Monday, September 23, 2013

Is Eight Too Young For A Liquor License?

Sam wanted to make a lemonade stand.   Not being one to thwart the efforts of this pint-sized entrepreneur, I enthusiastically gave her permission.

She made her own little lemonade sign and pulled a table and chair out to the front yard, then came inside to make the lemonade.  

But we had no lemonade.   *insert 8 year old's sigh deeper than the ocean*

She quickly pulled herself together and said, 
"Well, what can I sell instead?"
"Well, we have this:"

"Seriously?!  MOM!  What person would be interested in a MARGARITA STAND?!"
"I think what you mean to say is "What person WOULDN'T be interested in a margarita stand.""
*serious face*
"Mom.  Really.  No one would buy something from a margarita stand!"
 "...Um...I would."  

And then she gave me the look.  You know the one.  The look that says "Mother, WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

(So much, kid.  So so much.)

It's a good idea though, right?  

Sunday, September 15, 2013

I didn't see that one coming. Fugly Sweaters and Power Tools.

I have come to the realization that I am not psychic.  I know it's true for a lot of people, but I never expected it to happen to me.   My psychic abilities begin and end with knowing just how full the kitchen garbage can get before it spills over into the cabinet under the sink.  And even then it's hit and miss.

But there was a time when I thought I could predict the future.  At least where the holidays were concerned.  I was clearly in denial.

Our first Christmas together as a married couple, I got John a cordless power drill. I was completely stoked and couldn't wait to give it to him.  You see, we are perfectly matched and because I LOVE power tools, my husband would undoubtedly love power tools too.  I knew this was the perfect Husband-y Man-type Thing for my beloved life partner.

I could see it all in my mind: he would open this fantastically shiny and useful tool and immediately declare that not only was this the best gift he had ever received, but that I was an even better spouse than he suspected I would be when he signed up for this whole crazy marriage thing.  I would smile sweetly, knowing full well the extent of my awesome as he bragged about this sweet drill that didn't even require an extension cord to use and me, his wonderful wife.

"Did you see what Erika got me for Christmas?!   Isn't it great?!  I'll be able to get shit DONE now!  How did she know?!  Man, she is the BEST. WIFE. EVAR!!"

That's not quite what happened.  Because I'm not psychic.

He opened it, looked at me and said, "Is this my real gift?"

Damn those delusions of grandeur!

Of course he didn't do any better.  One year I asked for a pink sweater.

Anyone who was psychic would have known that what I meant was that I would like one of those super-soft baby pink angora-type cardigans with the faux pearl buttons that were on all the mannequins at Braun's.  (Good God, whatever happened to Braun's?)

What I got on Christmas Day was NOT that.  At all.  Like, AT ALL.  It was indeed pink, as I requested, and made of yarn.  However.  It was Pepto Bismol pink with stripes of silver tinsel throughout.  And holy shoulder pads, Batman!  I could have played defense for the Steelers in that thing!

I suspected that somewhere a clown was naked and cold.

Now, I am not a completely ungracious receiver.  Please stop picturing Nellie Oleson.  I pretended to love the pastel holiday nightmare and actually wore it a few times. But it was hard to mask my disappointment that it was not what I thought I had so clearly asked for when I said "pink sweater".

I still futilely clung to the idea that one of us would be blessed with the gift of second sight, or at least a knack for insightful guessing.  I remember telling him that I didn't care what he got me as long as it was from his heart.  I said that he could get me a yo-yo and if it meant something it would always be special to me. Mistake.

That year I got a Duncan Imperial.

The lesson here, my friends, is that you must be specific.  Non-psychic spouses do not thrive on uncertainty.   You can't leave anything to guesswork.  Pictures help greatly.  Cut out photos and tape them to the toilet seat, and make sure you mark the exact color, size and number that you would like.  

Yes, it takes the surprise out of your holiday, but sometimes that's a good thing.   If you vaguely hint about something specific, and you and your gift-giving honey pie are as psychic as my husband and I are, you're probably gonna end up with a clown sweater.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

I am not an idiot.

I've mentioned before that my life is steeped in the ridiculous. This is not an exaggeration. Of course, since I'm the one that keeps putting Ridiculous Tea in the infuser, I have no one to blame but myself.  I know you're just frothing at the mouth to read another example of the incredible stuff that seems to happen only to me, so without further ado...

I use Clorox Bleach sanitizing spray in my shower.  

I probably need to be more specific when I state that, don't I? I don't want to lead you to believe that my ridiculousness is brought about in the form of self-sabotage as I unwittingly wage chemical warfare upon my person during my daily cleaning ritual. So be it.  

I use Clorox Bleach to sanitize my shower.

The bottle I have worked great for a while and then one day it suddenly stopped. The nozzle was broken or plugged or something, because I squeezed and squeezed it and nothing would come out. Not wanting to pitch the entire bottle, I switched out the spray nozzle with one from another bottle. SUCCESS! It worked! This time when I squeezed the trigger, bleach sprayed forth and sanitized the funk out of my shower again. Yippee! I'm not an idiot!

Now I could address the broken nozzle's issues. I rinsed it out and inspected every coil and plastic doodad and pulled the trigger a few more times to see exactly how this mechanism worked...

And then I looked at the little square tip of the nozzle and saw in raised letters, clear plastic on clear plastic, three letters: O-F-F


Please disregard previous comment about my idiocy.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Have you seen the children?

Why is it that whenever I pass a sign that very specifically states "Happy children at play" I never see any happy children about?  

Where are they? I mean, the abundance of happy children was obviously important enough at one time to warrant a sign, so what happened to them since its posting? Are the happy children missing? Did they grow up and move away? Am I the only one concerned about these children?

I drive past one of those signs at least once a week when I take my daughter to her friend's house and I've never seen even one child anywhere near that sign.

Wait, wait. I take that back. There was one time we passed a boy, about nine years old,  running through the grass with a large pair of scissors in his hand. HE looked happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. Until he saw us watching him, whereupon he stopped dead in his tracks and glared menacingly at us until we were out of sight.  

That was rather frightening.
You know, thinking about it, maybe that particular sign should be changed to "Unbalanced children with sharp objects". It would be more accurate at least.

And still I'm left to wonder what became of the other children. The happy ones at play.  

Have you seen the children??

Some Other Stuff I Wrote