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    Half-Assed Parenting Tip #2: Unless you are blind, it’s recommended to have at least one eye open at all times

    January 28, 2008

    So I’m in the shower this morning and The Baby is in his blue tub at the bottom of the shower.  The Boy has run off with my I-Phone to God only knows where.  The Boy suddenly reappears at the bathroom door without the phone.

    TB:  MomMomMom.  Your phone is on the green couch. 
    K:  Yeah, I would prefer to have my phone here.

    The Baby opens the shower door because, God FORBID, he miss anything.

    K:  Shut the door, Nate. 
    TB:  But it’s on the green couch.
    K:  Then I would like you to go down to the green couch and bring it back to this bathroom
    TB:  (quite cheery) OK, Mom. 

    And runs down the hall.  I need that phone back because when it locks, it only allows emergency calls.  I need to know if someone thought we were having an emergency and now some form of emergency response unit is showing up.  You know how the locals get fiesty about repeatedly showing up at your house for nothing. 

    I continue to wash my hair and as I close my eyes to rinse out the shampoo, I feel a cool, univited breeze on my body. I look down to find the shower door open and a very wet, very naked, very fat-assed Baby toddling precariously across the very slick bathroom floor.  Because if you have been walking for all of 3 weeks, you should jump right to the Wet Tile portion of the show.  The door flies open and The Boy hands me my phone. I look down to see that the Notes function is open and the word “Jugg” is written on the pad.  The Boy points to what he has written.  I yell to The Baby to get back into the shower and he yells, “MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY”  and starts to walk away faster.

    Their father would be so proud. 

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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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