Pinterest is Ruining my life

How would one describe Pinterest?

The beauty of it is, you can't.

It's a magical place where there are recipes, memes, arts and crafts, DIY, house decorating and remodel ideas, movie quotes and posters, travel destinations, photography, and everything you could possibly be interested in, on one site.

When you find something you like, you can save it to a "board" specifically for the topic of your choice; an Internet version of a pinboard similar to what a teacher may have in their classroom, or someone who is ridiculously organized and has everything on a pinboard in their kitchen. And on that board is everything that makes you laugh, and insecure with your crafting, cooking, and organizing skills.

It also can suck you into the Internet and will never release you. I don't know how many times I've said, "I'm going to take a ten minute break, check Pinterest and continue writing." A couple hours later I close out of Pinterest and I have a half finished writing project there. But don't worry, I know what colors will work in our bedroom that receives minimal natural light. Oops.

I love my house, I love the layout, I love the openness of the downstairs. It's a great house! B

ut after wandering on Pinterest I want to rip out closets and make reading nooks. I want to repaint the entire house, and replace drywall with an exposed brick wall. I want to redo every room seven times over, because there are so many rooms on Pinterest I love.

There was a concern about our yard and me with a shovel. I think there needs to be a bigger concern about me, the house, and Pinterest.

Whenever Chris went out of town when we were in the apartment I rearranged furniture. I'm thinking if he ever goes out of town, I'm redoing the house.

The conversation when he returns will probably go something like this:

Chris: Why is there a hole in the roof?
Mo: I wanted a skylight.
Chris: Why is there a hole in the wall?
Mo: I wanted to make a bay window with shelves for a reading nook.
Chris: Why is our kitchen completely and totally destroyed?
Mo: I wanted to refurnish the cabinets, and install new counters, and replace the floors with this crazy all natural moss like thing that works like Disney Channel's Original Movie Smart House where the floors absorb EVERYTHING!
Chris: Why is our house leaning?
Mo: I saw this really cool idea on Pinterest where you take out a wall and you get more natural light
Chris: I'm never leaving you alone in the house again

It probably would never get to the point I was able to take out an entire wall, but you never know.

But one thing I am going to do, if Chris ever leaves me home alone without a babysitter after reading this, is decorate my closet like Narnia and every time I open the closet door I can be in Narnia. Also, I'm going to make the door to my office look like a bookshelf so I can have a hidden room. If I have enough time, after I tie up my babysitter, I'm knocking out the ceiling in our Room of Requirement and building bookshelves from the floor to the roof in the attic.

Okay, who wants to kidnap Chris for a weekend and who wants to help me remodel?

It's the Holiday Season

Happy Holidays everyone!

Yes, I do say holidays because within six weeks there is Thanksgiving, Chanukah/Hanukkah (dec 8-16), Christmas and New Years and I cannot combine them into anything pronounceable. The closest I have is Happy Thankskahmasear. I have enough issues with word pronunciation, I don't need to make it harder on myself.

I have found the perfect way to celebrate Thanksgiving. Allow your mother to call you in July and say she and your father are coming for Thanksgiving. Make sure she and your sister will be doing the cooking (this is essential). Then invite friends over and assign them to bring something. All I had to do was unlock the front door. Perfect!

A Detroit Lions loss (shocker), seventeen people, ten bottles of wine and several beers later it was a party!

There were several flippings of the bird, both fingers and the turkey; a threat of fire, and only eight chairs. We were surrounded by good friends and good food, it was perfect.

The best part of Thanksgiving? It gives way into the Christmas season. I no longer have to secretly listen to Christmas music in my car or through headphones. I am able to play my favorite Christmas movies on the large screen instead of my laptop and I get to wear my Elf hat.

There is tons of candy and Chex's Puppy Chow (if you call it Muddy Buddies you do not deserve presents this year).

The stockings are hanging by the chimney with care, with lovely garland with lights on the mantle.

The perfect corner for the perfect tree is empty.

The tree substitute with its teeny tiny tree-like-shaped-thing that fits in a small corner and holds ornaments is up in the kitchen. I'm still angry about the stupid fake impostor with its stupid plasticness. I'm not going to rant again, if you missed it last year here it is.

The upside to the fake tree this year?

We get to go home for Christmas this year. This is the first time since I moved out here I will be returning home for Christmas. And there better be snow!

As per tradition the day after Thanksgiving the Christmas lights went up on the house. It was your typical lights on the house adventure. Me trying not to fall off the roof in the pouring rain. I'm not a fan of heights. My fear of heights has been decreased to a dislike. So you put me on the roof in the rain, and I am not going to be moving very fast.  It  was a slow and steady process until I said the gutters were overflowing. Not surprising as we were out in the pouring rain.

My goal for lights to be on both levels of the house went out the window when my dad and husband began cleaning out the gutters as we attached the lights to the house.

As Chris and I attached lights my dad put his hand in the nasty gutter and came up with a handful of gunk. Chris did the same. I was not putting my hand in there. There could have been a crocodile. Probably not. Most likely a swamp monster.

I continued hanging lights, Chris took the peak over the garage and my dad began to rake out the gunk.

Then Chris began to rake out the gunk on the upper level of our roof. He did not take lights up there with him. I finished my strand, my dad fastened to the shingles since I couldn't lift the shingles off the roof (there may or may not be a leaking roof later).

Cold and wet I went inside to decorate.

Chris and my dad made it their goal to fix the gutters. For the most part it is fixed, thanks to a scrap piece of wood from our neighbors. Don't worry they already know we're weird.

Lights are up. Gutters are working, and now we begin the Christmas Season with some lights and music. In the words of the Muppets:

It's time to start the music. It's time to light the lights!

Messing with Squirrels

I think I've written about the two squirrels who like to hang out in our backyard. Steve the Squirrel greeted us the first morning in our house with a pine cone on the patio next to our glass sliding door. Since that morning I've been greeted by Steve in one way or another.

There have been times where it looks like he is almost peering into our house. And there are times where he and his mate (gay marriage is allowed in Washington, and we don't discriminate in our house) have gotten a little frisky. I'm telling you, they have no shame.

As I cleaned up the backyard this past summer, Steve kept a watchful eye on my movements. If I got to close to one of his hiding places he would squawk and leap down from his tree and quickly dig it up and rebury it elsewhere. Depending on what I was doing he had to rehide his food storage up to seven times in a day.

He never complained.

On Tuesday of this week we removed three large trees. Okay, we personally did not. We found a limit to my ability with shovel and hatchet; and 100ft trees is that limit. Two trees were side heavy and leaning towards our house. The third was leaning towards the street.

Normally, Steve spends most of his time running up and down the trees and then backflipping when he hit the ground. He's a funny little squirrel.

As I sat on the couch watching the 21st century's take on lumberjacks (hoodies and cargos, with chainsaws and harnesses) cut down trees from the top and feeling the tree's trunk sections hit the ground with a large thump, causing the couch and house to shake, I looked at Chris and asked, "What about Steve?"

We didn't see Steve that day. I'm not sure what his exit plan is for his trees being cut down. But whatever it is, it kept him alive.

Once the trees were down, and the branches chipped and chopped through the chipper chopper the arborists left. Tree removal companies do not remove the wood that used to be a tree; instead they partner with firewood companies to come out and remove the old tree trunks.

Before the wood removal/collector came yesterday afternoon, Steve and his mate made an appearance. Unfortunately for them, the nuts they buried in the backyard were under several thousand pounds of former trees. This did not stop them.

Steve pushed, pulled, and hopped around the fallen trunks, with no success. Steve went so far as to try to burrow under it while his mate tried to pull the log up.

Not going to lie, Disney got the facial expressions of squirrels struggling to lift something much larger and heavier than themselves. I think they spent most of the morning trying to figure out how to get to their food stash.

The wood removal person who liked to think there were multiple people with him at all times showed up about noon.

"Hey! We're here!"

There was one of him, but I wasn't about to point that out to the guy who is going to clean up the yard.

He asked if we had dogs, and I told him no, but there were a couple squirrels who like to hang out in the backyard and could possibly be among the wood piles.

He said he could handle a couple squirrels.

I went inside and about fifteen minutes later I hear him screaming, followed quickly by him shouting, "It's just a squirrel, just a squirrel!" And there was Steve and his mate sitting on logs squawking at him.

For the record, I did warn him.

After all the logs were cleaned up, Steve and his mate came down from the remaining trees and promptly dug up and rehid their food.

I'm afraid to see what they do when we relandscape the yard this spring. The creatures are probably going to have a conniption.

Oh, here is our backyard.

 

 Before

 

 

 

The logs Steve and his mate tried to move, unfortunatley I couldn't get them in the photo

 

The finished yard



We have so much more light, and the yard seems a lot bigger. I just hope Steve and his mate aren't to angry.

Mo vs. The Dog(s)

Let me begin by saying I love dogs. I will leave conversations to go pet a dog, and if one happens to be a puppy I have thrown myself onto the floor to snuggle with it. Yes, these are strangers' dogs. Yes, I am strange to the dogs. It's fine. It's fine.

I have always had dogs around. Either my parents have owned a dog or a family member has owned a dog. My first word was dog. Me and canines go way back.

So it is sad to say, I am declaring war on dogs. It breaks my heart, it really does.

So why am I declaring war on dogs?

Because I have neighbors who believe our yard is meant for their dog's use. Sure, there's grass there but that doesn't make it fair use for your dog. You have a toilet but you don't see me going over to your house and using it everytime. And if I did, I wouldn't flush, because it's the same thing you and your dog are doing.

Yes, I am aware that is a horrible argument. I am also aware I have possibly gone mental. It's fine. It's fine.

Because I have rude neighbors who think it is fun to throw balls into my yard for their dogs to retrieve, I am constantly picking up dog poop.

Chris and I live on a corner and about a three foot width of side yard between the sidewalk and privacy fence, and it is about fifteen feet long before it meets our front yard. It is in this 3x15ft stretch of yard that dogs love to drop giant deuces.

This is the main chore on why I never wanted a dog.

It was bad enough having to clean up after the puppy who pooped in her crate while we were gone during the day. My sister and I pushed and shoved the crate out the door and hosed it down with dish soap and a hose.

I found reasons to not have to pick up dog feces with a shovel when I was growing up. The main reason? I would puke upon the smell of dog poop. Guess what? That hasn't changed. Yup, one hole for my neighbors' dog poop and one hole for Mo's lunch.

It's awesome.

Talk to your neighbors you say. Oh, I have. One neighbor told me to ring their doorbell anytime there is poop and they'll pick it up. And guess what? They do. Way to be a nice responsible neighbor. You can have a cookie.

My other neighbor with a dog is the champion of saying, "F you" without saying it. She is also the champion of saying "F you" while she tells you she will make sure it doesn't happen. But guess what. Her dog is constantly using our yard as his toilet.

I have talked with her. I have begged her. I have called animal control on her. Apparently, Animal Control only cares if they dog is about to bite me while he poops. No, I told them, I am about to bite the dog. They advised against it.

Neighbors who live next door to Pooper and have since they all moved in when the houses were brand new (1975) have taken sympathy and have also talked to the woman who has been in the house since it was built about the poop. That hasn't worked.

Apparently, she is a nice woman. Apparently, she's had a tough life. Apparently, she is crazy. Apparently, she is a self centered woman who should still be in kindergarten learning what "STOP DOING THAT!" means.

The neighbors have told me to just put the poop back in her front yard. So I pick it all up and march it across the street and place it nicely in her yard. While I feel better, it isn't solving the problem.

Everytime I go outside while she is out with her dog she goes inside. I ring the doorbell and she doesn't answer. I have even gone out with the shovel and picked up poop while she's been outside and asked where she would like her dog's poop.

She ran inside.

Before we moved into the house our realtor advised we go and talk to the neighbors. I talked to a couple. They all told me how nice the neighbors are and how the neighborhood is great and safe. I asked about shady dealings like meth houses or pot labs. None.

There were no pedophiles and no crime.

You know what people don't talk about? Dogs pooping in other yards.

So now I am trying to figure out how I can keep the dog out of our yard. I can redo the landscaping and move trees to be close to the sidewalk. I can install a motion sensor sprinkler that squirts everything that walks by with water (I don't want to take out people running and walking by).

I can use old school recipes like baking soda and water. Or use coffee grounds (new or used) and sprinkle them on the yard. Or I can wait for the allegedly old dog to pass away from the giant tumor on his chest.

Seriously, I am open to suggestions. I really don't want to bite the dog.

Mo vs The Garden

Armed with a shovel, hack saw, snippers, and yard waste bin I enter battle.

I never know if I'll make it back safely as I'm not only fighting the pricker bushes, but also spiders as big as my face, and snakes lying low in the overgrowth.

As I saw, dig, cut, and pull out weeds the backyard begins to resemble a yard and not a wild jungle Tarzan or Mowgli would live in.

I was nearly convinced someone in the past had a vision for the yard. There are remains of a patio and an arch in one corner, possibly a nice place to read on a summer afternoon?

It would be if not for the vines, weeds, dead limbs and raspberry vines everywhere. I feel bad ripping out trees and bushes someone may have planted. But, when seven different types of bushes are growing in the same one square foot, it's time for them to come out.

I have ripped out bushes with my bare hands. I have dug out trees and pulled vines out by their roots. My blisters have blisters, and yet, the backyard looks FABULOUS!

Well, besides the dead grass, bare spots, some crazy dandelion weed things growing EVERYWHERE! The front yard looks like death.

I've had a yard for about five months and I killed it!

I'm a murderer!

Luckily, the person I found at Scotts.com was very helpful in telling me what I had to do to fix the yard I have somehow killed.

She assured me I'm not the first person to kill their first lawn in the house they have lived in less than a year.

Nice to know I'm not alone.

After viewing the yard through my webcam the lovely Scotts.com lady told me exactly what I needed. Surprisingly, all I needed was Scotts products. Some fertilizer, some topsoil, and some grass seed.

Not to bad.

So we will see how good I am at making things grow, because we all know how good I am at chopping things down.

Jet Lag is a B*tch

For the record, I would just like to state to the TSA, FBI, CIA, Secret Service, President Obama, former presidents dating back to George Washington, and the local police who will be assigned to beat down my front door, I am joking. When in doubt assume I am joking.

Also, you are all doing a marvelous job, so keep it up. :)

Right, disclaimer is out of the way, it's story time.

It's a little after 1 a.m. on a Friday morning, about two days after I flew over the entire Pacific Ocean with no sleep, and the entire west coast with a small child kicking my chair, and another child in front of me, asking more questions than the customs official did when he say my overstuffed backpack.

You would think I would be begging for sleep. I am. In fact, I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet I cannot fall asleep.

I have counted: sheep, cows, emus, kangaroos, and sugar cane. Nothing.

I'm not as tired as I was yesterday after flying 15 hours from Melbourne, over the entire Pacific Ocean and every single island in it, and landed in LA at 6 a.m. to be greeted by customs agents who have not had their coffee, morning happy time, nor, seemingly, a hug.

I've long given up being welcomed back into my own country. Now, they assume I'm smuggling something in, like a koala or worse, Vegemite.

I was greeted by a bomb sniffing dog, that definitely paused a little too long at my bag. No, I did not have anything like that in there. I'm sure he just smelled the pets at my friends' house. But it was enough for the dog-walking-man in uniform to look at me.

"How are you?" He asked.
"Good, slightly tired, but good."
"Where did you fly in from?"
"Australia"
"Line 15 please."

Line 15 is the line I was in to begin with, because it is the only line for US citizens at 6 am on a Wednesday morning.

In theory, US citizens do not need to be fingerprinted, or have their picture taken. I, thankfully, did not either. However, there were people in front of me, constantly getting checked.

Lord, help me not to fall over from exhaustion.

"How was your flight?"
"Long but good"
"Did you sleep much?"
"Not really."
"Have a good day"

EASY!

Nope. After waiting for my bag to be unloaded, I had to clear another part of customs.

Do you have anything to declare?
Besides what I wrote down?
He looks at my list of purchases, that includes boomerangs (weapon), wine (alcohol), and beach towels (that had grass, sand, and Aussie dirt on them)
Did I have food?
No
Not even Vegemite?
Nope.
Anything you're not telling me?
A lot of things, but I'm pretty sure I'll be arrested if I say them. I shook my head.
You're free to go.

Since then, I have been trying to sleep. For those of you that know me, know this is a rare thing. I'm normally bouncing around and have to be physically exhausted before I think of bed time.

This time? I'm begging for the clock to read 9 p.m. so I can go to sleep.

It was 10:30 tonight, I could barely keep my eyes open as I climbed the stairs. I collapsed into bed, and laid there, wide awake. And why not? Because it was only 3:30 in the afternoon in Australia (granted it's tomorrow at 3:30, but still 3:30).

I only slept 12 hours last night, with an hour and a half nap in the morning. I should not be unable to sleep. I didn't even drink caffeine or take an afternoon nap. I think I might be broken.

Please note, I adjusted fine in New Zealand. Granted, I was awake at 5a.m. the first two mornings, and nearly every morning after that-due to wake up calls.

But I adjusted.

Come home, to a large comfy bed. No sleep.

I've read every blog known to man. I've even read the economic section of the NY Times; and that didn't put me to sleep!

So here I am, at 1:30 in the morning, typing away and posting photos to facebook, so I can at least be productive as I battle Jet Lag.

I also know tomorrow is going to suck if I don't sleep tonight.

Here's to the memories of New Zealand and Australia! And to hope I will be able to sleep.

Getting Crafty

Any time I begin a sentence with, "Hey Chris, you know what we should do?" It turns into a bigger project than originally thought.

My idea was a good one. Let's make a cornhole game! Simple right? Grab some wood, put it on an slant, put a whole in the wood, throw bean bags through it.

One week later, four burns and a loss of fingerprints, everything is just about done. Please note, Chris did not suffer any injuries.

Chris says I greatly under estimate the project and over estimate my abilities.

Sounds about right.

I can't sew, but for whatever reason, this small fact did not slow me down from thinking I could make bean bags.

I grabbed needle and thread and tried to sew the bean bags. The material was to thick, to sew, and I was to impatient to wait for someone who could help me on a sewing machine.

People advised lessons, but I could not work on my project during the lesson, I had to go back to the preschool of sewing, and I am way to impatient for that. Also, the risk of sewing my fingers together was fairly high.

So, I had to come up with a plan B, fast!

Instead of sewing my fingers together, I shall burn them and then glue them together. Oh, hot glue, you are fantastic.

How to make no-sew bean bags:

1. Gather your materials. This includes a 25 pound bag of pinto beans. I still have about 20 pounds of beans if anyone would like them. Also, please note, no project can be completed without duct tape.
2. Measure out your squares. My goal was to make 5 1/2 inch squares, so I measured 5 1/2 by 11 rectangles to save me from having to glue a fourth side.

3. After you cut out your rectangle, it should like something like this.

















4. Fold your piece in half to make sure the corners line up. Nothing is worse than your bean bag looking like a drunken sailor made it.








5. After you glue 2 of your 3 sides, place a piece of saran wrap over the square and pile on the beans! I found a heavier, fatter bean bag worked best. 

6. After you have piled on the beans, wrap them up! Secure the saran wrap with duct tape to keep any beans from jumping.












After the beans are secure, force them into the bean bag.

TA-DA!

I am pretty crafty.

 

A New Frontier, Costco

It's the law. I swear it is, because everyone is shops there. My neighbors are all pulling out large boxes filled with groceries and other items. When you move to Kirkland you must be a Costco member.

I'm not sure what happens if you don't, I'm not brave enough to find out.

From mattresses to kayaks to large screen TVs to a year supply of toilet paper Costco has it all, and then some.

These Costco shoppers are on a mission, and do not get in the way of their carts, they will run you over with a ten pound chicken breast and fifty pounds of ketchup. If only I were exaggerating.

I love the efficiency of the Costco shopper: sprint down the aisle, drift around corners and never stop the cart while grabbing an item.

You just have to be aware that like the stop signs outside the parking lot go ignored, so do other carts. Lead, follow, or get out of the way, because these shoppers have no time for you trying to find ten pounds of barbecue sauce.

It was my first solo trip to Costco, and knowing it could get crazy I went early so I wouldn't have to battle crowds as I tried to remember if the toilet paper was in aisle 15 or aisle 155.

Arriving just before 10 a.m. I found a parking spot close to the entrance, and a line forming outside the closed gates.

Was there a giveaway? A special sale? A ride on a unicorn?

No. Apparently, it's imperative you be the first one through the doors. I was not.

Oh, Costco, how important you make me feel as I walk under a sign that says: "Members Only" and make me show my Costco membership card. I feel like an elite shopper as I buy a fifteen pack of socks to go with my 30 hamburgers.

I felt like I should have had a special badge on my shirt as I walked through the entrance, looking up at the heavens, where only a forklift can reach.

I'm still trying to get the lay of the land, so there were several trips up and down the same aisle so I could look at both sides before I could determine I had everything I needed.

It's an organized chaos, one that I'm still learning, but people are more than happy to help.

In the past two weeks, I've learned that I am afraid of the dark. So, Chris proposed a night light, probably so I wouldn't break my neck in the middle of the night trying to get a glass of water. Or I could finally let him sleep after I hear a noise.

 I asked a nice man named Dave where the nightlights were. He proudly marched me over to the lighting area on aisle 54 and showed me the outdoor lights people hang on their garages.

"It's used at night," Dave told me excitedly.

Yes, they are used at night, but if I were to put that in my room I'm pretty sure I would be blinded worse than Clark Griswold's neighbors.

I thanked him, pretended to look through the different lights until he left.

When he left, I went to grab milk.

Oh man.

I'm all about the non fat aka skim milk. I feel like anything higher needs to be chewed or has a sour taste. If I have to suck it up, I'll drink one percent. I might put two percent in my cereal if I'm starving and have no other options. Three percent? Let me grab a spoon.

Anyway.

One percent aka low fat was in easy sight. So was whatever cute names Costco gave two and three percent. I asked about no fat milk. The woman pointed out the one percent.

Me: Is that the lowest percent you have?
Her: Yes
Me: Okay

I wasn't thrilled but I go through milk so fast it will only be an inconvenience for about a week.

Her: There is this type of milk over here, it's more like water than milk, though.
Me: Skim? I'll take it.
Her: Weird look.

Apparently she loved the three percent.

After I found a three pound bag of non organic tortilla chips (everything is organic, it's great but I'm still trying to figure out how junk food can be organic), I headed to checkout.

Clerk: We sell normal size hotdogs?!
Me: Yeah, but you just have to buy three packs of them.
Clerk: But they're normal size!

Shocking, I know.

I'm enjoying being an elite snooty Costco member, I'm just not turning my back on the traditional grocery store, yet.

The New House

I now know how the Wicked Witch of the East felt when Dorothy's house fell on her.

A heavy weight sits on your chest as you look around and try to figure out how you got here.

I signed 75 million pages of documents.

The Wicked Witch of the East was taunting the munchkins. Karma, b*tch.

I was talking to my grandpa today, a man who will put life in perspective for you. He asked how the house was, I told him a lot of work.

He asked what I was expecting.

Candy canes and Unicorns.

He laughed at me.

He told me owning a house is a lot of hard work, and like anything you have to work for, worth having. He also said, do it right the first time.

So here I am, trying to do it right the first time. Without being attacked by anymore snakes. I picked up a pile of raked leaves and a snake came slithering out. It was only a garter, but it definitely caught me off guard, and I had to re-rake the stupid leaves, this time, sans snake. I also found two small toads. It was an exciting day!

The biggest challenge is cleaning up the weeds without contracting poison ivy (there are a lot of plants with 3 leaves and are green. Any other distinguishable characteristics?)

There are a million weeds, but also a million questions.

What is the best way to pull out dead tomato plants?

• Just grab it with your two hands and pull that sucker out. There is now a hole I have to deal with, maybe it can be a home for snakes.

What is the best way to get piles of dead pine needles into the compost bucket?

• I think I need to invest in a shovel. The simple task of raking the needles into the bucket on its side is not working as well as I want it too.

What is the best way to clean a kitchen floor?

• I can hear my mother screaming at me. But the best way is to strap two towels onto your feet, spray soapy water onto the floor and begin skating.

How is it possible for algae and moss to grow everywhere?!

• This still baffles me about the northwest. I'm going to install hairdryers throughout the yard to keep everything dry, under umbrellas of course. I don't want to electrocute Steve the Squirrel who leaves pinecones by our backdoor. He also likes to drop branches on my head.

As the yard ever so slowly begins to look like a yard and not something out of the Jungle Book, I might be able to enjoy the new house. Until we begin painting and renovating.

Just as long as we do it right.

Ohhhh Fuuuudge

Does anyone remember Amelia Bedelia? She was a maid that should have been fired. She tried to make bread rise by lift the pan of bread by a rope to the lamp? Whatever she touched she lovingly messed up. I blame her for my struggles. Maybe if I read Martha Stewart How-To books I wouldn't have messed up the wall.

Probably not.

A couple years ago I hot glued a flag onto the bedroom wall. The reasoning of gluing it was simple. It would not damage the wall. You can easily pull the glue off the wall and it does not peel the paint. At least it doesn't on a cinder block wall in a dorm room.

Paint on drywall?

The paint peeled. It would not be an issue if there was not nine layers of paint on the wall. I didn't even touch the drywall and there are large chips in the wall.

Ohhhh, fuuuudge.

Only I didn't say "Fudge." I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the "F-dash-dash-dash" word!

(I will give you 10 points if you can name that movie. When you get to 30 points you get a baby polar bear)

It's okay. I can fix this. I begin tearing through boxes trying to find the white paint I acquired to paint a bulldog. I've used it several times to touch up base mouldings after I destroy them with the vacuum.

After opening seven boxes and unpacking another three, I have to admit defeat.

The paint is gone.

Fudge. (No polar bear cub for you)

Okay, I can fix this. This is nothing Home Depot can't fix.

I walk in and am greeted with thirteen white swatches. Good, my apartment is white. I can do this. I look at the different swatches, and find the one that matches the paint I had before.

I may not remember where my cellphone is, or where my shoes are, but I know the white ended in 25.

Done.

I jump onto the bed with the open container of paint, prepared to fix the wall.






You thought I spilled it on the bed didn't you?

Nope.

I painted a small part of the chipped paint. The paint is slightly lighter than the original paint, but not by much.

Okay, that's cool. Wet paint is always a tad lighter.

I begin painting a bit more. It looks okay, nothing I would brag about, but I paint the chipped bits then a little bit around the area to blend it in.

It did not blend.

Fudge. (no polar bear)

Okay, okay, okay. I can make this better. Maybe.

What if I painted around the area a little more and then it can look like the original paint wasn't done well?

Crazy talk.

Unless you are going to repaint the entire room, do not make the area that you messed up, bigger.

I've inserted panic mode.

All I could think was, "Chris is going to kill me."

Luckily, Chris did not kill me when he saw the racing stripe on the wall. He also didn't kill me when he saw the dents.

I have a wonderful husband.

I do need to go back to Home Depot and find the correct shade of white. I don't know why there are so many variations of white. Who came up with that idea?

Back to Home Depot I go, to find the correct white, and enough paint to cover the chips and dents throughout the apartment.

It's Been a Rough Month

In the last three weeks, I have had my car crashed into, signed more paperwork than Aerial did when she sold her soul to Ursella and have been trapped in a stairwell. February was an awesome month.

The insurance company has a pool going on what hit my car. The most likely explanation on why I had two dents. One at shoulder height behind my back passenger window, and the other on my bumper, is a very angry beaver with a hammer. Damn those beavers.

The parking spot I normally leave my car in, is at the bottom of the stairs of our apartment. It sits fairly close to the giant garbage compactor for the complex. I heard a crashing noise about 4, nothing new. I went outside about 430 and there was a very nice, hand sized dent in my car. Chris found the dent in the bumper. The body shop found the spare tire base was crooked.

Chris told me to call the non-emergency line for the police to see if we needed to fill out a police report.
Any witnesses? No (the one time no one is looking out their window)
Private property? Yes
Sorry, can't help.

Lovely.

The insurance company took my claim, and I only had about 12 people call me back, trying to figure out how I could have two dents in my car. They were also confused that this happened in a parking lot, where I was parked.

No, I do no drive sideways.

In the process of getting my car squared away, I was also signing my life away to the escrow company that is holding our house. Aerial only had to sign one document to grow legs, lose her voice, and put her soul in jeopardy. She should have at least, had to show ID.

I just want a house.

One million documents later, with a million signatures I might be able to close on the house.

Maybe. Otherwise, I'll take the mermaid tail-fin.

Before I can acquire a tail I must figure out how to get out of the stupid stairwell. This is a good lesson, in why you should always have your cell phone on you. Always.

Also, take the elevator. Always.

I like to take the stairs, sue me. The new rule for taking the stairs, is make sure the door does not lock behind you. I entered the building's lobby and headed for the door that said stairs on them. Yeah, those were maintenance stairs.

You can get in, but you can't get out. I have a new appreciation for the guests at Hotel California.

I tried pounding on the doors at every floor, hoping to get someone's attention from a nearby office. Nothing.

I tried slamming the walls, hoping to grab the attention of whoever had the office next to the stairs. Again, nothing.

Time to think rationally. Something I do not do well.

Okay, if there was a fire, if you have to be able to get out. I sprinted down the steps, until the stairs ended at a door leading to what I could only hope was the garage, and unlocked. Because let's face it. No one is calm during a fire, and people may not have their keys to open the door to get out of the burning building.

Thankfully, the door did open. To a closed and secured garage. Okay, if cars can come in, then they must be able to get out. I walked around the garage, found the garage door, and then the large green button that said open.

I can only imagine what the security people were saying as they watched this on film. I left the garage, circled the building, entered the lobby, again, and pushed the button for the elevator. It wasn't until I was leaving the floor did I see the lovely grand staircase on the other side of the lobby.

Oops.

It may not be easy being green. It's not easy being an adult either. Always have your cell phone.

Drowning in the Sink

I'm in the water all the time. I grew up swimming in lakes and in the pool. I used to swim competitively, and if I was going to drown, it was going to be during a swim practice.

I plan vacations around water activities, such as rafting, swimming, wave pools, beaches, etc. I know the danger of drowning, and try to be careful.

However, I never thought I would drown in my kitchen sink. Of all the ways to go.

When someone in the house LOVES spicy foods, the other person must always be on alert. Like, when Chris placed the hottest hot sauce known to man on a burger but couldn't remember which one, it was I that found the the extremely hot burger.

I took the smallest bit of burger I could, and quickly dunked my mouth in milk while shoving slices of bread into it, trying to squelch the burning sensation. After an hour I was able to finally recover from the fire on my tongue.

This hot sauce is so hot, Chris will kiss me after eating it and my lips burn.

He thinks he's funny.

I've learned to watch out for extra peppers or spices in food. I always check to make sure my half of dinner is not contaminated by hot sauce or extra peppers.

Exercising caution was for naught.

Oh the pain! The pain! It is worse than chlorine, shampoo, dust/dirt, or a scratch. I have never felt anything as bad as I did when habanero remnants got in my eye.

I washed my hands three times after cutting up habanero peppers last night for nachos. I was sitting on the couch, while Chris was in the kitchen cleaning up, when my eye itched. Not thinking of the peppers I had just cut, I rubbed my eye.

I went blind.

The burn felt like someone was sticking a hot poker into my left eye. In hopes of flushing it out, I squired eye drops into my left eye. It made it worse. So much worse, than my right eye began developing sympathy pains and began burning, as well.

I'm screaming.

Chris is trying to fix this, while keeping dinner from burning in the oven.

"What can I do?" He asked.

"I dunno, hold on," I told him while I searched the Internet for a solution to my burning eyes. Through the tears, and the slits my eyes had become I began reading.

Note to people making websites. I don't care how you got pepper in your eye, tell me how to get it out! Information first, your sad story, second.

Every website that offered help, did not. Instead, the sites were filled with personal stories of the pain I was in. Not once did the site offer help.

Finally, I was able to find something on the poison control website.

Flush eyes out with water. This is actually their advice, no matter what gets in your eye. From bleach, to ink, to paint. Flush it with water, then call 911.

Tired of waiting for me, Chris filled a cup with water and told me to look into the bottom of the glass.

I shove my head to the rim of the glass, but the burning was as intense as it was before. He gets me a bigger glass. I still can't get my eye into the water. I'm starting to panic now, with the idea I will never see again.

Giving up on cups, Chris grabbed a large mixing bowl filled it with water and I shoved my head in.

Water went up my nose, since the mixing bowl was not large enough for me to blow air through it, without causing bubbles to go over my head. I was drowning in my kitchen sink in an Ikea mixing bowl.

I hate the feeling of water up my nose. It's worse than falling on my tailbone, or whacking my "funny bone."

I came up sputtering, water dripping from my hair, nose, and ears. My eyes still burned. So, down I went for round two. Trying to get over the feeling of drowning, I focused on the bottom of the bowl.

After the second round of my head in the mixing bowl, I could open my eyes.

I gave each eye a little squirt with the eye drops, and let the burning sensation die down.

Plastic might be used next time I cut up habanero peppers, or I'll just let Chris do it.

Death Trap Money Pit

Gas leaks and Carbon Monoxide poisoning, fires and earthquakes, fallen tree limbs and hornets nests in the eaves, ROUSs in the crawl space and raccoons in the chimney, collapsing roof and flooded house, leaking ducts and pipes, uninsulated attic and a rotting exterior.

A house is nothing more then impending doom. I'm on the verge of a Seattle-Freak Out.

You don't know the Seattle-Freak Out?

It is when you completely over react to something so minor the rest of the world barely bats an eyelash.

Snow in Seattle? Insert The Freak Out of people running around like headless chickens on fire. Roads were closed, schools were cancelled, businesses shutdown, people ransacked the grocery store, and then we waited for it to snow.

Sun in Seattle? People begin screaming about how the world is going to end and it is the beginning signs of the Rapture. It is a very difficult month for people here.

Rain in Seattle? There is a rush on Home Depot and everyone begins building an arc. In the event of a flooding we are all prepared.

Because I am not entirely crazy, I reserve my freak outs for when they matter; like during a home inspection.

I know it is the inspector's job to find everything that is wrong with the house, but all I could think when the CO monitor topped out at 2,000 when anything over 100 is considered high I was on the verge of throwing my arms above my head and begin sprinting around the neighborhood screaming, "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

Then sanity set in. One, you can not appear crazy to your new neighbors before you move in. We do not want to be that house. Two, the CO monitor was only high in close distance to the furnace, and read zero in the house.

We will not die by CO poisoning in the next four weeks. However, the fear of death in a house hit me.

There are a million things that can go wrong in a house. Insert a screaming, hand waving nutcase.

No, not really. I kept my composure and did the Seattle-Freak Out in the privacy of my apartment where the neighbors already know I am crazy.

Then, it was time to gain perspective. Home Depot makes all house repairs easy and somewhat affordable. They teach you how to insulate and install drywall. People renovate their homes all the time. Everyone that has ever bought a house has had to fix something.

We shall join them. Our house may be a money pit, but it will not be a death trap.

Oops...

Open mouth and insert foot. No matter how hard I try to not say the wrong thing, I do. I can probably insert my foot into my mouth a good seven times in any conversation. The more I try to save it, the worse it gets.

I apologize to anyone I have ever made uncomfortable.

Somehow in the last week I've been causing not so fantastic moments, but this time it has nothing to do with what I did or did not say. Shocking.

I wish I could sit here, saying I don't know how that happened, but unfortunately, actions speak louder than words.

It began last week and I'm convinced no one from maintenance will ever enter this apartment, again. Hope nothing breaks.

It began innocently enough. My sister and I went to see West Side Story on Thursday. Because I'm a believer in being dressed appropriately for the theatre I was in the bathroom straightening my hair. Because I didn't want lose hair to stick to my shirt I was straightening my hair in my bra and a pair of basketball shorts.

You know that moment in horror movies where the audience knows someone is going to get killed because she is in just her bra?

It was kind of like that.

The day before Chris walked into the apartment, holding a piece of paper telling us maintenance would be around the next day to check smoke detectors.

By the time I was getting ready it was close to 5 p.m. so I figured they would come the next day. I need to stop thinking, figuring and assuming.

You probably know where this is going.

I had a clump of hair pinned to the top of my head, another clump in my mouth and the other side of my head looking as straight as it would be. I was looking like a hot mess.

At that moment there was a knock on the door. I yelled, "one moment." And not two seconds later the front door swung open.

For those who have not been in our apartment, the front door is in line with the bathroom door. Meaning when both doors are open you can see from the porch into the bathroom.

We stood there for about 5 seconds, staring at each other before he quickly closed the door. I fled to the bathroom to pull on a T-shirt. He knocked again and I answered.

He walked in, staring at his shoes. He walked within 10 feet of the smoke detectors, while staring at the floor and declared them in working order. Note to self, do not start a kitchen fire. There is a chance they really don't work.

On Friday I turned in a work order basically saying our kitchen sink is falling apart. Not really, but it's not important to the story.

I was taking a break from editing my novel by playing Kinect Sports Season 2. Since it was snowing outside I thought nine holes of golf would be perfect. On hole three there was a knock on the door.

I answered it, fully dressed, showed the maintenance guy the sink and went back to my golf game. My back was to him, so I couldn't see his face, but I do know I looked ridiculous. It's impossible to play Kinect and not look like a deranged bunny rabbit.

Anyway, while playing golf you need to put your hand to your eyes, like you're shading your eyes from the sun. It allows you to see the hole. You also have the ability to change your club by reaching your right hand straight out and saying what club you want.

Tons of fun.

Yes, I'm doing this in front of him. The best part of Kinect Golf? I can use my baseball/golf hybrid swing with much better results than in real life. The result? Me golfing like Goof, only my legs don't twist together.

I heard him snort.

I'm not sure if that was out of laughter or out of something from the drain going up his nose.

He had to leave and come back; when he came back I was playing Kinect Football, and was running like The Roadrunner in place.

He definitely had no idea how to proceed with that one.

At least I'm not inadvertently insulting them. That's a bonus.

What is funny about this all this, because ya' know, that wasn't funny at all, is I've also terrified the UPS delivery man.

Long story short, there was a UPS delivery man who talked to all of his customers. If you signed for something he would ask how your day was. He would see me all the time around the complex in the summer he assumed I was a teacher. I told him I was a writer trying to make money.

He began inquiring about my writing every time I signed for a delivery.

After I got married he was delivering our wedding gifts, when he noticed I changed my signature. He asked if I got married and I told him I did about three weeks ago.

The next day when he was delivering another box, he gave me a card saying, "Congratulations!" He has also given me and Chris a Christmas card.

He asked how the job search was going.

We would wave to each other when we were driving. For a while I was seeing him once or twice a month when he was delivering something to the apartment.

He was delivering a box a couple weeks ago when I commented how I hardly saw him anymore. He said it was because I stopped ordering stuff. Actually, people stopped sending us stuff. We like cookies.

Anyway...

No, I said. I haven't seen you driving around. He said he got promoted and wouldn't be delivering anymore. This was his last delivery, he was training a guy.

The guy he was training was halfway down the steps with a petrified look on his face. Like, oh my God! What have I gotten myself into?! I have to talk to people?

His poor replacement was leaving boxes on the porch for about a month before he started knocking on the door. He still looks scared when I open the door.

If I somehow insult you, terrify you, or do anything to make you uncomfortable. Please join the club and I am truly sorry. I swear I do not mean to say or do anything to intentionally hurt your feelings or anything like that.

Rest assured, it could be worse. Just ask maintenance or the UPS guy.

Surviving The Dentist (barely)

I've found the definition of adulthood.

Even if you don't want to, you still have to.

For the last year and a half I've been putting it off. Every six months, for as long as I can remember, I was forced to sit in the electric chair, waiting for my doom.

For the last 23 years I have trained my dentist, Brian, and the hygienists to perfection. We had it down to a science. Get in, get out, no cavities, here's your sticker and new toothbrush. The tartar pick was used quickly and painlessly. One quick lap around the teeth and I'm done.

When my insurance changed I had to say goodbye to Brian, and hello to another dentist. So not cool.

This dentist is drooling over my wisdom teeth. Actually drooling. You would think the Tooth Fairy gave him a percentage for all the teeth he pulls. I only got a dollar, I'm thinking he gets $50 for every tooth.

Brian says I do not need them out. My friend who works in the teeth industry, who I'm pretty sure is friends with the Tooth Fairy, says they are fine, unless they are infected.

This guy was ready to find a shovel and dig them out. I told him they were fine. I think in the process of disagreeing with him, I started the Wisdom Tooth War, historians will be talking about this for years to come.

On the plus side, the new hygienist did give me an option for toothpaste flavor and used a smaller electric toothbrush. The fruit punch flavor is pretty good, but cherry is still better. 

The five things I hate about the dentist:

• The scrapping sound of the tartar pick and electric toothbrush
• It is worse than nails on the chalkboard.
• I will white knuckle the arm rests and clench my eyes, waiting for it to be over
• When the hook of the tartar pick digs into my gums
• For the love of God! I'm not a fish!
• I tend to kick my leg out, since I can't scream. I apologize to the hygienist that walked through.
• Feeling like I can't breathe
• I have the worst gag reflex known to man. I will gag brushing my teeth if the foam gets to be to thick.
• Add someone with an electric toothbrush and I am done for. Ask any of the hygienists I threw up on.
• Not being able to hold "Mr. Sucky"
• I don't like crud floating around in my mouth. I want it out. I also feel like I'm drowning when there are fingers and instruments in my mouth.
• I couldn't hold onto "Mr. Sucky" at my new dentist's office. But I could request it at any time.
•  I put dolphins and Orcas to shame with my amazing jumping ability to clamp down on "Mr. Sucky."
• Yes, I am aware I am being obnoxious
• I did not bite. It's a bummer when you are older than 10-years-old.
• It's frowned upon to bite the fingers that went into my mouth without my permission.
• No means No. Even at the dentist.
• Not getting a sticker!
• For the last hour I have had someone's fingers in my mouth. I have been scrapped, prodded, poked, scratched and am now bleeding. I should have a sticker

Brian would give me a sticker. He gives me a sticker and I don't bite him on my next visit. Training a dentist is not a lot different than training a puppy.

So, here I go, off to train another dentist. I wonder if he would learn by the rolled up newspaper approach? No, that's obnoxious.

Mission: Declutter

It started innocently enough. It was January 5th and time for the ornament holder (Christmas tree) to come down. Down came the ornaments, lights, stockings, Christmas cards and other knick knacks.

The room looked bare without everything, but it was still cluttered. Extension cords, stadium chairs, video games, power cords and pillows cluttered the room.

Pushing the thought, "we need to move," to the back of my mind, I procrastinated and began scrolling through USA Today. The most popular article that morning was how to de-stress in your own home.

I can hear it now. What do you have to be stressed about? You sit on the couch all day wearing your pajamas. Yes, I sit on my couch, mostly because I do not have a desk. I am wearing clothes, thank you. And no, I have nothing to be stressed about.

The article went on to say things like cluttered cabinets where you can't find anything, or messy refrigerators can make people feel stressed.

Uhhh, yeah. I'm thinking this article was written by a hippie.

I looked around the living room. There is a wide open corner now that the ornament holder was gone. The room is a pretty good size, if I could move the surge protector that holds a million cords, it wouldn't look so messy.

Cords and wireless box to the corner. The lamp had to be moved so the cord could reach. A book shelf was also thrown into the corner, and viola! The room lost its clutter feel.

I did feel a bit better, I did not so squished.

Time to tackle the cupboards!

Seven jars of Prego, six jars of salsa, ten cans of chicken noodle soup along with other miscellaneous cans that took up the entire cupboard. It was cluttered so badly, we groaned when he had to find something in there.

Find a buddy!

Sesame Street would be so proud. Everything was matched to the item like them. If it was on of these things that doesn't belong, it was placed to the side and stacked appropriately.

I don't know if it de-stressed me. I did feel a sense of accomplishment. I was on an organizational high!

I attacked the fridge, the other cupboards, my closet, my dresser finding things to donate, recycle and throw away.

The hippie journalist was onto something.

I don't feel less stressed, I do feel like our tiny apartment is slightly bigger.

I'm thinking this can hold me for another several months until we find a bigger place. When will that be, you ask?

At this rate, probably ten to eleven months from now. But it's okay. The cupboards are organized.