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    Where, oh where have my car keys gone? Oh, where, or where can they be?

    June 26, 2008

    The car keys are gone again. What moron has one key to a car? Oh, that would be the moron who is still living in her basement because she is too cheap to fix her air conditioner and doesn’t want to pay $300 for a car key.

    Miss America/The Cake Lady: Why don’t you get a key made? I’LL pay for a key to be made.
    K: Um, it costs $300.
    MA/TCL: Not if you get a regular key.
    K: But I can’t find anyone to make one for me. Other than the dealership.
    MA/TCL: Oh, WE can find someone who will do it. I can promise you that.

    I’ll just save us all time now and tell you where it was the last time I remember. Hopefully The Husband will read this on his way home from work on the train and won’t ask me. The Baby got his grimy little paws on the wallet/key combo just after I gave Josh all my money. As I watched The Baby attempt to take everything out of the wallet, I snatched it away from him. And then everything goes to gray.

    Let’s face it. Today is just like any other day. Any other day except that I needed to drop off Kimberly’s shirts to her at The Party Store Logan’s Costco. Even Sarah tried to help me find them. She tried to help me find them by cleaning my kitchen. Sarah is Miss America’s sister. Nothing. But now all my dishes are clean.

    I called Chocolate Fountain Fairy Godmother.

    CFFG: At least if it was The Baby, you only have to look close to the ground.
    K: Actually I just found a wine glass on the top shelf of the cabinet above the sink. I’m gonna have to say all bets are off here.

    Miss America offered to take me to the train station to pick up the truck. She actually offered to take me all the way to Costco. Kimberly offered to come get the shirts. Sheesh. We were on our way out the door when L.A. drove past. She slammed on her brakes and the window came down.

    LA: What are you girls doing?
    K: She’s gonna take me to the train station to pick up the truck because I can’t find the car keys.
    LA: Does that thing even have gas in it (pointing to the parked Volvo)?

    She was referencing the other day when my husband was supposed to take the car to the train station so I could spend $9 in gas to drop stuff off at recycling. He couldn’t take the car because it wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t start because it was out of gas. HEY!!! $3.89 a gallon will hit you in the ovaries. I don’t want to pay that. Which meant the car went down to below empty and wouldn’t start. I have the $1.89 a gallon gas my husband bought way back when for the lawn mower but I’ll be damned if I am going to put gas in the car if I can’t even find a damn key to start it. Know what I am saying?

    K: No. No, it doesn’t have gas in it.

    MA/TCL: You haven’t put gas in it yet?

    K: Why would I put gas in it?

    I have been through three trash cans and have done everything shy of turning him upside down and shaking to see if they fall off of some part of him.  I’m giving it 24 more hours, then I’m taking the car off of the insurance.  I mean, I can be saving all sorts of money around here.  And the only thing I’m losing is my sanity.

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    If you wanted to rob a house in the hood, tonight would be a good night.

    January 26, 2008

    Tonight was the Home Owner’s Association meeting for the neighborhood.  Coming from living in a condo at one point, I LAUGH at the anticipated trepidation that everyone approaches these meetings.  I mean, short of being part of a HOA for a condo in FLORIDA, I’ve seen it all.  Really.

    Except the problem here is that the rules all changed right before we moved.  And frankly, The Husband is a little cranky about it.  So, hi, ho, hi, ho, it’s off to the meeting we go.

    We took the kids.  Someone asked what we were going to do with the kids.  I said that we had thought about leaving them home alone but that is frowned upon by Protective Services.

    So we took the kids to one of the most pristine houses in our neighborhood.  Pristine.   Pristine.  Gorgeous decorated glass eggs on window sills.  Window sills that were approximately 8 inches off the ground.  The Boy was clever enough to take his shoes off when we showed up but once he realized his lovah Harrison was there, they ran around screaming like lunatics.  Two little Liberace’s on the piano.  The Baby?  Desperately trying to maim himself on the fireplace. Or climb the stairs, or maim himself on the fireplace. 

    So now I’m looking like the crappy mother because my children are out of control.  There are two kids, and apparently two parents are not enough for two kids. But I’m too busy making new drinking friends, gossiping and speaking ill of Hollywood stars who have their assistant pick up the free stuff because they are too tired to come into the gifting suite to get the free stuff they are getting.  The Husband keeps handing me The Baby and I keep putting The Baby on the floor.  This goes over as well as expected.  The Boy is eating chocolate cake (WTH?????????????) with a spoon which means that there is more chocolate cake on the floor than in his mouth.  Me?  Talking about drinking.  Good Lord.

    I finally took the kids and came home.  I left Danyelle to babysit the husband.  As I was leaving, I passed Mr. Cranky Pants “Your Fence Is Ugly and I Don’t Want it to be Associated With My Property Line.”  I waved hello and gave The Husband the look of death.  I then told Danyelle that if she let The Husband speak, I would never speak to her again.

    I figure we’ll be outcasts in, oh, about another 45 minutes.  I’m gonna go to bed now.

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    OMG, with the fire department

    January 25, 2008

    I would like to speak to the rocket scientist who puts smoke alarms in kitchens.  Seriously.  WTH???  I guess Martha never gets smoked out but let’s be honest here.  I can promise you that every single time I make chicken marsala?  Smoke alarm.  It’s an issue with cooking the chicken in barely smoking oil.  Yeah, you try to keep it to barely smoking.  It’s not burning and the chicken tastes phenom, but still the smoke alarm goes off.  I learned to combat this in the old house by just taking the battery out.  I thought this was a brilliant idea.  Until, of course, the home inspector for the buyer came and busted my ass.  The Husband was PISSED. 

    D:  How LONG has the battery been out?
    K:  Ever since I started making chicken marsala?
    D:  Since we got married? 
    K:  Um……..yeah.   Pretty much.  No, wait.  I think I was making chicken marsala before we got married. 

    We then moved into a house that has a hard-wired smoke alarm.  Which means that even if the alarm is off, if the smoke alarm goes off, you get a call from the alarm company.  The smoke alarm is of course located in the kitchen that has no exhaust fan.  Apparently they made it under the wire in 1987 for those pesky regulations that require you pump toxic fumes OUT of the kitchen.  If the guy who put in the alarm system was here now, I would kick him in the shins.  Because the damn alarm goes off.  Sometimes. 

    Today I was making pot roast and the SOB went off.  I ran over to the keypad and punched in the numbers to cancel the call.  I went to get my cell phone for the inevitable call which never came.  It never came because the alarm was so loud, I never actually heard the phone ring.  The Husband called 10 minutes later to tell me he got a message that the fire department was on its way to the house.  My phone began to ring incessantly and finally my sister gave up and TWITTERED me about my house burning down.  I guess she assumed that with my I-Phone and Twitter, I would be kept in the know about all things related to my impending homelessness.  I finally called the alarm company myself.  The guy at the other end was PISSED.

    Guy:  What is your code?

    I gave it to him and told him I needed to cancel the call.

    Guy:  Well, you can’t cancel the call.  What’s your number?

    I gave it to him.  He couldn’t hear it because SOMEONE, and I won’t cast any stones, was clanging two pot tops together like a lunatic.

    Guy: I’m sorry, MA’AM.  BUT I CAN’T HEAR THE LAST FOUR DIGITS OF YOUR NUMBER.

    I gave them to him again.  The clanging was unbearable.

    K:  SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    GUY:  MA’AM, I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU.
    K:  You know what?  I need that beer as much as you need it today.  So simmer down.  I’m doing the best I can here.  Now you understand why I didn’t hear your damn call 10 minutes ago.

    He laughed.  I didn’t.

    I didn’t laugh because if I sent my alarm off by going out the door, my entering the code cancels the arrival of the police.  So if someone holds a gun to my head and makes me turn my alarm off, the police will never come.  But if I feel the desire to make my husband delirious with pleasure by making him pot roast on a cold Friday, I am going to have to explain myself to my children, the alarm company AND the local volunteer fire department that showed up 2 minutes later.  Volunteer being the key word.  Volunteer meaning they were hoping for a raging FIRE and all they got was a false pot roast alarm. 

    Poor boys. 

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    Dora ’08

    January 23, 2008

    It’s gotta be said, Internet.  I’m confused as to why everyone assumes that because a woman is running for president, I’m going to vote for her.  That being said, I’m also confused as to why everyone assumes that this loud-mouthed opinionated woman is liberal.  I guess we can just dispel these two things right now.  I would sooner vote for Dora and I’m not voting blue anytime soon.

    I’m not particularly red either, but I would have to say if I was going to pick a color, I would definitely choose red over blue.  Hands down.  But I’m not really feeling the love of the red these days either.  This being obvious based on the conversation I had with The Boy today.

    TB:  MomMomMomMom.
    K:  Yes.
    TB:  Mom, why does that car have stickers on it? (pointing to the minivan in front of us at the light).
    K:  Well, that car has stickers on it because those people have very controversial political views that they are not afraid to share with the entire world as they drive down the boulevard.
    TB:  MomMomMomMom, why do we no have stickers on our car?
    K:  Because we have very wishy-washy views about politics and we are frightened about people get violent in traffic about views that they do not necessarily have. 
    TB:  What are are politics, Mom?
    K:  Let’s just say your mother can probably say she is the only person in her political party that has never smoked pot and isn’t really for drug legalization and your father brings home his paycheck from a bloated federal agency.  We are the most unlibertarian libertarians in America. 
    TB:  Mom.  We need stickers on our car.

    He’s right.

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    He thinks my tractor’s sexy

    October 29, 2007

    Recap of the party:  there was a moon bounce.  Need I say more?  Mommy loves her a moon bounce.  The food was not so bad and I forgot to put out the spoons but WOOHOO to all you people who either ate the chili or butternut squash soup with your hands or who went rummaging in my drawers.  It’s been a while since I’ve had a party so I was slightly off my game.  But who can argue with a party that ends with balancing 15 pound pumpkins on your head or screen printing t-shirts in the basement.  Now THAT is a good time.

    Which led us to yesterday.  We are the only people I know that someone thinks it’s a good idea to cut down all the branches on all the trees in our own personal forest and then leave them on the only part of our property that is lawn.

    We are also surrounded by people who moved to the forest to then care meticulously for the forest.  All 9,000 trees on every piece of property are products of loving care.  Every leaf–picked up and recycled in a quiet ceremony.

    Hello, People.  Why in the HELL would you move to a treed lot if your purpose wasn’t to never do one bit of yard work again?  Apparently we didn’t get that memo when we moved.  And then we decided to compound it by having a family member who loves to trim but hates to police up the branches.  OK, there are two of us in this family but one of us was smart enough to realize that those branches aren’t picking themselves up so I say, “let ‘em all grow whichever way works for them.”  I say, “let the trees be trees.”

    So after The Great Deforestation of 2007, our guests were able to appreciate that our property has more sunlight AND we could have about 30 bonfires with all the piles littering the lawn.

    I found out that one of our neighbors that we love had expressed a little concern with the condition of our yard.

    So few people like us.  Why do we have to torture them too?  I dragged the fam into the yard yesterday after our last guests left and we spent 5 hours picking up branches and having them magically disappear in a manner which I’m sure meets county code regulations.  Actually I spent 5 hours loading up the tractor and bringing piles to my husband while he occasionally complained that I wasn’t bringing the piles close enough to him and he was having to do more work by walking an extra 2 feet to get the branches.

    My husband, however, is the king of multi-tasking.  He completed this feat while balancing a glass of beer in his hand.

    Now how is that for talent?

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