Short on Shoes

These are the boys.......

that pile on top of me so I won’t get up when they insist I watch something on t.v. that I don’t want to see.

 

that delight in picking me up and throwing me over their shoulder and running around laughing maniacally.

 

that think a mom sandwich is better than a squidge.

 

that think it’s hilarious to act silly in the grocery store so I will be embarrassed.

 

that refuse to let me carry in any groceries, unless I sneak in with them.  When caught, refer to #2.

 

that play games with their sister and pretend they’re having fun just to make me happy.

 

that try to let me down gently when I make something new for dinner that they don't like.

 

that insist on bringing home breakfast for me, even though they won’t be home for an hour and a half and the breakfast will be cold.

 

that make my little heart overflow with love.

 

Get Your Picks in Now!

Unfortunately, I can’t blame what I’m about to admit on summer rerun season.  Can’t pin it on having nothing better to do, or a channel surfing accident.  Are you ready?  Here it comes.

 

I have watched Deadliest Warrior.

 

No, no, not Deadliest Catch.  No salty old seamen to fall in love with, no freezing arctic oceans that make you shiver at the sight of them, no fish or crab will ever make an appearance.  No Bon Jovi theme song that sticks in your head and brings back memories of high school.  Not even the same channel.

 

Deadliest Warrior can be seen on Spike TV.  What is Spike TV?  A manly man’s channel.  This is the channel where shows such as MANswers (where all of men's unaswered questions are revealed), TNA Wrestling (I think the name speaks for itself), and UFC Unleashed (just brutal) can be found.

 

And how, pray tell, did I come to watch such a show?

 

 

Doesn’t he look so sweet and innocent and naïve? 

 

Don’t be fooled by that cute little smile, The Sous Chef’s all boy, down to his very core, loves the blood and guts and fighting.

 

I’m not certain how the boys happened upon this show either, and frankly I don’t want to ask what else they’re watching on Spike TV (MANswers?  Where the main topic last night was Can big boobs float in water?  I looked it up, I didn’t watch it, come on).  On a weekend night about a month ago, The Sous Chef came upstairs while I was in bed and asked who I would pick,  Viking or Samurai? 

 

Ummmm, for what? says I.   For their savvy fashion sense?  For their advances in metallurgy?  What are we talking about here?

 

Who would win a fight if they fought against each other?  Viking or Samurai?

 

Well that’s easy, Viking.

 

Ok, he said, and off he went.

 

I had no idea what he was talking about, I thought he was having a philosophical discussion with Bubba. 

 

Turns out I picked correctly.  The next morning he informed me that I called it, Viking was the winner.

 

A few nights later,  I’m in bed and The Sous Chef is standing at the foot of my bed once again. 

 

Apache or Gladiator?

 

Gladiator.  What’s this for?  An assignment for school?

 

Noooo, Mom, it’s a show (this is where I’m feeling sufficiently chastised and made to feel old).  They have 2 old fighters from different times fight against each other. 

 

Ok,  I said, thinking this was a new twist on Japanese anime’.  I get it.

 

But I really didn’t.

 

The questions continued every few nights:  Pirate or Knight? 

Spartan or Ninja? 

Shaolin Monk or Maori Warrior? 

Yakuza or Mafia? 

And each time, my pick was correct.

 

Finally, the boys roped me into watching the show.  The opponents this night would be William Wallace vs. Shaka Zulu. 

 

Here’s what the show consists of:  Analysis of fighting styles and pertinent weapons by Dr.s and biomedical experts.  There were real life tests using the weapons (one such test was how many necks (slabs of meat and cartilage with a skull stuck on the end) the Scottish Claymore (sword) could cut through in one blow, another tested whether the Inksa (a Zulu wooden golf club-like weapon) would cut through chain mail.  In the end, they put all of the data together and render a decision on the winner of the fight based on the strongest numbers, with a re-enactment of the fictitious fight.

 

I’m sad to report William Wallace vs. Shaka Zulu was my first loss.

 

I’ve decided to give up watching the show and render my opinion when asked for it at the foot of my bed.  I seem to have a much higher winning percentage when I don’t really know what’s going on. 

 

And honestly, there are just some things I don’t want to know about.

 

Bring in 'da Noise, Bring in 'da Funk

So it's been a while.  I realize that.  Lots of reasons for my small sabbatical.

The biggest reason for my absence is that I've been in a funk.  Clearly it's lasted a while.  And, yes, I could have pretended that all was happy, happy here in my little world, but that would not have been me.  And if I can't be myself, there's really no point in maintaining a blog.  The main reason I have a blog is to record our lives, let others know what's going on.  However, I'm a really poor pretender.  All anyone ever needs to do is look at my face to determine how I'm feeling.  I just can't seem to control my facial expressions.  Unfortunately, the same holds true for my writing.  No matter how much I would have tried to sound perky and entertaining, it would have been evident by the second paragraph that something was amiss.  So, I've made a conscious decision to write about what's really going on, even if everything's not all roses and sunshine.

What is it that's thrown a wrench into our normally happy lives?  Well, I'm sure it's the same for many people.  The state of the economy has had a HUGE impact in our household.  For a family that relies on car sales in a large degree to add to it's bottom line, these past eight months have been devastating.  There was no gradual descent for the car business, it headed straight into a tailspin almost immediately.  And ergo, so did our income.  Needless to say, we weren't prepared.  People have asked us so many times over these past months about the car business, and how The Irishman's doing.  Most of the time, we give them a pat answer, because while we know that there are some that really do care, most people don't want to know the real truth.  The truth is dirty, and painful, and embarrassing.  We are a real life example to others of how fickle circumstances can be, and the general public would prefer to remain blissfully unaware of how quickly a seemingly "normal" family can fall into financial ruin. 

I tell you these things not for sympathy, suggestion, or aid, but simply to explain why I've been down in the dumps lately.  But honestly, I believe it's time to get over myself.  There's nothing really to do but push forward and carry on as best as we can.  As long as the five of us stick together, all is good in the world.  And Mom, don't freak out.  It will all be ok.  I promise.

Plenty has happened since December, and I have plenty of stories to share.  Here's a little glimpse of what you'll be hearing about shortly:

  

 

  

 

 

 

 

I have just one thing left to say:  I'm done, with 'da Funk, Bring on 'da Noise!

It's Another Tequila Sunrise...and Another Christmas Eve

Here we are again, the night before Christmas.  Christmas Eve is always special at our house, as it is in so many homes, but probably for different reasons.  We don't do anything extravagant, no opening gifts, no caroling, no lavish feasts.  We have the normal pre-Christmas excitement, last minute feverish wrapping, and easy meals.  The kids are always impossible to get to bed, always finding a myriad of excuses to stay awake.  While the obvious reasons for the kids to be in bed on Christmas Eve before we are still apply, The Irishman and I have a tradition in which the kids are not allowed to participate.  Ok, everyone, minds out of the gutter.  Geez.

Let me set the scene for you.  The year was 1990.  I was in school and had just recently returned to St. Louis.  My mother and her friends had been trying for months to set me up with this guy they knew, but we had resisted their matchmaking attempts thus far.  I thought he was too old, and he thought I was too young.  I had been taking a particularly trying Chemistry course that year, and as it turned out, this guy had a degree in Chemistry.  I needed help, and this guy knew Chemistry.  I made the call and arranged to meet this Chemistry Guru.  We met a couple times for tutoring, I studied hard, and ended up acing the final and the class.

I was lounging around in the late afternoon of Christmas Eve when I received a phone call from the Chemistry Guru.  He and his brother had some errands to run, and wanted to know if I wanted to come along.  It seemed a little odd, as I'd not heard from him since our last tutoring session.  And I'd wondered why I'd come to mind to help run errands.  But, I thought, I have nothing better to do, why not.

They picked me up around 7 in his little black Mustang convertible and off we went into the night.  We ran here and there, dropping off gifts and picking up others, all the while making calls on his latest gadget, the bag phone.  I met several members of their ginormous family and when we finally finished with the errands and had dropped off the brother (number eight in the line-up, and my age) we went back to the Chemistry Guru's apartment.  We watched a movie, talked a bit and he took me back to my house.  No big deal.  But we were having fun, good conversation.  I asked if he wanted to come in, and he did.  It was so late, so very late, but we watched more movies.  There had been no advances, nothing suggesting we were doing anything more than having a good time as friends.  Finally, around 6 a.m., the movie we had been watching ended, and he decided he should probably go home.  I walked him to the door and he kissed me twice, both times pretty much on the cheek.  

I was exhausted, but had to be at a family gathering in just a few short hours.  I grabbed a couple hours of sleep (remember those days when you could exist on just a couple hours of sleep?  seems like eons ago), and then headed out.  I was in my Aunt Gina's kitchen, talking to my mom and Aunt Marje, telling them about my night and what had ensued.  The question of the day was not who got what for Christmas or the plans for the rest of the day, but what exactly did those two "kisses" mean?  Were they supposed to be platonic kisses?  Or were they meant to be first-date gentlemanly kisses?  The story was passed around my own ginormous family, and there didn't seem to be a consensus, one way or the other.

The day after Christmas, I got my answer.  Eighteen years later, I know for sure that those kisses were definitely not platonic.

So every year, on Christmas Eve, after the kids have gone to bed, we put in the same movie we watched that night so long ago, Tequila Sunrise.

One more anniversary to note, one year ago to the day, my boys finally shaved for the first time.  Granted, they had to be threatened with receiving no presents on Christmas if they woke up with dirty fuzz on their face, but they did it.  I should mention that this rule is still in effect.

 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

While You Were Sleeping

It's been a long time, I know.  Things here have been CR-AZY!  Let me try to catch you up, and then I'll really try hard to get back to normal posting status. 

A couple weeks ago, before the Arctic weather took hold of my sleep little town, on a lovely Saturday afternoon, the boys and I were waiting patiently for The Boo to be dropped off after a sleepover.  I was sitting in the front room, and caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of my eye.  I looked out the window and what did I see?  But a pudgy, short Santa, walking towards me (not really towards me, but I liked the rhyme).  I thought it was a fig-newton of my imagination, but when I looked twice, he was still there.  He was just wandering around in the middle of the street, occasionally waving at cars that passed by, with what looked like a mother in tow.  He meandered over to the Bed and Breakfast, sat on the stone wall, and flopped backwards.  He lay there on his back, kicking his little legs in the air.  It was at this point that I decided I couldn't resist this drama.  "Sous Chef!  Sous Chef!" I called.  I handed The Sous Chef the camera, pointed at Santa and said, "Go!  Be your sneaky self!"  He ran out the door, and disappeared before my eyes.  I watched out the window as the Santa's mom coerced him into several poses and took pictures, while the Sous Chef was nowhere in sight.  As Santa was waddling back to his sleigh (which turned out to be a red minivan), I saw The Sous Chef walking casual-as-could-be down the sidewalk, no sign of the camera.  Santa mounted his sleigh and promptly ripped off all his holiday garb, and off they flew.  Later that day, after single-handedly executing a family of vermin I might add, the kids and I were running errands and ended up at the pharmacy.  While waiting in line, I looked to my left, and wonder upon wonders, there was Santa, disguised as a little boy, stuffing his face full of candy while his mother printed out pictures.

 

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving.  We stayed home this year, and my Dad, step-mother, sister, and The Big D came to visit.  Here's The Big D with "Fire Tiger," although I really tried to urge him to change his name to Gustav. 

 

The Irishman was asleep before 1:30.  That monitor sure is a cozy headrest!

 

I brined the turkey this year, something I've not done before.  It's a little unwieldy, a little messy, but brining is the way to go for me from here on out.  The turkey was fabulous, and really, I don't like turkey.  The Irishman and The Sous Chef made an incredible gravy, we made the traditional cranberry sauce, which no one likes but eats because of tradition, and had chocolate butter pie and pumpkin caramel cheesecake.  It was so good to spend time with our family, and the time for them to go came way too soon.  Later that night, The Irishman and Bubba, because they are crazy, left to begin Christmas shopping.  The stores here opened at 12:00 a.m.  They got home in time to wake me up for work, and then crashed.  The Irishman went to work around 10:30, and Bubba didn't get up until noon, although that's been known to happen even when he's not pulled an all-nighter.

 

In other news, The Irishman and I actually had a date.  We banned the kids from making any plans on this particular Friday, which had special significance.  That Friday was the opening of Twilight.  I had pre-ordered the tickets to make sure they weren't swooped up by the teenage masses and told The Irishman the rest of the night was up to him.  We ate dinner at The Hereford House (not the one that burned down, clearly) at what would be considered Happy Hour for most.  I didn't want to be late and was worried there would be lines.  We arrived 45 minutes prior to the movie, and the line was ridiculous.  I couldn't imagine that so many people would be able to fit in on theater.  The movie was fair, following the general theme of the book, and really, who wouldn't fall for a vampire that looked like Robert Pattinson?  Just be sure to wrap yourself in a few extra blankets and you'll never know that his body is the temperature of most sub-zero refrigerators.  I was very proud of myself for making it through the movie without giving the evil eye to the young girl behind us that squealed every time a cute boy showed up on screen.  Yes, I'm growing up.

 

Nana arrived the day after Thanksgiving, and on Saturday we braved the snow and nastiness to head out to Bob Jones Shoes, because a visit from Nana would not be complete without making that trip.  We walked away saddened and empty-handed, which is unexplainable.  We even had a great parking spot, which is always a sign that we will hit shoe-gold!  We motored on to Target Boutique, in search of a fan to ease The Sous Chef's sleep in the sauna that is his room.  Yet again, our search was fruitless.  Apparently no one needs fans in the winter.  Silly me.  We decided to cut our losses and go home.  We did walk down the street later to The Christmas store, where Nana bought us each an ornament of our choosing.  Please to notice the shoes on my little elf below.  The shoes clinched the deal.

 

The weeknights have been filled with studying and basketball practices and snuggling up when the furnace can't figure out what it wants to do (although for some reason, my kids insist on wearing summer attire at home, no matter if it's 20 below outside).  There's our new few-ton (that's the way we say it here) that is broken.  Nebraska Furniture Mart will be replacing it on Wednesday.

 

And here's The Boo, in what looks like the most uncomfortable position ever, finishing up her homework.  Let's just pretend those socks look as white as the pure driven snow, k?  I'll feel better that way.

 

Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m., Bubba informed me that he was supposed to attend the football award ceremony thing at school on Wednesday.  The Irishman took my car to be fixed Wednesday morning (the seat warmer was ba-roke!), so he picked me up from work.  I dropped him back off at work, arrived home late with kids, and waited for Bubba.  He got home and we left precisely two minutes later to make it to The Boo's basketball practice.  We left basketball practice early, and drove forty minutes to Bubba's school, with not a minute to spare.  The organizers of the ceremony foolishly gave the freshmen their numbers first (all 117 of them).  See the man to the far left of the picture?  When Bubba got to the stage, he said "Nice shoes" to him.  He was supposed to be wearing his school shoes.  I wanted to tell him "Listen, Buster!  It's been so crazy in our world that we're lucky to be here with our underwear on in the inside of our clothes!"  Although his enormous feet really do nothing to help him out, do they?  After the freshmen received their numbers, Bubba headed up the stairs and out the door.  This after "Buster" had practically begged everyone to stay for the whole thing.  I felt so guilty, but I squeezed past the other people in my row, and off we ran.  It was late!  These kids had homework and we hadn't eaten yet.  We buzzed through McD's and gobbled our food down in the car, while I drove in silent bliss with a warm bum.

 

Last night was Christmas on the River here in our little town.  We attend every year, and it's so convenient because we just walk down the street to the entertainment.  It was so cold last night that we decided not to spend the whole three hours outside, but make our way downtown 15 minutes before the fireworks started.  The Christmas on the River fireworks show is the most spectacular display that I've ever seen.  It's choreographed to music and is traditionally fifteen to twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks.  Forty-five minutes before the festival ended, we heard the first shot go off.  Crap!!!!!  I'm not sure we've ever moved so fast.  We threw on coats, pulled up hoods, and flew out the door, looking like criminals running down the street.  We made it with plenty of time left of course, we can cover the measly 5 blocks pretty quickly. 

 

After the show was over, we were thankful we hadn't gone down any sooner.  The cold, even for the ten minutes we were there, was enough to make us all cranky. 

 

We ran back home, almost as quickly as we ran downtown, to be greeted by our newly decorated house.  Thank you Irishman!  It's lovely!

 

This morning, soccer at 7:30.  A.M. that is.  It was gross.

 

But we made it, and The Boo played hard, and her team won. 

 

Two basketball games to go today, and then we get to relax. 

On a quick side-note, I didn't see Short on Shoes here, so that's a nice little happy moment for me.  Hopefully, normal blog activity should be returning to normal around here.  Unless I have more of the "Listen, Buster" days.  All bets are off if I come across another one of those. 

A Nest of Our Own

 

We moved into our house on a bitter cold January night.  The house was not ideal, but under the circumstances (our landlord at the previous house decided mid-lease he wanted to move back in), it worked in a jiffy.  It was a move of necessity, nothing more.  We rented the house for a year, only to have the house put up for sale.  Not prepared to move again with three small children, we bought it, assuming that we would live here for a couple of years, and then move to something more suiting our family.

And here we are.  Eleven years later.  Our chance to move on has just not materialized, for a multitude of reasons. 

As I think I've mentioned before, this house is about two years short of being a century old.  A neighbor of ours did some research a couple years ago and found that our house was a Sears kit house built in 1911, originally built to house the teachers at the university across the street.  There are several of these houses on our street, and I'm sure the worthy educators who lived here so long ago found little to no fault in this two story, three bedroom house. 

Of this I'm sure:  they didn't have three children, two dogs, and a snake (there have been others in our little menagerie, but sadly, they've moved on to bigger ponds, yards, and perches in the sky).

We have a laundry list of complaints when it comes to this house, the least of which is that it's simply not big enough.

The boys have to share a room, and together, they make a younger version of the odd couple.  One boy is very organized and neat, and the other a slob ( you figure out who's who).

There's no central air in the house.  When we've had our fill of nights trying to sleep when the temperature is ninety-five degrees, we have to lug up four ugly window units from the basement (those things do NOT stay in during the winter, they're just too unsightly).

There are radiators in every room of the house.  If we turn up the heat to keep the house comfortable during the day, it will be a sauna at night time, no matter if we turn the heat down when we go to bed.  The Boo's room and the boy's room run about 10 degrees warmer than the rest of the house, so the Irishman and I usually freeze at night so the kids aren't tempted to open the windows when it's 10 degrees out (oh yes, it's happened).

The wood floors need to be sanded down and refinished, but we don't have the time to be displaced so we can have lovely wood floors.  We just deal with the splinters.  I have excellent Tweezerman tweezers, so it's ok.

There are four points of egress in the kitchen.  Really, who planned this house?  This is the reason it's taking us so long to redo this room.  Where are you supposed to put everything when there's a doorway in every wall but one?  Something has to be done soon though, because the mangy yellow counter tops are starting to make me nauseous. 

And then there's the dining room.  No, the library.  No, the dining room.  I think.  Both the Northern and Southern walls of this room, which I'm fairly certain was meant to be a dining room, are covered in bookshelves.  Well, I have plenty of books to fill these bookshelves, but I don't have a dining room table that's as narrow as a toothpick that will fit in this room.  If we use a regular table, we'll be penned in when seated by the bookshelves.

There's no backyard, just a grassy strip on the side of the house.  Someone thought it would be a good idea to put a deck over the entire plot of land that is our backyard.  I will concede that there are drainage issues, but really, a deck over the entire thing?  This is another case of not knowing how to fix someone's lack of judgment.

I haven't even mentioned the neighbors yet.  On one side of us is a rental property, which serves as a revolving door for both college students and single mothers.  On the other side of us is the real wackadoodle.  I won't say her name, but let's just say she's named after a certain bath tissue that's not supposed to be squeezed.  This woman leaves nasty notes on people's vehicles, doesn't like groups of children larger than three ("mob mentality," she says), and has a hot line to the local police.  There's more, but that's for another post.

Let's just say that there's usually not a day that goes by that there's not a complaint made by one of the five of us, about This Old House.

Last Thursday, The Boo went on a field trip, and built a bird feeder  She came home with all sorts of facts about finishing the bird feeder and what type of feed would be best, something with calcium so the birds could be stronger during the winter.

She was adamant about using the same paint we used to paint our house and wanted to use a piece of roof tile we had left over.

This got me thinking.  She could have painted it any color she wanted, purple being the most obvious choice.  But she wanted it to look like our house.

And here's the truth of the matter.  No matter how much grumbling and complaining we do about this house, it's our home.  It's where we come to rest and be goofy, and be just spend time together.  It's the place where The Sous Chef, who is the social king of the family, turns down outings with friends so he can be "home."  It's where The Boo took her first steps and where all three children learned how to ride a bike.  It's the place where we've laughed and cried and weathered so many storms (literally and figuratively).  It's the place where we've recuperated and healed wounds and rolled up the rugs and danced.  It's the place where we lost out beloved dog, Sinead, who was with us when Bubba was born and who was so good and faithful and kind. 

We belong here, in this house that is our home.  As long as we're together, this house will fit us.