So the appraiser is milling around the house. The plan is that all the snooping around, sketching and calculating of random figures will yield the numbers we need to complete a successful refinancing of our mortgage - so we can take advantage of the bargain basement interest rates that are available at this time. The kids have hidden themselves away somewhere in the basement - I mean "lower level" - as I believe this man makes them nervous. The hardwood floors are gleaming, organization is at its best, and the soft scent of a pumpkin pie candle is wafting through the air. As I am trying to make myself appear to be a responsible, deserving of high appraisal, homeowner - I sweetly call down to my children to ask them what they are doing in the "lower level." I stand at the top of the stairs only to see them lying on their stomachs at the bottom of the stairway peering into a small rip in the carpet that covers that last step. Before I can reach them, they promptly answer me (quite loudly), "We're checking for mice!! We think there is something living in this hole, Mom - come check it out!"
I don't think I will tell my husband that not only did I forget to mention that we had special, high efficiency, break the bank, entry doors installed - when asked about improvements we have made to our home (all I could think of was that we put up a few ceiling fans) but that our children also offered up a possible rodent infestation.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
What exactly does it take to get thrown out of a toy store? And consequently banished from all others of that same chain? Here are the steps you must take:
1. Foolishly buy something from that toy store's website.
2. Give it to your child in the anticipation that it will be the one toy that they will remember forever and ever - the one they will tell stories about to their children.
3. Observe that it does not work.
4. Pack up the family on a cold night and schlep them all into the store with you and head directly to Customer Service.
5. Begin a polite conversation with Toy Store "team member" about how you ordered the toy and now the toy doesn't work, and ask for a replacement toy or a reimbursement. Easy, right?
6. After the team member informs you that anything bought off their website cannot be returned directly to their store and that they do not offer reimbursement, become tense and talk with authority.
7. Ask to speak with their supervisor.
8. After the supervisor tells you that you will have to call other stores in the same chain around the metro area to see if they have what you want, (here's the kicker) ask them if you can use their phone to do so.
9. When they tell you they won't allow you to use their phone, tell them this: "This is the stupidest #@!* store I've ever been to and your policy on returns stinks - I will be making a call to your corporate headquarters!"
10. Listen while the supervisor asks for security to come up front to the desk on his walkie talkie.
11. Loudly whistle at your wife and kids who are innocently milling about the store looking at all the treasures, and make a rather overt head motion at them which means, "Let's go - we're blowin' out of here because this store stinks and we are never coming back!"
12. Get in the car with crying children and kindly explain that Santa shopped here by mistake.
There you have it - a simple 12 step program to getting yourself and your family banished from the one and only toy store chain in the tri-state area.
1. Foolishly buy something from that toy store's website.
2. Give it to your child in the anticipation that it will be the one toy that they will remember forever and ever - the one they will tell stories about to their children.
3. Observe that it does not work.
4. Pack up the family on a cold night and schlep them all into the store with you and head directly to Customer Service.
5. Begin a polite conversation with Toy Store "team member" about how you ordered the toy and now the toy doesn't work, and ask for a replacement toy or a reimbursement. Easy, right?
6. After the team member informs you that anything bought off their website cannot be returned directly to their store and that they do not offer reimbursement, become tense and talk with authority.
7. Ask to speak with their supervisor.
8. After the supervisor tells you that you will have to call other stores in the same chain around the metro area to see if they have what you want, (here's the kicker) ask them if you can use their phone to do so.
9. When they tell you they won't allow you to use their phone, tell them this: "This is the stupidest #@!* store I've ever been to and your policy on returns stinks - I will be making a call to your corporate headquarters!"
10. Listen while the supervisor asks for security to come up front to the desk on his walkie talkie.
11. Loudly whistle at your wife and kids who are innocently milling about the store looking at all the treasures, and make a rather overt head motion at them which means, "Let's go - we're blowin' out of here because this store stinks and we are never coming back!"
12. Get in the car with crying children and kindly explain that Santa shopped here by mistake.
There you have it - a simple 12 step program to getting yourself and your family banished from the one and only toy store chain in the tri-state area.
Friday, September 3, 2010
A New Language
My six year old has been experimenting with words lately. Some of them should be words, just take a look:
1. Concharge - this means to be in control and in charge. Ex. I would like to be in concharge of my fan in the backseat of the van, please.
2. Repairments - changes that must be made on one's Lego ship. Ex. Joseph, please hand me the ship in the back, I need to make some repairments before it can fly again.
3. Constreme - a describing word that is the combination of extreme and cool. Ex. I made a constreme hopscotch on the driveway, and when Joseph did it he needed a break afterwards.
4. Mymopoly - the game of Monopoly in which the 6 year old always gets to start first, always wins and rules are changed on a whim. Ex. Do you want to play Mymopoly or do you want to just play your regular dumb rules?
5. Ahscarederest - the most frightened. Ex. I am ahscarederest of being on the wrong soccer team with girls way bigger than me.
Stay tuned - the list is growing.
1. Concharge - this means to be in control and in charge. Ex. I would like to be in concharge of my fan in the backseat of the van, please.
2. Repairments - changes that must be made on one's Lego ship. Ex. Joseph, please hand me the ship in the back, I need to make some repairments before it can fly again.
3. Constreme - a describing word that is the combination of extreme and cool. Ex. I made a constreme hopscotch on the driveway, and when Joseph did it he needed a break afterwards.
4. Mymopoly - the game of Monopoly in which the 6 year old always gets to start first, always wins and rules are changed on a whim. Ex. Do you want to play Mymopoly or do you want to just play your regular dumb rules?
5. Ahscarederest - the most frightened. Ex. I am ahscarederest of being on the wrong soccer team with girls way bigger than me.
Stay tuned - the list is growing.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Memory Snippets - 1 & 2
Prompt: I remember tormenting...
my sister. EVERY time I a chance presented itself to further promote her fear of the dark - I went for it. My favorite: the basement. I could be on the other side of the house, but if I heard my Mom say, "Christine, would you go down to the basement and get me some frozen corn from the freezer?" I was like a thief in the night. I would wait until she was all the way down the stairs, and then I would flee down the hallway, through the dining room and into the kitchen to the top of the stairway. By this time, she would be at the freezer door - a ways from the bottom of the stairs, but she could hear my feet above her running across the house... and she knew what was about to happen. Click. Lights off. Score one for the little sister.
Diabolical? Yes. Retaliation? Absolutely - it takes two to tango.
I remember diving...
into our municipal pool with semi-disastrous results. I had just learned to dive and I was spending the day with a good friend who was on the city swim team - she was a fish. We were about 11 or 12 years old. She had been doing fancy dives off the side of the pool into the five foot deep area and I had been perfecting my cannonball. Then came the challenge: "How about we dive in with our hands at our sides - just heads first?" said the half-dolphin friend. "Sure," said the not-so-sure, not-so-dolphin-like friend. So we proceed - and all went well - it was even fun! So there we are, bobbing our heads repeatedly into the cool of the pool. No problem. Until the last one. And when I say last - I mean last. I have not had the courage to dive since that tragic day. I stood on the edge of the pool all ready to make the last one a good one. After cutting through the water, this time I went a bit deeper than I had before, a crucial mistake. I skimmed the stucco like surface of the bottom of the pool with the skin that is right between the mouth and nose - the mustache area. When I surfaced, I felt a little bit of stinging in that area, but just thought it was a minor scrape. No, there was bleeding - lots. The moral of the story: Unless, you would like to look a young lady with scab moustache for the first days of Middle School, always dive with your arms in proper position.
my sister. EVERY time I a chance presented itself to further promote her fear of the dark - I went for it. My favorite: the basement. I could be on the other side of the house, but if I heard my Mom say, "Christine, would you go down to the basement and get me some frozen corn from the freezer?" I was like a thief in the night. I would wait until she was all the way down the stairs, and then I would flee down the hallway, through the dining room and into the kitchen to the top of the stairway. By this time, she would be at the freezer door - a ways from the bottom of the stairs, but she could hear my feet above her running across the house... and she knew what was about to happen. Click. Lights off. Score one for the little sister.
Diabolical? Yes. Retaliation? Absolutely - it takes two to tango.
I remember diving...
into our municipal pool with semi-disastrous results. I had just learned to dive and I was spending the day with a good friend who was on the city swim team - she was a fish. We were about 11 or 12 years old. She had been doing fancy dives off the side of the pool into the five foot deep area and I had been perfecting my cannonball. Then came the challenge: "How about we dive in with our hands at our sides - just heads first?" said the half-dolphin friend. "Sure," said the not-so-sure, not-so-dolphin-like friend. So we proceed - and all went well - it was even fun! So there we are, bobbing our heads repeatedly into the cool of the pool. No problem. Until the last one. And when I say last - I mean last. I have not had the courage to dive since that tragic day. I stood on the edge of the pool all ready to make the last one a good one. After cutting through the water, this time I went a bit deeper than I had before, a crucial mistake. I skimmed the stucco like surface of the bottom of the pool with the skin that is right between the mouth and nose - the mustache area. When I surfaced, I felt a little bit of stinging in that area, but just thought it was a minor scrape. No, there was bleeding - lots. The moral of the story: Unless, you would like to look a young lady with scab moustache for the first days of Middle School, always dive with your arms in proper position.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Parade
"Yes, Mom, please, please, please can I be in the parade??" said the six year old. "Sure, you can be in the parade. You will have to wear your team leotard and tennis shoes - and you might have to walk and do cartwheels - is that still ok?" said the mom. Little did I know that it would be the hottest, muggiest, most shadeless day of the year. No matter, we promised - and a promise is a promise. We have lived in this area for only three years and had never attended this particular parade before. We knew it would be an adventure for all of us... and it was.
Hair done - check. Shiny leotard on - check. Water bottle ready - check. We proceed to the parade line-up which is actually a gargantuan, snaking line of political candidates wear humongo stickers with their own name printed on them, hoards of dancers, karate kids, gymnasts, and fitness buffs screaming out the specials at their gyms.
Where I come from, parades are teeming with proud veterans, antique cars, boy scouts, fire engines with high school cheerleaders riding on top, horses, marching bands, a smattering of political candidates, men driving tiny Shriner's cars, and large farm equipment. Everyone in town comes and squishes into less than a mile of main street with their bag chairs and blankets to sit on. This was different. Very few people were actually sitting on the curb, and chairs were spread out few and far between. There were large gaps between "floats" - and at times, it seemed as if the parade watchers might just be some random walkers out for their daily stroll. And the parade - when it finally got to us - went on for what seemed to be miles and miles.
At last, our daughter was seen in the distance and we knew she would be passing by soon. Camera - set, family lined up along the curb for high fives - check. Yes I see her! Here she comes! She's doing cartwheels and running! As she approaches, she smiles, waves, and dumps a load of candy on her brother. She jumps into cartwheel mode, and she's gone.
So here's the wrap-up: Traffic, parade line-up mayhem, buckets of sweat, possible heat stroke, and two miles of walking alongside the Gold's Gym float where the participants are screaming, "PUMP IT UP - BURN 500 CALORIES - ONLY PLACE IN MINNESOTA YOU CAN DO THE JAM!!!" -so that we can pick up our overheated little bambino at the end of the parade - all for two seconds of watching a shiny, green jumping bean spring right by us - and then find out later that she doesn't even remember seeing us or unloading candy on her brother.
Good times. Next year's response, "Oh, I forgot to tell you... they cancelled the parade... permanently... sorry."
Hair done - check. Shiny leotard on - check. Water bottle ready - check. We proceed to the parade line-up which is actually a gargantuan, snaking line of political candidates wear humongo stickers with their own name printed on them, hoards of dancers, karate kids, gymnasts, and fitness buffs screaming out the specials at their gyms.
Where I come from, parades are teeming with proud veterans, antique cars, boy scouts, fire engines with high school cheerleaders riding on top, horses, marching bands, a smattering of political candidates, men driving tiny Shriner's cars, and large farm equipment. Everyone in town comes and squishes into less than a mile of main street with their bag chairs and blankets to sit on. This was different. Very few people were actually sitting on the curb, and chairs were spread out few and far between. There were large gaps between "floats" - and at times, it seemed as if the parade watchers might just be some random walkers out for their daily stroll. And the parade - when it finally got to us - went on for what seemed to be miles and miles.
At last, our daughter was seen in the distance and we knew she would be passing by soon. Camera - set, family lined up along the curb for high fives - check. Yes I see her! Here she comes! She's doing cartwheels and running! As she approaches, she smiles, waves, and dumps a load of candy on her brother. She jumps into cartwheel mode, and she's gone.
So here's the wrap-up: Traffic, parade line-up mayhem, buckets of sweat, possible heat stroke, and two miles of walking alongside the Gold's Gym float where the participants are screaming, "PUMP IT UP - BURN 500 CALORIES - ONLY PLACE IN MINNESOTA YOU CAN DO THE JAM!!!" -so that we can pick up our overheated little bambino at the end of the parade - all for two seconds of watching a shiny, green jumping bean spring right by us - and then find out later that she doesn't even remember seeing us or unloading candy on her brother.
Good times. Next year's response, "Oh, I forgot to tell you... they cancelled the parade... permanently... sorry."
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Treasures
Prompt: What is the oddest item someone would find in one of the drawers in your home or office?
When I was teaching Kindergarten, I had all sorts of interesting items in my desk drawers - usually confiscations from all-too-wise Kindergartners. Sometimes items that secretly come to school, needed to be put out of distraction's way when being shown and wielded at one's table or at carpet time. But what is most interesting about the collection of items stored in my desk drawer until it's time-out was over, is that they were usually items of no or little value. Things like torn up eraser tops, straws bent into all kinds of contortions, plastic medallions, knots of rubber bands, little pencil sharpeners, rocks, pieces of shoelaces and random Happy Meal toys - all standard fare. However, every once in a while I might run across something of more value and concern like an unknowing mom's diamond earrings carefully concealed in a kleenex... or maybe a dad's driver's license that happened to fall out of a child's back pocket. One of my favorites was a beat-up beyond recognition plastic sword that had been taken away because the owner was fencing unarmed children on the playground -not because I had ruffled the feathers of the child when I took it, but because it was his mom who came storming in after it on the last day of school. Interesting. Must have been an important piece in her plastic sword collection?
Now at home, it's my kids who protect rather odd treasures in their dresser drawers. And just as I am writing this, I am thinking I should probably be a little more concerned about what might be in the desk drawers of my children's teachers... am I missing any earrings, documents... or plastic swords??
When I was teaching Kindergarten, I had all sorts of interesting items in my desk drawers - usually confiscations from all-too-wise Kindergartners. Sometimes items that secretly come to school, needed to be put out of distraction's way when being shown and wielded at one's table or at carpet time. But what is most interesting about the collection of items stored in my desk drawer until it's time-out was over, is that they were usually items of no or little value. Things like torn up eraser tops, straws bent into all kinds of contortions, plastic medallions, knots of rubber bands, little pencil sharpeners, rocks, pieces of shoelaces and random Happy Meal toys - all standard fare. However, every once in a while I might run across something of more value and concern like an unknowing mom's diamond earrings carefully concealed in a kleenex... or maybe a dad's driver's license that happened to fall out of a child's back pocket. One of my favorites was a beat-up beyond recognition plastic sword that had been taken away because the owner was fencing unarmed children on the playground -not because I had ruffled the feathers of the child when I took it, but because it was his mom who came storming in after it on the last day of school. Interesting. Must have been an important piece in her plastic sword collection?
Now at home, it's my kids who protect rather odd treasures in their dresser drawers. And just as I am writing this, I am thinking I should probably be a little more concerned about what might be in the desk drawers of my children's teachers... am I missing any earrings, documents... or plastic swords??
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Soccer
I am not the ideal soccer mom. This is why:
1. When the rosters came out and I realized that my son was not on the same team as his friend, I quickly whipped up an email to the organizer to let him know how disappointing this was. My son and his friend no longer attend the same school, and have chosen to make soccer their continued connection. It clearly states on the registration form: "Please indicate who you are carpooling with, so that we can put your children on the same team." What part of "please indicate" did he not get? The response I got was clearly to neutralize me and my request that he be changed to the appropriate team was politely denied. So, I became a bit more of an "advocate" for my son, and fired off another email - with a few more details. The next response insinuated that I had not made a request at all and that in fact, another child (whom I had never heard of) had requested my son to be on his team. What could I do? I had to make a threat. I was in full "mama bear" form now. OK, here goes: "My husband will not coach unless the appropriate changes are made." The next email back to me simple stated: "Fine."
2. On to the next child. Through a series of snafus on several people's parts - including mine - she was somehow placed on a team of girls three years older than she is. I thought it was a bit strange, but this was our first time - and how did I know that it wasn't normal for all of the girls to be a good foot taller than she is? We got to the bottom of it, apologies were made, rosters were clarified and she ended up on the correct team - who were all the correct size. Here's the kicker, she played one practice with the big girls - not knowing what she was doing, but because of her pure guts and determination, she got right in there and fought for her spot. So on the second practice when Mama finally realized something wasn't right and went to take the six year old from one practice to the appropriate one, the six year old calmly said from the middle of the huddle, "No, Mom this is my team... they NEED me." Right.
I have officially become the parent that I dreaded as a teacher. How did this happen? One day, I'm a crowd pleasing public servant, the next I am "The crazy mom who no teacher wants to have to deal with!"
1. When the rosters came out and I realized that my son was not on the same team as his friend, I quickly whipped up an email to the organizer to let him know how disappointing this was. My son and his friend no longer attend the same school, and have chosen to make soccer their continued connection. It clearly states on the registration form: "Please indicate who you are carpooling with, so that we can put your children on the same team." What part of "please indicate" did he not get? The response I got was clearly to neutralize me and my request that he be changed to the appropriate team was politely denied. So, I became a bit more of an "advocate" for my son, and fired off another email - with a few more details. The next response insinuated that I had not made a request at all and that in fact, another child (whom I had never heard of) had requested my son to be on his team. What could I do? I had to make a threat. I was in full "mama bear" form now. OK, here goes: "My husband will not coach unless the appropriate changes are made." The next email back to me simple stated: "Fine."
2. On to the next child. Through a series of snafus on several people's parts - including mine - she was somehow placed on a team of girls three years older than she is. I thought it was a bit strange, but this was our first time - and how did I know that it wasn't normal for all of the girls to be a good foot taller than she is? We got to the bottom of it, apologies were made, rosters were clarified and she ended up on the correct team - who were all the correct size. Here's the kicker, she played one practice with the big girls - not knowing what she was doing, but because of her pure guts and determination, she got right in there and fought for her spot. So on the second practice when Mama finally realized something wasn't right and went to take the six year old from one practice to the appropriate one, the six year old calmly said from the middle of the huddle, "No, Mom this is my team... they NEED me." Right.
I have officially become the parent that I dreaded as a teacher. How did this happen? One day, I'm a crowd pleasing public servant, the next I am "The crazy mom who no teacher wants to have to deal with!"
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