I’ve uploaded another vlog–Video Blog–on things that make me feel old. YeeHaw!
And yes, I just LOVE the thumbnail photo. NOT!!!!
I’ve uploaded another vlog–Video Blog–on things that make me feel old. YeeHaw!
And yes, I just LOVE the thumbnail photo. NOT!!!!
By some miracle, my kids have managed to make it to the ripe old ages of ten and twelve without me being subjected to a sleepover.
Last night that streak ended…and so did my sanity.
For the last three years, my kids have “organized” sleepovers that have always managed to fall-through. Usually in the form that my child and the other children made all of these plans, but forgot one crucial component: forgot to ask their parents! Sometimes I was asked and the other mother wasn’t and sometimes it was the other way around. So, last week when I was asked if two Hooligans from a few blocks away could come stay the night the first night of Christmas break, I said, “Sure.” Never in my wildest dreams thinking it would happen.
Oh, I was wrong. IT happened.
Now, before I give you all the dirty details, I will openly admit that I know that overall this was VERY MILD compared to what some people endure, but for me and my first experience, I was ready to pull out my hair–not not just the grey ones.
Here’s a rundown of events:
5 pm–Hooligans arrive. I start making pizza.
5:20–Hooligan #1 poops something the size of a baby in our toilet. This hooligan will forevermore be referred to as Pooper.
5:25–Eddie informs me that Pooper is ticked because Henry and Hooligan 2 commented on the size of Pooper’s deposit. Pooper threatened to go home. (Sounds bad, but I would have been fine with that.) I talked to the boys about remembering we’ve all been constipated before. It’ll be OK, let it go. (Clearly this kid let one go.)
5:30–kids leave-relief floods me…
5:37–kids return with a TV… they take it upstairs to Eddie’s room…
5:45–pizza cut and served
5:50–kids take their pizza and several cans of pop upstairs. My jaw drops and steam starts spiraling out of my ears. My kids KNOW better than to take food upstairs. We eat at the table only. Taking a deep breath, I mentally dislodge the stick from my backside. This isn’t the end of the world. Besides, it might be better they eat upstairs where I don’t have to hear them belching and smacking their food. It’ll be OK. This just gives me the perfect excuse to make Eddie clean his room top to bottom tomorrow.
7–kids come ask if they can use the big TV in the living room. I surrender the remote and go make myself useful in the kitchen, then decide to go to my room.
8–they start rummaging through all of the DVDs in the closet with such great noise I’m sure our closet neighbor heard…and they aren’t that close. I peek my head out to see how bed the mess is and there is a trail of DVDs from the hall closet, across the living room, to the other hall, up the stairs and to Henry’s room. I swung open the door and declared, the DVD-brick road needs to be cleaned up NOW.
8-1:10–kids are up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs. They have decided to watch their DVDs upstairs but keep coming downstairs for more cans of pop… I can’t say for sure, but I think they each had on average five cans. Note to self: you didn’t hide them well enough, Rose!
1:10–I have had enough and I hear someone rooting around in the pantry. I get out of bed and put a stop to it. “But Mom, Pooper’s STARVING,” says Eddie. Gritting my teeth, I tell them, “I’ll make a big breakfast in the morning. It’s after 1 am. It’s time to be sleeping. No more food and no more pop. Go to bed.” I followed them upstairs and told all four of them it was time for bed. Do you think they went to bed? NO!!! They giggled, stomped, talked loud, thundered up and down the stairs until 4 am. At which point I went in there and about lost it. They’d all written all over each others faces with colored Shapries. I was horrified to find that Henry had a strong similarity to Satan. Telling them all in as calm of a voice as possible that it was time for them to GET SOME SLEEP then I went back to bed as if that was actually going to happen.
4:30–I hear what can only be the front door. I bolt out of bed and swing my door open in time to realize Pooper has decided he’s had enough of me being bossy–he’s going home. Oh and Hooligan 2 is going with him and since he brought his TV, Playstation, and enough clothes to stay for a week my kids are going to help him carry his crap home. I said no. It’s dark out there. Nobody leaves until the sun is up. Fortunately they didn’t argue. But decided they wanted to go jump on the trampoline…with flashlights. I quickly found a movie for them to watch on Netflix, parked them on the sofa with popcorn and told them not to get their butts up until the sun was up.
5:55-ish, Eddie comes to knock on my door. Pooper called his mom and said he had her permission to walk home.
6:15–I walk out to find my boys and the one remaining Hooligan are passed out on the sofa.
9–kids wake up, Hooligan doesn’t like the cereal I have and decides to go home.
Sleepover OVER. And looking around at what could only be described as tornadic activity that has swept through my kitchen, dining room and living room there will NEVER be another sleepover again. My kids, however, don’t realize this because they’re already trying to plan another and I hate to say it, but that won’t be happening!
As I said, I know others have had it worse, so here’s my QUESTION: Please, oh, please, tell us all about your sleepover from hell. I really want to hear someone else’s experience. Misery loves company, you know.
One of my all-time favorite movies is The Sandlot. One of the best lines: “You’re killing me, Smalls”! I often find myself saying that to one of my boys. Last night, I said it to each of them.
Last night was their Christmas program (yes, they go to a public school and yes, the school called it that). We live about a mile from the school and along the way is a Dollar General, the only place within about 10 miles to buy food.
So, with those details in mind, here’s the story that transpired within less than the two minutes it takes to get from our house to the school.
As soon as we got in the car a funny smell wafted to my nose. *sniff, sniff* “What is that?”
“What’s what?” Henry, my youngest, asked.
“That smell?” I take another sniff and wrinkle my nose. Something does NOT smell right. “It smells weird, but I can’t place it.”
“Oh, it’s me,” cackled my twelve-year-old. “I put a dab of your pain relief cream on my hands.”
“Because I think it smells good,” he said.
“Seriously? Are you trying to tell me you want some cologne for Christmas?”
“No. I don’t want the girls all over me. I just like the way this smells.”
It smells like Menthol. That is NOT a good smell. Resisting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel, I muttered, “You’re killing me, Smalls.”
About this time, my youngest goes, “Mom, I need to bring food for the party tomorrow.”
Now I want to bang my head against the steering wheel for a different reason. I didn’t bring any money. Why? Honestly, it was simply because it was so warm out that I forgot my coat at home that had my cash and debit card. Spotting, the Dollar General up ahead, I reached one hand into the cup holder and pulled out my spare change, shook my head and said, “You’re killing me, too, Smalls.”
The lady in Dollar General giggled right along with me when I apologized to her for buying not just one, but two bags of cheese popcorn with an array of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Seriously, I love my kids–as is obvious by my humiliation of buying snacks with sticky change–but sometimes I swear they’re killing me! 😀 😀
QUESTION: What have YOU done for someone you love that you never imagined you’d do?
This past July I went on a small vacation to Branson, Missouri to see a handful of live shows and most importantly walk through the craft malls because I, Rose Gordon, am a Craft Mall Junkie. So much so, I actually have to set myself on a timer when I go in one so I make sure to keep walking. Even if I leave without buying anything, I am the sort who has to look at every single booth and think to myself, “Would I use/decorate/love/hate that?”
Branson has four, maybe five of these malls–all so large you could seriously spend half the day in each. I did not. I was a good girl. I kept moving to “beat the clock” and I even did one better by bringing along cash, knowing that when my cash was gone, I was done. (Yes, I went so far as to leave my debit card securely locked away at a different location so I wouldn’t be tempted.)
Final hour in Branson, I had done sooooo good. I hadn’t lingered too long in any single store and I still had money! I was on a roll!
Then, I saw it…
In every store I’d gone in–even ones that weren’t craft malls–I kept seeing these plastic square tubes full of colored dice. The first time or two I didn’t really pay much attention, but after seeing it for about the 10th time, I thought “Wow, these people sure do like their dice. Maybe this is like Vegas for the family oriented people.”
“Want to play?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Play what?”
“Tenzi,” said the lady standing behind the counter. She pushed ten red dice at me. “Pick ’em up and roll ’em.”
Obediently, I complied.
“Get your sixes,” she said.
So I did.
“I want to play,” said this teenage girl.
The lady pushed her a set of ten dice and the girl took off rolling and separating them.
“What now?” I asked hesitantly. There’s nothing worse than be the person who doesn’t know what’s going on while everyone else does.
“Keep rolling,” the older lady said, rolling her color and moving her sixes aside.
“I just keep rolling and pulling out the sixes?” I asked, totally confused.
“Yes,” the older lady said at the same time as the little teeny-bopper shouts “TENZI!!!” right in my ear.
I looked over at her dice and all ten showed the number six. Her face showed a smug expression.
“Sorry,” her mom said, poking her head around the side of her. “My kids played all night last night.”
I nodded slowly.
“It’s not really fair that I beat two old ladies,” the girl said.
Her offhanded response struck a nerve. I’m not old! I might be 31, but I’m not old! “All right, girl,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. “Game on.” I pushed my hair behind my ear then grabbed my dice.
The girl started giggling and it sounded like she said something akin to “Yeah right.” She picked up her dice. “Shall I go easy on you and start back at sixes?” Her mocking tone stoked my competitive fire, but let me know that I didn’t fully understand the rules!
I looked at the older woman who’d first trapped me into playing this. “How do we play?”
“First round, everyone starts out looking for sixes. The first person to get all of their dice to read six, they say, ‘Tenzi’ and the round is over. The next round whoever had their sixes starts working on their fives and everyone else continues to roll of sixes. There is only one winner per round…”
“I think I have it.” I nodded to the girl who was staring at me like I was a moron. “GO!” I tossed down my dice and started frantically looking for sixes. I scooped up the remaining numbers and rolled again, and again, and again, each time moving aside my sixes. “Tenzi!” I hollered, trying not to laugh at the shocked look on the girl’s face. She’d had nine fives and was trying to roll her tenth.
She grabbed her dice. “GO!”
The next six minutes were the most satisfying six minutes of my entire trip as I trounced a sixteen year old girl in a game that solely consists of rolling dice. I know, I know, it was immature of me to challenge someone to a game. But let me tell you, there is an inexplicable euphoric feeling at whooping the butt of a cocky teenager–even if it is just in rolling dice. (Even her mom seemed to be reveling in the moment!)
I am so immature in fact that I whistled all the way to the checkout with a my very own package of multicolored dice.
Here’s what it looks like:
I’ve been told you can find it in certain toy stores or I found it on Amazon. It’s super easy to play and my kids LOVE it. (In fact, they beg to play it.) You can play it at the table, on the floor, coffee table, etc. Anywhere with a flat surface. I mentioned the easiest way to play. But someone has written a book with 77 Ways to Play.
My current keyboard has a little flaw, if you will. The piece of plastic that holds the :; key on top of the rubber that touches the microchip is broken and that blasted little square keeps popping up or changing positions. It wouldn’t be an issue BUT when I learned to type I was always instructed to always keep your fingers on your “home row” and well this dratted key is part of the home row so it feels really awkward. What’s funny is, you don’t realize how much you move the fingers that aren’t pressing keys until you have a loose key square and you keep inadvertently knocking the thing out of place!!
Then, every so often, the thing pops up so much you MUST fix it, which results in:
Yes, that’s how long I had to hold it to get it to snap back into place.
Yet, I LOVE this laptop. I bought it in 2012 after my son Eddie who was six at the time accidentally dropped its predecessor on the steps of a hotel on our trip to Gettysburg. I myself have dropped this ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; (see did, it again) particular computer myself a short distance and scuffed up the the metal ;;;; edge right where my wrists rest! No, it doesn’t feel good–and I’ve even tried “filing” ;;;;; it down, but it didn’t make a huge difference. This laptop has been with me all sorts of places: the food court where I met a pimp who offered me a job, it’s flown with me to Phoenix, New Orleans, Dallas, Kansas City; has attended;;; countless lunch dates with John & Carolina, Amelia and Elijah, Henry and Laura, Wes and Allison, Jack and Ella, Gray and Michaela, and Sebastian and Belle at Panera ;;;;;;;. (The majority of the other books were written after I stopped going to Panera to write.);;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
This laptop and I have a history together and I cannot end the relationship–though I probably should. I will say that because the key issue annoys the daylights out of me, I don’t hardly use it for excessive typing anymore, but I still cannot bear to let it go.
QUESTION: Do you have something you SHOULD throw away but just cannot bring yourself to let it go because of your sentimental attachment? Or do you say “It’s just stuff” and give it the old heave-ho?
(By the way, I do have another computer that I use regularly to get things done and while I am sentimentally attached, I am overwhelmed at the idea of trying to move all the files and info from this computer to another. So that has helped me to hang onto it, too. 😀 )
I won’t lie: I’m weird. Not just me and my fantastic personality, no it goes even further than that. I have had some weird illnesses.
I’ve had fifth’s disease, courtesy of my kids. Shingles from stress. PUPPS (pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy) when pregnant. Basically it’s your body being allergic to you being pregnant and you get a seriously nasty and unbelievably itchy rash that covers your belly. It’s also triggered by being a smaller woman and having your skin stretch at a quick rate (multiples can cause this, too). Statistically, 1/150 first time mothers will have some degree of this. Most times it’s just a little rash and goes way after a week or so. When mine was so bad I couldn’t hardly wear a shirt and lasted for the final seven weeks of my first pregnancy my oh-so-compassionate OB (sense the sarcasm???) told me, “Don’t worry. While it’s fairly common to have a small case of this for first-time moms, only about 1/10,000 women have it during their second pregnancy AND only 1/1,000,000 have this for both their first and second pregnancies.”
Well, guess what, I AM TRULY ONE IN A MILLION!
Yep, I got this little treat during my second pregnancy. Only it wasn’t for seven weeks, it was more than seven months! Almost my entire pregnancy. In fact, it was the biggest clue that I was pregnant.
So while I should never be surprised when I’m handed an odd diagnosis, when yesterday I’d finally dragged my aching, coughing, wheezing, near-death self into the doctor’s office I found myself at a loss for words when he said, “Ms. Gordon, I do declare you have walking pneumonia.”
“What?” I asked, silently adding the hell is that?
Turns out it’s another weird disease that’s kind of like pneumonia but isn’t quite as severe as your lungs aren’t full of fluid. Instead, the fluid seems to move around depending on your body’s position and you don’t seem to be getting better on your own. Truly, I don’t know exactly what he said, I was a little pre-occupied being immature and imagining a pair of fluid-oozing lungs walking up and down Main Street.
All I do know is, I have hacked up half a lung and my back is killing me. Oh and there are compassionate pharmacy techs at Wal-Mart! 🙂
Edited to add–I am only on day 2 of my antibiotic but already I feel like a new woman!!!
QUESTION: Have you ever received an unusual diagnosis?
I spent a good part of Monday afternoon reading through the 123 (no exaggeration!) blog posts I’ve drafted but haven’t published. Some turned out to be great stories that I’ll publish with a word of warning that the content came from the draft file. Then there were several wonderful titles that got me super excited to read what in the world I’d blogged about, only to open the post and see nothing, or just a few words or sentences. So, because misery loves company, I’m going to share some of these titles with you all so you can all be like me and wonder “where was that going?!”.
There were many other fully written blog posts that might require a little polishing and posting. Turns out I blogged more than I originally thought I had. 😀