Tag Archives: wtf

Listen to my butt song


So this morning the middle child, hereafter referred to as “the middle child,” woke up all giggly and came into Grone Up Land to roust me and the wife out of bed.  I mean, it was already like SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING ON A SATURDAY, get up already!  Guy!

Anyway she clambered up onto the bed and thrashed around singing and cajoling The Lovely Rhonda.  Because she is a long, skinny insubstantial child, I actually mistook her for one or both of the dogs.  Until I heard her say:

“Debra’s butt is making music!”

I am reasonably sure that I would not hear this out of one or both of the dogs, not without powerful mind-altering substances on board.  And we rarely let the dogs engage in that kind of thing.

At any rate, TLR and I both laughed and I was promptly accused of cutting the cheese, which I denied.  And then she said it again: “I hear Debra’s butt music!  It sounds like a guitar!”

As God is my witness, I have no idea what she was talking about.

TLR said, “Debra’s butt isn’t making music!”

“Sure it is,” says I, “Come on over and listen to it!”

But no, the wife is slightly too savvy to fall for that.  Which is probably just as well since I didn’t really have anything at the ready.

So all day the middle child keeps sidling up to me and saying, “Let me hear your butt song!”

I keep protesting: “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A BUTT SONG!”

The youngest has even taken to pressing her ear to the side of my buttock.

Eventually she may come to regret this.  Just sayin’.

Crazy Cat Lady


So I have this extremely affectionate cat.  His name is Heals, or as I call him Healsie, and he’s a black and white tuxedo cat.  You’d think he’d be more dignified than he is since he’s wearing a tux all the time but he’s definitely the farthest thing from suave and debonair ever.

This morning he entered the bathroom where I stood in front of the mirror getting ready for work.  He’s one of those cats that hug, so pretty soon he was standing on the counter wrapping his front legs around my neck.  He especially enjoys doing this fresh from the great outdoors, but this morning at least he wasn’t wet and dirty.  His paws were pretty cold though.

So I’m petting him and he’s rubbing his face all over my face and it’s all just a giant love-fest, and then he climbs me like a ladder until I’m holding him like a baby in the crook of my arm.  He’s still got his front leg around my neck and he’s rubbing and purring.  Until I try to set him back on the counter, at which point he climbs as high as he can get.

This is when I text Rhonda, “Heals is wrapped around my head.  It’s really making it hard to put on mascara.”

I have to go sit on the couch and hang out with him for a while in order to get him off me without getting scratched or snagged.    He curls up on my chest (because I’m sitting all slouchy) and pretty soon here comes Hermione, the Traditionally Built Cat, and after sniffing at Heals for a while she makes a huge point of laying across my legs while somehow keeping her back to me in disdain.

Then I realize that I’m sitting on the living room sofa covered in cats listening to holiday music, which I had turned on for company because I was feeling a little melancholy this morning.

At which point I’m all, “Oh, hey, whoa,” and get up and brush myself off like Noooo that wasn’t what it looked like at all.

And I backed away from the couch and turned the radio to Adult Alternative just in case.

Why I Cannot Clean The House Except Under Tremendous Pressure


So it’s Thanksgiving next week, and as always we are booked solid until Thursday morning.  The Lovely Rhonda is working her four-day stretch, ending on Tuesday, so she’ll be relatively useless on Wednesday.  I say that completely without rancor because her workdays are twelve hours long and sandwiched between forty minutes’ drive each way.  We jokingly call it Bathrobe Wednesday but it’s no joke; as far as I’m concerned she’s earned a day completely off.  She never gets one, but she has one coming to her.   About the time she’ll be feeling halfway human we’ll be off on an errand.  (I’d talk about what the errand is but it makes us sound all goody-goody.  We’re not.  We are fortunate and grateful and humble.)

So it’s up to me to clean the house for the holiday, and I accept that with my usual grace, i.e. wretchedly and with great reluctance.  It’s not that I don’t value cleanliness and as I stated above, it’s not because I don’t think I should have to.  I just don’t wanna.

Here’s part of why I don’t wanna:  It will take me bloody ages, because I am a perfectionist.  I figure, if I’m going to clean, I’m going to do it right.  So, I can’t just clean the kitchen counter off.  I have to rearrange the entire kitchen because it’s been irksome to me how crowded the canisters are.  I can’t just vacuum around the couch, I must also take a damp rag to the arms where the dog chews his rawhides and leaves gummy crusty patches, and I must remove the cushions and clean under them and vacuum the dog hair from them and take the rag to their spots also.  I cannot just shove into a drawer the various pencils I find all over the house now that all the children can write yet cannot put a pencil away under pain of death, I must sharpen them and put them in the pencil cup.

Now, if there is someone coming over in an hour or two I can do those things, but not when I have an entire day to clean.  So far today I have done the things described above as well as repaired a book’s torn/ragged cover, washed every blanket/afghan/item of clothing that I come across that might be minutely less than clean, and dusted a shitload of owls.

Oh, and blogged about it.


Halloween Horror Story


So yesterday was Halloween, or if you are so inclined, “Hallowe’en,” and so we dutifully tarted the Collective Spawn up in costumes and allowed them to beg the neighbors for candy.  The costumes are what makes this different from an average evening.

The two older spawn decided they wanted to be rockstars, so we procured or scrounged up rockstar accoutrement such as spangly fingerless gloves, dollar-store hair extensions, inexpensive red lipstick, and eyeshadow in parrot-plumage colors.  Glittery pink-handled dollar-store microphones and peace-sign bling finished off the look.

I think the oldest was most excited about the makeup.  Eyeliner pencil, the eyeshadow, a touch of mascara, blush, and the red lipstick and suddenly my 8-year-old looked like a teenager.  I told her so and she got all excited.

If I wasn’t so lazy I’d get the better pictures off the camera but it’s been a long day.  Then you will see them all, and in focus too.

So we live in Suburgatory and for the most part it’s not a bad neighborhood, aside from the people in the rental house kittycorner to our backyard who decided it was a good idea to do a variety of interesting activities in the middle of the night recently.  It began with them pouring gasoline — I assume it was gasoline as it was being poured from a small red plastic gas can — onto their firepit fire, causing it to blaze up scarily.  Then, after lighting up their yard (and everyone else’s) with one of those super-bright hand-held spotlights,  they fired up a chainsaw and lopped a decent-sized limb off the entirely unassuming tree in their back yard.  After this they attacked the tree with, and I am not kidding, a machete, all the while laughing and talking loudly as though it were not a) midnight and b) a populated area.  We called the police twice, first during the chainsawing and then again when they disgorged a fire extinguisher on the firepit, filling the entire neighborhood with dense, smelly smoke.    It was therefore deeply satisfying to watch, Gladys-Kravitz-style from behind the patio grape arbor, the ensuing reverse-mayhem as they suddenly rushed into the house, after which one of them meekly returned to the back yard to turn off the light and quietly take a hose to the firepit.  There has been nary a peep from them since.

At any rate, it’s otherwise a quiet neighborhood and so it was especially disturbing when a teen a few houses down decided it would be fun to dress in a long black robe and scary skull mask and leap out from behind a box hedge and scare the living crap out of the children as we merrily Trick-or-Treated down the block.  Two of the five (we had extras with us) burst into tears.  I mean seriously!  Jump out of the bushes and scare other teens, but not the elementary crowd!  They’ll probably be scarred for life.  I’m surprised we didn’t have a bed full of children the next morning.

Okay, I’m not surprised, because I am a cranky old lady and cannot sleep with children in the bed.  They wiggle and snore and breathe on you.

They actually did all right, considering.  But next year I’m taking a can of Mace with me.  SCARE MY CHILDREN WILL YOU PUNK  *PSSSHHHHH*

Six degrees of Facebooking


So I find that several of my friends are friends with other of my friends, and sometimes it freaks me right the friend out, knowhatahmsayin?

Middle school classmate, friends with Tammy (whom I know through a nursing school classmate more than 20 years later) and friends also with Darren (whom I know through an old motorcycling friend).

Oh, that old motorcycling friend?  Also went to high school with someone else  I know, but we didn’t realize this until I’d been friends with them both for years.

And that someone?  Friends with a guy I went to high school with, and hadn’t seen since graduation, but we bumped into each other at a party for the someone when she left for France this summer.

I guess what’s freaky about it is that I know them all through such different channels, and probably would never have even known of these connections were it not for Crackbook.  I mean Facebook.

Pneumonia kind of sucks.


So I returned to the doctor on Monday because I didn’t really feel substantially better.  I didn’t feel much better at all.  I’m not sure that I felt any better.

Nebulizer, more antibiotics, inhaler, four more days off work.  REST, she said, and push fluids.


I suck at pushing fluids and I suck at resting.  I excel at dorking around, but not so much at actual resting.

Blogging is restful, right?

And playing Plants Vs. Zombies is also restful.  And Skyrim, after the children are at school.

I’ve heard that napping is restful.  I suck at napping too, but it turns out that if you hold still on a couch and try to watch a Pokemon movie with a child, a nap will overcome you whether you’re good at it or not.  I just didn’t know!

O These Children


So last night we let the Collective Spawn dork out to their respective Nintendos and just play and hang out.  It was the end of the first real week of school and they were all pretty tired.  At the appropriate time we herded them off to bed thinking smugly to ourselves that they were so exhausted they would sleep well.


The middle child kept getting up.  MAMA I CAN’T SLEEP.  For two hours.  Finally at 11pm she stopped.

I was not foolhardy enough to think that this meant she would sleep in.  I have known these children for some time and it is apparent that these particular children do not “sleep in.”

At 5:40am the youngest child entered Grown-Up Land to inform The Lovely Rhonda that she could not find her sharpened pencil with which to do her Giant Workbook of Kindergarten Fun.  She was duly notified that at 5:40am nobody was the least bit interested in finding a pencil, sharpened or otherwise, with which to do anything non-violent and that she should be backing slowly out of the room by now.

Actually it went more like, GO BACK TO BED OMG IT’S 5AM WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

Naturally I now had to use the restroom and in doing so found the middle child, the completely knackered one with the dark circles under her eyes, cozily playing her Nintendo in bed.

I am sorry to say that I did not merely creep back to Grown-Up Land to inform TLR but instead removed the Nintendo from her clutches and stated that it was 5am and she should return to sleep.

Mayhem ensued, and the shrieks of the unjustly persecuted rang throughout the house.  It is only by some miracle that the oldest child never woke up.

I finally got out of bed at 6:50ish since I was coughing too hard to sleep anyway and found the middle child snoring and the youngest one sobbing in her bed.  An hour later.

Youngest child is now working on her workbook and finding reasons to enter and exit her room as often as possible in the hopes that she will find one of her sisters awake.

My mother once told me that when you wake up in the morning and lay in bed figuring out exactly how soon you can feasibly return to bed, you are an adult.

I think I have been an adult since I was nine.