Remember when I said Apartment Therapy had the most critical readers?  Well, it turns out readers of their children’s publication, Ohdeedoh, are far more friendly.  Sarah Rae Trover kindly featured my RED SHARPIE OF DEATH incident on Ohdeedoh and no one mentioned my disaster of a living room!  (Thank you, Sarah Rae!)  Of course, it could be that the Sharpie all over my sofa and chair drew the eye away from the clutter, but still.  You don’t even know how happy I was no one asked why I had sunscreen next to a box of kleenex on my secretary because, honestly, I have no idea.  I only noticed it after I put it online for the entire universe to see.

{Side note from The Mister after reading Sarah Rae’s way too nice words: I am many things, but The Queen of Clean isn’t one of them.  At all.  Ten years counting and not a crown in sight.  Ever.}

And the entire universe has seen my sunscreen and kleenex.  THE RED SHARPIE OF DEATH has been twittered about, emailed, and linked to on blogs, facebook, and mom boards in Russia.  Thankfully, everyone has been very understanding about an incident that was, really, entirely my fault.  Yes, if I could sum up all the comments I have read and received, I believe it would be something like, “Holy crap!  It happens.  Better her than me.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go toss that sunscreen in a random drawer so that when summer comes I won’t be able to find it and I’ll have to buy a new one.

Ladeedah, Ohdeedoh! is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Ladeedah, Ohdeedoh! is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

May your weekend be full, your nose empty, and your reputation beyond reproach.

Oh My is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Oh My is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Fun, right? I was back in the 80s before the first “oh yeah.” (As an aside–who knew Joan Jett had such a figure? Wowza.) Anyway, after that quick walk down memory lane I started on dinner. Then I called The Mister and told him to pick up diapers. It was all very glamorous, and I felt just like Joan Jett in that bikini while I did it.

Two hours later, The Mister came home. Said hello, and dropped the diapers on the kitchen floor. Chatted up the boys. Laughed when I told him I was planning my 20th reunion. Then he told me he was going to go change out of his work clothes.

Down the hall he went, and out of nowhere started humming “Do You Wanna Touch Me” by Joan Jett. The same song I watched on You Tube two hours previously. When I asked him why he was singing that song, a song I heard 2 hours prior for the first time in decades, he just shrugged his shoulders and said he had no idea.

For my next trick, I will make 50 pounds disappear from each thigh.

Do You Wanna Touch Me {Oh Yeah} is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Do You Wanna Touch Me {Oh Yeah} is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

GOOD NEWS

Tristan over at Blah, Blah, Blahg is having a month of giveaways!  That’s right: for the entire month of February she will give away something fabulous.  Her only request?  Leave an email so she can reach you, and answer the artist question of they day.

BAD NEWS

Just before starting their latest round of fertility treatments, Kara’s husband said, “Hey, you know what?  I kind of don’t want to be married anymore and I am filing for divorce on Monday.”  Thanks, good to know, a$$-wipe!  I spent Saturday with her girlfriends moving out as much as we could from her house.  It’s never fun to watch someone you have known since kindergarten so sad.  I suggest we all send “the ex” vibes for an oozing facial rash.

News In Between

Today the Mister’s manager called (he was also laid off).  Apparently another manager in another district within the same company but who wasn’t laid off wants the Mister to post for a job that is now open following the blood bath/lay offs.  Um, okay.  Couldn’t you have transferred him into the spot in the first place and called it good?  Now we have to go through the stressful interview process with thousands of other scared employees and hope for the best.  The Mister was tempted to tell them to pound sand when he first got the call, but after reflecting honestly on the volatile condition of the job market, now plans to eat crow and post for the spot.  It’s amazing how something can be simultaneously an insult and a blessing.

So that’s it.  Fevers, gifts, divorces, and jobs.  Just another Monday around here.  How about you?

Good News, Bad News, and News In Between is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Good News, Bad News, and News In Between is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Book ‘em, Dano. is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Book ‘em, Dano. is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

I should buy lotto tickets.

As expected, Nicholas has been a bear all day. Crying, refusing to eat, crying, wanting to eat, crying, not liking what I offered to eat, crying, still wanting to eat, and did I mention crying? I made the mistake of giving him the box of cereal to play with while I got him a bowl; he promptly emptied the box onto the floor.

He climbed the beds and tried to take apart the blinds to see how they worked.

He brushed his teeth for 45 minutes.

He colored at the table, but then got frustrated and swept everything to the floor.

He pulled a stool out of the bathroom for the sole purpose of dancing atop it in the middle of the kitchen.

He took the stop out of the third bathroom sink.

He tossed all the soap dishes in the sink.

He opened the refrigerator repeatedly, hoping to find something appetizing.

He climbed onto the dining room table and started chewing on the fake apples.

I was pulling him off the table (and only barely yelling at the top of my voice) when Mikey came up to me talking around an open mouth quickly collecting saliva.

Mikey: “Mu. I neh wa-uh.”

Jules: “What? What’s wrong with your mouth?

Mikey: “Wa-uh!” pointing furiously at his mouth.

Jules: “Water? You need water? Why? Did you eat something?”

Mikey: “Uh-huh. Eeese.”

Jules: “Cheese?” I did have some gruyere in the fridge.

Mikey: “No, EEESE.”

Jules: “Okay, I can’t understand you,” I said walking towards the cabinet with the glasses. “Let’s get you some water and…MIKEY! IS THIS WHAT YOU ATE?!”

Mikey: “Yeah. Eeese.”

Jules: “Mikey, THESE ARE NOT SEEDS!”

I spent the next five minutes instructing Mikey on how to rinse out his mouth with water. I tried to teach him how to swish, but he couldn’t get the hang of it so he shook his head from left to right. Effectiveness Rate: Absolutely None. One thousand raw lentil pieces later, Mikey looked at me calmly and asked for real seeds. I said no.

I called the pediatrician, who referred me to poison control. I explained the entire situation, and how Mikey mistook a bag of lentils for the seeds I often given him with nuts and raisins to snack on.

“That’s what I get for trying to raise a health nut,” {pause for chuckles from Poison Control operator.}

Still waiting.

After a brief time on hold we got the all clear. I decided staying in the house one minute longer would surely be dangerous for all of us (mainly because I was going to kill them), so I packed up the boys and went to the bookstore and then lunch, whereupon I realized one of those life truths you only realize after hitting bottom.

Everything is better with books and ketchup.

The Health Nut is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

The Health Nut is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

The first bullet to hit the air took us by surprise, and I daresay we thought it was Fred’s or Al’s or Eugene’s or Harve’s 1969 Buick LeSabre backfiring. The second, third, and fourth bullet had us ducking our heads as we ran towards the boys’ bedrooms. They were sawing logs, of course, because that’s what you do amidst gunfire. The Policy and Procedure Book for Children Aged 1-5 clearly states that one must wake up screaming (1) for no reason, (2) between the hours of 2:00am – 5:00am, (3) on the nights before deadlines, meetings, appointments, and school. They were off the clock in their minds.

But we were up and at attention. The Mister went outside to check on the neighbors while I stayed inside by the phone. As luck would have it, all the neighbors went outside to investigate at different times, so we all missed each other. The next day the street was abuzz with speculation and everyone recounted the story from their perspective. This was way bigger than the sale at Walgreens. In fact, this was up there with Medicare Part D. Fred swears he saw the suspect jump his fence and enter another neighbor’s yard. No one really believed Fred because of his reputation for embellishment, but tonight handed me some evidence that makes me think ol’ Fred may not have been spinning a yarn, after all.

We were outside playing with the boys. The Mister was checking the grass for doggie land minds, and I was his second set of eyes. I kept pointing out piles with my feet. Here’s one. Here’s another. You missed one right here. Oh, and here’s…a book?

Not two feet away, over by the boys’ slide, lay a book wrinkled and beaten from the sprinklers. A Stephen King book, no less. My mind raced with criminal possibilities as I shrieked and pointed it out to the Mister, who remained unconcerned. Maybe it belongs to Fred or Pam. Maybe their son, Kevin, accidentally dropped it over the fence. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I wasn’t convinced.

Then the Mister found the second book, this one about a foot away from the first. At this point I remembered every episode of CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, True Detective, and Medium I have ever watched. Any number of whackos could have left those books. Remember the Urban Legend about the life-sized clown statute that turned out to be an escaped criminal from the insane asylum? What if it was that guy?!

I handed over the evidence to Fred, who immediately instructed Pam to get her CSI kit, even though as waterlogged as the books were, fingerprints were unlikely. I could hear Fred’s retired wheels spinning. He is going to be up all night.

I am, too. Not just because the books suggest someone was in my backyard, most likely running. As shocked as I was 20 minutes ago, now I’m just flat confused. I’d love to speak with the suspect (behind bars) and ask about the books. Because, really? Books? Did he think he would get a break in the mayhem and madness and catch up on a few chapters? You know, in between stuffing silver candlesticks in his robber-bag he might like to read chapter 14 real fast because, let’s face it, when you hit the arc in a suspense novel you have to ride it to the end. Am I right?

Clearly, my criminal is a scholar. Maybe not of fine literature, but a reader nonetheless. Hey, if anyone can appreciate the call of a good book it’s me. But might I suggest that he put down the crime and suspense and read this:

Something tells me he could learn a thing or two that may be useful for his line of work.

The Scholarly Suspect is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

The Scholarly Suspect is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Later that afternoon, I was in the office replying to emails when Mikey’s proud voice called out to me like a siren’s song from the enclosed patio. “Mama, I cleaned the floor all by myself! It looks great!”

Huh?! What the? I was already getting up and heading towards the patio. “Why does the floor look great?” I said nonchalantly. “What was on the floor?” I’ve learned to never sound accusatory. They can smell a stint in time-out coming from a mile away. Cajole them into telling you what really happened and you might actually find out why the floor you just spent all morning mopping would need to be cleaned by a three year old.

“Nothing was on it, Mama. I just cleaned it to make it better!” I looked him up and down. No stains or wet spots and everything in order. I didn’t bother to look inside, because if he had spilled anything it would have been all over him. A rookie mistake.

“OK. No more cleaning the floor, alright? I already mopped them today.” A quick kiss and a hair tousle, and I’m off ten paces to the office.

Now, where was I? I started working on an email and a few minutes later gave Mikey a quick glance. “Mikey! I told you not to go through my drawers. Put that glitter back right now!”

“OK, Mama!” And off he went. All of a sudden, it hit me.

“MIKEY! WAS THE GLITTER ON THE FLOOR?”

“Yes, Mama! And I cleaned it ALLLLLLLLL UP! It looks GREAT!” I turned those 10 spaces into 5 and bounded up the stairs to the patio. There was Mikey, covered head to toe in gold glitter stirring what looked like gold soup in a miniature play-doh container. “Now I’m putting my chili in the bowl.” Not chili. And, not a bowl. It’s my white vase, which I keep on a tray table next to the picture windows.

I was ok with the messy hands. They were cute.

So were the feet.

And I figured I could probably clean up the vase.

And the table.

But you know what I can’t clean up? The fine glitter on the hardwood floors– or what we now refer to as “The Yellow Brick Road.” You see, hardwood floors made from actual planks of wood have cracks in between each plank. And cracks accept all sorts of fine particles of matter–especially gold glitter. It’s like I grouted my floors with fairy dust.

A few pounds of glitter did manage to escape the cracks in the floor and adhere to our bare feet. How do I know this? Because I have gold footprints all over the house. The bathroom–where I banished Mikey to wash the glitter off his body–looks like the inside of a gold disco ball.

After I finally admitted glitter defeat, I moved on to the kitchen to start dinner. I gave Mikey strict instructions to stay away from anything wet or sparkly. Mark my words: this kid is a born litigator. He finds the loop holes in everything, as I quickly discovered once The Mister got home.

The Mister: “Wow. Did you see what Mikey did?”

Jules: “What? The glitter chili and Yellow Brick Road? Yep, I saw it.”

The Mister: “Noooo. Maybe not the that.”

Jules: [Now moving quickly out of the kitchen and towards the patio] “Why? What did he do this tim… MIIIIIIIIIIIIKEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Mikey: “Hi Mama! I was just making fruit salad for Buddy and Buster!” This, my friends, is fruit salad in the eyes of a three year old. 10 pounds of dog food strewn as far as the eye can see. Because that’s what I need: random bits of food to attract rats and hawks.

Image courtesy KK/used under the Creative Commons Share-Alike Attribution License

Hey! You know what’s harder than cleaning glitter off a hardwood floor? Sweeping round dog food bits into a pile! Because, let me tell you, without a graduate degree in physics you’ll have an easier time herding feral cats. Dog food is round, and when you try to sweep up round things they start to roll around and bump into other round things and before you know it you are barefoot and trapped in the middle of the world’s largest game of miniature pool. Hundreds and hundreds of little pellets dancing beneath your feet, which by the way feel like bullets if you’re unlucky enough to step on one while you’re trying to avoid the twenty million others. Trust me–you’ll only step on one at a time because that hurts. It’s similar in concept to lying on a bed of nails without hurting yourself but crying like a baby when you poke yourself with a pin. [p=dF/sA] Pressure is equal to force divided by area. See? You need physics to clean up dog food.

At least there was a golden nugget of wisdom tucked in all the poop, glitter, and pellets of yesterday. Mikey is feeling better. Welcome back, Mikey. Welcome back, welcome back, welcome baaaaaaack.

Welcome Back, Mikey is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Welcome Back, Mikey is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

I’ll tell you what–that bird, when 10 feet from your face and tearing at wall screen, is the size of a beagle. And those talons? Yeah, they scared the crap out of me. Once I realized the slider was closed and the boys safe, I pretty much sat there with my head up my ass waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Lucky for me, Mr. Hawk didn’t around wait for my enlightenment. He left as quickly as he came, knocking over boxes in the process, no doubt off to disembowel some mouse or rat.

Come to think of it…why did he fly into my covered patio? Was he swooping in for said rat or mouse? Oh, crap. I think I’m going to pass out.

Wild Animal Kingdom is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries

Wild Animal Kingdom is a post from: Pancakes and French Fries