Fire, Fire, Fire

The kids and I have been playing Monopoly a lot lately. Well, actually we've been playing Chicago-opoly which, as the name suggests, is a Chicago version of the classic game. As a kid I LOVED Monopoly, but I could never get anyone to play with me. That may be part of the reason I had kids - to have willing players at my disposal. Although my own kids haven't especially liked playing with me either. It may have something to do with me jumping up and shouting, "Yes! Ha! In your face! That's $950, now pay up!"

Lately though, Clay and Brooklyn have really gotten into Chicago-opoly so we've been playing most nights after dinner.

There's a card in this game that reads - Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicks over another lantern.

I told the kids, "You know we learned a song about Mrs. O'Leary's cow in grade school."

Of course they were super-excited. They gushed about what an interesting childhood I'd had and how they were jealous of the myriad things I've learned. Then they begged me to sing it for them. At least I'm pretty sure that's what they meant as they sat there rolling their eyes while saying, "Oh yay, Mom's searching for the song on Youtube. Lucky us.

"Hey now! Do other kids your age know this? I teach you stuff so you'll be smarter than the average bear!"

I was met with more blank stares, motivating me to skip over the Yogi Bear lesson which was formulating in my brain.

I found a video of the Mrs. O'Leary song and started singing along.

Five nights ago when we were all in bed,

Old Mrs. Leary left a lantern in the shed,

And when the cow kicked it over, she winked her eye and said,

"There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight."

FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!

"Mom, roll the dice!" my kids complained that I wasn't focused on the game.

I threw the dice across the board then continued my lesson. "So there was a huge fire in Chicago in 1871 that started in Mrs. O'Leary's barn. There was much speculation about how the fire actually started. The newspaper stated it was Mrs. O'Leary's cow that had kicked over the lantern, igniting the fire that went on to burn 3 square miles of the city, but in 1893 the reporter of that article admitted he'd made it up. Finally, in 1997 Mrs. O'Leary was exonerated. Do you know what exonerated means?"

"Wait! So the cow didn't even start the fire?" Brooklyn asked, appalled.

"Well no, probably not."

"Then that whole song is pointless!" she insisted.

"I'm going to forget that story in 2 minutes," Clay stated. "Oh wait, nope! It's already gone."

I try to impart important knowledge to my kids. Like when, after Clay and I watched the movie John Wick the other night, I told him that I knew Keanu Reeves when he was much younger. I went on to play Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure for him. In related news, I'm not allowed to pick out the movie anymore.

But I try to teach my kids, and expose them to a variety of information that will undoubtedly come in handy one day. You know, like maybe when they're doing a trivia night at a local bar. And this is the abuse I get. Guess what we'll be singing on our 3 hour drive tomorrow. Oh yes. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!

Drag Queens, Caterpillars, And Heath Ledger

As I said in my last blog post, I haven't applied makeup in weeks. Because why? I rarely leave my apartment these days, and I've just adopted a Who cares? attitude about the whole thing. But after the whole "cute guy at the gas station" extravaganza, I decided to put on makeup to go to the store in order to pick up a prescription. Because, you never know - maybe I'll meet the man of my dreams there, right? And then at least I'll be wearing makeup when I make a fool of myself in front of him. Because we all know darn well that's the only possible outcome when you put me near any attractive man.

Actually, it wasn't entirely the gas station incident that prompted me to don makeup for this outing. I'd been watching RuPaul's Drag Race because apparently my current goal in life is to exhaust every series ever made on Netflix, Hulu, and Prime. It floors me that these plain-looking guys can put on makeup and look like these gorgeous women. I thought - I have GOT to learn how to apply makeup better! I mean, I don't necessarily want to look like a drag queen, but you know, maybe I could look a little better than Hagrid.

So I put makeup on. My hand. I mostly put my makeup on my hand. Yep, I eyelined the heck out of my hand.

Don't ask. I'm pretty sure no drag queen applies their makeup like this. I'm pretty sure no human applies their makeup like this.

I finally got the eyeliner on my eyelids. I know better than to use liquid eyeliner. I'm a complete spaz with it. But this was magnetic eyeliner and I wanted to use my magnetic lashes so I gave it a go. And I mean, I had literally nothing else to do all day so I could take as long as I wanted to apply it.

Pro tip: After applying liquid eyeliner, wait for it to dry before blinking.

Or this will happen.

I tried to wipe it off, but this stuff stays on like Sharpie. So I grabbed a Q-tip and eye makeup remover and scrubbed it off. But then I was left with an obvious blank spot where my eye shadow had been removed. So I reapplied my eye shadow. Then I relined my eye. Then . . .

I did it a second time!

Remove the eye liner, apply the eye shadow FOR THE THIRD TIME, and reline my eyelid.

Fast forward. I get to Target, put on my mask, run in to pick up my prescription, grab some more coffee and yogurt while I'm there, and run out. It's all good. I haven't tripped or pushed my cart into anyone. I didn't run into any cute guys or students of mine. Woo hoo! I acted like a normal person! I'm feeling pretty good. I have prettyish eyes, my makeup is decent, I'm on top of the world!

As the cashier is ringing up my purchases, I see something out of the corner of my eye. I can't quite figure out what it is, but there is definitely something there in my periphery. I blink a few times and now I can see it even more. Oh no. No, no, noooo, please, please don't let it be my eyelash. My first instinct is to try to stick the eyelash down. I reach up but then remember - I can't touch my face! The 'rona! So I do some weird winking thing where I scrunch up my face and try to will the eyelash back into place by making demented faces. It doesn't work and now the cashier is thanking God for the plexiglass separating him from the crazy woman in line. Namely me.

I grab my bag and make a beeline to my car. After dousing my hands in sanitizer, I look in my rearview mirror to see what appears to be a baby caterpillar crawling down my cheek. Nice. I adjust the eyelash, aligning the magnets and it clicks back into place. I look in the mirror again to make sure all is well when I notice that although my eyes are once again fine, I have smeared lipstick, foundation, and sweat covering the lower half of my face. I look like the Joker.

So yeah. I'm back to my Why bother? theory of wearing makeup. In that I DON'T wear makeup. Or leave my home. Ever.

It Just Fell Off. Really!

Although a tank of gas is lasting me a couple months these days, I had to fill up yesterday. In PC (pre-coronavirus) days, I would NEVER have left my house without doing my hair and applying full make-up. Now? I don't even remember how to put on make-up, and my hair? Well, I was mistaken for Hagrid last week.

Now I just don't seem to care. No make-up? No problem. My mask hides most of my face anyway. Pajama pants and a t-shirt with a bleach stain in public? Whatever. What's the point? Who am I trying to impress? I've clearly given up.

So I stop at the gas station, get out, start pumping gas, and notice a cute guy looking at me. Is he looking at me because I didn't put my mask on to pump gas? Is he trying to ascertain if I'm a woman or a man? (see: Hagrid hair) Maybe he's checking out my hot minivan. Why is he looking at me? I should've put on make-up. Maybe I haven't entirely given up yet. Maybe I just don't remember what it's like to interact with other humans, and therefore don't remember that it's nice to look presentable for said humans.

I fill my tank, go to hang up the pump, and the nozzle falls off. The nozzle separates from the hose and falls right off. IT. FALLS. OFF. Gasoline splashes from the hose and covers my flip-flop clad feet in the smelly liquid. The cute guy looks on in astonishment, and says, "Wow. Didn't know your own strength there, huh?"

I stand there in a puddle of gas for a second while my brain catches up to what just happened. I should tell someone. I need to tell the gas station people, I think. I grab my purse from my car and head toward the store. A few feet before I reach the door I remember my mask. I turn on my gassy foot and retreat to my car. The cute guy continues to look, mesmerized, no doubt, by my weird awkwardness, Hagrid hair, and the fact I can't even pump gas without looking like a monkey. I grab my mask and head back to the store.

"Hi, um yeah, I broke your pump. Or well, I didn't break it per se. But it's broken. The nozzle totally fell off. It's lying on the ground. You might want to um, I don't know, get it, or tape off that pump or something. I'm sorry. I don't know how that happened. It just fell off."

I felt like a toddler explaining to my parent, "I didn't break the vase. I don't know how it happened. It just fell off the table." The employee looked at me, eyebrow raised, like - Yeah, sure it did.

So, how's your week going?

Stretch Clayton

A couple weeks ago, a shirtless Clay walked by, and I noticed a couple red lines on his lower back.

"What did you do to your back?"

"I dunno. What are you talking about?" he asked.

"There are some red scratches on it. Are they just lines from sitting up against something?"

Clay looked confused. "I don't know."

I snapped a picture with my phone and showed him.

"It's weird. They look like dents in your back," I said, puzzled.

"Hmm, I have no idea," he responded. He walked to his room to look at the chair in which he'd been sitting. There was nothing on the back of the chair that could've caused those lines.

"So I guess it doesn't hurt?" I asked.

"Nope."

Fast forward a couple weeks.

The littles and I went to the beach a couple days ago. Don't worry, it wasn't a 'Daytona Spring Break' kinda party scene. The beach was empty, and we were able to socially distance a good 20+ yards from any other people, including the tourists who, for unknown reasons, like to feed the seagulls. (But that's another story.)


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As I helped Clay put sunscreen on his back, I noticed those marks were still there. In fact, they looked even worse. I inspected his lower back more closely and decided they looked like stretch marks. But who gets stretch marks on their lower back? And Clay's a skinny kid so stretch marks just didn't make sense to me.

I did a little searching online and asked my friend, Dr. Mike (who, the-way, has started a YouTube channel with medical topics explained in plain English that you can check out HERE.) Dr. Mike confirmed that, "Yes, it's possible with growth or a lot of weight gain."

I found articles online that claimed it's not uncommon for teens to develop stretch marks as they go through growth spurts.

The light dawned on me, and I recalled commenting several times over the past months, while giving Clay a hug, "You're so tall!" I measured him and sure enough, he's sprouted up another couple inches in this past year, putting him solidly at 5'11" now.

Have you noticed this with your teens? Have any of them developed stretch marks from rapid growth? None of my other kids ever got these. I've got them. But for entirely different reasons, namely Austin, Savannah, Jackson, Lexington, Clayton, Brooklyn, and Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

According to Dr. Mike, you obviously can't prevent stretch marks that are due to growth in height, but following a healthy diet and exercising to maintain a healthy weight can prevent some stretch marks. Unfortunately, as every mom knows, you can't just erase them, and I have yet to discover a miracle cream, so it can be tough for a teen who is self-conscious about stretch marks. My advice is to simply talk to your teen and commiserate with them. Let them know that the stretch marks spanning your abdomen are a symbol that you carried a baby, and that's a really good thing. And their stretch marks are a symbol that they're growing up and can reach things on the top shelf for you, and that is also a good thing!

The Wildlife Is Out To Get Me

A couple weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch, binging on Netflix productively working on my book when I heard a thud against the patio door behind me.

SIDE NOTE - The present participle of the word BINGE is binging. This bothers me. It looks like it would rhyme with ringing. Although some sources claim that BINGEING is acceptable also, that looks even more demented than BINGING. Stuff like this keeps me up at night.

Anyway, I was sitting on my couch when I heard a thud behind me. I had a mini heart attack and jumped up expecting to see one of my kids outside banging on the glass door. Because that's the kind of thing we do in my family. Scare the crap out of each other for fun.

Instead of one of my kids, I saw this:

That's right. A big ole hawk flew into my window. What the heck is it with these birds??? There was the mockingbird that kept me awake for months READ HERE. And there was the committee of vultures that congregated outside my classroom. Did you know a group of resting vultures is called a committee? Now you do. A flying pack of vultures is called a kettle, and a feeding group of vultures is called a wake. 

NOTE TO SELF: Stop giving random vocabulary lessons in the middle of your posts.

In short, birds creep me out!

Then, a couple days ago, when Clay opened the front door, he inadvertently let in a lizard. He let a lizard IN the house. I'm okay with lizards. They don't generally freak me out which is a good thing because there are approximately 3 anoles per square foot in this state. But when they come INSIDE . . . well, that's another matter.

Then today as I sat here once again, working hard on my book and not at all playing Words With Friends and procrastinating, I heard another thunk against the patio door. I jumped up, my heart palpitating and looked over the back of the couch expecting to see that stupid hawk again. Nope. No hawk. Instead, I saw this:

It made me remember the glitter frog that infiltrated my apartment. READ HERE.

I tell ya, it's like living in Jurassic Park down here! The wildlife is out to get me!

Preparing To Vacuum

I saw this on Facebook recently.

I glanced across the room to where my vacuum sat immobile. 

I had actually gotten my vacuum cleaner out a couple days prior, but it was still sitting there untouched in my family room, an avant garde decoration adorning my living space. When I first grabbed the vacuum, my kids were sleeping because, as I mentioned before, they're now nocturnal animals. I parked the vacuum intending to wait until the kids woke up before doing my chore. That was almost a week ago. Ahem.

So today I finally turned on the vacuum cleaner. I pushed it across the carpet a couple times, but it didn't seem to be picking up anything. I turned it off and set it down so I could see the roller.

Well, that would be why it isn't picking up anything. I shed more than a Siberian Husky. I truly don't know how I'm not bald. So every couple months I need to cut out all the hair that gets wrapped around this roller.

THIS is what it's SUPPOSED to look like.

This is the small wig I pulled from the roller.

And THIS is what happens when you want to start blogging again, but half your kids are grown and out of the house and the couple that are left, sleep all day so they don't provide you with nearly the amount of fodder they used to. And there's a pandemic so you don't go anywhere or do anything. And so you blog about hairy vacuums. That's where we're at. Thank you, Corona.

Might As Well Be Walking On The Sun

The little gym and the pool at my apartment complex have been closed since the beginning of March. When I walked up toward the office to get my mail yesterday I noticed there was a different sign on the pool. I walked over to see that it's now open with a limited capacity of 10 people at a time. Yay, I thought! I have a reason to get my lazy kids out of bed! If the pool's empty, we'll go swimming tomorrow, I planned.

So around 11:30, I opened Clay's door. "Come on! Get up, Bud! Let's go swimming!"

I was met with a grunt.

"Come on! Let's see the sun! It'll be fun! Fun in the sun!

He cracked one eye open to glare at me.

"Come on! This sleeping all day is ridiculous! Get up! Let's do SOMETHING!"

"No thanks," he dismissed me.

I weighed my options.
1.  Try to wrestle him out of bed. (He's stronger than me.)
2.  Dump a cup of water over his head to encourage him to get up. (Probably not wise to poke the bear.)
3.  Admit that he's now nocturnal, walk away, and try my hand with Brooklyn. (Check!)

I opened Brooklyn's door. "Hey baby! Let's go swimming! Come on, get up!"

Apparently I freaked her out as she jumped, her eyes flying open at the sound of my voice.

"Let's go swimming! The pool is open now. Let's get out in the sun. I'm going to put on my bathing suit and then we'll go."

She grunted, but got out of bed.

We put on our suits, grabbed some bottles of water, and walked over to the pool only to see a sign saying, "Pool closed." Wait, what? A maintenance guy walked by and I asked him, "Is the pool just closed today for cleaning or something?"

"Nope. It's closed indefinitely."

"What? I swear it was open yesterday!"

"Yeah, we just closed it again today because of the virus."

Dejected, we starting walking home. "Can I go rollerblading instead?" Brooklyn asked.

"It's like 100 degrees outside!"

"I don't care," Brooklyn insisted.

"Okay. I can walk while you skate."

So we drove over to a trail that runs near us. I told Brooklyn that she didn't need to keep pace with me; that she could go ahead and we'd meet up when we were ready to head home.

Actual footage of her skating off:


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So I trudged along because
1. The most strenuous thing I've done in months is walk to the kitchen to look for chocolate.
And 2. It's roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun outside.

Basically, I leisurely strolled along while stopping periodically to take pictures because I thought I might have a heart attack if I didn't stop I LOVE photography!

I walked about a mile and a half then texted Brooklyn to let her know that I was going to turn around and head back soon.

"Do you want me to turn around and head back too?"

"Nah, if you want to skate a little farther, that's okay. If I get back to the car before you, I'll just pass out wait in the AC until you get back.

A minute after I started walking back, Brooklyn called me.

"Mom, can you pick me up? I just threw up."

"I was just going to call you and ask YOU to pick ME up. I may be dying."

"Mooom. I can't drive."

"Oh who will know? You can figure it out."

"Mom!"

"Oh fine! Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Yeah. I'm by the post office."

"Okay, well sit down in the shade and take little sips of your water. I'll come pick you up, but it's going to take me a while to get back to the car."

I lumbered toward my car as little bugs swarmed around my face. As I futilely swatted at them, I envisioned hordes of flies teeming around animal carcasses, and briefly wondered if these bugs knew something I didn't. I did feel a little near death . . . I swished my hand around my head, attempting to shoo the bugs away, but they were now glued to my face with sweat. Lovely.

I finally made it back to my car and picked up Brooklyn.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I feel better after throwing up a couple times."

"Oh yeah, puking always makes me feel better too," I returned, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

She spent the drive home arguing with me that it wasn't too hot to exercise outside, and throwing up while skating is normal. Because she's 14 and knows everything. I spent the drive home making a note to myself - don't go out skating/walking with Brooklyn again. At least not until November.

Here are the pictures I took along the trail while I was making up excuses to stop walking.

 

Good Morning! Er, Um, Goodnight! I Mean, Morning. I Mean Night. I Don't Know What I Mean!

I was searching for a picture on my blog when I ran across this post I wrote ten years ago, in June of 2010. 


I sat on the floor of the girls' room while Clay, Brooklyn, and Lexi gathered around to hear me read them a story. Actually, they didn't so much gather around as they just tried their best to remind me why some parents eat their young. Clay bounced up and down on a suitcase because he has a genetic defect that doesn't give him the ability to sit still for more than a nanosecond. Brooklyn whined repeatedly that she couldn't see the pictures. In between the whining she interrupted the story with her questions. Lots of questions. In fact, I left her in her room two hours ago and I think I still hear her asking questions.

"Is that the owl?"

"Yes."

"Why is the owl sad?"

"Because the monkey landed on her baby owl."

"Why is there only one monkey?"

"Because there just is."

"Where are the elephants?"

"There are no elephants in this book."

"Why aren't there any elephants in this book?"

"Because it's not an elephant book."

"Why not?"

"And they all lived happily ever after, goodnight!"

"That's not the end, Mom! You have to read about the lion! (Duh)"

Hey, can't blame a tired mom for trying. So, after I gave Brooklyn her traditional "fishy kiss", I kissed Lexi and then threatened them to stay in bed told them goodnight. I left and went to Clay's room where I played the same game I play every single night of my life. It goes like this - I walk over to his bed and lean over to kiss him goodnight, but instead I kiss his stuffed monkey. As giggling erupts from the corner of the room where Clay is hiding, I exclaim, "What the? Hey! This isn't Clayton! This is a monkey! Where's Clay?" Yep, that never gets old.

After getting the youngest three tucked in, I usually head to my room to read email or write. Before my butt even hits the chair, Clay has gotten out of bed.

"Can I have some water?"

"Same as every night of your life."

He fills a cup, drinks half a teaspoon (yep, he really needed that water), then jumps like a kangaroo back to his bed.

Twenty-eight seconds later, he's up again.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Clay?"

"Ummm, I just want to ask you a question."

"Yes?"

"Ummm, Mom?"

"What?!" I snap because I get cranky when I hear my name repeated again and again for no particular reason.

"Ummm, Mom, is tomorrow going to be a good day?"

blink blink pause

"GO. TO. BED!"

This continues for the next five hours with each child taking turns getting out of bed just to be told to get back in bed. They don't tell you this part when you fill out the Mommy Application. Grandmas tell me I'm going to miss this when they're all out of the house. But I never hear these grandmas offer to come tuck my kids in to bed. Coincidence? I think not!

I laughed as I reread it, remembering those days. It seems like a lifetime ago. And you know what, I DO miss it. I totally long for those days. I'm not sure if it's because I truly miss those times with my kids when they were little and they adored me, or if it's because I have a selective memory and have conveniently forgotten the horrors of those never-ending days of messes and craziness.

Today, with only Brooklyn and Clayton still living at home, our evening routine is a little different. Especially amid a pandemic, things are um, quite different. Bedtime generally goes like this:

ME  AT 11:00PM:  Oh good "morning," kids. You just get up?

CLAY & BROOKLYN: No, we've been up since about 7:00PM, just hanging out in our rooms on our phones.

ME: Okay then. Well, goodnight. I'm going to bed.

The end.