Over And Away

Yesterday, I had to choose.

I had to choose between writing a nice blog post and my laundry.

Talk about Sophie's Choice.

And, out of sheer desperation - and the fact that every article of clothing I own was currently covered in breast milk, not to mention all our sheets, towels, cloth diapers, etc. - I had to choose the laundry.

Not that it mattered much because I still have two loads to fold because Ella, my angel and precious daughter (but man, does the girl have bad timing!) decided to snack at my breast from 4 p.m. until bed-time, leaving me pretty much worthless.

So, there. I chose laundry. And I still have laundry to fold and no blog post to show for it.

(I'm so never choosing housework over you all again.)

Thankfully, today you can read another book review of mine over at BlogHer. I'm reviewing the novel Getting to Happy! Check it out!

***

Happy Weekend, everyone!

The January Itch

I didn't make New Year's Resolutions this year.

Frankly, I'm over the idea of them.

Sure, I have goals, but I'm not exactly in my normal OCD groove, which often forces me into completing some sort of inane check-list by the time the bells toll 2012.

Plus, this year, I'm having a baby. And successfully birthing said baby and then caring for said baby is one heckuva a resolution.

That, really, is all I'm focusing on for 2011.

Still, I can't help but get swept away by the promise of the New Year.

Maybe it's an early burst of nesting.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm starting to feel like my second trimester is belatedly offering me a brief glimmer of hope and energy in the middle of what has been a rather bed-ragged pregnancy.

Maybe it's simply the fact that, because I refused to write down an itemized list of resolutions this year, an inexorable force is bursting forth from my pores, begging to be listened to.

But I can't help but get a little bit of a January itch.

I want my house cleaner than ever before.

I want to plan three weeks worth of scrumptious meals that I will effortlessly put on the table every night.

I want to organize my linen closet within an inch of it's life.

And by golly, I want to bust out my label-maker and re-do all the organizational cubbies on that darn artist's desk of mine.

It's too early to be spring-cleaning, but I definitely want to spruce my life up.

While many women are hitting the gym, swearing they'll fit into their skinny jeans, I'm enviously eye-ing a beautiful closet organizational system I saw that is tailored for a nursery.

No sooner does that sonographer tell me "It's a Boy/Girl!" will I be rushing home, pulling up my beautifully saved "Need for Baby" computer bookmarks, and buying that sucker in a resulting pink or green color, which, God willing, I will have effortlessly matched to the rest of my organized-within-an-inch-of-its-life baby decor.

Still, since I've got a few weeks before I can scratch that itch, I distracted myself by spending several hours yesterday shopping at Costco, buying enough bulk organic meat and grain products to take us through a nuclear holocaust.

Returning home, I spent almost 90 minutes fastidiously labeling individual packages of meat and oatmeal, which I stacked in my freezer and fridge in the exact order I planned on using them for the next month, per my meal plans I'd drawn up the night before.

Chicken breasts have never been so organized.

Later, I finished packing away our Christmas decorations, but not before typing up itemized inventories, which I slipped into each corresponding Rubbermaid box full of ornaments, garland, and twinkly lights.

By the end of 2011, when I re-open the boxes again, holding a 6 month old and covered in spit-up breast milk, I'm probably going to hate myself for that.

But the January itch in me couldn't be quieted.

So, for now, I'm organizing. I'm label-making.

I've designed a calendar system that should be able to keep even the most unaware of people in this household - i.e., my husband - right on track.

No resolutions for this girl. No, sirree.

Just a good old-fashioned dose of New Year's OCD.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

And So It Begins

My father vacuums with a vengeance.

He scoots under tables, moves chairs, and flings rugs with a power the likes of which many have never seen.

Dog hair, bread crumbs, and lost buttons don't stand a chance when they cross his path.

He's The Vacuum Man.

It's a gift, really. I've never seen a man clean quite like it. After all, when the mess really calls for it, he's not afraid to break out the big guns: His Shop-Vac.

That thing could suck up a watermelon; it leaves nothing in its wake.

My father loves it.

I have early memories of my father, on his hands and knees, crawling throughout the family car in his paint-spattered shirt and shorts.

Shot-Vac-ing his heart out.

That's my dad, leaving no stone un-turned and no dust un-sucked.

It was always a given in my young life. At any moment, my father could be found lying on the floor, watching M.A.S.H., or Shot-Vac-ing loose dog hair off the family golden retriever.

He had deep-cleaning purpose and made no apologies for it.

That was - and, really, still is - my father.

And, as of late, it's me, too.

These days, instead of looking in the mirror and seeing my mother, the reflection has changed.

Genders, that is.

Against all odds, I have become my father.

Because just yesterday, I found myself crawling. On my hands and knees. In the kitchen. Hair askew, wearing pants splattered with old scrap-booking glue.

Dust-busting.

Dust-busting my 20-something heart out.

Using my hand-held, dog-hair-sucking device, I whipped about, pulling grit and dirt off the floor as if by sheer will. And having a darn good time doing it, too.

source

I love that little vacuum. On almost any day of the week, you can find me on all fours, Dust-busting my baseboards.

I sweep the kitchen up and suck up the pile of dirt with my hand-held best friend. I vacuum crumbs from our couches with it. And, once in a great while, I go straight to the source:

I've actually been known to "brush" Marvin the Dog with the Dust-Buster, just like my father, our old family dog, and his trusty Shot-Vac many years before.

These days, my Dust-Buster is like my right-hand man, an extension of myself, a necessity in my battle against dust, dirt, and the soot my husband manages to traipse in from who-knows-where.

Be still my beating heart, but I've never felt like this before about a simple appliance.

I also have a vacuum, a broom, and a Swiffer - most of which have served me well over the years. (Though the Swiffer and I have a tumultuous relationship - I'm never quite sure what, and if, it's actually cleaning.)

But this? This little red Dirt Devil? This I love. Love love love.

Love so much that I'll crawl on my hands and knees to get at eye level with the beauty of this device's precise suctioning abilities.

Call me crazy, but I've embraced it.

I've embraced the fact that I take enjoyment in sucking up dog hair. I've embraced the fact that it was the best $27 I ever spent. I've embraced the fact that this does, in fact, make me an old fogey who can actually list "Dust-busting" as a hobby.

And, when all is said and done, I've also embraced the fact that I've become just like my father.

Attached at the hip to my vacuum of choice and loving it.

Viva la Suction!

***

Note: I received no compensation for this post. I simply love my Dirt Devil, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

A Little Follow-Through

Sometimes, I feel like I leave you all hanging around here.

I bring up an issue, rant and rave, and then never tell you what becomes of it.

Case in point: The Saga Of the Dryer With No On-Off Knob.

Lest we forget my emotional breakdown about the dryer my husband bought me when we moved, which lacked a knob with which I could turn on the apparatus, and thus, required me to use a wrench every time I wanted to dry a load of wet laundry, here's the whole story.

However, my friends, you should now know that the knob problem is no more. Because, as of just last week, I can now turn my dryer on and off without the use of a toolbox.

We are living in the lap of luxury around here.

My husband took a field trip to Ace Hardware last weekend and purchased a new, generic knob. Which, praise God, worked.

He really spoils me, that man of mine.

To celebrate, I lit a small fire and charred the aforementioned "Dryer Wrench."

***

Still, not everything is working around here as it should be.

Remember my broken Blackberry? The one I was toting around in a plastic bag because I refused to go get it fixed it?

Yeah, well, turns out, I did go get it fixed a while back.

But, then, the next day, I dropped it again and cracked the screen right down the middle.

That was a month ago.

And, yes, it is still sporting that crack today. Because I'm just classy like that.

But tonight, my husband is taking me to the cell phone store and finally replacing the broken Blackberry, as our plan is up, and we can now get the new phone for, basically, free (with a darned two-year renewal of course. Honestly, I really think these cell phone companies are the spawn of Satan. I hate signing my life away to them two years at a time.)

Still, in the end, it was totally worth it to walk around with a broken phone for the last several months. After all, we saved a good $100.

Because, when it comes down to it, we're cheap. Or, as I like to say, frugally thrifty. Just because it sounds classier.

***

On a more social note, I am, in fact, being more social.

Despite my earlier whining about not knowing a soul around here, I have met several wonderful friends now, some with children and some without.

And, honestly, I've been doing a happy, "Thank the Lord" dance every time I think about it.

I've gone shopping with them; I've had dinners out with them; I've driven to the town over to help a friend pick up her broken-down car with them.

We text and chat and fold our laundry in groups. (I'm not kidding. I was invited to a "laundry party" just this week.)

Be still my beating heart. I have Navy-wife girlfriends!

***

At this point in time, my husband would like to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog post to tell you all that the "other woman" currently in our marriage - his new flat-screen T.V. - is not actually a full 60-inches in width, as I may have intimated in a previous post. It's just more than 50 inches across.

I'm sure you all feel better now that that's been rectified.

***

And, last but not least, I hope you all remember how we learned our beloved Marvin the Dog suddenly developed ESP when faced with various torture methods, such as a bath.

Well, apparently, his genius continues to manifest, much to my amazement.

Because just a few days ago, I was unloading groceries, when I realized I couldn't find Marvin.

Figuring he'd gone for a frolic in the front yard, via the open front door, I walked outside and into our carport.

And there, I found this:
Apparently, my dog now thinks he can drive.

Godspeed, Marvin. Godspeed.

***

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend! And don't forget to enter my bracelet giveaway! This weekend is your last chance!

The Mind-Reading Beast

I've owned Marvin the Dog for more than three years.
And in all the years I've known and loved the big mutt, I've never thought he had much going on between his big, old floppy ears.

Plainly put, he's a little bit dumb, that puppy of mine.

I know, I know. I'm a horrible doggy mommy. I just called my one and only child stupid.

But the thing is, he is. He absolutely, positively is.

Take, for instance, his reaction to his bodily functions:

The dog farts/toots/passes wind, then startles himself with it, causing him to turn around and see what/where that noise came from.

Yes, that's right. My dog actually scares himself with his own farts.

Not to mention that he also scares himself by standing in the direct line of the vacuum and venturing anywhere near large garbage bags, chihuahuas, crying babies, folded down metal futons, fluttering magazines, mommies pushing strollers, Chinese take-out, laser lights, and wilted lettuce.

I know this because, when any of the above happens anywhere near him, he either a) barks, b) whimpers, c) hides between my legs, d) shakes violently, or e) all of the above.

If he had eyesight good enough to spot it, Marvin the Dog would be scared of his own shadow.

Not to mention the fact that his only trick is to "shake" hands, which he also does if you ask him to "sit," "stay," "lie down," "roll over," or "speak" - all tricks he learned at one time or another.

But no.

His urge to shake hands with you has him so overwhelmed that upon getting any and all commands, he begins to shake both hands in the air violently, as if he's attempting to swim. In a seated position.

Dunce cap? Party of one?

That's my Marvin.

Thank goodness he's pretty and love-able and patient as all get out.

Because otherwise, the poor pup would have nothing going for him.

Or so I thought.

Because, just this past Sunday, Marvin possessed an intelligence that I've not seen among most human beings...

Now, to preface this story, it has to be said, Marvin the Dog may be quite the chicken. But he's scared of nothing more than the B-word.

Yes, that's right. Dare you utter the dreaded term "bath" in his presence, and he's gone. He'll climb the walls to get away from you, the mere mention of "bath" sets him off just that much.

So, to prevent sheer panic on Bath Day, the hubs and I have taken to treating Marv like a hyper-active toddler and spelling all words in his presence.

"Babe, today, I'm going to give the D-O-G a B-A-T-H because he's D-I-R-T-Y."

But the deceit doesn't end there.

Because then, like any good toddler, Marvin can sense the unspoken signs, as well.

So, to cope with that, we've developed a system wherein one of us grabs him and walks him outside, just like he's about to go on the average, everyday stroll - a favorite pastime of his.

Meanwhile, the other spouse, seeing the dog-empty house as the opportune time, makes a mad-dash about, grabbing the towels, the dog shampoo, the flea-and-tick medicine, and the puppy brush.

By the time Marvin sees one parent emerging from the house ensconced in bath gear, it's too late for the poor thing to make his escape, and he just tucks his tail between his leg and takes it like a man. (Shaking all the while, mind you.)

It's worked for years. In fact, it's worked so well that I managed to do it by myself while my husband was away. Marvin and I never missed a bath.

Until Sunday, when my husband, after carefully spelling out the game plan for the B-A-T-H, decided he'd grab Marvin and take him outside while I went around the house grabbing his bath buddies for his first bath in our South Carolina home.

So, the hubs got the dog leash - a surefire sign that Marvin is about to get a walk and a guaranteed trick to get him running at full speed toward you.

But, this time, it didn't work.

Marvin sat in the living room, avoiding eye contact with the hubs.

So, then, the hubs coaxed him, using his "Come here, buddy!" voice and a treat in hand.

Nothing. Nada. Marvin wouldn't budge.

Finding it a little odd, but not totally giving up, the hubs came into the living room, where Marvin had remained sitting at my feet.

After all, Marvin is technically "my dog," meaning he'll heed my call and follow me around the house all day long over his dad almost any day. He goes to bed when I do, eats when I do, sits in each room as I do. He follows behind me as I clean, cook, and blog. And, if I remain in one place long enough, he promptly lays down at my feet there, too.

He's my baby.

So, the hubs, knowing this, went into the living room, stood by me, and beckoned. I got up and joined in, trying to lend the old guy support.

But still, nothing.

Marvin wasn't going anywhere.

In fact, he wasn't even looking at us. And his head was down and his ears were back, and - yes, there it was - he was beginning to shake.

It was as if he knew.

It's as if he had picked up on our clean-dog thoughts or something that very morning.

Still, not one to bestow psychic abilities on our idiot dog, we wouldn't take "No" for an answer.

So, using my stern "Mommy Dog Voice," I grabbed Marv by the collar and said seriously, "Come! Outside!"

But, still, he made no attempt to acquiesce and come along.

In fact, instead, he braced against me, pushing his paws into the ground so he could remain prone on the carpet.

I tugged harder.

He braced harder.

I tugged firmer.

He braced firmer.

My obedient baby was rebelling.

And, for no good reason, unless he'd somehow learned how to spell in the last month of this life.

So, the hubs, being considerably larger than me, tried next.

Due to sheer strength, he managed to raise 85-pounds of deadweight dog to its feet.

But that was where his success ended.

Because no matter how hard he tugged, he couldn't get Marv to walk through the living room and out the door to the back porch.

His tale was tucked firmly between his legs; his eyes were downcast. His stance was resolute, just like he was staging a Sit-In.

He might as well have been chanting, "Heck no! We won't go!"

That Marv was putting up a good fight.

If it hadn't been so gosh-darn annoying, it would have been cute.

Finally, the hubs lost his patience and garnered enough strength to pick up poor Marv and carry him right out to the hose outside the house.

Where, promptly, the bath commenced, while Marv stood there, forlornly, letting a big, old doggy sigh escape, as if to say, "I put up a good fight, but now, I must surrender. Too many lives have already been lost in this Battle of the Bath."

Which means, thankfully, we won. Our doggy parenting streak is still going strong.

But still, after it was all said in done, the hubs and I were both stumped.

We sat there, trying to figure out how he knew, how he'd figured out, minutes before we pulled out the soap and hose, he was going to get a bath that very afternoon.

We never said the B word. Heck, we never mentioned it's associates - water, clean, hose - either.

So what was it? Had Marvin finally honed any intelligence he originally had, giving him the ability to read minds? Bestowing on him some sort of doggy ESP?

Maybe he'd been playing us for the fool the entire time? Was our dog secretly some kind of savant? A dog in sheep's clothing? A genius of grander proportions than we could have ever thought possible?

Or is he simply a dog who learned how to S-P-E-L-L?

***

I've always thought that dog instinct was so much more well-honed than human instinct. And perhaps that's how he figured this all out. He sensed, in our pheromones and tone of voices, our intent to bathe him.

Or perhaps that's still giving the old dunce to much credit.

The world may never know.

***

Happy Tuesday!

Yard of the Month

My parents moved into their current home about 11 years ago.

And from that my point on, my father had a clear-cut goal:

Our house was going to win the homeowner association's coveted title of "Yard of the Month."

So the man cut and clipped and planted and sewed. He sodded and watered and trimmed and mowed.

He put his heart and soul into that yard, and...

Nothing.

He watched neighbor after neighbor wake up to find the treasured "Yard of the Month" sign stuck in their lawn, all while scoffing, "Look at that uneven trim! And their hedges? We have much fuller hedges than they do!"

Month after month of gardening glory with no title to show for it? It stung.

My dad was like a pageant girl without a crown.

Worse yet, his humiliation hit an all-time low when his own sons - my two younger brothers - began mowing and clipping neighborhood lawns to make extra cash one summer.

Within weeks of starting their own business, the yards they worked on were also named "Yard of the Month."

The grasshoppers had become the teacher, and my father's bromeliads hadn't been given so much as a passing glance by the powers-that-be at the homeowner's association.

The poor man was livid.

And he only grew more so as years passed.

He wielded his lawn shears with venom; he mowed with an intensity that would put John Deere to shame. Fertilizer became his middle name.

Until, finally, one December about four years ago, Dad walked out the front door to go to work.

And saw it.

The little metal sign, proudly emblazoning "Yard of the Month," in his own front lawn.

No one was around to witness the discovery, so we can't be sure, but I'd wager, in that moment, the man did a little heel click of glee, he was so happy.

Soon after, we all started to receive phone calls.

Having moved away years before, I answered the call from my father with just enough time to hear him yell, "I HAVE EXCELLENT NEWS!"

My heart immediately leaped, and the guessing game began.

"Did Brett [my brother] get accepted into the Naval Academy?" (We found out later that he did.)

My Dad replied with a curt, "No. Better."

"Did you get a big raise or promotion?"

Again, Dad said, "No."

"Are you and Mom buying a bigger house/a car/getting another dog?"

I kept asking, and he kept replying with "No, no, no." Then he up-ed the ante by adding the line, "It's something even better than all that."

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. After a small, dramatic pause, he blurted out, "I GOT 'YARD OF THE MONTH!' VICTORY IS MINE!"

My resulting laughter was probably insulting to his green thumb.

But I couldn't help it. And he didn't much care.

He'd summitted his Everest, and all it took was a yard sign.

Still, we celebrated. Days later, I came home to visit for Christmas, bringing several friends with me. They gave him a standing ovation when he walked in the door.

We all patted him on the back and joked about taking pictures of him with the sign.

My mother may have even bought him a new garden hose and hanging perennial to celebrate.

Then, we moved on.

And four years later, it's never come back. The glory days have never returned.

The man's never won again.

His moment in the spotlight has passed.

Until now.

Because just yesterday, I returned to our new home after taking Marvin the Dog out for a walk, and I found a neighborhood newsletter stuck to my front door.

It was a bulletin, peppered with family events going on throughout our neighborhood on the naval base.

There's a family picnic going on tonight, and post-natal personal training classes starting in one week (taught by yours truly.) There's reminders about what day maintenance picks up yard clippings and trash. And there's warnings to keep neighborhood dogs on leashes at all times, for the safety of the small children that seem to be everywhere.

And, at the very end of the bulletin, lay one more note of interest:

Yard of the Month Competition Begins Now!
Winning family will receive a $25 gift card to restaurant of choice.
Good Luck!

For not being much of a gardener, I have to admit, my interest was peaked.

Since the Navy mows our lawns for us, winning this thing shouldn't be harder than planting a few annuals and purchasing a few yard flags, right?

Well, bring it on.

I have a family name to defend.

Time to bring the title back home.

Now somebody pass me my lawn shears. I've got a sign to win.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone! Don't miss out on the chance to win $100 gift card on my other blog.

The Requisite House Tour

I tried to ignore you all.

I placated a few of you.

And I gave excuse after excuse.

But it seems I was just putting off the inevitable.

Because, apparently, you all think I'm some sort of interior decorating guru, and y'all just keep insisting to see our new house.

So, fine. I'm giving in.

But let it be known that I warned you: Your expectations are about to be severely crushed.

Unless you're a big fan of small spaces, beige walls, and sub-par photography.

Then? You're welcome.

***
(Click on all photos to enlarge)

First up, I give you, the living room:

This is my favorite part of the room. This is the rocking chair my husband was rocked in as a baby. And behind it lies about one-third of all of my books.

Thanks to the huge window, this is probably my favorite room in our new little house. This room is also the most complete so far, though I'm still working with one blank wall space that needs to be filled.

Still, thanks to my obsession with floral pillows (and Marvin's oh-so-lovely toile dog bed) we did OK in here.

***

Next up, we have the office/guest room:

When I said bad photos, I wasn't kidding.

The office is otherwise known as The Room of His-and-Hers.

His side
My side! How cute is that blogging print, by the way? My lovely friend Michelle over at Stuttering Shell sent it to me. You can find this and similar print's at the KeepCalmShop on etsy.

I refuse to share desk space with my husband. Mostly because I enjoy finding things I set down on my desk. I also have a penchant for keeping office supplies handy and not piled under knots of computer parts and wires.

What can I say? I'm picky.

To cope, I have my side of the room. And he has his side of the room. And never the two shall meet. Unless we both decide to lounge on the futon with our laptops. Which rarely happens, I'll be honest. I do all my good writing in my favorite floral chair.

***

Next, we have the dining room:
This is my favorite place in the house. Because it's girly.

This is my husband's least favorite place in the house. Because it's girly.
But since I'm the girl who cooks the food we eat on that table, he graciously acquiesced to my need for a "pretty" dining area.

Good man.

***

And because we like to have food on our dining room table, up next we have the kitchen:
When you can't remodel, paint the walls, or re-tile the floor, it's hard to say you love a space, especially a kitchen.

So, I'll be honest, I don't love this space.

Plus, my husband's addition doesn't help. Over the fridge, you'll notice an Irish pub clock he insisted on adding to our wedding registry. No one in their right mind bought it for him, however. Until a year after our wedding, when my own mother found it on sale and purchased it for him on his birthday. I almost killed her.

Still, all pub clocks aside, the kitchen has working appliances, and my mother organized the heck out of it, so that makes my heart go pitter-patter. And almost makes up for the darn pub clock.
Plus, it really allows the produce to take center stage. Just look at that watermelon!

***

And, of course, you all have already seen the bedroom, thanks to our ventures into headboard creation just this past weekend:
I'd show you more of the master, but I have to say, it's not done. All we've basically got is a chest of drawers and a big, empty wall, which we desperately need to fill.

My husband lies in bed every night and belabors the point, too.

He mentions repeatedly that he'd like to see me put" "something big. I mean, something really, really big" on the wall facing the bed.

That really helps narrow it down, wouldn't you say?

***

Well, that's pretty much it, my friends. I'd show you the sunroom, but it's basically just an empty porch at the moment, as we've yet to invest in patio furniture - a goal we hope to accomplish by the end of the week.

I'd also show you the bathroom. But it's definitely not exciting. And basically looks like your standard bathroom. Plus, eww! It's the bathroom!

So that's it for now. The Navy base we are living on is currently undergoing construction, which means we will most likely be moving into a new, bigger house next year some time, along with all of our neighbors.

Luckily, we're excited about it.

Because though the thought of moving again in a year's time is stressful, we will then be living in a house with the amount of bedrooms and square footage we were originally assigned per my husband's orders.

If you think I'm happy about finally getting the three-bedroom we were promised, you should see the couple next door with two kids.

Still, just like the standard beige walls, it's all part of the military lifestyle.

We're just blessed to have a roof over our heads.

And a pub clock in the kitchen.

***

Don't forget to head on over to my other blog and enter for a chance to win a $100 gift card.

Happy Tuesday everyone!

The Saga Continues

Remember how, in all the moving chaos, I was a tad bit worried that we wouldn't have a washer-dryer when we got here?

OK, OK. So I wasn't just a tad bit worried.

I was actually freaking out, a la Brittany-style. Because a girl has needs. And one of those needs just happens to be copious amounts of clean clothes.

Unfortunately, the man who bore the brunt of my inner (and outer) turmoil was my husband.

After a minor quarrel over the matter - "If I don't have a washer-dryer when I get there, I'll just die, baby! I'll positively croak from the anxiety of it all!" - he agreed to find me a scratch-and-dent pair at a reasonable price.

And so, in a grand act of chivalry, the man road off on today's version of a white horse - a cell phone - and called around until he found us a humdinger of deal.

I was thrilled.

Until I showed up on Saturday to find a big empty hole in my kitchen, where - it has to be sad - the washer-dryer should have rested.

My husband calmly explained that the washer-dryer he'd found had gas hook-ups. And our new house? It had electric.

I about passed out from the shock.

He only managed to rouse me from my whimpering fetal position by whispering the phrase, "Don't worry, baby. I'm already calling around. I'll find you another one by the end of the weekend."

I came to only because I knew his word was good. And because he knew what would happen to his lovely wife should he fail. (I'm talking cardiac arrest, people. Cardiac arrest.)

He did his thing, calling Craigslist posters and inquiring about the machines they were selling.

And, lightening did strike twice, because he found another steal.

He promptly grabbed my brother and his pick-up truck and raced to the house.

Thirty minutes later, I got a call.

"Babe, we just got there. And even though I just talked to this guy barely 30 minutes ago, he says he just sold it to someone else. They're gone, babe. I'm so sorry, but they're gone."

Standing in the middle of Wal-Mart holding a bath mat, I tried to remain upright. I tried not to think about the 18 loads of laundry I had to do, thanks to the move and the fact that I get freaked out so much by all the packing boxes that I insist on washing all linens and towels - even though they were already ostensibly clean - before placing them in a closet, or, heaven forbid, using them.

Sensing the imminent danger that comes from a silent woman on the verge of a breakdown in a Wal-Mart Super Center, my husband hung up.

And began calling around again, hoping Craigslist wouldn't fail him a third time.

Thankfully, it didn't. The washing angels smiled upon us, and the third time was the charm.

By the time I returned home, there was a washer-dryer sitting in my kitchen.

Bless his little heart.

The men went about hooking it up, while my mother and I debated the best way to cover the rust pock-marks that lay atop the dryer. (In another weird twist on my personality, rust freaks me out. Touching it is all kinds of torture. Ick.)

Finally, my father managed to finish the job, hooking up both washer and dryer and running them through a quick cycle.

They work! we cried. They really work! Thank the Lord! And let the washing begin!

But before I could grab my first load of whites in glee, my dad called me over.

Curious as to what he could possibly need to show me, and ready to retort with a daughterly quip of "Dad, I think I know how to use a washer-dryer. I've been doing my own laundry for about 12 years now," I approached

Then, the man hands me something so curious that my smart-aleck line goes flying right out the window.

I'm so stumped, I don't know what to say.

Because he's handed me a wrench.

I'm standing before my new, albeit slightly used, washer-dryer holding, of all things, a wrench.

I stare at my father, silently seething and holding back the even ruder comment of "Dad, now is not the time to give me a lesson in washer-dryer mechanics. Let me wash something already."

But then he speaks. And points. And tries to remain calm. For my sake, I'm guessing.

"See here? This is where you start the dryer. Notice anything?"

Only then did I look. I mean really, truly look.

And then I saw it.

My dryer had no "Start" nob.

Where there should have been a little dial, there was only a small, protruding nub.

The poor machine had no way to be turned on, or, worse yet, turned off.

I stared in shock.

My father sighed resignedly.

He then moved my hand into a grip-like, wrench-holding position, grabbed the nub protruding from the dryer with the wrench - which I still limply held in my hand - and turned the knob ever so slightly.

After a silent pause that seemed to last a lifetime, we heard it.

The thump and tumble of the inside drum. The whir of heated electricity.

The dryer kicked on.

Which, initially, was a relief.

"Thank God! It still works! Clean sheets for everybody!" I cried.

But then I realized what this all meant...

I have to turn my dryer on with wrench.

Every. Single. Time.

I HAVE TO TURN MY DRYER ON WITH A WRENCH EVERY SINGLE TIME!

In the always poignant, albeit slightly inappropriate, words of my former students, "How ghetto is that?"

I stared in shock. And awe. And then resignation.

What choice did I have?

I nestled the now-beloved key to all clean laundry - the wrench - in a cabinet next to the detergent and dryer sheets, closed the door, and sighed.

A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Now somebody hand me the pliers.

I need to go load the dishwasher.

***

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend! And don't forget to hop on over and enter my Crystal Light Pure Fitness giveaway!

I think he's trying to kill me...

It's started

The end is near.

The world as we know it shall cease to exist.

Operation Pack The House 2010 has begun.

I'm moving in one month, and so, I've started my 30-day preparatory countdown.

Or my Pack-Down, as I like to call it.

Being infinitely anxious and Type-A when it comes to big life changes, I tend to manhandle them into some sort of list form, buzzing through task after task in order to manage my stress and keep my mind off the impending doom that is moving one's entire life from one location to another.

Not that I'm nervous about it or anything.

Not that I've had nightmares about waking up on the morning of the move to find out that the U-Haul we rented won't be big enough to hold all our belongings.

Not this girl. No way.

I'm cool as a cucumber.

Still, just in case, on the off chance something goes wrong, I've created a beautiful six-page master list, with about 18 sub-list addendum and about 48 sticky-note additions.

I carry it around with me constantly throughout the day, ticking things off and writing little notes to myself in the margins.

Then I re-type it all when I get home that evening and sleep with it under my pillow.

Because I'm all kinds of laid-back.

Anyways, last week, I tackled my first item on the list: Pack Living Room.

When moving, I always start in the living room. While I treasure them dearly, I can live without books, DVDs, framed photographs and knick-knacks for a month. So everything comes off the walls and shelves and coffee tables and gets stored away.

Being ever exuberant about packing, I normally whisk around the house afterward, taking all the rest of the photos, art work, and decor down in other rooms, as well.

While bare walls freak me out, packing all that stuff the night before I move would give me a full-blown anxiety attack.

So I get it out of the way early, leaving things like kitchen utensils, clothing, and bathroom amenities until right before the move, in an effort to make sure we're not naked and smelly, sipping cold soup from our cupped hands, weeks before we get to our new house.

It's the little things.

Anyways, back to Step 1: The Living Room.

Last Thursday, in two hours, I managed to neatly pack away all manner of life's luxuries - books, DVDs, a compilation CD of relaxation music I bought once that doesn't actually do a thing to help me relax.

Then I sat down to catch my breathe and figure out how to tackle the final thorn in my living room's side:

My husband's XBox.

It was just sitting there, in the TV cabinet, stored away like it had been for the last three months. The games were as he left them; the little controller thingie shoved in next to his wireless headset just like he liked it.

I glowered at the whole thing.

My nemesis.

The item that makes me want to, at times, set our house on fire, just so it will burn with it.

It's the only thing in the entire world that can turn my sweet, affectionate, attentive husband into a comatose, incoherent man-boy.

I swear, I could walk by him naked, carrying a platter of fried chicken and pound cake, and he'd barely bat an eye while he's playing on that thing.

The XBox and I are not friends.

Granted, we've had a truce for the last three months.

We've both been grieving the lost touch of our loving man, and in that grief, we've managed to co-exist peacefully.

The XBox, nestled in the TV cabinet, and me, lounging on the couch, in the everlasting silence, with a book.

My husband left his gaming system unpacked when he left under the auspices that "others might want to play it, so I don't want to put it away yet. Just pack it in a box when you're packing everything else."

Which was really just man-code for "I'm being lazy, and I just don't wanna," because it wasn't like the dogs and I were at all interested in playing "Kill People A Lot 2.0," or whatever stupid game he was into at the moment.

But I'm not one to dwell.

After all, it's now May, and the time had come.

The XBox had to meet the bottom of a Rubbermaid container, packed away with all it's wires and doodads.

So I sat there, figuring out the best way to approach it, worried I'd turn it on, turn it off, break it, or forget some crucial remote-control-majigger that it needed to run just to my husband's liking.

Being inexperienced in all manner of gaming, I didn't know where to start, so, against my better judgment, I just jumped in.

I grabbed for the remote and shoved it in the box.

Success!

The thing wasn't even plugged in, I thought. It didn't even fight back!

Heck, it didn't even nip at my hand.

I've got this, I thought. XBox, you will be mine!

Spirits bolstered, I began to pick up speed, throwing in remote after headset after game after game case. I was doing really well. I was taking this thing down like it was my job (which, granted, by default, it kind of was.)

And, at long last, all the extra crud was put away, and now, all I had to tackle was the actual gaming console itself.

I unhooked it from approximately 194 wires and placed it in the box.

Huzzah! I cried.

I had officially packed the entire monstrosity. All that was left was the mess of wires that attached the console to the T.V. Or the remotes. Or the headsets. Or my husband's brain. Whatever. I didn't know.

All I could see was a mess of wires.

And they looked important.

Luckily, we Type-As are excellent at tightly winding and binding all manner of wires, so I was ready for the job.

This mountain was almost summited, my friends. I could see the top.

So I gave one wire a tug.

Nada.

I tried another.

Nothing moved.

I tried a third.

Not an inch. Nothing budged.

Only slightly concerned, I grabbed a handful of the wires and began to trace them back behind the T.V. cabinet, where my hand groped around blindly, feeling...feeling...

Chaos.

Absolute and utter chaos.

From what I could tell, my hand met a nest of wires so interwoven and tangled that my poor Type-A heart just about stopped.

What had he done? I muttered.

Instantly, I blamed my husband.

After all, the man actually owns a dresser full of cables and USB cords and Ethernet wire and various other computer and/or electronic mumbo-jumbo that I've a) never seen before, and b) never needed to use in our entire two years of marriage.

He maintains that all those wires make his computers, et. al., more efficient.

He used to rig them up all the time to maximize something or other.

And apparently, he'd done the same darn thing with his darn XBox.

The 194 cables were so interwoven and looped through the TV cables and the DVD cables and the sound-system cables that I had no idea which end was up. Not that I could see much, as moving the entire booby-trapped T.V. cabinet was too heavy for me.

At this point I was sweating. And drawing up pretend divorce papers, citing "irreconcilable gaming habits."

I was bending awkwardly around the TV and holding a fistful of tangled wires in each hand. Standing on my tiptoes and dripping anger.

Life was not good.

I began to weave one wire in and out of the others, all the while feeling the corner of a wooden shelf cutting into my abdomen.

More than 30 minutes later, I finally got the wire lose and swung it to the ground.

I changed my approach for the other 193 wires ahead.

Laying on the ground, I began to feel around for the connection points of each wire. When I found them, I'd unplug them blindly and begin to slowly tug.

Wire 192 came easily.

With a little more work, Wire 191 finally succumbed, as well.

Then I set to work on Wire 190 - a fighter if I ever saw one.

She was a tough old bird, connected to the TV in at least three different places.

I unplugged and tugged, unplugged and tugged, unplugged and tugged, and just when I felt her giving in...

...I noticed movement from the top of my eyes.

I glanced up with just enough time to see it.

My impending doom.

The entire T.V. falling toward my outstretched, prone body.

Pause to Note: We're old school and own an old, big, cumbersome T.V. I've refused to let my husband get a flat-screen television thus far. (Or ever, after this debacle.)

So there I am, lying under a falling T.V., holding the wires of a gaming system I'd rather destroy then ever see again.

What an unfortunate way to go, I thought.

I considered just lying there, meeting my Maker, giving up the ghost. Letting the XBox finally win.

Luckily, I rallied.

Not wanting to die childless, alone, and in the presence of my nemesis, I managed to lift my body and arms up enough to grab the T.V. and, using my new-found momentum, shove it back onto the T.V. cabinet shelf.

I then collapsed to the floor, grabbed my phone, and texted my husband, "You're in big trouble, mister."

He "LOL-ed" me right back.

Apparently, my threats aren't as effective when I'm three states away.

Either that, or he's conspiring with his XBox to kill me.

One may never know.

Because after it was all said in done, I managed to take out Wire 19o and the remaining others, before throwing them all in a box.

And, in an un-precendented move for this Type-A girl, I packed it all up without so much as a packing peanut for that pretty little gaming system to rest it's head on. The console? The remotes? The headset? The 194 wires? I just threw them all in, unprotected, unorganized, and undone. One on top the other.

Who's laughing now, XBox? Who's laughing now? I thought. Enjoy that bumpy ride in the back of that U-Haul.

Because you may have won this battle, but I will win the war.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The day the dirty car died

I walked out my door bright and early Sunday morning.

I was headed to church alone, as is the custom I'm told when you're married to a man in the military.

I didn't even have to step off my front stoop, however, before I saw it.

My car. Covered in brown goop.

It seemed all the birds in all the world had pooped all the bird poop ever pooped on my car Saturday night.

And then those birds apparently shook the yard's overhanging magnolia tree into such a frenzy that it shed approximately 432, 621, 905 seed pods all over my car's surface.

But because they wouldn't be satisfied until my car's royal-blue exterior was no longer visible, those very birds then must have stomped upon their own feces and those magnolia seed pods until everything about my car's body was no longer visible under a layer of brown and white sludge.

My Nissan Rogue had been reinvented into the Poop Mobile.

The Poop Mobile, which - it has to be said - I drove to church.

Because the good Lord knows I needed to pray for guidance about what I had to do next.

You see, the thing is, I don't really wash cars.

I'm serious; I really don't.

Now, I'm not pulling some princess, Southern belle card here: I wash plenty of other things around these parts.

I just don't wash cars.

That's always been one those things only my husband does.

Much like wearing boxer-briefs or retrieving boxes that are above my reach.

My husband is the person in our marriage who washes our cars.

Let me assure you that this was not some traditional gender-role decision; it's just the way the household duties got divided up in our home.

The hubs shrinks, shrivels, or disintegrates most of our clothing, so I do the laundry.

And I wouldn't know paint thinner from wiper fluid, so he maintains the automobiles.

It's a simple life, but it works for us.

Except when he's away, being a good U.S. Navy recruit.

Leaving me all alone on a Sunday, dressed up in my church-goin' finery and staring at a poop-drenched car.

Or, four hours later, a poop-hardened car. Because I'd driven that bad boy to church (and Target) that morning - poop and all - giving my little Nissan at least three hours of prime baking time in the Florida sunshine.

Now, on my morning travels, I did drive by several car washes. But I'm currently on a tight budget, and those things cost way more than they ever should.

So I returned home, changed into an old T-shirt, and stared at the poop-hardened car in thought.

What to do? What to do?

I debated calling my father. As a child, I'd watched him wash the family car many a time. I'd even helped. (If by "help," you mean danced around in a tank suit flinging suds and water everywhere until my father hosed me and the car down together before shooing me back into the house.)

But then I realized my father - a man who once dreamed of owning his very own car wash - would be ashamed his only daughter didn't know how to wash her own automobile. (The only defense I had lined up was that I'd never seen my mother wash a car in her entire life. So, after all, I was only mirroring the marriage roles my parents had acted out for me in my childhood years. How was I supposed to know any different? I'd say. But I figured that wouldn't be well-received by the Car-Washing King.)

So I Google-d it.

And I learned that hand soap will not hurt the paint on your car - which was, really, my ultimate goal. Because I can just imagine my husband returning home from boot camp to find splotching, peeling paint on our car. He'd love that.

So I created my own diluted car wash with hand soap and water, carried it out to the front yard in a bucket, and went looking for the hose.

I then had to face my fears and climb into the bushes to turn said hose on, which basically required me to pray like the dickens that I didn't see, feel or hear any reptiles - my biggest fear ever - in the brush.

When I escaped the foliage snake-free with a spouting hose, I began the official car-washing process, which can be summed up as follows:

Spray car. Drop hose. Create mud around car. Scrub car with hand-soap solution and old washcloth. Stop and worry that washcloth is creating micro-scratches in the car's paint job. Realize I don't care. Keep scrubbing at poop-magnolia-seed mixture. Allow mud puddle to grow near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Slip in mud puddle because I'm wearing foam flip-flops. Get up. Tug at hose. Realize hose only reaches one side of the car. Throw hose and yell "Crap!" at my watching dogs. Go to house and get keys. Drip mud. Get in car. Turn it around and back it into the drive way. Get out of car. Slip in mud puddle again. Get hose. Spray car. Drop hose. Create even more mud around car. Scrub car some more with hand-soap-solution and old washcloth. Mud puddle grows to infinity near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Start to slip in muddle puddle again but manage to do some sort of ungraceful split and remain partially upright. Spray my watching dogs on accident with hose. Chase down dogs who now think they're getting a bath. Catch dogs and put them back on the front porch. Find house in the ever-increasing mud puddle. Say a prayer and head back into the bushes to turn hose off. Drip mud all the way back into the house. Realize I forgot the dogs on the front porch. Go back and get the dogs, who are staring ominously in the direction of the now-still hose. Shake my fist at every chirping bird I hear and run out to the yard to make sure the fowl aren't pooping on my now (kinda sorta) clean car for the entire Sunday afternoon.

Huzzah!

Graceful though it wasn't, 30 minutes and a slightly bruised behind later, I had a poop-free car.

Take that, evil birds.

This chick knows how to clean a car. (Barely.)

I'm sure my husband would be proud. I managed to be both man and woman of the house yesterday, hitting the grocery store, cooking dinner, doing a load of whites, and cleaning the family vehicle.

My father, on the other hand, is probably reading this and shaking his head, wondering where - exactly - he went wrong in my rearing.

And the rest of you are probably thinking, "Dear heavens. Did she just make us read a post about washing her car? She's really reaching, isn't she?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

Unfortunately, my life sans husband is just that thrilling, my friends.

Plus, I totally needed a chance to mention "poop" at least 15 times in a blog post. I had an itch; it needed to be scratched.

Suffice it to say, it was only a matter of time.

Never fear, though. I promise it will get a little bit more exciting around here soon.

Because next week, I'm going to have to do something about the grass in the front of my house formally known as the "lawn."

Now, it's resembling some sort of weedy forest.

So tune in next time for Girl v. Lawnmower: The Series.

Dad's gonna be so proud.

***

Happy Monday everyone! Hope you had a good weekend!

Not Me! Monday: The (slightly) Negative Nancy Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

*I am NOT apologizing for this rather self-indulgent post before I even get started. I'm NOT just having a bit of (melodramatic) rough patch.

*I did NOT haul around boxes and bookshelves and stacks of papers that were NOT twice my size all last week, and then go off to the gym and teach two classes every night. This did NOT, by Wednesday night, cause me to come down rather hard on my accidentally locked legs and sore body, causing a serious jolt to my spine. By the time I'd returned home that night, I was NOT experience serious pain along, and up and down, my back and neck. I did NOT try to ignore it, only to have it get worse. I did NOT try to explain the pain to a couple people, but because I tend to have an incredibly high tolerance for pain normally, no one seemed to really listen, care, or take me very seriously. And it is now NOT getting worse, especially along my upper-spine and neck. This did NOT cause me to freak out, and as I'm NOT want to do when freaked out, NOT cry.

*Then, last Thursday, my husband did NOT come down with the flu. And, rather selfishly, all I could NOT fixate on was, "Stay away from me because the last thing I need is to start the first day of school sick as a dog." Still, since we do NOT share a bed, yesterday morning, I started to get a headache and a stuffy nose. I did NOT then find out that a fellow teacher of mine does NOT have swine flu. Great, just great. I do NOT feel as if my immune system is being attacked on all fronts. Work, school, the gym. Nowhere's safe!

*My sleep schedule is NOT thrown for a total loop. I am NOT now arising between 5 and 6 a.m., per my normal, school-is-in-session standards, but I'm NOT still going to bed on "summer time," i.e., on a good day, midnight. I'm sure this is totally helping my injured back and immune system, too.

*Friday morning, Fish the Dog, did NOT get out of the fence and luxuriate in the front yard, where the hubs found him. The thing is, after scouring the yard's perimeter, there were no holes upon which Fish could have made his escape. Plus, Marvin was NOT still inside the backyard's gate safety barrier, where I'd NOT put Fish and him before I'd left for work.

This led the hubs and I to conclude that, indeed, Fish didn't let himself out, but that someone else did NOT let him out. While it may NOT have been a silly neighborhood kid, we're NOT skeptical, as most people are NOT loath to open the gate to a yard where in resides a 90-pound, Black-lab, Great-Dane mix (Marvin) and a 75-pound American-bulldog, maybe-pit-bull mix (Fish.) Which means someone was NOT trying to get into our backyard for other reasons.

This was NOT only minorly alarming, until I returned home last night to find one of the front door's cracked open. I did NOT then enter into the house, brandishing my Vera Bradley backpack, a case of workout CDs, and my yoga mat, all as weapons. The house was NOT completely normal, save a few extra lights left on and a pair of socks stuffed under the bookshelf.

Turns out the culprit this time was NOT my absent-minded husband, who was NOT responsible for the front door, the lights and the socks (which, really, for me, was the biggest offense of all at this point. Because honestly, I did NOT think we'd been over this.) Still, I did NOT want to kill my own husband for scaring me half-way into the grave, and it took all I had not to scream at him on the phone when I called him at work. And now, I am NOT walking on eggshells every time I come and go, afraid that we've NOT been burglarized.

*I was NOT driving down the street yesterday morning when I spotted a neighbor with her 2-year-old twins, still bleary-eyed and pacifier-mouthed from a good night's sleep. They all did NOT wave happily at me as I snailed by cautiously, in case one of them got a wild streak and made a break for the street. I did NOT then promptly burst into tears. Actually, the tears would NOT be better described as deep, uncontrollable sobs. I do NOT want a baby so, so bad that I'm getting to the point of tears every time I see them, hear about them, or (heaven help me) hold them. I do NOT know that the timing is just not right for us right now, but I canNOT control this desire for a little one of our own.

*I am NOT feeling surprisingly positive about this upcoming school year, despite all of this and despite several botched class rosters and my three different classrooms. Of course, I am NOT on a bit of a negative bent right now, so this positive feeling is NOT leaving me expecting the other shoe to drop, and soon. Still, I'm NOT thankful that I at least have this going for me. Everyone does NOT need a little positivity in their job, don't you think?

*Lastly, make sure you do NOT ask my husband your questions here before Thursday!

*I am now NOT done ranting. I will NOT be back tomorrow with something far more positive, I do NOT promise! Happy (Not Me!) Monday everyone!

Our new addition

When we moved into our temporary home here, the hubs and I inherited a couple of things from our dear friends, the house's original owners, who left to pursue missionary training for the year.

We inherited a king-size bed, which, to be frank, is bigger than some rooms I've had. (Can we say, Dorm Room the Size of My Thumb?)

We've inherited an elliptical machine, which means I now have negative amounts of excuses for getting my exercise in every day, seeing as how I teach at a gym and now have what amounts to a small rec center in my home between our new cardio machine and all the weights, mats, balls and various exercise paraphenalia I own.

But even better (because hello! This one's breathing!) we inherited....

A real, live, in-the-flesh, panting, slobbering, tail-wagging dog.

Meet Fish, our newest addition.

Yep, you read that right. We inherited a dog named Fish.
He's's kind of like our foster child, as he sort of comes with the house. When the owners return, of course, they want their family dog back. Although, he's not really like a foster child, in the sense that he wasn't rescued from abuse or danger or criminal intent...I'm obviously over-thinking this metaphor...moving on...

However you slice it, we've moved up in the world. We're a multiple-dog family now. My sweet son Marvin is no longer an only child.

Marv's dealt pretty well with the newest addition. When left alone, they co-exist pretty well. Marvin helps Fish, who is prone to eye infections, out by assisting in the scratching of Fish's itchy face. Fish shows Marvin all the best spots to sprint to and bark in when the neighborhood pups decide to do what the hubs and I have affectionately called the Sunset Serenade.

However, like any only-child-turned sibling, Marvin has some jealousy issues.

For instance, if I so much as pet Fish, or in the case of this morning, take a quick photo shoot of Fish, Marvin follows behind me crying. Then, when I turn around to spread the love, he ignores me, turns his face away from me and walks away. (Who knew dogs could be so passive aggressive? And who knew that it would work? Not that I've been spotted running around the yard after him, yelling, "But Mommy loves you, Marvy! Why can't I pet you?" I would never do that. I'm just saying, it hurts on the inside.)

And then, when I sit on the ground with them for a petting session, both dogs, who weigh more than 70 pounds each, try to fight for position on my lap. Fish takes the belly flop approach straight across my legs, while Marvin, who is taller, turns around and places his rump right in the middle of my lap, Fish or no. Meanwhile, I lose circulation in my thighs and fall backward from all their wild maneuvers. (I'm also sporting no less than eight bruises and minor flesh wounds from their theatrics. So much for family bonding...)

But still, all in all, the pups are doing well. They share food, water and beds with no issues.

And luckily, I've only had to break up one minor squabble.

The object of their disagreement? The nub of a stick.

It wasn't even a real stick. It was the end of an old one. Fish was proudly chewing on it; Marvin wanted it. They danced around and barked at each other. Finally Marvin pounced, got the nub away, and left Fish dejected, following Marv around as Marv chomped on the nub and spit out all the pieces, as Marvin the Chewer (as he's called in some circles) is known to do.

Fish, angered, pounced over what was now only a shard of his former stick nub. But Marvin, swinging his over-sized, Great-Dane lips, wasn't giving the stick sliver up that easily.

Finally, after a good five minutes of this, I strapped on the teacher voice (which has been packed away for a good two months) and was forced to stand on the backyard threshold and yell, "Boys, what are you fighting over? Stop. it. right. NOW."

They both sat up and looked at me, slapping those faux-innocent faces on in 0.2 seconds. You know the ones. The "Who? Me? I'm not doing anything bad. At all!" faces.

I then said, "Marvin, bring me what you have. Right.NOW."

Marv (who for some odd reason literally understands full sentences) trotted over with his stick shard, head hanging.

Fish followed.

After prying open Marv's jaws and snatching it from his lips, I inspected the stick, threw it away, and then let them have it, like any multiple dog-owner would:

"Boys, are you really fighting over a stick? A stick? And Marv. I can't believe you just snatched it right from Fish. How would that make you feel, if Fish just took your toy without asking? And Fish! It's just, OK, was just a stick nub. Can't you share? We share in this family, boys. We don't fight over our toys. Do you hear me?

The poor boys, er, I mean, dogs, just sat there. Staring at me obediently. As was my husband, from the kitchen window, and the neighbor, who were both shooting me puzzled, slightly worried expressions, as if to say, "Lady, you know they're just dogs, right?"

What can I say?

I'm a high-school teacher. Do you know how often I will have to start delivering that speech in about a week?

OK, so maybe my students don't fight over a stick nub.

They definitely save their spats for a full stick.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Believe it or not, I'm back!

Picture it:

Me, running toward you. Arms outstretched. Tears pouring from my eyes.

We seem to be moving in slow-motion across an airport, train terminal, or bus station, as if we're in some cheesy, sisterly movie, re-uniting at long last after searching for each other for weeks, months, years!

Oh, I missed you all!

I really did.

And thank goodness, I'm back.

And I'm not just back. I'm moved in!

To our new house that is.

I have had a whirlwind week and a half, and as I should have expected, I couldn't so much as think about blogging.

After our friends visiting town left, after throwing a wedding shower, and after taking a week-long vacation, the hubs and I returned yesterday to a new house, where everything we'd so neatly packed was all shoved into one room of a deserted home.

We had a lot of work to do.

But I am proud to report, we did it!

We unpacked everything, set up our year-long transition home, and even braved not one, but two grocery stores. (I am totally one of those people who shops at more than one place to save money.)

We even got the Internet working.

OK, my husband got the Internet working. But I'm being downright efficient at putting it to good use, so that has to count for something.

I can't wait to give you all a vacation re-cap. However...

As I sit in our office chair, I notice that my thighs seem to be, eh, how do we put this delicately? Spreading.

I'm blaming vacation food, and mostly the dessert my mother-in-law understatedly called "a rich, delicious, creamy peach treat." I had about three helpings.

Exercise, and lots of it, is in order. Along with a diet that contains enough fiber and vegetation to detox a cow. Because between Southern BBQ, ice cream, feta burgers, and French fries (I NEVER eat French fries, which just goes to show how delicious they are. Because I caved. In a big way.) I'm fairly certain I've got enough crud running through my body that none of my clothes fit.

Not that it really matters, actually. Because I'm not entirely sure I have any clothes to wear.

Seeing as how we had put normal daily chores on hold while we were moving and then away, like laundry, well, I have to do that, too, unless we want to join a nudist colony. I'm pretty sure I haven't washed a good load of laundry in three weeks. You can't even see the living room floor, where we dumped about 18 loads of dirty clothes, towels and sheets yesterday.

Which totally explains why my husband was checking his underwear for elasticity last night (his proven "Are these clean enough to wear still?" test.) Before we reverts back to his college days and starts wearing his drawers inside out (you know, to get a good second use out of them sans washing them,) I better do something about it.

Also, believe it or not, we're back to school around here in two weeks. Which means teachers go back in one week. Which means: "Hello, Brittany! Wake up! Remember that thing called a job? You know, the one where you teach children stuff? Yeah, that one. Well, you've got to do that soon. Look alive, Teach!"

And, well, don't even get me started on Google Reader. A quick scan last night showed me that I missed tons of stuff in your lives. And big stuff, too. Weddings. Births. Immensely funny toddler and husband stories. New pets. Old pets doing funny things. Cute "last days of summer" pictures.

I need to get back on the blogging horse.

So that's my goal for the day. Speed-reading through Reader, while working out on the elliptical, doing laundry, and starting my back-to-school preparations.

I definitely need more arms.

Tomorrow, I promise to return with vacation tales.

Until then, please know that I truly did miss you all, and that I am so excited to catch up with everything you've been doing!

Thank you to all of you for your support through our move and craziness. You all are such a blessing.

Until tomorrow...

Happy Monday!

I'm dying...laughing that is

Victory is ours!

Our office currently holds me, the very computer I'm typing on right now, and my cup of coffee. That's it!

Everything else (and by everything else, I mean seven hours worth of stuff, is stacked in boxes and neon Rubbermaid containers behind me.)

Oh yes, we packed, packed, and packed. (And with all of you organizers out there cheering me on via the World Wide Web, I enthusiastically color-coded by packing every type of item and every room's worth of items in a different color container. It was glorious!)

Now, all we have left is the kitchen, bedroom, guestroom, bathroom and living room. You know, the rest of the house. Sigh.

But I do have a plan. You needn't worry. It's all carefully laid out on note cards and designed so that we will have clothes to wear and food to cook (and plates to eat it off of) almost until right before we move.

Which means, we will only have to be naked, fast-food-eating freaks for two, three days tops before we rent a mini U-haul and haul our stuff across town! Hurrah!

I have to thank you all for all your support and hilarious guesses yesterday. I really think that's what kept the hubs and I going. We were laughing so hard we had tears coming out of our eyes! We kept checking in every hour or so to see what else you all had come up with. So fun! You all are the best!

And get this. Talk about a blessing. Literally seconds after I finished writing that post, Patrick received word that everything would be signed, sealed and delivered within 11 days, and he said I could make our Big Move/Change announcement then!

So 11 days, people! Only 11 days! I'm so, so happy to tell you all. (I hate secrets!)

But until then, there's two very important things you need to know.

First, because the hubs and I effectively packed up all non-essentials (books, games, decks of cards, music, and outdoor patio stuff,) sources of entertainment around here are a little low.

The hubs went to work last night, leaving me alone with a) the computer, and b) the T.V.

Which totally explains why I was probably the first person to comment on everyone's blog post yesterday. I promise, I'm not a stalker. I was just a wee bored.

Finally, I turned to the dreaded television and was forced to watch the following ridiculous infomercial more times than I'd like to recount.

This has to be the most hilarious fitness crock I've ever seen.

(Between you all and me, though, I did head to the bathroom after my second go-round with it to check if I had a double chin in the mirror. Even personal trainers aren't immune to this kind of targeted marketing!)

Anyways, my T.V. experience was so mind-numbing that I'm almost glad I'm leaving tomorrow for a Dreaded Teacher's Conference.

Oh yes, after all that packing, I now get the pleasure of sitting through a 3.5-day conference for high school journalism educators from across the country. Woo.

Seriously, can you feel my excitement?

I really don't love these things. I never take away as much info as I think I will, simply because unlike most Language Arts teachers, my academic background is in journalism, not English and/or education.

The good news? This will leave me lots of time to be that slacker teacher in the back of the room tooling around on my wireless Internet, blogging!

Expect some excellent observations about all the people I'm with who will a) mistake me for a high-school student myself, then b) promptly ignore me, and rudely, for the rest of the 3 days, except for c) some teacher 30+ years my senior who will take pity on me and proceed to patronize me with limited and yet insulting attention. Sigh. Fun fun.

I will then turn around and drive back home only to pick up the school van and take my kids straight to yearbook camp!

Oh, life is so exciting.

Again, I don't expect to take much of a break from Blogger, because I'll have lots of late nights patrolling the hotel hallways and making sure none of my all-female student group try to make a break for the hotel's pool, bar, or boys.

Love my job. Seriously. Love.my.job.

So, in short, I won't have any oh-so-riveting packing updates to keep you abreast of, but I will be blogging. (And for back-up, I'm trying to pre-schedule some posts I promised a while back, like about how my husband and I met, etc.)

And please, feel free to keep the wacky or realistic guesses coming on yesterday's post. I haven't laughed that hard in years!

So until Monday, Happy Friday everyone! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!

Not Me! Monday

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

*Our house office is currently NOT such a mess that, instead of cleaning it, I've simply closed the door to it for the last week. No way. Not me. I'm definitely not that bad of a housekeeper.

* This morning, my husband did NOT turn the T.V. on and find "A Baby Story" for me, saying, "Here, babe, I know you like to watch these baby shows, now that you're home for the summer." I did NOT then lay down a huge helping of guilt by uttering the following: "I just can't watch these anymore. They hurt my heart because I want a baby." My husband did NOT then roll his eyes at me as he was leaving for work. Apparently, he is NOT immune to my pointless, random guilt anymore. Sigh. I now have no idea what I'm going to do to get my way around this place anymore!

* Because I'm NOT all-over the stay-at-home wife gig this summer, I did NOT make elaborate menu plans for every night of this week, which were NOT complete with homemade desserts. I do NOT already know that I'm doomed to fail. I do NOT hear the Crock-pot calling my name, even though I did NOT vow to give the Crock-pot a break once school was out for the summer.

* I did NOT have a student call me on my cell phone yesterday to tell me how her gall bladder surgery went. I was NOT entirely shocked as to how in the heck she got my number, until my stilted, awkward conversation must have tipped her off (and you know it had to be bad to tip a 14 year old off,) because she uttered the phrase, "Oh, my mom totally had your digits, Mrs. C. And I told her I had to tell you how the operation went." I was NOT more than a little irritated at the thought of my teenage charges for 10 months of the year being able to track me down for the two months where they weren't my responsibilty. (But before you think I'm competely heartless...I did NOT find it a little sweet that she wanted to tell me about her surgery. I was NOT glad she was doing well:)

*Speaking of students, last week, I did NOT walk into a frozen yogurt joint in sweaty workout clothes and no make-up, only to see another student and her family helping themselves to the creamy, low-fat treat. I did NOT then make a beeline for the bathroom and lock myself in, only to emerge after my dear friend texted me that they "had paid and were currently exiting the premises." Seriously, every time I walk out of the house looking like a gross teenager, I do NOT run into the actual gross teenagers I teach.

*Yesterday, while I was reading a book on the couch, my dog did NOT manage to wedge his head between my knees, putting himself in a virtual headlock. I did NOT then fall asleep like that, only to wake up and find the poor dog staring up at me, plaintively, from between my legs, as if to say, "Please! Let me out of this vice grip!"

*I have NOT spent the last week trying to cajole my husband into doing a guest post. I don't think he's buying it.

*I do NOT know that I have had several requests to tell my my love story, along with details about a place I worked, both of which I alluded to in a previous post. I also do NOT remember that a while back I also mentioned that I know how to make lots of tasty treats with cake mixes. I do NOT promise, over the next few weeks, that I will take care of these. No worries. All of them do NOT take a long time to write, so I'm NOT currently trying to work up the courage and brain power to get it all down on the blog. (You know, because I have such a problem being long-winded. Yeah, right.)

Happy Monday everyone!

Not Me! Monday

* I did NOT cry my eyes out when my middle-and high-school students did a fantastic job performing the musical Ragtime last week. Seriously, sometimes it does NOT take for me to watch my kids put on a Tony-Award-winning performance to remember how much talent they have in their little pinky toe.

*You know those expensive, un-wrinkle-able, unstainable, un-ruinable, white button-down shirts? Yeah, well, I did NOT manage to ruin one by somehow festooning mine with boob wrinkles I can't get out and irremovable sweat stains under the arms (hello, someone fix my classroom's air conditioner!) That, my friends, does NOT take talent.

* I did NOT, going into Sam's Club, the mall, and Target this weekend, find sales on workout gear, and they were NOT such good deals that I was forced to buy workout pants and tops at all three places this weekend, despite the fact that I didn't venture into any of those places actually looking for workout clothes. (People, I can't help it. Workout clothes, especially when they're on sale, are my kryptonite! And before you judge me, yes, I did buy workout clothes at Sam's Club. They come in two-packs, and they were a steal! You'd have caved, too!)

* During the aforementioned Sam's trip, I did NOT wish an obviously male, unmarried, 18-year-old cashier a "Happy Mother's Day!"

* I did NOT, over the course of Saturday, forgo lunch and most of dinner in favor of a ginormous bag of Baked Sour Cream and Cheddar Lays chips. I did NOT eat the whole bag by myself, which made me realize I do NOT have a problem with self-control (as if the workout-clothes-buying binge wasn't the first clue.)

* I did NOT, after months and months of attempting to "go green," finally put the re-use-able grocery bags in the trunk of my car, where I'd actually remember to use them, even though I did NOT buy these bags over a year ago and have NOT only used them on the day of their purchase. I would NEVER be that wasteful (sorry, Taryn!) However, in my defense, I do NOT save all the plastic bags from the past year's grocery trips, in attempt to rescue them from the landfills. But instead of filling our trashcan with them, I have NOT now created a pile so huge in the corner of our kitchen that it could easily masquerade for a pool flotation device or an ecological artistic statement.

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week, as well as how her sweet baby Stellan is holding up.