Visitors

I know in this time of social distancing, we're not really supposed to have visitors, but I just can't seem to get rid of them.

Hundreds.  Incessant.  With so many legs.

Ants.

This has been the wettest start to the year since they started keeping track over a century ago, at least according to my favorite local meteorologist.  And it doesn't surprise me that we get tiny insect squatters after a lot of rain.  It's happened in years past.  But this is a whole new ballgame.  Wettest winter = so many more ants.  And somehow they come in through the roof into our bathroom.  The room has a high, pitched ceiling with a crossbeam running the length of the peak.  Ants like to use that beam as a superhighway, running along it, back and forth, but the dozens and dozens and dozens, until one or several get dizzy and fall to their deaths.  On my bathroom floor.  Into my sink.  On the toilet.  Which is spectacular fun to discover in the middle of the night.  Crunch.

Chris got out the ladder and commenced chemical warfare last night, which did (at least temporarily) close down the bug commute, but he forgot to remove the bathmats before hosing down the room with ant spray, so, surprise laundry!  And then when I went in about an hour later, I looked upon what could only be described as an ant Jonestown.  Now, I don't know how many died from poisoning and how many committed suicide, but it doesn't really matter, because who cares when there's a carpet of dead ants on the floor.  I cleaned that up, and a while later, there'd be another batch.  And another.  Thankfully, the batches are getting smaller, but I'm tired of sweeping and the mass grave wastebasket is filled with little bodies. 

Kids, time for hygiene class!

Random Cleaning Post

I started the great ramp up to Thanksgiving prep work today (which leads to Saturday when we host all of Chris's side of the family, so I have a little more time but also have to decorate for Christmas, so, still busy).  Thanks to having older children who can stay out of the way and not demand my presence every 3 minutes, I was able to get the kitchen and bathrooms scrubbed top to bottom.  (Yes, I wish they could help, but despite my training, they have not mastered any cleaning techniques whatsoever.  I'm thinking boot camp might be in order in the foreseeable future.)  And just because I'm a glutton for punishment, I also cleaned out the drawers in my bathroom, which I have not done... ever. 

It was like some dirty, toothpaste covered museum.  Some of the makeup would have needed carbon dating to determine its age.  There were free range q-tips and bobby bins in every single drawer.  And used toothbrushes?  I don't even know.  I found the curling iron I used in college.  I doubt it even heats up anymore, but there it was.  Why does Chris have so many electric razors and trimmers?  He only has 1 face.  Why did I save every lotion and cleaner sample I have ever touched and never used any of them?  All told, I think there were 27 tiny dentist visit sized floss packs and at least 9 travel toothpaste tubes.  And countless toothbrushes (this time, I'm talking new ones).

It was a bizarre experience, and I think the trash can has more in it than the drawers now.  Just in time for the kids to go to the dentist and bring home more samples.

Inadvertant Organization

I accidentally cleaned out my closet today.  I really had no intention of doing that today, or any day in the near future really.  It just... happened.  It started as I stood in the closet, trying to figure out what to wear today.  I looked down at my sandals sitting out and thought that since it's well into November (despite recent 90 degree temperatures), perhaps they were not the most appropriate footwear options these days.  So I decided to swap out sandals for boots.  But to do so, I had to move a pile of jeans, which made me wonder why I had so many jeans because I don't really wear jeans that much and do they even fit anyway maybe i should just check.  And then I went through all my jeans.  And skirts.  And pants.  And sweaters.  And what about the shorts buried in my dresser that I never wear?  And t-shirts? 

Suddenly, it was hours later, I was still half dressed, and I had multiple giant bags filled with stuff to donate.  And a still full closet, by the way.

Nobody in the house needs a stitch of clothing for Christmas is what I'm saying.

I'm on a diet now.

In the Weeds

There is a Christmas tree in my living room.

Normally, I don't decorate this early, in order to give Thanksgiving its due, but with the twin powers of Chris's busiest season at work ramping up and the impending and apparently unending rain about to bore down on us, you do what you gotta do.  So the tree came in and up.  It's not dressed up in all its finest yet (that's on Friday's schedule), but I checked all the lights, and we're good to go.  Thank all that is merry for any easy year putting that thing up (I've just jinxed myself and the whole business will fall over).

The kids got a grandparent slumber party, which continued into today so I could knock off a big chunk of my to do list.  Sammy got to golf with Grandpa, Sabrina got to bake cookies with Grandma, and I got to clean toilets.  There is something tremendously wrong with this picture.  Sigh.  But things are getting done and that makes me happy.  Check, check, check, all good.  I even made it to the donation center with a whole bunch of stuff I accidentally unearthed in my cleaning frenzy. That's got me on a tear to purge.  I hope the urge continues until next week when I might actually have a minute of two to work on it. 

So, back to that bit about the weather.  On Saturday, when I'm going to have a good 25 plus people in my house, it's supposed to be day 3 of consistent rain with a high temperature of 44.  In Texas, that's cold.  And miserable.  And means people will not go outside on my newly refurbished deck and sit on the new patio cushions I just bought and damnit.  Where are these people going to go?  This is not a mansion.  The garage has been suggested, but that means I have to add clean out the garage to my list this week and I wasn't going to worry about that until the spring.  Ugh. 

So that's where my head is at today.  Clearly, my head needs a glass of wine.

It's Time to Light the Lights

Once upon a time when I was a kid, the neighborhood I now live in had a Christmas light contest.  Each street devised a theme and competed against one another.  Consequently, this was a place where people came to see lights, crawling slowly past each house, ooing and awing.

When we moved in, we asked around and found out our street still had something of a theme - candy canes lining the edged of each yard, connected by loops of white lights - even if the contest didn't happen anymore.  So we candy caned up.  As the years have passed, the number of candy cane houses have slowly dwindled, to the point that I suspect we may be the only one left (sad).  I told Chris he could skip that part this year, but he gave me a firm no on that. At least we could carry the holiday torch for out block.  My holiday fervor must be rubbing off on him.

Tonight, we came home and Chris told me to check out some neighbors across the street.  Holy coy, they are decked out.  I think they are the same people who have lived there for years, never turning on their porch light, much less stringing Christmas lights, but now they are ablaze.

Chris walked up behind me and uttered two words: "It's ON."

Oh dear, I have created a Clark Griswold style monster.

Mystery Solved, Mystery Discovered

For my scintillating Friday night offering, I'm going to talk about laundry.  I know, fascinating.

As I was tossing a load into the washer, I caught myself, yet again, silently cursing the activity.  In the same moment, I realized my frustration was more pronounced than in the past.  Not that I've ever loved doing laundry, but I usually don't notice it beyond the fact that it's another thing I need to get done.  But my ire was raised.  Why?

And then I figured it out.  I hate laundry in the winter.  The clothes are... more.  Long sleeves, more pants, heavier material, and sock, oh heavens, the socks.  There are a million times more socks now than in the summer.  And everything is inside out and therefore more difficult to get folded and put away.

I'm sure you're all going, "Duh, Julie.  You are the master of the obvious."  Well, yes, yes, I am.

I'd also like to mention my daughter is the queen of the mysterious stain.  I pulled a first time worn, first time washed pair of pink leggings out of the washer and noticed that the seat and crotch were blue.  BLUE.  Why?  Did she sit in paint?  She said no, and I'm inclined to believe she would remember.  Has she been squashing smurfs with her tush?  I have no idea.

You've probably figured out what my kickoff to the weekend has been.   It's all party, all the time around here.

I Did It

I'm totally stealing that title from Temerity Jane.

Whew.  Thanksgiving 2 is in the books.  It went rather well, with sincere compliments on my turkey from my perennially teasing brother in law and no one getting food poisoning (that I know of, fingers crossed).  There was an incident of some plastic wrap making its way into my oven, but I caught it before it caught fire and I was able to restore the oven to proper operating condition.  And my sister in law found it necessary - again - to bring marshmallow shooters with which the children covered my backyard - and their shoes - in a sticky mess.  But this year, they cleaned it up, so win. 

No one actually tracked marshmallow goo across my carpet.  This is a miracle.

Now, the kitchen is clean, the leftovers (copious amounts, so please come over and eat - we have more than just turkey and mashed potatoes I swear) are neatly packed into the fridge and freezer, and the carpets have been vacuumed (maybe I'm a tad obsessive, but I just had them cleaned for the first time in [redacted] years because I am cheap).  The house is decorated for Christmas (save the kids' tree, which we'll put up... sometime), so a big chunk of my early December work is done.  And today is the last day of November, which means I made it through a whole month of blog posts.  I really didn't think it would happen this year.

Time to turn the calendar.  Time to finish the shopping, mail the cards, and get festive.  And time to get that darned elf out from under my bed so he can bring some stinkin' delight to my kids.  I'm excited.  Let's go.

I Love You Tube

Last week, I was cleaning my master bathroom, which is the farthest point away from my laundry room, where I keep all the cleaners.  So I use a bucket carrier thingy to shuttle my various chemicals, rags, brushes, and the like through the house to where I need them.  And for some reason, I set the bucket down on the (carpeted floor) when I normally put it on a table or in the bathtub.  I think I'd noticed the bottom of the bucket was slightly damp, and I didn't want to make a water ring anywhere, so I plopped it down on the floor.  Brilliant move.

Some time later, I was walking down the hall from 1 bathroom to the other carrying a spray bottle of something strong to knock out germs when I noticed the bottle had a tiny tear near the base and was leaking.  And leaving a trail of bleach spots in the carpet along the way.  I stopped breathing for several seconds.  Then my blood ran cold.  The bucket.  I picked it up and sure enough, it wasn't water making the bottom damp, it was leaking cleaner.  Which left a giant bleach spot in my carpet.  THAT'S when I had the heart attack.

One of my bad attitude triggers (OK, crazy harpy triggers) is when things are broken or damaged due to neglect, irresponsibility, or general stupidity.  I try really hard not to bark at my kids when they destroy things, but I also try to impress the point about taking care of their things (and my things, because more often than not, my things are the things destroyed).  But in this case, it's all me.  And I feel like a prize idiot. 

You see, I hate our carpet.  We installed it 6 years ago, and it has worn out way too quickly and is stained beyond all imagination by the 2 hooligans running around.  But I didn't want to get new carpet (or flooring because I don't know what I want to do next) this way.  And I CERTAINLY don't want to spend that kind of money right now.  But bleach, man, I don't know how you fix that.

I stopped by a flooring store just to price out the situation.  Good gravy, that's a horrible option.

I tried to live with it, cover it up best I could.  But those bleach spots we calling to me, taunting me, making my hate my bedroom.  No bueno.

I bought hair dye.  I figured it works on hair and doesn't wash out with repeated exposure to shampoo, so maybe?  Is this thinking out of the box?  Or just plain crazy?

And then I gave into desperation and typed "repair bleach spots carpet" into my good friend, Google.  I really didn't think I had a prayer of finding anything, save a few memes of people laughing hysterically at the imbecile staring at the screen.  But several links popped up and I started checking them out.  The first You Tube video showed someone cutting out sections of carpet to physically replace them, and no, not gonna happen even if this wasn't 6 year old carpet and I had a surplus to make swatches (actually, I would consider this if a professional did it, just not me).  And then I found a 2 minute little movie that showed someone using first red dye, then blue, and it totally blended into the beige carpet.  Hey, I have beige carpet!  Could it be this simple?

So I went to Walmart (2nd trip of the day, woohoo!) and picked up the dye (along with a bottle of brown because what if I turned the carpet purple).  And this morning, I mixed up my solutions, said a prayer, and gave it a shot. 

I will say 2 things.  Forget the spray bottle approach, because that stuff is just going to go everywhere (it only took 1 squirt and another minor heart attack for me to ditch this method).  I switched to one of the kids' paintbrushes for better control.  And secondly, I don't think the red dye step was necessary.  I did try it first (the resulting spray bottle heart attack), but the bleach spots were already orangey without it, and that was the point of the step (something something color theory whatever).  So I just dabbed a tiny bit of the (heavily watered down) blue onto a small drop spot, blotted with a rag, and... the spot was gone.  And it wasn't blue. It just disappears.  Whoa.  WHOA BABY.

I systematically dabbed at the other spots, and they disappeared, too!  Then I moved on to the 2 bigger areas, and pretty much blended them right away as well. Now the largest spot was where I'd sprayed the red first, and it still has a orange tinge to me, but it's so much better and I can work on it later anyway.  I'm just shocked that it worked.  Look.

Before (isn't that a cute little ruination):

And after:

(I still need to vacuum, sorry.)


I didn't adjust or filter anything except the size of the photos.  I realize it might not be perfect, but the bleach spots aren't taunting me anymore, and although I will never forget my supreme stupidity, I can live with this and I don't have to run out and re-carpet the house.  I am THRILLED.  And I'm not gonna lie, I feel a little bit like a rock star today.

So I got from phoning it in to hundred of words about bleach and carpet.  It's simply scintillating around here.  Perhaps tomorrow I'll write about getting my teeth cleaned.

Placeholder

My apologies.  I have nothing left today.  This is the first day of fall vacation / Thanksgiving holiday / let's give the gives a whole week off to throw the parents into a tizzy, which coincides with my plan to start scouring the house for guests this weekend (I couldn't start earlier or the other house occupants would muck it up again).  So, it's after 8:30, the kids are running around like Pygmy savages, and I'm elbow deep in the remains of a carton of ice cream.  But the kitchen is clean (including the floor, which I scrubbed on my hands and knees with magic erasers - hey, Mr. Clean, let's make a magic eraser mop, OK?), as there is a tablecloth on the dining room table, and I can check off all the boxes on my list for today.  Now, please excuse me while I snarf down this ice cream.  I have to prepare for my attack on the bathrooms tomorrow.

Neighborhood Watch

I am a nice person.  It’s incredibly hard for me to say no (my kids will vehement declare me a liar).  So here I am, watching our neighbor kid after school this week.  I really don’t mind all that much, and I’m glad to be a helpful neighbor type person (like me, like me, like me!), but it’s still hard.

The trick is that we have appointments or places to be almost every day this week, so he has to tag along.  Today was the dentist.  Now, things didn’t go quite so well for my own son (that’ll be Dentist, Take 2: Cavity Boogaloo), but I did get a random compliment from a stranger that the kids I left in the lobby (just for a few moments at a time) were very well behaved.  My response?  “Thank you. And today is…special.”  Yeah, special.

There's something exhausting about having another boy in the house.  They all seem to feed off and amplify each other’s energy, and suck any energy I happen to have right out of me.  They are constantly asking (no, that’s not right – demanding) food.  And the yelling.  Usually in excitement, but still.  The volume makes me worry for the glassware in the house.

It’s gonna be a long week.

I’m Thinking Surprise Car Next

While Hub & I were off on our long-planned vacation, my parents watched the kids & our house. At some point, I asked my dad to pick up a loaf of bread & stick it in the freezer so I’d have something to make sandwiches with when I got home.  I did not realize what this request would trigger.

We have a bright, shiny, fancy new freezer in our garage.

When Dad brought the bread I requested over, he took 1 look inside our freezer & probably rolled his eyes so hard they nearly popped out.  See our freezer has a lot of ice buildup in it, so it looks a little bit like a snow cave with a bunch of food stuffed inside it.  There are many reasons for this. One, I am too lazy to bother with a proper defrost (as I have nowhere to go with the food during said process).  Two, there have been a couple of instances when the freezer has tried to defrost itself (also read as: some other member of this household forgot to close the door properly and things started to melt), but I was able to catch it in time, which led to drippy water refreezing into blocks of ice, trapping food inside forever & ever. And three, I am a notorious sale shopper, so when I find a good deal, I will buy it ALL & shove it in the freezer until I remember to use it (also read as: a cold day in Hades).

It just so happens that my folks were in the market for a new freezer, & since my kids think the hardware store is just as much fun as an amusement park, they all went appliance shopping. Dad found a model he liked, & somewhere in the conversation he had with the salesman (& manager & whoever else was there, maybe the delivery guy), he made a deal to buy TWO freezers at discount & have 1 delivered to my house.

Well, OK then.

I really had no intention of getting a new freezer since the 1 I had still, you know, freezes things, but I’m not going to turn one away, especially when it’s coming right to my door & the old one taken away with me lifting nary a finger.

OK, I had to lift a finger.  There was a lot of food to shuttle between freezers.  Hello, my name is Julie & I’m a food hoarder.

The delivery guys (& my dad) were in my garage when I got back from dropping off Sabrina & had already started unloading the food into coolers (thank you, Delivery Guys, because I’m pretty sure that wasn’t part of the deal).  I got quite a lot of ribbing for having so many waffles (hey, it’s 1 of the few food groups I can consistently get in my kids; therefore, I have WAFFLES) & a 2X4 in the old freezer. Yes, a 2x4 made of wood from a tree.  No, I did not intend to cook it (although if my kids would eat it…).  It was holding up a shelf that I broke trying to bust some of the ice buildup off with a giant mallet (I am both inventive and stupid). But they kindly took the old freezer off to the farm where it will live out its days and now I have a brand new HUGE freezer that I can stuff full of MORE FOOD. Hub will love me for saying that.

The new freezer beeps if the door has been left open too long.  I love this feature, at least going forward, but hey, Freezer, chill out with the chirping every coupla minutes while I’m trying to get all the food in you. I do not need passive aggression from an appliance, thankyouverymuch.

Truth is, I’m giddily excited to have a new toy. I’ve lost count of how often I’ve gone out into the garage to see what the temperature gauge tells me.  I can see everything that’s inside, & I don’t have to chip away at an ice block to get anything out.  SO MUCH SPACE. Yes, I am a suburban mom cliché. But I love it.

Thanks, Mom & Dad, for this unexpected but oh-so-useful gift.  I promise to fill it with healthy things to feed the kids & to hide the leftover Halloween candy in the back.

Screamin' in the Rain

Me, in attempt #9,431 to calm my terrified child: “Sabrina, you know the thunder can’t hurt you.”

Sabrina, sniffling back tears: “…yes.”

Me: “You remember your favorite Kelly Clarkson song? You know how it says what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Her: “Uh huh.”

Me: “Well, will the thunder kill you?”

Her: “No.”

Me: “So, the thunder makes you…”

Her: “Scared!”

Y’all, this spring is going to do me in. We’re still in the process of fixing the house after the hailstorm/tornado 2 months ago.  I mean, we’re still wading through the 10,000 pounds of flyers roofers have left at our door.  But the greatest casualty of that day is Sabrina’s fearlessness.  Now, at the first clap of thunder, or really even the first pitter patter of raindrops, she melts into a puddle of fear, and starts crying and asking if it’s hail again, and screams at every subsequent clap and boom.

A thunderstorm rolled in this afternoon around 3:30, just as we got to my parents’ house for a playdate with their cousins.  I don’t think my folks really believed the storied I’d told them about Sabrina’s reactions to precipitation lately, but they sure do now.  Because she proceeded to quiver and shriek for the entire 2 hours she was there.  (Well, almost.  There was a little break to do some booty shaking and air guitar to some old school rock ‘n’ roll in the garage, a welcome respite for sure.)  And for the next 3 hours through dinner and the rest of the evening until bedtime.  I spent my reserves ages ago, and I will sheepishly admit to giving her a little Benadryl to help her sleep (and to help her runny nose, so there was some medicinal reason for it).  She is also wearing earmuffs to drown out the sound.  I hope she sleeps.  She needs it so much.  As do I.  I cannot handle getting up every few minutes to calm an hysterical child when this rain continues all night as forecast.

I know part of this is my fault (I mean, the rest of the blame goes to nature, so lodging that complaint won't be very effective).  When the storm hit, I tried very hard to hold it together, but bad weather is one of my fear triggers (hello, trauma from watching a tornado out the hatchback of a station wagon at age 6), and I know I lost it a bit when we were stuffed into a closet listening to hail hit the roof like mortar shells.  Even if I did keep up a brave face, that little activity had to have an effect on her.  It breaks my heart to see her like this, but it’s frustrating as well, because she knows very well that thunder and rain can’t hurt her, and yet she can’t stop crying over it.  I am at a loss.  She’ll outgrow this one of these days, just like everything else, and we’ll look back on these days and maybe chuckle.  But until then, if you have any idea how to calm her fears, I sure would appreciate them, because I am OUT.

I’m not wishing for another drought, exactly, but this particular rain event could stop any minute, please.

I Can See the Stars through my Ceiling

Oh good gravy, y’all. This has been a DAY. You know, let’s just say I’m not particularly fond of what 2012 has offered me so far. It can go ahead and perk the heck up.

I was enjoying a child-free lunch reading the internets and listening to a Grey’s Anatomy repeat over my shoulder when my mom called to commiserate over the news, specifically the weather reports of doom coming over the airwaves. Surely, I thought, in my happy zen, this was overstatement or something happening out in the country, la la la, can’t hear you. Eventually, I changed the channel over to the local midday news, and I thought I’d accidentally turned on Twister. I mean, I was expecting a flying cow in the picture I saw. And they kept mentioning the name of my town in the storm path. Was that really necessary?

I called my mom back, but I wasn’t really into stunning conversation at that point because I all could say was, “Holy crap.”

Still hoping to be well over on the better safe than sorry side of things, I decided to go ahead and pick Sabrina up from preschool a little early, what with the storm tracker saying we’d get hit with the rain and hail when I was supposed to be in the carpool line. She was in the middle of a tornado drill, poor thing. Because when you’re 3, a tornado drill involves lot s of singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She started to cry when she saw me, not because she was scared, but because I was taking her home early. Tough luck, Kid.

We came home, and I set her up on the couch where we could keep an eye on the reports, which kept listing our town smack in the middle of the storm path. I kept waiting for it to veer off, but no. Each report, a more specific time estimation of when we’d get pelted. And all of the sudden, that minute was upon us, and it was like the war had begun. I put Sabrina n the hall closet (the safest place without windows and on an inside wall) and tried to watch a little more. But it just got louder and louder, and I got sufficiently scared to join her, radio on my lap.

I shut the door when the power went out, and we prayed.

It felt like an eternity, but it probably wasn’t all that long. It doesn’t take too long to inflict significant damage anyway. When things started to quiet down, I crept out to see the nightmare I’d had since we bought this house had finally come true: the skylight in the living room was busted. So was the one in the bathroom. I hate those skylights.

I made Sabrina stay put while I bustled around, trying to figure out what to do and trying to get someone, anyone, on the phone. I broke down with my husband a little, and then again with my brother because it was just too much to take, and I didn’t know if we were going to get hit again. I did manage to come to enough sense to disconnect the computer and TV and move them to drier rooms (yes, I lifted that behemoth TV all by myself out of sheer terror and adrenaline). I took the matters cover off Sabrina’s bed and spread it over the carpet beneath the shattered skylight. I tried to figure out when the school would release Sammy. Luckily, my neighbor finally got through to tell me I could get him, and she graciously walked over to stay with Sabrina while I went to get my boy. He was standing in the gym with one of his teachers, bawling his eyes out, and it broke my heart. But then the teacher told me he’d actually done really well during the storm and that he was crying because I was late to pick him up. He corroborated her story by yelling at me the entire walk home.

Thankfully, my folks came to bring us tarps and whisk the kids away for an unexpected slumber party. I got to cleaning up the inside while Chris covered the holes and went o help the neighbors do the same. And I even called the insurance company because we are probably going to need a new roof just 6 months after we replaced the old one.

The news is saying a tornado hit our town. I am awed and breath-taken that this all went on (also, hoping it was officially a tornado because that is a much bigger honor badge to earn and it means the insurance deductible should be smaller). I know it could have been so much worse, but in the moment, it was bad enough. I tried to be strong for my girl, but I also didn’t want to lie and I did let her see my fear a little, and I’m OK with that. If my daughter has learned that tornadoes and hail the size of whiffle balls scare her mommy, that’s true and fair. Mother Nature can be a ballbuster for sure.

There is more to clean up, more to fix, more to argue about with the insurance company, but not tonight. Tonight, I have self-medicated with pizza and cheesecake, and I’ll be thankful we are all safe to celebrate the 4^th birthday of the most terrific little girl in the world when the sun comes up.

(There was actually a LOT more giant hail, but I didn't get outside to take pictures until an hour after the storm.)