Trifecta of Crap (Part Two)

Contacts Conspiracy

A little background is needed for this rant. I have been wearing glasses or contacts since I was in the second grade; in other words, almost 30 years. I have been wearing contacts for the last 20 years. I have spectacularly bad eyes, something I blame on bad genetics (everyone in my family has bad eyes and wears glasses - grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brother, etc., etc.) My eyes are so bad that I really cannot function unless I have contacts in or glasses on.

Anyway, I have never had much of a problem wearing contacts. I can't stand glasses - they get dirty, they slip on my nose, they irritate my skin, kids can rip them off your face, the dog eats them in the night . . . . you know. Consequently, I wear my contacts almost exclusively, although I take them out to sleep. Over the years, the type and brand of contacts has changed multiple times. Every time, I simply wear the new contacts and notice no difference.

For the last 8 years or so, I have been wearing the same type and brand of contacts. For some unknown reason, the company that makes them has decided to discontinue this type of contacts and claim they have made a better replacement version.

What-the-fuck-ever. Better, my ass. By better, they mean more expensive to the consumer and probably cheaper to make. And they also mean - fucks up your eyes.

I had my annual eye exam in April and was told my contacts had been discontinued. The doctor ordered the "better" version. I tried them. They hurt my eyes instantly. I was assured that stinging was just the solution they were stored in and, when it wore off, they would be fine.

Wrong.

I wore them for a week and could always feel them in my eyes. They never sat right on my eyeball, causing me to blink all the time to straighten them so I could see.

So I went back and got a different brand's trial pair. They also sucked. They were slightly better than the last ones but still uncomfortable. Plus, they were so thin on one axis that they kept folding up like burritos and sticking to themselves. And then another pair - even worse. And this pair is giving me headaches, which makes me oh-so-fun to be around, particularly considering the other shit I am dealing with right now.

I just got off the phone with the eye doctor's office. They want me to come in yet again for another consult. What the fuck for? Basically, I get the routine. They order another kind of contacts, I come in and put them on, I say they are uncomfortable, they tell me to try them for a few days, they hurt for that few days, I call and say they hurt, they tell me they will order another pair, and on and on. But now they are telling me I have to come in to "discuss" my problems. I fucking told him my problems when I was there last week! They hurt, they won't stay put, I can't focus without blinking, it feels like I have a sliver of hard plastic in my eyes.

Bottom line, I can't see. Why do I have to come in to explain this before you order me another sample pair? Because the only thing this is going to accomplish is me getting pissed off and you ordering me yet another pair of sample contacts! Why can't we all save some time and energy (and gas, I might add) and you can order every possible type of sample contacts for me. I take them home, I try them out for a few days each time, I take copious notes, and then I call you and tell you which ones actually work.

Then they say because it is "just like any doctor, he wants to see you wearing them to assess how they fit." Here's a fucking clue - if they hurt or I can't see, they don't fit. I move on to the next one. It's not like prescription medication. It's simple - if I can't see, they aren't working and I take them out of my eyes. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to leave them in my eyes if they don't fit.

Then they say that, "Sometimes people just can't wear contacts . . . they just don't work for them." OK, maybe 20 years ago that was true when there weren't 5000 brands of contacts on the market. Now, I don't buy it, especially since it was a mere two months ago that I was happily wearing contacts with no problems what-so-ever. Nothing happened to my eyes in the last two months except for the stress of being fucked with over and over again.

My answer to the though that some people "just can't wear contacts"? "I don't think so." The woman laughed at me. I said, "I'm sorry you find that funny but I will wear contacts. If you can't find me some that work, I will find someone who can."

Against my will, I scheduled an appointment for later this afternoon . . . because what was my choice, really? I can't wear glasses, I can't concentrate at work without taking four Advils for the headache pain. I'm constantly blinking at people so I am sure that everyone thinks I am being really flirty or that I have an eye tick.

We will see what happens.

Trifecta of Crap (Part One)

The past week has had some spectacularly bad moments (although, I must admit that I have had worse weeks in the recent past). So bad, in fact, that I found it necessary to write three separate posts about how crappy these things really were. This is the first. *Warning - this post contains many more swear words than I usually employ in one post.

The Kitchen

Actually, this wasn’t really one moment in particular, rather it has been going on for several weeks, but the whole thing self-imploded last week. As I have previously discussed, my dishwasher stopped working. Happy to stimulate the economy, I purchased another one and crossed my fingers, hoping the jackass who lived in my house before had not totally fucked up the kitchen by putting the floor in after the dishwasher. Well, he did totally fuck it up - but not in the way I was expecting.

The problem with the dishwasher was not the floor or the height of the hole, it was the width. Apparently, the asshole who lived in my house thought it was perfectly acceptable to install a dishwasher in a space where a dishwasher doesn’t really fit. In order to do this, the asshole needed to carve out part of the floor and cut various dents into the existing cabinet. He also needed to cut off most of the dishwasher’s insulation to shove it into the hole where it clearly does not fit. Well, fast forward to me wanting to properly install a dishwasher. Can’t be done, says the installer, pointing out the various fuck-ups of the last owner.

Short story - the cabinet next to the dishwasher needs to be rebuilt.

However, rebuilding that cabinet affects the whole countertop/sink area creating the real possibility that the whole thing would need to be replaced. So, I figured that since I was going to be creating utter chaos in my kitchen anyway, I would look into replacing all of the cabinets. It turned out that I could easily replace (and add to) the cabinets and fix other things in the kitchen for under $10,000. Impressed by the prospective beauty (and value) of a new kitchen, I was so excited, but of course, didn’t have $10,000 sitting around to spend.

So, I went to my beloved bank and applied for a home equity loan or line of credit. Within a week, the bank called and said I had been approved for a $10,000 home equity loan. Yippee!! Plans were drawn up, estimates made, people consulted. Now I just had to wait for my money.

And wait and wait and wait.

Finally, last week, the bank called again. Sorry, they said. Our loan policies have changed because of the bad loan market and you no longer qualify for a loan. What?!?!? Apparently, during the month I was waiting, the bank decided that the minimum amount of money they would approve for a home equity loan would be $25,000. But I don’t need $25,000!!!! I just wanted the stinking $10,000, and really, I could have done it with $8,000. But nooooooooo . . . .


Fucking economy. Fucking president of the United States and fuckers who have taken this country into the shitter. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What kind of system is it where a person who makes a fairly good living (in a job that is absolutely repression proof, in fact, my job gets busier when the economy sucks), has been working at that job for 8 years, owned her home for 6 years, has always paid her bills on time, and has excellent credit can’t get a freaking loan for $10K?

Now I am back to fucking square one and trying to find some person to rebuild one fucking cabinet in my sinkhole of a kitchen.

Goddamn it.

And the worst thing? I fucking HATE doing dishes by hand.

Bubble Got Back

One of the rules in my house is that bubbles can only be blown in the bathtub or outside. If you think that makes me a kill-joy, please consider how slippery and sticky bubble soap makes hardwood and ceramic tile floors. I haven't got time for that kind of mess. I have enough mess made through allowed activities in my house.

Anyway, every time the kids take a bath, I sit next to the tub and blow bubbles. Bubbles entertain children for hours and they love getting and popping them in the bathtub. And, no one gets messy because you can just wash it off! (Believe me, I have considered letting them eat in the bathtub but there isn't enough room. Plus, it's probably not that sanitary.)

Last night during their bath, I blew a really big bubble. The kids were astounded and amazed. They gasped in delight. My daughter said, "I like BIG bubbles!!" She said it in such a way, it came out like Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" when he says, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . ." So, I started singing "Baby Got Back" but stopped when I realized the words were really inappropriate on so many levels. But they giggled (probably from watching this very white mommy try to rap . . . I admit, it was kinda sad.) But they enjoyed it, so I changed the words to the song to make it more kid-friendly. Here it is:

I like big bubbles and I cannot lie

You other brothers can't deny

That when a bubble blows in with no itty bitty waist

And a round thing in your face

You get fun, wanna pop out your tongue

'Cause you notice that bubble was stuffed

High in the air it’s flying

I'm hooked and I can't stop staring

Oh baby, I wanna get it with you

And take its picture

My homeboys tried to warn me

But that bubble I see makes me so happy

I think there is some merit to the idea that something happens to your brain when you become a parent. If this wasn't so funny, I might be embarrassed for myself. But, I've had a shitty week and I needed the laugh and . . . there it is.

Push Your Own Damn Elevator Button

Message to the ladies who shared the elevator with me after lunch today.

Just because you are old (and really, not that old ladies . . . you were both about 60 . . . seriously), does not mean you are entitled to have your elevator buttons pushed for you. Does making it "over the hill" allow you to boss younger people around on a whim? I think not.

Here's what happened. After lunch, I returned to my office building. I waited for a few moments for the elevator with two older women. The elevator arrived and I stepped in, pushed my floor button and stepped to the back of the elevator. The two ladies, who were in the middle of a conversation they started while meandering back to their office, slowly made their way into the elevator. They firmly planted themselves next to me at the back of the elevator without pushing their floor button.

The doors closed and the elevator began moving. I know these women do not work on my floor and wondered silently whether they were going to remember where they were and where they were going. Not my problem, I thought. I have enough crazy in my life without worrying about the mysterious workings of the semi-senile.

All of a sudden, one lady popped up with, "OH! Could you push 9 for us?"

Are you kidding me? Are your arms broken? What makes you think you deserve to tell other people to push your elevator buttons - your advanced age? Reaching the ripe old age of 60 might entitle you to retirement in some professions, a free meal in some restaurants, and discounted movie tickets, but it does not entitle you to order other adults to perform menial tasks for you at the drop of a hat.

But I didn't say any of this (not because I was overtaken by niceness but because I work in the same building with these women and future awkward moments on the elevators should be averted) and just stepped forward and pushed 9. I must have rolled my eyes a little bit or looked slightly put-out because the two old ladies giggled and said, rather lamely, "Oh, I guess we could have pushed it ourselves."

This bothered me almost as much as the men (mostly older men) who get onto an elevator first and block the buttons from women and ask each one "Which floor?" Seriously, I can push my own god damn elevator buttons. Just because I have a vagina does not mean I am incapable of pushing the button that takes me to my office. Where I work. As a professional. (The office/work/professional thing is what these guys can't wrap their 1962 minds around.) I mean, after all, I did manage to get myself dressed this morning and drive that fancy automobile to the new-fangled parking lot. How incompetent could I be?

Some of the chivalrous things left over from decades ago really irk me. Here is a message to all men. If you get to the door first, hold it open for me. Just like I will hold it open for you if I get there first. But really, you don't have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from the traffic. You don't have to open the car door for me. And don't offer to carry my suitcase for me. I packed the thing, let me carry it. And really, don't offer me your coat. I should have remembered to wear one. Or maybe I might just be comfortable without a coat. And never, ever offer to pump gas for me.

There are exceptions, of course. (This is the part that drives men crazy). Perhaps my arms are broken. Then pushing the buttons or opening the car door or pumping gas is a really nice thing to do. Or perhaps I am carrying two children and all of their crap and can't quite get my suitcase with the one free pinky finger I have. Or perhaps I brought a coat but one of those children peed on it. Then it might be OK to offer me your coat.

It's just that simple . . . .

Unfortunately, It Wasn't the First Time

Anyone who has had a son knows that it is very typical to get peed on many times before they are potty-trained. My son has only peed on me a handful of times, but the one yesterday was his greatest pee-accomplishment to date.

We spent most of the afternoon outside in the warm but not ungodly humid weather. I filled a couple of storage bins with water and let the kids have at it. (Yes, I suppose I could buy a wading pool but I just haven't gotten around to it. And really, for preschoolers, playing in any kind of water is fun. Who needs a wading pool? At some point, my daughter is going to notice that our neighbors all have wading pools and wonder why she only has a plastic storage bin full of water.)

Since they got to do just about anything they wanted, including making mud puddles and splashing in them, I made them strip naked before going into the house. We dropped the wet clothes and shoes in the front hallway and went straight upstairs to the bathroom for a bath. I turned the water on in the tub and got my son's dry clothes and a diaper. Then I realized I had forgotten to get my daughter's dry clothes and underwear from her room downstairs.

As I started down the steps, I looked back at the kids. They were both standing naked in the bathroom watching the tub fill up with water. I stopped and engaged myself in a risk analysis of the situation. It would literally take me less than 10 seconds to go down the rest of the stairs and get her clothes. What could happen in 10 seconds, really? After a split second, I thought, "What, are you crazy? What couldn't happen in 10 seconds with these kids??" So, I went back upstairs and stopped the water in the tub and let it drain out. Look at me . . . Ms. Safety Conscious Mom. No drowning today, kids!

I looked at both of them and said, "Mama's going downstairs to get some dry clothes. I will be right back. Don't go anywhere. Okay?" They both said, "Okay, Mama." And I ran down the stairs. I ran to my daughter's room, grabbed some clothes and underwear, and ran back to the stairs. Then I ran halfway up the stairs . . . .

Which was when I felt it.

A warm stream of liquid spraying across the right side of my forehead.

"AHHHHHH!" I shouted as the warm liquid continued down the side of my face, onto my neck and then down my arm. "What the hell?" I put my hand up to shield myself and looked to the source.

There was my 18 month old son standing against the railing above the stairs, pushing his penis between the rails and giggling at my reaction. I'm sure he was just standing there to see where I was going when I ran down the stairs, but it was a perfect position for him to just . . . let go. I don't think he has the capacity to plan to pee on his mother's head, but his delight in doing so has me a little worried.

In retrospect, I should have let the naked potty-trained child, who knows where her clothes and underwear are and has the capacity to get them, make the trip downstairs while I put the pee-monster in the bathtub.

Stupid, Sentimental, Unbelievable, Overly-Wordy, Implausible Drivel

A friend recently gave me a book called "On Chesil Beach" by Ian McEwan. She thought I would like it (Ian McEwan wrote "Atonement"). This friend is usually spot on with her book recommendations and I gladly started reading it last night. The review on the front cover was "Wonderful . . . Exquisite . . . Devastating."

My review is "Horrible . . . Excruciating . . . Waste of Paper."

Why on Earth would I be interested in reading 166 pages of sappy crap about a couple (both virgins) having sex for the first time on their wedding night? That's right . . . the entire book is about ONE NIGHT. And, what's worse is that they don't even have sex until page 103! And the sex is bad sex and only lasts for one paragraph before the woman runs out of the room and down to . . . you guessed it . . . Chesil Beach.

Total. Waste. Of. My. Time.

I gave up - something I rarely do with books unless I am totally disgusted. I was totally disgusted. I threw the book away and read the first three chapters of "The Nine: Inside the Secret World of the Supreme Court." Now that's good reading.

Who Is This Child?

On our way to the zoo in my parents' hometown this weekend, my daughter suddenly announced, "When I get big, I'm gonna get a Hummer."

My mother and I looked at each other and I said, "A Hummer?" My daughter is not quite three years old and sometimes she is hard to understand. Usually, if I say multiple words that are wrong, she gets upset until I say the word she was trying to say. I thought I had certainly misunderstood her. But I hadn't.

"Yeah . . . a Hummer."

"Like a really big car . . . that kind of Hummer?"

"Yep . . . when I get big." Duh, mama.

For the record, I don't drive a Hummer. I drive a nice little four door sedan. No one I know drives a Hummer. I doubt she has ever been in a Hummer. But she was absolutely certain she was going to get a Hummer when she gets big. Alrighty then . . . .

The next day, she informed me she wanted a "cleaner" toy for her next potty-chart-reward-toy. A vacuum-cleaner toy. Keep in mind - the child has never seen me use a vacuum cleaner. She knows we have one because it fell out of the front hall closet once when I was searching for a missing mitten. I have no idea how she knows how to use one, but when she saw a cute little pink one at the children's consignment store, she was all over it, vacuuming away. So, I bought her a used pink toy vacuum cleaner. And she's used it more than I have ever used my real one.

So, this week, I am asking, "Who is this child?" Some non-environmentally friendly, super-sized SUV-driving suburban soccer-mom/Stepford wife in the making?

Jeez . . . next she's going to tell me she's voting for John McCain.

Oh Good Grief - I've Turned Into My Mother

I just shut my door and laid down to take a nap on my office floor because I was so tired. After about 10 seconds, it occurred to me that I have become my mother. My mother keeps a pillow and blanket under her desk in her office so she can cat nap between patients. I always thought it was such an old lady thing to do even though my mother is the most un-old lady I know.

It was actually kind of nice to stretch out during the work day but I couldn't relax because I kept envisioning my secretary seeing me on the floor and thinking I had passed out. How she would have seen me through the solid locked door is beyond me, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Anyway, my mother may have a good plan - resting during the day.

Okay, so I've become my mother a little bit. That's alright, I guess. But I'll be damned if I'm going to give up wearing high-heels because they are uncomfortable and switch to only Birkenstocks. And there is no way I'm going to start eating herring for breakfast with dry toast. And I'm sure not going to start hording toilet paper like it's the end of the world. I have my standards, after all.

Mamma Mia Contains a Few of My Favorite Things

Specifically . . . the music of ABBA, Colin Firth, and Pierce Brosnan. Ahhhhhhhhhh . . . heaven!

As some of you may know (and I found out last night), the popular musical based on ABBA music is coming to the big screen. I was not lucky enough to see the stage version but I will be there for opening night for the movie version. Okay, maybe not opening night but within the following week or so (depending on which child is sick and/or particularly needy at the time and can't be left with a babysitter.)

Just watching the preview made me want to get up and start dancing and giggle with delight. First, the music. I am not ashamed to admit it - I love ABBA. Love, love, love, love ABBA. I get this from my mother, who also loves, loves, loves, loves ABBA. (As an aside, I just wish to point out that I got my love of the Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel from my dad, so it balances out.) Fun music to sing along to, to dance in your underwear to while singing into your hairbrush, to drive to, to sing to your children to embarrass them . . . the fun-ness never ends with ABBA.

Oh, and the lyrics! Only people not completely skilled in the English language who were raised in the cold northern part of Europe could come up with these dreamsicle lyrics:

Waterloo - Couldn't escape if I wanted to
Waterloo - Knowing my fate is to be with you
Waterloo - Finally facing my Waterloo

Or these:

Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
Mamma mia, does it show again?
My my, just how much I've missed you
Yes, I've been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
Why, why did I ever let you go?
Mamma mia, now I really know,
My my, I could never let you go.

Anyway, the other reason I love ABBA is the Swedish accents. My maternal grandparents both spoke with the Swedish accent and every time I listen to ABBA, I can hear them again . . . particularly my grandmother, who loved "Dancing Queen."

Also . . . Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan. Yum. They just get better and better with age.

Speaking of yum, the movie I saw last night was "Made of Honor" with Patrick Dempsey. I'm sure there were other humans in the movie, but I really didn't care. It was cute and totally predictable in every way, but Patrick Dempsey was in nearly every frame (and quite often shirtless, although he looks damn good in a suit), so it was well worth the price of admission.

He had me at "Can't Buy Me Love" and I've been in love ever since . . . .

Your Bra Can Save the Planet

Well, not quite yet, but a Japanese company has invented a "solar-powered bra that can generate enough electric energy to charge a mobile phone or an iPod." Well, thank god. I was wondering when someone was going to figure out a way for my bras to be more proactive in saving the planet.

The bra is not without its problems however. The solar panels are worn around the stomach, which makes it more of a corset than a bra, really, and not very comfortable or breathable. It is hospital-gown-green, but that's not really a problem, is it? I mean, I've always felt there aren't enough green bras in the world. Oh, and it won't work if you wear clothes over it. So, it looks like we are going to bring back the whole Madonna "under-wear-as-outer-wear" look. Also problematic - it can't be washed or worn on a rainy day. Aside from those minor details . . . I say FABULOUS.

Most importantly, "it does send the message of how lingerie could possibly save the planet." Wow! And here I was, you know, trying to save the planet without using my underwear by doing things like recycling, turning my thermostat down, and buying Energy Star appliances. Silly me.

I don't know . . . if you are going to invent solar powered clothing to recharge cell phones and iPods, wouldn't you start with outer clothing like coats and jackets? Or hats? Why bras?

It does give added meaning to the phrase, "Charge me up, baby!"

My Daughter Has Been Possessed by Miss Manners

Not even three days after I thought I was going to have to send my two toddlers to military school, my daughter decided to change the name of the game. Now she's trying to kill me with kindness. In the two hours we were together this morning, she managed to be the nicest toddler this side of the Mississippi.

6:49 am (coming upstairs from her room) - "Good morning, Mama!" This struck me as odd, as her usual first statement of the day is either "I just wet" meaning she has peed in her bed or "Find my ________ (toy) right now!"

6:55 am (after I have told her to go potty and get her clothes) - "Okay, Mama!" And she actually did it! Without stalling with playing she must do before completing any other task or screaming "NO!!" at the top of her lungs.

7:10 - 7:30 am - Actually using Please and Thank You at breakfast. The norm is saying, "Milk, milk, milk, milk, milk, milk" with increasing volume while I am clearly doing something else for someone else.

7:40 am - Putting her shoes on without being asked. She did this without arguing with me about which shoes she was going to wear and without five minutes of insisting she couldn't put her shoes on by herself when she has been putting her shoes on by herself for the last six months. And they're Crocs, for christsake. A monkey could put those on by himself.

7:55 am - Trying to appease my son while he is throwing a temper tantrum. Usually, when he is throwing a fit, she stands next to him and screams, "That hurt my ears!! Too loud! Mama, he hurt my ears!"

8:17 am - Offering to carry both her bag and his bag out to the car. I expect her to carry her own bag to school and mostly, she dramatically flops her arms down when I give it to her and says, "Too heavy! Can't carry it!" Yeah, right . . . because one pair of underwear, a pair of shorts, and a lip smacker are too heavy for your petite 35-pound frame.

8:26 am - while driving to school in the car and the boy is throwing a different fit, she says, "I sorry for [the boy] Mama." That one really got me - now I am sure the child was abducted by aliens and replaced with some sort of robot-toddler who only uses her nice words, is fully potty trained (even through the night), and never deliberately pisses off her brother.

OR . . . .

She has discovered the age-old trick of older sisters . . . if the brother is acting like a complete shit, turn on the charm and become the perfect child. The rewards will be endless!!

OR . . . .

They are in this together . . . the old bait-and-switch. In a few days, the boy will be the perfect child and the girl will become possessed by the devil! That's the perfect way to keep Mama on her toes (and walking the fine line between psychosis and neurosis).

Tricky, very tricky! But, what you don't know my pretties, is that your Mama has been around the block a few times. You will never win . . . resistance is futile!

Pointlessly Hypertechnical is One Year Old!

Today is my first anniversary as Ms. PH. While blogging has not turned me into the amazing superhero I thought it would, it has been a great year.

Incidentally, May 12th last year was one day before Mother's Day. My Mother's Day post the next day was almost shocking to read because it was so serene and calm. I long for the baby days . . . .

This year's Mother's Day was not a celebration at all. I really had one of the worst days as a mother . . . ever. The screaming and fit-throwing started as soon as they woke up and continued all day. After their naps and another fight about whose toys were whose, I had finally lost it and said, "The next time either one of you screams or cries, you are BOTH going back in your beds and I'm going in my bed for the REST OF THE DAY!!!!"

For reasons no one knows, that actually worked and they were pretty good for the rest of the day. What didn't work was telling them it was Mother's Day and they needed to be nice to me. Surprise, surprise.

I'm So Stimulating . . .

. . . the economy, that is.

When I first heard about the economic stimulus checks, I thought it was a cruel joke. The government giving me free money? No way . . . too good to be true. But, you know, as the checks rolled in, I thought maybe this is a good idea. After all, even though my check was cut because of my income level, any extra money is always helpful.

I planned exactly what I was going to do with the money - new tires for my car. My car guy told me in December that I desperately needed new tires and I pretty much ignored him. After all, car guys are almost always lying or puffing to get you to spend more money at their shops. I asked him if he defined "desperately" as (1) need to change because it is a good proactive thing to do or (2) need to change because the car will explode tomorrow if they are not changed. After a pause, he said, "Well, the car's not going to explode . . . ." Thanks, buddy! That means I'll wait six months to replace the tires.

But, since I am a responsible adult, I resigned myself that this stimulus money was going mostly to new tires, although I would have rather used it to spend a week at the spa. (Man, does it suck to be a grown-up!) So, last weekend I bought my car some new tires. Then I went and bought the kids some big toys - a Dora "Best Friends" trike for the girl and a "Cozy Coupe II" for the boy. And then I bought them some clothes and a few unnecessary items at the Disney Store (store closing prices!)

I still had some money left (I feel like I am on some sort of game show . . .) and I thought I would buy myself some clothes, shoes, and books. But my house had other ideas . . . my house apparently wanted a new dishwasher. It told me it wanted a new dishwasher because the existing one basically exploded on Sunday night. I guess my clothes, shoes, and books will have to wait until next year. (OK - who are we kidding - I'll buy that stuff anyway.)

So, yesterday, I bought a new dishwasher and was questioned by the sales clerk. She wanted to know if I have an existing dishwasher. Yep! Then she asked if it can be removed. Umm . . . well, I've never tried to remove my dishwasher, but I am assuming it wasn't cemented into the kitchen . . . so, Yep! No, she explained, what I mean is has a floor been laid in front of it?

Oh shit.

I personally haven't laid a floor in front of it, but the people who owned it before I did put a new ceramic tile floor in the kitchen. I have no idea if the dishwasher was in place when they did that. Damn.

The bottom line is that, if the current dishwasher doesn't slide out on its own, I can either (1) rip the floor out or (2) rip the countertop off. I'd rather do the countertop because the floor is relatively new and the countertops are much older (and faux-wood Formica - Yikes!) But, if I take the countertops off, I will have to replace the sink as well because it is pretty much cemented to the countertop. And, hell, as long as we're going . . . why not a new faucet? Water filtration system? New cabinets? New stove? Let's replace all the windows, too. Why the hell not?

Take that stupid economy. Now get up off your lazy ass and start making my investments worthwhile!!

Big. Red. Balls.

Clearly, the people responsible for designing Target stores have never had preschool aged children. If they had, they may have thought twice about lining the front of their stores with big red balls. I understand their purpose, but why big red balls? I know, I know . . . big red balls sort of resemble their logo, a flat red target. And by "sort of" I mean that the color is the same and they are both generally circular. Sort of like how the sun and an electric burner are the same - they are both hot and generally circular.

I digress . . . my point is that if those designers had come up with something else, I wouldn't have to hear this conversation during our weekly visits to Target.

17-month old son: (Upon seeing the balls) BAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!! BAAAALLLLLL!! BAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLL!! (This will continue until I acknowledge he has spoken about the balls.)

Me: Yes, those are balls.

2 1/2 year old daughter: Mama, look at those balls!

Son: BAAAAALLLLLL!! BAALLL! BAAAAAAAALLLL!

Me: Yep, look at those balls.

Daughter: Those are RED balls!

Son: BAAAAALLLLLLL!! BAAAAALLLLLL!!

Me: Yes, those are red balls.

Daughter: Mama, those are BIG RED BALLS!

Our little procession from the parking lot to the store is often very amusing to people, particularly teenage boys. I must admit, I find it pretty amusing as well, but sometimes I just don't want to hear about big red balls over and over again. Then I wonder if there will ever be a time when I grow up enough and don't laugh at things like "BIG RED BALLS!" I don't think I ever want to be that grown up.

After all, if I were that grown up, I couldn't laugh every time my daughter says, "Schwing-nex" rather than Kleenex. Sometimes I deliberately ask her "What's this?" while holding a Kleenex just to hear her say "Schwing-nex" and giggle a little.

Huh-huh . . . she just said "schwing."