Monday, May 30, 2011

Gravity is a harsh mistress.

 Fun With Physics - Centrifugal Force
Let's see what happens when we wind up a disc swing, add three kids to it and let 'er rip.







Lesson?  PWND.

Hooray For Furniture That Doesn't SUCK!!

It’s been a long time coming, but after nearly 17 years, Sugar Daddy and I finally decided we were ready to buy new furniture.  I mean, “NEW” new, not just “new to me” new. 

Shopping for furniture is a surreal experience.  You go someplace you've never been before, sit on other people's stuff and act like you live there while people you've never met before rush at you from every direction and attempt to make conversation.  Try it on a weekend and you can laugh as they try to feign interest in your furniture needs, despite the fact that their eyes dart each time the bell on the front door rings.
We tested out the comfiest of the comfy furniture in every store in town.  Twice.   We sat on it.  We took our shoes off and put our feet up.   We got comfortable. 


And I realized something...



We looked completely ridiculous. 


Comforted by, and giggling inwardly at the fact that other customers were all “getting a feel” for their prospective new couches and chairs, looking just as ridiculous as we did, we searched happily until (finally) just the right living room set presented itself to us.  I'd like to say that at that moment the heavens opened and a ray of light shone down on it as a choir of angels sang, but that would be a lie...unless we can count the Bangles singing “Hazy Shade of Winter" in another part of the store.   Anyway, we knew we had found what we were looking for.  

LET'S BUY IT! 


Now, there's one thing I learned about buying new furniture.  You have to wait for it.  
Wait, what?  WAIT??  Oh.  
*sigh*  
I hate waiting.  It’s not enough to sign your refund away and put up a kid (or two, if you want the matching ottoman) in the promise that you’ll finish paying for something that, let’s face it, your butt really gets the most use out of.  You also have to wait for a month and a half before it can be delivered to your house.  Still, I didn't want to go home with the floor model.  What would the point of that have been?   We were buying NEW, not some community couch that 800 people farted on.  (Suddenly waiting doesn't seem like such a chore.)


We used the time to say goodbye to the terrible furniture of the past, subjecting our backs to a bit more pain and suffering as we readied ourselves to sit in the long-awaited lap of luxury where so many have gone before us. 

In making this rather large purchase, I feel it’s only right to pay homage to the furniture of our past.  Many years of marriage, children, pets and holidays were spent relaxing on our “satisfactory” yard sale finds, friends’ and relatives’ hand-me-downs, gawd-awful chairs, one Hideously Ugly Striped Couch and The Terrible Man-Eating Sofa.  

I send a shout out to the Terrible Furniture of the past...


How Now Brown Couch (with Lily age 6 months)
The Sandpaper Snapper: Hide-a-Bed Loveseat of Doom (and Madison age 2)
Hideously Ugly Striped Sofa (with Madison, home from the hospital two whole minutes, and a curious Frank)
Hideously Ugly Striped Couch (with Madison and Luthor)

Sandpaper Snapper (with Madison and Luthor)
Lumpy  (with Lily)
How Now Brown Couch AND Sandpaper Snapper (with Sugar Daddy and Luthor)
Great Gold People Swallower (with Yours Truly at 27 and Luthor)
GawdAwful Chair (with Luthor)
The Terrible Man-Eating Sofa (with Madison, Lily and Sam)


Terrible Furniture, adieu.  For the most part, you kept our butts off the floor and for that, we thank you.  

Alright.  NOW I can post our new, newly purchased "NEW" new furniture without guilt.  (Have you ever typed a word so much that it suddenly looks like it's spelled wrong?) 

Fabulous New Loveseat of Awesomeness
Fabulous New Sofa of Awesomeness (with Madison...smelling it?)
Fabulous New Furniture and Madison
Fabulous New Television (free 51" tv with insane furniture purchase) and Fabulous New Television Stand (not free, but still a good deal)

So there it is…all set up in our living room, looking fabulous, not sagging in the wrong places, poking our posteriors with popped springs or trapping us in its cushiony depths and forcing us to live off stale Cheetos and abandoned M&Ms.

We sat on it.  We took our shoes off and put our feet up.  We got comfortable.  And I realized something:  We own grown-up furniture.  *blink*  *blink*


I said, “Honey, this is grown-up furniture.”
“I know.”
“So should we act like grown-up people?”
“Oh, hell no!”


“Yeah.  I was just checking.”





big smile mini




Sunday, May 29, 2011

Crappy Neighbors.


What do you do when you see the toilet from your neighbor’s remodeling project is STILL sitting where he left it, waiting to be hauled off by the city?   Take advantage of a juvenile photo opportunity, of course!  

Step 1: 
Sit on the junked crapper and act extremely irritated that your photographer had the nerve to interrupt your morning business:  





“WHAT.”

(You’ll note that the pants are not down and there’s no newspaper.  No one wanted this photo shoot to look THAT real.  We’re juvenile, not insane.)

Step 2:
Survey the imaginary log.






“Corn?  When did I eat corn?”









Step 3: 
Give your deposit the Arthur Fonzarelli Seal of Approval.







“Now THAT’S suitable for Bulky Waste Pick-Up.”  







Step 4:
Write about toilet humor, blatantly displaying your extreme immaturity to the masses and hope that your neighbor doesn't suddenly decide to follow your blog.  Voila!






Saturday, May 28, 2011

The Unflickable Booger.


From the moment their little mouths could make one syllable of baby babble, I coaxed it out of them.  I encouraged it.  I wanted to hear them say that word, that special name I longed to be called - “Mommy”.  All peeps and squeaks with any semblance of that magical title were rewarded with smiles and hugs and approval. 

The simple truth is this: I started it.

*sigh* Clearly, I didn’t think that through. 

Indeed, I got my wish.  They say it.  Boy, do they say it.  Constantly!  “Mommy” is now the most abused moniker of my existence.  It’s both wonderful and terrible at once. 

True, it is awesome to be so invaluable that my name is the one that they call instinctively.  Also true is the fact that in their eyes, everything seems to be stamped in big bold letters - URGENT.


Don’t get me wrong.  I have three of the most wonderful, silly children I could have ever hoped for, but there are days when I am needed to the point that I want to run away. 

Every so often, one of my kids becomes The Unflickable Booger.  I can bob and weave and put myself in Time Out to lose whatever glue-child is tailing me, to no avail.  The Unflickable Booger will follow me.  She waits outside the bathroom door to bombard me with questions about everything from long breasts to the lock-picking finesse Santa uses on homes without chimneys. More often than not, however, The Unflickable Booger’s main calling is that of stool pigeon.

Her insistence on coupling what used to be such a lovely word with “she” is maddening. The “Mommy, she (this)” and “Mommy, she (that)” statements have piled high on this camel’s back.  I really don’t need to know which “she” did what to whom and why and for how long, do I?  (Okay, sometimes I do.)

I recently made an announcement to my children. I would no longer respond to the name “mommy” if they continued to follow it with the pronoun “she” or asinine requests for the unloading of a particular “she” in the wilderness to be raised by wolves. 

My name henceforth will be Tapioca Puddin’. 

*flick*

Some Other Stuff I Wrote