Peeps, as I type this, you must realize I am not doing this to avoid the oppressive mountain of boxes and mess looming over me in my storage unit/house. No, I am giving you a warning.
When children are in your midst, make them clean out their closets .
Or else one day, their spouses will pay the price. Like me, the spouse will be feeling rather accomplished at his/her work of unpacking, and then your all grown-up child will come home, and announce to his/her spouse, "Hey! I finally cleaned out my closet at my parents' house!"
This is the first statement indicating something is wrong. You shouldn't still have things stashed away at mom and dad's two years after glorious nuptials. At least, I didn't think so. I could be wrong.
Then, he/she says, "I have to unload the whole SUV, be right back."
Wait, what? An entire SUV? Of old toys, "family heirlooms," and instruments? And books? And . . . a WHOLE SUV FULL??? Of old stuff???
This is my evening. As my husband returns to grab the toy chest he missed. Perhaps he's right, perhaps it really won't take up much space. And perhaps our future children will want to turn the broken spear gun into a Star Wars blaster. Perhaps.
And maybe the useless 1500 watt light bulb really is connected to my husband's soul and not a destiny with the trashcan.Perhaps.
Though, I admit, it's an interesting novelty piece. But that's about it.
Had there been any more stuff, I may have submitted him to Hoarders . . . though I doubt he'd make it as he only has a room of odd items and not a whole house. It's not about to go that far. Not on MY watch.
I may have convinced him to throw out an old sling shot.
This could be big news.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to polish his saber to hang over my fireplace . . . or something.
And he just threw a fake spider at me because he knows I'm typing this.
Ha, ha, Chris.
Ha. Ha.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Lil of This, Lil of That
"Lost! lost lost lost!"
"Lost what?"
"I've lost my marbles."
--Toodles and Peter in "Hook"
Thank you, Toodles, for taking the words right out of my mouth.
Good gee and golly.
McDuck . . . well, he's gone to a better place.
No, he's not dead. At least, not that I know of. He was alive and kicking--er, pooping--most adamantly last I saw him.
You see, we found that McDuck spent his time huddled up next to his reflection on any shiny surface, he talked to it, snuggled with it, went into a panic when he couldn't find "Mirror Friend." As cute as he was, it was SAD to see anything that lonely, I mean, he seemed to like me, would follow me on the rare occasion, would shriek protest if I was out of his sight, and if I held him on my lap or on my shoulder (his favorite was to get up as high as he could or huddle under my chin), he seemed happy, but not entirely relaxed. Not like when he was with Mirror Friend. So we decided that he needed real ducks and something bigger than a bathtub and cardboard box in his life.
Oh, and a place where tiger-wanna-be housecats weren't stalking his every move.
And, quite honestly, we needed less poop in our lives. Ducks, you must understand, seem to excrete their body weight in feces every day. And they don't care where they do their dirty duty . . . in fact, they'll walk in it, sit in it . . . eat it.
I'm not even kidding.
I went to clean out McDuck's box, picked him up, and found his little bill ENCRUSTED in his own dung.
Ew.
And then when they take a drink, ducks shake their little faces flinging whatever is in or on their bills EVERYWHERE. Do you really want to know the places I found poop?
No, you do not.
So we gave him to a wildlife rehabilitator. Because wild animals need to go to rehab for an addiction to domestication.
At least, that's how I see it.
It's almost embarrassing.
I've discovered that we have the most eclectic collection: books on cats, hobbits, mythology, anthropology, biology, theology, Creole proverbs, kids books, the works. It's all there. We even have a book on how to battle constipation . . . only because it has the word "Constipation" in the title, and let's face it, that's funny.
The bugs . . . aren't as bad as the recent renter made them seem. I mean they are definitely outside. In the woods. Where they belong. A couple have scuttled inside, only to be met by my fearsome battle cry, "DIE!!! VERMIN!!! DIE!!!!!"
I'm sure I strike terror into the heart-ish organs-ish things of every arachnid and insect in the vicinity.
And, of course, there's always my fearless night in shining armor to squash any many-legged foe.
Especially that one night.
Oh that One. Night.
Remember when I told you about the spider godfather whose web Chris destroyed?
He sent one of his cronies to seek true revenge. Oh, and he found it.
Most people would say it was an unfortunate coincidence, where a creature, seeking warmth, ran into a human who was merciless with misunderstanding.
Bah-LONEY.
Here's how it really went down:
Godfather Spider: Carl [because that was it's name, ok?] I gave you a favor once, helped you out, yes? Now, I'm gonna ask you to repay that favor, show your loyalty to your Don. Can you do that for me, Carl?
Carl: Yes, Don Spider.
Godfather: Good, very good. Make me proud, Carl.
And he sent off Carl to do his dirty work, to see his ultimate revenge on the one who caused the destruction of such beautiful piece of web architecture.
So Carl, big, brown, spindly UGLY Carl, chose his stake-out, a beautiful crocheted quilt in the top shelf of a closet, and he WAITED. Crouched, comfy, all eight eyes peeled for that perfect moment. Then, it happened. Someone moved the quilt, took it down, Carl huddled inside, and brought it to the couch.
I was on the couch, snuggled up, watching some BBC show, and Chris was being chivalrous, trying to keep me warm.
But, in this effort, he was delivering me to my enemy.
You see, a few moments after snuggling under my grandmother's quilt, I felt a tickling on my chest. Hm, odd. I look down, and there is Carl.
Right. There.
In my face, staring at me so calming and coolly. "Hello, Sweetie," he seemed to say, "Meet your doom."
So I screamed . . . well, bellowed. I can't really scream--it's too high-pitched, my natural instincts go against it, despite being a soprano. So, I yell at Carl, impervi
I swipe, scratch, scurry.
Carl moves to my arm.
Swipe, scratch, scurry, AGAIN.
He falls onto the couch cushion and just sits there. So I bellow at him, "AAAAAAAAAH!!!!"
No fear, none.
In the background, I hear Chris say to the phone, "Hang on, I think I need to kill something."
"CHRISTOPHER!!! I WAS MOLESTED BY AN ARACHNID!!! KILL IT!!!!!"
And so Carl the Spider Assassin met his doom
Haha, Carl. Ha. Ha.
"Lost what?"
"I've lost my marbles."
--Toodles and Peter in "Hook"
Thank you, Toodles, for taking the words right out of my mouth.
Good gee and golly.
McDuck
McDuck . . . well, he's gone to a better place.
No, he's not dead. At least, not that I know of. He was alive and kicking--er, pooping--most adamantly last I saw him.
You see, we found that McDuck spent his time huddled up next to his reflection on any shiny surface, he talked to it, snuggled with it, went into a panic when he couldn't find "Mirror Friend." As cute as he was, it was SAD to see anything that lonely, I mean, he seemed to like me, would follow me on the rare occasion, would shriek protest if I was out of his sight, and if I held him on my lap or on my shoulder (his favorite was to get up as high as he could or huddle under my chin), he seemed happy, but not entirely relaxed. Not like when he was with Mirror Friend. So we decided that he needed real ducks and something bigger than a bathtub and cardboard box in his life.
Oh, and a place where tiger-wanna-be housecats weren't stalking his every move.
And, quite honestly, we needed less poop in our lives. Ducks, you must understand, seem to excrete their body weight in feces every day. And they don't care where they do their dirty duty . . . in fact, they'll walk in it, sit in it . . . eat it.
I'm not even kidding.
I went to clean out McDuck's box, picked him up, and found his little bill ENCRUSTED in his own dung.
Ew.
And then when they take a drink, ducks shake their little faces flinging whatever is in or on their bills EVERYWHERE. Do you really want to know the places I found poop?
No, you do not.
So we gave him to a wildlife rehabilitator. Because wild animals need to go to rehab for an addiction to domestication.
At least, that's how I see it.
The Cottage
Oh slowly but surely. Chris and I unpacked most if not all of our books two nights ago. Oh the laughs, oh the joys. I was giddy.It's almost embarrassing.
I've discovered that we have the most eclectic collection: books on cats, hobbits, mythology, anthropology, biology, theology, Creole proverbs, kids books, the works. It's all there. We even have a book on how to battle constipation . . . only because it has the word "Constipation" in the title, and let's face it, that's funny.
The bugs . . . aren't as bad as the recent renter made them seem. I mean they are definitely outside. In the woods. Where they belong. A couple have scuttled inside, only to be met by my fearsome battle cry, "DIE!!! VERMIN!!! DIE!!!!!"
I'm sure I strike terror into the heart-ish organs-ish things of every arachnid and insect in the vicinity.
And, of course, there's always my fearless night in shining armor to squash any many-legged foe.
Especially that one night.
Oh that One. Night.
Carl
Remember when I told you about the spider godfather whose web Chris destroyed?
He sent one of his cronies to seek true revenge. Oh, and he found it.
Most people would say it was an unfortunate coincidence, where a creature, seeking warmth, ran into a human who was merciless with misunderstanding.
Bah-LONEY.
Here's how it really went down:
Godfather Spider: Carl [because that was it's name, ok?] I gave you a favor once, helped you out, yes? Now, I'm gonna ask you to repay that favor, show your loyalty to your Don. Can you do that for me, Carl?
Carl: Yes, Don Spider.
Godfather: Good, very good. Make me proud, Carl.
And he sent off Carl to do his dirty work, to see his ultimate revenge on the one who caused the destruction of such beautiful piece of web architecture.
So Carl, big, brown, spindly UGLY Carl, chose his stake-out, a beautiful crocheted quilt in the top shelf of a closet, and he WAITED. Crouched, comfy, all eight eyes peeled for that perfect moment. Then, it happened. Someone moved the quilt, took it down, Carl huddled inside, and brought it to the couch.
I was on the couch, snuggled up, watching some BBC show, and Chris was being chivalrous, trying to keep me warm.
But, in this effort, he was delivering me to my enemy.
You see, a few moments after snuggling under my grandmother's quilt, I felt a tickling on my chest. Hm, odd. I look down, and there is Carl.
Right. There.
In my face, staring at me so calming and coolly. "Hello, Sweetie," he seemed to say, "Meet your doom."
So I screamed . . . well, bellowed. I can't really scream--it's too high-pitched, my natural instincts go against it, despite being a soprano. So, I yell at Carl, impervi
I swipe, scratch, scurry.
Carl moves to my arm.
Swipe, scratch, scurry, AGAIN.
He falls onto the couch cushion and just sits there. So I bellow at him, "AAAAAAAAAH!!!!"
No fear, none.
In the background, I hear Chris say to the phone, "Hang on, I think I need to kill something."
"CHRISTOPHER!!! I WAS MOLESTED BY AN ARACHNID!!! KILL IT!!!!!"
And so Carl the Spider Assassin met his doom
Haha, Carl. Ha. Ha.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Not Dead Yet
Good grief and golly.
It's been a week. A whole bloody week. Wow. I'm so sorry.
The good news is, I'm not dead. Nope, not even close.
But, I am exhausted.
A preview of things to come:
There will be a real post before you know it, but for now . . . This is the best my tired, over-thinking little brain can squeeze out.
Have a great week!
It's been a week. A whole bloody week. Wow. I'm so sorry.
The good news is, I'm not dead. Nope, not even close.
But, I am exhausted.
A preview of things to come:
- Comments for you!First off, thank you thank you thank you for your comments. You all are awesome! I will comment back on your pages ASAP--we've only JUST hooked up our internet and I am swamped with back to school projects at the moment.
I have 76 unread posts in Google Reader from you lovely folks. Good gee and golly. Yay for happy reading! - Cottage Updates
We've done it.
We are living in a little house in the woods.
And we love it.
Well, except for the bugs. More on that later.
The place currently looks like a storage unit with all the boxes, but, as SOON as we have the place in order, pictures will be up, I promise :] - McDuck
Yes, we have named the duckling. To make things better, he's named after a classic Disney character from one of my favorite childhood cartoons. (They just don't make shows like this any more and it's a crying shame)
Because he spends every night huddled against his reflection (aka "Mirror Friend") we are going to bring him to an animal rescue home with other ducks. He needs his own kind. At some point. We've been saying that for a week . . . and still, I come home from work and am greeted by an outcry of "PEEP! PEEP!! PEEP!!!PEEEP!!! LOVE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
And I DO love him. :]
Poopy, peeping little thing. - Hear me now?
My old phone made an untimely semi-death . . . so now I've joined the Smart Phone revolution. I'm not sure I like the fact that my phone is smarter than I am, but I'm loving Angry Birds.
Yeah, I'm a total sell-out.
In other news, the hubs does not adjust to change quite as quickly or easily as he had believed. - It's that time of year again . . .
I am two days through my three days of teacher orientation. Then a week off. The following week, orientations for parents and students. AND THEN SCHOOL!!! AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!
Yeah, I think a stress-scream session and ice-cream indulgence is soon in the works.
There will be a real post before you know it, but for now . . . This is the best my tired, over-thinking little brain can squeeze out.
Have a great week!
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