It’s been almost two years since I went to the dentist. And I have a toothache that hurts up into my head and down my jaw. I have no dental insurance. I called my dentist, whom I love, but his receptionist told me I only have 90 days to pay, if he does some work. I’m leaning towards just going, then telling him I need more time to pay. But ha! It’s not like we have a little bit of money- Nope, we have NO money, so I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay him. I don’t mind telling him that, but I don’t want to tell his snooty receptionist that. Sigh.

Meanwhile, my face throbs on and I suspect an abscess. Damn Damn Damn. Damnity damn.

Edited: Meanwhile, I’m trying to look up small business grants and how to write a business plan on the SBA website, Abby just dumped water all over the kitchen, I’ve got dinner in the oven,  Beanie is blowing a party-horn at me because he want me to “LOOK!” at him, and Jeffrey is complaining that he doesn’t like dinner and wants pudding instead. My tooth throbs on. Aren’t you glad this isn’t your life? Grim.

As Courtney says at C-Jane, I need to get my Spice back.

One of These Things is Not Like the Other


Or: Sizing Problems in Children’s Clothing at TARGET

This picture has not been altered. Both items of clothing were smooth and spread out, and nothing is folded or tucked in any way. The waistbands are even at the top left edge.

Yesterday, on a quick run to Target to pick up more Children’s Tylenol (because Jeff has the bug now) I walked through the kids department. They had shorts for $4 each- so I stopped to look at them. Do you see what I see?

I snapped the pic with my cell, so sorry it sucks, but I think you can still see what I’m talking about. Those shorts were both in the little kids department, on adjacent racks. Both are Circo brand, by Target, both cost $4 each, and both are children’s size 5T.


Let’s see. One pair is a decent pair of shorts for a reasonable price. One pair is designed to make my daughter’s toddler butt hang out. One pair is roomy and great for playing. One pair is great for toddler pole dancing class. One pair is sturdy cotton, able to hold up to dirt and well, play. One pair is flimsy thin knit, perhaps because they are meant to be worn with fishnet stockings. One pair is cut loose and comfortable, one pair is cut skin tight and might actually show girly bits.

Target? Circo designers? Get with the freaking program! What the crap is this garbage? What’s the take-home lesson for my kids? Boys get to play, girls are objects from the get-go? Boys get to be comfy and girls get to be skintight?

The more I think about this, the more I get pissed off.

My daughter is a little girl. She will be three next month. I could not squeeze her diaper-clad butt into those size 5 shorts. She is a girl who wants to play in the mud and run around the backyard with her brothers- and she really ought to be able to do those things without her behind showing- or worse.

Does this seem unreasonable? Does this bother you, too? If it does, let Target know. While Target is notoriously bad with with customer service, and they do not allow feedback on their website, you can contact them at the Target Store Merchandise link.

Pracitical Application and CF Bulbs

When I first wrote the post on CF (compact fluorescent) lightbulbs, it was from more of a “Hey, this is interesting and might merrit some thought” point-of-view. Today, I learned first-hand what cleaning up one of these little toxic nightmares really entails.

While taking down the kitchen (ceiling) light, where I though they would be safe, nice and high- and trying to be extremely careful, I dropped the bulb. Hitting the kitchen tile, the bulb blasted into a gazillion pieces, and all three of my kids were standing there watching, within three feet. (now, if you want to fault me for having them nearby, go ahead, but should a mama have to vacate the house just to change a lightbulb? Evidently, yes.)

Immediately swooping up Abby and Bean, I rushed all of them outside. I went back in to, a) open the windows (the only thing I could remember from the EngeryStar website) and b) pull up the website to see what I should do next.

Here is what it said:

How should I clean up a broken fluorescent bulb?

The following steps can be performed by the general public:

  1. 1. Open a window and leave the room for 15 minutes or more.
  2. 2. Carefully scoop up the fragments and powder with stiff paper or cardboard and place them in a sealed plastic bag.
    1. 􀂃 Use disposable rubber gloves, if available (i.e., do not use bare hands). Wipe the area clean with damp paper towels or disposable wet wipes and place them in the plastic bag.
    2. 􀂃 Do not use a vacuum or broom to clean up the broken bulb on hard surfaces.

  3. 3. Place all cleanup materials in a second sealed plastic bag.
    1. 􀂃 Place the first bag in a second sealed plastic bag and put it in the outdoor trash container or in another outdoor protected area for the next normal trash disposal.
    2. 􀂃 Note: some states prohibit such trash disposal and require that broken and unbroken lamps be taken to a local recycling center.
    3. 􀂃 Wash your hands after disposing of the bag.

  4. 4. If a fluorescent bulb breaks on a rug or carpet:
    1. 􀂃 First, remove all materials you can without using a vacuum cleaner, following the steps above. Sticky tape (such as duct tape) can be used to pick up small pieces and powder.
    2. 􀂃 If vacuuming is needed after all visible materials are removed, vacuum the area where the bulb was broken, remove the vacuum bag (or empty and wipe the canister) and put the bag or vacuum debris in two sealed plastic bags in the outdoor trash or protected outdoor location for normal disposal.

OK, Mamas, does that sound like a safe and fun activity for your family? Empty the house, dont touch the debris, and double-bag it all. For. A. Lightbulb.

For about half an hour, I played outside on the kids swingset with them, then I went into my toxic waste-dump of a kitchen and began the tedious job of cleaning up without using a vacuum, broom and having no rubber gloves. I used the wet paper towels, per instructions and a stiff piece of paper. Then the Swiffer thing. Disposable pads are ok, I presume. Double bagged all the danger-shards and then, finally, did run the vacuum, just in case I missed a shard. (Paranoid about glass slivers)

So, why do I buy organic laundry soap, organic dish soap, natural and locally grown veggies, use cotton diapers, canvas grocery bags and natural fiber clothing if my lightbulbs are going to constitute a minor Chernobyl when they (and they will, don’t kid yourself!) break? What’s the point?

I’m sorry, but it just seems too dangerous. These things are not welcome in my home. If we are trying to save the earth for our kids, what’s the point if my kids get mercury poisoning or can’t have children of their own someday?

What, exactly, are we saving?

Most Awful Name EVER

Reading around the blogs today, I came upon this: Qatar and Cenneigdigh. The boy is Qatar, pronounced to rhyme with “Butter”. And the girl is… whatever that says above, pronounced “Kennedy”. Yes, the dad swears, with pride, that he is serious.

Why? WHY? WHY WHY WHY do some parents DO this????

Target, Part 2

Target. Oh, Target, my love, are we destined to hurt one another forevermore?

After my last trip to Target, I hadn’t had the personal fortitude to try again, until yesterday, when they had barbecue’s on clearance, and we both needed one, and didn’t have wads of cash to shell out for one. So I took a deep breath, packed all three Monkeys in the ‘Burb, and headed off to meet my pain head on. It couldn’t be any worse. Could it?

We stopped off at DH’s office on the way, and he looked at me like I had just suggested eating caterpillars for dinner when I told him where we were headed. Some things men just don’t get, and a woman’s love for Target is one of them.

This time I was prepared though. I had the $2.17 required for two popcorn’s and two soda-pop’s, yes, two, so as to alleviate the possibility of any fighting from the get-go. I also was able to nab the special, giganto-cart with the extender on it where you can strap your Monkeys in, and still have a place for the baby and Target junk you can’t live without. Score!

Everyone is strapped in, buckled, tied down, can’t move, has their popcorn and Jones Green Apple Soda, never-mind my cart is 16 feet long; they cannot escape me this time! And off we go. I give a mighty push. Nothing. The cart won’t move. I jerk it back and forth. Nothing. What the….? Jiggle, shove, kick. The left back wheel is perpendicular to the rest of the cart. $#*&. There is NO way I am unpacking these kids and trying to do this while they walk beside the cart. Hahahahahahahahaha! No. Not gonna happen. So, I kick the wheel as strait as I can get it, and begin to drag the cart through Target. (cue the toiling slave music…)

Yes, I actually drug the cart, through Target, with 120 or so pounds of my kids in it, and a gimpy wheel. And of course the barbecue clearance section is in the very south-40 back corner of the store. Of course. OK, how can I make the best of this? I start talking to the cart, calling it silly names, and the kids think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. They are jerking and bouncing around as I pull the lame cart all the way to the back of the store, spilling popcorn and soda as we go. But, they are laughing. No matter how much things may suck, if your kids are laughing, everything is easier.

After finding the ellusive Target employee and asking for our new barbecue to be brought up front, I begin the arduous task of dragging my brick of a cart back to the front of the store. Near the shoe department, the wheel really jacked itself, and the boys lurched forward, bashing Eric’s head into Jeffrey’s mouth. Can I just get out of Target without any blood, just once?? But no, Jeff’s lip is split wide open, but he doesn’t yet realize he is bleeding. That is, until Eric chimes in with “Look at the blood!”, and the shrieking begins. Jeff is something of a drama queen, if I hadn’t mentioned that before.

Bloody lip taken care of with a Huggies wipe, tears cleaned up, face red and splotchy, (the kids and mine!) we drag ourselves into the check-out line. No, I do not want to save 10% by opening a Target card. I spend enough money here, thank you very much. No, really. I don’t want one. Thanks. No. NO.

We have a lovely new, stainless steel barbecue sitting in the back of my ‘Burb. And I made it through Target. I can do anything!

Why? Why, Oh Why?

I knew I shouldn’t have bought it. I knew it. But the boys were being maniacs, I had all three kids with me for my errands today, and the last stop was the grocery store. (Abby, bless her pink polka dotted heart, slept the whole time we were out.)

But when I walked down the freezer aisle, and I saw that they were “Buy one get one Free!”, like a powerful magnet, they drew me in. I was powerless. Haagen…Daz…raspberry…chocolate…truffle… and a free pistachio for DH!

I put the kids to bed, DH went downstairs to workout, and I cracked that baby open. Ah, peace at last. All by myself.

I ate the whole thing.

Now, feeling sick and disgusting, I am going to drag my sorry butt to go ride the exercise bike for like, the next fourteen hours. Don’t anyone tell me how many calories are in a whole container of HD. Seriously. Lalalalalallala. I’m not listening!

The Love of My Life

DH wants to know why I never write about him. Welllll….. He’s not very interesting? No, that’s not it. He doesn’t do gross things that are funny like the kids? Nope, not that either, ’cause he does. I’m not his mommy? Well, yes that’s true. I did write about how we met, but I guess that didn’t tell too much about him, other than his amazing perseverance and patience. How many men can wait ten years and three proposals for a girl to realize she loves him??

DH is a big man. He lifts weights, is crazy strong, shaves his head bald and wears a goatee. My gay uncle says he looks like someone who would beat him up in a bar- and he does. Not beat people up, but looks like he might. But the truth is, he’s never beat anyone up, and he would rather sing show-tunes with said gay uncle while they build Lego things for our kids. (I’ve seen it, folks)

From my Dear Husband, I have learned what true love looks and feels like. And it doesn’t look or feel anything like the romance novels or the imaginings of a little girl. True love is knowing the only thing my husband wants from me is myself, for me to be happy. He has taught me, by his example, the virtue of honesty, and I mean total honesty, even with ourselves about ideas we may have held onto that no longer serve our better needs.

He loves to eat my cooking. There aren’t many things more wonderful to a woman who loves to cook, than a man who adores her cooking. He raves about almost everything I make, and he brags about me to other people. The possible exceptions are beets, and the one time I made Indian food. Not so good. We like Indian food, but at home, it was a serious bomb.

He also mainlines peanut butter. The guy puts peanut butter on absolutely anything. He will make a PB and Cheet-os sandwich, and I’m not kidding. Actually, sandwiches in general are not safe around him. Today, I caught him trying to shove a sandwich he made on the sly, using all my Swiss cheese rolled up with a slice of bread and some mayonnaise. (Mayo is also not safe in our house, a preference he has passed onto Jeffrey.) I busted him, and we were laughing so hard he had to run out of the room.

He is my best friend. We have know each other almost half our lives, although we have been married only 7 years. See the aforementioned ten-year-wait. He is going to hold that over me for eternity. He was my room-mate in college, he walked me through messy, painful breakups with boyfriends, he picked me up when I was struggling, and cheered me on in everything I tried. 

( He just came downstairs and is rummaging through the food-storage closet, and asked if we have any mayonnaise!! We’re out! That means we are going to Costco tonight. Now he is blabbering about how I’m a bad wife!)

I’ve written about how much he loves fans. This summer he has come up with a new way to keep me cold. He has set up a fan-relay- that is, he has placed a fan behind the couch, right over the central AC vent that doesn’t reach much, and blows the cool air to the end of the couch, where he has another fan set up, pointing out into the room, where there is another fan, pointing directly at him, on the couch, where he can watch baseball. Or Law & Order. Or the Closer, or any other cop show ever made. He likes cop shows.

Besides me, ice cream is his other great love. Ice cream is not safe in our house, and I have tried buying flavors he doesn’t like, but that doesn’t work. The only thing he won’t eat is rainbow sherbet. And he never uses a bowl. Right from the carton, baby. With a fork- says it cuts through hard ice cream better than any spoon. And he makes patterns with the fork when he eats from the carton. So when I get our ice-cream out to make the kids a bowl, there are fork crop-circles in the carton. Weird.

I have pictures I took one night, of all three of my children, asleep flat on their backs, with their arms flung over their heads. Then I went in our room, and there was DH, flat on his back, arms flung over his head, snoring away. All four or my precious darlings, same position, same night, same time. Priceless.