Making Decisions

Well, there's nothing like a good round of cathartic decision-making to scare the bejeezus out of you. I am constantly reevaluating my current educational path and decided to give it another hard think. I realized that my current path was challenging only from a time-constraint perspective and had the major fault of potentially being less effective than I knew I could be if I chose my next path which I can only refer to as the "I told you so" path.

You see, plan A was to end up with my Nurse Practitioner's license and Paramedics license and retreat to my small town (and a couple other interests) that need my help and expertise. I realized, though that the NP track was going to take me longer and have fewer opportunities for financial aid and less independence than, say, PA school. Never mind that my primary spiritual advisor told me to go to PA school three years ago. I mean, really, what does he know?! Uncannily, he really does seem to hear quite a lot and had I listened to him I'd be done with it all now and have my clinic open and growing.

So, here I am three years late and it's the faster, cheaper option. So here I go. I have to take the MCAT again (mine's got to be too old)and see what else I lack course-wise and where I have options to go. It's not that drastic of a change, but will implement med-school-like conditions around my house for about two or so years and one holy-hell-of-a-commute. Yuck. Thank goodness for family. I hope my kids forgive me for the absence, but as a parent in need of options for paying for things long-term, I gotta get some things going here. Perhaps when they're eight and eleven they'll forgive me for having my head crammed in a book for most of their early childhood years. Love those kids. Or I would just get a job at the grocery store. Ok, no, too boring, but you get my drift. Gosh I hope my mind continues to work...

Waitin' for things to gel...
Scat

25 Really Good Reasons To Sleep In A Tree

OK, it has come to my attention that some of you need some **help** making the distinction between followers, readers, commenters, and lurkers. Truthfully, though it appears that only two of you have the spinal column to do all of the above (I <3 you both. You are brave souls and/or very bored), I am glad for all of you and am going to start answering the many questions I have been receiving via email. So, here goes: followers are the most hallowed of beings. They have the brass ones to actually publicly follow my ridiculous attempt at writing. Those little square things at the left of the screen (both of them--ha!) are my "followers" They follow, read, and comment regularly and I return the favor--you should read them!!!

Many of you choose to remain anonymous to the world. I guess I understand why and I respect that, but I shall lovingly refer to you as the "lurkettes" regardless of gender. There. Now you have a group and can know that you exist together in my email. So...now to answer some of your questions.

First..."Do I have any favorite recipes from other blogs?"

I am answering this for one reason. I'm not a recipe kind of girl. I cook and I cook very well, but it's always my own recipe. This recipe is distinct for it's true awfulness and the fact that it's the only recipe I can remember from a blog in recent days. It's a cocktail recipe called Tojaadots, I believe: juice box (whatever's available), tonic water, and coconut rum. Mix and I suppose add to efficacy rather than taste because efficacy is the only reason you would drink such a thing. With that concoction you can write stimulating stuff like this. Merriwether may never follow this rag ever again.

CORRECTION: Actually, the Tojaadot is a mixture of tequila, orange juice, and a dash of Tabasco sauce. The drink box/coconut rum/soda water was an earlier attempt at intoxification...which ended poorly. Tojaadots are, therefore infinitely more desireable treat than death-by-juice-box (my name for it).

Second... "Have you really ever slept in a tree?"

Yes. And I mean IN the tree. Not a tree house or a swing or anything like that. This is going to stir up a lot more questions, so I'll start you off S-L-O-W-L-Y.

25 Really Good Reasons To Sleep In A Tree

1. 2000 sq.ft. house with 7 family members (two octogenarians--one deaf, two in their sixties--one deaf, me, one seven-yr-old--deaf, and one four-yr-old). The deaf thing makes you LOOOONG for piece and quiet and a place where you don't have to make yourself known vocally, facially, AND with the correct combination of hand signals. Contrary to popular opinion, deaf people are not that quiet.

2. Entropy.

3. Not enough ________. This is different for everyone and changes by the day for me.

4. The sound of "Momma, I need you!" "For what?" "For sumpin." "Tell me what!" "For SUM-PIN!!! (growling voice)"

5. The "What the bleep am I supposed to do with this??!!" face my mute seven-yr-old can make. He does NOT need to learn to speak, but I am cooperating with his teachers.

6. Computers that make phone calls.

7. Computers.

8. Microsoft. I digress, but you get the point.

9. The desire for silence like you only get during those blessed moments when the power goes out.

10. Because trees have no forwarding addresses.

11. Because no matter what, the twit from Medco (our prescription drug plan) can never find me in my tree because there is NO PHONE THERE. And, I never pick the same tree. Warning: if you pick the same tree, someone will find you and bring you the cursed cordless phone. This same warning applies to tents. Never pitch your tent in the same spot if you want to stay unavailable! He won't get out of the recliner to eat, but my 83-yr-old grandpa will hike out into the woods on chemo days to give you the dang phone! Ugh. Because phone calls are important. Especially if they come from Jack, the talking computer.

12. Because the tree is not really that much more uncomfortable than my grandma's 1960's-era stuffed, stuffed, and re-stuffed sofa.

13. Because my mother is going through menopause AND withdrawing from her psych meds and sleeping in a tree is infinitely more comfortable than sleeping in prison after committing homicide whether it's justifiable or not. Maybe.

14. Trees do not have diapers. They do not shout dinner orders from the living room like a short-order cafe or have the nerve to mouth off at you. They do not come home from school calling you "butthead."

15. They do not possess volume knobs, or depending on how you look at it, are always "OFF."

16. From a tree, you can see the mushroom cloud that was your house when the occupants realize their network connectivity is nil and the network sys-admin is sleeping in a tree.

17. From a tree, you can see just about anything. Sunrises, storms, sunsets, airplanes, birds, etc.

18. Trees smell good.

19. Very few people climb a tree together, look at one another, and one starts of with, "I was taking another look at zone one where we were comparing the Smackover porosity with known wells..." or "Have you taken a look at the latest confidentiality agreement for Walkup County?" Don't get me wrong. I LIVE TO WRITE LEGAL DOCUMENTS!!!!! I SHOULD BE A LAWYER!

I would sooner tattoo "SHARK" on my forehead.

20. Lawyers. :)

21. Doctors. The M.D. type. The type that write off your grandpa's cancer cause he's "just too old." Even though he's one of the world's leading geophysicists. Never mind him. He has nothing further to add.

22. Well, someday I'll really share this one with you...maybe.

23. Psych professors who tell their students, correction, student in public in a classroom that he needs to be on drugs. P-R-O-F-E-S-S-I-O-N-A-L. My fellow student (M.A. in Psychology and LPC about passed out). We are both qualified to teach this class, but are having to repeat it given the distance between our first degrees and our current schooling. Bugger.

24. Global warming--and other Democratic BS. Hahahahahaha. Sorry. That had to be done. Consider it a parting shot to my one politically-minded reader. But you HAVE to worry about quotes like "We won't know what this bill means until we pass it." That's Nancy Pelosi on health care people. If I were a Dem, I'd be afraid. As a republican I'm terrified. And amused. But, alas, still pursuing a career in health care...

25. Last, but not least, UPS. Not USPS, but UPS. I have undertaken the monumental task of clearly marking my home--even though it's the ONLY home on this street on the south side--so that they can unmistakeably see the numbers from the road and DARN if they can't find it with two hands and a flashlight.

Enough for one day, go have a Tojaadot...

Scat

"Spells Are For Witches"

IMPORTANT DISTINCTION: "Spells" are things witches cast on others. NOT to be confused with anything of a medical nature like a stroke, heart attack, bout of nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, loss of vision, low blood pressure, flu, strep throat, hypoxia, or ANY OTHER ILLNESS.

Today started out like any other day...which isn't saying much, but nevertheless, we were going about our business as usual. Church. In a small town. Many abnormal things were going on already, but that is really beside the point (except for the fact that I should have taken note and expected the weirdness to continue with escalation). Attrition and I had finished our regular gig in the a.m. service and I was aimlessly wandering from the nursery with Squib toward the donuts (Squib lives for donuts). The church secretary found me and told me that the pastor needed to find my father.

OK.

So, I grabbed Squib his donut, snagged the secretary and told her that I was headed toward my dad. She snags the pastor. Pastor meets me in the covered drive and says the following: "Your grandfather called the office and said your grandmother has had a spell of some sort and he wants you all to come home immediately.

A spell. Cripes. This is not her first "spell." Some have been rather scary and had all the signs of stroke including asymmetrical facial expressions and loss of vision. She recovered. Still, this morning, when I was casually informed that she had a "spell" I immediately shifted into overdrive. I tucked Squib under my arm like a football and began dragging him from person to person. These days there is one hour during the week when all the healthy people in the family are away and all the cancer patients and invalids are at home. Sounds terrible, but, alas, true. You guessed it. This was that hour. And this was the third time something medically untoward had taken place.

So, we blasted out of there like our tails were on fire. Only to find that the "spell" in this case was a bout of nausea. Maybe low blood pressure. And the import to our returning home was that grandpa was freaking out.

Spell.

Needless to say, we have been undergoing some medical language reeducation this afternoon. "Spells are for witches." That's a direct quote from my father. (There was snickering from the peanut gallery). At that point, I interrupted with a bit of a sarcastic "oooh-kay" and took over from there being careful to warn against the use of "episode" and "fit."

Yeah, spells are for witches. Apparently heart attacks are being passed around freely like the flu. I know I've had at least one, maybe two today alone. A myriad of wrinkles, a fresh shock of gray hair. And...probably a few years shaved off my life.

I need a nap, an anti-psychotic, or a very, very strong drink. I'm gonna sit...for a spell.

Scat

Breathing a Collective Sigh of Relief

Our little oil prospecting company has been on the verge for many months now. We've generated a series of commercial size prospects and have been working for at least a year now to generate interest in funding the actual exploration efforts. The fun part is that basically our entire existence (at the moment) hinges on the success of this little effort. I say "little" lightly. It will be a mammoth operation and we'll have to increase the size of our company several-fold.

We've talked to several groups of investors over the last year and peddled our wares, so-to-speak, all over the country. It's driven us all to distraction and it's simply a miracle that we're not all suffering from perforated ulcers. One night not long ago I really did utter a prayer along the lines of "God, there has to be some random individual somewhere on the planet who finds these prospects as interesting as we do. Could you just scrounge that person up, please?" Then I rolled over in my cold sweat and tried to sleep.

Believe it or not, a random individual heard through the grapevine (the only time I've loved the grapevine) that we were shopping and called us. Turns out he and my grandfather are familiar with one another via their work in the 50's and 60's with Phillips Petroleum and other ventures. Furious storms of emails and negotiations have been going on via email and my iPhone has been smoking hot on occasion. I've been moving from outlet to outlet all over the greater Houston area unable to even keep it charged.

Today, though, we got the email..."Send us the final confidentiality agreement with these changes and we're ready to get started."

DEAFENING SILENCE FALLS ON HOUSEHOLD FOR A PROLONGED PERIOD OF TIME. FAMILY MEMBERS STARE IN UNBELIEF. WE ARE STUNNED.

Then, there was screaming and jumping up and down.

There was some dancing around in the living room by the dyed-in-the-wool Southern Baptists. I think I lost ten pounds immediately. Then I realized my workload quadrupled. Who cares??!!! Now we're actually working for "real" money. (For those of you who don't know, "real" money is "other people's" money).

Real money...the green kind...well, it used to be green...

Scat

They're On the Loose!!!

...running the proverbial streets! Deciding to "hang it all" and "be themselves" and their motto is: "Screw it!"

This has to have been one of the most stressful and hysterical set of three days in my experience. Dealing with cancer in the family is bad enough. Dealing with cancer in TWO members of the family seems really over the top.

But they're Scats. So...

Scat number one has decided on a "quiet" protest. It works like this. If he has to endure chemo, then he's not wearing his hearing aids. This means he's stone, cold deaf. So, if he wants to start a conversation, he does...right in the middle of the one you're already having. If he wants to watch a movie, he does, and turns the volume up all the way making the whole house unbearable even when I wear my hearing protection from the shooting range. It's only natural for a deaf person to speak at a level they can hear, so when he speaks, it's like E.F. Hutton...people listen...because they have to. If you've been sitting quietly and he sneaks up closely behind you (he's not one for personal space--another deaf characteristic) and begins speaking, you'll most likely levitate three feet before you can help yourself. He's always been ornery. It's been increasing with age. This is bringing it out in him in subtle, but distinct ways.

Scat number two made her turn to the cantankerous side by proclamation. I was seated with her in their private seating area when she announced that she had decided to "pout and gripe and moan." Anyone who knows her knows this is totally against her nature and, truly, she hasn't pouted, griped, or moaned by definition but she has made a definite turn to the cantankerous side. Her surgery came off without a hitch this Monday and it was my pleasure (and a hoot to boot) to sit with her on Tuesday. I was there with her for twenty minutes after her surgery during which she proclaimed the nasal oxygen canula "unnecessary" (it was replaced within the hour and accompanied by a pulse oximeter linked to her PCA pump. Not enough O2 and she got locked out of her little self-controlled pain medicine pump. Talk about putting a bug under her rug. I decided that was a good time to leave.

Day two: She announced that she "rather enjoyed having her meals brought to her on a regular basis without having to do any work." Uh oh. Rhythm (my aunt) and I were admonished to note this announcement. Great. Her surgeon came to see her and her first words were "Where have you been?!" I would think the answer obvious, but nevertheless she had no recollection of seeing him since her pre-op visit and there was no convincing her otherwise. He explained the effects of anesthesia and she very stubbornly informed him that THAT would NEVER happen to HER! He tucked in a very wide grin as he stared at his shoes. A sign had been placed on her door that said "Fall Hazard" and it came with a bracelet. She's a spry old lady and this was just an out-and-out insult. "These people!" "Uf!" So she announced she was ready to go home Wednesday morning. Doc said early Wednesday afternoon.

Day Three: She apparently didn't hear the doc 'cause she was rarin' to go, dressed and ready THIS MORNING. She even forced the nurse to go over all her release instructions. Well, all the ones she had. Called me and made me go to the pharmacy and get her medicine 'cause she'd be home SOON. So I went. And I came back. Then she called and informed me she wasn't going to wear her seat belt on the way home. Under any circumstances. I very politely told her to find another ride. They released her at 3 pm, much to her chagrin, she found her ride, came home, and after a thirty minute nap she has spent the entire evening ordering Scat One around the house like a slave. And THANK GOD SHE HAS!!!! They are currently "enjoying" the most deafening screening of Patch Adams ever shown. After which, yours truly will empty and measure her drains so she can go to sleep (with the peanut gallery telling me how to do it all along the way).

Tomorrow, Turkey Day and I, for one am thankful both GrandScats are still with us...but they sure are funny.

Never a Dull Moment!

Scat

This Day Just Stinks...

And it stinks big time.

Squib and I got home from the week in Houston proper at about ten this morning to a very quiet house. He strode through the door with his usual bravado and paused in the doorway with his chest puffed out and declared "I'm here!" "Here" had at least four syllables in it. I get the biggest kick out of that. It's like he's Tarzan or something and is about five seconds away from pounding his chest and letting loose a primordial yell. All male, that one.

Just Buddy and Mimi were here. Hogging the recliners, I might add.

I am all conferenced out, sick and tired of working with the Arkansas Oil and Gas Commission's database, and the spreadsheet that ate New York City (this thing is huge) has been giving me fits. Most of the week I've been in mourning for the days when I really feel like I'm doing something like pouring, mixing, weighing, distilling, titrating, etc. Number crunching IS important but I don't exactly find it satisfying. RocketDog (my laptop) has been giving himself his own things to do and really seems to think that my iTunes needs to be opened every five minutes, so he obviously has some sort of problem I have to track down.

But, so far the day had not TRULY reeked. Yet

Papa and Baba returned from Sadler Clinic and we all sat down to lunch (spaghetti with Buddy's homemade sauce and green beans--yummy). Over lunch, the real suckage began.

Both grands had been to their respective docs. Both grands have now been diagnosed with cancer. Papa has prostate cancer which has metastasized to the pelvic bone (NOT bone cancer he says despite the word "bone" that follows the word "pelvic"). Baba has breast cancer.

This sucks. No two ways about it. And, unlike most Scats, I have not inherited the ability to make jokes about it or appreciate the jokes they make about it. They're alert, articulate, agile people who could pass for mid-sixties/early seventies though they're in their early eighties and still capable of enjoying life with no hindrances. The one exception is that my grandfather is rather hard-of-hearing. Big deal.

He still does all the yard work because he likes it--DO NOT get in his way. The geophysical work he does with Dad and I is a hobby. She still runs all the errands and goes to the gym because she likes it--and don't you dare try stopping her, either. They read incessantly, teach, visit with their friends, take lots of walks, love to watch movies, and generally enjoy life. So, no, I am not ready to joke about their death (which I don't exactly see coming yet regardless of the news). It seems off-color and premature.

But listen to their grisly jokes is exactly what I had to do as they fielded the calls this afternoon. I couldn't even work because I was getting data in the wrong fields and was just generally unable to pay attention--and getting downright weepy (odd for me).

So I played with my new toy from one of my favorite places: http://thinkgeek.com It's a Quadrilla (you have GOT to try one of these!). Kudos to them for making an awesome, creative, wooden toy for all ages. It's for Beanstalk, but I had to "test" it :) Just to be safe. Now I "need" some of the add-on sets. And I'm using the word "need" here! Not just your average marble track-building set. It's a remarkable testament to the Quadrilla that it was sufficiently distracting on this particular day.

Squib woke from an awesome nap and we tried to play chutes and ladders, but we never landed on any ladders and kept hitting all the chutes. That sucked, too, and I lost interest almost before he did. I asked him if he wanted to try a different game and he said "I really don't think so, Mom." 'nuff said.

So here we are...being vegetables and watching Bob the Builder. We WOULD be in the kitchen eating dinner, but there's thunder outside. That's four-yr.-old logic for you. He asked if this was a hurricane because he "donna wunna tate a baff wike dat." He's referring to the well-water bucket bath I gave him before the propane stove was fixed during IKE. To be fair, I took one, too, but I agree that it belongs in the fifth circle of hell. Dang, that was cold. It's been a year and he still mentions it at least every other week. So, we're both obviously thinking happy thoughts right now.

He also wants to know if I can make the thunder go away...yeah...Mommy, goddess of thunder. Riiiight.

Scat

A Nice End to the Day

Today, oops, yesterday really turned out to be a very nice day. It was not without its humorous moments, sarcasm, and sheer bizarre qualities, but all totaled, very nice.

I was so right about Squib and his sense of timing with regard to company. He has the child's knack for turning on the cute. He did a bang-up job of being not only cute, but fun, intelligent, and down-right endearing. [Gave everyone (and I mean everyone) a kiss and a hug before bed. I almost barfed. He'd make a great politician at this point.]

Our friends arrived from Oklahoma about 4:30 and by then Squib was so jacked up he was jumping up and down and screaming "Dhey Hewe!" and charging the door. He and Buddy made it to the door before SqB remembered that he really didn't know Sharon and Robert and his shyness kicked in. It was like a dog hitting the end of his chain. He jerked up short and played shy for a while. Clung to me like a piece of lint until we got to the Mexican restaurant.

We sat around talking for a bit before we headed out to the mystery restaurant. None of us had ever been there, but it "has bench seating" so it qualified as a "westauwant."

The restaurant was surprisingly good...which for this no-pizza town is amazing. SqB ordered a corn dog he never ate, belched during the blessing, but that was pretty normal. Little did I know they were also the purveyor of "Scooby Snacks" which for you deprived children is the fave of Scooby Doo. Michael saw Scooby Doo for the first time recently and by the door of the restaurant they had one of those candy machines that dispenses little handfuls of candy for a quarter. These were shaped like bones....hence, "Scooby Snacks." I thought he'd lost his mind when he started claiming that they sold them, but I should know better by now than to contradict him. Ever. So, he actually had a random quarter and made his very first purchase of anything. Scooby Snacks.

Apparently Robert had done something right during the evening because Robert got a Scooby Snack. Not me.

When we returned from the restaurant, some friends of my grandparents from out of town had stopped by and after moving in some chairs, we had quite a gathering.

Sharon brought in some cupcakes and we had a surprise, impromptu birthday party for Mom followed closely by a mind-numbing discussion of health care. Sometimes your mind is just not capable of discussing health care. Dad and I admittedly regressed into our chairs with our iPhones. He was playing Spider Solitaire and I was busy throwing my body off five-story buildings in Assassin's Creed. Seemed an appropriate commentary on health care at the time. SqB was busy with his new Black and Decker toy tool set. He took the door knob off the office door earlier today, so anything short of that must be an improvement, yes?

Health care discussion ran off the second set of guests and SqB went to bed, though not without calling me "Stupidhead" and reaping the consequences. Parenting can really reek at times. The rest of us drifted, discussed the best way to drive to Austin from here (which is probably not to drive there at all), and decided to break it up until breakfast....

...which is in another five hours. And you got it. Here I sit in the recliner.

This chair was purchased seven and a half years ago by myself and my first husband just prior to Beanstalk's birth. I was thinking of rocking babies and comfort in the last days of pregnancy and NOT that it might become my bunk when said babies took over my living quarters.

Would definitely have gone with the leather had I known that. And the massaging thingies.

But I thank God every night that the silly thing swivels or I'd have to stare at the glare from the safety light that is just sticking up in the middle of a piece of land I affectionately call the Grassy Knoll. It used to be a pond and that light had a purpose. Now? Well, let's just say I have prayed for it's demise during two hurricanes to no avail.

Such is life...

Scat

Various and Sundry

No one thing is leaping out at me today except for the singularly unique nature of my family and our current living situation.

This first segment is called "How to Build Confusing Houses."

For as long as I can remember, Papa (gpa) has been building his own houses. I'm not talking about extensive remodeling--that's child's play. I'm talking from the piers up. The last house was rather elaborate and, yes, took somewhere around eleven (so double that number) years to complete what with all the adding on.

Elaborate doesn't mean fancy...it generally means as mathematically and physically difficult to construct as possible.

For example: A bridge was needed to cross a gully to the land he owned on the other side. Bridges can be rather simple, right? Right. But would a geophysicist really pick a simple design?

Not this one.

He built a suspension bridge. And for added difficulty, he built it alone. At the ripe old age of 78.

Fast forward to present day. The current design for the common areas is like a donut of sorts. A square one. The north arm of the loop is the entry-way with a desk no one uses, storage (mostly unused), and an area simply designed for the phone near as I can tell. The West arm of the loop is the living room, the South is the dining area, and the East is the kitchen.

There is NO HOLE in this donut. Instead, there is this multi-purpose structure that has two functions. FIRST.....it's the pantry (East), shelf (North), entertainment center (West), and china cabinet (South).

SECOND....it is designed to keep us all chasing each other in circles around it because we can't see through it or over it. If we were the kind of people to hold still and agree on a meeting place this donut hole would be fine, but NO!!!! We're go-getters. Can't find anyone? Then you're just NOT GOING FAST ENOUGH!!!!! So far today, Buddy and Michael chased each other around in circles several times and Buddy and Papa did the same as well. It was all I could do to get Papa 0to stand still so Buddy could find him!!!!!!

And now "Little Snippets of Conversation."

Do you ever wonder what people might think if all they heard was one sentence taken out of context from your day?

Today's snippets?

"Put the knife on the table before you crawl up there!" (me to Squib)

"God, I need a screwdriver." (the tool, not the drink, though the drink might help)

"I'm gonna watch Mommy shower!" (Squib...what can I say, he's male.)

And, finally, "The Spreadsheet and Play-doh Update."

After four hours, Buddy is STILL trying to fix the mangled spreadsheet from yesterday's ordeal. Yes, even with all his help, it still came out, well, inoperable.

As for the lump (about the size of a baseball) of Play-doh, well, it's still AWOL.

"And now," cried Max, "Let the wild rumpus start!!!!!!"

Scat

Octogenarian v. OpenOffice 3.1

OK, so.....most of you know by now that I am a true computer geek. My Dad's a geek, my brother's a geek, and I'm a geek. With regard to the family corporations, Buddy (dad), Attrition (brother), and myself (Scat) are the ones that keep the technical wheels on the proverbial cart.

Enter the octogenarian genius geophysicist, Papa. I mean genius in every sense of the word. However, I am leaning more towards savant. Extremely gifted in a single area, but in all others, well, I can only scrunch my eyes shut and shake my head. I love him very much. He knows more about finding and drilling for oil than I know about everything else at all. Just DO NOT trust him with a spreadsheet. Well, any software come to think of it. Today it was a spreadsheet.

Not just any spreadsheet, either. One that has formulas and links to other pages of the spreadsheet already embedded in it so that the information that's calculated dovetails with our mapping and programming. Took Buddy God knows how long to get everything configured so that everything comes out right in the end. We're using it with one of our proprietary software programs. Which means....."cutting" is bad.

So...Buddy gives Papa the job of data entry. Without locking the editing of formulas. This is bad. Oh, and he does this right when I lay Squib down for a nap.

Squib DOES NOT nap with the door closed. He falls asleep and then I close the door. There's a procedure for EVERYTHING!!!!!!

Papa's office door is two feet from Squib's door.

Let the games begin.

Apparently, Papa begins entering data. Something becomes unclear to him and in order to preserve his data he cuts it out and pastes it elsewhere. Randomly. So, of course, all the formulas and other references get cut out and travel with the now very erroneous data which does paste just a split second before the hieroglyphics appear (if you've ever goofed up a spreadsheet you know the hiero's of which I speak--mostly ###REF and the like).

This is where a tad more explaining is due. Papa is on estrogen. It's part of his treatment for prostate cancer. I don't guess I need to explain what estrogen can do to a person. He gets hot flashes, you name it.

So, here comes an estrogen-powered octogenarian like a hot flash on wheels whose lost God knows how much data--the average survey can be upward of several hundreds of Gb--screeching forth from his office like a banshee...I don't even remember what he said. I saw the horror on Buddy's face and saw the absolute consternation on Papa's face and the yelling was loud enough to be heard clearly over my iPod which was blasting in my ears (I can better cope with the general mayhem that way).

Much discussion and explanation and demonstration was had over the "undo" feature and the "clear" v. "cut" features (It started with "they are NOT the same" and ended with a discussion of whether or not "oh that's just stupid" is a legitimate point or a pointless observation. Buddy got a new copy of the blank spreadsheet for Octo to start all over again, emphasized DATA ENTRY, and we settled down to our work. Again.

Then the screaming. Again. "Cut" v. "Clear" AGAIN. And again with the undo feature. Glad it wasn't me trying to explain it. I'd have duct-taped a certain person's screamer and made an "Undo and Clear ONLY" sign. Instead, with each error we waved him off and silenced him and Buddy carefully explained the problem.....again.

I can't believe it ever ended, but it did. After an hour, he gave up sort of. We were all exhausted. It probably sounded like a nut farm around here with all the shouts of "No cutting! No cutting!"

And...it was God's gift to me personally that Squib fell asleep and stayed that way. One basket case per day is enough.

I'm not even going to go into the missing lump of Play-doh,

Scat

Efficiency Living When You Love Books, Work at Home, and Teach From Home

I have 12 foot ceilings...perhaps they're ten, but nevertheless, they are bare in my portion of our little dwelling. 10 foot ceilings and an irregularly seven-sided room. The seven walls are a trick, but easily adapted to. What I would NOT give, though, for the top three feet of all the wall space to be COVERED with bookshelves!!! I could easily put my things up there and then Squib wouldn't have to concern himself with what he can and cannot touch and/or play with. Instead, we use a recovered plywood bookshelf that's ugly as sin, but does the trick.

I'm really thankful for digital books, but there really is something about being buried in that paper-smell while your imagination zooms to other times, lives, realities, and wealths of information. I have pared my library down to the essentials that I MUST keep on hand because I have 12 foot ceilings...perhaps they're ten, but nevertheless, they are bare in my portion of our little dwelling. 10 foot ceilings and an irregularly seven-sided room. The seven walls are a trick, but easily adapted to. What I would NOT give, though, for the top three feet of all the wall space to be COVERED with bookshelves!!! I could easily put my things up there and then Squib wouldn't have to concern himself with what he can and cannot touch and/or play with. Instead, we use a recovered plywood bookshelf that's ugly as sin, but does the trick. Every one's library speaks for itself. I know, too, what my friends keep, and I try not to keep what they have if I can manage to turn loose of them. Pam, the librarian, is usually pretty good about keeping what I give her in circulation 'cause I tend to go non-linear when my books aren't there for the finding. I forgave her my "Genes V" text on general principle. I have managed to pare my books down to fit Michael's entire collection on the shelf and then mine are on the rest of the shelf and in key places around the room. Here's our measly shelf and the speakers for my iPhone so we have a little stereo and audiobook action going on in our little room.

Of course you see the briefcase(s) and the green chair...that's the office :) Nope, not joking....my personal office :) I have another large one, but this is where I go to not be bothered unless its' a rugrat...they have free rights to interrupt me at will. The beds are folded in like you would a bunk bed with the trundle sticking out from under the top twin at a 90 degree angle and Squib sleeps on the bottom short section and I sleep on the top full-length twin. It doesn't seem like it, but he has quite a bit of floor space to play in. All of his toys are stored on the shelf, in plastic storage boxes in our "hall closet," in his small wagon that parks under the bed or in the big wagon that lives in the hall.

Armoires are absolutely the most wonderful things if you buy the right kind...some shelves, some drawers, some hanging...aaaaahhhh I love my armoire and as a plus the only trinkets from my "big house" days are on top of the armoire where they can't be bothered by little fingers. It also gives you more covered storage for "stuff" that you need but can't seem to place.

And, yes, my piano is in the closet. Our photographs are on top and the clothes are in the side pocket areas of the closet. There was a rod that was supposed to stretch all the way across, but I vetoed that in lieu of musical pursuits. We carved a niche of a closet out of some wasted space in the hallway instead.

So here we are! Mom and kiddo living, working, learning, and having fun in a 12 x 12 space. Hard to keep everything straightened up? Absolutely! Need a shopping spree from the Container store? Yep!! Lacking in that simple, minimalist calm? Definitely! But we're happy!!! And we're close! Squib and I loooooove that. Well, ok, sometimes we don't.

We'd be right at home in New York in a tiny walk-up. Heck, if we can finish the floors in our little room here and maybe paint the walls some optimistic color, we may never leave.....OK, not really. So here I go to put up my messes from yesterday to keep this place habitable and hoping a 4yr old won't bring it all down in a single second.....riiiiiiiiight.

What a Disaster! Wait....It's Just My Life!

Maybe I do need to become one of those survivalist types. My house is quickly becoming a disaster area that I cannot recover from.

Kiddos come and go. I switch sleeping areas. Attrition comes and goes every weekend. Sometimes I go with him to his home for psychological time out. I work full time. When kids are here, I mommy full time and work full time while they sleep.

Everything eventually gets done, just not at a consistent pace. It's more like fits and starts and lobs and lurches.

Tonight I have a meeting for a new not-for-profit organization and we're in the early stages of incorporation so this afternoon I'll be consumed by work on the company's bylaws and other parts of the articles of incorporation. I'm super excited about the company and will devote an entry to it eventually, but for now it is one of many things that stands between me and the tidiness of my home.

The thing about my life is that it is full of things I love doing. I love hanging out with Squib and watching the Rescuers six times while we build killer train routes, create disastrous ten-car pile-ups, and roll anything and everything down our home-made ramp. I love it when he says, "I want to sit in YOU lap!." I hate it when he gets in trouble 'cause I'm now the adult, but that's usually dealt with shortly and we move on through our day. I love to see him during his nap when it looks like he's been dropped from space into his bed. A napping little boy always looks so much younger and more innocent...hard not to sneak in and smother them with kisses.

I love my writing. Blogs, diaries, memoirs...all of it. I love to put down the stories of my life and the questions I have in writing. I like documenting my family's goings on. I like writing letters and keeping them for posterity. I like writing about important personal occurrences and how I felt and how they change me. All of it. I even enjoy editing these writings so that I become a better writer!

I love singing. Singing truly is a passion that comes from my heart because I just open my mouth and let 'er rip. When it's with the praise team at church, there's lots of rehearsal and attention to lyrics, proper breathing, pitch, breathing, and things like actually using those stomach muscles I work on so hard at the gym. And, in the end, it's about praise. I'm a Christian. So, praising the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are important to me. They are essential to me.

And there is much more....my work (the actual work for money), hiking, family, friends, and reading.

So, I ask you...how do YOU do it? How do you do life and keep the disaster at bay? I seem to always be on the losing end of that battle...hmmmm.....

Scat

In Which We Do Not Walk On the Floor

We have the most awesome housekeeper in the world. She goes to great lengths to work around everyone so that their normal everyday lives aren't interrupted (when we have a "normal, everday life" I'll be the first to know, right??!?).

I know, you laugh. Go ahead!

It's laughable.

Mostly the "normal" part. Then the fact that any normal activity might be repeated. Even more laughable.

Actually, whats laughable is that after 25 years of working with my grandparents and now here, she doesn't consider that SHE might be the most normal part of our normal routine!! She gives me a wealth of advice about the boys and about my life. She loves me and I hope that she knows I love her. What I love most about her is her laughter. And there is much to laugh about here.

My now 4-yr-old lives in absolute terror of the vacuum cleaner. Which, when Beulah comes, leads to an absolute terror of the floor.

All of it.

So, go into your living room, get comfy for the afternoon with your young kiddos. Gloat in your momentary freedom from daft seismic projects and enjoy one recliner while SqB bounces all over the other. Then, in comes Beaulah and the 4-yr-old levitates. In the chair, but levitates as you can see his brain working over the ENTIRE next four hours and all the problems presented by the running of the vacuum and the consequential off-limits nature of the floor.

His current solution is death by Thomas the Tank Engine. This could last another hour-and-a-half. Does this require my conscience (in any form...the hamster wheel one mostly, not the moral one)? When are they going to make flesh-toned iPod earphones for the masses...I have new downloads I could be listening to! I can tell by looking at him when he needs me. Don't even get me started on how this affects our toilet training adventures.

Is it just me or is it coincident that ALL the remaining adults (including one who is on oxygen and lives largely as an invalid) have vacated the premises? Is the floor truly THAT scary?

This again does not speak so highly of me and the tete-e-tete that exists at times between Squash Blossom and I.

5:00 pm.

Four hours since our little conference began here in the living room. The worst is yet to come...the attack on the living room floor itself in which we do not walk on the floor, but we definitely exit.

The exit strategy is never planned, but always, ALWAYS, executed with Scat STYLE!

Livin' Large

Scat...

Mommy? Come Here for a Minute...

Spoken in that soft like toddler voice that is the one statement you just almost can't ignore....notice I said almost. He started off the day calling me "stupid head" and he doesn't know it now, but he's very thankful for this stomach flu he's suddenly developed or I'd have...well, you know...warmed his tail a bit.

But, truly, the stomach part of him started being VERY uncute and I have spent the afternoon drugging, cleaning up, and swabbing my pukey 4 year old pet. And yes, we use Motrin and sometimes alternate with Tylenol for all my super-green organic friends who prefer suffering and more natural treatments to my stone aged methods of medicine (tomato, tomato uh potato, potato--wow, they look the same there, wow...) and every once-in-a-while I got in a serious cuddle!!!

It was glorious. Especially when he said "Momma I onwy wunna way in YOU wap!" We'll repair his grammar/syntax/Squibesian dialect later. He's welcome in ME lap any time.

He said no to pictures while he was "wookeen wike dis!" Then he rolled his eyes at me like I should already know.......duh! That's my little Prince. Love that kid so....

ad nauseum...ad infinitum...add adventure

ad nauseum...

Kudos to the man or woman who coined that phrase.

This has been an "ad nauseum" sort of day. Just take the level of weirdness that I normally exist at, multiply it by ten, and then spread it evenly over what looks to be at least the next five to six months. Hence, the ad nauseum.

Here is an exact transcript of my conversation with three different persons this morning. This all took place between 10 am and 11 am and will seriously affect my life for AT LEAST the next six months and maybe more. OK, probably more. Uncannily, they all sounded relatively alike:

"Hey, Blah." (Them.)

"Hi! How ya doin?" (Me. I just love being called "Blah.")

"Great, great, you got a second?" (Them.)

"Sure." (One moment of scrambling to silence the phone of death. Another moment reminding myself that I don't really have a moment.)

"Listen, uh, we've been discussing some things and come to a decision regarding X."

(X can be anything your little blog-reading mind chooses to dream up, alligators, money, job future, money, clients, money, cat burglars, money, starvation in Africa, money, or the like, or money).

"Here's what we've decided:______________________." (The length of this blank in no way represents what was actually presented at this point. Be joyful.)

(Swallowing and sucking noises from my direction.)

"Now, nothing at all is going to change." (Them. OK...maybe part of the sucking noise is coming from them. Only a vacuum is responsible for that sort of mathematics.)

I am still listening at this point, but obviously trying to think of how nothing is going to change after that thing they put in the blank takes place. I'm wondering about this so hard that I miss part of the conversation, I'm sure. Not a very important part, though, 'cause at this point, they're sure nothing's changed and I heard the part in the blank so somebody's not done their math. Actually, I know the person who's done the math and that person elected this person to talk to me. Chicken. Go figure.

By the third time, I'm feeling like a star in a really sick episode of "this is your life" Only, the title has changed to "This Is Your Life and It Reeks."

ad infinitum...

As a direct result of one of the three aforementioned conversations, I was passed a white piece of paper by Papa. On the piece of paper was scrawled a monetary amount.

"Make our bank account match this." He thrust it at me and I took it with one eye lid scrunched low and the other raised in an incredulous manner as though he'd asked me to fart fairy dust. Turns out that's easier. I looked at our ledger and all the happy little rows of items that had cleared the bank and made sure that all the months' statements had been entered and that only what represented the time between last month's statement and the upcoming statement was outstanding. Hm. Balance did not match magic piece of paper. Nor could I contort the numbers to match magic piece of paper. Hmm.

First trip to talk to Papa. Have I mentioned just how very much Papa luuuuuuvs to mow? I mean luv here. So I find him out West of the house and stomp out to the tractor and holler at him at the top of my lungs that "THERE'S NO MATCHING BALANCE! COULD YOU GO TO THE BANK AND EITHER AUTHORIZE ONLINE BANKING OR GET A PRINT OUT OF CURRENT TRANSACTIONS?"

He looked at me quizzically and I could tell he made the decision to stay on the mower. "CALL BRANDY! TELL HER WHAT TO DO! SHE KNOWS US AND SHE'LL TAKE CARE OF IT" I assured him she would not and that he would have to be present, but that was promptly pshawed and he revved the engine and peeled out, well, like a lawn tractor peels out.

Immediately, I am cursing in my mind this whole process because I know banking laws! I know what's required! She's not going to do this for me! I still have to make the idiot phone call! In the process I'll probably get to talk to half the church (because half the church works at the bank) and who knows who else and basically say, "Hey! It's Scat! Yeah, we need online banking for the corporate account, and I know Papa has to come sign it, but I do the books so he had me call and try to see what I could do." They all snort and giggle which is what EVERYONE who knows my grandfather does. I get passed about from person to person (gotta have fun in a small town) and then to Brandy's voicemail where I left my now-practiced message and hung up!

Brandy, I am sure she laughed pretty hard first, called me back and told me exactly what I already knew. So. Here I go. Stomp stomp stomp. Papa takes it a little easier and decides he'll just stop by the bank on his way to the Post Office (a whole other story). Which he did.

Upon his return, he stomps up to me where I was innocently sitting at my computer and says "Now you know you can't just call Brandy and ask for online banking or a statement!!! I have to authorize it with my very own signature!" You don't say...

Adventure?

Well, at least around our house it was. Yes, tonight the bluetooth headphones made their debut. Everyone looks like they've stepped out of the Fifth Element or Star Trek and when they get calls, the seemingly randoms "Hello!s" are a little unnerving. But the rockin' bass and the handsfree options are awesome.

Buddy Scat has had the most trouble using his, so we had to have phone call practice. Probably looked like a hotel room at a trekkie convention with us sitting on the bed communicating by voice and by phone....oooooweeeeehhhaaaaaoooooooo.....

OK, so not the adventure I need or crave, but one baby-step closer for mankind :)

Next up on our adventure/agenda....voice calling. That's not MY agenda, but Buddy's.

My agenda is fixing to blow wide open all together. YAY! I am personally planning my exit to the out-of-doors for my own personal hiking season. May take me a while to put it together due to financial constraints and business crapola.

Next, Planning the Attack on Big Thicket!

Scat

Random Scribbles

This blog is a pile of random drivel.

There. You've been warned. I've been bombarded with so very many things to write about that I couldn't possibly get to them. That many of them have moved me so strongly is amazing because I've felt like a flat tire lately. There are things, though, that can fuel your ire no matter what your interest or energy level happens to be.

At last writing, I had a new dog. He was very handsome....nicely trimmed little pup with a ripping sense of humor, but a bad sense of timing. Well, I have it on good authority that he is now a chicken. When last we spoke, all I got was a "Bock, bock, chiiiiii--cken!" several times over. Actually it was more like, "Bot, bot, chichin!" So you have to figure out if he means the bird or the kitchen. Seems Squib is having a livestock identity crisis. Apparently Ex Mr. Scat is NOT impressed by the appearance of SqB the chicken as the appearance of said chicken struck mid-repast at a local restaurant whereupon the chicken began "bocking" loudly while standing in his side of the booth until he soiled his diapers which he then announced at the top of his lungs to the awaiting crowd. That is definitely MY son. I say that only because that's something Attrition would have done as a child. You know uncle-nephew similarities.

As of this moment, I am on day two of a self-imposed semi-vacation. Self imposed is self explanatory. But this is not a true vacation. All I did was refuse T Corp. work yesterday and today. That's right! I did NO "work" on Saturday or Sunday!!! But I am exhausted!!!!

Yesterday, Beanstalk and I went to our standard playgroup. No one there is quite into his flavor of music yet. Maybe never. Andre Rieu and Solti directing Beethoven with Perihana on piano. This is just as Greek to me sometimes as it is to everyone else...except Beanstalk. He's WAY into it. He did get distracted by a little karaoke High School Musical action going on amongst some of the girls and let me tell you...the kid may not be able to form all his words correctly, but he can wail! Sort of odd, though, my seven-year-old BOY hooked on High School Musical. Eh, he's hooked on everything musical, so I'm not going to get crazy about it. He's quite the Wii karaoke fan and that was the first karaoke "game" he encountered. Go figure. There were way too many kids there yesterday and we were going stir crazy. Fortunately, we got to spend a good long time outside! Beanstalk heads straight for the trees past the basketball course waving his arms and shrieking. My kind of kid. We dragged branches and sticks about, ran around in circles, chased each other back and forth, forth and back. We had a little first aid experience when he decided to pull out his g-button (just to feel totally free, I think) and I had to replace it but we were right back out in a jiff. And OMG! The weather was beautiful!!!! Why we weren't outside the entire time I don't know.

I managed a nap yesterday because the chicken was deep in a coma when I returned home. Thank God for small favors.

Last night, I was at an initial meeting for a new not-for-profit organization several friends and I are beginning...more about that MUCH later 'cause there's too much to it to go into at this point and it's too soon. Suffice it to say that we're pretty excited about what we're up to.

Attrition was here when I got home last night...that brought on a Doctor Who fest that lasted until, well, I woke at 12:30 am and realized I'd been dozing. An early 6 a.m. wake-up this morning has left me completely drained and we have been busy enough doing this and that to keep me from napping. Several hours of rehearsal drained what energy Booger and I had left. We formatted the file server (OK, that's work, darn!) and did some prep work there. Watched more Doctor Who.....and now...well, I've gotta chat I'd like to have and am trying to think up ways to stay awake for it!!!!

I even ate a pizza!

Scat

P.S. Because they SO fuel my ire, those things that inflame my thoughts have conveniently been saved for another time. You're welcome.

Friday...not much to report...

Fortunately, Friday is here!

I really don't have any reason for that to excite or relax me because I really don't get weekends off! I work all day Saturday and I work Sunday afternoons, too. I may work slower and with more breaks, but nonetheless, still work. No real TGIF feelings or parties. No bar hopping, no staying up any later than usual, and no change in plans.

Friday is just another day.

Thursday...the moth in the toilet...

I just have to say that there is NOTHING in this world like a good night's sleep.

Or, in my case, a good morning's sleep. I made it to the sack at about 12:45 am and was out like a light...only to awaken at 5 am with Squib. After the standard bathroom trip, milk, reassurances that he's ok to play alone 10 feet from my door, I was back in bed soaking up the sleep. Bed gravity was strong today and I must be living right because the remaining Scats gave him breakfast and his bath and let me sleep! I am very grateful!

Once I realized they had taken over, I set up the necessary sound barrier (iPod) to isolate myself from the wandering hoards. There was a clothing stampede somewhere around 8 am, but yours truly made it to 10 am!!!! Unheard of!

Then the cat fights began.

I'm still convinced SqB is a girl despite the obvious package. An adolescent or pre-teen girl, at that. Drama, drama, drama. And when he started chucking heavy objects at myself AND my laptop, OOOOOOOOO did I feel like duct-taping him to the time-out chair. Forever. Instead, I started confiscating every thrown object and am now the proud owner of over 50% of all his toys (yes I know this is my option at any time, but they're his things, I don't renege on gifts).

Lunch went down smoothly today...no more knife-throwing and a lot less vegetable eating which is odd because the veggies were rather tame (no turnip greens--gag me). And at the end of the meal, psycho tot looks at me and says, "Wut time id it, Momma?" I give the usual expected answer, "I don't know, honey, what time is it (it's becoming like a knock knock joke or something)?" To which my tot replies for the second day in a row:

"It's nap time!"

There was actual glee in his voice. There is hope for me yet!!!!!!! Wahoo! I practically levitated as we gathered the appropriate sleeping implements (sippy cup, Blue dog, Thomas, Annie, and Clarabel), parked his shoes in the correct spot (his idea), spread his blanket out (another tot preference), kissed everything--and I do mean everything, sang, and he gave me SIX kisses!!! Count 'em! Six! WOW! And off to sleep he went.

Ever since then, I've been looking for my Squash Blossom 'cause some other kid came out of that room at 3 pm. This perky, 4yo look-alike has been sitting in my lap, helping clean up for the housekeeper who comes each Thursday, hasn't freaked out in two hours, made it to the bank and the store and back without a melt-down, and is happily playing while I work and occasionally add a paragraph to my blog.

The rest of the evening went calmly as well. No usual ground-zero freak-out when the vacuum turned on. No non-linear apoplexy over menu choices on his movie. No outbursts regarding dinner. I put him right back where I found him after his nap so that the person who actually took my son can return him and take theirs back. Poor dears may never make it back :D.

The only REALLY disturbing part of the day is the peppered moth that has taken up residence in the office toilet. It doesn't spook easily and it doesn't announce itself, so upon doing my business, I FELT A FLUTTER!!!!!!!

Yes, I leapt into the air high enough to take residence in the rafters. So did the moth or he'd be dead. I was ready to smash him into oblivion where he belongs!

Since then I've gotten a little green and try to announce myself and poke at him a little, but he (and he really must be a man) must really like it in there (yes, in the bowl) 'cause he DOES NOT want to move at all! I hate to break it to him (no he doesn't deserve a name and I refuse to anthropomorphize about this), but he just cannot live there no matter how many littler insects he's picking off. Don't care. Parts of me are private--especially to moths! My strategy is to set him free after dark some time so he can see the world outside the bowl and hopefully take up residence in a little less risque part of...somewhere...

Death to skanky bugs,

Scat

Wednesday...Quit Throwing Knives Around!!!

Wednesday at the Scat household.

Hump Day. And I really do wonder where that term originates from. 'nough on that.

By as early as 8:30 this morning the arguments were already breaking out....Squib and Mimi were arguing about exactly how and where a toddler should be when he is being dried off and dressed. I am happy to report that she won via sheer force of will and muscle. Buddy was kinda like me, ducking under the bullets of "wheuhr my sots?!" and "I wan dis, no dat, no dis, no dat!" Step through to the kitchen and Papa was being stared down to the bone by Baba who was waving a turquoise piece of paper at him and emphasizing very heavily that "this time she REALLY wanted him to send in the warranty information and NOT LOSE IT!" That she's about three inches taller than him commands a lot of presence when she chooses to use that. (BTW, he NEVER sent this in and the fridge made an epic fail not three days after the warranty lapsed. Which is probably why he has me do "this" now...whatever "this" happens to be.)

Okay, I'm checking horoscopes now and planning my escape to the office.

Which isn't such a huge elopement because the office is at the end of the driveway. And I got things squared away there and by the time I went back in to see if SqB had done away with the human race, everyone had retreated to their corners and were all quietly stewing in their own juices.

Things are tense, though. So I checked the weather and the phase of the moon before I got to work on the workstation that I single-handedly cratered the night before. I had managed to get it back to where I was at 9:30 pm last night by 12:30 am the night before, but that's a three hour loss and I'm feelin' it. Am I going to mention it? Not amongst this lot!

This morning was a repeat of yesterday, almost ("ohmost" is Squib's favorite word). He, I think, is suffering from terminal PMS. No, I am not stupid. Yes, I know that stands for pre-menstrual syndrome. And terminal refers to death. I mean what I say...the child can't make a decision and commit to it for more than one second. The second, no the millisecond, I start one movie, he wants to watch another....I'd still be there switching movies (which he can do himself but has decided I'm "just bettuh add it."). I stopped that business after our third choice and now NO ONE is watching ANYTHING. You'd think I'd killed him with all the animated and repentant weeping and gnashing of teeth.

"Oh momma, Oh momma. dust fwow me in da twash."

(That last line is his most recent quip).

My Aunt Fanny. Bite me kid. Bring it on. I brought you into this world and I sure will take away your "memote" and your "wovies," too! GO and READ a BOOK. If you've got a problem with that, call CPS! Tell them I'm teaching you to read and I need to go to jail! Music is next, so they'll need reinforcements...that's right! There will be singing and dancing and maybe a craft. Holy cow!

The drama continued through lunch and seemed to always center around the knives people kept handing him. Squib is four. He can learn to use a butter knife or any other kind of knife, but the absolute key is SUPERVISION! And, on the whole, he doesn't really use them (yet), so once the knife-throwing begins there is NO reason to give the knife back to him and I really have no compunction to feel badly for the person who rearms my son when they know for a fact he is in a knife-throwing mood. It was bad today. Like a little chimpanzee at the lunch table and finally Baba could take it no longer and screamed:

"QUIT THROWING KNIVES AROUND!"

I would have added a good solid expletive to the end, but my child was present and I'm controlling myself. Instead I just ducked the out-going knife which (butter-loaded) hit her square in the pants. I stifled myself and made a REALLY feeble try at disciplining young Knife-Thrower. I think I said something like "It's not nice to throw knives AT people" which sparked a lot of questions about what you COULD throw knives at.....Scorpions are definitely at the top of the Knife 'Em List.

Then, as if in a dream, SqB pops up and says "Momma, wut time id it?"

NAP TIME!!!!!! And off he went. See? Mood swings. Definitely PMS!

It was a really short nap. Need I say more?

I was rudely interrupted while trying to make a pit stop in the front bathroom because, "You need to hurry up and help me with the TB NOW, Momma. NOW!" Can't you see I'm bare-a@@ to the wind here? Obviously not, because he waltzed right in to hand me toilet paper, shove me off the stool and flush while pushing me out the door. GEEZ! Like we're saving the world every time we turn on the DVD player!? Glad I was finished doing my business!

Which brings me to another topic...the video babysitter. Yes, I have a confession to make. The TV? Yes, it pretty much runs from the time Squib gets up to the time he goes to bed with few exceptions. Now, we don't have cable or mainstream TV. He may only watch DVDs that we select and purchase for him. So that's only a slight advantage over the completely committed TV-sitter, but he's really always doing something else, too....trains, cars, coloring, spelling, reading (which he insists on doing from one of my novels and does turn off the TV for = scary), and most recently writing. And he sorta "minds the farm."

He's the social director. Knows where everyone is. Greets everyone as they come and go. Gets the low down on the incoming purchases and outgoing shipments. Goes to the mailbox with Buddy. Helps dole things out and distributes TP and mail to their rightful owners (Does TP have an "owner?" Apparently it does. It is always kept in...balance). He'll even gladly tell you when it is you should make your bed--though he neglects to mention this to me :) He knows where his bread gets buttered. Sort of. Well, he at least knows who will feed him "real" Doritos.

But all is not gloom, doom, and arguments around here. I will admit to you, my ether audience, that there are friends and loved ones that make my existence quite wonderful! My weekend with Attrition here was great as usual. I had an awesome dinner with friends Sunday evening. I am actively messaging with a couple friends that keep my heart full and my mind fresh. They challenge me to be a better friend, mom, or whatever-I-am.

Both Squash Blossom and Beanstalk have their great moments, too--more often than not. I love that Squib insists on "fwee (3) kisses" each time we part ( nap, bedtime, Sunday School, going to dad's, moving three feet to the left) one on each cheek and one on the forehead. Beanstalk is growing by leaps and bounds and his love for me is abundant. Full body hugs from Beanstalk are a little hard 'cause he's just gettin' heavier, but I'm gonna give and receive until I just cain't walk no more! My quiver is full so-to-speak and though there are areas that are empty, the emptiness is not so noticeable some of the time because other things overflow and fill it. I can see the day when the holes are full and I believe God will make good on His promises to me. It's so awesome to be loved.

Love covers a multitude of sins,

Scat

Tuesday...and our anthropomorphic side

Yup, Tuesday...boy did it ever come earlier than my body could stand (4:30 a.m)! I was up until midnight or so babysitting Ren, our newest workstation and trying to get him up and running reliably enough for me to work on him remotely while I stayed in the main house to be with Squash Blossom (human child) today.

I was also up waiting to hear the blow-by-blow of my friend LKB who went to the hospital experiencing horrible chest pains and was experiencing life as the housed one and nervous out of her britches. She's in much better spirits today, though not feeling better and does have some water around her heart. Something to be prayerful about. And something to put you in a rather sobered funk.

Yes, I realize I'm anthropomorphizing my computers! Ren is a young male which we have assembled from parts but that's not unusual. All our little ones are assembled by either Attrition or myself or both. It's cheaper that way and then we have complete control over all the "pieces parts" as my ex calls them.

We have a couple non-gender machines: Raptor (a desktop on it's last leg) and Taplin (a lappie now run with a 22" monitor and remote kbrd/mouse). There are two males: Pokey and RocketDog who are both laptops. Our single female is our botttom-of-the-barrell laptop and she also happens to now be the lone female: Sarah. My first workstation is now a transexual: Stimpy (who was Monica). And YES, I do believe that Stimpy has some "tendencies" that keep us having to request permission for access to "his" printers, plotters and other resources. He likes having a certain amount of control and isn't hip on sharing. Ren (who was Thor) is our second workstation. He is currently being rebrained.

The new file server has yet to be christened and Attrition and I have been thinking long and hard about it's name and can only converge on Beavis. Mostly because we have a small network server who DEFINITELY deserves the name Butthead, but is only generically named at present. Umpteen other devices need names...printers, plotters, scanners, Gig sticks, iGo drives, and Terabyte drives.

It's a problem to refer to something that has no name. And, when you get as many computers as we have you can't call them so-and-so's computer, etc. or it all runs together (cause every so-and-so uses at least three computers) and soon you're fixing things that aren't broken or moving data you shouldn't or, well...much, much worse things. Plus, the computers out number the people--and that has obvious and menacing overtones.

What's really strange is how they seem to react and/or behave according to their name??! Go ahead and call me a strange on this count. When Monica became Stimpy, things got hinky. When they named the second workstation "Thor" it couldn't keep up. Not gonna make much more comment than that. Raptor just isn't one. RocketDog, however, has been a workhorse from day one and has never disappointed me in the least. There's a lot to the name.

And anthropomorphize I will if it helps me keep all the arrays, machines, printers, and storage devices organized in my mind. Otherwise there is no hope for me.

LKB is out of the hospital, SqB is asleep (after much drama all afternoon....MUCH drama...he's gonna get his own blog for that in the a.m).

Wanna make your comp love you for life?

Name him/her!

Scat

Blog to Survive...a Monday in the Life of the Scats.

I don’t really need a jungle urban or otherwise. I have an office full of men. And, though we have more computers and accompanying paraphernalia than we could all use at one time, this is truly the wilderness. Workstations, laptops, file servers, speakers, printers, plotters, drafting tables…you name it, we’ve probably got it. Then there are all the disks…..blank, written on, music, movies, drivers. Documents, well logs, maps of every sort imaginable. Somewhere under all this paper is even a queen sized bed!!!

But what are the two wise men guffawing over this a.m? Microsoft “find and replace.” God himself only knows what sordid thing they have learned to do, but HEY!, it’s keeping them busy. There is a lot of merit to keeping Buddy and PaPa busy. Believe me.

Baba left about an hour ago to apply for a job. Yes, she’s 83…I know that. But the Senior Citizen’s Center has asked her to come out of retirement and teach exercise classes again. She agreed and so had to go officially apply. Not to be outdone, she decided to fall outside the Center when returning to her car. Came home with a giant goose egg on the back of her head and a gouge out of it. I just got finished mopping up the back of her head and cleaning the wound.

Got to LOVE Mondays!

Back to the office where the two wise men are hollering unintelligible strings of numbers back and forth (this usually means an upcoming mapping session). And here I sit, blogging to survive the insanity and staring at seismic on the computer wondering where the rest of the day will take us…hang on…keep reading!

The joy of starting a business is that there is never a finish. You are always starting it. So all those neat little goals that you have of finishing thus-and-such-a-task on thus-a-such-a-day and then feeling relieved or maybe just mildly happy no longer appeal to you as goals. They’re merely points at which you recognized just how much MORE you have to get done. I have been slaving for some time over a particular task, we’ll call it “A,” and finally announced not minutes ago that I had finished it. Not even a “yeah!” There was just one resounding immediate question to tamp down any feeling of accomplishment I could ever have had: “So, what else is left on project B that you could get done today?”

Wumph. Task A immediately scrapped as important in lieu of tasks B-infinity. YOU CAN NEVER DO ENOUGH! It makes accomplishment feel like a failure. Why on earth did I even mention it? Such a silly girl. Perhaps I should have held off on the whole thing and gone to Facebook and played on my much-neglected farm. What I SHOULD have done is put on my boots and hauled off into the woods. I’m still itchy enough to have a healthy respect (ok, paranoia) for what’s out there, though.

So, here I sit admittedly stewing in my own juices and thoroughly hating this particularly 3D seismic survey with an unbelievable passion.

So I took a nap!!!! It was lovely and then my ex called. Which was fine, just no longer the person I want to wake up to. Great news, though, Squash Blossom is coming home early! Tonight rather than Thursday. Apparently the ex Mr. Scat doesn’t relish the thought of waiting until Thursday to relinquish SqB. Ha! Gotta love that. He said (and I love to quote) “He won’t have had a nap, it’ll be late, and he’ll be pissy, but I'll get ‘im there.”

Just guessing that Sqb’s dad is a WEE BIT tired….hee hee. He couldn’t even be sarcastic about it. And for once I didn’t get the litany of days off from him. He’s wearing down. It’s getting to him. The four-year-old drama king has worked his magic and is trampling the earth in one wide swath from Radiator Springs on south to his dad’s house. Ha!

Poor widdle four-year-old. More power to him!!!!! That kid will own the world one day! It thrills my soul to hear his little matter-of-fact voice and authoritative manner cut through the day like a hot knife through butter. The little dictator will be with us for some time and I just love it. Every day you not only get to prepare and participate in everything he does, but you get the blow-by-blow afterward because he just loves to rehash the events THAT MUCH. And he doesn’t really breathe when he does this.

“Momma (huff) I loved breakfast because I really like cheerios and I got to (huff) have two whole bowls!!!!!! of them and then ONE piece of toast with butter and jelly and Papa fixed (huff) it for me and I ate-ed it on my stool at the counter and now I’m watching my favorite movie (not listed here because he has at least 20 favorites) and playing (huff) trains wanna come see? oh and I’m poopy.”

Gotta love that. Especially that last sentence.

Don’t even get me started on toilet training. Beanstalk is well on the way to toilet training. He pretty much is, he just gets interested in the day and it’s events. Typical stuff, but really he’s trained. SqB believes that toilet training is a diabolical terrorists’ plan to rob him of his very life. We have the regular toilet, the little ring to put on the regular toilet, a step stool, AND a little toddler-sized potty that even plays music when you do your thing—though I have not personally tested that one.

We’ve bribed him with candy, parties, toys, big-boy underwear, privileges, etc. He goes in the bathroom when we all go to see how it’s done. He loves to flush….but that is now something he must sit on the potty to get to do, so he could care less now. When he goes in his diaper he has to get his own diaper and wipes and rash cream and bring it to me. He’s also learned how to dispose of his own nuclear waste and all he has left to learn is how to wipe his own bottom and he’d be self-sufficient in the diaper department.
 

That’s just ludicrous! So I’ve quit asking him if he needs to go, or if he wants to sit on the potty ‘cause I already know the answer….. “N-O!”

I’ve backed down to my original theory. His high school girlfriend will eventually find out and relay the message to him that diapers on a 15 or 16 year old are very “uncool.” Grammi has told him unequivocally that he’s got to learn to change his own pants ‘cause she’s too tired of it. I’m all in there for that method as well. I just don’t want to be the one doing the changing. But I’d be SUPER happy if I didn’t have to pay for the diapers any more!!!!

And if you have any doubts that Squib arrived in rare form, well, doubt no more!! He fell asleep about five minutes into the trip and then woke straight up (it's his signature move) as he hit my driveway wanting something that was left at the ex's house. A sticker book this time. So he was non-linear by the time I made it out the door to the car. Poor little guy. Just beside himself. He let me hold him, but he was NOT to be consoled. Once ex left, we fit SqB into our regular routine and there he is, now in the bed talking to his stuffed Blue and flopping about and I expect that his day (and consequently mine) will end here in about 5 min.

Not mine, really, because, ya now, I lead a really exciting life (HA!), but when he sleeps, so does my last responsibility for the day and I can exhale and take it all in.

A Bang-Up Day!

Scat