"It's Time to Go Home"

You know it's time to go home when.....

So, we've had a great time in the lovely state of Virginia. We had a list and slogged through to its end. The Potter family has accomplished much on this visit, including, but not limited to: Busch Gardens - twice, Water Country USA, the zoo, the aquarium, the YMCA pool, Valerie's pool, the slip n' slide, the beach, a birthday party, and various playdates. I am exhausted; the kids want to know what's next.

Luke, on the other hand, has put in almost 170 hours worth of work in the 15 days that we have been gone. That is a lot of work, my friends. He has also cleaned up various "cat functions", received shipment on stuff I bought while I was in Virginia, and somehow trashed the house while not even being there.

We have come to our last full day here, and we know it's time for us to leave. We have done a bazillion loads of laundry. We have used at least a box of bandaids. We have gone through several spray bottles of sunscreen. We have had kids in 'time out', 'time in', and doing restitution. We have done at least 7 days worth of summer homework. And now, the kids are wearing us down. You know it's time to leave when your children walk through the living room in a pool wrap and boxers with a velvet dress over them. I'm not telling you who was who.

We have trashed Val's house and created some great memories. We got some pictures; none of which I will call good. The kids got to be kids for 15 straight days, and I got to play Guitar Hero with my sister for 5 days in a row; we'll have to Scrabble next time. I am looking forward to going home. Maybe that's because the kids will be going to mom's for a week very soon.

I can't speak for everyone; just myself. I had a great time.

Moral of the story: You know it was a great visit when you are already looking forward to next time.

"Paper, Paper, Who Has the Paper?"

It has happened to us all. You are sitting on the toilet. You're finished. You look to the right....and no paper. We all have our ways of dealing with this. There is the yell method, the drip-dry, and the ever popular Elaine "spare a square" segment. Here's my story.

Last night, there was an impromptu cook out on the Loop. We all congregated out in front of Valerie's neighbor's house. The kids were running amok, there was much food, there was alcohol; it was summer heaven. There were even fireflies.

Then, sometime that evening, I went in Val's house to use the half-bath downstairs. I sat down and did my tinkles, and looked to the paper. Which was empty; not even a toilet paper tube was there. Which at Val's house is usually not a problem. She has those tubes in every bathroom that hold 3 rolls of toilet paper. Well, it was out.

Not a problem -- yet. Amy is still potty training and they have those Kandoo flushable wipes in all the bathrooms. I went for the wipes and, you guessed it, they were empty. Again, not to panic yet, I could yell. Yelling for help is an acceptable answer in your own home. Except everyone was outside enjoying the party. There wasn't even a fly in the house.

Hmmm. I could drip-dry. This solution I absolutely hate. I'm not patient enough to sit there for a proper dry. So, I checked my pockets. This is a case where a spare tissue or party napkin would come in handy. No such luck; my pockets were bare.

Now, I look around this tiny bathroom for something -- anything. Here are my options: There is a hand towel on the floor, I have a kitchen towel over my shoulder from the dishes, and there is the garbage can. So what would you do?

It probably would have been fine to use either one of the towels, but I just can't bring myself to do that. I could feel my grandmothers stirring in their graves as this thought raced through my mind. It's just wrong. So, I foraged through the trash for a "gently used" tissue. Don't 'eeww' me; you weren't the one in this situation.

I returned to the party after going upstairs for a proper clean-up and replacing the paper downstairs. I had a lovely evening.

Moral of the story: In the "paper or plastic" battle, sometimes a little bit of paper can go a long way.

"Laundry Lore"

For the last two days while recovering from our weekend adventures, I've been doing laundry at Val's house. And there is A LOT of laundry. I mean, a mountain of it. I'm not sure how a family of four generates this much laundry, but there it is; sitting on the floor awaiting its turn in the washing machine.

And of course, we had a laundry disaster. A brown crayon somehow found its way into one of the loads and got on all but four pieces of clothing in the load. It was pretty bad. It was bad enough that I went on-line and got some 'stainbusting' advice. Several people recommended WD-40 or Simple Green. All of these make your clothes smell lovely. Anyway, we washed them a bazillion times in various chemicals, and got enough of the crayon out of most things that we weren't crying on the floor. Thank the laundry god it wasn't a load I had started.

But it did make me think of other laundry tragedies. Of course when I was small, I used to put dirt in my pockets. I don't know why, so don't ask. As I got older, it progressed to tissues and chapstick or lipgloss. Now my children do the same thing; except for them it's usually shells, leaves, or acorns.

And of course, there is the washed wallet. Or for Craig, it was the i-pod. I've found change, rocks, and jewelry, too. My favorite was the day I was doing the "sock-sweep" with my hand and came up with a snake. Yes, it was dead; no, I have no idea what it was doing in there. Maybe one of the kids picked it up and put it in their pocket.

Then there was just last week. I was doing laundry at my house in preparation for the big trip. I was doing the whites when I realized I had started putting the color-safe bleach in the bleach compartment. I am a freak about my whites and I like them very white. So I use hot water and lots of bleach. I used my Pam logic and decided since the bleach thing was only filled half-way, I would finish it up with the chlorine bleach; half is better than none, right? Well, no one told me what would happen. Let me let you in on a little secret; when you mix color-safe bleach with the chlorine kind, it foams. It foams A LOT. And it keeps foaming until it is running down the outside of your washer and you don't think it will ever stop. If you find this happening to you, do what I did. Walk away and pretend it was someone else. Yes, I know no one else would be doing laundry in my garage, but what else was I supposed to do?

Thankfully, most of the laundry is done now. We're down to one 'leftover' load. I think from here on out, everyone has to wear the same clothes everyday, or else go naked. I'm tired of doing laundry.

Moral of the story: I've found some strange things in my washer. How about you?

"Ow, That Hurts"

So we are having a great time here in the state of VA. Since it was the weekend, we took advantage of Craig being around. Actually, he took Friday off to go to Water Country, USA with us. And for Father's Day, we went to Busch Gardens Europe.

We had a fantastic time at Water Country. The kids were patient, they waited nicely, everybody got to ride what they wanted with whom they wanted. The way the cousins split themselves to ride the rides just cracks me up. Usually there is a fight over who is going to ride with Sarah. Either that, or the fight is who had to ride with Amy last. It seems, Amy doesn't do anything with anyone except her dad, and the others fill out the boat as they have to. The amazing thing here is no one got hurt, and no one had a meltdown.

So we spent Saturday recovering from the water-logged day before. Then, we got up early Sunday, and did practically the same trip as the day before. This time we ended up at Busch Gardens Europe. For you Florida folk, it has some of the same rides, just named different things, and not anywhere near the number of animals. I think we saw a wolf and and eagle exhibit and that was it.

Now, idiot me, I thought this day wasn't the water day. However, it has an "Elmo's World" where there's an entire water play place that the kids loved. I stuck my feet in, but looked nothing like Mark did after he drenched himself. But this is okay, because the temperature the day before was 102 degrees!

So we start on the circuit of rides, and it was the same deal as at Water Country. The kids were great about riding with each other; well, after we got over the whole 'Elmo is for babies' thing. Anyhow, we were having a great day. Then I rode the Roman Rapids with Val and the kids. Umm, it's not like the Kali River Rapids at Disney. I was soaked 45 seconds after getting on the ride. And then I got soakeder. There were a series of four waterfalls that I had the good luck of going directly under. The only good thing about all this, was we were already wet so we rode again and the kids got stuck going under the falls.

The only weird hitch happened at the end of the day. We went on this 3-D ride called Corkscrew Hill where you get turned into a fairy and see all kinds of magical Irish creatures, like banshees, pookhas, and witches. Supposedly this was Sarah's favorite ride. Well, she ended up screaming like a banshee, and I am not exaggerating. I thought she was going to hurt herself trying to get out of the seat belt. And of course, we can't actually stop the ride and get off. In a great move of desperation, I gave her my lucky Gator hat to wear over her face, and low and behold it worked! Go Gators!

So now, it's Monday morning, and I just have one thing to say to all this weekend excitement: ow. Maybe that should be a capital OW. I guess I might be grandma-old because I just want to go back to bed and sleep it off. After the slamming around on water slides and all the hilly walking at the Gardens, I'm beat. And I still have eight days to go here. I'm going to go grab some ibuprofen and veg on the couch in preparation for our next outing. Hopefully that will be three days from now....

Moral of the story: Amusement parks are fun. Especially a day later when you watch all the "old" people hobble around trying to recover.

"Umm, Really?"

Every household has their own way to do things. Everybody finds something that works for them, and uses it. I'm all for that. For instance, take my laundry. Delicates and dry-cleaning don't stand a chance in my house. Even if it has that label it gets thrown in with everything else and sees if it survives. If it does, it lives to be worn another day; if it doesn't, we complain about the way clothes are put together these days and toss it.

Same goes for dishes. Everything goes in the dishwasher. I assume if its a dish in my house, it's "dishwasher safe". Knives, pots and pans, even Mema's china. It all goes in. And it follows the same rule laundry does: if it survives, it continues to get used; if not, in the trash it goes.

Well, I found out that at my sister's house, she's got some strange things. The first night we were here, Craig came home from work and mowed the grass. It had been raining a lot here, and he wanted to get it done. That's fine, but when I looked out the window while helping with dinner, he was using the blower, and not in the traditional way. It seems he has a mulching mower and the grass was so long it left those stripes of mowed grass across the lawn. It offended him and there was some conversation about how it was so thick I could hurt the grass, so he blew all the cut grass out so it evenly covered the lawn. Seriously.

So Valerie and I were having a chuckle over this while we were getting things ready for dinner. I needed cups for the kids, so I went to the cabinet. There were several empty spaces, so obviously the dishwasher needed to be unloaded, but I needed cups for Mark and Rachel and grabbed two I thought would work. And got the look from Val.

I realized the cups I chose were glass, so I asked her if that was a problem. It wasn't that they were glass, it was that they had gold on the rims and she didn't put glasses with metal on them in the dishwasher. Oookaaay. So I reached back in the cabinet and came out with two new glasses that just happened to be etched glass. I got the look again. Those too, had to be washed by hand.

Let me ask you this; what good is it to have a cabinet full of glasses that are not to be used? Yeah, I don't know either, but I do know that as I write this, I am drinking apple juice out of one of her special glasses. I'm a rebel like that.

Moral of the story: Don't let me know what your "freaky house-thing" is, because if I do know, I'll use it against you. I'm going to go rearrange Val's collectibles now.....

"I Am NOT That Old"

So I was met at the airport yesterday with much fanfare. And I mean that literally. We were met in baggage claim by Val and the kids blowing New Year's horns and making a ruckus. We returned in kind by a-hootin' and a-hollerin'. It was great. Until the lady in the wheelchair next to me decided to comment on it.

I thought she was going to be rude about the noise. She seemed to be of an age that this is what might come out of her mouth. Instead, she was by far ruder. She says to me, "That's so nice. Are you the grandma?"

Yeah, 'are you the grandma'? Are you kidding me? Do I look old enough to be a grandma to you? Obviously the answer is yes. And the sick thing is, this isn't the first time this has happened to me.

A few years ago, my friend, Melissa and I were at the spa. Her tech assumed, without seeing me, that Melissa was there with her mother. I guess this is a common occurance. The tech apologized profusely, saying she made this statement without ever actually seeing me and if she had she would never have thought I was Melissa's mom. Which is good because I'm only two years older than her. We got a laugh out of it; I won't say a good laugh, but a laugh none the less.

Then, it happened twice last summer. The first time was when I was mailing a box of fiddly bits to Sarah and Amy. The guy at the pack and mail place remembered me, and that I had mailed things to the girls before. So, he was just making conversation and asks, "So, are these your grandkids?" Ummm, no.

The other time was when I was picking up Melissa's kids from daycare. Every summer she goes on a week long trip for work, and I help out by watching the twins when I can. On this particular day, I show up, and the director sees me heading out with the boys and calls after them, "Have a nice time with Nana!" I was miffed, but I did the math. I actually could be a grandma to them if I would have had a child when I was in my teens, and then my child had a child in her teens. But I didn't and I wasn't and it kind of pissed me off.

I realize I am no spring chicken. I know that when I turned 35, the occasional dark circles under my eyes took up permanant residence. I have a few wrinkles, but then I smile and scowl a lot, so that explains those. I have very few grey hairs; not even enough to garner comment from my children. I am not infirm. I am not on any kind of meds. I exercise more now than I ever did 10 years ago. I don't dress up when I leave the house but I try not to look like a slob. So what gives? I know it's not my "grandmotherly" demeanor. Are there some kind of hormones you give off that people pick up on? I have to say, I'm stumped.

And the next person to call me grandma is getting hit over the head with my walker, tennis balls and all.

Moral of the story: Look out AARP, here comes trouble!

"To Blog, Or Not to Blog..."

So, Valerie started all of this. She usually does, but I usually get blamed; it's just the way birth order works. Actually, I'm certain her friends put her up to this, because it's just not something she would come up with on her own. No matter how it began, the result is the same; we have a blog.

Not only do we have a blog, but there are a few folks in the world out there that actually read it. Which is good, because I have come to realize that I love writing for it.

However, I have found "blogging" to be a lot like gardening. Here, allow me to explain. There are those out there that love looking at the garden/blog. They comment on how pretty the flowers are; or don't and just appreciate the view.

Then, there are those that "know better". There are actually several categories here. There are those that look at the garden, see the weeds and over-grown plants, and feel duty-bound to tell you it's time to tend it. See the parallel? I hear, "When are you going to write on your blog again?" from some people often. I won't mention any names, Pat, but you know who you are.

Then, there are those people that seem never to be satisfied with what you have wrought. They look at the garden you have tended with your own hands and say, "A piffle flower would look great over there, don't you think?" Hmmm. If you think that would make a great story for the blog, then write your own damn blog. I have enough stories swimming in my head without yours gumming up the works. Don't get me wrong, I love these people, really. I think it's great there are people looking out for me out there. Again, I ask, where were you in college?

And this has been my own long-winded way to say, I'm headed to my sister's house for two weeks to gather some source material. It's kind of like going to a gardening show to get ideas. Only the kids are way cuter than any flower. Yes, she has a computer, and yes, I'll try to write. I think we all realize we can't count on the big sis to contribute as often as I think she should. Maybe her garden is more involved than we all realized. I think she just likes being the foreman to my worker bee. I am starting to wander down the garden path, so I'll just end with, thanks for reading what I like to write.

Moral of the story: Blogging definitely goes on the list of my hobbies. It can replace roller-blading....

"3 Ingredients or Bust"

So I recently came to a painful cooking realization: I can't make toast. Thanksgiving dinner for 35 people, no problem. Cheese toast for me and Amy, not going to happen. I don't eat toast very often, so on the surface, this is not such a big deal. But Mom visited recently and introduced Amy to the wonder that is cheese toast, and now, she's gotta have it.

It always starts the same way. I insert the first two sacrificial pieces of bread into the toaster oven, knowing that they will come out charred and inedible. When those pieces are just this side of en fuego I toss them in the trash and put in the two real pieces of bread. 3 ingredients: bread, butter, sliced cheese. Should be easy enough, right?

At first I tried to exclusively blame the toaster oven: It's malicious and enjoys bullying my bread. It secretly thinks I need to lose weight so it purposely burns my toast. It woke up on the wrong side of the counter and no amount of sweet talk will win it over. However, I think my toast failure may have more to do with the fact that, at least as far as toast is concerned, I'm too ADHD to stand there and watch to make sure it doesn't burn. Oh, I stand there for the first 30 seconds or so. Then I pour Amy some chocolate milk or put away something on the counter, or go check my e-mail. And by the time I return flames are erupting from my toaster oven. So half the time we end up with cereal.

I happen to know Pam's kitchen nemesis is also 3 ingredients: Kool-Aid. Something about the water to sugar ratio throws her off every time. You either end up puckering like you just ate a lemon or mainlining straight sugar. So that makes me wonder: anyone else out there have a 3 ingredient kitchen foe? If so, share. I burned my toast this morning so I need a good laugh.

Moral of the Story: Mom, Amy needs breakfast. Can you please make her some toast?

"Drug-Induced Decorating"

So I'm on Day 8 of what is supposed to be a 7 to 10 day bug. It never fails; I ALWAYS get sick when we take a school-break. And as I've whined before, I don't have a bevy of friends and family here that I can foist my kids off on. So, I do what every red-blooded sick American does; I plant myself on a choice spot on the couch and I don't move. For days.

Now while I am occupying this lovely piece of real estate, I become rather bored. There is no one home to talk to other than the children, and when you are sick, they don't count. So I turn to TV. My favorite thing on TV is all the comedy on Friday nights. Problem with that is, it only comes around once a week. What to do after that? Well, I watch TLC and HGTV. I can only take so much of TLC, however. I love Cake Boss and some of their cooking shows. I refuse to watch anything to do with Jon and Kate this season and I can't watch the "World's Heaviest Man" without barfing. So I watched A LOT of HGTV.

When I say a lot, I mean like three days straight. I go from zero TV to 24 hours a day TV. It was kind of intense. Like an intervention program, but only in reverse. I have come to love Color Splash, Deserving Design, that kitchen remodeling show, and that really chipper blonde girl that does strange things with puppets. I usually never agree with the house that gets picked on House Hunters. It's all great stuff. But of course, it gets you to thinking. Well, me anyway.

And this is what I was thinking. We've been in our house for almost nine years now. I must say, I love my house. It is little and annoying in a "we don't have guest bedrooms" kind of way, but in the grand scheme of every day living, it's a great house for us. I decorated it just how I wanted when we moved in; with lots of color. The dining room is great, I still love my bedroom, and the kids rooms will need a make-over eventually, but they're still great. It's the living-room that needs some work.

And while I was slobbing on the couch sick, I got some great ideas. I realized that our living-room is still decorated in "hand-me down first house" stuff. We have some great pieces, we just also have some real duds. This is when I hatched the idea to re-do it.

So one night when Luke comes home, I hit him with my famous line of, "Honey, I was thinking..." As everyone in my family knows, this is never good and usually very expensive. I let him stew on my ideas for all of two days, then we were at the local Lowe's checking paint samples and buying paint. Which progressed to buying matching bookcases. Which progressed to buying coordinated throw rugs and pillows. Which progressed to getting an estimate on reupholstering my chairs. And eventually a new custom entertainment center for my wonderful new friend the TV, and a visit from an electrician to check out some new lighting options.

All this because I was sick on the couch.

Moral of the story: Be afraid of HGTV; be very afraid.

Check out the picture. This is a miniscule hall that has doors to Mark's room, the bathroom, and outside, in it. I've painted it a dark maroon and added a lovely matching throw. The white doors and trim keep this color from being overpowering in a small space. The color brings out Luke's Mayan art on the walls. Mark's door has been covered with a combination of cork and magnetic/dry-erase. This allows for display of his art, as well as the ability t0 constantly change the message on his door. An added plus is he can display his work without adding holes to the walls or detracting from the art displayed. Enjoy the rug now, as it is only days away from being peed on by a cat.

"Off With His Socks!"

I probably wouldn't be writing this if I felt well. And I'm sure it's going to garner some phone calls, but....here it is.

So I had an occasion recently to view some "adult films". If you don't want to hear the rest, just skip the blog for the day. Anyway, we have talked about how there are good varieties and bad varieties of these films. I'm a firm believer in the theory "if everyone looks like they are having fun" than they are fine by me. People use these films for a variety of purposes; marital aides, boredom, instructional; whatever. The point is this; recent viewing brought to the forefront a sexual hang-up that I didn't know I had. Let's see who's with me.

So, I'm watching, and I must admit there were some good looking men displayed. Then, right in the middle of the good part, a dude comes walking out in his socks. White ones. Now, I'm sorry, but if this is the only piece of clothing to be seen, why do you have it on? In my opinion, grown men look ridiculous walking around in just a pair of socks. You managed to take everything else off, but you couldn't be bothered with the socks? No shoes, no pants, just socks.

Someone please tell me if this is sexy; 'cause it just makes me laugh. I decided to do some more "research" and see if this was a prevalent thing. Maybe it was just a fluke. So, we watch a completely different "film" and I'll be damned if there's not a dude in just his white tube socks.

Am I missing something? Is there something mis-wired in my genetic make-up? Because I have to say, white socks on a naked body are a major turn-off. It's not like they were lip-synching like Tom Cruise; who by the way is an automatic turn-off for me. They weren't wearing their socks in interesting places like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. These guys were getting busy with their socks on. And let me tell you, they were having traction issues. Duh. Take the socks off.

I have to say ladies, if I happened to be making time with Matthew McConaughey I would insist that he do so without his socks. That's a deal breaker for me.

Moral of the story: I don't mind you getting your rocks off, just take your socks off first.

"A Great Garden"

I decided yesterday to resurrect one of my hobbies and work in the garden. It was fun and looks great. While I did this, Luke mowed the grass. Unfortunately, he ran over a mole while he was at it and felt the need to share with me. Gross! Anyway, it reminded me of a story that I e-mailed Val last year. Some of you have read it, but it deserves its time on the blog. It goes like this:



From: Luke and Pam Potter [mailto:xxxxxxxxxxxx]
Sent: Wednesday, June 04, 2008 4:18 PM
To: mirwin14
Subject: just an average Wednesday



We've all done this. We have vacation coming up, and there is a running list in our heads. "No problem," we say to ourselves, "I can get this all done." After all, being supermom for a few days isn't so bad when vacation comes next, right?

Then your husband goes away on business. To London. The week BEFORE you are supposed to leave. And he doesn't get back until less than 12 hours before you leave for vacation. And of course, all he worries about is how to get the lawn mowed. No problem, you think. I have use of a super hero cape for a few days. I'll do it. It can't be that hard; after all, it's a new mulching mower with no bag. I'll call it my workout for the day.

So the day comes where mowing the grass is on your list. You put on your yucky tennis shoes and step out there. Pull string start? No problem....after about 7 tries. So you are bopping along, mowing away, and realize the tree limb in the front yard is hanging so low it's going to rip
somebody's head off. "No problem for super mom!" And you get the little girly saw and hack it off. Then you continue on your way with that mower. You get to the back, and the mower starts making that, "rrrrrr" noise that tells you something is wrong. "No problem for super mom!" You realize it's out of gas and start for the garage to replenish it. On the way, you notice the grass has taken over the pool pump. "Haven't I asked Luke to take care of that?" you ask yourself. "No problem for super mom!" You grab the clippers as well as the gas, and get to work trimming up the REALLY TALL grass. And you think to yourself, "this looks like a place where critters might live," and you decide you have done enough, made your point, and will
work on it some other time, when you don't have your super cape and someone could rescue you if the need arose.

So, you fill up the gas, and continue on your merry way. You are feeling proud of yourself because not only are you almost finished with the yard, but you did more chores than were on the list. The tree looks good, the pool pump is visible again. And then it happens.

Something comes flying out from under the mower. It's a snake. And it's missing pieces. So super mom screams, and runs into the house, but no one is there to help. Realize that this is a tragedy for me. I let bugs and critters live where they will, and now have a HUGE dose of negative karma for some reason. I need to talk to someone about this. The husband is out.
So I call the sister.

Who just so happens to choose THIS day to continue her exercise program and is not at home. Good for you, bad for me. So I call my neighbor, who does NOT have the same mentality regarding critters as I do. Sometimes though, you just have to share. And it goes like this.

"I just ran over a snake with the mower."

"Is it dead?"

"There were pieces missing, so I'm sure if it isn't now, it will be soon."

"Well, I would go out there and run it over again, just to make sure."

Silence.

Sometimes we are meant to suffer alone.

So, I go out with the kid's butterfly net, and scoop up the pieces I can find. I can't find the head. I place them on an ant hill so SOME good will come from my tragedy. I continue mowing, wondering the whole time if this happened because of something I have done, or something the snake did. I will never know. I am hanging up my cape now. Let the man do the work.

Moral of the story: Look out for the head.