Archive for the ‘Random Crap’ Category

Hehee, my Crazies are still here.

I haven’t checked up on my search terms in a while…the somewhat colorful phrases that people Google and somehow end up here. So I decided to check in.

Yep. The Crazies are still finding me with great gems like “a butt with a bandaid on it.” Great thing about that one, it’s in the list more than once. WHO looks for this stuff??

A couple of runners-up? “hippie swear words” and “sell kidney”

Seriously?? ARE there swear words that are specific to the Peace People? And where did I mention selling a kidney? I still have both mine, and I’m not in the market for a new one…

At least they’re not as worrisome as the person who found me by seeking “scorpion karma.”

Ouch.

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There are dishes to wash, laundry to move from the dryer to the bedroom floor where it goes, and toys to move from the middle of the floor to the corners.

A lonely Gazelle sits in the living room, longing for me to decide exercise was an actual New Year’s Resolution. Maybe I should put the never-opened Yoga-Kickbox Fusion DVD on it for company.

There are gigs on Odesk just screaming my name. My inboxes (yes, there are several) are full of flagged, “get to this later” messages.

My boots on Ebay need checked. Selling, not buying. I want to buy. Buying stuff is fun. I think…it’s been a very long time.

I’ve finished work for my actual job for the day, but there are a few things I need to write ahead on. I also have a few hundred photos I need to work on.

I should take out the trash, dust, and vacuum.

I desperately need to buy groceries, which means I desperately need to sell a few things on Ebay, write some articles for someone, or find something else to do for money.

What I really, really, REALLY want, though…is to sit down with my fuzzy blanket and pick up a book. I used to read 2 or 3 a week. Now, I keep having to start one over because so much time passes between reading the first few chapters and picking it up again, that I lose track of the plot.

I am a bookworm without “the stuff,” going through withdrawals…

It’s been a while. I realized just how long when I logged in and discovered that WordPress has changed…well…everything. A bit of clicking, some cursing, and I found my “classic dashboard.”

Why must there be change?

I am fully on board with new things, as long as they are in a carefully spelled-out, easily understood, sidebar. Y’know…something I can ignore until I’m bored and WINEing.

Road trips with minions are never boring….hair-raising, loud, and stressful maybe, but never boring. The tallish minion and I have come up with a game. When we’re in the car for a long time, we work on our dream house.

Our dream house is entirely made up, and we decided that if we ever win the lottery, this is what we will build. Every trip we add rooms, colors, decorations, pets, and anything else we can come up with.

It’s going to be a rainbow of color, because we just can’t agree on anything. Since there are so many rooms, it is a sprawling structure with several wings. There will be a lime and black zebra wall, a turquoise wall, and an entirely mirrored wall, as well as sides of every other jewel-tone there is. Hot pink trim will grace the entire thing…which includes turrets.

Inside will be rooms to suit any taste, and we will rent them out like a hotel. When you book a room, you don’t book by a number, you book by style. Victorian Powder Room, anyone?

The minion has a few rooms added that will take some ingenuity. A treehouse room that has to be an actual treehouse is on the list. A treehouse with access to the rest of the house by slide, zipline, and rope ladder.

There will be two ballrooms. One of the traditional kind, for dancing, modeled (of course) after Beauty and the Beast, Disney version. Another will be a ballroom in the literal sense. No furniture, the entire room will be a ball pit. Plastic colored balls. With a disco ball chandelier, round mirrors on every wall, and port-hole windows. The walls in here will be yellow with pink polka-dots.

Of course there will be an indoor pool, shaped like a crescent moon, and a star-shaped hot-tub. The gym will have all the traditional equipment, except in neon colors. A ballet barre will line one wall, and a gymnastics mat will stretch through the center.

The playground room will be just like it sounds. Think McDonald’s, without the creepy clown and the hamburger dude.

I have (silently) decided on a fully stocked bar. A gameroom will probably go well with that.

The minions both voted for a movie theater.

The list of pets is almost as long as the list of rooms. There will be ferrets and flying squirrels, one naked cat, a team of huskies, fainting pygmy goats, and ponies. Outside there will be a small zoo with ring-tailed lemurs, a few monkeys, and a Zebra named Zed.

One wall of the kitchen will be the side of the salt-water aquarium with the dolphins. They will be trained to let the minions ride, and they won’t eat fish…that would be “soo friggin’ gross.”

The whole structure must be on stilts, since we took a trip to Corpus and the tallish minion became fascinated by the houses on sticks.

I’ve decided that this is all feasible. I just need to win the lottery a few times, get a fairy godmother, and find some magic beans.

   The shortish minion has been telling me for 2 years now, quite insistently, that he is big enough to play baseball. Well, this year it finally happened! By the time Little League Season rolled around, he was 28 pounds of 4 year old All-Star just waiting to happen…he was FINALLY big enough.

   The shortest little guy out there, he strutted out there for Opening Ceremonies with his chest puffed out, his hat on crooked, and his knee-length team shirt tucked into his big-boy baseball pants. He proudly stood for all the right moments, and led his team out onto the field when they announced the littlest Patriots’ names.

   Head held high, he sat through the rest of the team’s being introduced, then RAN as fast as he could for the gate that led back to Momma. He wanted his jacket, he wanted a drink, and he wanted some chicken.

   We went to DQ to kill the hour between the Ceremonies and his FIRST GAME EVER.

   While there, I asked if he was ready. He looked at me blankly for a moment, then said “Momma we already DID go do T-Ball.”

   Apparently he thought all the practice, the uniform, and all the other baseball hoopla was in preparation for that one walk across the field with his team. He was done. He came, he waved, he conquered. I had to convince him that there was more to it than that easy-peasy stroll.

   Once we got to the field, his excitement returned and he puffed out his chest, donned his too-big crooked hat, and took to the field.

   When the little Patriots took to the field for the first time, the shortish minion marched himself out onto the field, straight to the pitcher’s mound. There, he set his feet, readied his glove, and glared a challenge at the pitcher…a first grader who looked at him like a stray cat that had wandered up.

   The coach convinced him to go to the outfield, where he danced the rest of the game.

   In between the dancing in the outfield, there was the best part…the part with the bat. They put a too-big helmet on his tiny head (really, they think these will actually help prevent an injury in a game where the kids don’t even get pitched to?) and sent him on his way. My little leftie lined up his feet, hefted his bat, SWUNG with all his might, and sent the ball sailing towards the pitcher.

   That’s when my little All-Star dropped the bat and took off running with all his might…after the ball.

   He raced the pitcher for that ball with coaches and fans trying to figure out whether they were laughing or yelling instructions at him. The pitcher was a bigger boy and sent the shortish one off in the right direction, too stunned to tag him. He recovered and tossed the ball to the first baseman, who ran after my child, who was running with glee, giant helmet bobbing around on his head. He looked like a Bobble-Head doll for someone’s dashboard.

   His next turn at bat, he raced the pitcher for the ball again, and finally figured out what to do on the third chance.

   That third time turned out to be the charm. He took off for first, high-fived his coach, and listened patiently to the instructions to run to second. He nodded understanding, the coach turned his attention to the batter, and my son took off running for his life towards second. He almost stole his first base…he’d missed the little detail about waiting for the batter.

   When he finally got to run for second for real, he encountered a first-grader determined to tag him. They crashed, went end over end, and my son promptly quit the game.

   I’ve talked him into trying again for the next game, after promising that baseball isn’t normally a tackle sport, and letting him speculate that Batman would have beaten up that bigger boy.

  

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   I haven’t really taken a vacation since I’ve had minions. I’ve taken a long weekend here and there, and I’ve packed them up and shipped them to Grandma for a few days at a time.

   I’ve discovered that packing them up for an entire week, a whole relaxing, travel-across-Texas, kind of vacation, is a lot like trying to repack a bean-bag when you get too curious about what’s in there. If you’ve ever opened up a bean bag chair and watched thousands of little Styrofoam bits go flying in all directions, sticking to everything BUT the inside of the bag, then you might have come close to the experience I just had.

   I pulled the smallish minion out of his Angry Birds backpack (yes, he fits) twice, his sister’s Peace Sign bag once, and my own suitcase half a dozen times. He Unpacked his backpack once, refilling it with Hot Wheels…this is when I discovered that he has enough little cars to more than fill a standard backpack. I repacked it, put the cars away, and turned around to find him stashing powdered sugar donuts in amongst his clothes.

   Then there was his sister. The tallish minion insisted (at least in the beginning) on packing for herself. I agreed, on the condition that I get to inspect the bag when she was done. The contents of said bag were as follows: seven (yes. Seven.) swimsuits, 4 pairs of shorts, 12 tank tops, 2 pajama bottoms (no tops), 3 pairs of shoes, a single pair of panties, no socks, her Kindle, cowboy boots, and a double-handful of ponytail holders.

   Of course she threw a fit when I had to tweak her packing just a little bit. During the fit, the smallish minion (suspiciously quiet this whole time), came strolling through in his Incredibles undies, rolling a squirming Angry Birds backpack.

   I rescued Orange Kitty from his bag, and repacked his powdered-sugared clothes. Then I hid both their bags. I packed mine a few times, because I had to keep dragging children out of it. I’m pretty sure the trip will require a Wal-Mart run, because I KNOW I forgot something vital. Just not sure yet what that something is…

It’s that time of year again. The time the tallish minion shows up waving around the much-anticipated Little League form. Time to bust out the Barbie bat and pink glove, locate a handful of the 137 practice balls that are floating around here somewhere, and get our big girl panties on…because “there’s NO CRYING in baseball.”
That’s my mantra through March and April every year…and by May, I give up because I’m usually crying by then, too. The minion thinks that baseball is the greatest sport ever for the first few practices and about the 3rd game. Then, someone gets stung by a bee, sunburns, or gets sore and tired of running, and suddenly it’s all my fault for signing her up for baseball yet again.
THIS YEAR though, it’s going to be a whole new ballgame. Pun intended.
The smallish minion has been telling me for two years that “Momma, I big enough to play batheball.”
This year, he is finally big enough for real. And a hand-me-down Barbie bat just ain’t gonna cut it. So, I am in search of a Batman bat, which I am pretty sure they don’t make, and a smaller than extra-small glove, because the smallish minion is tiny.
He also wants real baseball pants, which I am pretty sure don’t come in toddler sizes; and cleats, which I am pretty sure would land someone in the emergency room somehow. He has allowed that in the absence of cleats, his new (smooth-bottomed) cowboy boots shall work nicely.
I’m not sure who his coach will be this year, but I hope it’s someone with the patience of a saint. I coached the last two years…and I am now braving the world of single-parenting with an extra job and an EMT class. So when I was asked to coach again, I laughed and laughed. Then I ran.
So, whoever tackles the role that resembles herding Patriot-clad cats has my respect, and my sympathy. I guess I should warn them that my son is a leftie…
BW Set 5

   Potty training. What fun.

   See, I thought I had that one down in a “been there, done that” kind of way. The bigger minion had a few minor hiccups in the whole potty-training scenario, but no major issues. Once we bought some Tinkerbell undies that she didn’t want soiled, we were golden.

   I carried this cavalier attitude right into the training of the littler minion, thinking this would be a piece of cake…after all, “boys are easier,” right?

   Nope.

   I figured the whole peeing standing up thing would work in my favor.

   Nope.

   I thought that the boy would be like his sister in hating the feel of wet clothes on tender tushies.

   Nope.

   My first challenge was teaching him he could undergo the necessary actions without having to sit down, or even completely take his pants down. Well…it’s not like I could demonstrate!

   So the first few “Go Potty” attempts were sitting down on the potty, “Girl Style.” Well, what I didn’t think about ahead of time was the basic anatomy of a boy-child. Apparently a sitting position lines them up perfectly to shoot up and out, instead of down into the potty. He shot the sink across the room. I cried. He laughed.

   We abandoned the sitting down idea.

   Living in the country, well-meaning advice stated to let him go on the porch. Aim at a cat. Try to hit a bug…little things to make it a big outdoor manly adventure. So we took the issue outdoors. This only resulted in me and my son standing on the porch, staring forlornly at each other, his pants around his knees.

   Fast-forward an eternity, and we’ve about got the basics down. He’ll go outside, he’ll go to our potty and those of places he’s familiar with. He’s terrified of the automatic flushers provided at Wal-Mart. We have some accidents, but it’s getting better.

   Until a few days ago. We’re at our second home, and his practically-adopted big sister took him to the bathroom. He stood on her feet to reach. Apparently stage fright took over and after a long pause, he looks up at her with those big puppy-dog eyes and says, “It’s broken.”

I’m Ba-a-a-a-ack! Again.

Posted: May 27, 2014 in Random Crap

Holy crap, it’s been a while and this blog has been sitting here with my “Naked President” post front and center.

Nice.

Anyway, I still have two minions, and lost a Guru. Well, didn’t lose him. He moved out. The critter population is much the same, we still have a loopy cowdog, a half-coyote with a spastic disorder, and now a husky/shepherd that barks at himself in the mirror. Orange Kitty rules the house, and there is always a myriad of barn/yard cats running around.

Mom wants to bring me Guineas…that will be interesting. They kill snakes, therefore are welcome as pets.

I got a promotion of sorts at my job with the paper. I am now a Managing Editor hippie, with my own column! My boss is still KAB (Kick Ass Boss, as she is saved in my contacts).

So there’s the skinny.

I’ll post some of my favorite columns to get the Naked Prez Post a little further down the list. Annndddd, I will try to post a little more often.

My goal for the week is to get the PHH her own Facebook page. Linked, of course, to here and the Courier page. So cross your fingers the smallish minion will cooperate and not tear the house down around me while I do this…

I listened to a radio show that made me livid. My favorite voice-personalities were reading a list of things that The Boss looks for in a job interview that most people don’t think is ever an issue. They apparently polled a few hundred company owners, and these people revealed the things they judge you on that you might not know about.

Potential bosses can be evil, cruel bastards. Don’t get me wrong, most of the interviewers you encounter will be friendly and pleasant…but there are apparently some sadistic ones who don’t have a heart. Those who sounded off in this poll really made me glad I have a very cool boss and a string of freelance projects.

The following “red flags” these people look for were at the top of the list, meaning that approximately 25% of all interviewers are looking for them.

Split Ends.

Turns out they aren’t just checking to make sure you have a decent grasp of what “business casual” means. Many job interviewers are examining your hair for flyaways and split ends…which can apparently indicate a lazy person who doesn’t have enough responsibility to care for themselves.

Seriously!??

Ok, let’s try out a scenario…I am out looking for a job because I’ve been living on Ramen Noodles for a month so that I can use every spare dime to pay for dry cleaning for my one and only nice suit to go to job interviews! Paying for a haircut is probably not high on my Blow Money On List.

Mister Interviewer, shouldn’t your attention be on my job skills, and maybe the fact that I am dressed appropriately and I don’t smell like a gym or a French hooker?

You know, if I came to a job interview wearing a purple and teal Mohawk, I could see the concern…but my dry from the West Texas weather hair shouldn’t be a problem.

Smudged Mascara.

Apparently, mascara and eyeliner smudged underneath your eyes (even a little, according to polls) gives your interviewer a glimpse into a party-girl persona. These interviewers admit to knocking perfectly qualified candidates to the bottom of the list if they can spot an imperfectly lined eye.

Geez…this one is wrong on so many levels. See, I could understand if these people got upset at Goth-worthy streaks of black running down our cheeks. But they’re talking about a bit of smudge under the eye.

What if it’s summer (which meant 104 degrees around here), and the interview is at 2 in the afternoon? No makeup can stand up to that!

What if it’s a person’s third interview of the day, or they had to dash from class/work/dentist straight to the interview? Want them to show up late because they stopped to retouch their eyeliner?

My favorite is my own reason for the constantly “smoky” appearance of my eyeliner…I wear contacts. Which means if a gnat sneezes, my eyes will water, rendering my perfect makeup a bit smeared. Simmer down, most people think that’s sexy!

Another contact issue: the wind. Dry eyes. Little drops you have to put in your eyes to see where you’re going. Again, moisture that destroys makeup.

This bears repeating…shouldn’t you be more worried about a person’s qualifications??

Cheap Suits.

Ummm…

Ok, if I could afford a $400 designer suit and new shoes, would I be here interviewing for an internship that pays peanuts while paying half of what I hope to be making from you to some teenager to keep my kids alive while I sweat it out with you, worried about my makeup and split ends??

 

Geez. I am so grateful for my random writing-for-a-stranger freelance jobs, my photography business that I run all by myself (thankyouverymuch), and my kick-ass editor at the paper…