This Is the Photo of the Nap That Almost Took Place

This is me napping. See how my lips are slightly parted and the frown lines are gone from my brow?
See the relaxed state my face is in? Almost like an instant face-lift.


This is the nap I decided to take when the sore throat from last Sunday turned to laryngitis to possible strep throat (I'm thinking I should have seen a doctor by Thursday).
This is the nap that I announced to the ten year-old, "I am going to lay down while Miss Ky is asleep, hold the fort down, will you?" in a whisper only because that's all I can give. Only Miss Ky wasn't informed and as I touched the top stair, she cried out.

So, this nap began with her in my bed, watching for the 3000th time, The Gruffalo. We soon added A1 and then A2 appeared only minutes later.
They began to bicker.
Miss Ky tried to push A2 (the loudest child of all) off of the bed.

I convinced all three wriggling monsters to join the oldest who was downstairs listening to the Norwich match (that I was too sick to take them to). Within 30 seconds I heard "It's mine, give it back!" loud drumming noises and, "Waaaaah!".

So, this is me. napping. As only I can.

While the Big Cat's Away...

The canaries will play.

While Hubby is picking dust particles from his teeth in Iraq, I am doing his dirty work over here...

The Sexy Guy loves his boys and loves his football, so last year he purchased season tickets to the local Championship League, Norwich City Football Club. My guys attend all home games (except on Sunday) and listen to the rest on the radio.

When we found out Hubby was deploying, one of the first things that went through their minds were that those season tickets that would sit idle.

He managed to arrange for a friend and his wife to take them-- which is asking a lot since there are the three boys and Miss Ky (of course we explained she wouldn't be going anymore).

Well, that first saturday without Dad rolled around and I had heard nothing from this couple. The Hubby kept emailing to see if the kids had been contacted. Nothing.

I texted the wife.

"Oh, there must have been a miscommunication. We didn't even know Sexy Guy had left".
"But he TALKED to you guys about it the day before he left!" Her husband had already left for the game.
My kids were dressed, sitting and waiting for a ride that wasn't coming. That saturday or any following saturdays.

Last week I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I stepped WAY out of my comfort zone: I called someone to take Miss Ky. I drove into a city I'm not comfortable driving in, during a busy traffic time, to end up somewhere I've never been. All in my hubby's British spec. car that I'm less than happy driving.

I escorted my deliriously happy boys into the football stadium and plopped down into my seat. Other than feeling like my knees were precariously close to my chin (surely I'm not the only long-legged person on this island), it was kind of exciting. I took pictures. I geared up for the great shots. My kids cheered.

Only one problem.

No one told me you're not allowed to take pictures...
so the security people did. During the game. With a personal visit. I blush easily.

At least they didn't confiscate my card.


These shots weren't my technical best, but I caught an exciting moment.
Norwich was 1-0 and the excited spectators were chanting their praises and support.

Burnley was pressuring their way down the pitch--

David Marshall (Canary Goal Keeper) stopped a spectacular shot,

but spilled it.



Only seconds after the first photo... the crowd shouted in surprised disappointment.

The game ended in a draw. That's a bad thing when you're close to being relegated.

I get it now. This father-son bonding thing.

I get how four people could stare straight ahead and make grunting noises rather than communicate verbally with one another and feel closer for having done so.

The Hubby has asked me if I want him to add another ticket to next year's pass.

I don't think so.

I'm going to drop back into the role of the one who catches their rush of adjectives as they spill into the house, tummies hungry and eyes shining.
That's my comfort zone.



Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Worst Military Support Award Goes To...*

TarJay! or for you English-only speakers, Target.

*Best Military Support still goes to MuddyH20 you can read why, here.

You've heard me whinge before about this company because it wouldn't ship to military (Not the Muddy one -- they have my undying devotion, and I would be THRILLED if you'd check them out).
It was during the crazed search for the Eric Carle bedding that the 4 year-year old wanted desperately. I ended up paying a small fortune to have it shipped to someone and then shipped again to me.
I understand there are restrictions. No foods, no large items, etc... all sites have the same policy, but it was a kid's twin comforter for Pete's sake.

But just for the hey of it, (ok, I needed some retail therapy), I went out to that famous red bull's eye and put in my information again... and do you know what?

Not only did they have the appropriate pull-down menus for me to choose a state and a
zip code (WOW), but they also had this sweet little message for family members of military members stationed overseas:

"Shipping Restrictions Most products at Target.com can be shipped to all 50 states, as well as APO and FPO addresses (oh yeah, come to mama!) and Puerto Rico. However, there are a few restrictions: • APO/FPO orders are shipped via standard delivery only. (I'm ok with that) • Heavy or oversized products can be shipped only to the continental 48 states. They cannot be shipped to APO/FPO addresses. This will be indicated on the product description page. • Food, candy and chocolate cannot be shipped to APO/FPO addresses (know why? Because the chocolate we get here is FAR better). We do ship these items to all 50 states. For delivery to warm climates, all orders are shipped Mondays through Thursdays with a gel pack, to ensure their arrival in premium condition. • Certain items can only be shipped to the continental 48 states via standard delivery, and cannot be shipped to APO/FPO addresses. This will be indicated on the product description page. (SNEAKY little disclaimer I missed the first read thru)... Shipping to friends and family serving overseas can seem foreign. On our site, it's easy...".

Isn't that cool? Not.
Wow, you were sucked in as bad as I was, "Oh, T, you're so cool to make ordering so easy..."

Seriously, because I was needing therapy,

Toss, went a new duvet cover in my basket...
I checked the description, "We're sorry, this item cannot ship to P.O. boxes".

Huh? oh. ok. I'll just keep trying to get that lipstick out of my white one.

Wellies! I could use some mucking about boots since J2 sent mine swimming...
I found purple ones. "We're sorry, this item cannot ship to P.O. boxes".

Ummmm....ok. Miss Ky is starting swim lessons in March, how about an Ariel or princess swimsuit? "We're sorry, this item cannot ship to P.O. boxes".

I begin to frantically and randomly choose things: women's shoes, "We're sorry...", women's swimwear, "We're sorry...", women's T-shirts, "We're sorry...", Men's dress shirts, "We're sorry..." Baby clothes, "We're sorry..."

Alright, Tar-get-not, YOU tell me. What can overseas military order from your site?

That's what I asked them. This is what they replied:

"We can ship most items to APO or FPO addresses.

Just check the shipping information in the product description to see if we can ship the item you're looking for; it will let you know if we can't. For the most part, we can send any product on Target.com to an APO/FPO address except:

-Heavy or oversized products
-Food, including candy
-Items that are shipped directly from the manufacturer
-Some cosmetics and fragrances
Keep in mind that any APO or FPO order can only be shipped by standard U.S. mail."

They also asked , "How did we do?"

So I told them, as you knew I would
"Not very well, I am perfectly capable of reading your shipping policy, but when I tried to order things, not ONE thing was available to me".
I also told them that I think they must've gotten a lot of heat for not supporting the troops and added this information to their site as a facade (I'm fired up, can you tell?).

This is what they replied to THAT email:

I'm sorry for any confusion about where we ship. While we can't accept orders for international addresses, we can ship most items to APO or FPO addresses. Just check the shipping information in the product description to see if we can ship the item you're looking for; it will let you know if we can't. For the most part, we can send any product on Target.com to an APO/FPO address except:

-Heavy or oversized products
-Food, including candy
-Items that are shipped directly from the manufacturer
-Some cosmetics and fragrances
Keep in mind that any APO or FPO order can only be shipped by standard U.S. mail.

Wow. That was like Deja vu. I know I have a slipping memory and I slept between the email responses, but even I caught that this was a standard cut and paste email.

How's that for quality customer service?

*Note: Most restrictions are NOT the fault of the merchants, they are bound by law and the limits imposed on them by the Military Post Office.

• Packages may not exceed 70 lbs. (Some zip codes have lower limits)
• Packages may not exceed 130 inches in combined length and girth. (This means if you have a package that is 100" in length and 40" when you measure around it, you cannot send the item)
• All packages must be sent via the U.S. Postal System. The post office also requires companies or individuals to hand deliver packages being sent to APO/FPO addresses. (This is one reason why many merchants won't ship to APO/FPO addresses.)
• Firearms, alcohol, perishable foodstuffs and certain hazardous items also are restricted. Each zip code has a more detailed list of the restrictions for certain types of products. So everyone stop trying to send me guns baked into cakes-- oh, and this brings up a really good point. NEVER, EVER write "stuffed animal" on a customs slip coming to the UK. You will be taken literally and the package will fall into the black hole at the customs office. "Stuffed toy" will suffice.

You're an educated lot, you tell me--
where do Wellies and a Little Mermaid swimsuit fit in any of those categories?

I do have something special coming...
and I didn't order it.

Apparently the Hubby's been needing some retail therapy as well....

This post was brought to you by blogger's scheduler and was written before the "red porsche" arrived. That is the Hubby's retail therapy I was referring to.

We Did It!

There really is no need for places like Guantanamo Bay.



I think maybe three hours of Dora would be enough to have me confessing to the assassination of Lincoln.




Why can't Miss Ky go comatose for Phineas and Ferb?

Retraction: To Moms I Knew Before Today

Several years ago, remember when I climbed way up high on my white steed...

...and secretly scorned your comment about my being crazy for buying white bedding when I had a house of kids (because in my head I was telling you that maybe YOU might have a problem with white, but MY kids are taught the word "No" from the minute their eyes meet the doctor that delivered them),

or you over there-- you, who I mentally criticized for giving into your kids every electronic whim.

and you, Mom who even though you kept a tidy house, had kids that looked like they just climbed out from under the turnip truck still wearing yesterday's clothes.


Well, I'm sorry. I get it now.

• After the second serious treatment session of my comforter cover (first lipstick and then chocolate).
• After chasing down the latest Take That song and Lily Allen. All of my kids have some version of a music player (some have ipods and the little guy has a cheap MP3 player) , and it's brought us CLOSER since they are eating up all Mom and Dad's music. I've been learning all the new stuff for them. They walk around singing (my dream). Miss Ky belts out "Too late to apologize" like nobody.
• I don't care anymore what my kids put together and call an outfit-- just as long as it smells fresh. Come to think of it, I'm not far off of dressing like them these days... and you know what? I can't even come close to keeping the house you did and I have one child less than you!
  

Any words you're eating lately?

Who's Tracking Sand all over my Blog?

Some of you more clever quackers have sleuthed out that my hubby has been lurking around here.
It really limits what I talk about (what? You don't think I show restraint?), like my lusting for certain teenage vampires or hunky Australian actors, but the fact that I am still talking can be credited to his nerdy skillz. Apparently when your broadband line is suppose to be a pathetic little 3MB but is only giving you 160Kbps, that's a bad thing.

I thought maybe you might be interested on seeing who makes up the better half of this union-- but with a warning:
Don't believe anything he says about me. It's all a pack of lies.
Like how I'm very possessive of what is mine-- "What's yours is mine and what's mine is mine", including but not limited to: towels, sides of the bed, Fred and Bessie mug, blueberry yogurts (he can have those yucky peach ones). Children behaving badly are his because I am suffering his mother's curse ("I hope you have one just like you...").

He's also a little flowery with words (sorry sweetie, you really are)--he's my romantic opposite:

His version: My beautiful eternal companion and I spent a wonderful day enjoying the sights and sounds of majestic London.
Mine: Sexy Guy and I went to the city in June.

You decide why on earth he stays with me, I haven't quite figured it out.

Give him a Hoo Rah! for me too will you? He's all alone in his concrete hovel, missing the sounds of children fighting and a nagging wife.

I'm Over The Initial Freaked-outedness Now

The shiny red Porsche (that I was not consulted about before purchase):
















The sweet explanation I got after my initial rant:

"This time you get a camera that will replace your D70s and won't give you problems that you've been complaining about. (Um, excuse me, moi? complain?) You are allowed to be lavished (did you mean ravaged?) every once in a while, you know. You're not Cinderella who should be left to just scrubbing floors and sooty fireplaces; you can enjoy the occasional glass slipper and horse-drawn carriage." (ok, LOVE how he played with my previous posts' 'Princess' theme).

When the email sweet talk wasn't working, he phoned me with his one morale call and basically said, "shut up". Be still my heart.

Sometimes one needs to look deep inside when there is a problem and see how he or she may have contributed to it. Perhaps a rant about one's MIL stating that this red Porsche might make up for all of the indignities over the years (and most surely years to come), could have contributed to his thinking-- and his thinking is definitely testosterone driven so he completely forgot that at Christmastime his devoted wife basically said, "DO NOT go and buy an expensive camera..."

In defense of my D70s that I supposedly complained about, (can you even imagine that, me complaining!) the things I didn't like about it were all of the newer features my D50 didn't have that would require me to take time to learn. I don't do well with change, I like to speed read. You can't always speed read a camera manual.

We're good friends now me and my 70.

I'm adjusting, you know, over the initial shock.
I have no idea how he's ever going to top this one, but I have said that with nearly every surprise he's come up with.

It's tough being married to a romantic, but I'm trying to adapt.

If this post was really too "feel good" happy for you (hah), don't worry, I'm seeking medical help:

**warning** This video contains brief profanity.





(flat out stolen from My Journey To Family)

Hypothetically Speaking

Are you a princess?

Do you thrive under the weight of showered gifts from your Hubby?

If said Hubby/boyfriend/significant other were to buy you something VERY expensive,
say like a Porsche...
a red one,

Would you be happy and throw yourself at him declaring your undying love?

Or would you say,

"What the heck were you thinking? You don't think a purchase this large using our joint finances warranted some discussion?"
You know, because really you already have two cars and you have visions of fireworks, dancing mice, and Splashing Mountains dancing through your head for the fall.

Like I said, hypothetically speaking-- there's no shiny red car in my drive.

Verbose Storytelling From the Gutter and A Great idea

That 90's Christmas morning was strange. I had just finished my first year as a 'single mom back in school' and I was exhausted.
J1 and I had driven 130 miles to spend the holiday with my Mom and Step-dad, so when they informed me they were going to Salt Lake on Christmas day, I was a little hurt.
What were we supposed to do now?

Sitting in their house didn't appeal to me anymore than sitting in our rented place, so we opted to go back home.
I waited until the 26th, and loaded up the back of my truck and began the long, snowy drive back to the mountains.

What a frustrating trip that was! I can't remember how many times I had to pull over and adjust a tie-down strap, or gather something that had broken free of it's protective covering. It was like fate was jumping up and down in the road saying "Turn back now!'.

But I don't like being told what to do.

When we got to our place, the third floor "Mother in-Law" apartment of a luxurious home in a college/ski resort town, I was exhausted.

My back hurt, but it was the day after Christmas and I had a truck loaded with my little boy's gifts. His grandparents had bought him a playhouse. One of those huge, heavy, plastic Little Tykes playhouses. The home owner was busy so he couldn't help me lug those pieces up the stairs, I did it alone and my back screamed at me.

I put the house together and while J played in it, I lovingly unpacked some beautiful towels my mother had made for me and then made our dinner.

My back ached too much to de-clutter anything else, I couldn't even move my Christmas decorations down the stairs to be taken to storage in the morning, so we just sat among the boxes and enjoyed being still.

It was a sentimental night.

The pre-teen girls that lived in the house came up to my apartment and sat with me. I reminisced while flipping through old photo albums and we talked quietly while J slept.

We had the strangest discussion.

We all took turns talking about what was most valuable to us-- you know, the things one grabs in the seconds before the house burns down around them. Mine was my photos and J1's baby videos. There's were their birds, some mementos and a quilt they had been secretly working on for their dad.

Around 11 pm I fell asleep. A hard, exhausted, deep sleep, but I awoke immediately to a voice shouting, "Jeri, get up! The house is on fire!".

Without even having to think, I picked up my three year-old son and made my way down the stairs. When I got outside, I didn't even notice it was snowing, I just quickly placed J into my truck, assured him I'd be right back and ran back up the stairs-- to get the keys and our coats.

It was dark. It was stupid. I don't remember hearing any fire alarms. I don't remember smoke.

I had shut our door behind us (habit) and was thankfully smart enough to feel it before I opened it. It was hot, so I turned and fled back down the stairs to move my son out of the truck that was parked too close to the house.
Later I realized that we both smelled like smoke. Not just me from running back in-- our room already had smoke in it before we ever headed out.

When the fire trucks came, they pushed my truck away from the house. The water tank never made it. The falling snow had made the road too slippery and the first water truck had slipped off of the road--blocking any other water trucks from making their way to us.

I stood there in the cold, holding my son, both of us wearing the summer pajamas that kept us comfortable in an overheated house. As the snowflakes gently enveloped us, the girls cried for their birds. I stood numbly as I watched our apartment windows explode -- all hope of any photos, videos or keepsakes blew with it. We stood there with the firemen, helplessly watching that gorgeous house burn.

I kept saying, "We have each other, we have what really matters" and I meant it. I still do. But there's a horrible mourning process that comes with fire- numbness, denial, anger, blame, loss and for me, finally, a restoration of my faith in people.

Wonderful people stepped forward to help us. People I didn't know, people that had known me but hadn't seen me since I was a child and some terrific folks at the American Red Cross. The Red Cross got me into university housing that had a two-year waiting period within two weeks and stocked my kitchen.

I don't think it was coincidence that I spent that fateful night perusing High School yearbooks and old photos. Even though they're irreplaceable, they're now etched in my brain.
For the blessing of a backache that caused me to sit and enjoy them, I am truly grateful. Some day I'll tell you the miracles that emerged form that experience, but not today.

I'm choosing to tell you this story now because David asked if I had ever blogged about it (he's witnessing Victoria's devastation and the people who unlike us, didn't get out with what really mattered) and because Poutalicious over at Pouty Baby's Nonsense had a great idea to help.

She proposed we skip the Valentines cards and flowers and instead send the money to the Australian Red Cross. Yes, I'm late. But only for that holiday.

If you still have a few luxuries unaffected by the credit crunch, could you skip the mocha latte this week? Or the daily Sonic run? I know things are tight, but I also know that we all still have what really matters, surely we can share (some of what doesn't) for those suffering such a loss.

As she mentioned, "This year I think it's a good day for extending our love and prayers to the good people of Australia who, by the way, made huge contributions to U.S. Katrina victims."

Celebrating the conveniences we enjoy in these times--when we can reach across the world to help one another,

Stone Me Now

I was tired.

Maybe it was the stress of this past month. Maybe it was the frustration of being thwarted on every try to connect with my internet.

Maybe it was the last few days of whipping the kids from here to there with the timing of a souffle chef.

It could have been the hours I keep-- up until midnight trying to salvage the house, visits in the night by people whose heads don't reach the top of my bed and up again at six when the radiators groan Miss Ky awake.

It could have been THIS morning when I rose early to latch kids into car seats to fetch one grumpy (non-)sleepover guest from the party he attended so that he could quickly don his kit while his football coach waited in our driveway.
Or being late for church as we fished J2's wellie out of the ford since the water was finally low enough for us to see it.

Or the panic when I lost my keys and knew not only did I not have a way home, but no way to get in if I did--knowing that A1 was being dropped at my house in 20 minutes.

Or later in the afternoon when Miss Ky, the un-defeatable eating machine demanded a yogurt and while I stepped out of the room, threw that yogurt in fistfulls all over the sitting room white carpet and white sofas-- blueberries and all.

It could have been those minor incidents that led to the exhaustion that caused me to foolishly fall asleep while Miss Ky watched The Gruffalo in my bedroom.
As my dreams wrapped around the tune of "That's what Gruffalos do... ooh la-lala ooh la-lala" sprinkled with moments of "I have an owie" (to which I would open one eye and try to focus on a blurry finger pushed nearly to my forehead "mmmhmm, yeahyouhaveanowie") there was a lot of wiggling.

Then I heard...swish swish. swish swish. I wondered, "What is she trying to wipe off of the pillow?"

LIPSTICK.
The same colour of lipstick that used to be in my purse, not that there was any doubt WHERE it came from since there was a telltale pile of credit cards, driver's licenses, and cheques torn into little pieces.

Lipstick on my white duvet cover and pillowcases. You know the ones. The ones I picked up in Spain on the trip I loved so much I swore I'd go back for my 40th birthday-- which happened to come right after war broke out in Iraq and military spouses traveling single overseas was discouraged so I spent that birthday working a church youth conference instead. The planned trip that nearly 5 years later has still never happened. THAT bedding.

I put this same child up for auction on Face Book after she used a black sharpie marker on the same white sofa. I only got one $5 bid for her and an offer for exchange with a purple marker wielding toddler. Neither offer appealed to me, even the cash flasher since that $5 bidder still lives in the same house I do.

My timing must be wrong. I guess I need to wait until the stimulus package gets distributed and people are again wanting to buy a two year-old.

Judge me all you want, but not until she's planted in your house and climbing your cabinets and throwing your yogurt with lipstick and sharpie covered hands.

You Can't Make Me

This information will surprise a few people.

I am a head-strong woman.
I can be stubborn.
I can be obstinate.
I can be demanding and impatient...oh my freaking heck. I just described Miss Ky--

Anyhoo...

I do NOT like being told what to do. Ever.
Even if it's the best advice, the best answer, a brilliant idea-- if you tell me to do it, I won't. That's me. It's how I roll.

So you can imagine how my back hair bristled (ok, I don't have back hair, but if I did, it would have stood at attention) when Google wouldn't let me sign on to my blog.

"Your password is weak, choose a new one"

"no"

Try a different browser...

"Your password is weak, choose a new one"

"I said, 'No', it's my blog I'll decide if I want a weak password or not!"

I eventually had to give it a stupid password just to go forward.

Now I have the Fort Knox of passwords.
The mote, the iron gate, the 30 foot wall of password. Ain't NOBODY telling me my password is weak again. It may even keep ME out when the sleep deprived brain cells begin degenerating.

Later, when I went to fetch my mail (from my google account), it didn't know me. Couldn't even recognize my usual heavy-handed tap taptap tap tap taptap.
My Macbaby is set up to sign in with my "weak" password but google is protected by my new uber-password.

Like I didn't have enough to do.

What I Saw Yesterday on the Pitch

I look for your Dad

in your face

but I just see you

or my dad

which is odd since

if broken down,

the only similarities

are eyebrows and coloring.


And then,

I look at the roundness of your face

and remind myself that you're only ten.


Only ten.

You still need a Momma cuddle

and to be told how much you're loved.

But you have to be cool,

so those things are rejected

except when no one is looking.



No one's looking sweetie,
I love you.


This is my football player (one of three). He is usually a striker, a mad striker that managed a hat trick on his debut, but today, he played Goal Keeper.

Despite his occasional distraction looking over at the girls team that was playing, he did a brilliant job.
As I stared at his face through the lens, I was taken back at how young he suddenly looked.

He acts so old.

But he's not too old to reject me just yet,
because he didn't look at the girls' field after every great save,
he looked over at me
and smiled.

*Dear reader, please excuse this blogger from her comment homework. Her broadband ate it.


Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

So You Dream of Motherhood

unscheduled Pukefests

laundry piles you can never seem to find the bottom of

empty milk containers in the fridge

empty Hostess boxes in your previously undetected hiding spot

"Not Me!" evidence in every corner of the house

continual practice at cleaning countertops since right after you finish bread crumbs and smears of peanut butter will miraculously appear

baby's repeating words you don't use, words used to describe a female figure that may have taken a boys' DS away

even the thickest skin tearing with remarks of a child

calls from school

calls from coaches

and regardless of how many errands need running or obligations that need fulfilling, THAT will be the time a child receives an award at school.
you will be expected to be there.
wearing that supportive smile.

even though you know it was him who ate your cupcake.


*Dear reader, please excuse this blogger from her comment homework. Her broadband ate it.

Are You Flashing Me?

I am at a crossroads.

This blog is my sanity. Your comments are carrying me through this deployment. But I now live in Tortoise-slow Internet Land (I must be 50 miles from the broadband switch, really) and it's nearly impossible for me to keep up now.

All of those comments I eagerly wait for? I can't reciprocate. Sometimes I can't even get a page to load, and when it does, the comment window won't show or will load blank or will load with a "data interrupted" message. Apparently I can get one or two comments out late in the evening on Sundays. Our first week in this house, our road was blocked while BT worked on some lines. Our broadband has never been the same. I've had dial up that was quicker than this.
I've been cursing blogger, but really, I think it's BT. Yes, I have tried to report it, but they have this uncanny way of cycling you back to the beginning of a queue-- the best was the day I spent 30 minutes waiting for a live voice to tell them I had NO internet and the message I kept ending up with told me the quickest way to report a broadband problem was to "go to www..." ?????


Not helping the situation is blogs with flash (are you flashing me?) widgets, auto start play lists, linked things (like blog templates) and photo albums (not complaining, my blog has most of those and loads slow too). I have to stop the page from loading and then click on the comment link a good four or five times before I get something I can type in. In that amount of time, Miss Ky has exited her crib and stuffed all of her diapers down the toilet.


So what I am saying is, I'm sorry. What used to be such a joy and an escape for me has become frustrating.
The crossroads I am at is whether to continue writing and just be a loser for never commenting back, block comments completely so I don't feel so guilty for not responding, or shutting it down.

And just so you know, this really is just about computer difficulties and not a suicide note.

We've had a spectacular week. There's heat, a phone and a new hot water tap in the kitchen. I have finished with the other house (a month early) and taken care of all of the utility meter readings and final bills.
I got to ichat with a blurry (scary looking) Hubby last night and was able to hear about every third word. The kids loved it and kept saying he was funny looking (bet that was good for his ego -- he looked like Cuba Gooding Jr at the beginning of What Dreams May Come except he wasn't nekked). Miss Ky woke up this morning and said, "I talk a Daddy on the compoo'er" (she's getting a Norfolk accent, apparently).

We're good.
Just technologically frustrated.

A Lesson in Patience

She didn't nap today. Even though she desperately needed one.

You see, she can climb in and out of her crib, and she's afraid she might miss something...

like other kids' lego creations (you have to destroy them at exactly the right moment),

the stack of newly laundered and folded clothes placed outside the bedroom door (while she "slept") needed trying on again to check for shrinkage,

different food may have entered the pantry or the refrigerator (and it's important to check often).

Then there's the preparation for an American Idol audition...



Don't let the smile fool you.
An overtired toddler WILL morph into a whiny, crying mess every 20 minutes or so.





Calgon anyone?

I Don't Know Why I was Surprised

I just opened a package from my Mother-in-law (remember her?),
even though it was clearly addressed to my
husband-- not that anything is ever addressed to anyone but him, but sometimes the package/card/photos will say "and family", that's MY name, you know.

I opened the package because it was clearly a Valentine's Day box and the kids were eagerly anticipating the love mailed just to them.
The first thing on top was a large heart-shaped note (addressed to Mijo) reminiscing about a time that only she and he would be able to reflect on. Next was a small child's valentine addressed to "Mijo" (my son). Next was goodies she knows he loves, puzzle books and things to help him on his deployment etc.

For her benefit, I just want to mention two things here.

First, I am in the UK. It's a tiny little island, you may have heard of it. Second, he is in Iraq. It is a desert country in the middle east. I cannot just walk your packages to him. By you mailing them to me, I am required to drive one hour to retrieve it, bring it home, re-package it and then drive an hour back to mail it to him. You CAN mail directly to him and you won't even have to communicate with me or his children for 6 months. You have his address... so all I can wonder is... have you had a stroke or are you really this catty?


The mail run wasn't a complete loss. Our Wii returned from Wii Hospital and we all did the happy Wii dance outside the post office (as opposed to the usual "I have to wee" dance that we choose to do when there's not a toilet in sight).

Do you ever feel invisible? Do you have an in-law that repeatedly makes you feel like an unwelcome outsider?
Are hostile relations with an in-law grounds for compensation, say a Nikon d300?
Just asking.

To The Occupiers

The joy of a fresh snowfall is a short reprieve from wondering if you'll have to leave your mates, your school, your church. Every day in the garden is a cruel reminder that we're just days away from possibly losing it all, through no fault of our own.



A letter I received 10 minutes ago:

"Dear Sir (ahem, I am not a sir)

Our client: Blanketyblankbank of the United Kingdom
Mortgaged property: 210 Bleepybleep, Blunder, Norfolk, AB12 34C


We write in respect of the above matter and the forthcoming possession hearing on the 101st of February 2009 in the Silly Sessions Court.

We can confirm that our Client is seeking an Order for Possession at the hearing to protect their interest in the above mentioned property.

Please note however, our Client will not enforce any Order granted at the hearing until after expiry of the tenancy agreement (105th January 2010) which you currently hold with Mr. P.

If you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact this office.

Yours faithfully Bangdatycocks"

It's probably apparent that dates and names have been changed, but for the most part, can we just say, "HALLELUJAH!!!" ?




If you'll excuse me, I have some unpacking to do and snow to play in. Things look so much brighter today.


Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Double Feature: Beauty Tips By Ky & The Claws Come Out

You know this is the place you come to when you want beauty advice, right?
That IS why you're following me?
Not one to disappoint, I'll tell you about a great hand lotion Miss Ky has found.

She discovered it one night while I was washing dishes (which requires boiling water if you're keeping up). She came in rubbing her hands together and I thought, "Oh no, my Body Shop Vanilla Spice glimmer lotion that I have managed to stretch out over a year? Or is it my Coconut-Kiwi body butter? OR is it the last drop of my Almond Body oil I'm so desperate to make last until I can get another bottle mailed to me?"

When you're forty-four years old and now living in a house that is lit brightly, body creme is everything. Grounds for hanging a child by her fingernails if said child should waste some.

I pulled her sticky little hands towards my uber-sensitive nose (which was really not necessary since the smell was unmistakeable as soon as she was within reaching distance).

THAT was the smell of kid's toothpaste. The hand creme of the stars. Apparently you must lick the lid real well first. (come on over CPS, I'm poisoning my kids with toothpaste).

A2 discovered a cure for people with annoyingly tiny nostrils-- blu tac fits up there rather nicely and if you get a big enough chunk, it's possible that over time your nostrils could be flared as attractively as an angry bull's.

Nothing but fun over here, folks.

My carpets are cleaned (in the old house, I refuse to clean these carpets until I know we're going to use them) and the last bit of furniture is out, so I sign it over tomorrow morning.
It's frightening to think of the timing of it all. I will give up our other home on the exact same day this one goes to court for repossession. What are the odds?

I do have heat. Wonderful, glorious heat that took three men from 8 am to 6 pm to get working.

However, I won't be celebrating just yet since my Husband's car just failed the MOT (an inspection of road worthiness you are required to pay for annually -- you can fail for low tread on your tires, to a chip in the right place on your windshield). The same garage that checked his car before he left is the one who performed the MOT.
You tell me, the car has been driven twice in the three weeks since he left, does an exhaust system really go that horribly bad in three weeks?

I might have handled it better if I hadn't been forced to entertain a toddler for the 3 hours we waited, but I vaguely recall telling the guy I would rather "drive the flipping thing off a cliff if England had any" to which he calmly replied, "It isn't that big of a deal, it will just take one day to fix and only cost about £70" (of course causing me to narrowly MISS the road tax payment that will be due and can't be paid without the MOT).

Yeah, get back to me after you discover that Miss Ky rearranged your parts shelf, then we'll talk about it being no big deal.

baby it's cold outside

I'm cold.

Can you believe this, I have no heat. I'm not making this streak of bad luck up, I seriously have no heat now. On my second day of no heat in my house.
Apparently the lack of hot water was my clue that the central heating was on it's last leg. Who'da guessed? Obviously not me.

On another note: Base Housing called and gave me a butt-chewing for paying my February rent. "Now that you paid February, there's no way you'll see your deposit again-- you were supposed to release the deposit to pay Feb's rent because that was the only way you were going to get your deposit back...".
Funny, THAT would've been good information to pass on at the same time you were telling me not to pay the rent-going against every moral fiber in my body. I would've understood it in those terms.
She's pretty fed up with me and was quite agreeable that my next option might be to move back to the states.

Still, I have more important things to think about.

Like how I am cold and that makes for difficult typing. Yesterday I was told the heating guy (who happens to be the guy who turned off my broken hot water tap in the kitchen ten days ago never to return) is supposed to be here "Either tonight or first thing tomorrow". Did you see on the news our record snowfall? That closed schools and crippled airports? That white stuff is cold. We could sleep next to the aga I guess.

I'm rambling. Cold does that to a brain. Two more days until the court hearing. I'm three days away from the end of an incredible amount of stress, or three days closer to being homeless. Two days for my whinging posts to find another subject.

Addendum: Central Heating guy was here (it's morning now-- didn't feel like eight hours since you started reading, did it?). He put a new program box up, but now I have to wait for the certified electrician to come wire it in. I may have heat by tonight. Who HOO!!

The things people take for granted...
What are you enjoying today that you would miss terribly if it were gone?

Word.

My friends, AVT Coach, Miruspeg and Octamom have been doing this cool little theme for the new year where they have each chosen a word to live by (I can't do them justice, you'll just have to pop over to take a look).

I've been thinking of what word will frame my year.

Whinge is the first that comes to mind, but I already do that so I need to think of something that I can work towards.
Puke is covered.
Insanity?
Tired?
um, this seems to be going the wrong way.

I think I have to choose laughter (but don't hold me to it, it's my blog and I can change my mind if I want to).
Laughter, not in the insane-lady-banging-her-head-against-the-wall-in-the-corner laughter, I mean, let-it-go-and-live-the-moment laughter.

An example:

Our home is sometimes the birthplace of some of that natural gas eating up the ozone layer and quite honestly, I can be quite a hag when such obscene moments enter prayer time, table time, bath time or in general when taught to Miss KY, but the other night A2 let one rip as we were trying to get the dinner mess cleaned up (my witching time when all fun stops in our house).
As I took a breath (knowing it could be the last fresh air I'd have for a while) and prepared to go into the usual "What do you say?" lecture, J1 blurted, "You been taking trombone lessons?"
and I couldn't help it. I cracked up. His eyes sparkled as the two of us shared his little joke (it went over everyone else's head).

When Miss Ky showed she could pass gas with the best of them, I did manage my, "What do you say?" spiel, the one that should be followed with "pardon me".

She grinned her cheeky grin and said, "Thaaaank Yooooou".

Global Warming? Take it all in stride, the girl who is causing it was polite.

Laughter... a step away from the straight jacket.

Swapping Partners Anyone?

It's that time again!! Mamarazzi is doing her Favourite Things Swap again (sorry, we're not actually swapping partners). It's limited this time, so get in on it while you can!
I had so much fun doing this and can't wait to do it again.



come on, you know you want to.....