Stumbling Towards Perfect

Reach your goal - even if it's at a tortoise pace. It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you don't stop. I'm talking about paying off debt. I'm talking about losing weight. I'm talking about cleaning out your basement. You don't fail until you stop. So just keep going. Be who you were meant to be - everyone else is taken. Eat on the couch of you want to. Sing in the rain. Return items you simply do not want. Cry during Sex in the City re-runs (you know, when you finally realize Aidan isn't coming back. Again.). If you want to eat soup every day for lunch, do it. If you want to draw comic books, write music and perform in plays, do it. If you want to stay home and perfect the art of motherhood, do it. Just be who you were meant to be. You'll be happier. Trust me. Don't blame life. Life really is simple. It's the self-discipline that's hard. You already know the lessons: Be kind to one another. Don't hurl insults at other p

Thank God for Technical Writers. The manuals for the new washing machine and dryer were so idiot proof Big V and I had no problem with the installations. Well, except for the part where we realized the two hoses for the hot and cold water were actually had the words  hot and cold printed directly on the hoses after we had hooked them up (to the wrong pipes). We had to take the hoses off and switch them. Oh, and also the part when we got to the very, very end of the washer installation and we thought hmmm, maybe these rubber ring thingy-s are supposed to go on the inside of those hose connection thingy-s and we had to take the stupid hoses off again and put the rubber ring thingy's inside the connection ends. Something about stopping water leaks or something. But I'm sure this was all operator error and not the fault of the technical writer who wrote the manual. We weren't discouraged because it only took us 14 hours to install the washer so we thought how hard could the

Holidays can be crazy. Insane even. Especially if you surround yourself with insane people, which I strongly suggest you do because it gives you plenty of blogging material. This weekend we met Byron. I believe Byron fit in that overall insane category, but he was one of those funny insane people as opposed to the eating human flesh for Christmas Dinner at the Dahmer's type. Byron lives with his sister. He has another sister, too, but he doesn't live with that one. The sister he does live with has three kids and they're kind of like teenagers. (He doesn't know their exact age.) Anyway, when they clean their rooms they just throw their clothes in the basement laundry room and some of the clothes hasn't been worn and is actually still folded. This happens at our house, too, but I didn't tell Byron that because it was twelve degrees outside and he was supposed to be lifting a washing machine into the back of our truck and not chit-chatting about how right now he

The Bean wanted to bring a plate of those pickle-ham-tortilla roll-up appetizers for our family's Christmas. So I put her in charge. Because it's important for kids to get a sense of accomplishment. And by "kid," I mean a 15-year old oh-my-goodness-in-less-than-three-years-she-will-be-considered-an-adult-and-can-legally-defend-our-country kind of child. Plus, I was at work and couldn't make the pickle-ham-tortilla roll-up things at the office in a way that made people believe it was actually part of the " and all other duties as required " clause of my contract. Of course I told her to call if she had any questions.... Bean: Mom, I can't spread the cream cheese on the tortilla. It's too hard. Me: Put it in the microwave for fifteen seconds. Bean: Fifty? Me: Fifteen. Bean: Fifty? Me: Fifteen. Bean: Fifty? Or Fifteen. Me: Fif- teeeen . Bean: Oh, I thought you said fif- teee . Me: No. Fif- teeeeeen . Bean: Okay. But I'm not

If Big V has one problem I would define it as Hanes T-Shirt Addiction. As in the man had 68 plain white t-shirts that he wore. All the time. Every day. Rain or shine. You could always count on Big V in a plain, boring, white, t-shirt. Except it wasn't the "sexy man in a white t shirt" image you're thinking about. (Or the particular image I happen to picture...) Big V's shirts were stretched out. And kind of grayish. And covered with stains because he wore them to work. And also after work when he would eat buffalo wings and barbequed ribs and spill sauce and wipe his fingers on the bottom hem.  Since he wore a plain, stretched out, grayish-white, stain covered t-shirt every day people assumed he only owned one. Except he didn't. He owned many. Far too many for any one normal human being. Enter me. Like a stealthy ninja in the middle of the night, I took every single white t-shirt I could find and got rid of them. All 68 of them. (Don't worry; he to

A washing machine. That drains. A dryer. That dries. New tires for the car. Non-bald ones. And for the dippy lady who works at the eye doctor's to recode the stupid medical procedure for my daughter's wonky eyeball to something other than "standard office exam" so my insurance company will actually pay the claim already. That is all. Well, that and also a Tiffany blue tea kettle.  Make every morning Breakfast at Tiffany's with Martha Stewart's Blue Enamel on Steel Tea Kettle. 

In the booming economy my kids got something like 417 gifts each for Christmas. Now we're poor and I'd rather pay for heat so I needed a way to let them know that they'd be having a scaled down Christmas without coming across like the grinch. So, I told them Jesus only got three gifts for his birth and that His birth is what created the holiday in the first place and what makes them think they're better than Jesus that they should get more gifts than he did? They pitched a fit but only until I explained frankincense and myrrh were some sort of herb and if they didn't watch it they'd be opening up basil and dill weed come Christmas morn.

Of course my kids are going to compare the gifts wrapped under the tree. For hours each day they will compare, brag, cry, get upset, do cartwheels, jump around or stomp, all in the name of gift giving. The bigger the gift, the bigger the brag... and the bigger my headache becomes. And so it is with much excitement I announce the Great Go Fish Christmas Tag Program of 2010! The gifts do not have names on them. Instead, they are adorned with half of a fish pair from the commonly recognized card game Go Fish. One present has a card attached depicting a narwahl. Another a clown fish. And another a sand shark. Come Christmas morning each child will have an envelope holding the other half of their fish pairs. Pull out the sand shark - go find the matching gift! I'm thinking it will add a fun spin to the Christmas morning events. I'm also thinking I may just be a genius.

Me :  Hello. How can I help you? Woman on Phone :  I'm going to subpoena your coworker. Me : Um. Okay. Is there anything else I can help you with? WoP : He needs to testify at my trial and tell the judge my life was in danger so I can get my two thousand dollars. Me : Okay. I'll let him know. WoP : Because I'm suing my landlord. And he said someone was moving in there. Me : Who said someone was moving in where? WoP : My landlord. He said people were moving in to the apartment so I have to remove the mailbox. Me : Do you live in the apartment? WoP : No. I moved out. But now he said other people are moving in there and so I have to remove the mailbox. Me : Whose mailbox is it? WoP :  Mine. Ninety-nine percent of the people are too scared to put in their own mailbox; they just get their mail at the Post Office, but they don't have to. This is America and you can get your mail delivered if you want it. Me : It's your mailbox and you moved out and

Setting: evening; the basement, where the children had been banished hours earlier with strict instructions to clean the playroom and unearth the carpeted floor. Characters: The Bean, 15 - in the playroom, barking orders at her sister. Dotter, 9 - also in playroom, goofing off and being generally uncooperative. Mother, 27 (don't question the age, people, it's really not that important) - enters basement to do some much needed laundry. Scene: As mother juggles dirty laundry she spies The Bean walking by obviously hiding something, because, really, who walks sideways up a set of stairs with their back to their mother? Hello, red flag! Mother, sensing deviousness, pounces on the now alone, innocent, younger daughter: Mother :  What was she carrying? Dotter : Huh? Mother : The Bean. What was she trying to hide from me? Dotter : I don't know. Something in a bag. Intent on getting to the bottom of things, Mother waits like a silent ninja for the unsuspecting c

Twenty years ago, in an attempt to deter young people from getting knocked up at a young age, our high school required teens to carry a hardboiled egg around for a week. For some reason the staff felt I may need an extra push in the right direction, therefore I was handed the responsibility of "twins." One egg I named Melchizedek Barron and the other I named something far less impressive since I have no idea to this day what it was. For a week I drove around with the eggs nestled in the cup holder of my sporty blue, two door Pontiac Grand Am, rocking out to Salt-N-Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex." What they should've done is made me spend every waking minute with a teenager. Babies are cute. And cuddly. And they smell good if you wash them on a regular basis. Teenagers are moody and hormonal and either don't use enough deodorant or spend in excess of ninety-eight minutes hogging all the hot water so that when you want to bathe all you get is a shrug

Last night I received a text from my older, wiser sister. But only older by 16 months. And only wiser by 16 points on the ACT. (Lies. I don't really know the ACT difference. At this point in my life I'm not even sure I've ever taken the ACT.) (I am, however, certain I took some military test that told me I'd be perfect as some sort of small weapons mechanic-y person. I took that to mean the test was bogus and the Army just needed someone to fill some slots.) (I went into a position where I did administrative work.) (But I digress.) Here is our texted conversation: Sister :  It's the 'damn, I washed another kleenex time of year'. Third load of laundry I've had to pick pieces off while I fold. And no one to blame but me. Me :  That's exactly why I'm a staunch proponent of using sleeves. Sister : I don't know why I put them in my pocket anyway. I grab a new one almost every time and end up emptying my pockets because they get too full.

If I were President of the United States, I would make it mandatory that all cell phone alarms have a minimum 9-minute snooze because this four minute thing my new phone is doing is just not fair. I've started setting five separate alarms to go off at 9-minute intervals so I can just turn the alarms off and not depend on their stingy snooze. My plan was foiled this morning when the babysitter called saying something about massive vomiting, digestive parasites and  possible cholera, so guess who had to wake up that very second to track down a child sitter pinch hitter? No snoozing for me. Luckily, our Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker back-up was available which made me think (1) Thank God for this gracious woman, and (2) I totally could've slept for seven more minutes. All was not well when I went to wake the baby, who looked at me with one eye open ala pirate style due to the fact his other eyeball was crusted over with a gunky puss. Then he smiled this cute little adorable smi

I was putting a file away at work when I got a paper cut. I immediately contacted the proper personnel to file a workman's comp claim but they wouldn't do it. Instead I was offered some antibacterial wash and a band-aid. I made them pinky swear that if this gets infected and my finger needs to be amputated they'll backdate a claim. I'm not messing around here, people. Infections are serious. By they way, when I was writing this I couldn't remember the word "amputated" (probably because the infection is already rapidly attacking my brain cells) so I googled remove finger and was somewhat traumatized by the first site suggestion which provided the following detail: Ever wondered what two colliding high-strength magnets would do to a lime? What about a finger? There is no way I'm clicking on that video. As if I don't have enough things in this world to worry about, now I have to make sure to teach my children to stay away from high-strength mag

Apparently someone (or something) has been socking my 9-year old in the eyeball causing an inflammation and bruising situation that requires medicated eye drops and multiple visits to the eye doctor. Which wouldn't be too bad if I suddenly hadn't gone all anti-hoarding and held on to the medicated eye drops as opposed to tossing them in the trash last week. I have cough medicine that expired 3-1/2 years ago yet I toss the drops. I know I make no sense. Eye appointment looming I toss a bottle at the toddler and attempt to find his shoes. The kid owns exactly one pair of shoes. Do you want to know why my kid owns only one pair of shoes? Because he's not my first born. The first born had thirty-eight pairs of shoes to choose from at any given time. The third born child is lucky he gets shoes at all. But because the clock is ticking and the I-need-to-arrive-twenty-minutes-before-my-scheduled-appointment-or-I'll-implode 9-year is twitching I cannot locate the shoes. It'

I'm amazed by the little things in life. Like the fact that the woman who watches Cletus the Used to be Fetus told me he likes to eat apples. Even the skins. And I'm all you can't feed a kid with four teeth an apple with skins! He'll choke and die! What is wrong with you, woman? And she looked at me like I'm some sort of crazy person as she whipped out a cheese grater and an organic Golden Delicious and proceeded to explain the mush in the bottom of the bowl is much better for the baby because it's all natural and there's no bad stuff added. And he ate it. Micro-mushed skins and all. And how I can leave a very clean house and in less than two hours come back to a complete disaster, wondering why there are a pair of jeans dumped in the bathtub and a glass of milk, a 12-volt battery and a vacuum cleaner bag surrounded by metal clothes hangers on the living room floor. Sometimes it's best not to wonder... easier just soak in the awe of it all...

The Blessed Family has been incarcerated. Visiting hours are on Wednesdays from 4pm-6pm and Saturdays from 1pm-5pm. Positive ID is required. Please note you must be on the visitors list. If you aren't on the visitation list you will not be allowed access to visit the inmate. God Bless, Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays. I suppose it is possible the plexiglass containment is for their own safety. Why people take off with the Baby Jesus from these displays I'll never understand. I think the lamb would be funnier. Look, Margaret! There's a lamb in our shower!  That would totally make someone come running. But hey, check out Baby Jesus in our tub! just gets you R eally, Henry? Baby Jesus? Go put that thing back in the park . In other news, I'm contemplating becoming an Amish Jew because I'm tired of chasing the kid who keeps turning the TV off and knocking ornaments off the tree. My 15-month old has learned how to turn the television off. And on. And off aga