Life Like Mine

Golden Love

Today is National Pet Day!

Ours celebrated by waking us up at 3:30 a.m. to yak on the carpet.

Thanks, Bear. We love you too.

Good toilet paper goes bad

It was like trying to go through life without the use of opposable thumbs.

Now I know how my dog feels.

“What the hell is wrong with this thing?!” I screamed in frustration as I stormed out of the bathroom, waving a roll of toilet paper wildly in the air. One ragged end fluttered violently behind me. “I can’t get the damn toilet paper to tear off!”

You’d think after 36 years of successful toilet training I would have had it down by now. But - no - all of the sudden I’m having trouble working one little roll of two-ply.

Well, in my defense, it was more like two-ply plus aloe plus a cotton blend plus anything else considered squeezably soft in the modern world.

The two males in the household insist on the fanciest toilet paper on the planet. It’s so expensive, I have to take out a friggin’ loan every time I buy it.

In fact, when it was on sale last time - an extremely rare occurrence - I bought eight packages of the damn things.

Filled up an entire shopping cart. 

Everyone threw me weird looks as I pushed it to the checkout.

Of course, the only other things in my cart were a jumbo pack of OREO cookies and a can of cooking spray.

Do you think that looked weird? I really need to start making a list. Anyway...back to toilet paper.

My husband, ever the observant one, answered, “Finally noticed a problem, did you?” 

I cocked an eyebrow, looked at the offending roll again and uttered eloquently, “Eh?”

He sighed and gently removed the object of my discontent from one clenched hand, “Look,” he said, pointing a finger at the loose end, “it’s not perforated. They must have had a little trouble at the factory.”

I grabbed it back and took a closer look. I pulled out the loose end farther and farther and father, until half the roll lay in a piled heap on the kitchen floor.

Environmentalist tree huggers, please stop reading now. Back to the action.... 

Sure enough. My better half was right.

“Son of a biscuit!” I yelled. Through some unlucky twist of wacky fate we had managed to secure a non-perforated roll of toilet paper.

You hear horror stories about these kind of things.

You just never think it’s gonna happen to you.

I slumped down into the nearest chair and moaned, “How could this happen?” I looked at my husband in desperation and reached up to wave the roll in his face, “We’re good people! We don’t deserve this!”

He tried - unsuccessfully - to hide the smirk on his face. “Is it really that big of a deal?” he asked.

My mouth dropped open in utter and complete shock.

“Excuuuse me?” I said. I slammed the toilet paper onto the kitchen table, where it landed with a soft plop. “What kind of company allows this to slip through the system? What happened to quality control, people!?” 

Pause.

“Someone is going to get a strongly worded letter from me,” I announced.

And then another thought hit me, even more terrifying than our current predicament.

There are three other bathrooms in our house.

Oh.

My.

God.

I leapt from my chair and charged upstairs and into our son’s bathroom. With frantic desperation I clumsily pawed at the small roll on the holder.

Shortly later I muttered, “Oh, thank God!” I peaked out the door and hollered downstairs, “This one’s safe!”

My husband, who really isn’t shocked at my crazy behavior after 10 years, just quietly walked past the bottom of the stairs and gave me a “thumbs up.”

Then I was off to the master bathroom and then the fourth “room of necessity” downstairs.

Both were cleared.

I know how relieved you all are.

I meandered back into the kitchen as the last of the adrenaline seeped from my body. I sat down and dropped my head onto crossed arms.

“Do you think that’s why it was on sale?” I mumbled, rational thought trying to crack its way back into my thick skull. But that didn’t last for long.

My husband walked over, leaned down and quietly whispered in my ear, “What about all the other rolls in the closet?”

Son of a -----.

Some silly leprechaun pranked us last night and left a momento in our son's bathroom.

Proof of what a mom can do with a dry erase marker, toilet bowl cleaner and inspiration from the Internet.

Two words: Popcorn ceilings.

“It’s time to make a change,” I announced to my husband one day.

He raised an eyebrow and chuckled, “You threatening to leave me again?” 

I shrugged, “Not today. Who would kill the spiders for you?” I pointed over my head and said, “However, these ceilings? They’re history.”

His eyes traveled upward to the lumpy landscape above our heads and surprised me by saying, “I agree. Let’s get after it.”

That’s the American, can-do spirit I love! It built this great country of ours. Carved out the West. Created the automobile and led to the wonders of satellite television. And Slurpees.

Man, I love this country.

***

That maniacal laughter you heard?

That was me and my husband when learning how much it would cost to have such “acoustical ceilings” removed, then retextured and painted.

And you thought the national debt was bad.

Side bar: And calling them “acoustical” rather than popcorn doesn’t make ‘em look any prettier.

“Seriously? Are you kidding me?” I whined. “I just want smooth ceilings, not the Sistine Chapel recreated in my living room.”

So we decided to take care of the problem ourselves. We would knock them down and paint them.

How hard could that be?....

It was the last coherent thought we enjoyed for six months.

***

2,795.

That was the magic number.

The 2,795 square feet of popcorn-covered ceiling nastiness that stood before us.

It was our Mt. Everest.

It was...our...uh...some other type of monumental task people face that I can’t think of right now.

(What can I say? We stopped achieving greatness after the Slurpee. We Americans - while being crafty - are also a lazy bunch. At least that’s what the French say.)

In any case, we had a whole lotta work in front of us. Manual labor kinda work. The kind that builds character and calluses. Hard days and long nights. And...and...uh...darnit.

I’m already tired just thinking about it.

I’m gonna take a nap.

....Darn French.

***

“What’s wrong with the dog?” my husband asked, carefully eyeing the whining lump of golden fur sprawled on the hardwood floor in the hallway.

I looked over from my spot in the kitchen where I was laying down plastic sheeting to protect the floor and answered, “She’s a big, old fat chicken.” I gestured toward the plastic. “She hates the plastic. Refuses to walk on it.” I snorted. “You’d think it was lava or something. At first I thought it was kinda cute. But that was BEFORE I had to carry her over to the door so she could go outside.”

I paused, carefully turned around and asked, “Could you take a look at my back? I think I blew out a kidney.”

***

It looked like Mt. Vesuvius blew up in our living room.

Oh. This is not good.

Really. Not. Good.

As the cloud of silt slowly drifted downward to settle into a blanket of fine dust all around - and over - me, I looked down at the instrument of betrayal.

$*&@ shop vac.

Where did I go wrong? I had simply changed the filter.

You know, being the responsible shop vac owner that I am. Looking out for its well being. Taking care of it.

And this is how it repays me? Upchucking crud all over me?

Geesh. If I wanted that kinda payback, I’d have another baby.

Sigh.

Determined to discover the cause of the problem so I could get back to sanding the recently scraped, popcorn-less ceiling, I threw down the hose and ripped off the top of the vacuum.

A cloud of dust exploded in my face, causing my eyes to well up and taking with it my very last nerve.

I screamed, “SON-OF-A- -----”

The door from the garage opened and cut off my oath in the nick of time.

And there stood my husband and our 6-year-old son, eyes wide and mouths gaping open in the shape of a large O as they took in the scene of destruction before them.

I smiled sheepishly then collapsed into a heap on the floor.

My husband smiled and said, “Have a little trouble replacing the filter?” He carefully picked his way toward me through the cloud of grittiness and gently put a hand on my shoulder.

“It’s OK honey,” he crooned. “We’ll go buy you a Slurpee.”

I smiled. I love that man.

The Big Bang Theory courtesy of CBS

My husband thinks I'm nuts.

Well, that's not really news…but this time he thinks so because I LOVE the Flip Fold that Sheldon uses on "The Big Bang Theory."

It. Is. Awesome.

Call me crazy.

I really don't care. I'm getting one for my birthday.

He should be happy I do the laundry in the first place. I could wig out like some people did when this pants label came to light recently:

Courtesy of ABC News

The real reason we teach our kids to write.

It's March.

And coming in like a lamb.

A sweet little lamb named Gabe, that is.

My 6-year-old son left this surprise note for me on my laptop this morning. Then told me to keep it there, so every time I open up my computer I'll see it and smile.

Oh, I'm a lucky girl.

Never judge a book by its cover.

Or a hotel by its name.

Years and years and years ago, my mom booked a family vacation to the southern Missouri town of Branson. I can't remember how old I was. Not quite a teenager yet but old enough to begin using that "Do we gotta?" scorn kids are famous for.

The trip took a few hours. Somewhere along the halfway point, it dawned on my brother and me that we had no idea where we staying.

Mom's reply?

JR's Little Dallas Motor Inn.

Are you friggin' kidding me? Are we hillbillies?

Or worse? Fans of that '80s iconic classic soap, "Dallas"?

Uh. No.

So we gave her grief over the remainder of the trip. Sure, we weren't rich, weren't Waldorf Astoria people. But - COME ON! Were we so broke we had to rest our heads at what would undoubtedly be nothing more than a glorified doublewide??!

Imagine our surprise - and chagrin - when we pulled into the drive...of a Best Western.

Which just happened to be named JR's Little Dallas Motor Inn.

Oh, childhood memories.

So I was sad to learn this morning that Branson was devastated by a possible tornado in a line of storms that moved through the area last night.

And this is what used to be JR's Little Dallas Motor Inn...

(photo courtesy of Branson, MO Recovery, Facebook)

My heart breaks for all of those who woke up to this. Downtown Branson, including many of its famous theaters, are in a similar condition. 

It was our 6-year-old son’s turn to play scientist in school today. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it later...from the teacher. Lord knows our son won’t have any comment.

If it doesn’t involve recess, lunch, the bathroom, recess or recess...he really doesn’t have much to offer when I ask each day, “How was school?”

If he’s ever captured as a prisoner of war....He. Will. Be. Unbreakable.

Unless they offer him vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup.

As you may deduce, finding a suitable science experiment for a first grader that his classmates hadn’t already done or that didn’t involve a multitude of ingredients, a stove or electrical current wasn’t the easiest of tasks.

And we all know we can’t do the potato/lightbulb trick. (That’s sooooooo 1983.)

But that’s why people a hell of a lot smarter than me invented the Internet (and I’m not talking about Al Gore here).

Anyway, after a search through cyberspace, our son decided to make a color wheel and explain how the eye sees color then use a prism to show how white light can be divided into all colors of the rainbow.

A-mazing.

Of course, it decided to rain today.

A-crud.

I’m sure he’ll do what he does best and wing his way through the rest of the experiment.

If not, what are they gonna do? Send him back to kindergarten?

At least they get snacks there.

Our six-year-old son started playing basketball in his private school's basketball league. Mostly for the little guys and gals, those under the age of 8.

For the recond, our son LOVES basketball. He's a lefty, but no one seems to mind. He dribbles. He shoots. He scores.

He's my own little Michael Jordan.

However, as I witnessed the other day, his jumping jacks could use a little work in warm ups.

Seriously. Arms one way. Head twirling around. Legs twitching like Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

It was like watching a hyena try to eat with a fork.

We have our work cut out for us.

It was like Moses trying to part the Red Sea.

In my kitchen.

“What the (insert appropriate swear word here)!” my husband yelled.

I hurried over to see him hunched over the cabinet area under the kitchen sink.

....Water. Was. Everywhere.

Oh.

That’s not good.

“What the hell happened?” he squawked, looking up at me.

I took a step back, my Dutch/Irish/German dander up, locked and loaded. “Uh, excuuuuuuse me?” I snarked, “What makes you think this is my fault?”

He was smart enough not to answer that question.

Anyway....long story short?

There was a leak in the faucet.

God help us all.

***

Well, as they say, when God closes a window, he opens the door to a better faucet...or something like that.

“What do you think of this one?” my husband asked, pointing to one faucet near the top of the display at the local hardware store.

I leaned in to get a better look. “Where’s the handle to turn it on?”

He laughed, “There is no handle. You just touch it.”

Aha. Technology has rendered us completely stupid yet again. “Seriously? Have we gotten so lazy as a society that we can’t even flip a friggin’ handle to turn on our water?” I pontificated and gestured angrily at the shiny piece of chrome that would look more at home on the space station rather than in our humble home.

A hurt look crossed his face, “No, it’s useful when your hands are full.”

But I wasn’t listening any more. My eyes slid over to the price...and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!

I pointed and shrieked, “That cost more than my first car!”

“I know,” he agreed, “but it doesn’t hurt to dream.”

***

“Uh-oh.”

My ears perked up at that sound, so I went hunting for the source. Only to find my husband in the kitchen, holding the brand-new faucet in one hand and the hose for the sprayer in the other.

We’d been home 7 minutes with the new faucet.

It only took him 6 to break it.

And that included the 4 minutes it took to remove it from the box.

I pointed and asked sweetly, “Problem?”

He looked up with a sheepish expression and admitted, “I think I pulled too hard on the hose...and...it...kinda...came...out.”

OK.

Faucet - 1.

Mr. Plumber - 0.

So he did what any self-respecting American male would do.

He tried shoving it back in.

But the hose? It had other ideas.

Like screwing with my husband. Which meant it wouldn’t to go back inside the faucet completely, getting jammed near the very end and refusing to move any farther though the faucet’s cylindrical base.

After 10 minutes of grunting and sweating and “You stupid, #*&^ piece of $@*&!” I decided to take matters into my own, delicate hands.

Thirty minutes later, including four useless screwdrivers, two crappy pens and finally one stainless steel barbecue skewer that was actually long enough, we managed to carefully guide the hose’s end around the obstruction and completely through the faucet.

And then just 2 short minutes later, he did something again.

“It’s stuck,” he moaned, tugging on the hose where he had connected it to one of the faucet’s couplings.

“Was that in the directions?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

He shrugged and gestured over his shoulder with the faucet. Said directions?

Still in the box.

Son-of-a-biscuit.

***

“Do not - and I mean DO NOT - repeat any of those words at school tomorrow, OK?” I pleaded with our six-year-old son whose eyes had gotten THIS BIG after hearing my husband attempt to install the new faucet later that day.

“The one that starts with ‘F’?” he whispered after one very colorful use of the English language. “That’s a really bad one, right?”

You see, it’s important kids learn these things. Sure, we could shelter him from all the evils in life then toss him out on his own at 18 and expect him to achieve greatness rather than run with wolves.

But that seems unfair.

So we choose to let him witness the seedier side of some things then instruct how to deal with them.

It’s what the experts call a “teachable moment.”

It’s what I call a “next time we hire a plumber moment.”