Heluva Good Dip
Before I continue, I’m just going to preface this post with a warning: If you get nauseous or queasy easily then you should close the browser right now and go think about butterflies and rainbows. If you’re here for full disclosure then please, by all means, enjoy.
This past weekend we had a couple friends over for dinner. Nothing fancy, just hanging out. Around 9 pm I gave my daughter a quick bath and put her into her clean ‘jammies, figuring she would go to sleep shortly and then the adults could have a conversation that did not require bleeping out words and phrases.
After bath time we were all sitting around the kitchen table and I pulled out some snacks. Pretzels and dip; staple snack food for any shindig, unless my kid is involved. I gave my daughter a couple of pretzel sticks to chew on. Mind you, these were not pretzel rods, they were tiny sticks; thinner than a number 2 pencil.
MISTAKE
You see, my child cannot eat anything unless it is cut into microscopic pieces. In fact when Brett or I cut up food for her to eat, we pull out a microscope and actually slice under the lens. Really! I’m not even kidding. Its 8th grade science at work. I asked Santa for an atomic laser beam for Christmas so that I could easily slice through food at the particle level.
Inevitably, Cardin choked on the 2nd pretzel stick and started to throw up. Mind you, this is a typical occurrence at our house. I actually walk around now with a bucket hanging from my belt loop so that I’m always at the ready. Think like a boyscout; Be Prepared. We’ve adapted to this new lifestyle and are now pretty much superior athletes at puke catching. (Coming to an arena near you in the summer of 2012) Listen Lady, we will use whatever material or article of clothing that is within quickest reach to try and catch puke. Granted, this is gross, but much preferred over picking up chunky, undigested puke from the floor or carpet.
As such, the closet object was the dip container. Cardin was sitting across the table and when the gag started, Brett lunged forward, hurling the dip container underneath her mouth. It was not unlike watching a curling match on TV. Luckily he was able to catch the majority of the puke, but then the container started to fill to the brim….
DANGER. WILL ROBINSON. DANGER
I grabbed the kitchen towel and we strategically maneuvered the removal of the dip container and the replacement towel. After a minute it seemed as though the storm had quelled, so I picked up Cardin, trying to settle the tears, and was attempting to walk her into the bedroom to change her ‘jammies when round two of the violent upchuck began. Immediately I ran back to the kitchen and levitated Cardin over the linoleum floor, as that is easier to clean than berber carpet.
All the while, we had been screwing around with our IPhones and had Tom the Talking Cat on. For those unfamiliar with the app, the cat records everything he hears and then plays it back at an incredibly high, annoying pitch. Funny….except in a time of dire need.
So, there I am…levitating a screaming child over the floor and trying to avoid the splatter of puke. At the same time the other three adults in the room are all laughing in hysterics watching this surreal scene, while Tom the cat plays back the screaming/laughing antics in an audible sound that only dogs should be able to hear.
All in all….just a typical night at the Mayer house.
While the other is away…
A number of years ago, on a cold blistery day in January, my grandma fell off the roof and broke her lower vertebrate. One might wonder what an elderly woman was doing on the roof; shoveling snow… most obviously. Any reasonable person would understand the potential for water damage from mounting snowfall. Any reasonable person would also understand that a sixty year old woman should not be contracted for this type of work. The only reason that she even undertook such a task was because my grandfather had left to go to the store. Knowing that he would stop such a ridiculous feat, my grandmother waited until he had left to begin her covert operation.
And now the favor has been returned in full….
Recently my grandpa has been feeling short of breath and his blood pressure has been quite high. Doctors have done testing, but so far, cannot find cause for the high blood pressure. They’ve put him on medication to reduce the pressure and that has helped, but they have told him that, even with medication, physical activity will be strenuous for his heart and should really be avoided. Understandably this is not liberating news for a man who walks 4 miles a day and takes great pride in maintaining his yard.
In attempt to help him this winter, his kids each chipped in to hire someone to plow his driveway. Typically when you contract with a plow, there are snow requirements that must be met before the plow will actually come. For example, snowfall must exceed three inches before it is necessary to remove snow.
This past weekend we had a small snowfall of about 2 inches. Listen Lady, this would no doubt shut down Atlanta or Washington, D.C, but we live in Rochester; two FEET of snow will not shut our city down. Since it was just a light dusting, the snowplow did not come and plow my grandfather’s driveway. Personally, I’d rather trudge through 2 inches of snow then take the time to shovel the driveway in the bitter cold. This is, unfortunately, not the case for grandpa.
Even though the doctor had told him physical exertion would not be helpful to his current condition, he was ready to jump right behind his snow blower. Luckily my grandma had her wits about her this time and convinced him otherwise. Or so she thought….he waited until she had left for church before he cleared the snow from the driveway. Oh how the other shoe drops.
The morale of the story is: Wait until your other counterpart leaves to perform incredibly dangerous mission.
“OH YEAAAAH”
As I was perusing the aisles in Wegmans this weekend, I came across an item that sent me flying back to my carefree childhood days. GRAPE KOOL-AID!!!! Pardon me while I burst through a wall and scream “OH YEAAAAH”.
My childhood was filled with enough Kool-Aid to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool. I don’t care how old I get; I will always love Kool-Aid. Even now, whenever I go to my parent’s house, there is a pitcher full of Kool-Aid awaiting my sweet lips. It is a universal drink folks and it is age agnostic.
It wasn’t so much the presence of the grape Kool-Aid that titillated me. I’ve seen the pre-mixed containers of grape Kool-Aid and there are the old school do-it-yourself paper packets where you must add the sugar (who has time for all that hullabaloo?) What I had never laid my eyes on before was grape Kool-Aid Singles; ready to be dumped right into a bottle of cold, refreshing water. Kool-Aid on the go! GENIUS!! It’s like a flask for kids.
Now, I’ve been exposed to the single packets before, they are not a new concept to my tiny brain; but grape Kool-Aid is regarded as one of the untouchables in the caste system. It’s rarely touted as one of the premiere Kool-Aid flavors. Listen Lady, you never see The Kool-Aid man in a nice hue of purple, he’s always shown as a smiling pitcher full of cherry. Apparently the diversity at Kraft Foods does not include a concord purple and that is disheartening.
For me to find grape Kool-Aid singles was a thing of beauty. Without question I put the box into my cart. When I got home the first words out of mouth were, “I FOUND THE GREATEST THING EVER!” My husband’s response was, of course, “Oh God.” He doesn’t quite appreciate the beauty and uniqueness of this find.
I brought the single packets to work. And I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that 5 out of the 12 packets have already disappeared today. Just as a side, that’s just shy of 85 oz of grape Kool-Aid……I think I need to pee.
The Sky is Falling
Before Christmas we noticed that the bathroom ceiling was starting to crack a bit. Strange? We live in a ranch so there is no weight on the ceiling and our attic has blown insulation which prohibits us from going up there. My theory at the time was to just ignore these tiny cracks as I only saw them if I craned my neck up. Look eye level and problem solved for free.
Why can’t my theory ever work?????
The cracks continued on a decline and were now covering the entire middle portion of the bathroom ceiling. Unfortunately, there was no more ignoring the problem. My imagination went running with the potential problems.
There was the normal…water damage or too much moisture.
And also the extreme…a small midget clown had been living in my attic and finally died and now his rotting body was soaking through my bathroom ceiling. How much would it cost to remove this? And would it mess with my blown in insulation. The crap that swirls in my head on a regular basis would astound you.
Since our house was built in ’65 the ceilings are not drywall, they are plaster. Let me take you on a small tangent about plaster. About 4.5 years ago when we moved into our new house we ripped down a butt load of wallpaper. And by butt load I mean, if I ever met the man who invented wallpaper he would be privy to a swift kick in the nuts. Our friends came over one night to “help’ us paint and tear down wallpaper. One of these friends got a little carried away with ripping and scraping and a huge section of plaster, approximately the size of Texas, was lying on my newly refinished hardwood floor. Deep breaths were required.
Since we’ve had previous experience with destroyed plaster and the time and skill necessary to repair said destruction, there was no way I was jumping on the “fix it yourself bandwagon” for this one. We called a drywaller we had used previously for his opinion on fixing the cracks. His suggestion was to just scrap down to the plaster and then he could skim it with some drywall mud a few times. Once that was done and sanded to the smoothness of a baby’s ass cheek we could doll it up with some fresh paint.
Mr. Drywall came yesterday to remove the cracked plaster and skim the first coat of drywall plaster. Halfway through the job he asked for a broom and dustpan to pick up some of the pieces. When he left he handed me a broken picture frame that he had knocked down and told me the damage was worse than expected on the ceiling and he would have to come back for another coat. Listen Lady, for those of you, who do not own homes, heed this piece of advice. No improvement project is ever simple. Something will inevitably go wrong and more money will be needed than initially anticipated.
Death by Barrettes
Cardin’s hair is getting long now and in recent weeks we’ve noticed that it falls into her face while she is playing. This is followed by a massive rampage on the follicles to brush them away from her eyes. Well internet, two year olds fine motor skills aren’t completely developed yet and brushing the hair away is pretty much equal in comparison to a full on seizure for her. Her hair ends up messier and more entangled than before the whole process began. The majority of the time, the first attempt fails and there is an encore of furious little fingers fighting in desperation against the curls.
To counteract this I brought some little barrettes to put in her hair. I’m not really sold on the idea and, personally, I would not wear these little fairy wings so I can’t really blame her for the reaction that they elicited. It was not unlike trying to wrestle a cougar.The first morning I went to put the barrettes in her hair she saw me coming and immediately turned on the teenager attitude, “NO. ME!” (really looking forward to seeing that attitude more often). She looked at the little barrette but was not impressed at it provided no entertainment to her. However, once she realized that I wanted to place the barrettes in her hair and that they had to maintain position there, the referee appeared from behind the dresser and screamed “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE”?
The barrette was hurled out of her tiny hand and I was so caught off guard that I ducked as though I was dodging a solid punch to the face. Listen Lady, do I really need to use a bob and weave technique to put barrettes in her hair? I collected myself and attempted with another barrette. That’s when the screaming started. Followed quickly by tears and hyperventilating. Last but not least came the throw up gag. Really kid? This is a little overdramatic now. I’m not asking you to go on Toddlers and Tiaras here….it’s just a freaking barrette.
Had it been summer and my doors and windows opened I’m sure one of my neighbors would have called child protective services.
Let’s just leave it at this….mommy was defeated that day.