I am a sexist
31 Oct 2005 10:45 pm
By Heather O.
Jacob had his first swim class of the fall session today. We walked in, not late, but not exactly early, and the director of the program was already assembling the kids into their classes. I recognized the director from previous sessions, but I thought, who are all the old men gathered around her? I found myself looking around for the teachers, you know, the young lifeguards.
The director announced the teacher for Jacob’s class, and it turned out to be one of those old men! Seriously, this guy was at least 50, and didn’t exactly look, um, very physically fit. The other teacher I got a good look at looked like he was pushing 80, but at least he didn’t have a belly. Up til now, Jacob’s swim class has always been taught by young, perky, extremely physically fit young female lifeguards who make you feel glad you don’t have to stand next to them in a swim suit. You expect me to believe that these guys can handle all these young kids? Wow, they must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel to get teachers this session, I thought.
All of this flashed through my head in the 4 seconds it took to get the kids over to where they were supposed to get in the water. I took my seat on the bleachers next to the pool, and watched the class very carefully, ignoring the director’s instructions about how to keep your kid from pooping in the pool.
And, wonder of wonders, Jacob’s teacher actually knew what he was doing! He got into the pool in a silly and goofy way that made all the kids laugh, and after the kids would swim to him, he would pick them up and huck them high up in the air and let them swim back to the wall, grinning all the way. The lifeguards with the perky boobs and 19 year old butt never did that, I thought. He tested them on all their strokes, and actually seemed to give them real instructions about how to improve, other than just the vacuous praise like, “Way to go, you’re awesome!” that I was used to hearing.
So once again, I am confronted with a prejudice I never knew I had: Swimming lessons are a woman’s job. OK, I’ll admit, it’s not a prejudice that is actually very earth shattering or life changing, (I mean, I don’t foresee male swim teachers of America bonding together and marching on Washington for their rights to wear Speedos anytime in the near future) but nonetheless, it was a perception that I was unaware that I harbored. It makes me wonder what other sexist notions I have. I’m sitting here trying to think of something cute and pithy to say, but I really can’t identify what else I think is only a woman’s job. Yet, clearly, if there is one, there must be more, right? Hmmm….
By Heather O.
At least that’s what people of the island of Portland think.
I’m gonna admit some serious ignorance here. I don’t actually know where that island is, but I think it’s somewhere in the vicinity of The British Isles.
Anyway, according to a news report on BBC radio, hundreds of years ago it was determined that a rabbit is the sign of the devil, or the devil’s familiar, if you will. The story goes something like this. There were some men who were working in a quarry, one of the island’s main industries, and there was a string of dangerous accidents. Now, I gather that this profession is inherently dangerous, but I guess this season was worse than most. So, of course they decided that the devil was causing all these problems, and the only way to get rid of him was to smoke him out. They then set fire to the brush all around the quarry, and a little rabbit ran out of the brush. Well, there he was, proof of the devil! The quarry’s luck immediately turned around, and from then on, it was forbidden to say the word “rabbit”, for fear of invoking the devil.
This continues today. A “true” Portlander will never say the word, and the guy who was being interviewed said that whenever somebody does say the word, something bad happens to them, like the guy who was joking about it with some friends by the seashore, and after he said the dreaded word, he fell off a retaining wall and plunged into the sea. The guy being interviewed said something like, “Call it coincidence, call it whatcher like, but I call it the devil’s work.”
As you can imagine, the new full length feature film entitled “Wallace and Gromit, the Curse of the WereRabbit” has caused some consternation in those parts. Nobody is going to see the movie, because, you see, you can’t just “bleep” out the offending word. The whole movie is about a You-Know-What!
The interviewer obviously found the whole thing quaint and entertaining, but it was equally obvious that the man from Portland did not. The interview ended with the Portlander pointing out that the studio that produced the movie had a massive fire recently, and the entire set for the movie was burned to the ground. “That’s got ta mean sometin’, hasn’t it?”
So, all you LDS mothers out there, be comforted that the devil is not found in Ouija boards, or downward pointed stars, or MTV. He’s in England, making movies with characters who have big, clay lips who really like their vegetables.
Makes you look at the story Peter Rabbit in a whole new light, doesn’t it?
An interesting blog
27 Oct 2005 11:12 am
By Heather O.
I stumbled across Tracy M’s blog this Jacob-free morning, and thought I’d pass it along. I thought at first it was a journal blog, and sometimes it is, but it’s actually fairly well written. And I’m all for promoting good writing by Mormom Mommies.
I think it’s called “Dandelion Mama’s Musings”, but the URL is
http://allmyredheadsrock.blogspot.com/. Here’s the link. I particularly liked this one about Prada Diaper bags!
27 Oct 2005 10:17 am
By Heather O.
I was talking to a woman this weekend (I told you, Doo-dah, that if you wouldn’t blog about it, I would!) about her life. She has a stressful life. It’s busy, crazy, and very, very productive. She doesn’t like it. She’s not, like, totally maniacally depressed or anything, but we spent a long time talking about how and if she could change it, just so she could feel more fulfilled about life and less stressed.
She’s the mother of 2 great kids, and her life basically revolves around getting these kids to where they need to be, and doing the variety of things for others that she feels she needs to do. It’s all about them. Sometimes she feels that her life is never about her.
In talking to her, it occurred to me that certainly her problem can’t be unique. Women, mothers especially, are really good at giving service to others, and I actually believe that our lives shouldn’t really be about us, they should be about others and Jesus Christ, you know, that whole “lose your life for my sake and ye shall find it” stuff. I really think that He means that. I believe it works. But sometimes, for whatever reason, with all the service we are doing, our souls still don’t get fed. We are losing ourselves, indeed, but the finding, um, not so much.
So I guess I want to know how you balance serving others and serving yourselves, or if our souls are only fed by the right kind of service. What is the right kind of service? Is there a wrong kind of service, a soul starving service? And in the midst of all of this service, do any of you take a break and really go for some soul food? If so, what is it? Do you have an equivalent of a soulful double fudge chocolate brownie?
I, of course, told this woman to get a garden and grow some pumpkins. She didn’t appreciate that (and she doesn’t even have deer where she lives!). Then, of course, I told her she should blog. Given the fact that she hardly feels like she has time to breathe, let alone hang out on the stupid internet all day, that didn’t go over very well either. Oh well. I tried my best to convert her. I guess there are just some things you have to learn for youself.
25 Oct 2005 11:54 am
By The Wiz
OK - so I have to admit - I totally hate Halloween. I hate finding costumes, I hate the sugar buzz that goes on forever, I hate the celebration of all things witchy, ghost-like, and generally spooky. I am not at all convinced that it’s totally harmless. And don’t even get me started on trick-or-treating, and the trauma it causes my dog to have the doorbell ring over and over all night long. Plus, the safety issues involved have a lot of people (including me) cutting down on the trick-or-treating. We only go to houses of people we know, and then we end up driving around to go to houses of various relatives and ward members, and something is just fundamentally wrong with driving around to trick-or-treat. Truly, I wish we could just cancel the whole thing.
That being said, my children love Halloween. They like being princesses, they love the sugar, and pretty much look forward to it for months. I haven’t passed on my hatred of the “holiday” to them, at least not yet. Maybe when they get older and my rule of no scary/immodest costumes starts to really sink in, maybe then they’ll resent me a little. One can only hope.
But last night, everyone in my neighborhood (we live on a circle) got together to carve pumpkins in my friend’s garage. They served pumpkin bars and cider, had various Halloween songs playing (including “Flying Purple People Eater” of all things)and they had a bunch of patterns for Jack-O-Lantern carving. I am glad they do this every year, because otherwise it would be a hard thing to get me to carve a pumpkin. I always drag my feet, because, well, I hate doing it, because it’s all a part of Halloween strangeness. I didn’t even carve. I watched my toddler, chatted with my neighbors, and occasionally helped my daughters as they worked their little hearts out trying to get the mouth just right. And I had to admit, it was pretty sweet to watch them work, and just a fun time in general.
If only that was all Halloween was, just hanging out with neighbors and mutilating pumpkins. If only we didn’t have to start avoiding spooky shows that appear on television all of a sudden. If only we didn’t have little boys dressed as grim reapers show up at our house. If only there weren’t slutty costumes for adult women in all the windows, because apparently, to really be a good sport at Halloween, women have to wear very little clothing. If only there wasn’t a built-in excuse to vandalize people’s houses with eggs and to smash those pumpkins so lovingly carved by little hands. If only…..
By Heather O.
I have thought a lot about Andrea’s post about enjoying parenting, and quite frankly, I was surprised by the number of people who agreed with the quote that if you are not enjoying parenting, you are doing something wrong. Seriously, we have to enjoy it all the time? Every minute of every day? Really? AAACK!
Now, this isn’t a post where I am going to say, “Hey, I’m RIGHT, and the rest of you are WRONG, so BACK OFF, YA HOSERS!” That would not be polite or humble, and I am nothing if not polite and humble. Or at the very least, I’m nothing if not currently possessed with an insatiable lust for traffic on my blog, and saying things like, “I am ALWAYS RIGHT!” might seriously negatively effect our site meter statistics. Can’t have that. Oh, no.
So what am I going to post about? Parenting. My parenting. What I like, what I don’t like. What I love, what I hate. Joy, love, despair, the circle of life. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, it’s gonna be better than Cats (who, by the way, have officially been labeled as the sign of the Devil. Devil= Not my snake. Devil= Cats.).
Ok, so on with it already!
I’ll make these lists short, because unless you’re a lawyer who wandered over from T&S, I know you don’t have all day to blog.
THINGS I LIKE ABOUT PARENTING:
#1. Having an excuse to eat fruit roll-ups . I used to love those things as a kid, and now I’m tickled every time my kid shares with me. I couldn’t eat them before I had a kid, because everybody knows those are just for kids. And their moms.
#2. Having an excuse to be dirty. Yep, dirty slob, that’s me, but everybody always assumes it’s because I have a 3 year old. Never mind that the stain on my shirt is from the Jello Pudding Cup I snarfed as an afternoon snack and spilled on myself when I missed my own mouth, my kid always gets the blame. And the bonus is that the messier I am, the more exalted I am, kinda, because it means I’m involved.
#3. Finding lego toys in my bed. Those little toys mean that Jacob was hiding under my covers, pretending he was in his cave, playing with a spaceship that he made out of said legos. I’m sure he was having a grand old time. He was also doing it without me(even better! Independent play! Woo-hoo!), and the whole thing makes me smile. Then I just huck the lego across the room and climb into bed, and I can leave the toy there for 3 days and nobody minds. Why? See #2 above.
#4. The comedy factor. Let’s face it, kids say the darndest things, and are always good for a laugh. The other day, I turned down Jacob’s request for company while watching a video because I had to make dinner. He insisted that he couldn’t be upstairs alone. I informed him that he wouldn’t be alone, that Bobo and Lola (our snake and our bird, for those of you who aren’t keeping up) would be up there with him. He started to cry and said, “But I need somebody with arms and legs!” I got a chuckle out of that one for days!
#5. Naps. Ok, granted, we are past the phase where both me and my child sack out every day for an hour or two, but I get misty-eyed just thinking about those days. Before you have kids, if you are under the age of 95, if you take a nap during the day, you are lazy. But once you become a Mommy, you get, “Oh, the poor thing is all tuckered out. No wonder–she has her hands full”, and you automatically get a ticket to ride the “I’m so tired” train for as long as you like! Of course, usually you ARE so tired you haven’t a clue if you are actually on a train or not, but we’ll get to that part.
Ah, yes, now the things I don’t like about parenting:
#1. Being tired all the time. I’m tired. Really tired. All the time. I even worked nights for a while, and Mommyhood is at least as bad, if not worse, than that sleep deprivation. Besides, when I worked, I got paid to be tired, and even got my weekends off to party and be tired because I was up all night flirting with boys at the single’s dances. Now I’m too tired even to flirt with my husband much. Good thing he likes my clavicles.
#2. Other people’s kid’s poop. My kid’s poop was only gross when he fingerpainted with it. Other people’s kid’s poop is gross all the time. But you’re expected to deal with it because hey, you’re a mom, you can deal with all kinds of yucky stuff. The other day while ‘volunteering’ at preschool (a.k.a “Help cut out these silly crafts to aid in your child’s brain development or we’ll charge you through the nose for all this cardstock”) I had to deal with 2 very unpleasant potty incidents that did not involve my own child’s bodily fluids. Ick.
(*NOTE TO PARENTS OF THE UNPOTTY-POTTY TRAINED: Don’t send your kid to school in Pull-Ups he clearly has no real use for. A poopy Pull-Up is particularly nasty to change, and really, you’re not fooling anybody.)
#3. The ever present, “Wow, my child is going to be scarred for life because of this” feeling. I think most of us are dolts, really. Well-meaning dolts, to be sure, but can any of us really be trusted to raise another human being? Hardly. Sometimes I think I should be saving up for Jacob’s therapy bills instead of his education. (I can hear him now, “Everybody told me it wasn’t the sign of the devil, but I could hear him hiss at me, mocking, tempting me. Why didn’t my mother ever tell me?” and his therapist nodding sagely saying, “I see it all the time. Your mother should have protected you better. Cats. Evil creatures.”)
#4. “What’s for dinner?”
#5. Movie rental late fees.
(OK, that last one doesn’t actually have anything to do with parenting, but we hates them, oh yes, precious, we hates them, so I had to include it.)
This is by no means a comprehensive list. I haven’t even touched laundry, ear infections, whining, and other kid’s mothers. I haven’t discussed apple picking on a beautiful fall morning, tight hugs with sloppy kisses, and pictures lovingly drawn of you where you have no neck. I guess Andrea’s real point was that if parenting becomes overwhelming drudgery, day in, and day out, some adjustments need to be made to find the joy, because it’s in there. Really.
Just remember to return your videos, and never get a cat.
17 Oct 2005 05:07 pm
By The Wiz
When I was little, occasionally we would go visit Daddy in his office. And while there, my siblings and I would tear apart his office in search of his hidden candy. Of course, his candy was often NASTY candy, in the form of circus peanuts, but hey, candy is candy. (What is the deal with circus peanuts anyway? They’re orange, they’re shaped like peanuts, somewhat marshmallow consistency, and yet - they’re banana flavored. To quote Miss Congeniality - “How bizarro is that?”)
Anyway, I always wondered why he hid his candy. Why not have it in plain sight? Why not bring some of it home to his loving children instead of keeping it stashed in his office? Plus, logicallly, if he was hiding candy in his office, then perhaps he was hiding candy somewhere in the house. So I would search, and while my search did not often bear fruit, occasionally a bag of jelly bellies would surface. Again, what’s with the gross candy? Jelly Bellies? Why couldn’t Dad like chocolate candy bars or Jolly Ranchers?
Well, I now completely understand the need to hide candy from children. You see, here’s the secret I never knew as a child: Candy was not invented to destroy baby teeth alone. Adult teeth is just as susceptible. And while adults don’t eat it as often as children do, occasionally, there is a need for sugar. And hidden sugar is often the only available sugar.
So I buy cheap cookies and put them in the cookie jar. I buy Pepperidge Farm Milanos (or Bordeaux) and hide them in the medicine cabinet. If you look hard enough, you might find the occasional Three Musketeers or Skor bar stashed as well. Let me make this clear - it is not all of the time, it is not even most of the time. But it is some of the time. Am I the only one that does this? Does the mean I’m like the alcoholic that hides liquor in the toilet bowl? Do I need a 12-step program?
Do you hide things from your children? And where do you hide it? Because my kids are starting to figure out that the medicine cabinet occasionally yields yummies other than medicine. They’re not stupid. And, after all, they probably think just like I did as a kid: If it’s in the house, then it’s fair game. After all, Mommy didn’t mean to hide it, she just stuck it in the wrong cupboard. Probably just an accident.
By Heather O.
Per usual, I’m a little behind in the churchwide Book of Mormon read-a-thon. I just got through 2nd Nephi last night. I thought the Isaiah parts would do me in, like they always do, but I perservered (after, all, Christ is coming in January, didn’t you know?), and once I got into the rhythym of it all, it was ok. And there was a particular verse that struck me. It’s 2 Ne, 28:13, which reads: “They rob the poor because of their fine sanctuaries; they rob the poor because of their fine clothing; and they persecute the meek and the poor in heart because in their pride, they are puffed up.”
Ok, so we just spent a lot of money re-doing some things in our house. Well, I guess money is all relative, but it was a lot of money to us. Some of the things really NEEDED re-doing, and well, some of them didn’t, not really. I mean, the linoleom is ugly and makes the house look cheap and never clean, but it wasn’t exactly worn out. We didn’t have to tile it. We could have sent that money to Hurricane Katrina Relief instead and just lived with ugly linoleom. So, did we ‘rob the poor’ because of our tile floor?
I don’t think that we live lavishly. Our house is not huge, our cars are not luxury cars, and our clothing mostly comes from Target. But this scripture makes me wonder if even that is too much a luxury, and that every time I spend money on things that I really don’t need if I am, indeed, like this scripture suggests, ‘robbing the poor’.
The holidays are coming up, a time when people spend money without abandon. Again, we try to limit our gift giving to a reasonable budget, but we invariably go over, and most of the time we are getting things for others that really, none of us need. When we engage in such activities, are we also robbing the poor?
I understand the spirit of this scripture, and I understand that not everything should be taken to an extreme. But I have to say, I’m feelng a little guilty about things right now, and hoping I don’t have to say to the Savior, “Well, I know that there were people who had no homes, and that the Red Cross really needed money, but I just really wanted a tile floor, instead. You should see it, it looks fantastic!” Somehow, I don’t think He will be all that impressed.
By Heather O.
It’s not what you think. It’s not a baby, or even a puppy. It’s a snake.
Reptile owners. That’s us. We got the snake from a family in the ward who claimed they were done because the kids were tired of it, although it was quite obvious when they dropped off the snake that it was the father, not the kids, who was tired of it. The little sister, a girl about 8 years old, (who named the reptile “Hershey”, of all things) kept saying things like, “C’mon boy, let go. It’s ok, you’ll be all right.” When her older brother pointed out that the snake can’t hear her because snakes don’t have ears, she said, in that ‘I’m-a-determined-child-that-can-not-be-swayed’ voice, “He can hear ME. He listens to ME, because he loves me,” then stalked off in an offended manner. She did name the snake after a candy bar, after all.
DH has rechristined the animal “Fluffy”.
So now we have two pets–a bird named Lola and a snake named Fluffy. We are also very much in the process of getting a dog. We are taking a little bit longer on this one, because a cute furry face and a hasty decision lead to near disaster last time, and we want a better situation this time.
But suddenly, I think, “Uh-oh. We are rapidly turning out to be one of those families.”
You know the kind. They have an animal in every room. Their children catch random specimens and keep them in shoeboxes in the bathroom. Their grocery bill is twice as high because half of it is food for their animals. There is random animal hair, or feathers, or whatever everywhere, and everything stinks. The mother is usually a nice enough, amiable person, but people talk about her behind her back, saying things like, “Better keep on eye on that one. After all, she does have a pet snake!”
I actually think snakes are pretty cool, and I’ve always liked handling them. (Ok, admittedly I’ve only handled snakes like a half a dozen times in my life, probably every time was before I turned 6, but hey, I always remember liking it!) This particular pet is pretty low maintenance–it just sits there most of the time. No hair, poops just after it feeds, only has to be fed every couple of months, and that’s it. Easy.
Still, it’s a snake. The symbol of the devil. The symbol of Salazaar Slytherin. People don’t like them, and I’m wondering if I am endangering my already tenuous status as a normal mother by getting my child a pet snake. Maybe I should rethink this.
On the other hand, I realize that while my status as a mom goes down among my peers, my son’s among his will totally skyrocket with this new addition. I mean, seriously, what little boy doesn’t like snakes? I can hear the kids now, “Wow, Jacob, you have a snake? COOL!” Then they go running up to their mothers and say, “Mom, Jacob has a snake, can I have one, please please please?”
Oh, yeah. Those moms are just gonna love that. Let’s just admit it. I’m doomed.
By The Wiz
I mean toys are everywhere!
We recently had a little flooding in our bathroom. We also replaced the floor in our other bathroom (I am now a fan of peel and stick vinyl tile. It looks fairly good, is cheap, and is a good filler for while we wait to remodel our master bath. HAHAHA Wishful thinking. Someday it’ll happen…..) Anyway, to replace the flooring, DH had to remove the toilet, set some flooring around it, and then replace it. All is well. But then, that toilet started having issues, so I thought, accurately, that it had something to do with the recent removal and replacement of said commode.
DH looked at it, said the wax ring was clogged, and fixed it. Remembering that we also replaced the flooring months ago in the kid’s bathroom. I thought possibly whatever was wrong with the wax jooberwacky in our “toilette” was also wrong there, since it’s a very temperamental toilet. And think about it - wouldn’t you be temperamental too - if you were a toilet in a kid’s bathroom? I dunno, toilets in general usually seem pretty good natured, but this once does have its cycles ofincreased hurricane activity.
Well, wax jobberduffers aside, this particular toilet (maybe I should name her….him?….but what’s a good name for a toilet? Holy cow, I have way too much time on my hands….I’m actually pondering names for the toilet. I need professional help. )had issues. There was a pair of scissors (safety, of course), a stacking cup, and various beads inside of it. I really felt bad for it, because in all reality, my plumbing would not work well either if I were in the same situation. I thought about investing in a few toilet clips, but I don’t think the 4 yo could work them, and the thing is, my toddler doesn’t throw stuff in there anymore - we have thankfully passed that particular developmental stage. Unfortunately, we apparently didn’t pass it - we failed it miserably. But maybe the kid’s toilet (maybe a French name?) will feel better now, and we can all move on.
10 Oct 2005 06:10 pm
By The Wiz
Just a quick note to say that there is now “word verification” on comments, to help prevent the boat-load of spam comments that we’ve been getting. It seems to go in waves, and after deleting 8 comments this morning, left on various different posts, we decided to go ahead and turn on the word verification. I got tired of “Hey! Great blog! Mine deals with various crap that you don’t care about. Come Check it out at www.crappyblog.org.!” So, this just means that you will have an extra step before commenting. This doesn’t mean that we don’t love you and that we don’t want you to comment. It just means that we don’t love spam, no matter what Monty Python says (Music begins…) “Spam, spam, spam, spam. Lovely SPAAAAMM…Wonderful SPAM!”
By The Wiz
For a few days now, I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out something to blog about. My life has been going along just fine, and, as everyone knows, that’s really boring stuff to read about. Nobody wants to read about my humdrum life, volunteering to help with the eye screening at school, trying to keep up on my laundry, and grabbing a few minutes at night to read the Book of Mormon each night. Nobody wants to know that it’s been weeks since I’ve had a Dr. Pepper, and I’ve been so proud of myself. I was just thinking - “Man, I need something to blog about.”
Be careful what you wish for.
This morning, my 2 yo found some markers (I still don’t know where) and re-started his love affair with drawing on the walls. While I want to encourage artistic tendencies, I don’t think that my walls are the correct medium at the moment. So I began to clean them off, with the help of my 4 yo who LOVES to spray walls. She won’t pick up a toy to save her life, but give her some spray and a cloth, and she goes crazy. So some of the marker wasn’t coming off, and I was getting overly frustrated. You know that feeling? Logically, you know that this is not the end of the world, that you’ll find some cleaner that will get it off, or if not, you still have some paint, and it won’t take long to cover that little spot. Emotionally, however, you feel like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, and then you feel guilt for feeling like that, because, after all, you were not a victim of Hurricane Katrina.
Well, during this little cleaning escapade, my daughter decides she needs to go potty (previously - “Hey! My poop looks like a sailboat!). No problemo, she just runs in and goes. Well, my son decides to go flush the toilet again, because he likes to pretend he goes potty. Well, I didn’t think this would be a problem, but apparently that toilet has issues, because the bathroom beigns to flood.
I SCREAAAM. You know, that blood-curdling scream that tells your kids “you better get out of here or Mommy’s going to explode.” I don’t scream that much, so whenever I do, my kids really react. I run in and turn off the toilet, and grab towels out of the laundry basket hanging out upstairs. (so I haven’t really kept up on laundry this week, at least they were clean). Towels everywhere, but I got to it pretty quickly, and had the floor mopped up in no time (too bad it was just mopped on Monday). I still hear running water. I go downstairs, and yep, there it is, the water has flowed through the ceiling into the kitchen and is soaking my counter (which was nowhere near clean, so now junk mail and school papers are wet) my bar stools, and my hardwood floor. Grab a pot to hold the dripping water, find more towels, clean it up before the floor warps.
Try not to blame my son for flushing a faulty toilet. Try not to blame myself and my husband for not noticing the toilet was faulty. Try not to blame whoever built this house that it can’t even handle half a toilet bowl (what is that? like 4 gallons of water?) before flooding the downstairs. Pray that I got to it in time that it doesn’t warp the ceiling. (I have had flooding there before, which resulted in quite the hole in our ceiling, not to mention having to refinish the floors, but that’s a different story.) Try to focus on the positive ( I was right there when it happened, I was even wearing shoes, I got to it quickly, so far the ceiling doesn’t look warped).
Somehow, I can’t help but blame myself, for wishing I had something to blog about. Somehow the universe knew that’s what I wanted, and said - “OK, I’ll flood your kitchen and your bathroom for you, after your two year old’s been sick for two weeks and you can’t find your new insurance card so you’ve been putting off taking him to the doctor, and he’s been drawing on the walls. Will that do? Or did you need something else?”
So, as I sit here drinking my Dr. Pepper and staring at my kitchen ceiling and floor, hoping that the evil water was thwarted in time, I think I might just start blogging about boring stuff. Maybe then the universe will be kinder to me.
A lot of STUFF
04 Oct 2005 09:28 pm
By Heather O.
I freely admit, I am not the greatest housekeeper. But there are things about cleaning that I really don’t mind. I like mopping a floor, or scrubbing the bathroom, or vacuuming. I should do all of these more often, but when I do them, they give me a sense of accomplishment, as they are straightforward, easy tasks. Sticky stuff on the floor? Swoosh it with a mop or a wipe, and it’s gone. Fingerprints on the faucets? Swish, and the sink is shiny once more. Poop on the toilet? Not my favorite thing, but it’s easily taken care of with paper towels and some Clorox clean-up spray.
But what do you all do with the STUFF?
Today in the laundry room, as I was putting in my laundry soap, I finally paid attention to what else was actually on the shelf with my Gain. I tend to deposit things I find in the washer or dryer or pockets of clothes there, and I decided to actually take a look at what all was up there. I kid you not, I found 3 pens, a Power Ranger sticker, a wheel that somehow fits into a once-cool now broken Spiderman toy, one earring (no mate, of course. The other one is probably half way to China, or some poor fish ate it, thinking it was something special, and died. Some environmentalist will no doubt find this dead fish, slice it open to find out what killed it, find my gold earring, and demand that the people of America stop dumping earrings into the waterways of our country for the poor unsuspecting fish to gobble up. Great. Now I have guilt.), and about 20 cents in change, mostly pennies.
Holy guacamole, where does this stuff come from? And more importantly, what am I supposed to do with it? Most of the time, my stuff ends up getting stashed in a decorative basket somewhere in my house, but I’m not sure that’s a great solution. So, the stuff isn’t really more organized, you just think that it is because it’s in a lovely basket instead of spread out all over the floor. But if you ask me what I’ve got in those baskets, well, I couldn’t tell you. I really don’t have a clue. And frankly, I’m scared to find out.
And of course, since having a child, the Stuff has just accumulated. Must preschool send home 3 or 4 pictures, art projects, projects to complete at home, EVERY DAY? I swear, the decorative art on our fridge is making getting the darned thing open kind of hard, and we even still have a 4 leaf clover on our fridge left over from LAST YEAR because Jacob seems to discover it in the trash every time I have attempted to throw it away, and insists we stick it up there again. Great. I’ve spawned a pack rat, and a narcissistic one at that. (I’m almost positive that’s not how you spell “narcissistic,” but I’ve got to get Jacob to gymnastics in 10 minutes. Cut me some slack, here.)
So if you come over to my house any time soon, you are more than welcome. Just pick your way past the paper, the art, the overflowing bookshelves, the toys, you know, the STUFF. Be persistent, keep looking, and don’t worry–I think I’m in here somewhere.