…to be back. Back again.
Shady’s back. Tell some friends.
Ok, carried away. But, I needed writing samples. What better way than to REVIVE THE BLOG. Happy, aren’t you?
…to be back. Back again.
Shady’s back. Tell some friends.
Ok, carried away. But, I needed writing samples. What better way than to REVIVE THE BLOG. Happy, aren’t you?
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.
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.
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…
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.”
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…