would take years off my life, and she wasn't dying?
Dispatcher: How old is the child?
Me, through clenched teeth: Old enough to know better!
Dispatcher: How old is that?
Me, still clenched: Seven
Dispatcher: Oh my, that is old enough to know better. Well, she may have some cramping, vomiting, diarrhea...
Me: She deserves it.
And thus, after much puking and stomach discomfort and very little sympathy, No. 3 did not die.
* An excellent topic for a future entry!
** I have no idea if the spelling is accurate and am far too lazy to google it.
Between work, the kids' sports and my mother's rampant insanity, I have been rather short on down time lately. I have actually started about ten entries (I'm not exaggerating) but I keep getting interrupted - usually by my mom, and usually when I am writing about her - and then its hard to get back in to the flow of things. So today I am starting from scratch and not letting myself have lunch (Fries, the lunch of champions!) until I finish.
I thought a good child story was in order to cleanse your palate. So let me present daughter number three, who is a brilliant child with many fine qualities, but like all other children has some moments of, shall we say, questionable judgment.
She was seven years old when Husband and I got married and moved into a large old house. The first time we brought her over to see the house, I pointed out the bushes clustered around the front porch.
"See those little red berries?" I said. "They are poisonous, DO NOT eat them." When we moved in, I repeated the warning on a daily basis for at least the first week. Regardless, No. 1 came rushing in the house a month or so later to tell me No. 3 was eating the berries.
To say I became hysterical is an understatement. I had visions of my sweet child vomiting, Excorcist-style, then dying in my arms.
I was going to call the Poison Control hotline, but realized they were going to ask me what kind of berries they were and I had no idea, I just knew they were the kind you weren't supposed to eat. I decided to call my dad, since he knows everything, but I couldn't dial the phone because my hands were shaking so badly. No. 1 had to call him for me while I sobbed in the background, convinced that No. 3 was going to start convulsing at any second.
Dad wasn't sure what kind of bush it was and suggested I ask my next door neighbor. We had not known each other long and my only interaction with her had been The Chicken Incident*, so I was a little afraid to ask, but this was a matter of life and death so I sprinted next door. I was not by any means calm or rational so the fact that she helped me so kindly, especially after The Chicken Incident*, is a testament to her fabulosity. She was pretty sure it was a Pyracantha** bush, and being a hoarder of course she had a book about bushes and berries and we were able to make a positive ID.
I called Poison Control, still nowhere near a state of calmness and emotional control, and reported that my child had eaten an undetermined number of Pyracantha** berries. The dispatcher informed me that they were not fatally poisonous and that they would just make her sick. It was at this point that I quickly transitioned from blind panic to relief to murderous rage. All that worry and stress, which undoubtedly would take years off my life, and she wasn't dying?
Dispatcher: How old is the child?
Me, through clenched teeth: Old enough to know better!
Dispatcher: How old is that?
Me, still clenched: Seven
Dispatcher: Oh my, that is old enough to know better. Well, she may have some cramping, vomiting, diarrhea...
Me: She deserves it.
And thus, after much puking and stomach discomfort and very little sympathy, No. 3 did not die.
* An excellent topic for a future entry!
** I have no idea if the spelling is accurate and am far too lazy to google it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)