The other day, I called my parents from Bed, Bath and Beyond to ask what color wood, walnut or black, was the furniture at the condo.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Just Another Manic Monday
Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Sunday night, I was brushing and flossing before bed when I guess I got a little too vigorous with the floss and...pop! Out came a crown. Super way to start a week. I love looking like I am the mayor of Dogpatch.
So, first thing in the morning, I called the dentist while I tried to suck my coffee through a straw in order to avoid scaring Tim and Chloe by screaming every time the hot coffee met the exposed nerve (I probably could've skipped the coffee, but that just would have led to a really ugly incident when Tim spoke to me, breathed too loud, or entered my line of sight. Believe me, the straw was the way to go to avoid massive bloodshed.)
Naturally, I got the dentist's voicemail, so I left a message and then proceeded to have my usual Monday fun cleaning and doing laundry. Yea Monday.
Somewhere around 10:30 or so, the dentist called back to say he could see me at 12 or...hmmm, nope, noon was pretty much my only option. Great. I guess unless I want to pick up some cement at the hardware store and have a go at it myself, I'll see you in an hour!?!? Yikes! I think the wicked witch had more warning that a house was going to fall on her.
Now normally, this wouldn't have been an issue, but at that point, I had made some poor choices.
First, I had decided to try my hairdresser's advice and put rollers in my hair instead of blow-drying it, since standing out in the yard with the dog eight thousand times a day had reduced my hair to a flat, yet frizzy mess due to the humidity/constant rain (when did I move to Seattle?)
Chanting, "I think I can, I think I can", like the little engine that could (ha! What did he know, he only had to climb a lousy hill!), I began ripping rollers from my hair, flinging them hither and yon around the bathroom, only to discover that I had solved the pesky flat-hair problem by giving myself a bouffant! Aack!!! Unless I wanted to break out the pearls, memorize Harvey Fierstein's songs and join a local production of Hairspray, I needed to do something fast.
Frantically, I grabbed at my head with both hands trying in vain to deflate the hairdo from H@**, while eyeing the spray bottle of water I was using to train the dog. Hmmm. Big hair or flat, frizzy hair? So many decisions, so little time.
Catching sight of the clock, I realized I was running out of time, so option A it was.
The second mistake I had made was to let the dog crawl under the bed for a little snooze instead of running her outside fifteen minutes earlier. So now I had to quickly dig her out and take her for a potty call or else I would return home from my trip to find Lake Superior in my living room.
"Chloe, Chloe," I called in my 'happy voice', trying to coax her out.
Unimpressed, she yawned, stretched and rolled over, burying her head under her tail.
"Come on, girl. Let's go outside." I clapped my hands and fake-ran toward the stairs.
Nothing. Not so much as an eyelash flickered.
"Chloeee," I begged desperately, dangling a toy in front of the bed, even while I silently acknowledged the utter futility of such actions.
"Come to mama." I made kissy noises and rubbed my fingers together like I had a treat.
Sadly for me, the little dickens is as smart as she is cute, so all my efforts came to nothing. Finally, with precious seconds ticking away, I had to resort to running down the stairs and pretending to go outside to stir the little monster...er, I mean darling, into action.
So back up the stairs I dashed, grabbed her majesty, and tore outside, depositing her in the "potty" spot. Standing over her, I invoked the magic words, "Hurry up!" and waited. And waited.
Hey was that a squirrel? "Hurry up!"
Oooh, is a person walking by? "Hurry up!"
A doggie! A doggie! I wanna play! "Hurry up!!!"
Finally, when she had nothing better to do, she obliged me, but not before the humidity and done it's job and I no longer looked like a refugee from the sixties, but more like a home perm experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. Super great.
With the clock ticking, I jumped in the car and took off, keeping my fingers crossed that I would get a parking space. At lunch hour. In a shopping plaza located near the courthouse and multiple businesses.
I do believe in miracles. I do. I do. And I also believe in an invisible six-foot rabbit named Harvey (old Jimmy Stewart movie).
And all of this was before I chose a route with construction. And drivers who had apparently failed their test sixteen times in a row. And...Ahh. I love Monday.
Sunday night, I was brushing and flossing before bed when I guess I got a little too vigorous with the floss and...pop! Out came a crown. Super way to start a week. I love looking like I am the mayor of Dogpatch.
So, first thing in the morning, I called the dentist while I tried to suck my coffee through a straw in order to avoid scaring Tim and Chloe by screaming every time the hot coffee met the exposed nerve (I probably could've skipped the coffee, but that just would have led to a really ugly incident when Tim spoke to me, breathed too loud, or entered my line of sight. Believe me, the straw was the way to go to avoid massive bloodshed.)
Naturally, I got the dentist's voicemail, so I left a message and then proceeded to have my usual Monday fun cleaning and doing laundry. Yea Monday.
Somewhere around 10:30 or so, the dentist called back to say he could see me at 12 or...hmmm, nope, noon was pretty much my only option. Great. I guess unless I want to pick up some cement at the hardware store and have a go at it myself, I'll see you in an hour!?!? Yikes! I think the wicked witch had more warning that a house was going to fall on her.
Now normally, this wouldn't have been an issue, but at that point, I had made some poor choices.
First, I had decided to try my hairdresser's advice and put rollers in my hair instead of blow-drying it, since standing out in the yard with the dog eight thousand times a day had reduced my hair to a flat, yet frizzy mess due to the humidity/constant rain (when did I move to Seattle?)
Chanting, "I think I can, I think I can", like the little engine that could (ha! What did he know, he only had to climb a lousy hill!), I began ripping rollers from my hair, flinging them hither and yon around the bathroom, only to discover that I had solved the pesky flat-hair problem by giving myself a bouffant! Aack!!! Unless I wanted to break out the pearls, memorize Harvey Fierstein's songs and join a local production of Hairspray, I needed to do something fast.
Frantically, I grabbed at my head with both hands trying in vain to deflate the hairdo from H@**, while eyeing the spray bottle of water I was using to train the dog. Hmmm. Big hair or flat, frizzy hair? So many decisions, so little time.
Catching sight of the clock, I realized I was running out of time, so option A it was.
The second mistake I had made was to let the dog crawl under the bed for a little snooze instead of running her outside fifteen minutes earlier. So now I had to quickly dig her out and take her for a potty call or else I would return home from my trip to find Lake Superior in my living room.
"Chloe, Chloe," I called in my 'happy voice', trying to coax her out.
Unimpressed, she yawned, stretched and rolled over, burying her head under her tail.
"Come on, girl. Let's go outside." I clapped my hands and fake-ran toward the stairs.
Nothing. Not so much as an eyelash flickered.
"Chloeee," I begged desperately, dangling a toy in front of the bed, even while I silently acknowledged the utter futility of such actions.
"Come to mama." I made kissy noises and rubbed my fingers together like I had a treat.
Sadly for me, the little dickens is as smart as she is cute, so all my efforts came to nothing. Finally, with precious seconds ticking away, I had to resort to running down the stairs and pretending to go outside to stir the little monster...er, I mean darling, into action.
So back up the stairs I dashed, grabbed her majesty, and tore outside, depositing her in the "potty" spot. Standing over her, I invoked the magic words, "Hurry up!" and waited. And waited.
Hey was that a squirrel? "Hurry up!"
Oooh, is a person walking by? "Hurry up!"
A doggie! A doggie! I wanna play! "Hurry up!!!"
Finally, when she had nothing better to do, she obliged me, but not before the humidity and done it's job and I no longer looked like a refugee from the sixties, but more like a home perm experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. Super great.
With the clock ticking, I jumped in the car and took off, keeping my fingers crossed that I would get a parking space. At lunch hour. In a shopping plaza located near the courthouse and multiple businesses.
I do believe in miracles. I do. I do. And I also believe in an invisible six-foot rabbit named Harvey (old Jimmy Stewart movie).
And all of this was before I chose a route with construction. And drivers who had apparently failed their test sixteen times in a row. And...Ahh. I love Monday.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Alarmed
Yesterday morning, we decided to sleep in...till 7am.
The alarm clock in the spare bedroom had other plans.
At 6am, I was pulled from a perfectly lovely dream about eating all the cookies I wanted and not gaining an ounce, by an annoying buzz coming from the other side of the wall. As I stumbled from my nice, cozy bed, Tim and the dog both rolled over, opened one eye and mumbled something about it being the middle of the night before burying their heads in their pillows again. Rat Bas@#*ds!
Now, at the best of times, after a really good night's sleep, I wake up slowly. And grumpy. And sleepy. And dopey. And unless the other dwarves are names cranky, unhappy and miserable, I have nothing in common with any of them.
As I child, I would burrow under the ninety-two blankets plus the sheepskin rug I dragged back from Ireland while my disgustingly cheerful, morning-person father stood in the doorway of my bedroom and whistled "Revile." If I could have pulled myself from the bed before he cantered happily downstairs, I would have beaten him to death with my pink and purple giraffe-shaped clothes tree. But I digress.
I lumbered into the room, trying to locate the source of annoyance without A. opening my eyes or B. turning the light on. Luckily, I was able to find the shrilling siren, but had no idea how to turn it off, which necessitated in me turning on the light, actually opening at least one eye and pushing every button until the darn thing shut up...temporarily.
Is there some reason why manufacturers have stopped putting a simple on/off button on things. Seriously. They all have buttons with symbols that are supposed to be intuitive and international, therefore easily understood by everyone. Just like some of the labels on clothing. News flash. I have NO IDEA what a triangle with a line through it means! Does a trapezoid with a zero in the center mean wash in cold water, or lay flat because if you put this in the dryer, it will come out the size of a postage stamp? Does a semi-circle with dots mean iron, don't iron or have a nice day? But I digress.
Apparently pushing all the buttons on the stupid alarm in varying combinations does not turn it off, it just resets it for an hour later. Not that it mattered, because at that point I was wide awake anyway. I briefly contemplated just throwing it against the wall until it shut up, but with my luck, the only thing that would accomplish would have been setting off the burglar alarm, and I'm sure I have no idea how to turn that off.
So much for a long, restful night's sleep.
Which was why, last night, I was so tired ad looking forward to (finally) a good night's sleep.
Our smoke detector in the hallway had other plans.
At 4am this morning, we were awakened by a short blip, then a longer beeeeeep from the smoke detector.
This time, both Tim and I sprang out of bed (the dog put her paws over her ears and retreated to the back of her crate) and ran out into the hall to find...nothing. Total and complete silence.
Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, nose twitching, I hit the lights and made the rounds looking and smelling for smoke, flames, anything.
Tim grumbled about needing to replace the batteries, tucked himself back up in bed, and nodded off again before my blood pressure had even dropped to twelve times the normal rate.
He was conditioned by our first apartment building where the alarm went off about every other night. After the twelfth kajillionth time of tromping down seven flights of stairs to mill around the lobby in our pajamas at 1, 2 or 3am, along with every other poor slob in the building, he had had enough. The next time the alarm went off, he called down to the front desk.
"Is there really a fire this time, or is it another false alarm," he demanded.
"No sir, it's really a fire in someone's kitchen," the night clerk affirmed.
"What floor is it on?" Tim barked.
"Three," came the response.
"Wake me when it reaches five," Tim snarled, hanging up.
But I digress.
I was finally able to drift off again and get a whole, solid hour of sleep before our alarms went off. Yea (read with deep sarcasm, not joy).
As I sat on the couch, sipping my decaf coffee (who needed more excitement?) and wishing I could slip into a nice, peaceful coma, I heard it again. The alarm in the guest bedroom was going off.
Tonight, I'm thinking of finding a firehouse to sleep in. It will almost certainly be more quiet.
The alarm clock in the spare bedroom had other plans.
At 6am, I was pulled from a perfectly lovely dream about eating all the cookies I wanted and not gaining an ounce, by an annoying buzz coming from the other side of the wall. As I stumbled from my nice, cozy bed, Tim and the dog both rolled over, opened one eye and mumbled something about it being the middle of the night before burying their heads in their pillows again. Rat Bas@#*ds!
Now, at the best of times, after a really good night's sleep, I wake up slowly. And grumpy. And sleepy. And dopey. And unless the other dwarves are names cranky, unhappy and miserable, I have nothing in common with any of them.
As I child, I would burrow under the ninety-two blankets plus the sheepskin rug I dragged back from Ireland while my disgustingly cheerful, morning-person father stood in the doorway of my bedroom and whistled "Revile." If I could have pulled myself from the bed before he cantered happily downstairs, I would have beaten him to death with my pink and purple giraffe-shaped clothes tree. But I digress.
I lumbered into the room, trying to locate the source of annoyance without A. opening my eyes or B. turning the light on. Luckily, I was able to find the shrilling siren, but had no idea how to turn it off, which necessitated in me turning on the light, actually opening at least one eye and pushing every button until the darn thing shut up...temporarily.
Is there some reason why manufacturers have stopped putting a simple on/off button on things. Seriously. They all have buttons with symbols that are supposed to be intuitive and international, therefore easily understood by everyone. Just like some of the labels on clothing. News flash. I have NO IDEA what a triangle with a line through it means! Does a trapezoid with a zero in the center mean wash in cold water, or lay flat because if you put this in the dryer, it will come out the size of a postage stamp? Does a semi-circle with dots mean iron, don't iron or have a nice day? But I digress.
Apparently pushing all the buttons on the stupid alarm in varying combinations does not turn it off, it just resets it for an hour later. Not that it mattered, because at that point I was wide awake anyway. I briefly contemplated just throwing it against the wall until it shut up, but with my luck, the only thing that would accomplish would have been setting off the burglar alarm, and I'm sure I have no idea how to turn that off.
So much for a long, restful night's sleep.
Which was why, last night, I was so tired ad looking forward to (finally) a good night's sleep.
Our smoke detector in the hallway had other plans.
At 4am this morning, we were awakened by a short blip, then a longer beeeeeep from the smoke detector.
This time, both Tim and I sprang out of bed (the dog put her paws over her ears and retreated to the back of her crate) and ran out into the hall to find...nothing. Total and complete silence.
Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, nose twitching, I hit the lights and made the rounds looking and smelling for smoke, flames, anything.
Tim grumbled about needing to replace the batteries, tucked himself back up in bed, and nodded off again before my blood pressure had even dropped to twelve times the normal rate.
He was conditioned by our first apartment building where the alarm went off about every other night. After the twelfth kajillionth time of tromping down seven flights of stairs to mill around the lobby in our pajamas at 1, 2 or 3am, along with every other poor slob in the building, he had had enough. The next time the alarm went off, he called down to the front desk.
"Is there really a fire this time, or is it another false alarm," he demanded.
"No sir, it's really a fire in someone's kitchen," the night clerk affirmed.
"What floor is it on?" Tim barked.
"Three," came the response.
"Wake me when it reaches five," Tim snarled, hanging up.
But I digress.
I was finally able to drift off again and get a whole, solid hour of sleep before our alarms went off. Yea (read with deep sarcasm, not joy).
As I sat on the couch, sipping my decaf coffee (who needed more excitement?) and wishing I could slip into a nice, peaceful coma, I heard it again. The alarm in the guest bedroom was going off.
Tonight, I'm thinking of finding a firehouse to sleep in. It will almost certainly be more quiet.
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