The other night we were laying in bed and we had this familiar exchange.
Me: Roll over. You're snoring.
Husband: What?
Me: You're snoring. Roll over.
Husband (outraged): Snoring! I wasn't even asleep.
He immediately fell back asleep, and began snoring again. Loudly. In my ear. So I rolled over, got my cell phone and used the voice recorder to record his snores. I tried not to laugh out loud. Then, while he was still asleep, I turned the volume up, put the phone next to his ear and played it back.
"Whaaaaa?" He said, waking up in a panic.
Me: Oh, that snoring in your ear woke you up? I'm sorry. Maybe you should roll over. And he did.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Madam Fore!woman
The Husband had a work conference in St. Simons this weekend so The Boy and I came with him. We've been having adventures today while The Husband has been in meetings. We're staying at a conference center resort, which is nice, but it's primarily a golf course catering to the golf crowd. We loaded up the stroller in search of a playground this afternoon but never found it.
We started out walking on the road but a car nearly hit us coming around a curve so we moved to the sidewalk. I had the stroller canopy over The Boy so that only his little toes were peeking out, and he was entertaining us with his non-words. We were strolling along, minding our own business, when a snarky woman in a pink short sleeved sweater golf carted up beside us. It's hard to convey her attitude without audio, but I can assure you it was 100% snarky. Imagine the meanest teacher you ever had- one that was belittling or demeaning when you didn't know an answer. Take away her hairy mole and add torpedo boobs the size of cantaloupes and this lady could be her.
Snarky: Excuse me! Ma'am! (Not in the polite way.)
Me: Yes? (In the polite way)
Snarky: You are not allowed to be over here!
Me: Why?
Snarky: This is a golf course! These paths are for golf carts only, not for walkers!
Me: I'm sorry.
Snarky: There are signs everywhere. You are putting all of us at risk. You are putting your life in danger, and you are putting this child's life in danger by being over here.
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't realize.
Snarky: There are signs everywhere saying it! You're putting this child's life at risk. You can't be over here- you need to be on the road!
Me: (a little more firmly) I'm sorry.
She drove off in her cart with a huff, her white capri pants probably sticking her fat butt to the vinyl seat as sweat dripped onto her visor. In my head I'm saying visor like it's a bad word, FYI. We got on the road and turned and headed in the other direction but I couldn't get the woman out of my mind. The "path" looked just like a sidewalk and was four feet from the road. It was an innocent mistake that anyone could have made, so why did she have to be so..... snarky? We were just out for a stroll and she acted like I was juggling knives while holding the baby over an alligator pit. Do I look like the Crocodile Hunter? I wanted to tell her that I was a mandated reporter and that we could call Child Protective Services together to report that I was putting my child's life in danger. I'm sure a helicopter would be standing by to life flight him to the safety of the road four feet away.
Okay, it was a error in judgement on my part. Not the best decision I'd made today, I agree. I probably should have been paying closer attention. Let's all agree I was wrong, and that we could have been hit by a line drive. But why can't people be nice? Why did she have to break out the big you're-putting-your-child's-life-in-the-balance guns and act like I'm a neglectful mother? How judgmental. A simple "Oops, but this path is for carts" would have been enough. Maybe even an "excuse me, good mother, taking your baby out for a stroll to expose him to nature and sunshine and all the beauty this day has to offer, this path is made just for us lazy folks who like to partake in sports that allow us to move as few muscles as possible. You probably didn't see the signs because you were making good eye contact with your baby but your social and physical exercise is interrupting our whacking at balls with sticks, drinking beer, and judging others."
Even The Husband was supportive when I told him about this encounter later, and he's notoriously unsupportive of me putting The Boy in danger. Loosely translated he suggested I tell her to mind her own business, which I appreciated.
And yes, I realize that I am now having a bad attitude and judging others and not making a good example for my child. And that makes me just as bad as she is, but it sure feels better to get it off my (appropriately sized) chest.
We started out walking on the road but a car nearly hit us coming around a curve so we moved to the sidewalk. I had the stroller canopy over The Boy so that only his little toes were peeking out, and he was entertaining us with his non-words. We were strolling along, minding our own business, when a snarky woman in a pink short sleeved sweater golf carted up beside us. It's hard to convey her attitude without audio, but I can assure you it was 100% snarky. Imagine the meanest teacher you ever had- one that was belittling or demeaning when you didn't know an answer. Take away her hairy mole and add torpedo boobs the size of cantaloupes and this lady could be her.
Snarky: Excuse me! Ma'am! (Not in the polite way.)
Me: Yes? (In the polite way)
Snarky: You are not allowed to be over here!
Me: Why?
Snarky: This is a golf course! These paths are for golf carts only, not for walkers!
Me: I'm sorry.
Snarky: There are signs everywhere. You are putting all of us at risk. You are putting your life in danger, and you are putting this child's life in danger by being over here.
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't realize.
Snarky: There are signs everywhere saying it! You're putting this child's life at risk. You can't be over here- you need to be on the road!
Me: (a little more firmly) I'm sorry.
She drove off in her cart with a huff, her white capri pants probably sticking her fat butt to the vinyl seat as sweat dripped onto her visor. In my head I'm saying visor like it's a bad word, FYI. We got on the road and turned and headed in the other direction but I couldn't get the woman out of my mind. The "path" looked just like a sidewalk and was four feet from the road. It was an innocent mistake that anyone could have made, so why did she have to be so..... snarky? We were just out for a stroll and she acted like I was juggling knives while holding the baby over an alligator pit. Do I look like the Crocodile Hunter? I wanted to tell her that I was a mandated reporter and that we could call Child Protective Services together to report that I was putting my child's life in danger. I'm sure a helicopter would be standing by to life flight him to the safety of the road four feet away.
Okay, it was a error in judgement on my part. Not the best decision I'd made today, I agree. I probably should have been paying closer attention. Let's all agree I was wrong, and that we could have been hit by a line drive. But why can't people be nice? Why did she have to break out the big you're-putting-your-child's-life-in-the-balance guns and act like I'm a neglectful mother? How judgmental. A simple "Oops, but this path is for carts" would have been enough. Maybe even an "excuse me, good mother, taking your baby out for a stroll to expose him to nature and sunshine and all the beauty this day has to offer, this path is made just for us lazy folks who like to partake in sports that allow us to move as few muscles as possible. You probably didn't see the signs because you were making good eye contact with your baby but your social and physical exercise is interrupting our whacking at balls with sticks, drinking beer, and judging others."
Even The Husband was supportive when I told him about this encounter later, and he's notoriously unsupportive of me putting The Boy in danger. Loosely translated he suggested I tell her to mind her own business, which I appreciated.
And yes, I realize that I am now having a bad attitude and judging others and not making a good example for my child. And that makes me just as bad as she is, but it sure feels better to get it off my (appropriately sized) chest.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Prissy and the Chipmunks
I have to say that I love our dog. She is sweet and loving and energetic and snuggly. She tolerates The Boy pinching her face and pulling her tail, and she protects our home against any invaders or any innocent soul who walks down the sidewalk. She and I rescued each other nearly 7 years ago and I truly love her.
And also she drives me crazy. Any time she has anything she considers to have any value she walks around the house whining, looking for a place to bury it. It doesn't matter if it's a bone or a chew toy or one of The Boy's stuffed animals, she can't keep her anxiety to herself. She'll continue until you take the valuable away from her or until you put it in her bed and cover it with a rag and pretend you can't see it. She'll then take the rag and cover it over and over until she feels it's sufficiently hidden. Hidden from whom, I'm not sure, but this is what we do.
Last night I was sitting in the floor of our bedroom, trying out the new newsprint nail polish trend when she came in and out of the room whining. Whine. whine. whine. I didn't even look up. Usually we ignore this behavior as long as we can. On this particular occasion I was able to ignore it for a long time because I was concentrating on my nails. I have to take advantage of every second The Boy is asleep, you know. Whine. whine. whine. whine. whine. whine.
Enter The Husband. "What are you doing sitting in the floor?" He asked. "Working on my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize" I answered, because it was clear what I was doing by the nail polish in my hand and my pedicure kit sprawled on the floor. Whine. whine. whine.
Me: See what she has, she won't be quiet.
Whine. whine. whine.
Husband: Uh oh.
Me: What is it this time?
Husband: A chipmunk.
Me: Gasp. A CHIPMUNK?
Husband: Yep. You might not want to come over here.
At this point Prissy gets excited because we have finally caught on to the obvious good news that she has caught and killed a chipmunk and brought it inside our house to show off. She starts running in tiny circles in our room. I realize at this point that not only has she killed a chipmunk and brought it into my house, but she has been carrying it around in her mouth for the last twenty minutes, dragging it's little chipmunk claws all over the floor that The Boy crawls on with the hands that he eats with.
Husband: No, Prissy. Drop it! Get her outside.
Me: How am I supposed to get her outside when there's a chipmunk?
Husband: I guess you pick her up.
Me: But my nails are wet! Come on, girl, let's go out. Luckily she minded me.
Husband: Where's the dust pan?
Me: Last time I saw it it was in the recycling bin.
Husband: Why was it in the recycling bin?
Me: The Boy put it in there.
Husband: sigh.
Apparently he'd just emptied the recycling outside and had accidentally tossed the dust pan out too. He went outside to retrieve the dust pan so he could dispose of the chipmunk in our room. I'm assuming he dug a hole, fashioned a tiny casket out of an oatmeal canister, said a prayer for his family, and gently placed him in the ground, but I didn't ask.
Earlier this week Prissy had treed who I can only assume is this same chipmunk up the side of our house. The top of the window screen was loose because we don't live in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, so the chipmunk got in the screen. The boy and I looked at him from the inside, and The Boy tried to pet him through the glass. He also opened his mouth against the glass, in what I hope was an attempt to kiss and not eat the rodent. I put Prissy in her crate so the chipmunk could retreat to safety and this is what I get for trying to intervene with nature. I can't make this picture turn the right way, so turn your head to the right:
A little while later:
Me: Eeek! There's a spider on the wall. I think it's a bad guy, he's got a design on his back. That's bad.
Husband: Where?
Me: Right there. He just went under that picture frame.
Husband: (slamming our framed wedding pictures against the wall to try to kill the spider) I don't see him.
Me: He had something on his back. That's bad, right?
Husband: I don't know. Spider came into sight. No, he's fine.
Me: Well, aren't you going to kill it?
Husband: He's not hurting anyone. You were sad that the chipmunk died but you want me to kill a spider?
Me: Haven't you ever heard of arachnophobia? Nobody ever suffers from Chipmunkophobia.
And also she drives me crazy. Any time she has anything she considers to have any value she walks around the house whining, looking for a place to bury it. It doesn't matter if it's a bone or a chew toy or one of The Boy's stuffed animals, she can't keep her anxiety to herself. She'll continue until you take the valuable away from her or until you put it in her bed and cover it with a rag and pretend you can't see it. She'll then take the rag and cover it over and over until she feels it's sufficiently hidden. Hidden from whom, I'm not sure, but this is what we do.
Last night I was sitting in the floor of our bedroom, trying out the new newsprint nail polish trend when she came in and out of the room whining. Whine. whine. whine. I didn't even look up. Usually we ignore this behavior as long as we can. On this particular occasion I was able to ignore it for a long time because I was concentrating on my nails. I have to take advantage of every second The Boy is asleep, you know. Whine. whine. whine. whine. whine. whine.
Enter The Husband. "What are you doing sitting in the floor?" He asked. "Working on my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize" I answered, because it was clear what I was doing by the nail polish in my hand and my pedicure kit sprawled on the floor. Whine. whine. whine.
Me: See what she has, she won't be quiet.
Whine. whine. whine.
Husband: Uh oh.
Me: What is it this time?
Husband: A chipmunk.
Me: Gasp. A CHIPMUNK?
Husband: Yep. You might not want to come over here.
At this point Prissy gets excited because we have finally caught on to the obvious good news that she has caught and killed a chipmunk and brought it inside our house to show off. She starts running in tiny circles in our room. I realize at this point that not only has she killed a chipmunk and brought it into my house, but she has been carrying it around in her mouth for the last twenty minutes, dragging it's little chipmunk claws all over the floor that The Boy crawls on with the hands that he eats with.
Husband: No, Prissy. Drop it! Get her outside.
Me: How am I supposed to get her outside when there's a chipmunk?
Husband: I guess you pick her up.
Me: But my nails are wet! Come on, girl, let's go out. Luckily she minded me.
Husband: Where's the dust pan?
Me: Last time I saw it it was in the recycling bin.
Husband: Why was it in the recycling bin?
Me: The Boy put it in there.
Husband: sigh.
Apparently he'd just emptied the recycling outside and had accidentally tossed the dust pan out too. He went outside to retrieve the dust pan so he could dispose of the chipmunk in our room. I'm assuming he dug a hole, fashioned a tiny casket out of an oatmeal canister, said a prayer for his family, and gently placed him in the ground, but I didn't ask.
Earlier this week Prissy had treed who I can only assume is this same chipmunk up the side of our house. The top of the window screen was loose because we don't live in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, so the chipmunk got in the screen. The boy and I looked at him from the inside, and The Boy tried to pet him through the glass. He also opened his mouth against the glass, in what I hope was an attempt to kiss and not eat the rodent. I put Prissy in her crate so the chipmunk could retreat to safety and this is what I get for trying to intervene with nature. I can't make this picture turn the right way, so turn your head to the right:
A little while later:
Me: Eeek! There's a spider on the wall. I think it's a bad guy, he's got a design on his back. That's bad.
Husband: Where?
Me: Right there. He just went under that picture frame.
Husband: (slamming our framed wedding pictures against the wall to try to kill the spider) I don't see him.
Me: He had something on his back. That's bad, right?
Husband: I don't know. Spider came into sight. No, he's fine.
Me: Well, aren't you going to kill it?
Husband: He's not hurting anyone. You were sad that the chipmunk died but you want me to kill a spider?
Me: Haven't you ever heard of arachnophobia? Nobody ever suffers from Chipmunkophobia.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Easter
 |
| Will, Hadley, The Boy, Maddox, & Olivia |
There are at least three babies (3 and under) missing from this picture. Mine's the one in the middle in a Easter-feast induced stupor.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
A Little Squirrely
Last week I came home from work and my mom said "Prissy's got something." Not surprised, I asked "pacie or bottle?" My mom gave me her serious look and said "More like squirrel or chipmunk." I went outside to investigate, and the Prissster had a baby teenage squirrel in her mouth. It was still alive. "Prissy, no!" I shouted. She rolled her eyes at me. I told her to go get in her crate, so she picked up the squirrel and headed inside. NOOO! "Drop it!" I yelled. She complied, and went inside to her crate.
I checked on the squirrel, who wasn't moving. My mom and The Boy were safely inside. I'd asked my mom to stay late because we're refinancing our house and an attorney was coming at 6:30 to close. It was 6:15. I went to get a shovel to move the squirrel to a safer location. I tried to scoop him up but he was too alive for that. He slowly scootched away from the shovel. Too dead to run and too alive to die, we had a dilemma. I didn't want him to suffer but I couldn't bring myself to kill him. He was making little squeaking noises. Eeek. Eeek. I left him alone.
When The Husband came home I showed him said squirrel. He said he'd kill it. What a brave man! I watched from inside as he carried the shovel to the back of the yard and gently tossed something furry into the brush. Ding dong. The attorney was here. I let her in and offered her some pizza. She had the efficiency and the personality of an ant farm. She did not even smile at The Boy. I hollered at the Husband that she was here. He came inside.
Husband: There's nothing wrong with that squirrel.
Me: Except for that he was on the edge of death.
Husband: He's fine.
Me: Well Prissy had him folded in half, slinging him around. That can't feel good.
Husband: He's fine.
Me: What did you do with it?
Husband: I put him in a tree so Prissy couldn't get him.
Mom: Was he making any noise?
Husband: Well he was saying Eeek eeek but he's fine.
Attorney: I'm Somer. Nice to meet you. Should we get started? She did not shake the Husband's hand.
The closing was anti-climactic. We signed a bunch of papers. The Boy jabbered loudly. Somer did not smile. Somer left and The Husband went to check on the squirrel. He was still in the tree where he'd been placed to rehabilitate.
Three days later I was taking the trash out the front door when I saw the same squirrel in the carport. "You're alive!" I told him. I got closer, but he didn't move. He just clung to the brick, half on and half off. "Go play!" I said. He didn't move. I went about taking the trash out and he never moved. My sister was at our house so she came out to see him.
Me: Come look.
Sister: Aww!
Me: Be careful. Don't get too close. Squirrels have rabies.
Sister: Really? All squirrels have rabies?
Me: Yes.
The Husband stopped cutting grass to see what we were doing.
Me: He must be hurt.
Sister: He's not moving at all.
Husband: He's just afraid because y'all are staring at him.
Me: Prissy had him and now he's hurt.
Husband: He's fine. He made it from the back yard all the way over here to the carport.
Me: But it took him three days!
Sister, to The Husband: Can I see your work gloves?
Husband: No you cannot. Squirrels have rabies.
Me: See? I told you.
Husband: Call one of your hippie friends to see if they want a squirrel.
Me: Who wants a squirrel? I'm calling animal control.
I looked up the number and called animal control. At the same time my sister was calling her friend Charley.
Animal control: Clarke County Animal Control
Me: Hello. I have a baby squirrel that my dog got and I think he's hurt but he's alive. He's not really a baby, more of a teenager. He has fur and everything.
Animal control: Okay. Our regular dispatcher doesn't get wildlife. You'll have to page the weekend dispatcher to come and get it. To do that you have to call 911 and they'll contact her.
Me: 911? This isn't really an emergency.
Sister: I'm talking to Charley. She has a squirrel, she might want it.
Animal control: That's our process.
Me: And will she pick it up or tell me how to take care of it?
Sister: Charley wants it! Her mom said okay.
Animal control: Umm, I'm not sure. Let me get your number and I'll have someone call you back.
Sister: Charley wants it!
Me: No, that's okay. I can call 911.
Husband: What's going on?
Me: Charley's taking it.
Husband: Does Charley's mom know?
Sister: Yes. They have a pet squirrel and she said she can rehab it. She said they like McDonald's french fries.
Me: Honey, get the squirrel trap! We don't have any french fries.
Husband: Here, just use the dog crate. He scooped him up in the dog crate and shut the door.
Me: That'll traumatize him.
Husband: He's fine.
Sister: She also said they like the ends of tomatoes.
Me; Ends of tomatoes?
Sister: Yes, she said to keep them hydrated.
Now all this excitement was about more than The Boy could contain. He bounced and bounced and grinned at the squirrel. I wouldn't let him get too close, you know because they all have rabies, but I'm pretty sure he would have kissed it if he could have. We chopped off the end of a tomato and put it in the dog crate with the teenage squirrel and my sister dropped it off at Charley's. I was proud to have given it a good home, although it promptly died.
I checked on the squirrel, who wasn't moving. My mom and The Boy were safely inside. I'd asked my mom to stay late because we're refinancing our house and an attorney was coming at 6:30 to close. It was 6:15. I went to get a shovel to move the squirrel to a safer location. I tried to scoop him up but he was too alive for that. He slowly scootched away from the shovel. Too dead to run and too alive to die, we had a dilemma. I didn't want him to suffer but I couldn't bring myself to kill him. He was making little squeaking noises. Eeek. Eeek. I left him alone.
When The Husband came home I showed him said squirrel. He said he'd kill it. What a brave man! I watched from inside as he carried the shovel to the back of the yard and gently tossed something furry into the brush. Ding dong. The attorney was here. I let her in and offered her some pizza. She had the efficiency and the personality of an ant farm. She did not even smile at The Boy. I hollered at the Husband that she was here. He came inside.
Husband: There's nothing wrong with that squirrel.
Me: Except for that he was on the edge of death.
Husband: He's fine.
Me: Well Prissy had him folded in half, slinging him around. That can't feel good.
Husband: He's fine.
Me: What did you do with it?
Husband: I put him in a tree so Prissy couldn't get him.
Mom: Was he making any noise?
Husband: Well he was saying Eeek eeek but he's fine.
Attorney: I'm Somer. Nice to meet you. Should we get started? She did not shake the Husband's hand.
The closing was anti-climactic. We signed a bunch of papers. The Boy jabbered loudly. Somer did not smile. Somer left and The Husband went to check on the squirrel. He was still in the tree where he'd been placed to rehabilitate.
Three days later I was taking the trash out the front door when I saw the same squirrel in the carport. "You're alive!" I told him. I got closer, but he didn't move. He just clung to the brick, half on and half off. "Go play!" I said. He didn't move. I went about taking the trash out and he never moved. My sister was at our house so she came out to see him.
Me: Come look.
Sister: Aww!
Me: Be careful. Don't get too close. Squirrels have rabies.
Sister: Really? All squirrels have rabies?
Me: Yes.
The Husband stopped cutting grass to see what we were doing.
Me: He must be hurt.
Sister: He's not moving at all.
Husband: He's just afraid because y'all are staring at him.
Me: Prissy had him and now he's hurt.
Husband: He's fine. He made it from the back yard all the way over here to the carport.
Me: But it took him three days!
Sister, to The Husband: Can I see your work gloves?
Husband: No you cannot. Squirrels have rabies.
Me: See? I told you.
Husband: Call one of your hippie friends to see if they want a squirrel.
Me: Who wants a squirrel? I'm calling animal control.
I looked up the number and called animal control. At the same time my sister was calling her friend Charley.
Animal control: Clarke County Animal Control
Me: Hello. I have a baby squirrel that my dog got and I think he's hurt but he's alive. He's not really a baby, more of a teenager. He has fur and everything.
Animal control: Okay. Our regular dispatcher doesn't get wildlife. You'll have to page the weekend dispatcher to come and get it. To do that you have to call 911 and they'll contact her.
Me: 911? This isn't really an emergency.
Sister: I'm talking to Charley. She has a squirrel, she might want it.
Animal control: That's our process.
Me: And will she pick it up or tell me how to take care of it?
Sister: Charley wants it! Her mom said okay.
Animal control: Umm, I'm not sure. Let me get your number and I'll have someone call you back.
Sister: Charley wants it!
Me: No, that's okay. I can call 911.
Husband: What's going on?
Me: Charley's taking it.
Husband: Does Charley's mom know?
Sister: Yes. They have a pet squirrel and she said she can rehab it. She said they like McDonald's french fries.
Me: Honey, get the squirrel trap! We don't have any french fries.
Husband: Here, just use the dog crate. He scooped him up in the dog crate and shut the door.
Me: That'll traumatize him.
Husband: He's fine.
Sister: She also said they like the ends of tomatoes.
Me; Ends of tomatoes?
Sister: Yes, she said to keep them hydrated.
Now all this excitement was about more than The Boy could contain. He bounced and bounced and grinned at the squirrel. I wouldn't let him get too close, you know because they all have rabies, but I'm pretty sure he would have kissed it if he could have. We chopped off the end of a tomato and put it in the dog crate with the teenage squirrel and my sister dropped it off at Charley's. I was proud to have given it a good home, although it promptly died.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)