Stumbling Towards Perfect

In an attempt to get Big V over to the book I'm in called Personal Finances I've created a very strict budget. (Don't worry; he gets bread and water from time to time.) Big V has a very relaxed attitude when it comes to life, specifically towards money... hey, we might get hit by a bus and die tomorrow he laments regularly. I'm more of the but what happens if we live to be 103 years old? I don't want to eat cat food! type. Plus, I actually do plan on living to see my 103rd birthday. Really. I do. Anyway, a couple months ago we sat down and discussed our finances. It started with Big V asking where the hell all his money went and ended with me clinging to his leg sobbing please don't let them take the baby! I really like that one! In between we talked about how much day care costs really were this summer. With two kids in daycare full time we were shelling out $1,000 per month. It sounds insane.... but then you do the math and realize some poor sucker watched

1. I eat M&M's. You know, from the bag I hid from all the kids earlier. Yes, I eat them. One at a time. I slowly suck on the candy coating until it disappears and then I slowly chew the chocolate treasure inside. And then I grab another piece and slowly do it all again. I do this instead of shoving eight pieces in my mouth while stirring the spaghetti sauce we're having for dinner and trying to dodge your I smell chocolate in here  accusations like I usually do. 2. I sit. I sit still. I sit still in one spot. Without getting up every thirty-seven seconds to grab the baby, check the baby, take the electrical cord out of the baby's mouth. I sit. I sit until my legs feel like they've been wrapped in one of those lead blankets the dentist throws over you when he x-rays your teeth. And it is good. 3. I go to the bathroom. With the door closed. Yes, closed. And no one barges in to hand me a permission slip that needs to be signed right away otherwise you won't be

I get to go inside houses. Lots of houses. I go in them when they're first built. I go in them when they're in the middle of a remodel. I go in them when the neighbors are complaining that they're decrepit and ugly and lowering the property values of the neighborhood and ought to be torn down and replaced with something new and modern. There are little lake cottages that I have dreamed about entering and when I do they are everything I imagined them to be: breezy and light, welcoming and relaxing, creaking and full of wear & tear. I imagine the cousins gathering to sleep on the front screened-in porch, laughing and giggling, listening to the sounds of the lake waves hitting the piers. There are expensive lake front homes of such a grand exterior I feel lowly and humbled at the mere thought that little old me is privileged  enough to enter them -- and usually I'm disappointed. They're large, expansive, and look more like a museum than a home. I imagine a cold

I am very lucky to work and live in a beautiful area. We're located on a gorgeous lake that offers a public shore path for pedestrians. If you're willing you can walk around the entire lake which takes about 7 to 8 hours, or so I've heard. Our lake path is beautiful and peaceful and gorgeous and wonderful and lovely and absolutely stunning. Did I mention how beautiful and peaceful and gorgeous and wonderful and lovely and absolutely stunning it is? You never know what you'll see when you're out and about....  If you're lucky you might catch a glimpse of a blue heron or other signs of wildlife. Sometimes they're out in plain sight, but other times you really have to look or you might pass right by without noticing: Can you spy the wild life? Here, let me help you...

Look, I know I'm not going to fool anyone into thinking I'm Christian of the Year. Far from it. In fact, I may or may not actually be black listed from certain churches. That being said, I, personally, do believe in God. I don't care if you do or not or go to church or not or --- shoot - see, that right there is what stops me from ever becoming Christian of the Year... um, forget what I said about not caring. I do care. I care about your soul and will pray for you. Ok, probably not. Actually, most definitely I probably will not. It's not that I don't care whether or not your soul burns in hell - it's just that, well, let me worry about mine before I get all up in your business. You're a grown up, you can make your own decisions. I won't judge you, I promise. Ok, that being said, I do feel it's my duty as a parent to expose my children to God and the 10 Commandments so they don't murder anyone or covet their neighbor's ass. So several times 

Part of my job is to deal with hoarders. You know - disgusting people who cram garbage into their house and are too lazy to clean. Except you're wrong. These are not disgusting people. They most often are not lazy either. And, while there are times when I disagree as to the standard that makes an item considered to be garbage, to the human being who is affected by hoarding, they most certainly do not feel they are living in filth. The majority of hoarders that I have come in contact with have a plan. They have a goal they feel they are working towards. And they don't want to fail. They just keep trying. Most often I see people who buy products on sale and plan on reselling these items to make money. Auctions, eBay, Craigslist -- in their mind they plan to double their money, subsidize their income, and prove to their family and friends that they aren't crazy; they're trying really, really hard. The garages are usually the first filled. Then basements, guest rooms, r

I may or may not have a slight obsession with Sharpies. Okay, I may.

I can't keep it a secret anymore. I'm so giddy I could explode. In fact, I'm pretty sure I will explode if I don't tell you - and that would be quite the mess, and you know how lazy I can be. I sure don't want to be cleaning that mess up. So, at the risk of jinxing everything, I've got to tell you ----- BIG V IS GETTING RID OF THE DOG ON THE 20th! Yes. That's right. Gone. Adios. Good bye. Send her packing! Don't let the door hit you on the way out! In just five more days ! Gone! As in, no longer in our house. As in, no longer destroying furniture or running out in traffic or barking and whining at midnight. And 2am. And 5am. As in, no more getting knocked over by dirty dog stench the second you walk into our house because the thing goes manic when you try to bathe it. As in, no more splinters of wood from whatever piece of wood she chewed up. (Like baseboards, pantry doors, book shelves - you get the idea.) As in, no more urine soaked pi

I'm not having a birthday party. There. I said it. No, not for me - I'm not having a big ole' birthday party for Cletus the Used to be Fetus's First Birthday. Big V doesn't mind. Jelly Bean doesn't mind. Dotter doesn't mind. In fact, no one has lost sleep, become traumatized and/or needed the assistance of the Mental Health Officer to deal with this. It's just the way we do things in our family. We really don't see why we should have one. I could give you a long list of reasons why - starting with I hate people and ending with so there! and they'd all make sense to me, but my decision still might not make sense to you. That's okay. You can throw your own birthday party for your own 1-year old. I won't even feel bad if you don't invite me. It still doesn't change the fact that we're not having one for Cletus. In my own mind a birthday at this age is for the parents. It's sort of like announcing to all your friends

Our cuttting board. Our cutting board slides nicely under the counter. When you want to cut something, you pull it out. Use it. Clean it. Slide it back into its resting spot. Except.... No matter how many times I explain to the people who reside in our house that you really should clean it because little crumbs will entice rodents and ants and creepy crawly things that totally gross me out, they still can't figure out how to clean it. It's odd, really. I've actually witnessed the teen pulling out the dirty and used cutting board, throwing on a freshly cooked pizza and cutting it without a care in the world, almost as if forgetting the fact that day old crumbs are sitting under the pizza. It kind of grosses me out.

I bet you think this is about math, don't you? And how it causes so much drama and upset in our house. But it's not. Nope. No math to report about here. Now, remember, it's only the fourth day of school, right? On day four it seems fitting to be sitting at your desk in your office and for some reason feel the need to check your personal cell phone. So you open your drawer that hold your purse which holds the phone and 'lo and behold there's one missed call. And a voicemail. So you check the voicemail because you're curious who might be calling you from this random number you've never seen before. And what you hear is something along the lines of this: Hello, this is the school bus company and the bus your child was riding on has been involved in an accident and you need to contact me right away at this number. With my throat in a vice and my stomach on the floor I called back. I've seen pictures of bus accidents on the news. Horrible, horrible pictur

Yesterday marked the second day of school. Two. Two days. That's it. And we celebrated it with tears. Just not tears of joy. We celebrated with I-hate-math-I'm-so-stupid-I-don't-understand-anything tears. Math is the bane of my existence. I hated it when I went through school. Numbers scared me enough that my brain literally froze when those flashcards were thrown up. We used to play this game in the third grade called "Around the World." A student would stand next to another student and each would try to be the quickest to answer a math fact from a card the teacher displayed. Whoever "won" moved on and worked his or her way around the classroom, or around the world. I actually liked the game because it meant I had a good ten minutes to drift off and get lost in my imagination. (It wasn't like I'd be answering anything quickly.) I am filled with dread when my kids ask for help on homework because it is always math. Always. And I hate it. And

When I was growing up in the hellish halls of teen angst otherwise known as High School, I knew girls whose parents allowed them to stay home when they had their period . (Don't look at me like that - I warned you in the post title.) As in, spend the day on the couch enjoying the comforts of a hot water bottle and some Tylenol while watching Days of Our Lives. Followed by General Hospital. Which was on right before Donahue. When they came back to school they had a note relieving them from participating from gym class. What was wrong with these parents, buying into this obvious nonsense? You know what I thought? FAKERS. Every. single. one. I had my period, too. It took three days from start to finish and I used maybe 5 tampons. I never understood the whispers of the girls' voices from under the bathroom stall, "Oh my gawd! I can't believe I just got my period! Do you have a tampon? I don't have anything!" What do you mean you don't have anything? Are y