Lizard in a pail

I know! I've been slacking. Mostly because we've been tied up trying to purchase a house that we're probably not getting anyway. No big though, there are plenty of others out there. Plus, it's the shopping that's the fun part.

But now I'm back and ready to tell you about the today's playgroup. The older kids are out of school this week and we had playgroup in one of the member's backyard today. It was a beautiful day to be outside and the kids had a blast. In addition to our troop of 5 toddlers we had two older brothers join us, (since they were out of school), both 4ish in age.

The two older boys caught a lizard and brought it over to the sand box where they put it to watch it run around. They then moved it to a sand shovel and started building a house around it. The architechture consisted of putting dead leaves, sticks and grass on top of the lizard in the shovel, forming his "house". The boys were having a great time at it, but the lizard, not so much. He came to an untimely end, smushed by his own new home. The boys then moved the lizard to a sand pail with grass in the bottom so that they could keep him captive, which worked well for them, being that the dead lizard wasn't much for moving. At one point, a small argument developed that the lizard could not be moved to a smaller bucket because he needed the room to exercise. Although they had been told by one of the Mommies, the boys were in denial that their new pet was no longer of this plane.

Our child, during this commotion was playing in the sand box and grabbed one of the sand pails. He was trying to tug the lizard house-sand pail away from the older boys when one of the Mommy's interviened. Peering in at the lizard she explained to the boys that the lizard was dead and that he had to be kept away from the baby, (Connor) because babies aren't allow to play with lizards. This was most appreciated by me, who sat a short distance away pleading with the interviening Mommy to please make sure that my child did not eat the lizard. The two older boys, both struggled and reached to take the pail out of the Mommy's hands, and ended up, milling around at her feet whining to get the lizard back. The entire time she was explaining that they couldn't have it back, Connor was reaching up and taking swipes at the pail just out of reach. The Mommy won,the two older boys, quickly absorbed in playing with cars on the patio while Connor resumed his investigation of the sandbox. While the lizard hung in his tomb from a fence post for burial at a later time.

We'll see ya. Thanks for coming out.

Dear America,
THANK YOU for finally voting this guy off of Idol. I'd like to talk some smack about ole Kevin Covais and how old all of the sex symbol jokes were getting but I don't want to make his mom cry.

At least now I can watch Idol without cringing... well, unless Bucky starts fixing his own hair again.

Pick your battles, redeem your prize

Although not yet two years old, Connor is already learning that he's got to pick his battles. His battles mainly consist of having something he's not supposed to and trying to keep it from Mom or Dad. He knows some things just aren't worth it. Like ink pens. Because he doesn't yet know that in ten minutes he can destroy a 1500 dollar sofa with an ink pen, they just aren't as much fun. If he manages to grab one that's rolled down within baby reach and gets caught, he takes a good long look at the pen and then gives it up. Well, he doesn't give it up, but he makes minimal effort to keep it and doesn't have a temper tantrum when it's taken. After all... how much fun can he have with a pen?
But let him get a hold of a two hour old cup of coffee with two inches of liquid left at the bottom... now that's something worth fighting for and yesterday he did just that.
One of the things I have to remember about our son, especially as he approaches his teenage years, is that he waits... and he watches. He knows at some point we are going to slip up. We the parents in our constant vigil to put things out of reach and maintain order eventually trust the child and think that something will be ok... just for a minute. But Connor watches, waits and checks.
Yesterday my coffee was old and cold, so when the phone rang the "keep the hot beverage away from baby" alarm didn't go off in my head. I sat the coffee on the desk thinking that it would be fine... just for a minute. Connor, seeing me leave the office went into check to see if there might be anything new to investigate. My coffee was just close enough, that standing on tiptoe he was able to slide it off of the desk.
I was only on the phone for a minute, but he heard me coming and decide he had better take the goods and run.
One thing I've learned about taking things with spillage potential away from our child is that you have to treat him a bit like a horse. You must walk slowly and speak softly because if you startle him or he thinks that you might take away his new prize he's off like a shot. I don't know if you've ever see the gait of a running toddler but it's not so smooth and trotting across our off-white carpet with a cup of half finished coffee can quickly spell disaster. Luckily however, I was blocking all access to the carpeted areas of the house and he only had two choices for escape. Back into the office or into the foyer. He choose the foyer, clutching my cup to his chest dropping his head and running full speed until he hit the door and was trapped. I slowly walked towards him, softly telling him how impressed I was that he was able to hold a cup like a big boy, but he wasn't falling for it, wheeling around and spilling cold coffee down the front of his shirt. Still desperate to maintain his prize, he tried to make a break for the carpeted dining room holding the cup at his side to pick up speed and spilling it all over the foyer. When I reached down to take it, he bobbed and weaved going back the other direction, non chalantly setting it down on the pedestal in the foyer and suddenly becoming interested in a leaf laying on the floor by the front door.
"Huh? Coffee? Me? I don't know what you are talking about." At least he never made it to the carpet.

Yeah, I'm a quitter.

So the other night when I was trying to post an image and Blogger wouldn't let me, this is what I was going to post.










It's my quit statistics from SilkQuit, a program that I downloaded from the web! They have similar programs that you can use to track anything you are quitting, Candy Bars, Starbucks or beers. I'm suprised that the money amount isn't higher though.
It's been almost two weeks and I still want a cigarette so bad that I might actually be willing to pay that $36.41 for one smoke. What's suprising to me is the number of cigarettes NOT smoked. Holy Crap that's a lot!
The life saved is pretty nifty too. 17h and 20m. That's alot of time. That's enough time to drive to the beach for one last skinny dip in the great blue sea. It's enough time to fly to vegas for one last spin of the roulette wheel. It's enough time to re-write the will or talk the eldest child into taking all of the cats. It's enough time to tell everyone that you love them for the 9 billionth time... and that's why I quit in the first place.

Damn you Blogger!

I just had a nifty little post written and it had a picture to go with it! But when I tried to post the picture it gave me an error that said, I couldn't upload at this time, (and that the engineers are working on it). So I tried to save my post as a draft but it got lost and didn't appear. So it looks like I've already wasted some time tonight. Thank you, Blogger.
This is the reason I need to get off my ass and learn movable type.
So I guess I'll just have to tell you about how last night, Connor held his Vanilla-Ginger gourmet cookie up over his head like it should have rays of sunlight shooting from it and said clear as day... "Coo-Key".
and has refused all bribes and cajoling to say it again.

I'll try to re-write my first post and post it in the morning.

The habitual Mommy

Tonight Pink was sitting in my lap looking at me. Before I knew what I was doing, I took my finger and pressed his nose and said, "Nose!".
I was too horrified by what I had done to even be horrified by what I had done. My Mommy brain is such Mommy brain that I can't even remember that the cat, who is ten years old, does not need to know the names of his body parts.
I'm a habitual Mommy.

Ahhh, the Slurpee

One of the things that I miss about California is the Slurpee. You see, in Fremont, they still have 7-11s. The 7-11's still have Slurpees. Here we have the Icee, but they are just carbonated air and flavor. I miss the Slurpee. So if you are reading this from CA. Have a Slurpee for me. I'll make sure that next time I walk past an Icee machine, I flip it off for you.

My AI picks

Damnit! I was wrong on my American Idol picks. Ayla Brown got the boot and so did Giddeon. And now we are down to the top 12.

Ace Young - Paula LOVES your falseto. Quite frankly it scares me. Good thing you are so easy on the eyes. I don't think you will make it to number one, but then again I should never underestimate the 13 year old vote. Did I mention you are fine?

Bucky Covington - You have GOT to get a hair stylist. I can't remember what you sang last, but I do remember that it looks like you desperately need a shave.

Chris Daughtry - You so rock dude. I hope you make it just so we can buy your album.

Elliot Yamin - Love the voice, although, I'm not sure that the rest of America will put you through just based on looks. Our culture is just a little bit shallow, in case you haven't noticed.

Katherine McPhee - Yeah, you're cute. But that "smoldering look" more borders on annoying to me. Keep it real sister.

Kellie Pickler - Someone has got to tell you so I guess it's going to be me. Dumb does not equal cute. Someone has got to stop the all Southern Women are dumb stereotype. It could be you. So can the "blonde" act and get real.

Kevin Covalis - HOW IN THE HELL ARE YOU STILL HERE? Oh that's right. 11 year olds watch the show. You're never going to make it to number one, but at least you'll get laid when you get back to high school.

Lisa Tucker - I think you might be better suited for Broadway. It's just unnatural for a 16 year old to love Barbara Streisand so much. I think you were a gay man in a past life.

Mandisa - Girl, I hope you make it. (See Elliot's comment above)

Melissa McGhee - You look so much like the girl next door. Unfortunately you are much to average to make it all the way, girl.

Paris Bennett - You're cute girl. You might just make it all the way!

Taylor Hicks - STOP with the "seizure on stage" dancing already. It's getting OLD.

Force of habit

There are some things that I do that are just a force of habit. I'm not quite sure from where the habit arose but I do them none the less. One day Jorma said to me, "What do you always drive in the far right lane?" I thought about it. hhmm. Why do I always drive in the right lane? It's not because I drive that slowly. It's just something I do. And to prove to myself that I didn't have to drive in the far right lane, I immediately got into the far left lane. I drove for a few minutes fighting the urge to get back into the slow lane and then took a minute to ask myself why I wanted back over to the right. Myself answered with, "If the car breaks down you won't be stuck in the middle of the interstate." And there I had it. I always drove in the slow lane because up until now, I've always driven cars that were more likely to break down than say, your car for example. So I've always drive in the right lane. It's a product of always having a piece of shit car.

I had forgotten that Jorma and I had this conversation until the other day when I realized that I never put ice in my glass when I get something to drink. Why do I do this I pondered? And then I realized. Aside from a brief stint with one of my roommates, I've never had a fridge with an ice maker until we moved to California. Using ice was a luxury, because it meant that I would have to fill up the ice cube trays when they were empty. Yeah, before you snort and call me lazy, you just ask yourself, how long have you been living with an icemaker, eh? I would fill the trays... it just sometimes wasn't worth the effort for a glass of apple juice that was already cold in the first place.

This one's for you, honey

Every time I even start to talk about when I moved in with one of my old roommates, Jorma stops me and politely says, “Yeah, you already told me about the skin”. That’s his way of hoping that I don’t repeat the story. He doesn’t want to hear it again. But I lived through it and I’m not sure that I’ve told anyone else, except Shane who intervened later that evening to help me move some heavy stuff. So I thought I’d share it with you all. Nothing like making the entire internet gag.

My old roomie is a fantastic guy and when I needed a new place to live, he was more than happy to rent out one of the rooms in the three bedroom house that he was living in alone. It was cool for me to bring the dog and two cats, he had two dogs of his own, the rent was decent and I trusted him not to try to turn the arrangement into anything that it wasn’t. I looked forward to having a male platonic roommate, for reasons of safety and just a general change of scene.

The day that I moved in was the Friday before 4th of July weekend. New Roomie was at the beach but had given me the go ahead to move into the house, which worked as an added bonus since I could watch the other dog, he didn’t take with him. She was a Carin Terrier with a severe skin condition. She had eczema and almost no hair. Sadly, she very closely resembled Yoda.

When I first brought in my first load of stuff, I noticed the smell. I had noticed a smell when I came in to look at the house a few weeks before, but thought it was the same sort of smell you might expect in a frat house… it just needed to be thoroughly scrubbed. I was willing to do the scrubbing - after all I had all weekend. Once I had all of my stuff in my room, I decided I could no longer stand the smell and started cleaning the den.

I started by sweeping. I had a pretty good pile, but was trying to be thorough so I started sweeping up the corner where the two sofa’s met. The smell was stronger there, and as I was sweeping I noticed a good bit of coarse grey matter. I moved one of the sofas and swept where there was more of the mysterious sand waiting to be swept. Soon, I had the sand all around me and stuck to the bottom of my feet, as I was barefoot. At this point, I still thought I might be standing in crumbed cement, so I wasn’t bothered that the bottoms of my feet were covered in this mysterious substance.

I was baffled. It seemed like the smell and the sand had some sort of correlation. I bent down and scooped up some on a piece of paper. I observed. Once of the pieces of sand had a piece of hair coming from it. A hair follicle actually. I think then I knew what it was, but my mind would not accept it. Suddenly my feet started itching. As if on cue, the dog trotted out from behind the sofa, sat a few feet in front of me and started scratching, causing a rain of dry, sand-like dog skin to come raining down around her.
I gagged. I was standing in a pile of dog skin. I immediately started wiping off my feet on the side of the broom bristles, and raced into the kitchen. I climbed up onto the counter and scrubbed my feet with anti-bacterial soap. I washed my legs. I filled the sink with warm soapy water and a little bit of bleach and soaked my feet. I changed clothes. I sat down on the couch and cried. What had I gotten myself into?

The situation was such that I really didn’t have a whole lot of options. I scrubbed and scrubbed, aired out the house, Febreezed, burned scented candles, but we could just never get the smell to go completely away. It had been absorbed into the hardwood floors and paneling in the house. The fact that the dog liked to show her distress by urinating and pooping on the floor also didn’t help the smell. Eventually after I moved out, the terrier died and he was able to get the house under control. In the end it wasn’t so bad. There’s nothing like being able to make your husband gag just by saying the words, “dog skin”.

Climbing the walls

Oh. My. God. This stopping smoking thing really sucks. The second day is harder than the first for sure. Last night in my dreams I was screaming at everyone and just mad at the world. When I woke up in the middle of the night the cat was in the spot that my feet needed to be in, Jorma was snoring and the covers were wadded up at the bottom of the bed. I just couldn't sleep - I was too mad. Or rather, I was just going through nicotine withdrawl. If I wasn't pregnant I would be able to take something... you know, Tylenol PM or something to knock me out for the night... but I can't really take anything. I took a benedryl, (safe for preggos) but it didn't do much good.
Today, Jorma took Connor and I just lazed around the house like a slug, doing anything to avoid going outside and longingly looking at the pot filled with cigarette butts next to the back door. I did watch three movies, Rent, Just like Heaven and The Island. All were B-rate, but it kept me from climbing the walls. I napped. I ate. I took deep breaths. I ate more. I knitted a scarf on my knitting loom.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.

My love affair with cigarettes

I first started smoking at Western Carolina. I made it all the way through high school without smoking and always swore I'd never be a smoker. But when attending parties at Western Carolina, it seemed like the thing to do. I never started smoking, just to smoke. I just wanted to blow smoke rings. After a while, my friend and supplier of cigarettes, Carrie, pointed out that she like the rest of us was dirt poor and that if I wanted to bum cigarettes to try to blow smoke rings, I needed to buy my own pack. It never occurred to me that I might get hooked. Hell, I was just having a little fun.

Smoking later turned into the actual thing, but only casually at parties and the like. Then I discovered that if I was up late studying, it helped me stay awake. If I was hungry, I could smoke a cigarette instead of eating something and it would get me through. If I had been up late the night before, smoking a cigarette before class helped wake me up. Coffee probably would have done the same thing, but we didn't have a coffee pot in the dorm. In fact, I didn't develop my love affair with coffee until some time later when I discovered how good it went with a cigarette first thing in the morning.

I'm telling you this because today I end my love affair with cigarettes. If quitting smoking was easy we would have a lot less smokers in the world. It's hard. It's really, really hard. One of the things that makes it really hard is that quite honestly, I love smoking. It's relaxing. It's soothing. It relieves both anxiety and depression. It's an appetite suppressant. It's a friend. It's a reward system. I'm not quitting because I want to. I'm quitting because I need to. Because I have to.

"Smoking is out of style" 'you say. To which I would like to point out, in every generation looking like you just don't give a shit... is always in style. But I do give a shit, which is why I'm quitting. Not just because I'm pregnant, although that is reason enough, but because I want to be able to attend Connors high school graduation without an oxygen tank strapped to my back. Because I need to be able to catch my breath chasing around two little ones. Because I unlike the generation before me, I waited until my early thirties to have kids and I would like to be around as long as possible.

All in all, it's still really really hard. Thus, I'll be welcoming all thoughts, prayers, comments, phone calls and emails of encouragement. Cookies are nice too. Wish me luck.