Thursday, September 27, 2018

Thanks For Rearranging My Life

Oh, the shoes live with the mugs now? Suuuuuuper.

Afternoon Readers,

Fall just hit this week, and despite the lingering fruit flies, the cooler weather is doing wonders for my mood.

Warm weather: Stumbles out in jean shorts and yells, "Who's got my coffee? We're late for school."

Cold weather: Stumbles out in stretch pants and yells, "Who's got my coffee? We're late for school, but oh my, would you look at that stunning foliage."

Things I love about fall:

Taking a shot every time I see "Gather" spelled out on someone's front door wreath. 

Things I don't love:

Icy cold mornings (One novelty morning reserved each year to enjoy it, before I hate it)
Already having to turn on the heat
Realizing none of my cold weather clothes fit- a sad result of pool/beer/hamburger season
The fact that Husband chose this particular time of year to rearrange my kitchen

Now, before we get into this, yes, I know I'm not the world's greatest cook. Or a great cook. Or a cook.  BUT. Here's the thing. I've spent the better part of three years shoving things into cabinets the way I like them.

Do I make pizza 86% of the time? Yes
Do I use the other 14% of the time to make actual meals? Sometimes, yes. And it's precisely for those hand-full of meals that I absolutely have to know where I put the pepper. If it's lost, instead of cooking, I spend an enormous amount of running around the house, asking anyone of they've seen the pepper. Generally, I'm greeted with blank stares from children only wearing one sock, so I despair and order pizza.

Still, when I walked in from running errands last Saturday, it wasn't any less disturbing to find out my spice collection had been up-ended.

"Ok, so I grabbed milk and a few snacks that are gonna make us soooo fat. Wait.What are you doing?"

Husband, hands full of pepper shakers and salt tubs, stopped what he was doing, smiled sheepishly, and motioned to the cabinet above the stove. "I just finished organizing stuff."

I slowly lowered a can of nacho cheese onto the counter. "Why?"

Pointing back up to the cabinet where all spices, tea and a lone bottle of soy sauce now resided, he proceeded to explain. "Now that I'm doing more dinners on the weekend, it makes more sense to have this stuff where I can get to it."

This was irritating. Because he was right. Husband had been cooking fantastic meals for the last month, and I'd been thoroughly enjoying it. That is, until he decided to make the process of feeding me easier on himself.

I let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But where's my collection of plastic grocery bags?"

He pointed to a drawer. "There."

"And my trash bags?"

Another drawer opened, revealing a neat row of trash bags, tin foil, and other non-food stuffs. "Here. Oh, and that drawer you never use? I went out and grabbed some new dish towels and stuck them in there."

My eyes found the tiny, corner drawer, which was now filled with fluffy, white towels."But that was my bonus empty drawer." I protested.

He frowned and shoved a small container of paprika into its new spot. "What's the point of an empty drawer?"

I stalked over to the refrigerator and began unloading milk. "I need somewhere to put unrealized hopes and dreams. Everyone knows that. I also store complaints, yells into the abyss, and useless platitudes I tell myself, in the very back."

"You're crazy."

I nodded. "Agreed. My craziness is discussed, in hushed tones, for many miles, but you can still see where I coming from, yes?"

Husband considered. "Wasn't it you who said, "I'm so fat and happy, I hope you cook a new recipe every Sunday," last weekend?"


"And, last night, you started jumping up and down and clapping your hands, while you chanted, "He's making chicken friend rice tomorrow. He's making it for me," over and over?"

I finished shoving ice cream into the freezer and held my  hands up in surrender. "Fine," I said. "But if I can't find the coffee, on Monday, be prepared for that phone call."

We left it at that.

Later that night, I also enjoyed three plates of chicken fried rice.

For me, compromise tastes like sweet and sour sauce.

I'm still not thrilled about not being able to find things in my cabinets. Before I sat down to write this, I got turned around and almost brewed some cumin in a paper towel. Luckily, I found the coffee in a sensible (ugh) spot and saved the day.

As fall proceeds, I'll allow this new state of things because I love Husband and I do love to eat.

But this situation also calls for a trip to the store for new pants. So, if you'll excuse me...

Until Next Time, Readers!

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

Toddlers and Teeth Cleaning

How I look when I have to take a child to any kind of appointment.
Photo by John Volante on Unsplash

Afternoon Readers,

As it stands, nothing has slowed down in the Kellerman house in the past week. I keep waiting for it, but, just as five, quiet minutes start to accumulate, someone falls down the stairs.

None of my four charges have decided to stay babies forever, so they keep bumping into things, screaming at each other, and asking me things like, "Why are bald eagles bald?"

I don't know, children. Now go get me another pumpkin beer. That's why mommy's going bald.

Let's see. Let's see. Ahh, yes. Last week, Doc decided to turn six. I didn't like this at all. Mostly because he was a ridiculously fat and furry baby I brought home yesterday (as an aside, we thought he might be a third werewolf), and now we wants to talk about primary colors and shapes and, "Have I thought hard about investing part of my portfolio in gold?"

He was my resident comedian, and now I'm stuck with the baby and her demands for two baths a day.  "Why? Why do you need another bath," I ask.

"Wif bubbles!" She shouts.

And so I drink coffee on the toilet and peruse my phone, while she sends plastic squids on expeditions through Suave tsunamis.

A typical day.

 She's as absolute tyrant with curly hair, but as far as companions go, she's fairly loyal and makes my business her business. Never was this more apparent than last week's jaunt to the dentist. I'm determined to stay up on dental health so I don't end up gumming my pudding by fifty. This means, come flood or famine, I drag whatever child is home with me to the office and attempt to parent, while someone in a mask tries to stab me in the molar with an ice pick. Just as any life coach would recommend.

"You don't mind if she sits there, do you?"

After flooring the van down the street in an attempt not to lose our coveted appointment time, last Monday found Mrs. Jones and I setting up camp in vinyl chairs and waiting to hear that my teeth were falling out.

The hygienist smiled. "No, she's fine. Grab that stuffed tooth over there, honey."

Mrs. Jones obliged, put a twelve-inch-tall plush tooth with a grin like Tom Cruise in a headlock, and settled into her spot. She smiled back. "Tanks."

Before I reclined for what would be twenty minutes of less-that-relaxing enamel shiatsu, I gave the toddler a warning glace. "Can you sit there with Mr. Tooth Cruise and watch Paw Patrol?"

She considered for a second. "No."

I looked back at the hygienist. "Just do it. This ship isn't going to sail any smoother."

As I reclined backwards, and before I ended up flat on my back, I caught a hint of raised eyebrow. Until November, Mrs. Jones is still shy of three, a point where toddlers think about what they're supposed to do ...and do the opposite. The look on her face spoke of five, maybe seven minutes tops, before she shut everything down. Low and behold, two minutes of plaque scraping in, and I felt pressure on my feet.

"You k'?"

Before I processed what was happening, and powerless to stop it, someone small and chubby began climbing me like Mount Everest and perched, like an over-sized hawk, on my stomach. Mouth wrenched open, I tried to object. "Et own."

The hygienist, a little too understanding for my taste, smiled at the insurgent. "It's totally fine."

But it wasn't fine. Metal continued bobbing in and out of my mouth like an iron water fowl with anxiety, while Mrs. Jones slowly crushed my internal organs. I was dying. I just hadn't realized the lights I'd see in my final moments would be coming from a swivel lamp and directly tied to an out-of-pocket deductible.

"Mom. She hurtin' you?"

"Uh uh. It oh ahy."



"Hmm. Oh tay."

Mrs. Jones raised both eyebrows and started directly into my mouth for the next twenty minutes, sure that someone was killing her mother with a butter knife, but not exactly doing anything to stop it either. Deep down, I hoped we never had to test our relationship mettle in a true crisis.

Such is motherhood.

Eventually, my teeth did get cleaned and, as an added bonus, my organs had been so compacted, I went down a pant size. Unfortunately, I was informed that I'll need a crown. Which means I'll be doing this all over. Which also prompts me to wonder...

Maybe the bald eagle's bald because it takes her kids to the dentist regularly.

Until Next time, Readers!
And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: