Burgh Baby

Like Father, Like Daughter

2009-07-09T21:43:00.004-04:00

Dear Alexis,

Oh, Short Stuff. I know I already wrote you a little letter this week, but I caught you doing something that simply must be addressed. Here, look:

Now Alexis, that is some seriously impressive coloring. You picked the right colors, you kept things neat, you even stayed in the lines. Ariel has the just right bright red hair, her lips are a pretty pink, her eyes are a familiar blue. Every detail has been considered, right down to her earrings matching her dress. It's all so very . . . perfect.

You're three.

You stayed in the lines.

In fact, for a few months now, you've been consistently coloring inside the lines.

What the hell, kid? YOU'RE THREE. If ever there is a time in life that you are allowed to be all wild and crazy with your coloring, NOW IS IT.

Quit being an OCD little freak and live a little. Please?

Thank you!

Love,

The Momma Who Wants You to Learn that Sometimes It's OK to Bend the Rules a Little

We All Have to Make Choices

2009-07-08T22:16:00.005-04:00

Come here for a second. Let me take you for a little tour of our itty bitty townhouse.

Here is the kitchen:

Look closely. Do you see all that molding? I LOOOOOVE that molding. So much. I love it so much I would make out with it, if only I thought it might slip me some tongue. We remodeled that entire kitchen about five years ago. It was a nightmare of funtacular proportions, but it was totally worth it for all that molding. Well, that and the rest of the kitchen. I ain't gonna lie, I know it's a freakin' gorgeous kitchen.

Here's the dining room:

Obviously, I'm not afraid of a little color. I'm not sure that we'll go that bold again, but I do still like that red.

This is our living room:

It's not big, but it still kicks ass. It took years to get it all put together just right. There are the curtains that I made (and that my friend Barbara then remade because I did a craptacular job of sewing them). There's the furniture that we spent years finding. There's the perfect shade of yellow that took me three attempts to get just right.

I'm going to miss this place.

OK, now go back and look at the photos again. Humor me. Do it.

See how CLEAN it is?

That never happens. Seriously, never. Keeping it clean for the whole three days that it was on the market was a nightmare of epic proportions. I nearly died from the bed making, vacuuming, dusting, and general putting away of crap.

I don't clean. It's true, I don't. Ask Mr. Husband and I am quite sure he will nod yes so hard his head will fly off his neck.

Here's the thing, I work full time at an office. I like to spend time with my kid. I believe sleep is important. Put those three things together and you pretty much have to eliminate something else in life. I choose to eliminate cleaning. Some day I will figure out a way to manipulate our budget so that we can have someone come suck the tumbleweeds of fur up off the floor and wipe off the layers of grime all around, but right now that just isn't possible.

My mom was a fantastic housekeeper. She kept the trailer spotless. I can list memory after memory of getting nagged for dragging in dirt. I can perfectly picture her vacuuming because I saw her do it all the time. Our floors were so clean you could eat off of them. I don't remember ever seeing a pile of junk mail on the counters.

You know what else I don't remember ever seeing? My mother sitting down at the table with me or my brother and coloring. She never threw a ball with us in the yard. She didn't drop everything to go ride bikes around the block.

She chose keeping a clean house over spending time with her kids.

I choose spending time with my kid over having a clean house.

But, I'm keeping those pics of a perfectly clean house just so I can prove I do know how to clean, I just don't do it.

Psst . . . go vote.

Yes, a Michael Jackson Post. Beat It if You Don't Want to Read It.

2009-07-07T20:01:00.004-04:00

Dear Alexis,

I tend to not mention current events around here, but sometimes something happens that is so big that I feel like it deserves a few paragraphs. If you had asked me ten days ago if that sort of something had happened, I would have said, "No." Since then, I've since changed my mind, and it's all because of you.

I missed the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon when it first happened. The Jackson 5 was before my time (hard to imagine, I know, but there was a short span of time between the Big Bang and my birth). When Jackson hit his solo career, I was firmly planted in rural North Dakota. We didn't have cable, and so I really never watched TV. The very first time I actually watched MTV was in college, and by then they were already mostly done playing videos (if that doesn't make sense to you, ask me about it--it's a really strange thing to have a channel dedicated to music television seemingly forget their purpose). Radio was a whole other level of isolation, as the only stations in town played country or oldies. My music choices were based on random luck when it came to buying CDs, and I just never landed on Michael Jackson.

Somewhere in there, things with Jackson turned . . . uh . . . weird. There's just no other word for it. Jackson and everything around him was always eccentric, but at some point the weird began to hold more weight than the *not* weird. There were allegations, rumors, stories, and even trials. Alexis, there is a reason your father calls me Public Defender. I always choose to believe the best in people. Some may consider it a character flaw, but those who know me best know that it's good to have a person in your corner who will believe in you. So, whether or not some of the allegations were true, I don't know.

Here's what I do know, though. When news of Jackson's death first broke, I became transfixed by MTV. Suddenly, they returned to their roots and showed hour after hour of Michael Jackson videos. As I sat on the couch watching Beat It for the first time (seriously, I had never seen the entire video before then), I was starstruck. There is no denying that the choreography and showmanship is something never seen with any other recording artist. Period. I sat thinking back to the bands that I have listened to over the years, fully realizing the influence Michael Jackson obviously had over them. Then, I turned to glance at you.

You were transfixed. Mesmerized. Amazed.

"What's he doing?" you asked.

"Dancing," I said.

"He's a really good dancer," you replied.

With that we hopped off the couch and danced our little hearts out, trying our best to imitate the King of Pop. We definitely dance like two klutzy white girls, but we fell into a pile of giggles enjoying the music, music that in your eyes was completely stripped of controversy and drama.

So, yes Alexis, he was a really good dancer. When you read this someday, let's pull out some of his music and dance like klutzy white girls all over again. Just don't forget to remind me to thank you for making me realize that Jackson's music transcends generations. I almost missed that.

Love ya', you crazy Kinnley,

Mom

P.S. That whole country music and no cable thing? I expect pity for that, Alexis. You can never say you have it worse than I did. Period. If you try to convince me otherwise, I'm shipping your butt to North Dakota for a summer.

I'd Make a Hawt Homeless Person

2009-07-06T18:44:00.003-04:00

Considering we are now a mere ten days away from the Big House Thang, it's been awfully quiet around here in regards to what is going on. That, my friends, is not because of a lack of activity. Nope. Instead, it is directly because of a massive explosion of drama. I can't really get into it all in this forum, but let's put it this way. This? MADE MY DAY.

Yes, I was seriously thrilled to tears to see a giant hole in the ceiling at The (New) House. I mean, how could you not be happy about a hole? And STEAL BEAMS! OMG, I want to hug and kiss those beams (which is funny because when I think about Steely McBeam, all I want to do is kick puppies). Steal beams make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Mistake after mistake by people involved in both the buying and selling process do not make me warm and fuzzy. I've lost count of how many people have screwed up at this point, but I think it's safe to say WAY TOO FREAKIN' MANY.

So.

Someday I will fill your computer screen with page after page of drama, but not yet.

Keep your fingers crossed that we're not homeless starting July 17th.

Uh, yeah.

OK, now go have pity on my poor drama-filled soul and go vote. Every day. And NOW. There's a week left to go and I need all the not stressy I can get. KTHXBAI!

The Sands of Time Make an Appearance at Gap

2009-07-05T19:54:00.006-04:00

It starts the moment I see the first bud form on one of the hundreds of Shasta Daisy plants scattered throughout our yard. In years past, the hunt for the simple white sundress has been easy--a walk through Baby Gap and we're all set. This year, however, things were different.

Of course, *this* was the first year that I felt the ticking of a clock in the background as I hunted. Usually I have a whole month to find a dress, pick the daisies, and make the run to Picture People. This year, thanks to the move, I had about a one week window. The issue revolved around the flowers, or so I thought. I can't possibly dig them all up to take them to the new house, and the act of digging them up is going to keep them from blooming any more this year. If I wanted to use daisies from my garden (and I did), I had to get the pictures taken no later than this weekend.

If you've been paying attention, you already know I succeeded. What you don't know is that WOO-BOY, was it close. I turned an attentive eye towards Gap over a month ago, but nothing suitable ever appeared. A few weeks ago, I started checking Janie & Jack, Old Navy, Gymboree, Macy's, JCPenney's, Sears, Crazy 8, and even Amazon. No luck. Something so simple was suddenly SO complicated.

In an act of last second desperation, I picked Alexis up from daycare last Thursday and drove to the Outlets. She really is a blast to shop with, as she has grown into quite the little fashionista. She loves to peruse the clothing racks for an outfit she adores, and even has learned to check the tags to make sure something is available in her size before she asks me to buy it.

We dashed through store after store, searching high and low for a simple white dress. Alexis was in on the mission, and kept saying, "There's no Picture Dresses, Momma." She was right--there weren't. The only all white dress we found was instantly nixed by the short person. As she said, "It's too ugly for me."

Defeated and sans white dress, we walked back to Gap. When we had walked through earlier, Alexis had spotted a red and white checkered dress that she really liked. I had told her we could go back and buy it if she continued to be good. I didn't mention the part where it was only $9 and I had a $5 off coupon, instead choosing to let her think I was making some sort of phenomenal offer.

As I headed straight back to the toddler department to grab the checkered dress, Alexis paused near the front of the store. Suddenly, she yelled, "Look Momma! They have one!" We were walking through the big girl department, so I off-handedly replied, "That's too big for you, honey. Good job finding a white dress, though!"

Alexis squinted her eyes for a moment, looked back at me and said, "But it's my size! See, it says four."

She was right.

I don't know whether I should give Gap a big sloppyy kiss for making XS/4-5 dresses, or kick their asses for making it possible that my little baby can already shop in the big girl department.

(This thing with the posing and primping for the camera? Does NOT happen if I'm the one holding the camera. I call it the Great DSLR Fail.)

Tradition Continued

2009-07-04T23:48:00.002-04:00

2006

2007

2008

2009

Flying High on the Fourth

2009-07-04T23:04:00.002-04:00

She Laid a $6 Egg

2009-07-03T23:08:00.001-04:00

Alternate title: The BEST $6 I have ever spent.

You Have Boogers

2009-07-02T23:09:00.000-04:00

Haaalp! They're Ganging Up on Me!

2009-07-01T21:31:00.005-04:00

I'm outnumbered. There are two animal-loving freaks in this house, and just one semi-sane version of me. I predicted long ago that those two would eventually gang up on me, and now here I am--on the bottom of the kitty pile.

I probably started it. While we were at a local pet store grabbing some supplies for the Saltwater Tank of Horrors, I veered over to the kitten kennel to let Alexis play with the wee little kitties for a few minutes. She is her father's daughter, so of course she loved the feisty little buggers. Within moments she was giggling and carrying on about how she wanted one.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

Fast forward a few weeks, and we found ourselves at PetSmart. PetSmart hates me, so they made sure to have tons of kittens hanging out right where Alexis would see them. She sprinted over to them, laughing, giggling, grinning, and pulling every kid trick there is when it comes to getting your way. Then she started in with the heavy guns, "I fink we need free kitties." She paused. "Please?" Her voice dripped with sweetness.

It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, but then I got it. Free = Three. She was asking to get another cat. Two + One = Three. It also equals NOOOOO.

Fast forward a few more weeks, and we went through the fuzzy kitty coos again. Alexis is the master of knowing how to manipulate me. She has manners, and she knows exactly when to use them. She also has laser eyes that can slice through my resilience. Not that it helped her any.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

Somewhere along the way, I accidentally mentioned the whole thing to Mr. Husband. He correctly pointed out that my main excuse for putting the ka-bash on the animal acquisitioning was the amount of available space in our townhome. Without thinking, I said, "Yeah, I guess we'll have plenty of space once we move."

Now there are two of them pestering me for a kitten. One of them claims he's not in it for the kitten, but that he just wants to make the other one happy. One of them is such a liar, liar pants on fire.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

If I say it enough, maybe I can maintain my Meanie Face long enough for the two of them to quit asking.

Confronting the Unseen

2009-06-30T18:37:00.005-04:00

"Is her hemangioma continuing to fade?" Alexis' pediatrician asked me at her annual exam back in February.

It felt like a trick question. If I said, "Yes," would the conversation go away? The conversation that required that I acknowledge that my kid isn't perfect? If I said, "No," would there be a magic bullet? Some sort of instant treatment that would make the spot on her forehead disappear?

I knew the true answer. I just didn't want to admit it.

********************************************************************************

I don't see it. I never have. In fact, back when it was bad, notable, and maybe even a little frightening, I was frequently thrown off guard when looking at a photo of Alexis. I would stare at the photo, the bright red strawberry very obvious, and look at Alexis, wondering why it photographed so differently than reality.

The answer, of course, is that to know Alexis is to truly see Alexis. When you have lost yourself in her blue/green eyes and swam in the waves of her charisma, you just don't see the mark. Photos don't even come close to capturing the personality that is bigger than the hemangioma.

********************************************************************************

Alexis and I stood patiently in line at the grocery store waiting to pay for our Lima beans and bread. Our turn finally arrived and the cashier glanced up at us. "Hi, honey! Ohhhh, how did you get that booboo on your head?" she asked.

Alexis looked at me dumbfounded. She doesn't know that she has something on her forehead that makes her "different."

I don't see it, but other people do.

********************************************************************************

I've never talked to Alexis about her hemangioma. It seems so stupid, so shallow. It's just a couple of blood vessels that aren't quite right. They are no cause for concern, not any sort of danger, just purely a vanity issue. I don't care that the red mark is there, and she certainly doesn't care. However, kids can be cruel. Kids have the power to make her care. Kids have the power to make her hurt.

********************************************************************************

I've ignored the pediatrician's recommendation to call the pediatric dermatologist to discuss follow-up for the hemangioma for five months now. Really, it just seems so dumb to even care about it when there are kids with much bigger battles to fight. A simple Google image search of the word "hemangioma" is like a drop in the ocean of potential awfulness. Alexis is nearly perfect.

We are so very lucky.

********************************************************************************

I ran across this photo today. It was taken a little over a year ago.

It's a great photo of Alexis, certainly one of my favorites. Given that I have thousands of photos of the kid, that's saying something. But, the problem with having thousands of photos of your kid's smiling face is that you can't ignore the evidence. The mark stopped fading a long time ago.

It's time that I confront that which I don't see.

But I don't want to.

Alexis is beautiful exactly the way she is. Hearing a doctor tell me otherwise doesn't make me happy.

I Didn't Really Need to Learn the Hard Way

2009-06-29T20:26:00.003-04:00

I will forever remember the exact moment Alexis figured out that which I was REALLY hoping she wouldn't figure out. I knew about it thanks to a little comment from Megan81 on the post about the Drama with the Play Room. Alexis made it really freakin' obvious that Megan was so, so, SOOO right. OMG. She. was. right.

As Mr. Husband slaved (seriously--major kudos to him) over a couple of things at the new house the other day, I struggled to keep Alexis content in a house with no toys, no furniture, and a whole lotta nothing to do. We engaged in a good old-fashioned game of hide-n-seek, and the kid was happy. But, then she stepped into the loft and she found joy. Utter and complete joy.

She figured out that sounds echo from up there. A lot. The best comparison I can come up with is that a normal speaking voice magically transforms into Megaphone Voice. Only louder. And more echo-ey.

Alexis LURVED it. She halted the game of hide-n-seek instantly, and started scoping out just how loud she could get. The answer? REALLY FREAKIN' LOUD. LOUDER THAN A MEGAPHONE. LOUDER THAN ALL CAPS.

Once she realized that the entire tri-state area should be able to hear her, she busted into song and dance. Of course her tune of choice was something or other from High School Musical. It seems that the tiny brain cell responsible for maintaining sanity blocked the actual name of the song. THANK YOU TINY BRAIN CELL.

On and on and on she sang, louder and louder and louder. I sat with my hands over my ears watching her dancing her heart out. It turns out that if you muffle the song, it's pretty entertaining to watch a kid go nuts. Unfortunately for Mr. Husband, he was directly below us working in the dining room.

Let's just say he didn't think to put on some earmuffs.

I'm pretty sure that if I were to try to put the playroom in the loft, Mr. Husband would freak the hell out. I'm gonna have to agree with him on that one.

(Video from tonight when Alexis tried to recreate the scene for Cody. He wasn't amused. Neither was I because while I was editing ten minutes down to one, Alexis heard herself singing and joined in. There's nothing quite like loud off-key singing in stereo.)

Phenomenom? Or Strange Coincidence?

2009-06-28T20:44:00.003-04:00

There were many things we were looking for when we were searching for a house, and really high up on that list was a decent-sized backyard. In a perfect world, we would have found a mansion on three acres within our budget, but in reality we found a McMansion on an OK-sized lot. It's not a huge yard, but it'll do for the purposes I had in mind. I have big plans for a vegetable garden, a whole area reserved just for a perennial garden, and that should leave a bit for what I like to call Get Out of My Hair Land. Alexis is very nearly old enough for me to evict her from the house with the infamous words, "Just go play outside, will ya'?"

Truthfully, I can't wait. It's going to be BEAUTIFUL to just kick her out of my hair.

With Get Out of My Hair Land in mind, I recently started paying attention to swing sets and play sets and the like everywhere I go. I've been known to slam on my brakes in traffic to scope out the size of a slide. I've gone around the block like a stalker a few times just so I could catch a glimpse of a particularly cool looking tower. I've scoured every store both in person and online to start figuring out who has the best prices.

Yesterday we made a quick run over to the (New) House to take care of a few minor inspection issues. As we rolled through the neighborhood, once again I paid close attention to the play sets in several yards. I even found two that I was all sorts of excited about as I imagined the fun I Alexis would have hanging out in the tower. Then it dawned on me.

I have spent weeks scoping out the play sets in people's backyards, and I have yet to see a single kid playing on one of those play sets.

Now, I could blame this strange phenomenon on time of day. I could consider it just odd luck. I might even be able to hold the weather responsible. However, I suspect that maybe, just maybe, those play sets represent the ultimate in toys that the kid thought was cool for ten minutes, but then decided the box was cooler. I mean, every Christmas we go through the fun game where Alexis is all sorts of excited about a particular toy, but weeks later she no longer cares if it's still in the house. I know she's not alone in this whole It's Fun While It's Shiny and New thing. In fact, I suffer from the same disease.

So, dish people. If you have a play set or swing set or whatever you call it, do your kids actually play with it?

Cause momma could find somebody who could make hair look fabulous even with a kid in it for that kind of money. For sure.

This. This is Why I Don't Like it When She Sleeps in My Bed.

2009-06-27T23:50:00.001-04:00

The Full Picture

2009-06-27T23:17:00.005-04:00

So, when I posted a tiny portion of Alexis' murals the other day, a few people were all WTH? Why have we not seen the rest? Ask, and ye shall receive. Photo quality is crap because I couldn't get my fisheye lens to pretend to be happy in bad light, but whatever.

(And yes, I painted the whole thing. And yes, it took forever. And yes, I plan to do something similar at the new house.)

(Oh, and technically, I never actually finished the room. I had planned to paint all the words to the three nursery rhymes, but it never happened. It would be a bit pointless to do it now.)

More pics at Flickr.

Who Told Her She Was Allowed to Outgrow the Chubby Baby Legs?

2009-06-26T23:49:00.001-04:00

Memories. Saved.

2009-06-25T21:37:00.003-04:00

As we slowly inch closer to the date that we are supposed to move (3 more weeks), the bittersweet starts to show its face. There is no doubt that we need to sell our townhouse that we live in now. Financially, it's the right thing to do. We've been out of space longer than Justin Timberlake has been lookin' good. We are SO over the whole home owners association thing. Alexis needs a fenced yard. There is ZERO doubt that it's the right choice.

But.

Looking around, there are little memories, important memories, memories I want to keep. There's the scuff in the wood floors that I swear Alexis used to trip over. It's totally a crazy thought that a tiny little scratch could make a newly walking baby trip, but she really did have a magical way of falling right there. All the time.

When I walk up the stairs, I see a flaw in the molding. It's the spot that the Bulldog, Meg, once decided to attack. She literally chewed a hole in the wall, and we've never known why. It was a one-time crazy, so I can only guess the wall told her that her butt looked big when she stomped down the stairs. That spot reminds me that the puppy isn't the only house destroyer in the family, and at least he goes after furniture which is easier to fix or replace.

Walking into the kitchen, I always notice the corbels that hold up the small section of counter to the right. They are a reminder of a kitchen remodel gone horribly wrong, but that later turned out perfect. Mr. Husband spent hours staining those corbels, and even longer perfectly mounting them to the wall so that they would safely support the stone counter top. They weren't in my original vision, but he made them work.

Upstairs, I take pause when I walk past the spot where Jasmine passed away. It's just a little corner of our bedroom, but it's so much more. It's her spot. It's the place where she was when I last heard her whimper, where the spirit of the best dog we'll ever have left us unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

And then there is Alexis' room. Every inch of it holds memories, but most especially the walls. I spent hours carefully hand painting murals in her room in the weeks before she was born, before we knew she was a she. There's the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe on one wall, Hey Diddle Diddle on the next, and Humpty Dumpty on the third. It's the Humpty Dumpty wall that most gives me pause. On that wall is Hank, the horseman. When Alexis was tiny, her changing pad sat directly below Hank. She used to stare up at him lovingly, chattering away, each time we changed her diaper. I used to joke that Hank was her first crush.

A single guy is (hopefully) buying our house, and I'm sure that little floor scratch, that mark on the wall, those corbels, Jasmine's spot, and Hank will all be completely meaningless to him. That makes me sad. Fortunately, I have this little spot to write down those memories so I can bring them back later.

More fortunately, we get to start making new memories in a new house.

The Invisible Minion Army Has Stolen My Sanity

2009-06-24T21:41:00.003-04:00

Once upon a time, I was sane. This I know. I could set things down and hours, days, even weeks later, I could remember where they were. It was a simple time, a beautiful time, a time before the hurricane that is Alexis.

And then came that fateful day when Alexis learned to walk, and with it she brought her magical powers. She apparently has an army of Invisible Minions who sweep through our house, quickly hiding every important item. Set down your keys? They walk away. Place a bag of cheese on the kitchen counter? It vanishes. Carefully place a knitting needle in a basket? *POOF!* It's gone.

After two plus years of dealing with the magic feet, I've grown accustomed to not knowing where the heck anything is. When I can't find my sunglasses which I know were in my purse, I know that they have grown legs. If the TV remote isn't on the stand where it belongs, I know that the invisible minions have transferred it to a pile of toys. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to find the Invisible Minion hiding place, and sometimes I lose my mind trying to find something in a rush.

Recently, two grand events have led to the undermining of the Invisible Minion Army. First of all, it seems that when you pack up most of your crap for a move, magical things happen. STUFF APPEARS. Years ago a knitting needle entered the Witness Protection Program, but a few weeks ago? I totally found it under our bed stuffed inside a pillow. Right next to the knitting needle I found the plum that I knew Alexis was eating on our bed one morning, but that just suddenly up and walked away (I wish I had a photo of it because petrified plums are spectacular!). Even the Bed Lady and TV Dude from Mrs. Goodbee have magically reappeared. It's been fantastic!

The other major development is that I finally figured out that if I just ask Alexis if she knows where the object of my affection has gone, sometimes she knows. It seems that her Invisible Minion Army is about 80/20 for remembering to report back to her on the exact location of the treasures that they collect. Just this week she has managed to accurately describe the hiding place for her comb, my black shoes, and the dog bone. It was beautiful.

And then there was the day I couldn't find my car keys. That day? Was not beautiful. I KNEW they were in my camera bag, but yet they weren't. I checked the couch. I checked the floor. I checked the kitchen counter. I checked the laundry. I checked EVERYWHERE. Once it dawned on me that the Invisible Minion Army might have been in on the disappearance, I asked Alexis. She quickly admitted that she had seen my keys, and immediately said, "they're in a box!"

We're moving.

Everything we own is in a box.

So, I tried to get her to narrow down the hunt. She told me the box was in the garage.

All the boxes are in the garage. Literally, hundreds of them. Some are taped shut, some are not. Given that I had no idea when the keys had walked away, they could have been in just about any of those boxes.

I found them, but it took a loooooong time.

I used to be sane.

(Pssst . . . got a second to vote?)

You Spin Me Right Round

2009-06-23T21:57:00.003-04:00

I don't carry cash. Mostly. That is, I withdraw $15 every week or so, and that is the money that I use to function. It covers my lunches, my dates with Chef Vending Machine, and my voyages to Starbucks. If I run out of cash too quickly, I'm out of luck. Sir Debit Card is sometimes invited to come out to play, but only for higher priced basic necessities like gas and groceries and such.

What I'm saying is that I really don't spend money. On my own. Rather, I wait until the weekend to go wild and crazy and then I make Mr. Husband use his debit card. It's more fun that way, and it's totally all his fault if "we" spend too much.

So, when I got word that there was a message on our voicemail from our bank regarding some sort of problem with my debit card, I wasn't worried. I still had $10 of my "allowance" floating around in my camera bag (I gave up on carrying a purse when I had Mr. Canon permanently attached to my face) and I knew I hadn't been anywhere freaky. If there was a debit for a strip club party or new car, I knew very well Mr. Husband would have mentioned it. Unless he was the one who did it.

Anyhoooo . . .

It took me a day or two to follow the directions in the voicemail and call the bank back. I knew it was regarding "suspicious activity" but I just couldn't be bothered to put on my care face. When I did finally call, it ended up being past regular business hours, which basically meant that I got to talk to some chick in India who didn't actually have access to a computer. Or speak English. She placed some sort of voodoo hex on my card and told me to call back between 8 and 4 the next day.

I did.

Unfortunately.

I love my friends who work for PNC Bank. I really do. They are some of the bestest people around, but OMG, they work with idiots. Truly. Primo idiot was the guy I got to talk to when I called the second time (after playing Duck Duck Goose with three other people, I might add). Mr. I Work in Fraud, but Don't Take that Word "Work" Too Seriously was all, "What number did we call?" I was all, "412-somenumbersIcouldprobablyputherebecausenobodyevercallsus." He was all, "No we didn't." I was all, "Yes, you did." He was all, "What other number could we have called." I was all, "THAT is the number you called." He was all, "No, we didn't." I was all, "Yes, you did." He was all, "What other number could we have called?" I was all, "THAT is the number you called."

And so on.

Really. We repeated that same spinny conversation FIVE times before I finally just hung up on Mr. Work? No, Thanks.

Because I am a moron, I dialed the 800 number again. This time I was told that my debit card number didn't exist.

Cause, you know, I never learned how to read numbers when I was in grade school.

Annnnnd I hung up again. And dialed again. And asked for a manager. And then asked for her manager. Finally, I was connected to someone who was capable of hearing the words that were falling out of my mouth.

After some hemming and hawing, she blurted out that she couldn't see a reason for a fraud alert to have ever been put on my debit card, so she lifted the hold and advised me to go on a wild shopping spree.

I obliged. I went to the grocery store and snagged $20 worth of necessities. For some reason, I didn't go to the Be Your Own Slave Checkout and instead let some Miserable Teen slowly drag my ice cream and Lima beans across the scanner. 18 years later, I swiped my little debit card, and was . . . DECLINED.

As the Miserable Teen informed me of the situation, I shot her the You Have Got to be Kidding Me Face. She returned a You Are SUCH a Loser When You Get Declined Trying to Buy $20 Worth of Food face. Touché, Miserable Teen. Touché.

So, I went home and called the bank. Again. And AGAIN I was told that the hold was removed.

Liars.

Finally, a week after this whole hot mess started, I walked into our local PNC branch. Doing so is sort of like voluntarily entering a room full of Miserable Teens. Lots of staring, almost no doing. I waited. And waited. And waited. In the interest of full disclosure, I would have ran out of there after the first And waited, but my allowance was long gone. Today was Day #3 of the unintentional fasting because I didn't have any money for lunch. I was too weak from all the hunger to actually walk out.

When, at last, I finished playing Duck Duck Goose and got to talk to someone who could actually help me, I didn't learn much. The card had been closed (WTF?) due to a potential "compromise" (read = I once, long ago, used my card at TJMaxx and some hackers maybe hacked into the file that contained my card number--MAYBE). Nobody thought to send me a new card. Nobody thought to TELL ME WHAT THE FARK WAS GOING ON. Nobody thought to even apologize that at that point I had spent a total of six hours trying to get my lousy $15 out of our account so I could have a Mocha Frappuccino and maybe stop biting people's heads off because OMG I need Mocha Frappuccinos like normal people need oxygen.

*Ahem*

I'm getting a new card next week. Allegedly. In the meantime, the *cough*not*cough* helpful person at the branch suggested I just ask my husband to get me some money since his card is still all dandy.

Um, The Bank of Mr. Husband asks more questions than a mortgage lender.

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to buy lunch."

Him: "Why don't you just take your lunch to work?"

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to go to the grocery store and buy food to take to work for lunch."

Him: "Isn't there something at home you could eat?"

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to buy gas so I can run home and see if there is anything at home that I can take to work with me for lunch."

Him: "Why?"

And so on.

I hate you, PNC. You make me dizzy, mad, and sporky.

It's not an attractive look for me. I guess not all of us are lucky enough to be cute when we're mad.

Yes, More Giggling. And?

2009-06-22T19:57:00.005-04:00

Mr. Husband and I have very different opinions on music. While I swing wildly from pop to alternative to opera (LOVE Phantom so, so much) to modern rock, he sticks mainly with what I would call "noise." He might call it heavy metal or death metal or whatever, but all I hear is screaming, yelling, and something that doesn't at all resemble music.

Alexis, for her part, is pretty consistent in her choices. Mostly she sticks with pop music. We've had the Justin Timberlake phase, the P!nk phase, and are now currently having our brains eaten by the High School Musical phase. In between those phases, however, she will listen to stuff that doesn't seem to fit the typical 3-year old mold. For example, thanks to her father and his -ahem- "music," she can read the word "Opeth" and can recognize a few of their songs.

Whatever. That's about all I have to say about that.

Earlier this evening, I sat on the couch drafting a whole other blog post (which I'll post later this week) while Alexis sat on the floor happily playing with her dollhouse. For whatever reason, she happened to take note when Mr. Husband grabbed his iPod. She asked what he was listening to, and somehow thought "Six Feet Under" was "Sixteen Number One." Just in case you are REALLY FREAKIN' LUCKY and don't know what Sixteen Number One might be, it's from High School Musical 3. It's the first track on the CD (thus, "Number One"), and is probably called Sixteen Minutes (I could look, but that would require that I actually cared. I don't.). Let's just say that Zac Efron screaming at the top of his lungs is NOT AT ALL like Six Feet Under. Not even close.

In the words of Mr. Husband, Six Feet Under is kinda like what it would sound like if Cookie Monster sang death metal. Sounds charming to me, but for some reason, Alexis actually listened to it for a few minutes. At first she was all, "That's not Sixteen Number One!" but then she settled in for a good long listen.

I think she may have liked it.

That might have a little to do with what she decided it sounded like.

Yes, she thinks the "music" sounds like incredibly rude burps. Funny, rude burps.

I think she might be on to something.

It's Baaaaaaack

2009-06-21T18:38:00.004-04:00

It's been a long time since I last mentioned the Saltwater Fish Tank of Horrors, and for good reason--nothing has been happening with it. Ever since the drama with the ghost crab, the domestic violence between the clown fish, and the tank itself exploding, not much has happened. I figured that it was the actual acrylic that made up the tank that was jinxed since the replacement tank has been pretty drama-free. Sure, there was the time that the Emerald Crab disappeared and I found him stuck in the filter system a few months later (alive and well), but other than that? Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Part of the lack of drama could certainly be attributed to the tank finally settling down from the initial set-up, and to the fact that I stopped paying attention to it. Short of cleaning it every couple of weeks, I wasn't doing much with it. The worms were tamed by a few carefully selected shrimp, but I hadn't even added any new fish in a very long time. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

We happened to wander into a local fish store, and the poopfaces just HAD to go and order two of the fish that I have always wanted. They had a Green Clown Goby and a Jawfish, and the prices were really low. Of course I had to buy them, even though it's ridiculously idiotic to go and add more fish when we have to move the tank in a month.

All was well. Alexis named the Green Clown Terminator (I can't make this stuff up) and the Jawfish was still trying to earn a name. Everybody was eating and happy and generally thriving. Was.

Today I figured I would give it a good cleaning and try to stack the rocks a little better. The Jawfish is a sand dweller and will bury itself in a little hole, only sticking its head out to look around. However, ours had taken to hiding in the rocks. I thought maybe if I made his beach a little bigger, he would amuse me with some shenanigans.

I started pulling the rocks out and carefully stacking them in a plastic storage tub. I hadn't actually taken inventory of where all the fish and shrimp were hiding because they always figure out what to do when I get all crazy with the aquarium cleaning. As I grabbed the largest rock and set it on the towel next to me, I heard a noise.

Flflflflflflflk.

I had no idea what it was and kept on cleaning.

Flflflflflflflk.

Then it dawned on me--there was a fish hiding inside one of the caves in the rock, and it was literally flopping around like a fish out of water. I quickly picked up the rock and stuck it back in the water, silently pleading with the fish to not go flopping out of the rock and on to the floor. Fortunately, I didn't even catch sight of who was flopping around all pissy.

When I finally finished the cleaning and restacking, I plugged in the pump. Nothing happened--the water remained calm. I tried scraping the pump's outlet and dislodged a little muck. Still, the water sat unmoving. I had no idea what the problem was, so I started dismantling the pieces. As I yanked one tube from another, I braced myself for a shower. The pump on that tank is pretty powerful, and I've had the pleasure of dancing in a salty rain when I accidentally bumped it off track once before.

Nothing happened.

Finally I reached down and pulled the entire pump out so I could try figuring out what was blocking the water flow.

And saw the problem.

Somehow, some way, the Jawfish had managed to squeeze through a very tiny opening and found its way into the small part of the tank that housed the pump. Even better, he had the genius idea to get really close to the inlet.

It wasn't pretty. The fish's head was turned all the way around so that the eyes were facing the same direction as the tail. And did you know that fish can get hickeys? Oh, he had a hickey. A big red circle made it real obvious that the fish had gotten stuck to the inlet, tried to fight away from it, but then died a real . . . uh . . . sucky death.

This had better not be a sign of things to come.

What She Said

2009-06-20T23:59:00.000-04:00

Not Sure Which One is More Bull-Headed

2009-06-19T21:23:00.001-04:00

Since you are here, and you are THE BESTEST, wanna take a second to click over and vote? I will only ask 18 more times. Promise!

This is Only a Test

2009-06-18T19:32:00.003-04:00

If this were an actual test of your sanity, this procedure would be conducted by a trained professional and NOT a three-year old. It might also come with some sort of medication.

*************************************************************************

"What's that?" she asks.

"A mosquito," he replies.

"Why is it a mosquito?" she asks.

"Because it's a mosquito," he adds.

"But WHY is it a mosquito?" she continues. For ten minutes.

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"Alexis, stop trying to put a barrette in Meg's fur," I scold.

"I just making her pretty," she replies.

"Stop. it. now." I say.

"But I just make her pretty!" the child counters.

"If you start another sentence with 'I just' you're going to time out," I say. This is a common threat that I'm not afraid to follow-up on because "I just" makes me sporky.

"She likes it!" she replies, simultaneously continuing to argue and yet actually following directions.

"Leave Meg alone, NOOOOW!" I yell.

"She wants me to make her pretty," she replies, right before she begins the trek to time out.

*************************************************************************

"Eat your dinner," I tell her.

"I'm not hungry," she says.

"Take a bite of your pizza roll, Alexis," I reply.

"But I'm not hungry!" she says. She continues, "Can I have a popsicle?"

"Absolutely not. Eat your dinner," I say as my eyes roll out of my head.

"But I want a popsicle!" she counters.

"Eat your dinner and you can have a popsicle," I say.

"But I'm not hungry!" she proclaims.

"Alexis," I glare, "Are you hungry enough to eat a popsicle?"

"Yes," she replies, eyes open wide.

"Then you're hungry enough to eat your pizza roll," I say.

"BUT I'M NOT HUNGRY!" she screams.

*************************************************************************

"Mommy, I want some water," she says.

"Where is your water?" I ask.

"In the fridge," she says.

"Then go get it," I offer up the simple solution, which also might be the lazy one.

She walks to the fridge, opens it, and finds that her water is not where she expected. She returns to the living room and begins her chant. "My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there. My water wasn't there."

If you think I'm exaggerating about how many times she repeated that statement, you obviously have never met a 3-year old.

*************************************************************************

I'd ask when the sanity test will end, but I already know the answer--Ten minutes after my head explodes. In other words, WAY too late.

Underpants Because It's a Miracle We Still Have Power

2009-06-17T21:46:00.007-04:00

I have my limits.

Despite the fact that I post a photo pretty much every day, there are soooooo many that never make it to a public space because I deem them inappropriate for sharing online. Generally I draw the line by deciding if I think a particular photo will eventually be GOLD when it comes to blackmailing Alexis into doing something. The one of her nekkid and sweeping the deck? That one is going to win me some leverage when Alexis brings home a loser and I want him or her kicked to the curb. The one of her nekkid sprawled on the couch? Will likely ensure that Mr. Husband and I wind up in a good nursing home. That one bath photo? That one is like money in the bank. Only better.

I mention this because as I was going through my photos from yesterday, I found a fun little gem. It was taken right before this one:

There is a reason those two are laughing. It started with a little , "I see London, I see France," and it ended with Alexis pulling her dress up over her head and yelling, "I SEE ALEXIS' UNDERPANTS."

The blackmail power of that photo is dependent on Alexis outgrowing her amusement with flashing her Elmo underwear. If she doesn't? I have photographic evidence that HER FATHER is to blame. Never laugh at the flashing, yo.

Ahem.

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Playroom decision? Made. Thank you all SOOO MUCH. I highly recommend asking the Internet for advice because it does help. Sometimes. Oh, and you have to wait to find out the result until we move next month. Try not to lose sleep over it.

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As I write this, Pittsburgh is getting hammered with severe storms. There are reports of flooding all over town (although, my little neighborhood is pretty dry--WTH?). Send life vests and happy thoughts, because holy hell are a lot of people dealing with major damage to their homes.

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Got a second? Clicky, clicky, please? I promise to only ask about nineteen more times. KTHXBAI!