No. We are not, in fact, staging a revival of Grease.
I am sitting here attempting to choreograph a version of Silent Night for the Hanging of the Green and the upcoming Nativity play as well as ferret out some other musical nonsense. Meanwhile, Buddy is attempting to right all the plumbing necessary to complete phase two of the remodeling of the Mud Hut's bathroom.
The Mud Hut. That's what we've decided to call our little apartment out here. It isn't really little, but who cares, right?
So...I was sitting here working on some PowerPoint junk and thinking choreography when I hear the fatal words.
"Oh, crap."
Then buddy emerges from that unfinished portion of the room we generously call the "shower" with blood dripping down his forehead and asks for a flashlight. I gently remind him that he's slowly been raiding my tool table and that no such device resides there any longer (I take almost all the strength I have and stifle the urge to mention the tape measure, multimeter, screwdrivers, and electrical tape that have also 'vacated the premises'). Then he divulges the fact that he thinks he's drilled through an electrical wire and severed it.
Fabulous.
File that under "Things I Am Better Off Not Knowing After-The-Fact."
Generally, it is my job to hover about Buddy's shoulders and contribute to the construction discussion with helpful hints such as, "That looks like romex back in there." or "Hang on while I turn the breaker off to this part of the house." But that generally spoils the overall point of these exercises which is to accidentally die of unnatural causes.
However, this isn't really like when I was being yanked backwards by a tree that definitely did NOT want to fall in the direction it was cut to fall. In that case we made every effort to fell the tree in the direction we wanted it to. It just had other ideas in its head. Diametrically opposed to our thoughts, that sucker yanked me and my truck backwards like a yo-yo on a string instead of an SUV on a cable.
Drilling into a wire, though? You pretty much have to do that as close to on purpose as it gets without actually targeting it.
Squib ran through the Mud Hut last night screaming, "We are all going to dieeee!!!"
Maybe he's onto something.
Scat
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Tight
Money is tight around here. So tight, in fact, that I've been stalking every store I could imagine for a huge set of markers at bargain-basement prices. Squib NEEDS them. Like air. I finally found a 24-piece set for $2. Now I shall hover over him like a deatheater threatening to suck the life out of him if the caps are not replaced before each marker touches the table and before another marker is opened. Each. And. Every. Time.
He also requested a journal. How can I possibly deny him that? Obviously I cannot. Thankfully they were on sale as well. He now has new theme book with a silver, glittery cover just like Lewis on Meet the Robinsons.
But I spent four whole dollars! EEK!
So I left them in the sack for a while so as not to feel like I was truly committed to the purchase or anything like that. I did skip lunch while I was out. That was my rationale at the time. Sorta.
It isn't so bad around here that we're starving or turning off the AC/heat or anything. We are counting our change out of the money jars on occasion. Well, one occasion. That particular occasion seemed to convince people that I was not necessarily keeping track of the money we had just for giggles, snorts, and boredom and that, perhaps, they should check to see if we actually had money in the bank before trying to spend it. After all, getting gas with quarters is a sight to behold these days. As is a trip to Walmart.
Not everyone here at Green Acres finds our bookkeeping and budgeting system...how shall I say this...copacetic. Some don't want to have to consult with anyone (or anything) before spending money. At all. Color me baffled there. What if you don't have the money? What if you need it for something else you want more...like food? Since I have been doing the books for a while and/or helping Papa Scat do them, I know he got around that by keeping a huge cushion in the checking account. I now officially understand why he started to panic when the balance started to approach the cushion amount.
Others are just panicking about whether or not their budget items are being considered. As though we're just not going to include them in our accounting? At all. Ever. Good-bye. Nice knowing you. (Seriously??!?)
So....in an effort to prevent terror from reigning across the earth we have to conduct most of the Green Acres Finance Committee business on the porch of the "Big Red House" or in hushed tones in the living room. Meetings are unannounced and conducted while standing. It works sort of like this:
Me: Um, we have $mffthpth.00 in the bank right now and we owe *&^*@#!!, ^%&^##, and @$4%#!!!
Buddy: (Staring. His thinking face is mouth slightly slack and left eyebrow down and right eyebrow
up.)
Me: How do you want to pay for those? You wanted to pay for @$4%#!!! out of Mkmomk, but what about ^%&^##? It's kinda big, too.
This is the part where we stare at each other. It's been proven that staring at each other does NOT generate revenue.
Buddy: (Sighing) Pay for *&^*@#!! and ^%&^## out of Nghgnhg and @$4%#!!! out of Mkmomk. But, wow, we have to watch the balance on Mkmomk really, really closely.
Me: Oh, I'm watching it. (Go off the deep end.)
(There is some eye rolling here on our parts.)
Then, we observe a moment of silence. This is unofficial. We have nothing left to say, but when you know there are things coming down the pike that you have no idea how to handle or even discuss there is sometimes just a weight in the air. In your mind. When you're with someone who is also aware of it you sometimes stand there and inadvertently observe it for a few seconds before you realize you are doing all you can. Then you shake it off and move on. Thus endeth this meeting of the GAFC.
Beanstalk, unlike Squib, is harder to stalk for. His tastes run toward the musical and theatrical. He also breaks out in hives if you bring school (looking) supplies near him after 3:00pm. Just try and find some bargain basement opera. G'head. Go. Look. I did find some cheap-er Andrea Bocceli, but the Bean was not so thrilled with the concert in Tuscany. How was I to know that Andrea chose that particular night to get a little more modern with his sound??! The concert was barely started when Beanstalk was on his feet digging in my back pack (from whence cometh all DVDs, ya know) looking for something--anything--else. It was NOT a good day.
But, perhaps, all is not lost. Or maybe things have taken a turn for the worst. The opera purist has developed a new habit. That's right. The kid who won't listen to music unless it's sung with an earth-shattering vibrato in a language other than English has a new fave. You will never guess this one in a million years, so I'll just have to hit you over the head with it.
Eydie Gorme.
No. Not joking. Why would I even kid around about this? How did his tastes even get there from here? Easy listening muzak. Was it all those rides in hospital elevators? Possible. Very, very possible. Even I had a close encounter with The Girl From Ipanema.
I didn't exactly want to download Andrea Bocceli onto my iTunes because it wasn't my sort of music. I still felt like it was, more-or-less, worth the money but I did balk. Eydie Gorme, however is crossing some sort of line into the realm of ridiculous things to buy a ten year old. At least in my mind. The rational, mommying portion of my brain that knows he's incredibly special and a gifted musician and definitely not like other kids says to spring for the muzzz...yyyeeeahh I can't even type it.
And, Eydie, if by some quirk you read this--nothing personal--not my genre. I had a breif *thing* with Bert Kaempfert's music when I was somewhere around Squib's age and 8-tracks were king. However, my parents were deeply at fault there. And it passed. My son, however, luuuuvs ewe. But, in short, I can't see myself being his dealer for this particular habit.
At least she sings in English. Mostly.
Scat.
He also requested a journal. How can I possibly deny him that? Obviously I cannot. Thankfully they were on sale as well. He now has new theme book with a silver, glittery cover just like Lewis on Meet the Robinsons.
But I spent four whole dollars! EEK!
So I left them in the sack for a while so as not to feel like I was truly committed to the purchase or anything like that. I did skip lunch while I was out. That was my rationale at the time. Sorta.
It isn't so bad around here that we're starving or turning off the AC/heat or anything. We are counting our change out of the money jars on occasion. Well, one occasion. That particular occasion seemed to convince people that I was not necessarily keeping track of the money we had just for giggles, snorts, and boredom and that, perhaps, they should check to see if we actually had money in the bank before trying to spend it. After all, getting gas with quarters is a sight to behold these days. As is a trip to Walmart.
Not everyone here at Green Acres finds our bookkeeping and budgeting system...how shall I say this...copacetic. Some don't want to have to consult with anyone (or anything) before spending money. At all. Color me baffled there. What if you don't have the money? What if you need it for something else you want more...like food? Since I have been doing the books for a while and/or helping Papa Scat do them, I know he got around that by keeping a huge cushion in the checking account. I now officially understand why he started to panic when the balance started to approach the cushion amount.
Others are just panicking about whether or not their budget items are being considered. As though we're just not going to include them in our accounting? At all. Ever. Good-bye. Nice knowing you. (Seriously??!?)
So....in an effort to prevent terror from reigning across the earth we have to conduct most of the Green Acres Finance Committee business on the porch of the "Big Red House" or in hushed tones in the living room. Meetings are unannounced and conducted while standing. It works sort of like this:
Me: Um, we have $mffthpth.00 in the bank right now and we owe *&^*@#!!, ^%&^##, and @$4%#!!!
Buddy: (Staring. His thinking face is mouth slightly slack and left eyebrow down and right eyebrow
up.)
Me: How do you want to pay for those? You wanted to pay for @$4%#!!! out of Mkmomk, but what about ^%&^##? It's kinda big, too.
This is the part where we stare at each other. It's been proven that staring at each other does NOT generate revenue.
Buddy: (Sighing) Pay for *&^*@#!! and ^%&^## out of Nghgnhg and @$4%#!!! out of Mkmomk. But, wow, we have to watch the balance on Mkmomk really, really closely.
Me: Oh, I'm watching it. (Go off the deep end.)
(There is some eye rolling here on our parts.)
Then, we observe a moment of silence. This is unofficial. We have nothing left to say, but when you know there are things coming down the pike that you have no idea how to handle or even discuss there is sometimes just a weight in the air. In your mind. When you're with someone who is also aware of it you sometimes stand there and inadvertently observe it for a few seconds before you realize you are doing all you can. Then you shake it off and move on. Thus endeth this meeting of the GAFC.
Beanstalk, unlike Squib, is harder to stalk for. His tastes run toward the musical and theatrical. He also breaks out in hives if you bring school (looking) supplies near him after 3:00pm. Just try and find some bargain basement opera. G'head. Go. Look. I did find some cheap-er Andrea Bocceli, but the Bean was not so thrilled with the concert in Tuscany. How was I to know that Andrea chose that particular night to get a little more modern with his sound??! The concert was barely started when Beanstalk was on his feet digging in my back pack (from whence cometh all DVDs, ya know) looking for something--anything--else. It was NOT a good day.
But, perhaps, all is not lost. Or maybe things have taken a turn for the worst. The opera purist has developed a new habit. That's right. The kid who won't listen to music unless it's sung with an earth-shattering vibrato in a language other than English has a new fave. You will never guess this one in a million years, so I'll just have to hit you over the head with it.
Eydie Gorme.
No. Not joking. Why would I even kid around about this? How did his tastes even get there from here? Easy listening muzak. Was it all those rides in hospital elevators? Possible. Very, very possible. Even I had a close encounter with The Girl From Ipanema.
I didn't exactly want to download Andrea Bocceli onto my iTunes because it wasn't my sort of music. I still felt like it was, more-or-less, worth the money but I did balk. Eydie Gorme, however is crossing some sort of line into the realm of ridiculous things to buy a ten year old. At least in my mind. The rational, mommying portion of my brain that knows he's incredibly special and a gifted musician and definitely not like other kids says to spring for the muzzz...yyyeeeahh I can't even type it.
And, Eydie, if by some quirk you read this--nothing personal--not my genre. I had a breif *thing* with Bert Kaempfert's music when I was somewhere around Squib's age and 8-tracks were king. However, my parents were deeply at fault there. And it passed. My son, however, luuuuvs ewe. But, in short, I can't see myself being his dealer for this particular habit.
At least she sings in English. Mostly.
Scat.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Curse You Mechanical Things
The electronic and mechanical constituents of Green Acres are doing "that thing" again. That thing where I slave over them ordering parts, fiddling here and there, install things with great care, and turn them on only to have absolutely nothing happen.
Then...
Either attrition or Buddy happen along and turn the ignition or push the power button, turn to me and say (rather glibly I might add), "There's nothing wrong with this. It started right up."
Curse you both right along with all that crap.
Scat
Then...
Either attrition or Buddy happen along and turn the ignition or push the power button, turn to me and say (rather glibly I might add), "There's nothing wrong with this. It started right up."
Curse you both right along with all that crap.
Scat
Sunday, October 21, 2012
October is Coming For Me
Srsly. Every. Year.
Last year, it hit this same week prior to a trip with family to Oklahoma.
This year, I was happily (more or less) chopping down trees and hauling off trunks and parts, repairing smart devices, writing, maintaining my end of the family taxi service, night duty, burning random things on our burn pile, music, etc. ad infinitum when I procured the sinus infection months ago.
Nevertheless I kept on with my usual schedule thinking I had paid my yearly medical dues until the fateful day arrived. I had actually forgotten about the whole concept when I left for the usual Friday silliness (drive Baba to get blood drawn, drop her off, go get Squib, drive back to get Baba, pick her up, ruin an entire day for everyone, yay cancer) and I remember thinking to myself, "My throat is scratchy from all this extra singing and dancing jazz. Odd."
Famous. Last. Words.
By the time I had completed the round trip I was wondering if coffins were soundproof because maybe I could get some good sleep in there until I was actually ready to use it. Unfortunately, this is one of those viruses that you don't sleep through unless it's in fifteen minute snatches while gasping on the floor of the bathroom.
Squib asked me what we were going to do this weekend and I promptly answered, "I don't care."
His reply was, "Really?" Grin.
"Yes, really." I was mid-crawl onto the sofa which looked a lot like Mecca at that point and if you know anything about my relationship with the sofa you now know a lot about how I'm feeling. I had a down comforter, a crocheted blanket, and a quilt over me and my teeth were chattering. "You can do whatever you want as long as you don't break any of the rules."
Our rules are somewhat odd:
1. Don't run with a dinosaur in your mouth. This is mostly for Beanstalk.
2. Tripping a human or leaving your stuff out such that a human trips over it is punishable by death. Death, I tell you!
3. No yelling. I abhor yelling. And sometimes the yellers.
4. No making fun of people. Like, ever.
5. Don't stick out your tongue. I may tape it to your face. Or grab it with my hand and hang on. Or, as I once did with Squib, stick toilet paper to it. Ew. Puh-puh-puh-spit.
6. Adults have to follow the rules, too. Most don't. Well, they have issues with #3, to be honest, but mommy definitely follows them or her iPad goes on the fridge. This is bad.
"So I can draw? Dinosaurs? A lot of dinosaurs?" He asked. "Like a lot a lot of dinosaurs?"
"Knock yourself out." I literally gave him a ream of 8.5" x 11" and 13" x 19" paper and all the office supplies he could stand.
He set a land speed record for the number of dinosaurs drawn in under an hour. It had to be at least forty cajillion and he decided they were all dead and needed to be buried so he could dig them up so I had to stop watching and roll over because the effects of his imagination are both wonderful and terrifying. I do worry that the EPA will either come and get him or declare the living room a Superfund site. And then he built a mobile home with a trailer full of police cars to help find these dinosaurs and they all kept crashing.
Mayhem. Chaos. Delirium.
It was a child's dream weekend. Super hero movies. Dinosaur movies. More TV and movies than the last four months combined. A friend recommended Shopping Cart Hero 3. We did that because who doesn't like jumping a shopping cart off a hill and landing it? Naps. Oh I love naps. Naps save me from constantly having excited persons jump on my head or my stomach. Ew. And junk food for dinner because he kept requesting sustenance at regular intervals--the audacity!
Pizza Rolls. Hot dogs. Capri Sun.
Squib was supposed to practice his speech words 100 times. Which would have required me to count that high. Considering I got lost four times trying to rip a five song CD for someone else to sub for me today, I couldn't see me doing that with any accuracy, so we are repeating 'x' number of times and pretending it's 100.
Doctor. Acting. Snack Time.
Cactus. Tractor. Sticker.
He has to chop himself in the throat to help practice making the hard /k/ sounds in these words. He sometimes takes this a little too seriously and I was a little over tired and we started laughing so hard that neither of us could breathe. My apologies to Mrs. Archer for contributing to the delinquency of one of my minors. Again.
Everyone but Squib pretty much scattered like roaches in the light for the far corners of the house once I started lurking around looking like a study in seventies avocado. Oh, you're sick? Let me help you by vaporizing. Which is fine because over half of them have health reasons of their own that supposedly make their immune systems weak. But are they ever sick. No. Am I? Yes.
One day someone is going to have to explain that to me.
Bring on November.
Scat
Last year, it hit this same week prior to a trip with family to Oklahoma.
This year, I was happily (more or less) chopping down trees and hauling off trunks and parts, repairing smart devices, writing, maintaining my end of the family taxi service, night duty, burning random things on our burn pile, music, etc. ad infinitum when I procured the sinus infection months ago.
Nevertheless I kept on with my usual schedule thinking I had paid my yearly medical dues until the fateful day arrived. I had actually forgotten about the whole concept when I left for the usual Friday silliness (drive Baba to get blood drawn, drop her off, go get Squib, drive back to get Baba, pick her up, ruin an entire day for everyone, yay cancer) and I remember thinking to myself, "My throat is scratchy from all this extra singing and dancing jazz. Odd."
Famous. Last. Words.
By the time I had completed the round trip I was wondering if coffins were soundproof because maybe I could get some good sleep in there until I was actually ready to use it. Unfortunately, this is one of those viruses that you don't sleep through unless it's in fifteen minute snatches while gasping on the floor of the bathroom.
Squib asked me what we were going to do this weekend and I promptly answered, "I don't care."
His reply was, "Really?" Grin.
"Yes, really." I was mid-crawl onto the sofa which looked a lot like Mecca at that point and if you know anything about my relationship with the sofa you now know a lot about how I'm feeling. I had a down comforter, a crocheted blanket, and a quilt over me and my teeth were chattering. "You can do whatever you want as long as you don't break any of the rules."
Our rules are somewhat odd:
1. Don't run with a dinosaur in your mouth. This is mostly for Beanstalk.
2. Tripping a human or leaving your stuff out such that a human trips over it is punishable by death. Death, I tell you!
3. No yelling. I abhor yelling. And sometimes the yellers.
4. No making fun of people. Like, ever.
5. Don't stick out your tongue. I may tape it to your face. Or grab it with my hand and hang on. Or, as I once did with Squib, stick toilet paper to it. Ew. Puh-puh-puh-spit.
6. Adults have to follow the rules, too. Most don't. Well, they have issues with #3, to be honest, but mommy definitely follows them or her iPad goes on the fridge. This is bad.
"So I can draw? Dinosaurs? A lot of dinosaurs?" He asked. "Like a lot a lot of dinosaurs?"
"Knock yourself out." I literally gave him a ream of 8.5" x 11" and 13" x 19" paper and all the office supplies he could stand.
He set a land speed record for the number of dinosaurs drawn in under an hour. It had to be at least forty cajillion and he decided they were all dead and needed to be buried so he could dig them up so I had to stop watching and roll over because the effects of his imagination are both wonderful and terrifying. I do worry that the EPA will either come and get him or declare the living room a Superfund site. And then he built a mobile home with a trailer full of police cars to help find these dinosaurs and they all kept crashing.
Mayhem. Chaos. Delirium.
It was a child's dream weekend. Super hero movies. Dinosaur movies. More TV and movies than the last four months combined. A friend recommended Shopping Cart Hero 3. We did that because who doesn't like jumping a shopping cart off a hill and landing it? Naps. Oh I love naps. Naps save me from constantly having excited persons jump on my head or my stomach. Ew. And junk food for dinner because he kept requesting sustenance at regular intervals--the audacity!
Pizza Rolls. Hot dogs. Capri Sun.
Squib was supposed to practice his speech words 100 times. Which would have required me to count that high. Considering I got lost four times trying to rip a five song CD for someone else to sub for me today, I couldn't see me doing that with any accuracy, so we are repeating 'x' number of times and pretending it's 100.
Doctor. Acting. Snack Time.
Cactus. Tractor. Sticker.
He has to chop himself in the throat to help practice making the hard /k/ sounds in these words. He sometimes takes this a little too seriously and I was a little over tired and we started laughing so hard that neither of us could breathe. My apologies to Mrs. Archer for contributing to the delinquency of one of my minors. Again.
Everyone but Squib pretty much scattered like roaches in the light for the far corners of the house once I started lurking around looking like a study in seventies avocado. Oh, you're sick? Let me help you by vaporizing. Which is fine because over half of them have health reasons of their own that supposedly make their immune systems weak. But are they ever sick. No. Am I? Yes.
One day someone is going to have to explain that to me.
Bring on November.
Scat
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