You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2007.
One thing I don’t like about blogging on WordPress is all the gross spam comments. I get the grossest spam here.
It’s been a while since I’ve told you all how much I adore my mother-in-law. I do very much love and appreciate my mother-in-law. She is wonderful, and we have a great relationship. Sugar Daddy thinks she likes me better than she likes him. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m just putting it out there for you all to understand that I heart my mother-in-law. She should never be confused with my step-mother, whom I also love but who more frequently bugs the living crap out of me (bless her soul).
My mother-in-law is actually planning to move to Portland next year–to our very neighborhood, if possible–so that she can be closer to the grandkids. I don’t think she has any other reason to move here, as she is not fond of Oregon in any other regard that I know of. But that is neither here nor there. She is planning to move up here, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Mostly I will enjoy having her around. Especially when it involves free babysitting. Did I say that out loud? Anyway, the main reason I am looking forward to it is because I love her and like having her around. Unlike my step-mother, her I can stand having around for more than, say, a day. (Oh, that is so unfair. My step-mother is a lovely person. I can really stand her for up to three days, under ordinary circumstances.) But there is one tiny part of me that is looking forward to having her close by because of the ever-so-slim possibility that it will cut down on the amount of e-mail she sends me.
I’m not talking about chatty, hey-how-are-ya e-mail, or even those crappy forwards that test your IQ or read your mind or inform you that friendship is important. She sends those occasionally, but mostly she just sends links to random news stories and advertisements. Once she sent a link to an article about tree frogs. Nothing wrong with tree frogs. It was a nice article. Just random. The other day she sent us an image of the publicity poster for Prince Caspian. I mean, I guess we’re going to see Prince Caspian. Mister Bubby will want to see it, probably. I don’t imagine Mister Bubby would be terribly excited to look at a picture of some pretty boy wearing chain mail and long hair flowing in the wind. Just random. She also sends us stories about the weather here. Get Fuzzy comics even though she knows we don’t like Get Fuzzy. (Yeah, we don’t like Get Fuzzy, so sue us.) That sort of thing.
I don’t know why it should bother me so much, why I can’t just say, oh well, that’s Mom and she’s just random that way–for the record, no, I don’t suspect that she’s suffering from dementia–but it got to the point that I felt compelled to abandon our primary e-mail account and just let it become a Mom Spam folder. I redirected all other personal and business correspondence to a secondary e-mail account under my name. Was that wrong? Well, whatever. I’ve been happily ignoring-for-the-most-part that other account and only occasionally checking it in case something important slipped in there, or if Mom told me she’d e-mailed me something of (actual) interest. But apparently she is now hip to my game because this morning I opened up my “real” e-mail and found a link to the Murray School of Irish Dance in Beaverton. I dunno, kids. I guess the jig is up.
Also on the short list of random annoyances:
1. The house we’re renting has, like, 400 light switches. The average number of light switches per room is four, and in some rooms there are six or eight. It’s insane. All these light switches, and yet I still can’t turn on all the lights in the kitchen. What the freak are all these light switches about?
2. Also, the house we’re renting has a very heavy screen/storm door that opens the opposite way of the real door, which, I dunno, I guess that’s fairly standard, but it makes it very difficult to keep the screen door open while trying to close the real door and not have the screen door come crashing in on your leg or face or whatever. Our real house doesn’t have a screen/storm door. It just has a double door that is very difficult to lock, and it’s attached to a house with a burnt-up bathroom and no electrical power, so whatever. I’ll just shut up now.
3. Our school district doesn’t provide bus transportation to students who live less than one mile from their neighborhood school. Our real house is 0.9 miles away from the neighborhood school. It does not get bus service. Our rental house is 0.6 miles from the neighborhood school. It gets bus service. I am somewhat miffed and confused. Mostly miffed.
4. My baby slipped and hit her head on the hardwood floor yesterday. She’s okay, but she has a major goose egg between her eyesbrows, which makes her look like a little Star Trek alien baby. Which is annoying because I always thought Star Trek’s alien make-up was pretty weak.
Not annoying, but random:
I was at the Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe on Wednesday, and the [Portland Suburb] Atheists Meet-Up Group was having a gathering. I’m not sure why this struck me as amusing. Bible study groups meet at the Moonstruck, why shouldn’t the Portland-Suburb Atheists have a shindig there? Atheists need the fellowship of other atheists, I suppose. I think what I found amusing, in a surreal way, was that they had put out a table with various brochures against religion and against evangelism specifically. Not to overstate the irony, but it’s just not something you see every day.
Actually, I found it somewhat heartwarming to see all these people of various ages, races and walks of life being able to bond over their common embrace of rationality. Or is was heartwarming, until one of them came up to me and asked if I wanted a free picture of Richard Dawkins. Then I said, “Get the #$*& away from me, you freak!” and suddenly milkshakes and mocha lattes were flying everywhere. Just kidding. None of that happened. They took no notice of me. I’m very quiet.
I guess that’s it for now. Have an awesome weekend, kids!
Does this story strike you as weird?
New York Post: “Agita over Chelsea Photo”
September 26, 2007 — Hillary Clinton just lost one vote. Yesterday, Nino Selimaj, owner of Italian eatery Osso Buco on University Place, received a letter from Bill Clinton’s office demanding that a photo of Chelsea Clinton with Selimaj, which had hung in the front window for five years, be taken down. “I am really heartbroken,” Selimaj told us. “Until this morning, I would have voted for Hillary. Bill was my favorite president of all time . . . I really hope they will reconsider.” Selimaj also said he would “post the letter from the office instead of the photo.” The letter from Clinton lawyer Douglas Band stated, “Ms. Clinton, a private citizen, was not consulted prior to this picture being displayed, and thus, her permission was not given for you to do so. While she may have dined at your restaurant, this does not serve as an endorsement. We ask that you immediately remove that picture and any and all pictures displaying Ms. Clinton.” Selimaj said he has never before been asked to take down a photo of a public figure. “Hillary has lost my vote,” he said.
The weirdness is three-fold:
1) Isn’t Chelsea Clinton an adult now? Can’t she handle her own correspondence?
2) Isn’t Chelsea Clinton a public figure? Did she not pose for the picture of her own free will? Is it not merely hanging on the wall of the restaurant which is privately owned by Nino Selimaj, the other subject in the photograph? Is it also plastered all over the subways and sides of buses with copy along the lines of “My dad says eat at Osso Buco or he’ll have you audited” or “The vast, right-wing conspiracy doesn’t want you to eat at Osso Buco”? Is it not just a document of a historical fact, i.e. Chelsea Clinton ate here?
3) Is this not a freaking picture? Not even a particularly unflattering one? Was she drunk? Was she thirteen? Does this not make the Clintons look petty and/or lame? Does this not fall under the category of Not Remotely Worth The Bother?
Is it just me?
I’m a member of DiniHJ’s all-volunteer army.
The ABC’s of me…
A- Attached or single: Attached.
B- Best Friend: I named my daughter after her, so I will refer to her as The Other Girlfriend. Or Toggy.
C- Cake or Pie: Pie, unless it is a meringue pie. Don’t care for the meringue so much. Also, if it’s carrot cake or hot fudge cake, I am totally there. Oh, and I’ll have some pie on the side.
D- Day of choice: I’m equally fond of Wednesdays and Fridays. Wednesday because it’s my tap class, and I get to stay out late afterward. Friday because I enjoy going to Elvis’s therapy sessions and Sugar Daddy and I spend time together in the evening. (Oh, grow up. Yes, I’m talking to you, dear.) Sometimes we even go out.
E- Essential Item: Refrigerator.
F- Favorite Color: Orange.
G- Gummi Bears or Worms: Don’t like gummis. If I have to choose, I guess sour worms are okay. But not really.
H- Hometown: I don’t know that I really have one. People ask me where I grew up, and I don’t know what to tell them, since I lived several different places as a child. Not tons of places, but definitely more than a couple. Here are all the towns I lived in the first 18 years of my life, and you can choose which you like best: Portland, Oregon (for two weeks); Dugway, Utah (when my dad was drafted); Eugene, Oregon (when my dad was in graduate school); Aloha, Oregon (when my dad did his post doc); Concord, California (when my dad got his first post-post doc job); Covina, California (when my dad got the job he still has today); San Dimas, California (when my parents bought the condo).
I- Indulgence(s): Blogging.
J- January or July: July, because it’s warmer and less likely to rain.
K- Kids: I am the proud mother of four super people. If only they would use their powers for good and not evil. Just kidding! I love all of them.
L: Life is Incomplete Without: Music.
M- Marriage Date: May 22, 1997.
N- Number of Siblings: Three sisters, one brother.
O- Oranges or Apples: Apples. Unless it’s those Clementine oranges. They’re easier to peel than regular oranges, thus increasing the eating enjoyment thereof.
P- Phobias or Fears: Heights, Cheerios and dark places. Not necessarily in that order.
Q-Quote: “If your house is really a mess and a stranger comes to your door, greet him with, ‘Who could have done this? We have no enemies.’”–Phyllis Diller
R- Reason To Smile: My kids. Except when they’re being evil, of course.
S- Season: Fall. I enjoy the melancholy of the fading summer. Except I hate Halloween.
T- Tag Three +: If you think I’m a loser for hating Halloween, you’re it. (Oh, suddenly I’m not such a loser anymore? Yeah, I thought as much.)
U- Unknown Fact About Me: Nothing about me is unknown. I am devoid of mystery.
V- Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animal: Former vegetarian, current Oppressor of Animal.
W- Worst Habit: Getting cross when things don’t go my way. Also, blogging.
X- X-Rays or Ultrasounds: Depends. Do I have to drink a half gallon of water first? I had exactly one ultrasound which didn’t require me to drink any water beforehand. It was awesome. I’d do that again in a heartbeat. Otherwise, X-ray.
Y- Your Favorite Food: Peanut butter.
Z- Zodiac: Taurus, baby!
Or, if you prefer:
MADHOUSEWIFE’S ALTERNATE ABC’S
A- Adage: “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’m not dead yet, so I must be getting stronger.
B- Badass?: Yes. No, wait. No.
C- Cauliflower: Once I was running out of food and all I had to make dinner with was some cauliflower, and so I found this recipe for Cauliflower Paprikash, and I made it and it was terrible. It was from a vegan cookbook, so I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was called The Sensual Vegan, or something like that, so I had my hopes, in addition to being desperate and not wanting to go to the grocery store. Maybe by “the sensual vegan” they meant that this is food that will force you to go out to a restaurant and get something good, or make you want to have sex because anything’s better than eating Cauliflower Paprikash–I don’t know. All I know is that cauliflower’s fine by itself, but when it gets into the hands of vegans, lock up your women and children.
D- Denny’s or Dominoe’s: Denny’s. But only because Dominoe’s sucks!
E- Elephant in the Room: The quality of this blog has gone down substantially since I discovered crossword puzzles.
F- Favorite F-word: Fonoimoana. An influential Mormon family in Southern California. I think half of our ward in California was related to them. The legend was that the patriarch was, like, Tongan royalty. Did you know that Tonga is 45% Mormon? Weird, huh? They sure have fun names to say, though. Assuming you can pronounce it correctly and don’t end up saying “Funny marijuana.” Although that’s fun, too. Saying it, I mean.
G- Gefilte fish: An old seminary teacher of mine was a Jewish convert to Mormonism and he brought some gefilte fish to class once, but I was a vegetarian at the time and thus did not partake. That was really my last opportunity to eat gefilte fish. Obviously I could buy some gefilte fish myself–not like you have to be Jewish to eat gefilte fish or anything–but I’d feel silly all the same.
H- House: Burnt.
I- Indian food or Ice Cream: Yes.
J- Jogging: Nope.
K- Kool Moe Dee or Kool and the Gang: Can I just say it’s Ladies’ Night and the feeling’s right? No?
L- Lie: I would love to go back to school someday.
M- Memory: After my baptism, my parents took me and the sibs to Baskin-Robbins. This was a big deal because Baskin-Robbins was expensive. Except we always called Baskin-Robbins “31 Flavors.” Which I didn’t really understand, because they always had more than 31 flavors when I went there. What flavor did I get that fateful day? I have no idea. That was 28 years ago, cats. I’m only thinking about it because I went to a friend’s baptism on Saturday, and they served cookies afterward. Those were some d*** fine cookies.
N- Nattering Nabob of Negativity: I have nothing to say here. I just really like the phrase.
O- Oregon Ducks or Oregon Beavers: DUCKS!
P- Pickle: Zesty Dills. No sweet. Don’t like the sweet pickles.
Q- Question: If base 12 is so much better than base 10, why did God give us ten fingers? Isn’t life difficult enough?
S- Stupidest Thing You’ve Ever Heard: “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.” It’s been way too long since you’ve tasted butter, brother.
T- Tango or Twist: I’d like to learn to tango. But I’d feel silly. I’d probably look silly, too. Not that it makes a difference.
U- Usher or Umpire: Usher. I would make a very good usher. I like telling people where they can go. Ha ha, get it? Where they can go? That wasn’t even intentional.
V- Vacuum: Kenmore.
W- Whistle: Can’t.
X- Xanthomatosis or Xenodiagnosis: They both sound iffy to me. I think I’ll go with Xenodiagnosis. If push comes to shove.
Y- Yes albums: Indeed, I have not any.
Z- Zombie: I would not like to live as a zombie. Technically, I would not be living. I would be “undead.” But it doesn’t sound like there’s any joy there. Could I do battle with a zombie, if necessary. After reading The Zombie Survival Guide, I think it would be difficult for me to prevail, given that I am something of a wimp as well as a scaredy-cat. But I think I’d rather take my chances with a zombie than a vampire. Vampires are tricky.
Mormonews
BYU NEWSNET–”12 Former LDS Missionaries Posing for Controversial Calendar” *
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You mean that stereotype that we’re all FREAKS? Yeah, I’m so glad that myth is finally being dispelled.
(*Hat tip: Mormon Mommy Wars. In other words, I do NOT regularly read BYU Newsnet.)
Sugar Daddy’s Pillow Talk: Is God a math geek?
Sugar Daddy: If I were God, could I make people with twelve fingers and still be creating them in my own image?
Madhousewife: What…?
SD: It would just be a lot more convenient.
Mad: How so?
SD: Because then you’d have your number system as base twelve instead of base ten. A lot more convenient.
Mad: I don’t understand.
SD: Because twelve can be halved, thirded, and quartered, without using decimals. A lot more convenient.
Mad: Okay.
SD: (Falls asleep counting sheep in base 12)
Mad: (Up all night)*
*Dramatic license: Actually, it was my Restless Leg Syndrome that kept me up all night. But it’s funnier to think that I was up all night contemplating my husband’s madness.
Mister Bubby: “Ev’ry Time I Feel the Spirit”
So we had our Primary Program at church yesterday. For you NoMos, this is the annual event where all the kids aged three to twelve run the chapel service. Okay, so they have direction from some grown-ups, but they are the “performers.” (I guess we’re not supposed to call it “performing” in church, but I don’t know the religious word for “get up and sing songs and say the lines you’ve rehearsed.”) Anyway, it is not uncommon for parents to get a little teary-eyed whilst watching their sweet children sing praises unto the Most High (not universal, but not uncommon–we Mormons are an emotional bunch). I myself was moved to tears yesterday when Mister Bubby, singing a rousing chorus of “I will go, I will do/The things the Lord commands!”, started bringing on the funk with some improvised dance moves. I might not have cried had I not been working so hard to stifle my laughter.* I suppose I shouldn’t encourage him. Except that I think I want to.
*This was even funnier than the year five-year-old Princess Zurg ran down the aisles screaming, “I have to leave this place!” Primary Program = Good Times.
Today everyone is of the opinion that Mom Is An Incompetent Jerk. This morning I spent 20 minutes arguing with Mister Bubby over whether or not he was going to school, whether the reason he was not going was that he was tired or he was sick or the work was too hard or it was too boring or his friend only wanted to play ball at recess, whether the reason he was going was that I didn’t believe he was sick or that I had a meeting to go to or that I just didn’t care about his problems. Actually, in retrospect it’s amazing that only took 20 minutes.
Then as we were rushing out the door to catch the bus, Elvis wanted to come with us, but we either opened the door wrong or walked out wrong or did some other thing in exiting the building that offended him, so he started screaming and wouldn’t come with us. Then he started screaming louder when we went without him. If our neighbors hadn’t met us yet, they certainly have now.
When I got back Princess Zurg had finally gotten dressed and grudgingly allowed me to serve her breakfast. Then her bus showed up three minutes early (hey, every minute counts), and I discovered that she had not so much as put on her socks, let alone her shoes. I’m sure it took her a full three minutes to a) find her socks, which I’d laid out for her along with her other clothes, because I am an enabler that way, and b) put on her shoes, and c) stop yelling about what a terrible day it was going to be and get on the bus already, with her hair quite obviously uncombed.
Then the baby was awake (surprise), and she was mad at me for taking so long to get her out of the crib and also because I elected to cut strawberries for Elvis instead of nursing her immediately, since she doesn’t understand that I can’t possibly nurse her with Elvis screaming his head off for strawberries and throwing bowls and possibly knives at me (and therefore us).
Yesterday Sugar Daddy woke everyone up before he left for work, and everyone was dressed and ready to go to school with twenty minutes to spare. See, when Dad is the Jerk, he is a Competent Jerk. I should just have him wake everyone up at 6:30 every morning.
Now my babysitter is here and wants to make small talk about my rental furniture. Excuse me, but I must go and explain which items are rented and which we brought over from the other house, and then I have a meeting to go to.
EDIT: I always enjoy seeing the various banner ads that pop up on my Xanga site. Whenever I blog about Mormons, I get ads for Mormon Ringtones and sites for meeting Hot LDS Singles. Today’s entry has brought me ads for child and family counseling and “underwear for traveling.” I’m not sure I understand that last one, but…okay.
Does this blog make you want to buy new underwear?
So Senator Clinton has unveiled her (new) health-care plan. I have no comment. I am philosophically opposed to government-run health insurance, so there is no sense in me critiquing the particulars of her plan versus anyone else’s. Heck, I don’t even have to look at it if I don’t want to. (I did anyway, just for giggles, but turns out it isn’t so funny. Eh.)
The reason I bring it up is that whenever people start talking about “universal health care,” one side talks about Canada and Great Britain and how awesome their health-care systems are, and the other side talks about how those awesome systems are actually very crappy–six-to-twelve-month waits for MRIs, rationed services, lotteries for family physicians, women with high-risk pregnancies turned away from maternity wards, live-saving operations refused, people doing their own dentistry–just every socialized-medicine nightmare imaginable. Even for someone like me–philosophically opposed to government-run health insurance and prepared to believe the worst about Canadian and British health care–it seems a little over the top. Lots of people who live (or have lived) in countries with nationalized health care swear that it is in fact totally awesome and not at all crappy. These are people I’ve met in real life. Yet there are all these other people who live (or have lived) in these same countries and are willing to go on the record–in print or before TV cameras or on live radio–saying that nationalized health care is in fact totally crappy and not at all awesome, and they proceed to tell their own stories about the nightmare scenarios I alluded to earlier.
While it seems reasonable that your mileage may vary with these government-run systems, I can’t help but think that it must be possible to make some generalizations. I’m thinking about the LDS Church and how one’s experience can vary greatly, depending on which group of Mormons you find yourself surrounded with. My experience with the people and even with the leadership has been generally positive, but I have heard the nightmare stories and don’t disbelieve them–they seem entirely plausible, given the nature(s) of cultural and institutional Mormonism, which has potential for both great good and great evil (or at least great annoyance). Since I can’t have everyone’s experience, or even learn about everyone’s experience, I have to go with what I know first-hand and temper it with what I know secondhand. Personally, I’ve concluded that the Church is mostly pretty good, though it could stand to improve in some areas (and could stand to improve a lot in other areas). I’m not philosophically opposed to it…I guess…so such practical considerations are not beneath me. I can live with it.
So I’m curious about the experiences of you folks who have live or have lived in countries with “universal health care”–how much you like or don’t like it, whether you think it works, whether you think the nightmares are isolated incidents or endemic to the system, et cetera, blah blah blah. No need to proselytize either way, as my philosophical opposition is about as deeply entrenched as my religion. In other words, I don’t need to hear from Americans campaigning for or against Hillarycare, Obamacare, or Romneycare. But if you have any good stories where health care and Mormonism intersect, feel free to share those. And since laughter is the best medicine, you can also leave jokes here. So everyone is welcome in my comment section, so long as they follow my guidelines.
Should the comments get too unwieldy, of course, I’m going to have to start rationing. You might have to wait a few weeks to make your comment. I may decide that your comment is “elective” and not necessary for saving my blog’s life–you know, that sort of thing. Just kidding! It’s still America on the old Giraffe page–comment as much as you like (as long as your premiums are current).
The keys to the rental house have been turned over to us. Our furniture comes tomorrow. Right now I am trying to catch up on a week’s worth of laundry in half an afternoon. Will I make it? It remains to be seen. That is not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that I am sitting in the furniture-less rental house doing laundry.
This is very difficult for me. Not because there’s no furniture to sit on, but because this house is so nice. The downstairs is no better than ours, really, but the upstairs–oh my sweet providence, the upstairs. I want to cry. It is so beautiful. It is so much better than ours. Granted, my perception of its beauty is skewed somewhat by the fact that our upstairs has not looked its best for the last ten days, what with the ceiling parts missing and all–but even accounting for that, there’s no denying that this upstairs is simply a superior design. The walk-in closet in the master bedroom is much bigger. It’s a walk-in-and-walk-around-and-keep-grandma-in-there-if-necessary closet. And the master bathroom has both a shower and a bathtub. Make that a Bathtub. A Very Large Bathtub.
And the laundry room is also upstairs, be still my heart, but if that weren’t enough in itself, it has a front-loading washing machine.
Sigh.
Sugar Daddy knows how I’ve longed for a front-loading washing machine, for oh so many years, and he has assured me that I shall never have one, as they are too expensive to ever pay for themselves. Never mind the fact that they use less water, are more efficient, clean your clothes better, wear out your clothes more slowly, and allow you to wash your bedspread in your own home because there’s no agitator–in other words, never mind the fact that they’re awesome–they simply do not meet his price-to-good ratio specifications. So fine, there are certainly worse deprivations, said the woman with her own car, indoor plumbing and housekeepers that came fortnightly. I was happy enough with my perfectly serviceable, extra-large capacity Kenmore top-loader in the laundry room next to the garage and my bedspread that got washed every eight months whether it needed it or not–but now I am going to be living and doing laundry in a perfectly laid out upstairs with a front-loading washing machine and enough closet space to house our collective wardrobes twice again. The temptation to covet is almost more than I can bear to resist.
I’m like a heterosexual man who’s been married several years to a very nice and reasonably attractive woman who may have put on a few pounds of late and needs a boob job one of these days, but being that she is the mother of his children and a decent cook and loyal spouse, he can honestly say he has no regrets. Visiting other people’s nicer-than-mine homes is like going to the beach and seeing all the hot young babes in bikinis–I can look but I can’t touch, and that is okay because I am a happily married man who knows there’s more to life than buxom bikini babes. Also, I know those buxom bikini babes aren’t particularly interested in my paunchy belly, slightly balding head and hair starting to grow out of my ears, even if I do make six figures, but that’s another story. That’s visiting other people’s homes. Sure, their carpet is newer and their washer doesn’t have an agitator, but my back yard is bigger and my walls are prettier colors. I can be content.
But actually living, for several weeks, in this house of the awesome upstairs and spacious closets and laundry room with front-loading washer–it’s like going to the beach without my dear wife of blah-blah years and having one of those hot bikini babes walk up to me and say, “Excuse me, sexy balding man who makes six figures–would you please rub suntan lotion on my perfectly toned body? Do you mind if I go topless? Did I mention that I’m a nymphomaniac?” I know I should turn and run the other way, but you see the strength of character that requires? I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to live here and remain my content, unspoiled self unless I spend the entire time blindfolded and have my laundry sent out.
Well, this whole experience has been an exercise in character building. This is just one more opportunity to become a better person. Last week my friend was joking with me about the possibility of liking the rental house so much better that I’ll try to talk SD into buying it. I thought that scenario highly unlikely, but I imagine that for the next several weeks I’ll be repeating the following mantra to myself on a daily basis:
Our real house has a much bigger back yard.
In our much bigger back yard is a brand-new play structure that cost a lot of money and a lot of man hours to build.
We can always add on above the garage.
There is no way in hell I am moving again.
And I will just be very grateful that I’m blessed with such sweet accommodations during my time of displacement, and that I am no longer in a hotel.
I may not be so grateful that I have to do dishes again. But, you know, baby steps.
So yesterday the toilet in our hotel room overflowed and flooded the bathroom. I called the front desk and they sent someone up to hand me a plunger and a towel. That’s a towel. I thought, are they kidding me with this single towel? I don’t mind plunging my own toilet, but I have a good half-inch or so of toilet water on my bathroom floor, and I don’t think a towel will do the job. But being the resourceful and patient woman that I am, I unclogged the toilet, lowered the moisture level in the bathroom from moderate to damp, and waited for housekeeping to do its job three hours later.
Today Sugar Daddy and Mister Bubby are down in Eugene for a Ducks game. They’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time, so I’d hardly begrudge them the trip, but I was not enthusiastic about entertaining three young children in a hotel room for an entire Saturday. I could not possibly do that. It’s impossible, right? Of course it is. But where could I take them? Two words about my last trip with them to the zoo: Never again. We still have a Children’s Museum membership, but the last three times I’ve gone there, Elvis has wanted to spend the majority of his time at the vending machines in the front lobby. I don’t have that much coin. No one does. And OMSI is off-limits until that creepy Body Works exhibit leaves town. ::shudder:: Then SD suggested that I take the kids to Safari Sam’s. I was skeptical at first because I seemed to recall that Safari Sam’s was a) expensive and b) a whole lot of way too many different venues for children to amuse themselves, requiring me to be in three different places at the same time at any given time. But then SD pointed out that without MB clamoring to do the mini-golf, I could easily get away with paying for only the use of the jungle gym and bouncy toy area, allowing the children to run (and bounce) around like ninnies and possibly me to sit down at some point. Wow–that was an awesome idea! SD is brilliant–that’s why they pay him the big bucks. So I was actually not at all dreading the next morning when I went to bed last night, which is more than I can say for most of my bedtimes for the last week.
Then at 12:05 a.m. I heard Elvis crying. SD went in to see what was the matter, and it turned out that Elvis had thrown up. He was mostly asleep at the time, so it only got on the sheets and the floor and a little bit on the wall. He didn’t have the energy to run around the room flinging vomit hither and yon, as per his usual MO. So that was a blessing. We got him cleaned up and he went back to sleep and proceeded to wake up puking every 20-45 minutes for the rest of the night. By the morning he was all out of puke but was still going through the puking motions. SD advised me against the Safari Sam’s trip. I told you, he’s brilliant, so I trusted his judgment and called off the expedition. Now I actually am stuck in a hotel room with three kids for an entire Saturday, but it’s okay because I only have two and half more days of this until we move into our rental house and the rest of the family can start puking on carpets that we don’t own.
Actually, this part is starting to feel a lot like vacation.
Right now we are all in the “master” end of the “family suite” we are staying in. Elvis is watching Toy Story. Princess Zurg is designing outfits for Barbie and asking me which movies I think are as good or not as good as Corpse Bride. (No movie is better, in case you were wondering.) The baby just poured Diet Coke on my purse, and I think she will have Oreos for lunch. Ever hear of the Impossible Dream? Dear readers, I not only dreamed it. I am living it.
I seem to have aged four years in seven days. As I type this, I am sitting across from a mirror in my hotel room and I think there is no possible way anyone could mistake me for a thirtysomething anything. It would be fine if I looked like one of those hot 40-year-old women, but I actually look more like one of those 40-year-olds who’s gotten into a little bit of trouble with meth. Except that my teeth are still okay.
It may be sleep deprivation, which is entirely my own fault because I insist on staying up late to watch The Office on DVD, but one of the reasons I insist on doing that is that I am so stressed out from all this staying at hotels and changing hotels and packing and unpacking and repacking and using other people’s laundry facilities and never having enough clean clothes and not being able to find anyone’s underwear and not being able to let the younger kids run around like ninnies because hotel people tend to frown on that sort of behavior. Did I mention that it started raining yesterday? Also, it is difficult to arrange lunch and nap time around housekeeping’s schedule. I could always put out the Do Not Disturb sign, but then they don’t come at all and we don’t get new towels or our trash taken out. Theoretically we could always call and request new towels and take out our own trash, I suppose, but that’s not what we do. That requires too much organization. Or energy. Or something.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. No, no. Au contraire. Complaining would imply that I’m not grateful for the fact that as house fires go, ours was relatively minor and damaged nothing of any real significance. (Not that indoor plumbing and ceilings aren’t significant, but you know what I mean.) It would also imply that I’m not grateful for the extensive benefits my homeowners insurance policy offers, or for the fortunate circumstances that are allowing us to move into a rental house as early as next week. So I am not complaining, because with all this good fortune I have nothing whatever to be upset about. I just miss my house. That’s all I’m saying. My beautiful, beautiful house.
Our insurance company is covering all our living expenses, and some people have said something along the lines of, “Well, it’s like an all-expense-paid vacation, isn’t it?” No. Not really. No. Number one, we’re still in town. Number two, we still have to go to work and school. Number three, there’s only so much restaurant food you can eat before you start feeling the Supersize Me effect. Number four, the Phoenix Inn does not sell souvenir magnets. So no, it’s not like a vacation. It’s like an all-expenses-paid inconvenience. I am not comfortable. I miss my house. But I am not complaining. I’m just stating the facts.
Last night I went to Princess Zurg’s Back-to-School night. Interesting tidbit of trivia: there are exactly two (2) men who work at PZ’s school. They are the music teacher (1) and the custodian (2). This is an even more pitiful state of affairs than at Mister Bubby’s school, which has at least six men (including two janitors). But that is a blog o’ social commentary for another day. Right now I don’t have the time or energy for such things. I feel remarkably isolated, even though I’ve seen a lot more of my friends than usual–what with me borrowing their washers and dryers and napping places–and I have full access to the media. I am just so much inside myself. I don’t have a home to retreat to, so I retreat into my own little brain and make it my own little world, where housekeepers, restoration contractors and rioting children are merely satellites.
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