All washed up!

As I sit surrounded by 8 piles of laundry sorted into nice, neat loads (No. I am not exaggerating. I wish I were.), I am reminded of all the things that I have actually washed and dried in my good old Kenmores.

Things that have survived a trip through the washer and dryer . . .

A tube of Chapstick
My Sam's card
A barrette
My credit card (Yes. It still worked . . . unfortunately for me!)
paperclips
money (Both bills and change. Actually, the bills come out all nice and hot and crisp. If I was OCD, I would probably do this for all of my money.)
A beer bottle cap
Hairbands
Kiddie shoes
A nail file
A tape measure
Rocks from the yard

Things that have bit the dust in my washer or dryer . . .

A Crayola washable marker (Ha!)
Assorted crayons. . . (The washer was no problem, but getting the melted crayon wax off the inner dryer drum was maddening!)
A Buzz Lightyear figurine
My lip gloss
A paycheck
My cell phone (Special thanks goes to Ethan on that one!)
A Pamper ( One that started out clean thank goodness!)
Cat food
Gum (I wanted to shoot myself on that one.)


And now, I guess I just want to know . . . Am I the only one that this happens to? Have you all washed and dried crazy things too??

Just asking.

An Open Letter to the Girl Scout

Dear Girl Scout,

I have you figured out!

You dress in your adorable uniform, you approach me with your smiling toothless grin, and you know.

You know.

Yes, you know very well that I will be unable to resist your little girl charms. I will inevitably buy a box or seven, just because you are cute. Forget about the fact that the Thin Mints are delish, and the Samoas taste di-vine crumbled up on vanilla ice cream. When you approach me with that box of cookies, and ask for my help, I will be transported back to when I was a girl scout (before I quit because they wouldn't let me tent camp like the boys). I will remember how hard it was for me to approach an adult and hock my baked goods. And when that memory comes rushing back, I am a goner.

And you know it.

You can smell the sale like a dog can smell fear.

I am but a victim in your entrepreneurial endeavors, and frankly, I may as well just set up a direct deposit into your cookie bank account.

I am that much of a lock.

So, please forgive me if I advert my eyes from your eager gaze. And, please don't take offense when I close the curtains and hide in the dark as you ring my bell. I am doing it for my own good.

And while you may not thank me for it, my ass will.

Sincerely,
A drop out scout,
Annie

Wednesday's Confessions on Thursday

Ok. OK.

Cut me some slack.

Although I wanted to get my Wednesday's confessional up and running, I decided to help my hubby grout the tile in the kitchen.

I'm good like that . . . sometimes.

Trust me when I say that I would much rather have been blogging. There is a reason that tile layers make good money. Honestly, the job stinks. Badly.

So, I will instead do a Wednesday confessional on Thursday, and no, I do not feel guilty about it.

Onto the therapy . . .

I confess that I watch Disney's Phineas and Ferb with my kiddies. As far as cartoons go, it is pretty hilarious, and I find myself laughing and laughing. I know. I know. Pathetic, but true.

I confess that I am tickled that I am taking all three kiddies to Florida in a few weeks. We will be visiting the Mouse's House and also my parents. I am the most excited, though, to see the sun! Whoooooeeee!

I confess that I am a little psycho, because I am taking all three kids on this trip without my hubby. He has to stay and work, which is, of course, the easier job. I, however, will be able to go outdoors without having to spend 20 minutes bundling myself or the kids, so, in my estimation, it is worth it.

I confess that upon learning that I would be going to FL, I checked out my naked reflection after my shower in the bathroom mirror. Pasty-whitish olivey skin tone is not pretty in January. Not pretty. I read somewhere that untanned skin is like raw bacon, unappealing and unappetizing. But once that bacon (or that skin) gets nice and browned . . . ummmm delicious!

I confess that after witnessing my albino state, screaming in horror, and then composing myself, I actually contemplated going to a tanning salon for a fake bake. And, even though the thought of tanned skin makes me warm and happy, I thought better of tempting the skin cancer gods and DID NOT make the appointment.

I confess that I DID make a pedicure appointment. These feet need all the help that they can get. At some point, I may reveal these tootsies to you. They are not pretty feet by any means, my friends. Nope! Not at all. In fact, my second toe is quite a bit longer than my big toe. This in itself is not that big of a deal, but hubby likes to compare my second toe to ET's index finger. You know the one that he points to the sky and says, "ET phone home!" That one. Yep, that's my toe, and although a pedicure helps . . . it is not a cure for its ugliness.

I confess that I found some Christmas decorations still adorning my hallway. And, I confess that upon realizing that I left the decor up, I decided to leave them there. I am too slack to go find the correct rubbermaid tub that they are supposed to go into.

And with that . . . I feel much better!

******While blog hopping, I found another person that does confessions. I linked up and grabbed her button too. Go check her out at Glamazon Mom!

Post IT 1/26

It's Tuesday and I am in Post It mode. Hop on over to Supah Mommy if you want to play along.

Don't forget to stop by tomorrow . . . I'm confessing!

Happy Tuesday!

My Hero, The Bee Killer

My hubs is great at lots of things. He has single handedly built a basement recreation room in this old house. He is completely remodeling our out of date kitchen. He is a mean poker player, an intense coach, and a playful daddy. What can I say? The man wears many hats.

But, exterminator is not one of them.

Several summers ago, hubs and I noticed that there were an abnormal number of bees swarming around our front yard. At first, I thought it was due to my fabulous gardening skills, but when I realized that the only two flowering plants that I had planted were, in fact, dead, I knew that something was up. (I'm smart like that!) Anyway, when hubby located a bee's nest in the ground close to our front door, the war was on.

So, one afternoon, while I was parked in the rocking chair in the living room with a heavily sleeping infant on my lap, hubby decided to take care of the problem. I remember thinking, "This is the life. A sleeping baby. A peaceful day. A working husband. What could be better?" When I gazed out my living room window, my bubble was instantly burst.

Hubs was outside in his normal yard work garb. In his hand was a large, red gas can. It looked like the gas can that you would use to put a few gallons in your car if you ran out of gas. Yes, that one. I watched as he systematically walked that gas can over to the bee's nest and then unscrewed the cap. He lifted the can with both hands, and then, he began to pour it directly into the bee's hole.

"Wow," I thought. "I didn't realize that you could poison bees with gasoline. Hubs is so smart!"

But my man didn't just stop at an average gasoline poisoning. Nope. He just poured and poured until all of that gas in the can was almost gone. I giggled a bit at his tendency to overdo it, but, hey, at least the bees would be bye- bye. When he was done, he gathered his materials and then he disappeared around the back of the house.

As I rocked and mentally patted myself on the back for catching such a smart hubs, I watched as he emerged from the backyard. He slowly walked over to the bee hole. I assumed, naturally, that he was inspecting his extermination skills.

He was not.

Instead, hubby peeked down the hole, stood back up, reached into his back pocket and and took out a match.

Yes, it was then that I realized that hubs planned to BBQ the bees. The only problem was that I had just watched him pour at least 3 gallons of gas in their nest. This was obviously, not. a. good. plan.

Duh!

I leaped up from the rocker and ran to the front door. I hurled it open, and yelled at the top of my lungs," Honey! Nooooooooo!"

But it was too late. The match was lit and it was cartwheeling from hubby's hand to the ground below. That 3 foot fall seemed like it took forever, but when that match hit that nest, the explosion was instantaneous.

A pillar of fire roared from the ground to well above hubby's head. It was about a foot in diameter and at least 7 feet high. It looked like there was a homecoming bonfire in my front yard.

I was horrified.

But, when I looked over at hubs, I noticed he was standing with his arms across his chest. His head was held high, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

"Paul! We need to call the fire department!" I screeched.

He just laughed and said, "C'mon Annie. Relax. We don't need the fire department. I'll go get the hose in a minute."

"A minute?" I thought in a panic. Did this man not see that our yard was in flames? Did he not watch the Smokey the Bear commercials of our youth? What was wrong with him???

Sensing my urge to call the authorities, hubby shook his head, trotted off to the side of the house and emerged with the hose. He took his time, but eventually, he started to douse the fire and slowly, I began to relax.

When there were only embers left, I could contain myself no more. "What were you thinking?" I yelled. ""You must have poured 3 gallons of gas on that hive. You could have killed yourself!" I was really just warming up, but he stopped me.

"Annie. You are missing the point," he said calmly.

"Ok," I conceded. "So what is the point?"

"The bees. They're dead! Isn't that great!" It was if he was a caveman and was boasting about his kill. He could have just as easily said, "Me caveman. Me make fire. Me kill bees," all the while grunting and scratching. I wouldn't have looked at him with any more disbelief.

"Yes. You certainly killed the bees. They are dead, really dead. They are as dead as they could possibly be." The sarcasm dripped from my words, but hubs was too proud to notice.

"I know. Wasn't it great?"

Men.

You gotta love 'em.

****I am linking this to Travis' Memoir Monday. He is over at I Like to Fish and he is a stinking riot! I would bet that he would have probably poured 5 gallons of gasoline on his bee hive. Just sayin'.

Hubs and a Saw, Not Necessarily a Good Combo

As I sit here on a particularly grey afternoon, stuck in my dining room, amid my displaced refrigerator and stove, as hubs installs my kitchen floor tile, I am reminded of a few things.

A) Hubs is hot when he is doing manual labor all for me.

B) Kiddies are crazy when they are confined inside because of bad weather, but they are particularly crazy when they are confined to only the living room because access to the basement playroom is blocked.

C) Mommy needs a drink tonight. In. A. Bad. Way.

Remodeling with three kids in the dead of winter will do that to you.

So, each time hubby goes out to use the wet saw, I say a little prayer, especially after the "accident" last year. In honor of that special, special time, I thought a re-post was in order. Enjoy!

Left . . . Without Words

April 1, 2009

Aaaaaaannnnnie!!!!!"

The yell emanated from the basement where Hubby was doing some finishing remodeling work. No honey. No sweetie. Just my first name, at the top of his lungs. This could not be good. Either something had happened to him, or he just found my last receipt from the outlet mall. Like I said, not good! So, I expected the worst as I waited for him to trudge up into the kitchen.

You see, the basement remodel has become somewhat of an albatross for the family. When we started the construction, our basement resembled a Silence of the Lambs cellar. If you closed you eyes, you could imagine that blonde weirdo murmuring, "She puts the lotion on her skin . . . and . . .then she places it in the bucket." Creepy, to say the least. So, when it came to home improvement projects, I started Hubby on that scary basement first. I needed a pretty place for the kiddies to play during the frozen months of a Midwest winter. He assured me that it would be no problem. During the planning and measuring stages, Hubby and a friend actually even said to me, with a straight face, "Oh yeah. We can knock this out in a weekend." And, me, being the naive, hopeful person that I am, believed them. Ha! That was on Labor Day of 2008. Let's just say it has been one loooooooong weekend.

Anyway, Paul arrived, face ashen, in the kitchen with his left hand wrapped in paper towels. His right hand clung tightly to those towels, but even through his vice-like grip, I could see the blood coloring the towels red.

"What happened Paul?"

Gravely, he said, "I cut myself with the table saw."

I tried to stay calm as he paced back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. Visions of ER reruns were flying through my head, and I hoped that I would not have to view anything that grisly. "How bad?" were the only words I could muster.

"Well, I don't know. I haven't looked yet. I need you to."

Dear Lord, I prayed silently . . . please contain my gag reflex for the next few moments. Puke could only make this situation worse. Thanks.

So, I bravely, stood next to him as he unwrapped his mangled, left, index finger. And all I can say is, I am glad that God was with me. The best word that I can use to describe Hubby's finger was shredded. Like I said, not good.

While I did my best with neon blue band-aids, I calmly tried to do the impossible . . . get Paul to a doctor. "Hon, I really think that you should have that looked at. "

"Nah. It's not bad," he said as he helped wrap the fourth band-aid around the mess.

I raised my right eyebrow and stared at him. What??? His finger looked a bit like ground beef, but, it wasn't that bad? He reminded me of that Monty Python knight. The one that after having his arm completely severed remarks, " 'Tis just a flesh wound." Ridiculous. I half expected to see men clapping coconuts together galloping through my living room.

"Paul. Really. This. Could. Be. Bad." I tried to slow down my words in the hopes that a change in pace would confuse him into agreeing.

It half-worked.

He went to see the school athletic trainer, a man we lovingly refer to as Doc. A man, and this needs no saying, that Ethan believes is his actual, M.D. doctor. Doc cleaned and patched him up, and now he sports a huge mass of gauze and tape on his left, index finger.

And, therein lies the rub.

"Annie, you think that I can golf with this thing tomorrow?"

"Hmmmm. I don't know. Maybe you'll have to give it up this week," I replied. Inside, I was a little giddy at the prospect of having him home on a Thursday night, instead of starting up his golf league.

He took a couple of practice swings and pronounced, "Yeah, I should be OK." I grimaced while he reflected, "You know, that was the first thing that went through my mind when I cut it."

Not understanding him, I said, "What was?"

"Golf tomorrow."

"Golf tomorrow," I said incredulously. "Golf tomorrow was the first thing that you thought about? Not about losing your finger, or being maimed, or . . . or . . . pain?!?"

"Yep. Golf."

Incredible.

"Well, what was the second?" I countered.

He paused and wiggled his bandaged finger at me. "My left finger."

Not getting it, I repeated, "Your left finger?"

"Yaaa-esssss. My left finger."

I said nothing and waited.

He smiled and said, "It's my wing hand. How am I supposed to eat wings?"

So, hubby gets injured and his first thoughts are about golf and wings.

Nice.

And then he left me with this tidbit that belongs in the Hubby Hall of Fame, "At least it is not my right index finger. I would never be able to pull down my pants when I need to go the bathroom."

Lovely mental picture.

What can I say? I love my guy.

He makes me laugh . . . even when he doesn't try.

Author's note: (If this makes no sense, please read On a Wing and A Prayer, an earlier March post, and all will become crystal. Clear, that is.)

A Return to the Foundation of Evil

In honor of the fact that I currently have a safety pin holding my last good bra together (I know. I know.  Not a pretty picture!), I present you with this gem from my bloggy past.

Men: fair warning.  This may be Too Much Information.  You may never be able to look at your secret stash of Victoria's Secret catalogs in the same way after reading this. (Yes.  We know that you have them.  And no.  We really don't care.) 

Women:  I am fairly sure that you will identify with this post, unless, of course, you are shaped like Kate Moss.  In that case, just know that the rest of us hate you just a little bit.

The Foundation of Evil

There comes a time in a woman's life when a bra is no longer a bra.

At some point, it becomes a foundation garment.  

Now, I am not exactly sure when this transformation occurred to me.  I am guessing it happened sometime between kiddies one, two or three.  You know, when my bra size changed with every hot fudge sundae I fed the "baby."  Or maybe it was when I nursed my babies every hour on the hour through a growth spurt, when it seemed that the only thing that actually grew was the size of my bra and not the baby.  It could have been when my hubby used to place my nursing bra on his head as a warped ball cap. Who knows?  I'm really not sure when it happened.  I just know that while my boobs were working boobs, I admired my voluptuous self in the mirror, never realizing that I, in essence, was building my house on a platte of sand.  I had created my very own shaky foundation.  Congratulations to me! 

 Aaaah.  Hindsight.  It makes me want to poke my eyes out.

So at some point, my body has become like a before episode of This Old House. And the project for the episode?  Fixing my crumbling, sagging,  and drooping foundation.  Bob Vila knows a failing foundation is serious business, and consequently, he always calls in the heavy artillery.  There are forklifts, cranes, and steel reinforcement beams all in the name of fixing my support system.  It is not a pretty sight, my friends.  Not pretty.

But, then again, neither is the sight of a  true "foundation garment."   Foundation garments are not the ones that are prettily displayed on the size 2 mannequin in the lingerie department.  No, that would scare away the customers.  Instead, the foundation garments can be found waaaaaay in the back of the lingerie department.  Back where the lighting is just a bit off.  Where the management figures a few shadows in the dressing room mirror could only help their sales.  There.  The foundation garments are located in lingerie no man's land.  It is a sad, sad fate for them.

The foundation garments are the ones that are glaringly white.  Not because the material is particularly bleached to that hue, but because the sheer amount of material necessary to construct just one foundation garment is enough to reflect the fluorescent lights above directly into the shopper's eye.  Yes, you would do well to wear your shades while support shopping.  It will help with the blinding glare that angers your eyes, and it will also help to disguise the fact that it is you, in fact, that need a foundation garment for yourself. 

Once you determine that you are in the correct section, you will notice that each and every foundation garment resembles a high tech straight jacket.  There are rows upon rows of hooks and eyes, enough to make any inexperienced teenage male break into a sweat.  There is reinforced stitching, reinforced cups, and reinforced straps, all used in an effort to force your sagging bosom into submission.  There are mechanisms that can lift you up, push you out, or if you prefer, smash you down.  Your choice depends on your particular foundation problem.  Basically, when a sales person recommends a foundation garment, he or she is really saying, "Go get a harness!  That's about the only thing that will shore these girls up!"  A sobering thought, at the least.

So, when on a recent shopping trip, the sales lady smiled at me and recommended,  "Honey, you should try a more substantial foundation garment for superior support."

I knew what she was really saying.

Good-bye bra.  Hello harness.

And to that I say, to hell with the kiddies' college fund . . .

 I need the money for my plastic surgery.

Photo Confession Wednesday

Just to spice things up, 

because, I love spice, you know, even if my ulcer does not, 

I thought that being that it is my confession Wednesday,  I would partake of my confessional with photos from my everyday, ho hum, crazy life.  I must, however, warn you.  These are un-retouched photos and real life confessions.  

I am sure only the brave will read on . . .

I confess that although I did not burn the garlic bread the other night at dinner, I did burn the cookies that I baked on Tuesday.  The burned cookie effect was made that much worse by the fact that I baked the cookies on the unwashed garlic bread pan.  Burned, garlic, sugar cookies.  Yumm.  I secretly think that God is trying to tell me to limit my sweets. ( He's sneaky like that sometimes.)

I confess that for the better part of the day, I have been letting the dishes in my sink pile up in the hopes that hubby will get home and wash them for me.  (I know.  I know.  Slack.  What can I say?  It's true.  I hate dishes.  Not as much as laundry . . . but that's another post.)

I confess that this hole has been in my soffit for at least 3 weeks.  Hubs and I were trying to determine if there were pipes or wires running in the soffit.  After finding out there were no pipes or wires, the next step should have been to remove the cabinets and then knock the soffit down.   We have not proceeded to the next step, however, instead, there is a gigantic hole to nowhere in my kitchen. 

 Sigh.  

I confess that I am beginning to think that this remodel will never be done.

I confess that hubs and I told the kids we found a petrified rat in the soffit hole in order to keep their curiosity at bay. (And also to mess with them, just a bit.  We're good parents like that.)

I confess that I picked at the zit on my face until it became the present day crater that it is.  I have a hard time leaving zits alone.  If it's there, I will pick and pop until it begs for mercy.  With pimples, it's war, and I am ruthless.  Be afraid!  Be very afraid.

I confess that after not seeing the sun for 3 days in a row, I have allowed my children to turn the living room into a bounce house of sorts where all of the cushions are off of the couch.  The kids are taking turns jumping into the teetering mound and roaring with laughter.

I confess that after witnessing their fun, I belly flopped into the pillows myself.  It was a blast, and then we all were hysterical with laughter.

I confess that in said laugh fit, I peed my pant a little.

I confess that when I realized I leaked pee, I laughed even harder, thereby releasing more pee.

I confess that I do not have a picture of my wet pants.  ( Really, you didn't want to see that, did you?  Right.  You're welcome.)

I confess . . . I feel loads better!

Happy Wednesday.

Post It 1/19

I just baked cookies on a pan I used for garlic bread last night.

Yuck.

Garlic cookies.

I have reached a new cooking low point.

So, while I go gargle a bottle of Listerine, I will leave you with my short but sweet Post It Tuesday.  Hop on over to Supah Mommy and check out some more post its!

Dear God, It's Me . . . Annie

Dear God,

It's me.  Annie.

I realize that you only give people what they can handle.  But seriously, after my day yesterday, I am beginning to think that you hold me in high regard.  Thank you, sincerely, thank you  for the flattery, but I have a question for you.  Do you think that I am a superstar or something?  Is it possible that maybe, just maybe, you may have me confused with someone else? Someone who has buckets of patience, for instance.  Just asking.

Yesterday, when Ellerie decided to run around the house in her usual birthday suit, I was OK.  I was even OK when she colored all over her naked body with a blue sharpie marker that she found in her sister's school supplies. (By the way, blue is definitely her color. ) When she peed on the floor two times instead of in her designated potty, I didn't bristle.  I just looked at it as an opportunity to shine my floors.  But, when she tried to stick a carrot from the refrigerator on her, you know . . . hoo-ha,  and then said, "Wook mom!  It's cold!"  that, that put me over the edge. ( I suppose it could have been worse, though.  At least she didn't channel Linda Blair.)

So, dear God, I am writing to let you know that I can not handle a daughter that has a future in Girls Gone Wild videos.  I am a strong woman, but not that strong.

In the future, please direct my little angel to keep her veggies on her plate, where they belong.  I will continue to do my part to keep her in clothes.

Thanks.

Annie

Confession Wednesday 1/13

Bless me my bloggy friends.  It has been 1 month (gasp!) since my last Confession Wednesday post.  Since I am obviously wracked with guilt from all of my impure thoughts. . . onto my free therapy.

I confess that in order to keep my layer of fat healthy to survive the winter with no end, I ate sweetened condensed milk straight out of the can.  No.  I am not kidding.  I just opened up the can and dug right in with my spoon.  I won't say that it was pretty,  but, it was yummy  . . .and sweet . . . and delicious.  It was especially good on pretzels, too.  You know that salty, sweet combo can't be beat! (And if you have not ever tried this fine confection, go get yourself to the nearest store, buy a can of the Eagle brand sweetened condensed milk, and then you can commence eating yourself happy.  I know.  I know.  You are welcome.)

I confess that rather than resorting to sitting on my two year old to get her clothed, I allowed Ellerie to wear her princess pajama top for two days in a row.  Night. Day. Night. Day. Again.  By the end of the wearing, Snow White looked a bit tanned from the hot chocolate spilled on her, and Cinderella definitely looked like her before pic. . . minus the birds and mice mulling around.  No matter.  Ellerie had clothes on and frankly, in my world, that is what mattered.

I confess that I have been systematically pulling hubby's dirty clothes out of the shared dirty laundry pile.  No.  I don't want him to go to work with a rank aroma.  And, no.  I am not trying to teach him a lesson. (Although I should after he recently tried to "help" with the laundry and washed a few loads with fabric softener instead of detergent!)  I am actually trying to conduct an informal science experiment.  I am trying to prove that the majority of my mountain of laundry is made by hubs himself.  He, of course, seems to disagree.  We'll see who wins when he is out of clean socks.  

I confess that if my daughter auditioned for American Idol and she sounded like a cat having sex, I would be the first person to put her out of her misery.  Mothers everywhere, listen up! You should be ashamed of yourselves for letting your babies think that they can actually sing. Isn't your job as a mother to periodically dash the hopes and dreams of your offspring thereby causing them to go to therapy?  Hmmmm???  By shirking your motherly duties, you have now hurt people's hearing across the nation.  Fortunately, it hurts so good, as bad singing makes for great TV.

I confess that I did not brush my hair at all yesterday.

I confess that I love my short hair do.

I confess that I hate the gray hairs that are popping up everywhere, despite my recent trip to the hair salon for color.  I confess that I am still armed with my trusty sharpie marker for just such hair related emergencies, and I will use it at will to keep those gray hairs at bay.  

I confess that I am fighting off an overwhelming urge to visit my local Krispie Kreme.  The store owners must have sensed my burning desire as they had the Hot Now sign lit up in red neon.  They obviously are the devil's spawn.

And with that, dear friends, I am off.  

By the way, would you like to link up your own confessions?  Let me know in the comments if this is something that you would like to do, otherwise,  I confess I have no desire to figure out how to set up a MckLinky.

Happy Wednesday!

Post It 1/12

It's Tuesday.

It's cold.  Again.  

It has snowed overnight.  Again.

The sky is a pale shade of gray.  Again.

I swear,  I feel like I am stuck in the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, except there is no quirky and funny leading man. (That and I could never be Andie McDowell.  Sooooo beautiful!  And when she costarred with Hugh Grant in Four Weddings?!?  Loved, loved, loved her!  Alas, I digress.) Nope.  Around here, there is only a two year old that refuses to wear clothing, a kitchen remodel that is stuck in neutral, and the feeling that I need to hibernate until this winter is over.

So, in honor of my general laziness and boredom, I have prepared a Post It Tuesday for you. ( I know.  I know.  Sometimes I am good like that and I can read your mind! ) I just know that you, like me, needed a short and sweet (and slack) post today, so here you go.  You can thank me later.

If you are in the mood for more Post It fun, hop on over to Supah Mommy's blog.  She is a riot!

Snow Day Thoughts

It is 19 degree and snowing heavily outside.

The kiddies are watching a movie.

The washer and dryer are humming.

The house is cozy and warm.

Does anyone else out there feel like eating his or her weight in chips?

Or is it just me???

Following My Bliss . . .

I have been reading about Blissdom, the blogging conference, on many of your blogs and posts.  It is a conference for bloggers  on February 5-7 in Nashville, TN.  Like any other conference, Blissdom has speakers and workshops, but unlike other conferences, these conferences and workshops center around blogging and writing and the like.  Cool, huh?  

I think so.

And the name, Blissdom, is supposed to be an encouragement to follow your own bliss, an idea that I agree with wholeheartedly.  I absolutely think that a person should do what makes his or her heart happy.  But (And isn't there always a but?), here's my dilemma.

I love to blog.  I love to write and to connect to all of you out there in bloggy world.  I do believe that this writing thing IS my bliss to follow.

But . . . 

How do you follow your bliss when your bliss is not in your budget?

Yes, as much as I would like to attend Blissdom,  I really can't justify spending money for the conference, hotel, travel, and food and entertainment.  It could (and probably would) be well over $500 dollars.

Eek!

In our family budget, five hundred dollars is a lot!  It is the equivalent of a month's worth of groceries or a car payment and insurance payment put together.

A lot.

And that is what makes it so hard for me.  I wish I could say that I had a strong faith and that I knew that God would provide for me if I decided to go for my bliss, but I can't.  I struggle with my faith daily.  My relationship with God is something that I am constantly working on.  It is a journey for me.  

And on the map of my long journey, I am not yet at the exit that says, "Close your eyes and leap."  Instead, I am stuck in a traffic jam in Doubtsville.

Truthfully, if it comes down to choosing a weekend to explore my writing and blogging OR groceries for my family, I will pick feeding my family every time. 

But,  I wish I had the faith to just close my eyes, and take that leap.

Thanks for letting me vent.

Potty - The Before and . . .After!

 I have been talking and talking about all this renovation that I have been doing, but I haven't let you in on it.  (Just call me a tease!) Anyway,  I am sure that you are quite sick of it.

I am. 

The kitchen is coming along, slowly, s o  s l o w l y, but I am trying to focus my energies on the facts that . . . 1.  We are doing this ourselves.  2.  We are paying cash for the remodel as we go.  (Just say no to debt!) and 3.  Because we are taking our time, we are doing things correctly.   All of these add days and days to our timeline, but it is slowly coming together.  

So, the kitchen remodel is adding to my insanity.  That is a given.  But lest you think that the kitchen is my only crazy project, I will let you in on a little secret.  I usually have several home improvement projects going at one time.  The more projects at one time, the merrier I say!  (I know.  I know.  I am nuts.  3 kids.  The dead of winter.  Hubby coaching basketball AND  remodeling?  Geez!  It even sounds crazy to me.)

My latest project was my first floor half bath.  It is off the kitchen, and when we bought the house, it was painted a shade of hospital-like green.  

Lovely, yes?

Ummmmmm.  No.

Not lovely!  Hideous old linoleum.  Potty chair (Did I mention I am also potty training?  Ellerie!  Not me.)  Pukey walls.

Just not pretty.

Not pretty, my friends.

One day while reading out in bloggy world, I read a post about using black in small spaces, like perhaps a kitchen, on The Inspired Room.  Immediately, I thought about my green bathroom.  So, one day while hubby was at work, I started painting.  Black.  I loved it, but it was even a bit too much for me.  I convinced hubs to install some beadboard and some leftover flooring and  . . .

Voila!

Pretty bathroom!

Now, it still needs a pretty towel and a few finishing touches, but it is loads better!  It was cheap too.  The floor was leftover from a project last year.  I already had the black and the white paint, so that was free.  I did buy 2 new knobs at 2.50 each and the rug that I got on sale at Kohl's on the clearance rack.  I think it may have been $15.  The material for the top of the window was leftover from my dining room window treatments.  The bead board was $20 at the Home Depot.  So, my total was around $40 bucks.  Not bad for a new bathroom!

Whenever I see it during the day, it makes me smile.  And, that my friends, is totally worth $40!

I am linking this post to Kimba's DIY day and to the Thrifty Decor Chick's Before and After Party.  Hop on over to check out some really cool projects that can make your life a bit crazier too!

Monday Morning Blues

Monday, January 4th- Kids back to school!!!!

My morning . . .

4:30 Wake up and can't get back to sleep, because I am thinking of all the things that I have to do today.

6:30 Finally back to sleep. 

7:00 Out of bed.  7 degrees outside.  Curse the fact that I no longer live in FL.

7:05 First coffee.  Goes down without my tasting it.  Just trying to get warm.

7:07 Second coffee and a leftover Krispy Kreme.  Beginning to wake up.

7:08 On couch with Christmas snuggie from hubby.  Watch dvr'ed Holmes on Homes.

7:10  Consider the fact that home improvement guys (that know what they are doing) are a huge turn on.  Seriously? Ty Pennington is a super hottie.

7:30 Abbie up.  Write and address bills for the beginning of the month.

7:45 Make Abbie's lunch.

7:50 El up.

8:00 Help Ab get ready for school.  Change a diaper.  Curse the fact that El is not potty trained yet.  Wake up E.

8:05  Put on a bra. Realize that no one would notice if I did not wear one, as I am not even getting out of the car, but know that I can not stand loose, floppy boobs as I run out to the cold car.  Pull warm ups on over my pj  bottoms and a sweat shirt over my pj top.  Hope for a shower later.

8:10  Warm up frozen car.  Notice that I am 3,000 miles past my last oil change.  Wonder at the fact that the car even started.  10 degrees outside.

8:25 Load up the car with kiddies that can't put their arms down because of their immense snow gear.  Drive Ab to school.

8:34  Arrive home.  Unload.  Feed El and E breakfast.  Help them get dressed for the day.

8:40 Change poopie diaper.  Look for my coffee cup that I have misplaced.  

8:50  Finally go to the bathroom.  Alone.  (Whooeee!)  Brush teeth.  Feel thankful that my short haircut looks OK after I have slept on it for an entire night.

9:00 Load up car AGAIN.  Drive E to school. 

9:10  Drive thru coffee at Caribou Coffee.  Hello Cafe Mocha!  Celebrate the fact that I am down 2 kiddies for morning errands.

9:15 Bank.

9:20 Gas

9:30 Post office.

9:40 Sam's club.  Realize that I am not a business member of Sam's and can not get into the actual store until 10am.  Curse Mr. Walton.

9:55  Change plans and go to Lowes.  Check out clearance appliances for the kitchen remodel.  Find none, but see that they are having a super deal on carpeting.  Wonder if we should get carpeting NOW instead of waiting, as planned.

10:15  Back to Sam's.  Pay a bill and then order new contacts at the eye center.  El plays with the sunglass display.  Notice that she doesn't really match, and her hair is now sticking straight up in the back from rubbing it against her car seat.

10:45  Venture to Jiffy Lube for a much needed oil change.  Get talked into a tire rotation, but in turn, convince them to give me $10 off the service because I left my $10 coupon at home.

11:15  Realize that Jiffy Lube is not necessarily that jiffy.  Wonder if they need the industrial strength vacuum to suck up all of the stray french fries underneath Ellerie's seat.

11:30 Pick up Ethan.

11:35 Home to make lunch.

11:40  Find my missing coffee cup in the pantry.

And how was your morning?