Another Day In The Life

Hannah came home from spending the evening with her best friends Mo and T.  They had been "playing" in the basement over at Mo's house.  When Hannah walked in I noticed she was wearing a different outfit from the one she left the house in hours before.  I, being a girl, made the conclusion that since Hannah had left our house wearing a sweater with a cami underneath, she probably borrowed a shirt from Mo when she got overheated.  David did not.

David: Who's shirt is that?

Hannah: Mo's.

David: Why are you wearing it?

Hannah: I got hot.

(see?  I was right)

David: Where did you change?

Hannah: (puzzled) In the basement.

David: At any time, was your shirt off in front of T?

Hannah: NO!

David: Are you sure that is Mo's shirt?

Hannah: Yes!

David: Was Mo in the room when you changed?

Hannah: No!  Geez Dad.  I borrowed her shirt.

David: Did T "borrow" (air quotes)  a shirt too?  Was his shirt off at any time?

Hannah: No!  

Klepto

This morning David asked Bubba to go take out the trash and the weeping and gnashing of teeth began all over again.  This child does NOT like taking out the trash.  Oh well.  Bubba started hyperventilating that David meant he needed to take out the bathroom trash and flung himself on the couch and started to weep.  So, David added that chore onto his original intent of taking out the kitchen trash.  All this because of last week's bathroom trash incident.

Sometime after the yelling ceased (David) and Bubba disappearing to pick up the trash I walked upstairs to get something.  I find Bubba coming out of his bathroom wearing bright blue nitrile gloves and carrying a garbage bag full of trash.  I started to laugh.

Where'd you get the gloves? I asked.  Bubba shrugged and answered, The orthodontist's office.  

You see my kids have this HORRIBLE habit.  When they walk into any room with a box of gloves, for example a lab, a dentist's office, a hospital room, a doctor's office, they think that they need to stuff a pair in their pocket for later, or better yet, wear them everywhere for the next few hours.  The weirder the glove color, the better.

Bubba, remembering his most recent acquisition at the orthodontist's office on the 20th, happily took out the trash this morning.  David made the comment later that we needed to "get" a box for Bubba for future chores.

Competition

David and I decided that we would try and start getting rid of "stuff" in 2011 and downsizing a bit (which is a complete laugh).  One of our purging kicks this week has been to download ALL of our cd's onto our hard drive and get rid of all 200+ discs.  We NEVER buy discs anymore, we exclusively download from itunes, it's so easy.  So far, we have listed 70 discs and sold approximately 30 ish (things change by the minute).  

David's task is to download everything and mine is to list and ship.  He got the WAY better job, but who is complaining?

My shock is that people actually want this stuff, and they want it on discs!  We are listing every cd ever purchased so there is some great stuff on the listings...Billy Ocean, MC Hammer?, Dire Straits, Robbie Williams (I know! I can't believe I'm getting rid of them), Yanni (thank God!) and the list goes on.  So being the competitive nuts we are, it has become a competition to see who's discs are selling first.  David is claiming that he has/had the better taste and his discs are selling before mine, which they aren't.  

As I see our sales increase I start pitching the idea that we are saving on space if we replace all these discs, all this plastic, with a really nice pair of black leather boots in a  ladies size 10.  He is arguing that we should spend the money on programming books or some other dumb nerdy stuff he needs for work.  We'll see how much the grand total is, maybe we could buy both boots and books.

The bad part?  Suddenly David has rediscovered all this music he hadn't listened to in ages, so every time we are in the car together I'm subjected to such atrocities as Van Halen...John Denver...Milli Vanili...the Carpenter's...and Yanni.   Yes, he is such a girl sometimes.

New Art

I bought this wonderful new print for our bedroom at Metsker's Maps when we were in Seattle over Christmas.  I decided to bite the bullet and take the print to Michael's to be framed, rather than do it myself, and they did a pretty good job.  It fits perfectly over our desk.  

Desk from Klaussner in North Carolina, chair from UNC surplus, lamp from Laura's stash at NET (I seriously do not know how it got here), the bracelet framed in the shadow box was a wedding gift from Mikey that I recently framed myself with a cheap frame from Michael's, phone from Target, and black plague from GiantMicrobes.com.

My Lunch

I ate lunch with my class today.  We were in the lunchroom alone, and all having a grand time when there was a lull in the conversation around the table.  At precisely that moment in time I glanced down the table and saw two boys talking.  And what did I hear?  Two words.  Said rather loudly. One of them said "BIG NIPPLES."

I caught the eye of the blabber mouth, a.k.a. Johnny, and motioned for him to come over to my side.  He ever so slowly got up and, dragging his feet, came and stood next to me.  Johnny arrived, and knowing full well what he said, I asked him what he and his friend were talking about.  "Uh....body parts," he responded.  I asked what words he had used and he told me the two I was searching for.  Confirmation.  I told him that we don't use those words in school and he needed to be careful about sharing words with his friends, (he got in trouble two weeks ago for ASS) and I asked him to stop.  He returned to his seat.

Lunch continued and there was another lull in the conversation when I hear the "V" word from that same end of the table (didn't want the Google backlash with the real word).  Before I could get the child's attention he told his friend, "No you're one," and his friend countered by saying that Johnny was one.  I got up and removed Johnny from the situation before the va-jing-jang popped back into the conversation.

I asked Johnny what he had said this time, and he wouldn't fees up, so I told him that he needed to be silent for the remaining 5 minutes until we got back to class.

When we arrived back at the room I shared with my fellow teacher the events of the last 30 minutes.  And joy of joys, we got to write a note home to tell Johnny's parents the actual words used.  I LOVE writing porn to my parents.

The Cheesecake Story

In my previous life I was a preschool director in North Carolina.  I know you are questioning why I would work in a germ-ridden environment like a preschool, when I am such a germ-a-phobe?  But maybe, this is the reason I have this phobia.  Kids are gross.

One fine day, years into my stint as director, a parent came into school bearing a homemade thank you cheesecake, of which the likes you have never seen.  This was huge for us at school because A. we rarely got good gifts and it was nowhere near Christmas, 2. I knew the cook very well, had been to her house, and trusted her and her cooking completely and C. it was the most beautiful chocolately pan of scrumptious goodness I'd ever seen in my life, and finally 4. I was really freaking  hungry.

I was known at school for my over abundant usage of hand sanitizer and penchant for hygiene. All my staff knew of this craziness and teased me relentlessly, offering me bites of their lunch after licking it in front of me, coughing on spoons before handing them to me or having the grubbiest kid in school hand me the left over birthday cupcake.

The cheesecake walks in.  Gratitude is given, the bearer departs, and drooling commences.  Immediately the staff scatters to find plates and utensils.  We all gather around the pan deciding how to cut this masterpiece of chocolate into equal pieces, when I get called away to the phone.  Upon my return, I see my friend and fellow Mysophobe Mamie, staring at the person cutting the cheesecake in pure horror.  I look around the room and actually, all the teachers and our secretary are staring at this fellow teacher (the cheesecake cutter) in silent horror.

Words cannot describe her actions.  She is in a zone.  She is cutting the cheesecake, picking up the cheesecake WITH HER HANDS, running her index and thumb over the knife to get the left behind cheesecake matter, LICKING HER FINGERS, picking up the crumbs that have fallen onto the sides of the plates with her bare hands, LICKING HER FINGERS, running her fingers around the outside rim of the pan, LICKING HER FINGERS, and the piece d' resistance?  She ran her tongue up the flat side of the knife and cut and plated more pieces, licking fingers or the knife at each use.  She was basically making out without with the knife and getting some form of her saliva over each and every piece.

As each one of us was handed a plate we looked at the others around the room.  Everyone of us walked to the nearest garbage can and immediately threw our plate into the trash and went into the bathroom to wash our hands with boiling water.  Sadly, not one of us except for the cutter, ate the cake.

Strangely, all the "spoon coughing" and "food licking" teasing stopped.

Manipulation

As part of my usual Monday routine, yesterday had me at the physical therapist's office.  Usually (when I have gone for these last 8 sessions) I have shown my therapist, Maryann, my progress in my shoulder exercises then stripped down to my cami and Maryann will squirt ultrasound gel on my back and shoulders and proceed to use a wand to deliver something called e-stim.  

At first the e-stim did nothing.  Progressively it started making my muscles twitch and spasm kind of like I was having an involuntary tremor.  There was never any pain, but sometimes  Maryann would take this somewhat relaxing therapy and nefariously repeatedly run the e-stim wand over a specific muscle in my neck and make me twitch over and over until I thought I was going to need therapy for my therapy.  

Yesterday this all changed.  I demonstrated my exercises, got new exercises that looked completely lame until I tried them (wimp!), then Maryann informed me that my e-stim therapy was over.  As of yesterday she would be switching to a total hands on approach.  Manipulation.  My favorite part of the therapy, the mini massage/nap in the middle of the day part of therapy.  I was stoked.

Maryann asked me to lie on my back on a padded table, she told me to relax and she placed her hands underneath my back to "warm" the areas she was going to manipulate.  Frankly, I fell asleep after that part until who knows how much longer, when she went all voodoo on me.  I stir to find her shifting around to my head and placing her arms under each side of my neck.  I start to dose back off when of the sudden I realize her hair has fallen in my face.

I guess I should describe my therapist at this point.  Maryann is a petite thing in her late 40's, early 50's with stringy Marsha Brady hair, glasses, and a squeaky voice.  She is really nice, but a person that if you had to describe with one word would pick maybe...dowdy.

So Maryann's hair is in my face.  Ewww.   I am petrified to open my eyes because I can tell her face is pretty close to mine and I can feel her breath.  I am suddenly awake and thinking I hope this is going to be over soon when she does the grossest thing ever.  She burps.  Not like Bluto in Animal House or anything, but a nice sweet barely audible ladylike thing.  But her face was right next to mine!  I could smell what she ate for lunch.  I was disgusting. 

I know that burping is no big deal, and I know you all can relate when you think about your child or your spouse burping something supremely nasty in your vicinity, but a stranger?  Only an inch or two from your own mouth?

I am a H*U*G*E germa-phobe.  Someday I will have to share the cheesecake story with you, but I am known for my excessive hand sanitizer usage and not eating anything that someone else (outside my family) made, cut up, served, touched, breathed on, etc.  And Maryann burps in my airspace? Nuh-uh.

Then, after the hair, AND the burp, Maryann does this illegal, climb on to the table behind me and use her whole body to bend me into a pretzel, move.  Foul!  Flag!  It was a little too "Street Fair" for my taste.  Bending, writhing, folding.  I swear I was at the University Street Fair watching the freaks dance.  Which, by the way, is a whole ton of fun.  I just did not wish to be a participant.

After Maryann is done, thank God, she climbs down and proceeds to tell me how stiff (no crap), I was and that I needed to be relaxed for the therapy to be working.  She felt as though I was fighting the process.  Really?  Not for the reasons you are thinking, sweetheart.

I have to go back tomorrow.  I think I'm going to be bringing a face mask.  Too subtle?

My Life Is A Comic Strip

Bubba bounds off the afternoon bus today and excitedly drops a bomb, "That thing...Dad was wrong.  I'm supposed to have it for her by tomorrow."  What??

My brother has a Zits comic strip on the side of his refrigerator.   It reads something along these lines...Jeremy calls to his Mom, "Mom, I need to bring food to my class tomorrow."  



"When did you find out about this?" His mom asks while looking through the cupboard, "I think I have a box of brownies."  



Jeremy responds, "Uh, I got the assignment last month, and I have to bring a native Ecuadorian dish tomorrow."



As soon as Bubba finished his above statement I immediately thought of the comic. 

Let me go back in time to Friday, our snow day.  David was trying to motivate our children to get ahead in their schoolwork and the subject of Bubba's impending Science Fair arose.  David asked when the Fair was and what Bubba's project was.  Bubba had some lame, didn't know his stuff, Logorrhoea that took an hour or so to muck through.  

Basically, he didn't know what in the heck was going on. He couldn't say when the project was due, or what it was.



Back to today.  Bottom line.  Bubba has to come up with a Science Fair idea, execute said idea and have the raw data to his teacher by tomorrow.  He has had weeks to prepare, but he has waited until the last possible second.  

Here is where I want to look at Bubba and say, "What the f***?"  Instead, I say, "Call your Dad."