September 30, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Everything I ever needed to know about good self-esteem I learned from my son.

Today Monkey is having his class pictures done. Last night, I asked him if he wanted to help me pick out what he would wear. He’s coming up on 5 now, you know, so I figured he might want to have a say. Little did I know.

“Let’s try on this shirt,” I said brightly. He eyed it and then slipped his arms in. It was too big, on account of you don’t actually grow all that fast on the all pop-tart diet. “Okay, not this one. Take it off, please. How about this red one?” That one fit, and he spun around for me to admire him.

“This one is very handsome,” he told me. “Do you think I should maybe wear a tie?” I raised my eyebrows. He pointed back into the closet. “There’s a tie hanging on that hanger. I think it would make me even more handsome.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and brought the tie out for his inspection. “Oh, diggers and trucks! This is perfect!” he exclaimed.

I couldn’t resist giving him a squeeze as I laid the shirt and tie out on his chair. “Okay, honey, go brush your teeth, please.”

“Okay, Mama.” He trotted out to the bathroom and then spun around and came back, a single finger perched in the air to signal a matter of great importance. “Um, Mama?”

“Yes, love?”

“Which pants will I be wearing?” I choked just a little, but managed to keep a serious face.

“These jeans, I think,” I said, showing him the jeans I’d taken out before we picked the shirt. He tilted his head at his dungarees and shook it ever so slightly.

“Mama, don’t you think I would be even more handsomer in some nicer pants with my red shirt and my tie?”

“Oh!” Clearly I hadn’t realized the can of worms I’d opened, here. “Well, maybe you’re right. Shall I pull out a pair of church pants, do you think?”

“Yes, please.” He watched me like a hawk while I dug through his pants drawer, and pulled out a pair of cuffed khaki chinos.

“Do you think these are okay?”

“Yes, those will be lovely.” (I swear to God I am not making this up. If you have never seen a small boy declare his pants lovely, you simply have not lived.) “Um, Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Do those pants have the… uh…” he was gesticulating wildly, and I waited. “The ummm… thingies… that are for trapping a belt?”

“Oh! Belt loops?” He brightened.

“Yes! Belt loopses! Does it have those?”

“Yes, these pants have belt loops. Do you suppose you need a belt as well?”

“Mama,” now the rolling of eyes; yes! Clearly I am so brain-damaged, my ability just to breathe with regularity is astonishing. “Of course I need a belt to look handsomest!”

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll take out your belt, too. Anything else?” He pondered for a moment.

“Nice shoes?”

“They’re downstairs in the mudroom. I think you’re all set, buddy.”

“Okay. You are going to be buying lots of my pictures because I am going to be so handsome you can’t stand it, I think.”

At this point, I had to laugh, because it was a necessary release to prevent the melting of my brain and heart from excessive adorableness. “I think you are exactly right, Monkey.”

Fast forward to this morning. Breakfast was peppered with practice smiles and running commentary on how he would not paint today, and he would be very careful not to get dirty, and he wondered if any of his friends would be nearly so handsome as he. (Probably not, we concluded.) Chickadee doesn’t have photos until next week, so she ate in sullen silence and whispered to Monkey that his tie was stupid when she thought I wasn’t listening. This didn’t produce even the slightest damper on his mood of self-adoration, thankfully.

We arrived at the bus stop and Monkey went to each of the three neighbor girls, in turn, to announce, “I am wearing a tie today. Because I am handsome.” He took their giggling for agreement, and threw his arms around my legs as the bus arrived. “Bye, Chickie!” he called out. Then: “Mama, I am so excited to be so handsomish for pictures. Let’s get me to school!”

I brushed his hair one last time and gave him a kiss as he ran off to show his tie to his friends. “Ohhhhh, Monkey, don’t you look handsome!” gushed one of the teachers.

“Yes!” he agreed. I should be embarrassed, I guess. But why? He’s very matter-of-fact about his elite status. His joy is contagious. He is—after all—the most handsomest. We should all be so kind to ourselves.

September 29, 2004 | Detritus

Blessed are the “Shopper’s Club” specials: for they shall fill thy freezer and pantry.

Blessed is the glorious crockpot: for it shall prepare delicious meals with minimal effort.

Blessed are the children who will refuse to eat the bounty of the crockpot: for they are cute and therefore shall not be slain.

Blessed are the toaster pastries: for they shall sustain The Child That Never Eats.

Blessed are the hurricane-ravaged groves of Florida: for they shall raise the price of orange juice and vex the nations.

Blessed are the multigrain rice cakes: for they are cheap and give the illusion of providing healthy snacks for the little children.

Blessed is the salad that comes in a bag: for it shall be tossed with the snip of the scissors.

Blessed are the large brown eggs: for brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh. (You’re welcome for sticking that commercial jingle into your brain.)

Blessed is the cheerful cashier: for she shall punch three $25 spots on thy rewards booklet even though thou only purchased $63 of groceries.

Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad: for the children still will refuse to eat: but now there is a vast array of sustenance for them to abhor.

Detritus

I am still chuckling after reading Jay’s confessions for the week. He has invited fellow bloggers to step up to the confessional as well, so here goes.

I have recently sinned, both in action and in my heart. This past week alone, I:

• Told Chickadee the atomic fireballs are all gone. They aren’t; they are in my nightstand drawer and I have been eating them steadily while watching TV before I go to bed.
• Avoided several friends when they called and told them later that I was out, hoping that they would then believe I truly am busy and not sitting around wallowing.
• Scanned multiple items at Target and when I decided I didn’t want them, left them by the scanner instead of putting them back.
• Told my son that if he woke me up again I was going to take his blanket away and possibly make him sleep outside.
• Forgot to tell my mother that I received that package she sent. (Hey Mom! Got it! Thank you!)
• Thought of a kick-ass invention idea for the Invention Convention and am trying to figure out how to get Chickadee to think it’s her idea and develop it without me actually telling her, because that would be wrong. (Okay, I’m not sure I’m sorry about this one, if I can really manage some sort of subliminal suggestion scheme that works.)
• Received neighbors’ mail in my mailbox, decided it didn’t look important, and threw it away rather than walk back outside and either deliver it or leave it for the postlady.
• Fantasized about my Culligan man delivering more than soda ash.

Like Jay, I’ll take suggestions on my proper penance.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Let’s take a quick inventory of my day thus far, shall we?

12:00 (Midnight): I think to myself, I should really go to sleep now.

12:45: I actually turn out the light.

1:25ish: I look at the clock and wonder why I’m still awake.

2:17: I am awakened by snivelling.

Him: *snivel* *whine* *whimper* *snotsucking*
Me: Huh? Wha? Monkey, what’s the matter?
Him: I can’t find teetee! Waaahhhhhhh!
Me: Oh, honey. It’s okay. C’mon, we’ll find him.
I get out of bed and follow him back to his room, where we commence searching for ye olde nasty comfort rag in the serene glow of his Thomas night light.
Him: It’s gone! It’s gone! My teetee! Gone! WAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
Me: Hang on, I’m still looking….
Him: Teeeeeeeeeeeteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Me: AHA! Here it is, buddy. It was stuck between the sheet and the blanket. Okay, now come lay down and go back to sleep.
Him: Teetee? You found teetee?
Me: Yes, baby. Here. Lay down and–
Him: WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Me: ????
Him: I WANTED TO FIND TEETEE. NOT YOU. LOSE HIM AGAIN!
Me: I am going to try very hard not to get angry at you right now, but it is the middle of the night and you need to stop this and go back to sleep.
Him: I WANTED TO FIND HIM! BAD MAMA!
Me: Yeah, okay. Good night. I’m going back to bed, thankyouverymuch.
Him: NOOOOO DON’T LEAVE ME!!

Those of you without kids? Run out and have some as soon as possible. This is way better than just getting to sleep at night. Yes.

I ended up going back to my bed and down to his room again a few more times before I could get him to be quiet. There’s nothing like a few laps in the middle of the night, I say. Now you all know the secret to my youthful figure. And that’s how it was that…

… 7:22: OH MY GOD I OVERSLEPT IT’S LATE GET UP GET DRESSED WE’RE LATE GET MOVING!!!

7:41: Crap, I never got groceries. Lunches… lunches… who wants… crackers? Yummy crackers! With… um… raisins! Yes! And… napkins! And a juice box! And… pickles? Oh well. They never eat what I pack, anyway.

7:58: We round the corner to the bus stop (in the car, on account of it is still pouring) in time to see the bus come around the opposite corner and start slowing for the stop. Yesterday’s little assisted-drag to the bus stop apparently didn’t scar Chickadee for life, but did teach her something, because that girl hopped out of the car, waited for my signal to cross, then sprinted over to the bus, turned and ran back to me, kissed me, and ran right up onto the bus. Ahhh.

8:08: Monkey kisses me good-bye and runs off to play with his classmates.

8:22: I return to the house and have a refreshing and nutritious breakfast of… granola bars. I really need to get to the store.

11:29 (now): I finally leave for the store. Because that’s the sort of immediate action kinda woman I am. Look out, world! I have coupons!

September 28, 2004 | What do I do all day?

I cleaned the bathrooms tonight. I guess I was needing a little boost, a little reassurance that I do actually take care of things around here once in a while. Also they were starting to smell weird.

I’d told myself that the toilets were merely victims of hard water. Those blooming science experiments sprang up overnight, really. It’s not like I’d neglected to clean for weeks or anything. That would really be gross, don’t you think? Yes it would. So it must be the hard water. I have no idea what the Culligan man is doing here. Perhaps we have wild monkey sex in the basement in front of those large tank things that are most certainly not a water treatment system.

Anyway.

I set to cleaning, revelling in the unfolding cleanliness and fresh scent as I scrubbed. Nothing beats a clean bathroom in a house with small children. It’s a fleeting joy, yes, but quite lovely. I started in the downstairs half-bath, of course, because it’s the smallest and easiest to clean. The biggest challenge in that bathroom is locating and hanging up the hand towels. Monkey prefers a hand washing method akin to sprinting, and it often results in towels yanked from the rod and left languishing behind the door. Chickadee, on the other hand, often confiscates the towels for various purposes and I’m lucky to find them at all. In other words, I scrub the toilet and wipe down the counter and sink and change the towels and I’m done. That’s just the warm-up.

Upstairs, I tackled the kids’ bathroom next. I found myself having a flashback to my own childhood. The house I grew up in had a blue bathroom. Everything in that bathroom was blue, including the sink. One of my chores was to clean the bathroom sink, and I invariably thought to myself–as I scrubbed the field of toothpaste dots off the blue porcelain–that all sinks into which toothpaste is spat should be white. But as I started cleaning the children’s white sink I realized that colored sinks may serve an important purpose. It’s possible that if the sink were a color other than white, I might have gotten my lazy rear in gear and cleaned it sooner. As it was, I spent the bulk of my time in there chiselling away at the toothpaste. Toothpaste in the sink, which I’d been able to ignore until I was armed with Clorox. Toothpaste on the mirror, which I’d known was there but hadn’t felt like acknowledging. Toothpaste on the floor and the counter and the door, which made me wonder if I should perhaps tape the children to the floor and put cones on their heads (like the ones they put on dogs so they won’t eat their stitches) every time they brush.

Finally all that was left was my own bathroom. I’ve always considered the master bath here to be a full bathroom, but I’ve since been informed that a bathroom with a shower stall and no tub is a 3/4 bathroom. So, I’d done the half bath, the full bath, and was on to my 3/4 bath… which seems like it should’ve been somewhere smack dab in the middle, complexity-wise. I know what you’re thinking. Surely after Toothpasteville my bathroom was a relative cakewalk. But here’s the thing. I’m the only person who uses my bathroom. That leaves me free to clean in there even less often than I clean the rest of my house.

I’m considering shaving my head. Cleaning up the accumulated hairballs and scraping the congealed hairspray-and-dust shellac off of my counter does that to me. Bleah. But on the upside, I’ve got a nice buzz going from the mildew remover I used in the shower. Woo!

I’ll be admiring all 3–sorry, 2.25–rooms once again before I go to bed. Once the kids get up, all bets are off. My little slice of accomplishment will disappear in a fine mist of toothpaste splatter. There’s a brilliant metaphor in there, somewhere, but I am far too distracted by all these shiny faucets to figure it out.

My name is Grumplestiltskin

That denial thing sure was fun while it lasted.

Did you know that it takes 3,000 cows to supply the NFL with enough leather for a year’s supply of footballs? It’s true. I know this because I am brilliant. Or because it says so on my Sorrento Trivia Stringster, because there is very little food in the house and I’m eating string cheese. 3,000 cows dying for football? That’s just wrong. I protest! I shall go on an all-bacon diet in support of the bovine community. Because I care.

It’s raining, which is enough to put me in a funk under the best of circumstances. I should be delighted that it waited to start until after the kids were off, this morning, but instead I am obsessing over the fact that I sent them to school in their matching Veggie Tales fleece jackets instead of in their rain coats. Further proof of my substandard mothering skills, and all.

So I have spent my morning doing my hermit impression–which, really, is coming along quite nicely, but needs a bit more practice to achieve perfection–which means I have not gotten the necessary groceries or made any of those important networking contacts that everyone assures me will land me that great job. (Which great job is that? I have no idea. But I’m assured that I will know it when I see it. Personally I fear it’s on the other side of a bright white light, but that’s another story for another time.) Now I am steeling myself for an early pick-up of Miss Chickadee so that I can take her to the therapy appointment that I demanded when calling her therapist last Friday.

Me: We don’t have an appointment scheduled until the middle of October. We need one now. She’s not doing well, I gave it some “adjustment” time like you suggested, and she’s just getting worse.
Therapist: Hmmm. Well, what’s going on?
Me: Besides the usual? Besides the defiance, the screaming, the crying, and the lashing out? How about her daily trips to the nurse with her mystery ailments? How about the big hole she cut in her dress today for which I am seriously considering locking her in the basement??
Therapist: How about you bring her in on Tuesday?
Me: Fine. Good.
Therapist: How about you consider some Valium, also?
Me: No thanks, I’m kind of used to these feelings of rage and inadequacy, now.

Okay, those last two lines are fictitious. But as anyone with a young child in therapy knows, any child therapist worth her salt is as much in the business of teaching the parents how to more effectively parent the child with problems as she is in the business of treating the child. And on Friday, I was in serious need of intervention. It had been a long week.

The kids went to their dad’s for the weekend, Sunday night was uneventful, yesterday went off without a hitch. Now how long will it take me to learn that no good deed goes unpunished? This morning was one struggle after another because–oh, yeah–I had committed the cardinal sin of forgetting for one day that I have a difficult child. (Skip the hate mail, please. I love that little girl more than life itself, but no one is ever going to accuse her of being easy.) This morning was my refresher course. And so it came to pass that we parted on very poor terms this morning, which probably means she had a rotten day at school, which means that picking her up early is something I’m not exactly relishing. But the therapy part, that’s good, of course. If I don’t kill her before we get there.

I have grown to quite adore the other mom with whom we wait for the bus. Her daughters are delightful, and she herself is a take-no-nonsense yet kind woman. She witnessed this morning’s fiasco (which culminated in Chickadee–who was sullenly refusing to traverse the last 60 feet or so to the bus stop–being dragged by me over to the waiting bus and placed bodily inside, while she cried; yes I am the world’s meanest mother) without passing judgement and then comforted me after the bus pulled away. Meanwhile, Monkey skipped in little circles around me and patted her dog and little cartoon birds and butterflies danced around his happy-go-lucky head. The other mom gestured his way and said, “He’s really different than she is, huh?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “God decided to cut me a break the second time.” We laughed. She was sympathetic and encouraging. I felt a bit better.

Now, as I try to prepare myself to head out into the rain to face the child whom I cherish but rarely feel capable of handling, I wish things were different. I wish things were easier, for both of us. But–as a wise friend of mine is prone to saying–it is what it is. Yesterday was a gift and today it’s time to get back to reality. We’ll get where we need to be. And it could be a lot worse. I could be one of those 3,000 cows.

September 27, 2004 | Retail Therapy

I could tell you about all of the things I should’ve done today, but since the denial thing is working out so well for me right now, I can’t. What responsibilities? What job hunt? What paralyzing panic?? Tra la la! Oh happy day, happy day, let me tell you all about my happy day. I’m sure I can return us all to my regularly scheduled angst tomorrow. But! Today!

Today I received an early morning invitation to go shopping. Oh, dear. My little cartoon devil hopped onto my left shoulder while the cartoon angel perched on the right. As I held the phone to my ear and considered my response, they battled it out.

Devil: Shopping! Yay!
Angel: Money is tight right now. Do we really need to go shopping?
Devil: Shopping! Love! Shopping! Fun!
Angel: Do you hear me? We can’t afford it right now.
Devil: Shopping! We’re going shopping! Yay!
Angel: Jesus loves you. But you have the IQ of a sea sponge.
Devil: Shopping!! Buy! Stuff! At… Target? On clearance!
Angel: Let’s go.

So I accepted, and my friend came over to pick me up. While I was waiting I did a quick inventory of what I needed. Well, it did appear that both kids could use some socks. And Monkey was low on undershirts. There. I could shop for things we truly needed–and not very expensive things, at that–and help my friend shop (she had a much longer list) and have a nice day. My friend arrived with a bagful of undershirts her son had outgrown.

Devil: Ack! One less thing to buy? Damnit!
Angel: Wasn’t that sweet of her to bring those? So thoughtful. Think of all the money we can save, now.
Devil: More money to spend on other stuff! Shopping! Yay!

We stopped for coffee, which she purchased. (The only thing better than really good coffee is really good free coffee.) At the first store, I bought a 6-pack of socks for Monkey and some underwear for me. My total: $7. I also acted as fashion critic and bargain hunter for my friend, who ended up with two stuffed bags to my petty purchases.

Second stop: Target. I don’t know how long we were there. We just kept going until the cart was overflowing. Heh. Time tends to stand still in Target, you know. I shared all of my standard how-to-find-the-deals wisdom and once again managed to make sure my friend was making multiple purchases while I bought… more socks (this time for Chickadee). I also found a 16″ oscillating fan for $3.74. So my total at Target was a mere $8 while my friend’s bill ran to three figures (but look at all you saved, I crowed).

After that was the children’s consignment store, where I didn’t find anything I needed. Then it was off to return some of my friend’s previous purchases at yet a third store (because she had foolishly shopped without me and I had since found her more, cooler stuff for less money). Declaring the day’s adventures successful, we headed back to my place.

While stashing some of her children’s Christmas presents in my basement, we negotiated the sale of some of my stash. Get your mind out of the gutter. I agreed to sell my friend a few of my previous finds. She ended up with more toys to check off her list and I ended up with a nice crisp $20 bill. Then she left, inviting me to bring the kids over to swim after school.

It was now nearly time for the bus, and I had accomplished… ummm… nothing. Did I want to take the kids on a playdate after school? Were there other things I should be doing?

Devil: It’s sunny! And hot! And Summer is over and this is probably our last chance to go swimming!
Angel: Don’t we have laundry to do? And cleaning? And maybe a job to look for?
Devil: Laundry? Look at all those new socks! No need to launder! And have you noticed how everything just gets dirty again when we clean?
Angel: Haven’t we spent enough time playing today already?
Devil: Isn’t today already a wash no matter what we do now? Goooooo swiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmiiiiiing!

So we went swimming. And stayed for dinner, which I did not have to cook. Both children ate like there was no tomorrow. And Monkey ate broccoli! Which was proof positive that I made the right choice. Or that I have entered into some sort of pact with Satan himself. But I do not care. Because tra la la and whatnot.

Somehow I managed to extract the children from their play, get them home, administer showers, do the bedtime stuff, read a chapter in our book, and get them into bed clean and happy and exhausted, only five minutes past bedtime. Without a single meltdown.

Let’s recap: I spent the entire day shopping; got to spend time with a friend whom I haven’t seen in quite a while; purchased a few necessary items; helped out my friend and reduced my ridiculous toy inventory; had a lovely evening of exercise and fun; made it to bedtime with nary a tear or crisis. And ended the day $5 richer.

If this is being bad? I don’t wanna be good.

Devil: What’re we doing tomorrow?
Angel: Oh shut UP.

September 26, 2004 | Job? Huh?

I don’t know why I didn’t put it all together, sooner. The answer has been right under my nose all along! Actually, right on my toes.

Part of my employment woes, you know, are that I don’t want to return to the sort of job I used to hold. And I’m having some difficulty convincing potential employers of my credibility for other sorts of jobs, the types of which usually require extensive previous experience. But now I know what job is calling my name and I will have no trouble breaking into, on account of my undeniable talent in this area.

I’m gonna be a… a… what the hell are those people called? I’m gonna be one of those people who name nailpolish colors!

The idea took shape in this way: I was doing my toenails, earlier; taking off the old polish and applying the new. And as I perused my rather impressive assortment of polishes, I realized that the colors I favored last season and the ones I typically reach for, now, are very different. How so, you ask? Well it’s really quite the delineation.

Last year, I wore the following: Ink Chrome, Pink Chrome, Think Pink, Bronzeberry.
This year, I have consistently reached for: Diamonds, Twilighting, Purplexed, Techno.

Now you may be thinking, surely the difference is based on color palette, somehow. Perhaps I have adjusted my tastes to suit this season’s hottest styles. Well, that would be a logical thing to think, I suppose, if I wasn’t sitting here in clothes I purchased ten years ago. Fads, schmads, I say. I am not motivated by “the latest thing” very often. No, my friends. The difference lays not in the colors, but in the monikers.

That’s right. Bombastic is the new black, ladies!

And who better to name a bunch of nailpolishes in obtuse and specious ways than yours truly? That’s right! No one! Because I? Eat words for breakfast! No, not Alpha-Bits. I meant… oh shut up.

I was born to take this industry by storm. I’m very excited about it.

Look again at the polish names I listed earlier. In last year’s list, I’m betting you can read the names and know what colors you’re getting. In the second list–with the possible exception of Purplexed, which is excused on account of being such a cute and adorable play on words–I daresay the average human would have no idea what colors are denoted. And therein lies the beauty of it all.

Diamonds? Kind of a peachy rust color. Twilighting? Silver sparkle with a hint of lavender. Purplexed, yes, is purple; but the darkest purple possible, kind of an oil-prism-in-a-puddle dark. And Techno is light green. Of course.

I am bursting with ideas for next season’s hottest colors. I’d love to share them all, but I can’t divulge all of my secrets, you know, because of copyright considerations. Also, outstanding warrants. But anyway. I can share a chosen few if you promise to keep it under your hats. Do you feel all warm and fuzzy now?

First, I will find just the right color to dub Conflagration. Oh yes. Next? Just wait til everyone is wearing Frenetic. Uh huh. But all the ladies on the catwalk will be sporting Clandestiny! (See how I brilliantly merge ‘clandestine’ and ‘destiny’ for that one? Sometimes I astound even myself.)

Best of all? While my new vocation will bring me fame, fortune, and oodles of money, it should still leave me with ample time to blog. And paint my toenails.

September 25, 2004 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

I have angered the athropods. I have made one too many of their brethren go splat beneath my shoe, sucked up too many important members of their legions in my vacuum. Now? I am a marked woman.

Pride should prevent me from relating the details of my wasp encounter earlier today, but since when has that ever stopped me? So. If you must know, I was outside mowing my lawn, and I guess I must have disturbed a nest when getting close to the bulkhead in the back. As I turned away from that spot, a wasp landed on my sock and stung my ankle. I flicked it off and ran around front (not knowing how many of his brothers were also in pursuit), and saw a second wasp on my sneaker. So I kicked my sneaker off in the driveway and ran inside. After what I thought was a reasonable period of time, I went back outside to retrieve my shoe. But the wasp was still on it. So I carefully shook him off and moved a safe distance away and put my sneaker on. And got stung a second time (sneak attack). I went back inside. Watching my leg swell, I summoned all my courage. This was hardly fatal; I would go out and finish mowing. I went out back and started up the mower again… and was immediately stung a third time inbetween the first two stings. Whereupon I admitted defeat (or screamed and cried, whatever) and decided that I was finished for the day.

When I hobbled inside–noting that three wasp stings on the same leg adds up to a heck of a lot of pain–I found that a veritable horde of earwigs had congregated around the threshhold. While I’d been dancing with wasps, they’d all sent out the signals to their distant cousins that now would be a great time to come on in and get comfortable, because I was gonna be too slow to do anything about it. I managed to evict just one; the rest are now hiding in here, somewhere. Let’s see… they came in the mudroom door, which means they’re probably all hiding in our shoes waiting to pinch off everyone’s toes.

In the meantime, I appear to have yet another infestation of grain moths, which means that tiny little moth larvae inch their way across my kitchen ceiling with disgusting regularity. Every time this happens, I get all ikked out and end up throwing away half the food in my pantry in a desperate attempt to dispose of moth headquarters. I rarely find the source. Each tiny worm gives me another grey hair.

And let’s not forget my musical friends! I estimate there to be at least a dozen crickets singing the blues in my garage. When I open the garage door–day or night–I can watch the crickets run in as if this is the grand opening of the first cricket McDonald’s or something. They resist my attempts to shoo them back outside, and so late at night they can be heard mournfully chirping about their sad fate, left to perish amongst the empty cardboard boxes and gardening tools. Do you speak cricket? I think they may be saying, “We know the Big Macs are here. We’ll keep looking.”

If you see a cloud of locusts headed my way, don’t worry. Maybe they’ll eat the earwigs and scare the moths. Of course, they might try to kill me, but I’m not worried. I shouldn’t have any trouble fighting them off with my swollen, venom-filled leg. Ow.

My name is Grumplestiltskin

Yellow jackets who are pissed that I’ve been spraying their hives all Summer.

Go ahead. Ask me why that’s three reasons.

*whimper* Lawn’s mowed.