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    What we have here is a failure to communicate

    May 20, 2009

    masonIt’s not that I don’t want to listen.  It’s just that I have two children that talk more than I do (which is mind-boggling, in and of itself) and at the end of the day, I just want everyone to shut the hell up.

    I called B’s mom to find out how B’s Aunt Margie is doing since she fell on Friday and broke her hip and her arm.  I had left messages and hadn’t heard back from her.  I was starting to worry and I didn’t know 80-pound women in their early 50′s could break like that.  I promised B I would keep everything under control while she was on her trip to Tuscany in first class with her ex-boyfriend whom she broke up with two weeks ago.  Normally I wouldn’t recommend going on a trip with your ex for nine days but if you just broke up because he didn’t want to marry you and he already paid for the first class tickets and the week-long culinary class, I’m thinking it’s totally reasonable to wait another nine days to get back out there on the market and find Mr. Right. 

    Aunt Margie is doing as well as expected but apparently while they were doing surgery, someone called from the hospital in the next town over to say that Aunt Jay was looking like she wasn’t going to make it and they should all go over there to say their goodbyes.  The doctor in the ER then changed his mind and said Aunt Jay would be fine, but there are rumors that Aunt Violet isn’t doing that hot this week either.  It’s tough being in your 80s. 

    I said all those things you are supposed to say and then I hung up.  I told Derek that apparently B’s mom had called somewhere to leave me a message but clearly it wasn’t any of my phones.

    D:  She called my phone a couple of days ago?

    K:  What.  the.  hell.  Derek.  Aunt Jay was getting her last rites and Aunt Margie needed a blood transfusion and Mickey is being his normal horrible dog self and you forgot to tell me?

    D:  I tried to tell you.  You were too busy to listen.  You didn’t want to hear.

    He’s right.  He should have written me a note.  Or told me on Twitter.  I’m tired of noise.

    I reviewed the brand new Ameda pump at Mommy Needs a Review.  If the pump worked while driving, I would totally consider leaving my husband for it.

    add to sk*rt

    When pushing his buttons is self punishment

    May 11, 2009

    Occasionally I do things that really annoy my husband.  Do not ask my husband, under any circumstances, to go outside after he has taken his shoes off.  He will do whatever you ask but the groaning and moaning under his breath is extensive.

    Then there is the changing of the bed.  Tonight I rushed upstairs to put the sheets back on The Boy’s bed before got out of his bath.  I threw our sheets onto the bed and went back to cleaning the bathroom.  I promptly forgot about the sheets until The Husband trudged up the stairs.  I was busy cleaning up glass from behind the couch downstairs (I don’t know.  Don’t ask.) so I just pretended it wasn’t happening.

    When I came up to bed, I peeled the comforter back.  There on my bed was a scratchy bottom sheet.  180 thread count on a GOOD day.

    People, since  the creation of Smart Bargains.com (home of the $89.99 800 thread count sheets) and Overstock.com, there is absolutely no reason to own sheets that are less than 600 threads per square inch.  Yes, I saw the sheet expose and I know about the thread count scandal of cheating about number of threads.  But anyway you look at it, no one should be sleeping on a sheet that is meant to go on top an air mattress on your camping trip.

    Air mattress on a camping trip?  Try the two-tiered mattress.  And let’s be honest.  I put the 600 thread count sheets on that bad boy too.  If I am going to be charged by wild animals and be subjected to nasty bugs, I should at least have some comfort to look forward to at the end of my day.  My husband was mortified.  Since we were reliving the Lewis and Clark Expedition, I had to hear how neither needed an air mattress or fancy-schmancy sheets.  Which no one complained about once he rested his nasty head on them at the end of the day.  Atop the air mattress.

    K:  What the hell is this green sheet doing on the bed?

    Silence.

    K:  I left the matching one to this top sheet right here.

    D:  Well.  I didn’t SEE any sheets so I had to FIND some.

    K:  Well.  I don’t know where you found them because I don’t normally leave the SANDPAPER sheets upstairs.

    D:  Whatever.

    K:  I don’t think I can sleep on them.

    D:  Whatever.

    He refused to get out of the bed because he thought I was being ridiculous.  I slid my ass across the sandpaper-like sheets and got into the bed.

    Kinda feels like college except without the smell of incense and stale BLD.

    add to sk*rt

    Don’t you just love Mother’s Day?

    May 10, 2009

    EatMase

    OMG, I love Mother’s Day. I used to think it was a totally bullshit holiday like Valentine’s Day and then I realized it WAS a totally bullshit holiday like Valentine’s Day. Blah, blah, blah, you should appreciate your mother every day, not just on Mother’s Day. Except my mother-in-law apparently reared her son right because he acts like it is a big deal. So I decided to act like Mother’s Day was actually Queen for a Day day.

    You think I’m joking? Last year I don’t think I ever got out of bed. I can’t remember. This year, when Mason woke up at 4:30 and I wanted to go crazy, I realized I had been sleeping since 10:15 p.m. so apparently he DID get the memo about Mother’s Day/Queen for a Day day but he just couldn’t go without sustenance any longer since his belly is the size of a thimble. Or something.

    Then I woke up again at 8 to the sound of my children coming up the stairs beating each other on the head with my Mother’s Day present, which was a really heavy filled pancake pan from William Sonoma. Then I knew it was Mother’s Day. My husband told me I did have to get out of bed to make the pancakes because he sure as hell wasn’t doing it. So I made pancakes and starting drinking champagne. I wanted a mimosa but I didn’t have orange juice. Let’s be honest, why waste perfectly good Piper with orange juice? It’s total overkill.

    75 filled pancakes later (and one bottle of champagne), I got my husband to start moving furniture for me. It was Mother’s Day so not only did he have to do it, he had to act like he was HAPPY about doing it. I was delirious. Then again, I had an entire bottle of champagne in me, so that may have helped. The boys were screaming and yelling and Derek was trying to figure out what he needed to do to fix the double-paned window that the Middle Child had shattered on Friday with a broom stick. The boys were practicing this new game of jumping off the ledge of the window, onto the futon, onto the ottoman, onto the couch and back. I didn’t care. I had Ricky Martin on loop. In Spanish.

    We hung art. On the wall. Call it a preemptive move since Nana is coming on Thursday. There are pictures on the wall in my house. It only took two years.

    I’m not saying it was my best day ever but I am saying it might be in my top 10. Or five.

    add to sk*rt

    My heart was in the right place

    May 8, 2009

    mgI woke with a start when he shoved my arm. I think it took two shoves.

    D: There is a beeping outside.
    K: Ok?
    D: I’m gonna go check it out.
    K: Ok. What do you need me to do?
    D: Nothing. I’m just gonna go.

    Horrible person that I am, that “What do you need me to do?” was really “why the hell did you wake me up?” in my head but I maintain lack of sleep makes me mean.

    He got all prepared in a man way and I heard him and the dog go out the front door. Five minutes later he came back.

    D: I couldn’t find where it was coming from.
    K: What do you think it is?
    D: I don’t know. It might be a carbon monoxide alarm.
    K: Do you want to call the police?
    D: They’ll just want to talk to us.
    K: They won’t. We’ll just give them our names. I mean, what if it IS a carbon monoxide alarm?

    I sent a text to The Cake Lady.

    K: You guys okay? There is an alarm going off in the neighborhood.
    CL: We’re fine. I’ll go check.

    Five minutes later.

    CL: I can’t hear it outside.

    In the end, I called the cops. I was not having dead neighbors.
    I talked to the 911 operator, blah, blah, blah.

    Then I tried to go back to sleep. Which of course I couldn’t do.

    We heard the car come up the street and pull into our driveway.
    Then another.

    Conversation.

    I’m laying in bed, proud of my fulfilling my civic duty and looking out for my fellow man. Derek got up and went outside to talk to the cops. Nobody could figure out where it was.

    He came back inside.

    K: Well, we did our best.

    Then there was a knock at the door.

    Derek went down and answered the door.

    Cop: Sir. (pause) The alarm is coming from your trash can.

    I was lying in bed. The words that came out of my mouth would curl the ears of a sailor.

    And then the cop and I said, in complete unison, with him downstairs and me in my bed…

    “There’s a smoke alarm in the trash can.”

    Yeah. That cleaning rampage I was on earlier? When I was throwing out everything not tied down and throwing raw sewage on top of it to keep my husband from digging it back out? I came across and old smoke alarm that we had replaced at the old house.

    Apparently it still worked.

    Oops.

    add to sk*rt