Bubbles, Level 70 and Other Nonsense

Okay, the genealogy project is quickly losing steam. It was replaced by the Bubble Blaster app on my stupid phone. Word to the wise…do NOT and I repeat do NOT download Bubble Blaster on your phone. Sure it would be fun game for your kids. But it will also be a fun game for you. Until your mom thinks she’s funny and steals your phone. While giggling at her cleverness, her technically challenged fingers will push a bunch of buttons while she asks intrusive questions and some how she’ll lands you on level 70 of Bubble Blaster. You may have already passed the ridiculously hard levels 65-69 and be feeling EXTREMELY proud of your bubble blasting skills. You may have intentionally not started level 70 because you wanted to bask in the glory of your level 65-69 accomplishment. You realize this is a completely pathetic life accomplishment, but now you’re committed and you will be fighting your hardest to get past level 70. Only you have kids who bump your arm and ask for more water when you are this close to beating level 70. You have to go to work and actually work. Your dog will bark incessantly because the neighbors also have a dog. Your husband will come home from work and expect that you talk to him, all while you are trying to beat level 70. No one realizes or respects the focus needed to beat level 70! It’s pure h-e-double hockey sticks.

I reached my breaking point yesterday evening with level 70. I went on an app deleting rampage. In the deletion process, the rage shifted from stupid Bubble Blaster, to stupid Droid. Why can’t I delete the apps you gave me Droid? I don’t need the NFL app or Google+ or about 20 other apps that are currently sucking up precious memory space and I don’t use. Droid, don’t make me go all iPhone on you. Need I remind you what happened to your cousin Samsung flippy phone? Oh, what a terrible accident that was. Semi-truck tires and fragile cell phones do not mix.

I do not know what prompted this blog or what the point was, but I feel better. Thank you for joining me on this little journey.

My Latest Project

I might have a tendency to decide to do a project, buy a bunch of stuff to support my latest ambition, become obsessed with it for a matter of days, sometimes weeks, and then leave it half finished in the basement of our home. Maybe.

I’m currently researching which ancestor to blame for this. It might be my latest project.

I might also be so obsessed with this project that I’m not really sure what my kids are doing or where they are. Or my husband, for that matter. And I might not be incredibly focused at work. I might also not remember I have a dog who likes her giant rawhide at 8:30pm, precisely. I could be wearing my glasses today because my eyes are dry from staring at a computer screen for 15 hours a day over the last week.

These are just hypothesis.

I recently found out that I’m more Dutch than I originally thought. I’m assuming means that I’m related to The Incredible Dr. Pol, and explains the wooden clogs I bought in high school. I’ve so far confirmed that my husband and I are definitely not related to each other. I was a wee bit nervous about this, given that some of our ancestors are from the same corner of the earth.

I’m thankful that the state of West-By-God-Virginia has posted many of its historical vital records online for FREE. I’m not surprised that I still can’t find certain branches and twigs of the family tree. My assumption is that they did not care to be documented by the state and/or federal government. After all, this is a family where the women rubbed snuff and cursed the democrats.

Of the relatives I have found, you can tell exactly when birth control became commonly available because the family size went to a minimum of seven children to a maximum of four. There is also a measured decline in the number of “premature” babies.

C seems to have taken an interest in my latest project. She’ll watch over my shoulder (while digging her feet into the side of my leg) and ask who’s who. While pointing out her great-great-great-great grandfather, she said to me, “Didn’t I meet him when I was a baby?” I told her I didn’t think so considering he would have been older than Papa Smurf when she was born.

My grand plan for this exercise is a massive family tree sketched out in charcoal on muslin, matted, framed and hanging on the large empty wall behind the TV. In my head this thing looks awesome. In my head I’ve also made tiny family trees for all my relatives for Christmas. I’m going to do my best to make sure this one doesn’t end up in the basement next to C’s unfinished quilt.

The Beast of Burden

Thankfully, I don’t thrive in a routine environment. Otherwise, I might have been caught off guard on Friday evening when I took the beast to a routine vet appointment for her annual vaccines.

I called the vet on Friday morning, planning to take the dog in on Saturday morning. The vet’s wife, who handles all of the admin duties for the clinic, has a sour disposition and also paints on her eyebrows, answered the phone and said they had a Friday evening appointment. Not in my original plan, but I’m game for getting things done early, so I accepted.

I don’t particularly love taking the beast out and about. Most of the time she is fine, but within the last three months she’s started barking at people in the most aggressive way. Also, she’s big enough at this point that when she wants to, she can literally take me on a walk. These two things combined make me a little nervous about taking her to places with other people and animals.

I raced home after work, shoved some food in my face and then loaded my dog-horse into the car to head out. She did very good in the car and was very good walking into the vet. My nerves started to settle.

Once we got into the clinic and were seated, I got to talking to two other patients in the waiting room about the beast. Greta tends to garner attention where ever she goes, I believe because it’s not often you see a large dog leading a small woman on a leash. Both of the patients were older gentleman, one with a cat and one sitting with his family. The entire family (minus the guy I was speaking with) was sobbing quietly. My heart sank. I was fortunate that all of my pets were either killed by farm-related accidents, or my mom simply took care of the final vet trip and didn’t tell us until it was done and she was home. Unlike the two small girls sitting with this older gentleman, I never had to make that decision or that last trip. A few short moments later a man and a woman came from the back room. They were both sobbing as well. Through their tears, the girls started asking the questions kids ask when they are trying to understand something terrible. And then I found myself crying with them. The family got up and left the waiting room.

I gathered myself, but my nerves were all crazy again after crying in public with people I didn’t know while at the vet with my giant, unpredictable dog. I tend to talk too much and especially when I’m nervous, so I started talking again to the man with the cat. The cat was 18 years old. I held my breath waiting for him to tell me that cat was also being put to sleep. He didn’t mention it so I’m assuming he has the healthiest 18 year old cat ever. I began wondering if Friday night had turned into ‘put your pet to sleep night.’

Next out of the examine room was a young family – mom, dad and a little boy. The dad immediately began asking about Greta and comparing her size to his dog. Greta apparently doesn’t like people to discuss her weight because she let out her hate bark on these people. Twice.

She was under control, but I was shaking at this point wondering why the heck all these people were at the vet on a perfectly good Friday night. In walked a man with a small mutt. The mutt went nuts barking at Greta. Greta started pulling on the leash to go check out this new, noisy dog. I yank her back and finally they call us back to the room.

Greta gets weighed and then we make our way to the examine room. The dog had apparently not forgotten about the noisy dog still in the waiting room because she took off running and with me still attached to her. I was able to stop us before she ran my face into the door jam. Lucky break.

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. I did find out that the dog has allergies. This further confirms my belief that we purchased the runt of the litter. She’s still 30 lbs. lighter than her mother, she had hip dysplasia by her first birthday and now she’s allergic to who knows what. Note to self; don’t purchase the leftover, “after Christmas special” puppy because waiting another minute for a dog will kill your soul. Especially if you are purchasing a dog that will grow into a size where everything you need to buy for her will cost $10-$20 more than “normal” sized dogs.

Better

I hope I’m not jinxing myself, but I believe work things are so much better. This morning, I had a casual conversation about donuts and weird things people from outside of Columbus say. There weren’t any asinine request or long-winded complains. Unfortunately, this donut-style conversation hasn’t been the norm for two years.

I began a new position two weeks ago and the difference in everything has been night and day. While I haven’t written in detail about my previous job (you know, trying to avoid getting fired), we’ll just say that it was bad. Bad in every sense that a job can be bad. My co-workers and I were quite convinced they were actually using stories from our department to write for “The Office.”

Here is where the irony comes in, I’m still with the same company and my new desk and department is approximately six cubical rows (roughly 48 feet) away from my old desk and department. Meaning, I still see all of my old co-workers on a daily basis and they jokingly ask me what I’m doing in “their” kitchen.

Here’s the back story on how I got from point A to point C.

Six or so months ago, I set out on a plan to find a part-time professional position. Knowing that D was up for a promotion and raise this year, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity. We would finally have a work-life balance that allowed for more time spent with the kids, without sacrificing income. In other words, we wouldn’t be eating ramen noodles from our van-home down by the river. This would also get me out of the very icky position I was in.

After meeting with a recruiter and registering with an agency that places freelancers for all types of positions, I waited. Surprisingly, I didn’t wait long before I got a call about a part-time professional position that allowed me to work from home. It sounded like a dream. I interviewed, I researched, and then we got to the salary. No go.

So, I waited some more. Nothing was coming in. Recognizing that I had set some stiff parameters, I began looking within the company I was already working. At that same time, my recruiter called to ask if my company was hiring and if I could help him get a position there. I did not email him back, as I felt that was just about the most unprofessional thing a recruiter could do. This officially ended the search for a part-time professional position.

The positive thing was that I started getting a lot of interviews within my company. They all sounded okay, but nothing really stuck out. That is, until my good friend recommended that I interview for a position she had just interviewed for. While this might sound odd, she had decided she would rather leave the company than move departments. After confirming about five hundred times that she was sure she didn’t want it, I took the opportunity and met with the hiring manager.

When the hiring manager lead the interview by talking about work-life balance, I was hooked. My favorite quote from her during this conversation was, “I haven’t yet found a situation I can’t work around.” Meaning, she was open to virtually any working arrangement as long as the work was getting done.

Jackpot.

Five months after that interview, I’m here. And everything she told me has been true. The people are awesome – friendly, welcoming, helpful. The work-life balance is phenomenal – work from home, flexible scheduling. I’m still trying to remove the fear and the knot in my stomach when I ask for time off or the ability to leave early. I feel like I’m a newly adopted, formerly abused shelter dog. I’m a little broken and fearful, so I’m going to need them to be a little patient with me while I learn to how to let my guard down and function again in a normal society.

I had mistakenly thought, as many would do when they are in the face of no other option, that my old work situation was only impacting me and maybe a little bit D (he had developed dishpan hands over the last few years that I have boycotted dish duty in wake of my crappy job situation). And then last night, my son made a comment about being happy that I was home for dinner. While I had thought that I was home for dinner on a relatively normal basis, the truth is that I wasn’t and I wasn’t emotionally present when I was physically there. A three-year old noticed this because three-year olds have all the time in the world to notice things. After many years of juggling and the wrong entity getting the most of my attention and energy, I’m so excited at that I am finally in a situation that I’m hopeful will provide more balance.

Sleep Deprived

Over the past seven months M has decided he would prefer to sleep in our bed.

We are not family bed kinda people.

I am a jerk when I don’t get my sleep.

Today I write to you with a gigantic knot in the back of my neck. I am in need a second cup of coffee.

Last night, as it has happened every night for the previous 210 nights, I rolled over in the twilight to find a little boy with a pull-up full of pee in my bed. The little boy tossed and turned in his usual way.

And then, he started rubbing his feet on me.

I can handle the sleepy breath in my face.

I can handle the pee filled pull-up.

I can handle the snoring.

I can handle the paint-peeling farts.

I can handle the talking in his sleep.

I cannot handle feet touching me

And I especially cannot handle little feet rubbing my back at 3am.

So I moved the feet. Then the feet came back. So I tossed the feet. And the feet came back again. I finally yelled, “Get your feet off of me!”

“No.”

So, I did what any sleep deprived mother would have done. I laid my body on the feet. And then the little toes, pressed between my stomach and the mattress, began to wiggle. You know what’s worse than feet rubbing you at 3am? Tiny toes wiggling on your stomach at 3am.

Finally, the feet moved and the little boy rested quietly between his dad and me. And then around 4am came, “Hey mom. Do I have somefing on my back?”

“No.”

“But it feels whik  dare are widdle spiders on my back.”

“No. There are not widdle spiders on your back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

And then around 4:30am something began to climb over me and a conversation that I don’t remember occurred. It was C.

“No. Out!”

“But..but..”

“OUT!”

“But Mom!”

“C, come over on this side of the bed.”

An hour and a half later, the alarm started blaring. I was so exhausted, in my half asleep state, I thought the DJ’s were kindly delivering work reports to me via the radio airwaves. I beat the heck out of my snooze button anyway. I stumbled out of bed feeling as though I had spent the evening on a bed of jagged rocks surrounded by over-caffeinated seagulls .

Somebody call Nanny 911. I cannot take this anymore, but I’m too dang tired to do anything about it.

‘Tis the Season

Hello everyone! It’s LENT!! I don’t know why I get so excited for Lent, but I do. And it’s not because Filet ‘O Fish is suddenly everywhere. I’m not even Catholic. I’m Lutheran, which is kind of like Catholic’s cousin who never follows the rules. But none the less, us unruly Lutherans also practice Lent similar to our Catholic cousins. I read an article on the Lutheran Church’s website that detailed Lenten fasting.  The article was interesting to me because while it generally said what I already knew, the tone was different than the one I use for Lent.

I approach Lent as a personal challenge. Not unlike someone might approach P90X.

Can I go a whole 40 days without this thing? Can I be an obedient Christian for that many days in a row? I’m going to crush Lent this year! No one can abstain from french fries like this girl! Hey, Big Man, are you watching me be awesome at Lent?!

Strangely the article did not explain the prize structure for crushing Lent.

The article spoke more to actual fasting. Like giving up a meal or eating less at a meal (i.e. those Pillsbury biscuits are not necessary). I’m trying to integrate this into my daily routine. For instance, I stopped halfway through the can of Pringle’s tonight rather than eating all of them. Baby steps.

Okay, I’m going to stop talking about religion now. I try not to as a general rule, but I needed to set the scene for this blog post.

This year I gave up french fries AND Facebook for Lent (because I am awesome at Lent!). I’ve made it 3 days and it has not been without sacrifice. Because as of 12:01am on Ash Wednesday the events below occurred:

• C got pink eye
• When I asked C, “Have you been washing your hands?” Completely devastated, she tells me, “Nooooo! I have not been washing my hands!” (Repeat that like Sally Fields said it after getting awful news on a Lifetime movie, and THAT was the level of devastation)
• This caused D and I to each miss a 1/2 day of work
• I had to wash everything C touched. EVERYTHING.
• I remembered how much I hate pink eye.
• Then I bleached EVERYTHING.
• I contemplated my “green” cleaners and then decided to stick with Clorox and Lysol.
• I spent the last week in a job with the world’s worst manager. After a final week of hazing, I’m D-O-N-E.
• I start a new job with the world’s sweetest person ever on Tuesday. She got me a Valentine, People! And it was chocolate.
• I thought M also had pink eye despite my bleaching.
• I wasn’t certain I had enough left over antibiotics to treat him too, so we had to go to the doctor.
• M did not have pink eye, but we did get a prescription just in case.
• M and I went to McDonald’s after his appointment.
• I choked back tears as I didn’t order fries.
• I forgot that the happy meal did come with fries.
• I did not grab and eat a few fries before handing them back to M like I usually do.
• I did not eat the leftover fries M handed back to me like I usually do.
• D and I each missed another 1/2 day of work.
• I took a conference call with M in the room. BAD IDEA.
• M is over using the word “Amazing” like he’s on the bachelor or something.
• M has started making up imaginary friends.
• His friend “Shoon” is from China. But not that China, the other China that’s really far away.
• His friend “Vambay” plays football for the Cardinals. M made him a Valentine card and explained that we needed to put it in the mailbox. A short time later I over heard M talking to himself, “….and den dee card is going to fall down on dee football fielthd and Vambay is going to sthay ‘What is dis?’ and den, he is going to open it and sthay, ‘DIS CARD IS AMAZING!’”
• My niece made my Valentines Day by screaming “AND I WUV YOU TOO!” The kid always talks in a tone that is excited and astonished.
• On Friday afternoon, I got a call from the babysitter that M was throwing up.
• By midnight, M was barfing in a trash can for the billionth time and C projectile vomited all over the kitchen. AT THE SAME TIME.
• After three years, M has accomplished vomiting in a receptacle.
• The vomiting finally stopped at about 5am on Saturday morning.
• I got to wash EVERYTHING again.
• I pondered how the heck this happened when I had just bleached the whole stinkin’ house.
• D had to go to work on Saturday.
• I have slept 5 hours in the last 36 hours. Strangely, I’m not as tired as one would think. (I’m fasting on sleep!)
• The dog has gas. And I mean gas. She may have stinkier stinkers than D. And that is saying something.
• I’ve washed more bedding and clothes and blankets and stuffed animals and pillow pets than I care to speak of.
• I’m anxiously waiting for the flu to hit me too.

Never fear, despite all of this I am still crushing Lent.

M plus 3 equals OMG

Thanks to my buddy Linda, I recently read a blog post where a man listed all of the reasons that might explain his three-year olds meltdown. If you are blissfully ignorant to three years old, I will tell you it trumps two years old and may rival hormonal sixteen year old girls. Children at this age swing from highly volatile to sweet to cute and back again, but mostly hang out in highly volatile mode. To sorta quote Forrest Gump, three year olds are like a box of chocolate; you never know what you’re going to get. And most of the time it’s something horirble and unexpected.

I thought this list was a grand idea and I needed to give it a try because some day, I’m told, I’m going to laugh at this. For now, I’m going to save it in my archives and revisit it when M is old enough to realize how mentally unstable he was at three years old and subsequently thank D and I for not feeding him to coyotes. I also like to set degrees of just how awful the kids’ temper tantrums are. C wins hands down. I’ve mentally blocked all of her tantrums and when I start to try to recall them, my body goes into convulsions. While I’m not convulsing this time around, I have noticed that D and I are drinking quite a bit more than we were, say 4 months ago. So here are the best ways to enrage my three year old (in no particular order….of course):

1. Tell him it’s Tuesday on Tuesday. How dare you forget that HE DOESN’T LIKE TUESDAY!
2. Forget to perfectly align the softy part of the Velcro closure on his tennis shoe with the scratchy part.
3. Remember to perfectly align the softy part of the Velcro closure on his tennis shoe with the scratchy part, thus rendering the fit of the shoe “TOO SOFT!”
4. Give him a waffle and don’t cut it.
5. Give him a waffle and cut it.
6. Give him a pull-up without the “Big Lightening Hot Queen face”
7. Tell him you’re going to get him a milkshake; neglect to order that item first.
8. Tell him its bath time.
9. Tell him it’s time to get out of the bath.
10. When he asks to bring his basketball to the babysitter’s, bring his basketball.
11. Dare to give him pants that aren’t “fluffy pants.”
12. Make sure his favorite shirt is in the dirty clothes pile.
13. Tell him its time to leave the babysitter’s house.
14. Tell him its time to go to the babysitter’s house.
15. Play a board game with him.
16. Wake him up after his dad has already left for work.
17. Serve him a food he likes.
18. Serve him a food he doesn’t like.
19. Smile while he plays the guitar for you.
20. Allow him to play hockey on your hardwood floors.
21. Let the dog in the house.
22. Vacuum.
23. Walk him to the babysitter’s front door.
24. Offer to read him a story.
25. Offer to let him watch his favorite shows.