Hey there.  Remember me?

No.  I didn’t fall into the same abyss that my virtual life did last week when my computer took a dive.

Rather, we escaped to the mountains of Northern Arizona for a weekend away.

No internet.  No cell phone.  No contact with the outside world really.  For three. Whole. Days.

We stayed in a cabin on a working cattle ranch.  It was a bit tough to find, seeing as how they don’t have an actual address.  What they did offer us for navigational purposes was the hint to ‘turn right at the white pole fence when the road forks.’

We did of course.  After stopping the minivan right there in the middle of that dirt road to give the kids a closer look at the bovine munching on some grass just a few feet from our car.

Look kids, it’s a cow!

Jeff was embarrassed when a ranch hand in a rusty old pick-up happened upon us as we gawked at the cow.

It wasn’t any worse though than when we made a quick stop at the Safeway to pick up some groceries.  I’d always had an impression that ranch people were friendly.  That they were the type to ask “how ya’ll doin” and offer you a freshly slain side of beef or something.

These ranch people?  Not so much.

These ranch people were more the type to stare at my children and I in our colorful velour jogging suits and Aeropastle sweatshirts, clearly wondering if we’d been slapped upside the head with a pitch fork.  Our choice of attire, it seemed, didn’t quite mesh with their manure stained jeans and worn-out Laredos.

We saw fit not to aggravate the natives though and chose instead to keep to ourselves.  For three days we remained isolated in that cabin, playing Scrabble, watching PG movies, and occasionally venturing outside to explore life on the ranch.

The kids could have spent hours on the swing tied to a tree branch just outside the cabin door.

That is, of course, had a certain overgrown city slicker not seen fit to take a ride on it himself.  I didn’t realize I had to warn him that the rope was not designed to withhold the weight of his not-so-childlike frame.  Ahem.

Moving right along though.

With the swing broken we found other ways to entertain ourselves.  There wasn’t as much snow as we’d hoped for, but there was enough for a little bit of this.

And this…

You’ll notice a certain someone suspiciously absent.  (No, not me. I’m behind the camera).

She, however, was not.  She spent the majority of the weekend curled up in an oversized chair in front of the fireplace.  I’m sure that her immobility had nothing to do with pouting over the lack of cell reception and everything to do with enjoying a toasty warm spot to read her book.

You know.  Benefit of the doubt and all.

So all in all it was a great weekend.  Even in spite of the food poisoning that struck 2/3 of us on our final night.  Just as we turned out the lights we heard that telltale vomitting sound coming from a downstairs bedroom.  Within twenty or so minutes two more of us were struck and within an hour Jayce’s poor little tummy took a turn too.  It was not a pretty night.  But, like Jeff, I chose to look on the bright side and focus on the fact that at least all that vomiting didn’t take place at home.  Our light colored carpet just wouldn’t have stood up so well to berry colored puke.

All is well on the home front now though.

The weekend away was nice.  But my bed at home was a welcome sight last night.

What with all the obnoxious coverage of today’s inauguration I wish nothing more than to crawl back into it and pull the covers over my head until they knock it off already.

Seems Jayce doesn’t fend so well for himself so I guess it’s not to be.  And really, with a face as doggone cute as his, why would I want to hide under the covers all day?

Hope you all enjoyed restful, vomit-free weekends.

Based on the series of events that unfolded throughout my day, I can tell you that I’m a new believer in voodoo.  Yeah, um I totally must have cut someone off in traffic.  Or taken the last loaf of whole grain bread.  Maybe it was that telemarketer I hung up on last week.  Whatever it was, all I can say is that I obviously ticked off some freaky black eye-lined voodoo master at some point and she chose today to seek revenge.

You all saw that tire this morning.

If I were to go back to the beginning though I’d have to tell you that I got out of bed thirty minutes early this morning so as to have time to properly dress for an early morning meeting with the principal of little Miss Redhead’s school.  That’s another post entirely but let’s just say that young Kennedy was not-so-discreetly thrilled at the sight of the flat tire this morning.

Ahem.

Moving right along.

So I called the principal to let him know not to be expecting us anytime soon.  And then I called Jeff at work and whined like a baby until he agreed to come home and fix the tire so that I could put on my school bus driver hat for the day.

On the subject of my husband fixing the flat I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that when I opened the garage door and saw him kneeled down at the tire, still dressed in his work clothes (having put on an old Army PT jacket to protect his collared shirt from grease stains) I may have become suddenly flushed.

Seriously.  How hot is it that my rocket scientist husband can also repair a flat?

So anyway, he patched the tire and headed back to work.  He did not pass go.  Nor did he collect $200.  Not that I would have put up much of a fight had he tried to.

Sorry Mom.

Anyway…

I was happy that my day was back on track and I gathered my purse and Jayce so that we could head into town to pick up a prescription.

And had it worked out that way my story would end here.

But you, my dear reader, know better than that now don’t you?

When I turned the key in the ignition all I heard was that telltale clicking noise.

By telltale I of course mean that it was not a good sound.  Because being the auto-clueless woman I am I really couldn’t have diagnosed anything based on that clicking sound.

So guess who got another call at work?

Apparently the air compressor filled the tire but drained the battery.

So off to the neighbor I go, like a damsel in distress, begging for mercy.

He had me up and running in no time.

And again, I thought things were back in shape.

I even managed to get Jayce fed and down for his nap on time.

Score! 

I tend to use those precious two naptime hours blogging managing household affairs and surfing the internet tying up loose ends laundry and dishes wise.

I logged onto my trusty laptop in search of an eye doctor for Jeff and I.  I was almost there when what Jeff calls ‘the blue screen of death’ popped up on my screen.

My eyes scrolled through the techie lingo but all I could focus on was the phrase ‘dumping blah blah blah memory.’

NO!  NO, NO, NO!  THERE WILL BE NO DUMPING OF MY MEMORY!  DOYOUUNDERSTANDME?!  NO DUMPING!

Apparently my laptop and I don’t speak the same language because it proceeded to dump the entire contents of my virtual life into an unknown electronic abyss.

Splendid.

Apparently it will be awhile before I have use of my computer again.  So please forgive me for not responding to emails.  Seeing as how I cannot read them in the first place.  GRRR.

Oh.  And the cherry on this sundae of a day?  I had a dentist appointment this afternoon.  Apparently the root canal I’ve had done, and re-done, is still not right.  And the un-rightness of it has left me with what appears on x-ray to be a brewing underground infection.

Awesome.

So.  Who can recommend a good witch doctor?

Just one of the many reasons why it sucks not having any family or friends close by.

Sheesh.  Who’da thunk that the hint of a poop on the ceiling story would elicit such a response?

Ah, but I set the ball in motion so now I’m obligated to see this thing through.  You ready for this?  It’s a doozie.  Or a poo-zie, depending on how you look at it.

C’mon.  You know I had to say it.

So as moms we’ve all dealt with our share of poop right?  In the diaper, the training pants, the occasional accident in the bathing suit maybe.

But how many of you can say that you’ve experienced poop on the ceiling?

Nary a one, I venture to guess.

Unless you were a guest at Torri’s 11th sleepover birthday party.  Then you may have been witness to the flung dung, the squishee up above.

But don’t go jumping to conclusions.  Torri would certainly have a massive coronary if I were to let you believe that the poo in question had anything to do with her.  Or her friends.  Or anyone she considers remotely socially apt.

The poo, as you may have guessed, hailed from my youngest daughter: the burping, farting girl.  I suppose after this story you can add poo-flinging to her claim to fame.

It was early evening on the night of Torri’s party.  Her friends were to be arriving shortly.  As is quite common for me, I was in the midst of a last-minute cleaning frenzy, putting the finishing touches on the party decorations.  As is also quite common, I had put Jeff to work, washing dishes, taking out the traash, or doing another form of meanial labor in preparation for the receiving of guests.

Cassidy was in the midst of a two-year-long attempt at potty-training.  She was on the verge of success, though we were still battling those unexpected accidents, of both the numbers 1 and 2 variety.  Her older sisters were quite helpful in our potty-training quest, assisting Cassidy in the bathroom to the extent they were able.

Such was the case on this day in particular.

With both Jeff and I busy with party prep, Kennedy took it upon herself to answer Cassidy’s calls from the toilet.  And really, how can you not love her for that?

Apparently, Cassidy had done the deed in her panties.  She ran to the potty to remedy the situation but alas, she arrived too late.  So she did what any red blooded American girl would do and took off those nasty drawers.  The story gets a bit fuzzy here so excuse my blurring of details.  As Kennedy reports it though, she walked into the bathroom right on time to see Cassidy throw her poo-filled panties into the air.

I couldn’t begin to guess as to her reason for doing so.  Long ago I learned not to question Cassidy’s nuances, but just to accept them unconditionally.

It’s really better for us all that way.

Back to the story though.  Kennedy arrived mid-panty fling only to see them hit the ceiling.  They stuck there for a moment, before gravity had it’s way with the soiled chonies.  Apparently though, the poo itself possessed enough sticky qualities to defy the pull of nature, and remained there: a pile of poo adhered solidly to the ceiling.

It was about this time that Jeff caught wind, via Torri (who, at the time thought the situation was hilarious though she would never admit to it now), of the mishap occurring in the bathroom.  The guest bathroom by the way.  The bathroom which Torri’s tween guests were expected to use.

Jeff’s quick survey of the area left no room for doubt that a thorough scrub down of both the offender and the offendee (in this case the surrounding floor and exterior of the toilet bowl) were in order.

He acted quickly, (gotta love that military training), and stripped Cassidy down before tossing her into the bathtub.  He then donned my yellow cleaning gloves and furiously scrubbed, sanitized, and sanctified, all while Cassidy soaked in the tub.  Apparently though, the water he drew for Cassidy’s bath was a tad too warm and warranted complaint from our little dung flinger.  Before you go rushing to her defense I should tell you that Cassidy has an aversion to warm water.  She would be much happier bathing in a mountain stream than a natural hot spring.

Jeff began explaining to her that in situations where poo is involved, the water has to be warm enough to kill the bacteria contained in said poo.  At the mention of the ‘p’ word, Cassidy, whose perspective gave her a clear view of the ceiling poop, pointed up towards it and said, “poop like that?”

Jeff turned towards the direction of her pointed finger when what to his wondering eye should appear, but a suspended dung pile from Cassidy’s rear.

You can imagine the bewilderment.

What you cannot fully grasp, without having been there, is the sight of my husband standing on the toilet, reaching up with his gloved hands to remove turds from the ceiling.

No.  You just can’t imagine.

I can tell you though that crunches or any other ab exercises were unnecessary for me for a period of roughly two weeks after because I laughed harder that day than I possibly have ever laughed before.

The laughter, though, was not only in response to the scene that unfolded before me.

The laughter was, in part, in response to the possibility of what very well could have happened.

You see, the poo was stuck directly above the toilet.  The toilet which Jeff was bent over scrubbing and sanitizing for at least a good five minutes.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Imagine for a moment the possibility of that dung losing it’s adhesive quality at precisely the right second.

It would have been like manna from the heavens, only not as welcome a surprise.

And words cannot convey the sheer hilarity of just such an inopportune event.

Can you even imagine?

Oh friends.  I can.  And I have.  Many a time.  And to this very day just the thought brings me great joy.

I’m not the least bit discriminatory when it comes to gross things happening to my husband by chance.  I’d never intentionally set up such an event, but had a pile of dung unintentionally landed upon his unsuspecting head? well, now there is just no denying the humor in that.

He’s a lucky man, this husband of mine.

So there you have it.  The poop on the ceiling story in all its glory.

Boy.  After yesterday’s post, and now this, I bet you’ll all be extra careful should ever you find yourself needing to tinkle while visiting my home.

That’s probably a good idea, fyi.

** I need to preface this post with the disclaimer that my oldest daughter is thoroughly mortified that I would discuss this matter in such a public venue.  If you are privileged enough to know Torri then please do not hold my utter vulgarity against her.  You know, the sins of the father and all.  Or in this case, the mother.**

I ruined a pair of slippers this morning.

How, you ask, might that have happened?

I stepped in poop.

You may be assuming that I stepped in poop as I ventured my slippered feet out onto the front lawn (or rock bed as we have here in Arizona) to retrieve the Sunday paper.

Nope.

I stepped in poop indoors.

And no, we don’t have pets.

Still not 100% sure where aforementioned poop came from, though based on the tracks it appears to have originated from the floor in Cassidy’s bathroom.

Poor thing isn’t familiar with the concept of a dingleberry, and it likely took her by as big a surprise as it did me.

Or Jeff rather.

Seeing as how he was the one who discovered the tracks.

This is one time I’m glad I was oblivious.

I have a weak stomach.

His has gotten remarkably stronger since having married into a ready-made family complete with a then unpotty-trained child.

The girls’ bouts with the flu helped toughen him right up too.

Ah.  And then there was this once…

It’s sort of a long story but believe it or not it involves poop stuck to the ceiling.

I swear.

You can imagine the immense pleasure I got from that experience, seeing as how I enjoy torturing my family.  The poop wasn’t mine.  But still.  Jeff gagged repeatedly.  And when I’m privy to someone gagging, I am thoroughly tickled.

Especially when it’s Jeff.  There really isn’t anything that can instantly send me into a fit of laughter like seeing him grossed out.

My preferable tools are ear wax, white things (slimy skin that peels from the inside of my lips), and tonsil stones.

Of course, unintentional poop incidents work too.

You’d think we live in a zoo, what with the random poop on various surfaces.

I actually keep a very tidy home.

I swear.

When I sat down to write this post this totally isn’t the direction I intended to take.

It’s been quite amusing to write though, so I hope you don’t mind the toilet talk just this once.

I’ll be back to cleaner topics tomorrow.

Unless you’re all dying to hear the ceiling poop story.

I suppose then I could be convinced.

I’m tempted to start this post out with the following sentence: I don’t mean to brag, but…

You all know what that means don’t ya?

Uh-huh.  So let’s just get right to it.

And yes.  I know that being boastful is ungodly.

Forgive me just this once.  The story is worth it.  I hope so anyway.

So we were grocery shopping the other day, and by we I mean Jeff, Jayce and I.  My mom was in the store too, but off picking out area rugs for Kennedy’s new room.  Yes.  We got the rug at the grocery store.  Klassy, I know.  Anyway, back to the boasting.

So we’re crusing the aisles in our normal configuration: Jayce in the cart with Jeff pushing it while I scour the shelves for the lowest prices and check the labels for high fructose corn syrup and whatnot.  So there we were, minding our own business, when one of those grocery guys who sweep the aisles with those obnoxious brooms comes up behind us and sort of interrupts our shopping to ask if we’re finding everything alright.  It was just an odd thing because we had our backs to him, there was no eye contact made, and we weren’t stopped in the aisle looking dumbfounded, rather we were cruisin’ right along at a decent pace.  Anyway, I told him that we were having no trouble locating the thin spaghetti and thanked him for his concern.  Only I wasn’t that sarcastic in real life.

So the grocery kid (and I say kid because he was maybe college age, most likely high school though) sort of leans into Jeff and says something to him that I can’t hear.  Jeff responds with a chuckle, like one of those laughs-for-lack-of-something-better-to-fill-the-silence-with chuckles.  The broom guy continues up the aisle and turns the corner.  I ask Jeff what he said.

He said, “You’re married to her?  Good job man.”

He did not say that.

I swear that is exactly what he said.

No he didn’t.

Swear.

Whatever.

I’m dead serious.  That is exactly what he said.

Why would he say that?  People don’t say that sort of thing.

I know.  But that’s what he said.

And what did you say?

You were right there.  You saw what I said.

I couldn’t hear.  What did you say?

I said thanks.

That’s it?

Yeah, that’s it.

He didn’t really say that.  Why would he say that?  He totally didn’t say that.

Okay.  But yes.  He did.

So now you see why I should have started this post out with the disclaimer that I’m not bragging.

Because really I’m not.  I mean it’s not like Orlando Bloom pulled my husband aside and congratulated him on his catch.  It was the broom kid at the grocery store.

But I’d be lying if I said that little incident didn’t leave me walking a little taller that day.  Because it’s not everyday that someone congratulates my husband for bagging a hottie.

Well.  It’s not.

Later that night, as we were brushing our teeth, I totally spit toothpaste all over my mirror as Jeff was rehashing the story for me.  Only with added commentary this time.

I didn’t know what to say to him really.  Like, dude, what am I?  Chopped liver?  I sort of thought we were equally matched in the looks department.  And now I’m getting ‘good job mans’ from the broom guy at Fry’s?  What’s up with that?  I totally need to start working out.

I think it’s karma really.  Before he was clued in to the nuances of relationships we got married, Jeff once said to me (and notice that I’m adding quotations here), “I mean, you’re no Jennifer Aniston…”.  Let me put it in context for you.  He was explaining to me why a certain ex of mine made a mistake in putting me on a pedestal during our relationship.  As I type it I can barely believe he was idiotic enough to let those words slip from his mouth but, oh, he was.  He most certainly was.  He was not kidding or being sarcastic.  He was dead serious.  And completely clueless I might add.  He’s truly lucky I hung in with him as he fumbled his way to where he is now.

In fact, I’m thinking maybe I’ll start arranging for this sort of thing to spontaneously occur more often.  That oughta really give him a complex.

It’d serve him right, don’t you think?

Jennifer Aniston.  Pfft.  Please.  She’s got nothing on me.  Just ask the broom guy.

You remember how I told you that I spent the first weekend in December painting, rather than baking and wrapping and doing all the other things I should have been doing?  Well, I had good reason for putting myself through all that work.  Kennedy, you see, had requested a ‘new room’ for her birthday this year because she felt she had outgrown the old one.  The Pottery Barn Kids catalog served as inspiration for her as she began putting together the components that would make up her dream room.  She had something like this in mind, with slight changes here and there:

Unfortunately for her (and me too really) the furniture alone from the Pottery Barn room cost well over our budgeted amount.  So, I did what any brilliant woman would do and I enlisted my husband’s help in scouring the internet for a cheapie lookalike.  It didn’t take long for us to find one at Target.

We promptly ordered it and saved ourselves both an arm and a leg in the process.  Then the hunt was on for the bedding.  I was drawn, time and time again, to the Pottery Barn website.  I really couldn’t swallow the price tag that soared over $600 (in bedding alone!) just to put together the look from Kennedy’s dream room.  So we improvised again.  I searched high and low for just the right thing but I really couldn’t find ‘the one’.  I pretty much gave up temporarily, hoping that at the change of the season the stores would put out a new line that more closely resembled what Kennedy and I had in mind.  Meanwhile I stopped by the Linen’s and Things store hoping to find some clearance deals before they went out of business.  I had no luck in the bedding department, but I did find packages of vinyl polka dotted wall stickers that struck my fancy.  And at just 2 bucks a pop they were totally within budget.  I picked them up hoping I’d find something that would work with them.

Back on the bedding front I made one last go round at Target.  The stars must have aligned for me that night (either that or I was struck with momentary design genius) because I scored.  Big time.  I mixed and matched and in the end I ended up with what could totally pass as a Pottery Barn designed bed evenifIdosaysomyself.

My mom and I went out in search of the finishing touches and then she, Jeff, and I worked hard to finish the room up before the girls came home from Christmas Dad camp.  Enough for the back story right?  Now for the internet unveiling…

And there you have it.  Kennedy loves it.  Cassidy loves it.  Even I love it.  I think it’s mature without being to grown up for a 9 and 11 year old.  Hopefully it’ll transition really well as they enter the tween/teen years.

Based on the cost of this project, though, they’re pretty much stuck with it either way.

Eleven years ago on this very day a certain redhead was forcefully expelled from my womb.  Surely you’ve heard what they say about redheads.  And if the long overdue aspect of her birth wasn’t enough to warn of what was in store for me, the necessity of forceps should have clued me in.  I paid not a lick of attention to either of these things though; I was distracted by her beautiful long fingers, her porcelain skin, her carrot colored curls.

Over the next few months I had plenty of opportunity to become acquainted with her stubborn determined side.  And determined she is, let there be no doubt.

You know how they say that in order to teach a baby to fall asleep on her own you’ve got to let her cry it out sometimes?  They obviously never met my daughter.  When she was about ten months old and I was tired of her night waking I went head to head with her in a battle of endurance.  I swore that I’d let her cry it out.  I refused to give in to that irresistible plea of hers, begging to sleep with mama.

Guess who won.

I would be lying if I said that her stubborn streak has not been a thorn in my side over the years.  It has.  Oh it has.

But there are times of quiet reflection when I realize that part of her is a blessing.

She is her own person.  She wants what she wants, not what someone tells her she should have.  She knows right from wrong and more times than not she does what is right no matter who is doing what is wrong.  She plays with her siblings because they have fun together, without regard to the fact that they are ‘babies’ by her friends’ standards.  She pairs lacy leggings with denim skirts and brown UGGS and a silver sequined hat even though her teenage sister tells her she shouldn’t.  She goes on the scariest, steepest, fastest slide in all the water park, just to prove us wrong.

She is a strong willed child.  A girl ready to take on the world.

And I have faith in her.  I know that will of hers will take her places.  The determination that I both curse and praise, will surely serve her well.

Happy Birthday Kennedy girl.  You are strong.  You are beautiful.  You are growing so fast.  Treasure these years.  You know what is just around the corner don’t you?  You’ve seen the way your sister turned into a superfreak as soon as she hit her teen years (shhh! don’t tell her I said that!).  How about we make a deal that you stay my sweet girl for just a bit longer okay?  I love you.  And I’m so proud of who you are becoming.  Happy Birthday Ken.

Photo taken 1-6-08

Early tomorrow morning our lazy holiday schedule will cease to exist.  That blasted alarm clock will pull me oh-so-begrudgingly from what promises to be a restful slumber.  After taking fifteen minutes to compose myself and throw together lunches I’ll trudge over to the east wing to awaken the children who will, understandably, doze through breakfast.  Then they’ll get dressed, most likely putting one or two clothing items on backwards.  It’s hard, after all, to get it all right in spite of the sleepy sand plaguing their eyelids.

We’ll head off to school, all the while blaming our grogginess on the tardy rising sun.  Once the girls are gone I’ll resume my mundane Monday tasks – namely laundry.

I’m not ready for back to school.  Back to real life.

I’ve so enjoyed these last two weeks of rolling out of bed only when I’m good and ready.  The exercise fell by the wayside as did most of my other necessary but relatively unpleasant daily chores.

I’ve been so busy enjoying laziness that I’ve neglected to consider the ways in which I’d like to improve this year.

What better time than now, I suppose, to get to it?

And so, without much contemplation, I present these five things.  Five things I resolve to work on over the course of the next twelve months.

1. Giving.  I’m ashamed to admit that we were relatively greedy in 2008.  We saved for retirement and tried desperately to catch up with severely lacking college funds.  We even contributed to a rainy day savings account but all that saving left little to give.  We’ve not been suddenly struck by a money tree, but we certainly have been richly blessed.  Enough so as to spread the wealth a little bit more. I’d like to take this new beginning as an opportunity to teach the kids a little something about charity.  Generosity.  Christian love.  I’m thinking along the lines of St. Judes, The Make a Wish Foundation, Heifer International.  That sort of thing.

2. Taking.  Taking my time back that is.  The computer on which I type has crept quietly into my life like a thief in the night, stealing precious moments from the ones I love.  I resolve to take at least a portion of that time back this year.

3. Sweating.  (see aforementioned exercise).

4. Drinking.  Not that kind of drinking.  I once was a milk lover.  Now?  Not so much.  I’d rather not end up as a decrepit old lady with brittle bones though so I resolve to work on the drinking.  Of milk.  Nonfat Tazo chai tea lattes count right?

5. Loving.  As in loving what I do.  Whether it be grocery shopping, checkbook balancing, cooking, heck, even scrubbing toilets.  I resolve to whistle while I work, to do it all with a happy heart knowing that my efforts help my family flourish.

I’m not making any guarantees.  These five things, though, now that they’ve been officially noted, are on my conscience this year.  There’s no motivation like accountability.  At least that’s what I’m banking on.  Wish me luck.  Oh, and happy back to real life to you too.