Thursday, September 23, 2010

Electro-Love

Ahhhhhh.  Is it possible to be in love with a dishwasher? After the last few weeks of handwashing every dish in the house, I have thankfully been replaced by a machine that happily does a better job than I do and swears a lot less while doing it.  I am now under the spell of "Electro-Loooove" and am seriously thinking about naming my new Electrolux dishwasher so I can refer to it ever so fondly when I tell my kids to load or unload it.

Of all the appliances in the world of luxury and ease, it is the dishwasher that I love the most.  As a self-confessed laundry avoider, it was weeks before I noticed my washer and dryer both went belly up.  And my microwave? When it quit working we barely skipped a beat-although we realized we forgot how to make popcorn the real way.  And our fridge? We just ate Ramen for a few days.  But when our dishwasher quit...it was tragic!

The alarming thing about appliances, one I learned the hard way,     is that the new ones are really only built to last about 7 years.  Yep.  S-E-V-E-N.  And, as my house is around nine years old now, most of the appliances in it have given up the ghost.  And of all the loses we've suffered thus far, the hardest to bid farewell to was, of course, was my dishwasher.  

At this point I should pause and give you A word of advise:     if your house is still sporting an appliance that came in a shade called "Harvest Gold" or "Avocado Green", hang on to it!  Treat it better than your children.  Guard and protect it with your life because it is quite possible that it could outlive you.  Which means it will take care of you long into your harvest-golden years. 

Unfortunately we had newer ones.  So far we've lost a dryer, a fridge, and TWO microwaves. A grotesque appliance hemorrhage.  Soon, my washing machine went ka-put I once again went appliance shopping. 

I found a fabulous washing machine that happened to be on sale.  Sweet deal aside, I  admittedly  bought it less because of the great price and sadly more because Kelly Ripa's their spokes-diva, and a teensy weensy part of me was hoping that if I owned one of "her" washing machines, there might be a chance my clothes would magically come out of the dryer and make me look like her.

Needless to say, that didn't work.  However, my clothes are amazingly clean and smell fabulous.  Though I'd prefer having her figure over great smelling clothes.

Then when my dishwasher decided not to wash dishes anymore I decided that maybe if I owned not one but TWO Electrolux appliances, it might double my chances of channeling her fit and fabulous figure.


It did not.  But my stemware is "perfectly clean" as advertized.  The sparkle of which I hope will distract dinner guests from the fact that I am not 5' 4" nor do I weigh only 95 lbs. or have flowing and fabulous blond hair.

I am then left to console myself on the fact that I'm not hand washing dishes anymore.

Here's hoping Electro-Love is blind.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Pigs Fly

Never thought I'd see this scene in my kitchen...

Yes, that would be my two youngest children happily hand washing the dishes...TOGETHER.  This bizarre occurrence all happened because of homemade playdough.

Yes, Playdough.

Apparently it can be homemade.  Who knew?  Actually Aunt Wendy knew and she brazenly showed Chloe just how this can be done while Chloe was hanging out with her cousins the other day.  Then Chloe came home and told Connor all about it and the two decided they wanted to make some here at home.

I confess that I'm not a big fan of kids cooking in the kitchen.  It only leads to mayhem, messes, and oft times the need to seek medical attention.  (Just ask Cheyenne who once had to have her finger stitched back up--or was it Mitchell?)

And although the fact that my dishwasher quit may not sound like a fortunate event,  I saw the sink quite literally half-full--of dirty dishes and decided to use this predicament to my advantage...or so I thought.   Knowing this would throw a hurdle in their cooking plans    I simply gave their epicurious endeavers an evasive green light with ONE BIG IF.

That is...IF they washed all the dishes BY HAND, dried them, AND put them all away.

(Evil grin) that would stop them!

...turns out it didn't.  They headed for the kitchen and got to work scrubbing everything in sight!

They did a pretty darn good job surprisingly enough.  Or should I say Chloe did a pretty darn good job?  Since Connor's notoriously short attention span for anything domestic quickly and predictably faded.  His job was to hand dry everything Chloe washed.  But he soon turned some chopsticks he was supposed to be drying off and putting away, into drumsticks, and began distracting himself by rocking out with my pots and pans and leaving the real dish drying for Chloe to do once she finished washing. 

Chloe didn't seem to mind.  She was so focused on a future of homemade playdough.  Purple playdough at that.
...And, speaking of the mayhem and messes of which I'm not so fond of, it is helpful to note for future reference that this sort of cooked up concoction will stick really badly to the bottom of your pans should your children forget to rinse and soak 'em after they're done with their cooking extravaganza.

And while happy kids washing dishes might be a miracle around here, it wasn't an everlasting one.  I still had a defunct dishwasher and playdough stuck to the bottom of my pan...and that's where I could use a real miracle!

Thursday, September 16, 2010

A Very Selfish Birthday Gift

I've sunk to a whole new low.  I've defied the natural laws and true spirit of gift giving.   The fact is that I recently gave a birthday gift that I put A LOT of thought into, however, my sad confession is that I wasn't really thinking of the person who was to receive the gift as much as I was thinking selfishly about myself.  It was all perniciously premeditated and, well, a bit narcissistic on my part.

But I justified the whole nefarious affair by categorizing my gift as "friendly philanthropy" instead of calling it what it really was:
An "egotistical endowment".

We're not talking about a pricey gift mind you.  Just a package of socks as a matter of fact.  But the important part of the whole gift was that they were LOW CUT socks.
These low cut socks were for my big brother's 43rd birthday.  He's just two years older than me, which was an extremely important factor in my decision to give him this sort of practical yet highly necessary gift.

My decision for this purchase was based upon that fact that he has, to my great shock and horror, spent the better part of the summer sporting summer shorts with ghastly TALL WHITE socks and paired them with an even brighter more jarringly white shade of tennis shoes. (yep, that's him in the hat...)
I cannot think of anything that screams "OLD GUY" more than that.  Of course if he wants to flaunt his aged-ness it really should be his right, right?  WRONG!

Wrong because he and I are practically the same age.  We were one year apart in school for goodness sake!  So if he's sporting the crusty old man look already what in the heck does that say about me?  His not-too-much-younger sister?  For the love of all that's youthful, can't he think about others?  Particularly me?  And if not me, perhaps he should consider his poor wife Wendy.  She's still a hot and youthful mama.  Therefore sporting such an offensively old look really tarnishes not only his sister's but his wife's youthful appearance.  That's two counts of premature aging.  Short of locking him up, I think this sort of public sock spectacle must be stopped.  And so stop it I did...with a simple and thoughtfully deliberate birthday gift.

And next year, I plan on giving him a new and less Amish-looking hat.

Monday, September 13, 2010

A Bunch of Crazies

If my family were a shopping cart it would be the kind you'd avoid because it's got a squeaky misaligned wheel.  Only in my particular case, it wouldn't be just one bad wheel, it would be at least three.  And expecting it to travel in a strait and predictable quiet path would be out of the question. Basically, if my family was indeed a shopping cart, it would be the one you would quickly take back to the cart corral and exchange for a new one.

That's because it's really no secret that my family gene pool has been marinating in crazy for some time.  I've never hidden the fact that one of my unconventional but favorite uncles had a knack for holding solemn occasions in not-so-solemn locations.  Namely a marriage that took place in a nudist colony, Christmases spent in lock-down, and even his own funeral was held at the Screaming Chicken Saloon
(If you're a member of a notorious biker "club" you'll know exactly where that is).

Nor have I made secret that my eccentric aunt spent years dabbling in the fine art of hyperbole.  She'd constantly hustle her neighbors, unsuspecting waiters and waitresses, even her mailman, with flagrant and erroneous updates on me and my siblings--claiming that we were child prodigies (a serious crime of untruth).   When we'd arrive at her house for summer visits she would give us a verbal dossier in order to get our stories strait.  My brother who she professed to be the "youngest astronaut-in-training",  my sister the "Olympic Gymnast", and me the "successful child actor" would spend a few minutes studying our bogus biographies as if we'd just been put into the witness protection program and our lives depended on it.  Then she would promptly unveil us like a traveling stage show in a dizzying parade of pride.

...and these are just the relatives I dare blog about.

But one confession that I rarely let slip through is the one about my own father.  Crazy uncles and aunts are a staple but a direct relation that makes up one half of your DNA strand seems to mar your personal integrity with greater abruptness.  The secret about my father proves so salacious that people far and wide know the sordid details without my having to publicize it--which really doesn't make it much of a secret does it?

My dad became a bona fide family crazy about a decade ago.  He abruptly changed his first name and officially declared himself a "Sovereign Nation".  At the time, I'd only heard of the declarations of Independence or perhaps declarations of items you've brought with you across a border--but declaring yourself a sovereign nation?
Well, that one I had to Google.

His "manifest destiny" as I like to call it,  came about when some governmental red tape became his "last straw".  Instead of complaining about it like the rest of us casually do, my father actually did something about it...something crazy.  His formal show of force came in the form of the aforementioned declaration and drastic name change. 

As for the name change, that becomes a little more confusing.  Usually names are changed from an irregular name to something more familiar.  Perhaps your parents were products of the 60's and named you  "Galaxy" and you just wanted something more normal and so you legally change it to "Bob".  Fair and normal enough.  But that is not the case here--which really comes as no surprise given my genetic predisposition for the unorthodox.  In this case, my father chose to name himself after one of the 50 states.  For me, it just doesn't roll of the tongue very easily to call my own father a name that I associate with a fifth grade test that forced me to memorize it's associated capital city and shape on a map.  So I just stick with calling him "Dad".  My sister, however, loves to use his new name and uses it often and almost incessantly in awkward misplaced areas in a sentence as if she's some sort of stenographer who's getting paid by the word.

The whole ordeal has become sort of a family ruse.  When any of us begin to look like were stressed out and about to succumb to the ill pressures of life, one of us blurts out, "you're not going to go change your name are you?"  It's sort of become a kind of code for losing it.  A familial litmus test.  One of the perils of having a lifetime pre-paid membership in my peculiar yet special family also inevitably means that any one of us are all one stressful situation away from joining our kindred crazies in a brazen act of nonconformity.

Poor Mitchell had just that kind of episode a few days ago...

Mitchell went to register and renew the plates on his car at the DMV and when he came home he gave me quite a scare.

His plates had expired (as a nice police officer, accompanied by flashing lights, had so kindly pointed out to him).  This meant that the poor kid got his first taste of Real Life 101 when he went down to the DMV to renew and pay the fees ON HIS OWN.  When he arrived, he found an unusually long line for even the "take a number" machine.  It took a half hour to reach the service counter.  There he learned that the DMV does not accept debit cards.  Only cash or checks.

Mitchell, of generation Y, was puzzled because he had never even seen an actual check nor written one.  In the year he has had his own checking account he has successfully remained paperless and never found an occasion that required actual paper to transfer money.

The DMV attendant at the window directed him to the nearest ATM and instructed him to hurry back as he would have to wait in line all over again.  

So Mitchell ran across the street where he paid $4 in fees for the privilege to use a non-friendly ATM machine and withdrew $100 in cash.  He dashed back to the DMV where he waited again in yet another long line.  Another half hour later he once again stood before the disinterested DMV man.  Mitchell confidently slide the documents and cash across to him to finalize his first of many painful DMV extortions  transactions only to be told callously that the amount owed was more than double the amount that was actually listed on his official DMV papers.  Although it stated that he owed $75, the man told him the total was incorrect and that he needed to pay $175...cash or check, of course.  

Mitchell, who was now slightly distraught having only withdrawn $100 from the ATM, made his way back across the street.  In an attempt to avoid another $4 "transaction fee" he decided to go to a nearby store and get a cold beverage with his debit card and get $100 cash back.  Smart kid right?  Unfortunately his plan backfired.  The store only allowed him to take just $10 extra.  This meant a return  to the offending ATM machine to extract another $100 after all.  And of course the machine again charged him another $4 service fee. 

For the second time he made his way on foot, across traffic and waited in line-this time for 40 minutes.  He slid $175 of his hard earned summer job savings across the counter only to be given in return, two tiny little stickers for his car's license plate.

Mitchell arrived home and came straightaway to find me and give me all the sordid details of his  distressing DMV experience.  His tale included uncharacteristic undertones of hostility accompanied by mild gesturing--which is an extreme act in Mitchell's case.  I sat listening and tried really hard to act upset over the first of many costly predicaments that lay in wait for the rest of his adult life.  Unfortunately my insensitive response was, "Just think, when your plates expire in two more years you get to do it all over again!"

To which he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm so frustrated I'm about ready to change my name and declare myself a sovereign nation!"


I was horrified at how easily this thought rolled off his tongue...but not surprised.
 
Yet another family member gone mad.  I suppose it was only a matter of time.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Bathroom Break-In

This post is to the blog reader who heard my cries for help and came to my sweet and leisurely rescue.  As no one in the house is fessing up to the Great Magazine Mystery, I must conclude I have a very sneaky yet thoughtful blog follower.

I shall try to look past the nasty business of your breaking and entering and classify your crime of passion as a simple goodwill mission.  You are truly an ambassador of peace.

(If you're a little confused by this post...click on this link to read Looky Loo in My Loo)

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Power Hungry

During our weekend at the dunes, one of our fellow campers who shall remain nameless because I do not have very kind words toward him at the moment, encouraged Chloe to take his son's quad out for a test drive:

What may have seemed like a nice gesture turned the rest of the weekend into a disaster.  Because when Chloe eventually had to hop back on her own quad, she quickly declared that her bike had suddenly become totally inadequate for her needs--a difference she would have been completely oblivious to if a certain somebody hadn't loaned her their kid's quad in the first place.

From that moment on, when she would ride her own quad, she would suddenly stop and do these strange vexing postures to publicly demonstrate her frustration with the thing's inability to keep up with her growing skills.

I think If it were possible to do yoga on a quad, I could actually name her poses...

This one I'd call the "downward facing sob":

and this one the "Seated Sky Sulk":

Now the only conversation our 10-year old daughter wanted to talk about on our trip back home was the subject of getting a new quad so she can do "more hill climbing".  Apparently she's forgotten she just recently moved up from a 60cc to her red 80cc.  Now she's fixated on making the leap to a 250 four-stroke.

What happened to the days when all Chloe really cared about was was having a "pretty" motocross outfit with a matching pink helmet? Those demands were cheaper to satisfy.

And, as for our "friend" who so generously shared his stuff with my daughter...he will  be spitefully cut out of our group photo and won't be invited back until he can learn NOT to share his toys with my kids anymore.


Check out the size difference:  The kid in the very front of this next picture--he's on the bike she wants...Chloe's on her quad right after him.  Click on the picture and check out the size differences...of both the size of the two kids and the size of their quads.  Hmmmm.  Can you guess which one may not belong with the other?

...but there's not much you can do to change the mind of a very focused girl who's gotten a little power hungry.

Monday, September 6, 2010

While Otherwise Preoccupied on a Church Pew

Connor was distracted last Sunday in anticipation of our Labor Day weekend at the Dunes.  Instead of contemplating the Sabbath or even Scripture, Connor was meditating on Sand--a lesser know spiritual study.

He was hard at work sketching out this curiously vice-laden portrayal of the Dunes:
Unfortunately for us, it appears to be an exact replica of these sort of occasional weekend camp outs.  I'm not sure he intended to point out some of the more deadly sins we commit during our dune trips but you will note he certainly drew a fair share of them:
  • He's drawn his father slothfully asleep with a book
  • He's got me monopolizing a friend's ipad--Greed & Envy
  • His brother Mitch doing ALL the hard work, while...
  • He drew himself avoiding ALL the hard work--more sloth
  • Broc golfing--a sport known for encouraging dishonesty
  • Mont eating M&M's: classic gluttony
  • and the little girls appear to be gambling in the Skillman trailer
  • He also alludes to the crime of stealing, albeit by someone else NOT in our camp.  Notice how he draws a long line connecting the quads.  That's a chain used to prevent quad theft. 
It became apparent there in that church pew that this has become the sort of scene we've etched into our young and impressionable son's memory, enough for him to draw it all its sacrilegious splendor instead of listening to a lengthy sermon against these sorts of things.

No, instead he's drawing on the back of a church program a scene we hope he'll remember long into adulthood: Those trouble times of his youth he spent at the dunes with his family, swirling about in those scandalous sand-laden scenes.

And thus the reason you'll find our family each Sunday going to church...to confess what Connor has now pointed out as our many sandy sins.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Who's the Fat Cat Now?

This blog entry is for Cheyenne.

Ever since she went off to college, when she comes back home to visit she always contemptuously remarks about my negligence in cat rearing.  And when I say cat, I mean the cat I did not want in the first place.  Cheyenne's big beef is that we've let the thing get FAT.

I have several problems with her accusation, and therefore I am officially posting my defense.

First, I don't think the cat is fat.

Second, I never ever feed the cat.  If I am negligent in anything that falls under the broad category of "Cat Rearing" I would be guilty of the exact opposite: not feeding it  in hopes that it will wander to the neighbors house and prefer the food they serve over there and decide to move.  Word on the street is that they give out table scrapes.  But apparently our cat has not heard these rumors yet (too busy with its aggressive napping schedule I suppose).  And unfortunately, the rest of the kids around the house DO keep feeding it which sadly means the thing is here to stay.

Third, it seems to me that the cat doesn't do a dang thing but sleep all day.  So really how can anyone around her be contributing to its censured girth?  Occasionally the cat's extreme sedentary lifestyle gets momentarily interrupted by brief albeit hilarious moments of torture by the remaining kids at home... but really...how many calories can that burn?

Still, Cheyenne seems to insist on her claims of obesity by calling "Edward Scissorhands" "Fatty".

The other day I happened to be visiting a friend.  When I took one look at their cat I decided our kitty looked like a poster cat for Jenny Craig when you compare the two.  And I decided Cheyenne must see the proof for herself:

EXHIBIT A:
This is skinny little "Edward"
[notice the menacing eyes--he's about to scratch me.]

EXHIBIT B:
And this Cheyenne
is a very very very FAT cat:


I rest my skinny case.
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