Bullet-Pointed Christmas

Please verify that Spouse and I are not the only ones who send emails like this during the holidays.  Explanatory notes bracketed and in Italics, actual text of the email appearing as regular text.

Christmas-related bullet points:

• When you pick up C., tell him that I have K's body spray (Vanilla Bean Noel - the girl equivalent of Axe; I sampled the lotion, and now I reek), and a bag to put it and the giraffe ornament in.  He needs to remember to take her gift and the chameleon glasses to school tomorrow.

 

[These are the chameleon glasses.  They are Big Kid's gift exchange item for swim team.  He picked them because they look, sort of, like goggles.  But are totally unusable as such, on account of how they have no lenses.

Giraffes are the source of a private joke between Big Kid and his girlfriend.]

• P. needs to bring his teacher gifts tomorrow as well.

[I have had Little Kid's teacher gifts for weeks and fully intended to send them up to school early, on the theory that it would be one less thing for a teacher to carry home on the last day of school.  Of course, I utterly failed to follow through on this awesome suggestion-to-self.]

• I found an appropriately sized flag case for Dad’s casket flag (also got a free bottle of body lotion for Nana when I bought K.’s stuff) and got the balance of J.’s gift while I was out today, so the only things remaining on my to-do list involve picking up Water Gardens photos at Barron Photografix and buying replacement (actual human-sized) boot cuffs for L.G. at the antique mall.  Intentionally pushed off those two trips because they are off of the beaten path and can be accomplished Saturday AM while the unwashed masses are the (non-antique) malls.  

[My dad died almost two years ago.  We are just now getting around to putting his flag in a thingy.  Which is okay, I suppose, given that we purchased room in the crypt at his church for his ashes, the tab for which has long since been paid for, but Dad's still in a box in Mom's room.  Baby steps.

 

I ordered crocheted boot cuffs for my friend's nine year-old daughter through Etsy.  The item listing said "child"-sized.  I bought them based on a general working knowledge of Etsy sites and an understanding that "infant" means infant, "toddler" means toddler, and "child" means a smallish human who is nevertheless bigger than an infant or a toddler.  Yeah, what arrived are toddler-sized as best.  Little Kid couldn't even get them over his feet, and Little Kid is pretty tiny.] 
 

• While “I” am basically finished, “you” are not – still need to finish Christmas for A. and birthday for Z. (framing gift cards for both?) and Christmas for B. ($25 Harbor Freight gift card).

[I shop for all of the women and girls, plus Spouse and the kids, neighbors, teachers, ministers, friends, etc.; Spouse shops for his three brothers and one male nephew, plus me.  That's five people on Spouse's list, and eleven-ty million-trillion on mine, but I always end up finishing first.] 

• I am still waiting on two packages – a scarf for M. and the hymn wall hanging for T. and L.  Both are set to be delivered to the house.  Everything else I was waiting for arrived at the office when I was out yesterday.

[I have always felt like we were weird gifters - not in the sense of weird people who gift, although that probably applies, too, but in the sense of gifters who gift weird stuff - and seeing "giraffe ornament," "chameleon glasses," "casket flag case," "crocheted boot cuffs" and "hymn wall hanging" in the above communique pretty much seals the deal.]

That's How You Know

You may be the mother of a teenaged boy if:

1.  Much of what you have purchased for him for Christmas is apparel.

2.  You decide that it's a good idea for him to try on some of said apparel before wrapping those items - notwithstanding that that will spoil the surprise - because you suspect that some things are too short or too tight.  Good call, because YES, and YES, and everything pant and jean ended up having to go back to be exchanged for bigger sizes.

3.  You end up taking one shirt and one pair of pants out of the gift column and give them to him in advance, after you realize that, while he has a sports coat and slacks to wear to holiday functions with the one dress shirt that currently fits him, that's pretty much ALL he has to wear to holiday functions.  And swapping out a different tie only gets you so far.

You may be the mother of a teenaged boy AND an elementary school kid if all of your holiday photos look like the one above, and you find yourself sympathizing with the photographer who had to get Manute Bol in the same frame as Spud Webb and Muggsy Bogues.

Ninja Shopping Assassin

I got a late start on gift acquisition this year, on account of being sick, tired and sick of being tired for most of Thanksgiving.  (Thanks, ever-changing North Texas weather and killer pollen counts!)  But I am making up for it.

In fact, I'm prepared to call it:  I am a ninja shopping assassin.

Immediate family:  done.  Mother and mother-in-law:  very close to.

Sisters-in-law and grown niece:  final touches knocked out in a half hour of online shopping completed this morning, thanks to Lands' End, Macy's and Neiman Marcus, who conveniently offered me deep discounts, shipping deals AND money in the kids' Upromise account.  Only missing one monogram.

Baby nieces:  done.  Besties and their kids:  one item lacking, another en route from an Etsy seller.  Otherwise, complete.  Neighbors:  done.  Teachers:  done and done.

You get the idea.

Not done:  two brothers-in-law.  Spouse is in charge of acquiring their gifts.

Pray for us.

I like to make lists, and I like to efficiently cross items off of those lists (while also leaving some wiggle room for impulse purchases).  This year, I have a Trello board for my lists.  More on that later.  My game plan always involves purchasing and wrapping a little each day, every day, so I don't get overly stressed, and I try to wrap up that process at least ten days out from 12/25.  Spouse's default mode is more of the "wheels-off, skid-across-the-finish-line-on-fire" kind of thing (although he has gotten SO much better over two decades, something for which I take SO much credit, and it's been a long time since he accused me of being the Grinch for suggesting that waiting to do his shopping until 12/23 and 12/24 was kind of a wack idea).

(Note to file:  I am so blond that, after I looked up how to spell "wack" and was surprised to learn that it wasn't spelled like the real word "whack," it took me a five-count to go, "OH - SHORT FOR WACKY."  I am forever "discovering" obvious things like this.  A recent example, driving down Montgomery Street here in Fort Worth:  "Look, hon.   Billiards and Barstools put up their giant inflatable holiday bear, and Vending Nut put up a nutcracker again.  OH, I JUST GOT IT.  IT'S ALWAYS A NUTCRACKER BECAUSE THEY SELL NUTS.")

I have spent a lot of time this year serving as personal shopper for Big Kid, acquiring gifts for youth ministry staff and choir directors and white elephant items for multiple gift exchanges.  Once upon a time, I participated in multiple gift swaps, but now I'm down to one, and for every one I've dropped, Big Kid has picked up a replacement.  I refer to this as the Matter-Antimatter Theory of Holiday Gift Shopping:  everything offsets.  An aged family member dies, and a baby joins the family in the same year, so you still end up shopping for the same number of people.  And, apparently, I will always need to shell out $X for Y number of gift exchanges.

As Yoda would put it:  balance in the Christmas force, there is.

Sudden Realization

 

Our tree is an I Spy.

 

I spy two (of three) sequined partridges (sewn by my mother),

a poodle and a felt horned frog (sewn by my grandmother-in-law),

one of a growing number of sock monkeys,

the Wizard of Oz,

the parrot judge from Alice in Wonderland,

a bunny rabbit dressed like Superman . . .

 

. . . and on, and on, and on, and on.

 

Our tree reminds me, sort of, of the Special Shapes Glodeo, an event we attended with Little Kid when we visited New Mexico during the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta.  Only the non-balloon-shaped hot air balloons participate, and they don't take off.  Rather, they are inflated shortly before dusk, and when it gets sufficiently dark, someone counts backwards from ten, and all of the balloon pilots ignite their burners at once.  You have not lived until you are standing in the middle of a field (yes, you are encouraged to go out amidst the balloons), surrounded by the most random combination of nightlights-on-steroids imaginable.  To your left, the Belgian flag, next to Chesty the Marines Corps Bulldog.  To your right, a piggy bank next to a matryoshka doll.  In front of you, a giant bottle of whiskey.  I promise you that is one of the most surreally beautiful things you will ever see.

 

Our tree makes as little sense - and as much sense - as the Special Shapes do.  Each ornament is unique, some are quite weird, but, together, they make sense.

 

Every one has a story behind it, and the stories are a big part of the beauty.  I get that now.  When I was young, and being raised by a non-matching-tree mother, I used to go through holiday catalogs and wonder what it might be like to have a coordinated tree.  At one point, I suggested that Mom do away with all of the non-matching stuff and just buy a few kits of entirely impersonal, but totally coordinated, glass balls, in colors to match the furniture.  She declined.  And now I have my own version of a Hodgepodge Tree, with WAY too many ornaments, and I cannot imagine having anything else. 

Speaking of Pineapples . . .

. . . and I WAS, I apparently have a kindred spirit living somewhere in Los Angeles, who decided that the best birthday theme for her toddler was . . . FOXES AND PINEAPPLES.  Because he loves (get ready for this) . . . FOXES AND PINEAPPLES.  What a co-inky-dink, right? 

(Technically, the kid wasn't so much of a fan of foxes, per se, as of that "What Does the Fox Say?" song, but I digress.)

This is exactly the sort of inspired nonsense that I live for.  Parties should be personal, and what's more personal than mashing up two totally unrelated things?  Bonus points if you can mash them up with this level of style:

 

 

 

Coupla things:

1.  I'm prepared to call it:  2015 will be The Year of the Pineapple.  Well, at my house, anyway.  But I'm going to try to make it a thing elsewhere.
2. I need a "Party Like a [Pineapple Wearing Sunglasses]" pillow, stat.
3. This mother was fortunate that her child liked a song and a fruit that translated into a cute, citrus-colored party concept.  Both of our boys, oddly, were obsessed with Earth Wind & Fire's "September" as wee ones, although neither one knew the true title until years later.  Big Kid called it the "Oh-Dee-Oh Song," because of the chorus, and Little Kid called it "Night-A-Gruseum," because it was featured at the end of the film, "Night at the Museum," which Big Kid was watching on a continuous loop.  In terms of food, Big Kid's most notable culinary achievement as of age two was a chile relleno, and Little Kid liked carrot cake.  So, trying hard to mash up Earth Wind & Fire, cheese-stuffed chile peppers and carrot cake, and kinda failing.
4. When I say "coupla things," I almost never mean a couple of things.

Entire party can be viewed on the Inspired By This site.

Apropos of Not Much: Pineapple Motives

I am really regretting that that Regretsy chick decided to focus on voiceover work (she's the voice of Wander's sidekick on "Wander Over Yonder," in case you were wondering), because this would be SO up her alley.

 

DISCLAIMER:  I swear that I did not go in search of crocheted monokinis on the Internet.  I was actually looking for boot toppers for a preteen girl.  Somehow, this showed up as a search result:

 

 

"A black monokini with pineapple motives."  I am 99.9% sure that the owner of the shop meant to say "pineapple MOTIFS."  But "pineapple motives" is now my FAVORITE PHRASE OF ALL TIME.  And I plan to work it into conversation AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE.

 

Allow me to point out that I first discovered "a black monokini with pineapple motives" when I was still suffering from a horrible "dregs of seasonal rhinitis" cough, and I laughed so hard that I tripped my coughing wire, and then it was all I could do not to actually pee my pants.

 

There are so many things I love about . . . THIS.  Among them, why do items only ship to Australia from Georgia?  Some of the monokini selections seem to be targeted to the Americas (see "Puerto Rican Monokini" and "Jamaican Monokini").  Is there a market for crocheted-Puerto-Rican-flag-motif-plus-size-swimwear in Oceania?  If so, why?  And then there is this:

 

"And any size in other body parts" is my second favorite phrase next to "pineapple motives."

I have to say that the quality of the artist's work is amazing.  I can't even fathom how one would go about crocheting a one-shouldered ANYTHING, let alone a swimsuit, and the actual crocheting on some of the pieces is crazy-intricate.  The lily-motif bikini is absolutely beautiful.

But THIS one is my favorite.

Christine the Elf

Friend Christine is a Santa elf in human form.

 

Sitting at my desk, and a message pops up.  Just a picture - this picture.

 



 

BING.  Another message.  "Does P need a chair in his room?"

 

YES.  If it's a shark-shaped chair, and it's flipping adorable, YES.

 

My actual response:  "OMG, WHERE ARE YOU?"

 

Her response to my response:  "Homegoods!  Call me."

 

As I am dialing the number, picture #2 comes through:

 

"They have yellow and navy, black and green, and gray and turquoise."

A good friend calls and tells you that there are shark-shaped chairs at Homegoods, in a variety of colorways.  A really good friend advises you that the chair is getting purchased either way, because technically she's not finished with your son's birthday present, but she is giving you the option of being the awesome person who gifts him with a shark-shaped chair.  (I believe her actual words were, "I don't want to upstage you with the shark chair without permission.")  We agreed on the more authentic grey/turquoise color combo and that she would buy and I would reimburse.

"Okay, he's in my basket.  I knew that you would want to know, and I knew that he wouldn't last long."

Yup, and agreed.  Aaaaaaaaaand, in five minutes' time, "whimsical wow gift for under the tree" was crossed off of my list - before said list was even completed.

I am fortunate to have several such elves in my life - those awesome girlfriends (plus one male coworker and my mom) who randomly discover something that they know I will want to know about, and possibly acquire, and immediately text me (well, Mom doesn't text, she calls) and offer to serve as personal shopper.  You all know who you are, and - because I don't say it often enough - you're all kinds of appreciated.

All Is Right With the World

 

THE ADVENT CALENDAR HAS CANDY CANES.  Now the fighting over said candy canes can commence. 

 

"It's my turn to get the candy cane."

"No, you're odd days, I'M even.  This one is mine."

 

I bought two dozen extra, so that BOTH kids will get a candy cane EVERY DAY, regardless of who updates the calendar.  That may cut down on the bickering.  Although the bickering, I think, is part of the fun, for all involved.

 

Candy Cane Santa hangs in the hallway next to the "Doodle of the Day" chalkboard that, in retrospect, I should have titled "Doodle That Mom Adds, Maybe, Occasionally, When She Remembers."  Let the record show that it currently has a seasonally appropriate doodle.  Which will probably stay in place through December and not be replaced until February.

 

Meh.  Consistency is overrated.  More fun to keep them guessing.  For example, by starting the Christmas countdown on December 2nd.

 



Once Again, The Mom's Heart Grows Three Sizes

When I went to bed last night, I thought to myself that, perhaps, I had outdone myself on the tree-trimming.  Like, possibly, my best work ever.

My very next thought was that this was, sort of, ironic, because - at 10 and 15 - the boys can now both be accurately described as "big kids" (although I will continue to refer to the little one as the Little Kid for clarity's sake).  Big kids who are, maybe, a little bit jaded about the whole Christmas thing, meaning that this year's Christmas decorating is the equivalent of playing to an empty room.

And then this morning happened.

On the way out the door to school, Big Kid stopped.  Got out his smart phone.

"Wait, Dad, I need to take a picture of the tree.  I want to make it my wallpaper."

(His previous wallpaper was a photo of his girlfriend.)

And then:

"Mom, don't forget that you need to buy candy canes for the Advent calendar.  Like, now.  We're already a day behind."

The Little Kid echoed his sentiment:  "Yeah, Mom.  We HAVE to have candy canes.  It's, like, a tradition."

Big Kid was humming a Christmas carol as they left the house.

Possibly not as jaded as I thought.  And, hopefully, never completely so.

Connor AKA: The Brother

Essay written by the Little Kid:

Connor AKA:  The Brother

 

Do you have a special person in your life?  My special person is probably my older brother Connor.  Connor has allways been a certain role modle for me.  Connor helps people and he is kind, thankful, nice, careing, thoughtful, forgiveful and is a great person in general.

 

Connor also does very fun things with me.  Some examples are playing soccer, football, baseball, basketball, riding bikes, going to movies, playing video games, helping me with schoolwork and many other wonderful things.

 

Connor also does comunity service with me.  Some comunity services we do together are Cowtown Brushup, volunteering at nursing homes and other things like helping my grandma on her farm which gives something to Aledo, etc., etc.

 

I am so thankful for having such a great person in my life.  My brother Connor is truely the most special person in my life.  Now tell me who your person is again?

 

And his mother's heart grew three sizes that day - and she resolved to scan said essay into PDF and save it to Google Drive, so that any time the Little Kid expressed dislike for the Big Kid, or Big Kid claimed that the Little Kid MUST have it in for him, she could present them with conclusive evidence of The Truth, from any location from which the Internet was accessible.

Apropos of Not Much: Meandering Musings for a Monday (September 8th Edition)

Filed under the heading "first-world problems": 

I feel like I spend a disproportionate amount of time inserting my hands under things in public restrooms and waiting for those things to turn on.  Am I not getting soap/water/hot air because the device is actually broken, or am I just not putting my hands in the right place?  Is this a common problem, or is it just me?  Am I really so inept that I cannot trigger something that is supposed to $%*#ing function simply by sensing your presence in front of it?  Maybe I'm trying too hard.  Admittedly, my instinct after the initial failure to launch is to violently jab my hands under the sensor beam in a rather threatening manner.  And, while I do not say it out loud, in my head I am repeating, "It's broken.  MINE IS BROKEN," doing my best impersonation of Julia Roberts when she first encountered opera glasses in "Pretty Woman."  I mean, is it too much to ask to calibrate these things so that the sensor is tripped by the same movement, at the same height, across multiple technology platforms?

I warned you that it was a first-world problem.

Moving on to "first-world OCD problems":  SERIOUSLY, ONE KINGS LANE?  You're walking on thin ice changing your layout, period, but changing your layout ON A MONDAY is enough to make my head explode.  I seriously cannot deal with this kind of emotional upheaval at the beginning of a week.  After all, I am the girl who almost ran off the road when the Texas Department of Transportation changed the font that it uses for road signs.  We're not talking a major change, either:  THEY MOVED FROM ONE SANS SERIF FONT TO ANOTHER SANS SERIF FONT.  BUT I NOTICED.  AND I BECAME UNHINGED.

This is me in a nutshell. (Actually, THIS is me in a nutshell:  "Help!  I'm in a nutshell.  How did I get into this bloody great big nutshell?"  YES, I stole that from Austin Powers.  I think the relevant question is, how could I NOT steal that from Austin Powers?)  Major life upheaval:  no problem.  Slight change in the way a lower-case g looks on paper?  Kill me now. 

I blame this on:  (1) being a highly visual person; and (2) never having my arms scratched with brushes as a kid.  As an adult, I am very much aware that my unique "me-ness" (or, as we have referred to it for years, my "princess-and-the-pea-ness") is not so unique and has an actual name - sensory processing disorder with over-sensitivity.  Per Wikipedia, people with SPD with over-sensitivity:

Refuse to kiss or hug, not because they don't like the person, but because the sensation of skin contact can be very negative.

Poor Spouse and Little Kid:  they are convinced that I find them repugnant, because I am constantly shoving them off of me and shouting things at them like, "STOP, YOU ALREADY HUGGED ME" or "NO, IT'S TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING" (my me-ness tends to be at its very worst right when I wake up?).  As hard as I try, I am mostly unable to convince them that I like them just fine - as long as they keep a proper distance and don't sneak up and force public displays of affection on me.  They truly can't process that an unexpected hugs BURN MY SKIN LIKE FIRE.  (For the record, I think that, maybe, they hug overmuch.  I suspect that they have the other kind of SPD, with under-sensitivity, and that is why they CAN'T STOP TOUCHING THINGS.  Whereas I would be happy not touching things, more often than not.  See below.)

Feel seriously discomforted, sick or threatened by normal sounds, lights, movements, smells, tastes or even inner sensations such as heartbeat.

Umm, so here's some examples from my personal life:

Can't handle the smell of peanut M&Ms in confined spaces.  Refused to walk through Sears as a child because they were always popping popcorn at the little kiosk near the "make-a-key center," the popcorn had too much salt on it, and the salt made the back of my throat burn to the point that I thought that I was dying.

Drive Spouse and my auto mechanic crazy by constantly reporting "suspicious noises" that I am never able to duplicate, because what I am hearing is the actual mechanical operations of my vehicle.  Like, the sound of coolant moving through the coolant lines:  "THERE.  DO YOU HEAR THAT GURGLING?"  No, they don't hear it.  NO ONE HEARS IT, except for me, and, maybe, dogs.  When temperatures drop below freezing, I really come unspooled, because the tiny amount of shrinkage that occurs when metal gets cold changes infinitesimally the noises that I hear inside the car, and I start to complain about "the rattling."  "The car won't stop rattling.  It sounds like it's coming apart.  Is it the engine?"  No.  It is the sound of the actual axles turning in their housings, which sound is ever-so-slightly different to my dog ears than it is in the summertime.

Am often so aware of the beating of my own heart that it feels like it is coming out of my chest.

It is somewhat of a relief to know that there is a name for what I always presumed was a character flaw (and that that condition is linked to health issues that, apparently, can all be traced to having an overactive nervous system).  It is somewhat of a bummer to know that I probably would be much more functional today if I had had occupational therapy as a child (the aforementioned "scratching with brushes" and other activities designed to recondition nerve endings).  Sadly, I was born in an era where children with what we now understand to be Asperger's "marched to the beat of their own drummer" and ADHD kids were "high energy."  Within those parameters, I was a "standoffish little prisspot," and I wasn't able to articulate to people that my stand-offishness and prissiness were related to my body being at DEFCON 1 all the damned time, because I had no idea that DEFCON 1 wasn't the default mode of operations for most humans.

Once again:  first world problems.  Nice to have people who hug me against my will, a car to drive me to distraction with phantom noise issues, and a computer and Internet access that allow me to assure myself that I'm really not crazy, just a bit overwired and, often, overtired.  And, on that note, off to Bedfordshire.  I'm sure that OKL's tweaked user interface will seem (marginally) less offensive with the light of day.  

WWJSD (What Would Julia Sugarbaker Do)?

Dixie Carter gave an interview once where she expressed the opinion that being a Southern woman of a certain age was a joy, because you had full license to speak your mind.  And when she said that, I remember thinking, "Why wait?"  I decided that "a certain age" really ought to translate into "whatever age I am now."

Since then, I've found it hard to keep my Southern mouth shut.

A recent example of when I had to muzzle myself:  guy waiting for his car at the valet stand, carrying on a very loud conversation with . . . no one.  Because he was plugged into his Bluetooth.  He was yelling at someone named Jessica.  And I came this close to whipping out my own phone, holding it to my ear and carrying on one-half of an imaginary conversation as follows:

What's up?  Waiting for the valet and listening to this guy yell at some poor soul named Jessica who is probably holding the phone out LIKE THIS.  Yeah, he's on his Bluetooth.  Umm, thinning hair, medium height and build, striped oxford, khakis?

At this point, he would turn around and look at me, slackjawed, and I'd either wave at him or give him the thumbs up, and then resume my "conversation" while abruptly changing the topic to something 180 degrees in the opposite direction.

A recent example of when I didn't muzzle myself:  a local pub-style restaurant that my work friends and I frequent always has the soup of the day listed on the chalkboard by the front door.  Yesterday's selection looked interesting, so I searched the menu for "soup of the day" and found - nothing.  No soup-and-sandwich or soup-and-salad option, not a side dish or substitution item, NO MENTION OF SOUP OF ANY KIND, IN ANY CONTEXT.

So I called over the owner (who, over eighteen or so years, has come to know us pretty well, and knows what to expect).

"Hey, the soup of the day looks good."

"It is."

"Are you aware that you don't actually SELL soup?"

"I don't?"

"Well, not in terms of 'listing it on the menu and assigning it a price point.'  I mean, you may be selling incidental quantities based on anecdotal evidence that soup exists, but your menu certainly isn't doing you any favors in the soup-marketing department."

I was very upbeat and direct in my delivery.  And I could tell that he appreciated my unique blend of brutal honesty and sunniness.  As well he should!  I was doing him a SERVICE.  Just like when he printed new menus after changing locations several years back, and I asked him about the sauce on the fish sandwich:

"Tarter than what?  Regular tartar sauce?"

"Huh?"

"The fish sandwich comes with TARTER sauce.  With an E.  So is it something different than tartar sauce, in that it is more tart?  Tart-ER?"

"No.  [Expletive.]  YOU'RE [expletive] KIDDING ME.  I HAD THREE DIFFERENT PEOPLE PROOFREAD THAT MENU."

"Were they literate people?"

Like I say, he knows what to expect from me.

Last night, I had to fill out first-day-of-school forms for the Little Kid.  I hate this exercise, because of the sheer number of forms that require me to fill in my child's name, his student ID number, the school and the date, and then check a box confirming that, no, my child is not a migrant farmworker, or an Inuit or Aleut, or the child of a serviceperson, or sleeping on a non-relative's couch.  I understand why this information is important, but my objection is to the fact that the check-boxes come one to a page.  THIS form is just for checking yes or no to the farmworker question, and if you check no, there is a bold-type legend telling you to STOP THERE AND DON'T FILL OUT THE REST OF THE FORM.  Meaning that seven-eighths of a piece of paper just went to waste.  The Inuit Islander question appears on an entirely different form (another seven-eighths lost), and so on.  PEOPLE, CAN WE NOT CREATE A MASTER FORM WITH ONE GLOBAL QUESTION AT THE TOP?  "My child [IS/IS NOT] a migrant farm-working Inuit or Aleut sleeping on a non-relative's couch while one or both of his/her parents is deployed."  If you check "IS NOT," then you're done.  Boom.

That sound is the sound of grateful trees weeping tree-tears (would that be sap?) at my suggestion.

The form that bugs me the most is the one requesting permission to list our address and phone information in the district directory.  THERE IS NO DISTRICT DIRECTORY - and why would there be?  We live in a largish city, with a sprawling ISD comprised of a bazillion campuses.  Yet, year after year, the question is asked.  And, year after year, I check "no" on principle, and write some version of the following in the margin:

PLEASE STOP ASKING ME IF I WANT TO BE INCLUDED IN THE 100% THEORETICAL DISTRICT-WIDE DIRECTORY.  NOT UNLIKE THE LIMIT IN THE CHAMPIONSHIP QUESTION ASKED IN THE STATE MATHLETE FINALS IN "MEAN GIRLS," THE DIRECTORY DOES NOT EXIST.  TEN YEARS, YOU HAVE BEEN ASKING THIS QUESTION.  AT NO POINT IN THOSE TEN YEARS HAS THERE EVEN BEEN THE SUGGESTION OF THE POSSIBILITY OF AN ACTUAL DIRECTORY BEING PUBLISHED.  ENOUGH, ALREADY.

I tell myself that surely someone in the front office, or in central administration, will read my comment , actually GET IT, and mutter, "HA! Right?"  They might snort a little.  AND I WILL HAVE MADE THEIR DAY.  Yeah, I know that, more likely than not, no one ever reads my comment, and if they do, they probably don't get it.  But I don't care.  It makes me feel better to vent.  And it's sort of become a tradition.

Tradition is important to Southerners "of a certain age."

Scenes From a Wednesday Evening

Walk into the bedroom this evening, discover Little Kid has taken over said bedroom, and origami projects have taken over my bed.

Without preamble: 

"MOM.  I'm kind of in a bad mood right now."

I walk past him, enter the bathroom.  Ask him to explain.

He starts to explain.

And I cut him off.

"I'm sorry. We interrupt your bad mood in progress for this announcement.  I JUST SAT IN YOUR PEE."

[I have omitted the scream of surprise that preceded my announcement.  Mainly because I can't be bothered to figure out how to spell it phonetically.]

For the record, it was a lot of pee.  And (unfortunately) I have ample basis for comparison.

And so it is that ninety seconds after entering the house, I was in the shower.

Some time thereafter, Spouse put chicken breasts stuffed with Hatch green chile tamales into the oven for our dinner.  (By "our," I mean his and mine.  Both kids opted for something less adventurous.  I didn't fight them - mainly because we only had two chicken breasts.)

The chicken breasts were huge, and overstuffed.  They took a LONG time to cook.  Meanwhile, they filled the house with deliciousness, and made me very much aware of how hungry I was.  The weird thing is, I couldn't smell the chicken, or the chiles - just the baking tamale aroma.

No sooner had I commented on this to Spouse, Big Kid came out of his room:

"I am suddenly craving pancakes.  Or waffles.  Something in that arena."

"Tamales."

"No.  Ick.  Toast?  I could go for toast."

"You're smelling the tamale stuffing in what Dad's cooking for us.  But, totally agreed that it's very pancake-y."

"Would you consider making pancakes at this juncture?"

"Nope."

"Just one pancake?"

"Even less of a fan of making one pancake than several."

"Biscuits?"

"YES.  I distinctly remember seeing canned biscuits in the fridge.  Baby -"

Spouse (who was eavesdropping from a room away) was already on it.

And so it is that I washed down a tamale-stuffed chicken breast with two buttermilk biscuits tricked out with butter and honey.  And then I washed THOSE down with a delightful Cotes des Gascogne.  Because once you've gone carb, you know?

Pee-sitting incident:  water under the bridge.  Or urine under the buttocks.  Whatevs.

Apropos of Not Much: Meandering Musings for a Monday (August 11th Edition)

A baker's dozen things that make me happy after a Monday to win all Mondays:

1.  Nine year-olds who answer the phone when you call home on the way back from the doctor and insist on conversing with you in an oddly accented robot voice.  And ask "When will you be home, Mom?" and are genuinely excited about your unscheduled workday visit, circumstances notwithstanding.

2.  Sweet friends who pop in, sprawl on the bed and check up on you when they know you are sick and tired.

3.  Spouses who help you rationalize that (now that you have had a restorative steroid shot) sushi isn't really a weird thing to be craving on a terribly upset stomach because (a) I mean, you crave things FOR A REASON and (b) ginger.  Really, really good for the stomach.  So, duh.

4.  Spouses who fetch you sushi.

5.  Pancakes and margaritas.  This is what a friend who was also having a horrid day actually had for dinner this evening.  And now I really wish I had thought of it before the sushi thing.

It's now on my "near future bucket list."

6. Dogs posing in photo booths.  Best. Concept.  Ever.  (And proof of what I have always suspected:  Pomeranians are the life of the party.  And I want one.  A Pomeranian, not a dog photo booth.  Okay, possibly I do want both.  "Adopt a Pom:  Photo Booth Free With Purchase" may be the best marketing gimmick EVER.)

[Link to more awesome dog photos here.]

7.  THEM.

Like, if you set out to genetically engineer the coolest couple ever - YOU MIGHT GET THEM.

8.  Maybe, also, them?

Apparently, Gillian Anderson has been seen hanging out with David Duchovny a lot lately.  And now his divorce is final.  Never happy to see a couple split up, but if the break was inevitable . . . why NOT Mulder and Scully?  Nineties me who had a standing date with her fiancé/husband to watch every episode of "X-Files" (and actually paid to see the first movie in the theater, but not the second one) WANTS TO BELIEVE.

9.  MINISTRY OF SILLY WALKS is now an app.  And (speaking of divorce and my geekiness) John Cleese is using proceeds from the app to pay for his divorce!  Way to make the best out of a bad situation.

[This ends the geek portion of my post.  And now we turn to sports.]

10. THIS.  And Broadway Joe making stew with your mom and Archie Manning floating in space.

[Link to awesome Manning rap video here.]

11.  Hunter Pence signs.  The fact that they are clever and not mean-spirited. 

The fact that he responded by turning that last one into a meme, with an image of himself posing in a sleek convertible on a showroom floor.

And the fact that we are apparently calling all clever and not mean-spirited signs of this genre "Hunter Pence signs," EVEN IF THEY ARE NOT DIRECTED AT HUNTER PENCE.

 12.  FSU Football's questionable decision to set up a Web chat with Jameis Winston.  And insightful fan questions like:

Of all of the coaches you have played for over the years, why did you steal those crab legs?

Jameis, you went 13-0 on the football field and 2-0 in the court system.  What was your overall record?

 13.  This little girl (AKA "Bernadette Peters FROM THE FUTURE") and her relationship with her daddy. 

The fact that he sings "although" as part of the melody, she corrects him, "No, Daddy, sing 'although'" and he instantly knows that SHE IS ASKING HIM TO SING HARMONY.  The mouth trumpet sequence, and her big finish.

(The background:  the family moved to a somewhat remote part of Austria for his work.  Apparently firing off fireworks in the middle of the night to celebrate every minor holiday is a thing in this remote part of Austria.  (Having briefly lived in Austria - yeah, this doesn't surprise me.)  Fireworks were no bueno with the little one, and so Dad suggested a sing-along as a means of distracting her.)

Video here.

If you want to download the Silly Walks app, or see Jameis Winston get skewered on Twitter, just Google 'em.  I'm officially tired.  To paraphrase Natalie's mom in "Love Actually":  "Three is a lot of embedded links, David."  (For maximum effect, please read the last line in a working-class British accent.)

Culturally Mormon(ish): Because Craft Closets Are So Last Year

Ripped from the pages of Southern Living's "2014 Idea House" issue, I bring you:

THE CLUTTER ROOM.

It's like a butler's pantry, except it's AN ENTIRE ROOM.  Where you can artfully display all of your serving pieces, and stage centerpieces and stuff for an upcoming party.

I.  WANT.  ONE.

Except mine wouldn't look like this, on account of how my serving pieces are by no means matchy-matchy.  So, maybe, I'm not cut out for open-concept, but I can still covet, right?  Wait:  coveting, bad.  APPRECIATING, better.

For the record, I have an almost-clutter room.  We call it "The Larder," to differentiate it from "The Pantry," and because it's easier to direct someone to The Larder than "that wall of floor-to-ceiling 12-inch-deep cabinets that we put between the refrigerator and the door to the den because otherwise that wall would be useless space."  Technically, it's NOT a larder, because larders (as I understand them) are areas for storing food in relatively cool and dry conditions, so basically . . they're pantries.  But, whatever.  The top half of The Larder is supposed to be mine, and I do have a lot of stuff in there (dishes that we don't use that often, a punch bowl, a cookie jar shaped like a pig - like I said, NOT MATCHY-MATCHY) - stuff that you would commonly store in a butler's pantry, but, again, more than one thing called a pantry = overly confusing to male members of the household (big and small).  However, Spouse has overtaken some of "my" space and uses it as a place to hide tortilla chips, Girl Scout Cookies and other food items that he doesn't wish to share with the boys.  I think his rationale is that the place where Mom stores her punch bowl is probably the LAST place that young males would be prone to visit.  I proclaim this rationale sound.  Also, it occurs to me that, thanks to Spouse, MAYBE THE LARDER IS A LARDER AFTER ALL.

The bottom of The Larder is chock-full of pet supplies (an entire shoebox-sized plastic bin of dog bandanas!), with random stuff like spare light switch covers and cabinet knobs mixed in.  Again, not attractive, best kept hidden behind closed doors, but so grateful for the space.

When we redid the kitchen (incorporating The Official Pantry), The Hallway Broom Closet Formerly Known as The Pantry became my craft closet:

It's no Clutter Room - but only on account of the fact, that technically, it's not a room.  Any room of mind tends to be a "clutter room."

I'd like to think it's part of my charm.