How Long Can You Tread Water?

Ark building is a lost skill. I'm sure of it.

Does anyone know the modern equivalent of a cubit? I really think that in the near future I'm going to be needing it. Apparently yesterday the Governor of Massachusetts called out the National Guard to help contain some of the vast quantities of water we have received in the Northeast over the past few weeks.

Just as I was officially OVER winter a few weeks ago, I am also now officially over the wet portion of Spring. This is due largely in part to the old adage...April showers bring May flowers, because seriously if it does, we'll have had rain for 2 straight months.

There was a time in my recent home occupancy that I lamented over not having a basement. Storage and all. I'm so over that too considering anyone that I know that has a basement, now has an indoor swimming pool. I've heard more sump-pump lingo slash drainage conversations at work than I can handle.

My boss left the office yesterday saying that he had to go home and deal with his boat.

Me: But you don't own a boat.

Him: I know. I was referring to my house.

Me: Oh right, you have a basement. I Forgot.

Speaking of boats. I was somewhat worried that the BF's boat would have taken on so much water over the past week that we would be spending the entire weekend (provided it stopped raining) bailing the sucker out. His response:

Don't worry. I pulled the plug. (The boat is on the side of our house.)

So now I'm thinking, it has a plug. A plug?! What if the plug comes lose while we're 6 miles out on the ocean. He really should have just told me we were going to bail it out. Now all I'll be thinking about when I'm on it is, 'the plug'.

So people, if you're somewhere where it's sunny and dry, feel free to tell me all about it. I of course will be considering all of the ways that I can super glue 'the plug' back in place without the BF noticing.

Stress Is Not An Option

Some days, no, most days I'm completely filled with the sense of "I'm going to get this done." This would not be work related tasks, these would be all of the home related tasks that we don't get paid for.

The this can be any number of things or just one thing in particular. But once my feet hit the wood floor of my kitchen after work I'm full of "I don't wanna do....." whatever the this might be.

This after work nonmotivational Frannie has got to be reigned in. I'm hoping with the oncoming of Spring, ie. sunshine, I'll be more apt to get things done on weekdays.

This complete lack of motivation also messes with my stress meter. I always stress out when I know we're having company. I can't help it. It's as if I can see every speck of dust and every book on the shelf that isn't lined up properly. Sunday we have a house full coming for Easter and I have a laundry list of things in my head that I have to get done before then.

Vacuum 62 hundred times (so the dog hair doesn't take over)

Fill 96 plastic eggs for Sunday mornings egg hunt. (Although 62 hundred is a fictitious number 96 is not.)

Finalize food list - so I can answer all family members questions as to what they can bring. We were all together for a birthday party this past Sunday and when I was asked what they could bring I had an immediate blank as to the exact conversation the BF and I had already agreed on regarding the food.

Clean rest of the house - did I mention this will be the first time my mother has come to visit? No? Well it is. So, no pressure.

Last Friday the BF and I thought we would try and get some of the errand running out of the way. We decided to go to Sam's Club (that's like a Costco for us) because we knew we could get a big enough ham for everyone there.

So, I'm thinking, this is good, we're being proactive, a couple of items are off the list, the ham will keep in the fridge, no problem. I feel less stressed already.

We get everything we need, we go through the checkout, we get to the truck...

We forgot....

The ham.

If anyone has any event planning stress relievers other than martinis, because I've already considered those, please feel free to share.

If My Dog Could Talk...

He'd tell you that I'm a dog person. I'll admit it. I am.

Frankly, I'm more apt to talk to your dog than to you if we meet on the street. Don't take it personally it's just that, well, they speak my language.

What? Belly rubs are the best! How could you go wrong with an ear scratch, I ask you. And don't even get me started with the toys. My Hooper has toys all over the place, the squeakier the better.

Now that we live in the 'burbs, I've noticed that everyone has a dog. We of course have a yellow Lab which as we speak is making shedding an Olympic sport.

Yes, we have a Marley dog and no not because of that foolish movie.

In my neighborhood alone there's a man that walks two Welsh Corgis every evening, a Golden Retriever on the corner AND one on the other side of our backyard fence, two Jack Russells (NOT friendly at all) and a Rottweiler up the hill, a Dachshund next door and one Scottie in desperate need of a bath.

We've lived here since the end of November and I know for certain that the next door neighbor's Dachshund is named Nellie but I struggle every time I talk to her, the neighbor not the dog, to remember her name. Kate, Chris, Carrie? I think Chris but I'm not sure.

The BF and I met the sweet old lady that walks the Scottie this past weekend. She was a love that introduced herself and her pooch, we chit chatted in the driveway for about 10 minutes before they moved along. As I'm typing I'm struggling to remember her name...the Scottie is Penny and she's 12 years old.

The Golden in the yard behind ours is Bailey and he's 8, I don't even think I could pick his owner out of a group of complete strangers let alone know her name.

I don't know how I developed this weird doggy recall but I've got it.

I'm not sure why this is. It's definitely not an 'animal' thing because if you have a cat, hamster, Guinea Pig, bird or a whatever I'll never recall you or the pet so just don't even try.

Anything that is kept in a cage shouldn't be a pet. Would you like to live in one room for the rest of your life? No probably not. Try sitting in your bed room and staring at the walls for 12 hours, bet you'd be bored in 20 minutes. I know I'd be in 10.

So when I meet you on the street and I'm scratching your dog's ears and giving him schmoopie kisses, what I'm really doing is strangling my brain to try and remember what your name is.

Just help me out and tell me. Ok?

What? I Can't Understand You.

SPAM.

That's what I want to talk about today.

As far as I knew Spam came in two forms. That weird mushy, meat like product that comes in a shiny blue can and really annoying email from people I've never heard of trying to sell me things I obviously don't need. I'll keep it PG but really, I don't feel the need to 'enhance' anything I've got. And the product you're pushin' is for something I don't have. Enough said.

When I was a kid I remember my grandfather telling my grandmother that if she ever thought of serving Spam as a part of any meal they would be getting divorced. Apparently he had had his fill of it during the war and if he never saw it again it would be too soon.

I get spam email all the time.

I used to just delete the whole folder without even looking but lately some of my commenters have been landing there so I make an effort every day to flip through the messages just to make sure no one gets slighted.

This brings me to a new form of spam that I wasn't aware of.

Comment Spam.

Does this mean that I'm on the internet map?

Frankly, as long is they're not derogatory I don't mind but they seem to show up with content like this:

Hi! Cracker jacks. Awesome I was product seen blueberries ghostly TV super whistling duck fast now. Shipping skips in a circle. Bark. Meow. Buy me!

Hey, I'm all for plugging your product but if I can't understand what it is you're trying to tell me, then what's the point? I'm just going to delete you and then you've got nothing.

So people, apparently I have arrived. The interverse is acknowledging my small existence, albeit with spam. But hey, a girl's got to start somewhere.

Leave me the weirdest blog comment you've ever received in the comments and we'll see who can come up with the best one!

Hey everyone. Go check out Jana's blog. Show her some love. She's my 100th follower! www.romeowasafool.blogspot.com

I Have a Good Excuse...No Really I do!

I'm sure some of you have noticed that I've been absent more often than not lately. If you haven't noticed then just keep it to yourself. But in all seriousness I have been doing something REALLY important.

I've been vacuuming.

Everyday after work and even on the weekend.

I seems that our house has been overtaken by prehistoric size dust bunnies. Upon further inspection of said dust bunnies I came to the conclusion that they were made entirely from dog fur.

That's right, dog fur. I've vacc'd close to a cubic ton of dog hair in the last week and there appears to be no end in sight. I got it into my head yesterday that if I just brushed the dog maybe this would come to an end quicker.

Yeah. No, not so much.

I brushed and I brushed and the fur came out and out and out.

What the heck?

In the words of the Kid: He looks like he has cancer!

Me: I know!! What the heck!

Do you remember a few months ago when I learned a new word at the vet? Remember how there was a choice between a $5000 orthopedic dog surgeon and a chondroitin pill to cure the dog of his lameness?

Guess what one of the little known side-effects of chondroitin is?

That's right.

Hair loss.

So now we live in fear until the chondroitin is out of his system that the dog will accidentally sneeze and thus be rendered completely bald.

See, I told you it was a good excuse. Now, if you'll pardon my absence I have to go vacuum.

Again.

Does Anyone Have a Lint Roller?

You know that lint you always find in the corners of your jeans pocket? It's always there, no matter what you do. That's my BFF - 'Leen. She's the lint in my pocket. We've been best friends since the second grade. First grade doesn't count, we had a vile hatred of each other then. Playground politics at its finest.

Now that we're adults I know that I can totally count on her. In the words of Lisa Scottoline author of Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog...If I called and told her I committed murder she would totally be on my door step with a shovel and a Hefty bag. No questions asked.

She would however comment after we dug the hole that I probably could have planned it better if I had called her first. She's always the voice of reason, the planner. I tend to be the fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl.

She called me a few weeks ago to tell me that she had dyed her hair flaming red. She's a natural redhead but as we, ahem, have gotten older her hair has turned more brownish and even though she's loathe to admit it. Grayish. I immediately told her I loved it.

I haven't even seen it.

But...

If she loves it. Then I'll love it. That's just the way we are.

Her birthday is coming this weekend and she will tell you that I am exactly one month and one week older than she is. She delights in the fact that I will eventually hit forty before she does.

So, Happy 37th Birthday 'Leen, even though we're 500 miles apart you'll always be the lint in my pocket.

The Shiny Red Button Part II - Holding Down the Button

Catch up on the beginning of our story: The Shiny Red Button Part I

While our hero, otherwise known as The Kid, was riding the wave of his latest victory, The Headphone Triumph, he neglected the fact that women are vindictive. He is only 13 after all. All of life's lessons haven't quite sunk in.

When the Kid went up to the front of the classroom to collect his much sought after headphones, the science teacher noticed his pants.

I should take a moment here to tell you that when we bought his uniform pants back in August, they fit. The Kid has since grown 5 inches and lost 15 pounds. Needless to say no amount of belt will keep a size 34 waist from sliding down when you now need a size 31. They are not ridiculously low, tucking in his shirt helps to keep them up but he's using the absolute last hole on his belt and they still slide down. I also refuse to buy him all new pants for the last three months of school. He'll just out grow them before school starts next year.

Science Teacher: Kid - Go out in the hall and pull up your pants.

Kid: Fine. (goes out in hall - pulls up pants - walks back into classroom - pants slide down from walking)

Science Teacher: Kid - Go out in the hall and pull up your pants.

Kid goes out in the hall, crosses his arms and stands there because he knew she'd be out. She comes out and tells him that if he can't do it himself she'll have someone show him how.

At this point in his story I stop him and ask exactly how is she going to do that because if she laid one finger on you she's going to have a serious problem. He laughs and says that she made him go into his History Teachers room, he's a man, and demand that he show the Kid how to properly pull up his pants. She then leaves the room.

History Teacher (looking at the Kid): blinks

The Kid: blinks back

History Teacher: She can't be serious.

The Kid: You know she hates me right?

History Teacher: Your pants look fine.

The Kid: Tell her that.

History Teacher: You should probably try to stay on her good side today.

The Kid: Does she have one? So, how exactly am I supposed to pull these up?

History Teacher: (blinks - sighs) We're done here.

The Kid: I thought so. See you after lunch.

History Teacher: The good side. On. Her. Good. Side.

The Kid: See you after lunch.

Perhaps this week she can bitch about his shirt not being blue enough?

The Shiny Red Button Part I

If pushing buttons could be a viable career choice my kid would be a savant, not to mention rich.

Currently there is a hate/hate relationship going on between the Kid's science teacher and himself.

I have zero misconceptions about my adorable little boy. He can be the worlds biggest p.i.t.a. when he wants to be, he has no problem talking it up, and is not intimidated by adult conversation. At all. Ever.

With that being said, from the get-go this school year his science teacher, who can't be more than 25, has loathed the sight of him, he in turn hates her back. And I, of course, being the supportive parent that I am, refer to her as 'b*&ch face'.

This week's run in involves headphones and pants. Way to mix it up right? Let's start with the headphones.

Cell phones, video games and iPods are not allowed at school, therefore every kid comes to school with at least two out of the three. Mine being no exception. The cell phone he keeps in his locker and his iPod in his pocket. I have told him repeatedly that if it gets taken away it's his own fault. He knows he's not supposed to have it visible, let alone in use at school.

As an aside to my story the Kid and some of his friends have become obsessed with the movie The Breakfast Club. Up to and including the conversation where he had asked me if I had ever seen it because it was obviously a work of genius. My reply consisted of a snort and a yeah not only had I seen it. I saw it in the movie theater.

My coolness factor increased by 10 points that day.

So, in keeping with the Breakfast Club theme. The Kid thought it would be hilarious to reenact Andrew's sweatshirt string scene...using his head phones. Sweatshirts don't come with strings anymore and if you can't remember a time when they did you're too young to be reading me. Needless to say, 'b*&ch face' saw him and took his headphones away.

I know for a fact that if a teacher takes something away from a student (in the Kid's school) that they are supposed to turn it into the front office and a parent is supposed to pick it up. How do I know this? This is not the Kid's first iPod related violation. Remember we're talking about button pushing here.

Three days go by after the taking away of the headphones. The headphones aren't returned and I've received no call from the office. I love those calls. They really help me question my parenting skills. With the beauty of caller id I always know when the school is calling and I try to resist the urge to answer the phone with, 'What has he done now?' Just in case he might be bleeding out of his eyes. 'Cause then I'd have guilt for doubting him.

I've completely given up emailing the teacher. I'm pretty sure she's aware of my scalding hatred of her. Instead, I email the vice principal. I'm nice, I point out it's my kid's own fault, I ask how we go about getting his headphones back.

The VP sends me back an email that says she'll look into it. This is the first she's heard of it.

Well, I guess now I know that 'b*&ch face' didn't turn them in to the office like she was supposed too.

These are the actual text messages between the Kid and I this morning:

7:45am Kid: she gave me back my headphones ( she seems mad cuz i got her in trouble hahahahahaha)

Me: Ok...Love u...Stay out of trouble today.

Kid: ok fine :( biii

He actually seems disappointed that he won't be allowed to taunt the teacher. I'm fully expecting a phone call from the principal before 10am because he openly laughed in her face.

Tomorrow we'll talk about the pants. Trust me you're gonna love that story.

It's That Time Again

You know, the time when I've accumulated a bunch of random super interesting tidbits about myself and my life and I must share them with you right away.

Otherwise I may forget them and at my age that would be like losing a whole year of wisdom and frankly I can't afford to lose anything right now except weight.

Here goes:

1. I have to sleep on the right hand side of the bed. I've tried the other side and I just lay there with my eyes open. Perhaps I'm spatially challenged?

2. I fell in love with this website, Ramblings of a Disgruntled Secretary, because I can totally relate to the posts about office politics, etiquette, etc. Only problem? For about 3 weeks I thought it was written by a woman. It's not. Appears I need to hone my observation skills, the button even has a man on it. Sometimes I wonder about myself.

3. For the past two months the only shoes I've worn are Ugg boots. Officially, I am so completely over winter. (There is a mass for the BF's mother this Sunday and I'm seriously considering whether or not I can get away with wearing Uggs to church.) Thoughts?

4. My latest obsession is British TV. One word people...Torchwood. Look it up.

5. I'm beginning to think with a British accent because I've absorbed copious amounts of #4.

6. I have a black keyboard at work and I've worn the 'n', 'e' and most of the 'd' buttons off. I'm not certain that the white on black scenario was the best idea. Either that or I type the word 'nerd' way too much.

7. The BF and I had a serious conversation the other day about getting another dog in the Fall. A girl Lab. I say black he says chocolate. We both must have been drunk.

Note: For any Frannieland children that are reading this...No, you do not get a vote on #7.

8. I have succumbed to the NorthFace epidemic that has overtaken the Northeast. Only mine is raspberry pink. Gotta stand out in crowd yo. (Thank you to the BF and the Kids - it was my birthday present.)

You'll have to visualize my snippets on the post-it notes for yourself. I don't have the patience for all that typing, picture saving, pasting, blah blah blah. But picture mine in pink 'cause yellow is so....everyone else.

Til' tomorrow lovelies...

Just Some Minor Adjustments

Last Fall the relocation of Frannieland took longer than expected, like weeks instead of days, and we had accumulated way more 'life treasures' than we ever thought was possible.

Most of said crap life treasures are still piled in one side of the garage because it's too cold to sort through it and even if it wasn't too cold we have no idea where we'd put any of it.

The transition into Country Frannieland has been along the same course. Everyone in the Frannie realm has been raised in the city. The BF, The Kid, The Chica and the Littlest Kid all grew up in the city, even the dog had his issues.

Everyone that is, except me. I grew up in small town USA, where literally everyone knows your name. There was only one restaurant, one grocery store and the closest mall was in the next state. The Annual Fishing Derby was a huge deal, even though you could throw a stone across the pond people came from all over town to take part.

So when we moved out of the city to finally breathe air that wasn't laced with smog and drink water right out of the tap, I was giddy. The BF has found the transition a little more irksome.

One morning at the local Mobil...

The BF: (getting in the truck) I didn't know buying the paper and getting gas could be such an ordeal.

Me: (sitting in the truck waiting) Huh?

The BF: They all have to talk.

Me: Who does?

The BF: The cashier, the people in line, the people in line for coffee. They all have to yap.

Me: Where they rude?

The BF: No, but the cashier has to talk to everyone. He's catching up on town gossip with each new person in line.

Me: That's what small town people do. They talk to each other.

The BF: Getting the paper takes 15 minutes!

Me: ...

The BF: Are all the stores in this place going to be like this?

Me: We should probably avoid the grocery store on Saturday mornings and you're going to love the barbershop.

So in my giddiness to return to small town life, fraught with small town politics, bake sales and neighbors who know your name, I had forgotten that I was the only one who knew what too expect.

City life is a rush of everything. Traffic moves faster, things are closer together, getting gas doesn't require talking, and living goes on whilst no one notices.

Here people notice.