Isaac 2.0

After last night's post, I feel like I should update on the non-event that Isaac has been for us so far.

This morning, they started issuing mandatory evacuations for the low-lying areas (like the beach we went to yesterday) due to potential storm surge. Over the course of the day, Isaac has apparently decided that he either really likes us or really likes the Republicans or maybe he just doesn't like New Orleans but whatever the case, this is what he's doing now:

He hasn't even developed into the hurricane that he was supposed to be by this point and there's nary an organized eyewall to be found. Jim Cantore's moved on - he was in Tampa for a while but I think now he's on the way to New Orleans.

Here he is again. In a much better-looking suit than that shirt in the pic I posted yesterday. 

This Wednesday, August 29, marks the 7th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's second landfall, the one that caused so much destruction in New Orleans. It's within the realm of possibility that Isaac could arrive in NOLA on that anniversary - a kindof sick and twisted anniversary present for the city that lost so much in 2005. Of course, it was also at one point within the realm of possibility that we were going to be riding out a category 1 storm here in the Bonita Springs area. So not the case. We haven't even reached tropical storm force winds here and that was all but certain to happen by now according to models this time last night.

Oddly, more rain has fallen at my house today - in the drought-stricken Midwest - than at our location in Florida. I apologize to all the farmers whose fields I have been near this summer: maybe it was me keeping the rain away. I leave = flash floods. I arrive in the path of a tropical storm and the hurricane-that-almost-was isn't after all. At least not here. Perhaps I should apologize to New Orleans as well.

Instead of hunkering down this evening, we're still well-lit and air-conditioned and unless something changes drastically, I expect that will continue. Tomorrow's still supposed to be a wash - literally - and all sorts of stuff will be closed (including the activities at our resort). I have been assured that the SuperTarget and its resident Starbucks will be open, however. We've even (GASP!!) turned off The Weather Channel for now. (However, in the interest of maintaining the spousal unit's Weather Nerd status, he's been going out to watch the weather all afternoon and is still plugged into all sorts of weather sites and blogs - never fear, he still knows what's up.)

And this is what we did earlier:

They were supposed to have a Hurricane Social in the clubhouse here where they would serve Hurricanes. By the time we got there, it was downgraded to a Tropical Storm Social and the drink was called a Tropical Storm. I have no idea if it contains all the same alcoholic goodness that a real Hurricane does but I can tell you this one was YUMMY and came in its own souvenir (plastic) glass. 

We bought the kids a cartload of game tokens and locked left them in the game room while we drank with the other crazy people who are staying here. We are much younger than most of them. And less rude; one lady tried to start an insurrection after finding out she was being charged for her Tropical Storm.

No idea yet what tomorrow might bring. But then, it really is never quite what I expect.

Weather geeks on vacation

Several months ago, the spousal unit (in his infinite realism) chose to speak the following words OUT LOUD: "You do realize we're going to be in Florida during hurricane season?"

He was referring to our summer vacation - something the very-soon-to-be-7yo would probably refer to as his Birthday Trip if he thought about it. He had the good fortune to ask if we could go to Florida for his birthday at exactly the right time - when we were actively trying to decide when and to where we wanted to vacation this year. (He does not inherit his sense of timing from his father. He is lucky in more than one way.)

Turned out we could swing a trip to Florida that coincided with what will be the now-6yo's 7th birthday. The child loved this though it did have the less desirable side effect of making him think that he can now ask for a trip to his destination of choice for each birthday (we spent #5 in Texas) - he decided that the Great Barrier Reef would be good for next year. I told him when dad wins the lottery, we'll talk. 

So backing up to the comment that should never have been spoken out loud: YES. I did know that. Most of my friends know that the hubby and I are weather geeky. To a bit of an extreme.

 When an hour-and-a-half drive is enlivened by the ability to watch a thunderstorm develop both in front of us and on the radar on our iPhones, I think we just have to call it: we're nerds.

In addition to an awareness of hurricane season, I am also aware of the lesser-known concept that we don't speak of these things OUT LOUD. Unless you want to curse yourself. (Think about it: how many times have you said something like: "Hey! I've hit every green light today!" only to hit only red lights after that??)

See? Hahahahahahahaha . . . . . 

So it probably shouldn't come as a huge surprise that my Florida vacation at the height of hurricane season is coinciding with a visit from what is currently known as Tropical Storm Isaac. Isaac will probably become Hurricane Isaac in the next 24 - 36 hours. A couple of days ago, he looked like this:

He was wobbling gently through the Caribbean, headed to beat the crap out of Haiti. 

Much of our conversation over the last ten days has been consumed by Isaac as we watched him from his birth off the coast of Africa (as Invest 94L) and his inexorable trek west. Computers ran models and forecast Isaac's future location and ultimately most of them agreed that Isaac wanted to visit Florida. Like me.

Now it looks like this is where Isaac is headed:

We are between the little dot for Fort Myers and the little dot for Naples, alongside that cute little hurricane symbol marked 8/27/12 8AM.

None of that stopped us and we came on down here anyway; right now I'm sitting in a hotel room watching (what else?) The Weather Channel (and really, who doesn't love Jim Cantore??) which is telling me that I am in the ACTION area. I'm apparently supposed to be buying out the grocery store and preparing for 3 days without power. I brought two battery-operated flashlights with me but I'm secretly hoping the hotel has a generator. I'm planning to go to SuperTarget tomorrow to buy some food. I spent today at the beach and in the pool and I now have a sunburn.

I couldn't help myself. Just a link about him wasn't enough. I give you Jim Cantore.

Last night, we thought perhaps we should get to the beach before Isaac did. We did.

The clouds in the distance are from the far outer bands of Isaac. They fell apart. 

Today, we woke to overcast skies and the prospect of rain. A hurricane warning was issued for our area so we decided to go to the beach. We figured with the look of the sky and the radar, we might get an hour or two at the beach this morning and then it would rain. Instead, we lucked out and had almost 3 hours at the beach followed by several more in the pool. The kids were having so much fun they forgot to ask for lunch, a meal that we ate like Jerry Seinfeld's parents at 5PM.

We've tossed around the idea of evacuating (there are no mandatory evacuations in effect down here - at most, we'll get a category 1 hurricane, something they don't evacuate for here) and while we could escape upstate to Orlando, it's a 3.5 hour drive that would undoubtedly be *through* Isaac as bands whip across the Florida peninsula. The entire southern part of the state is in the high risk area for tornadoes and we've decided our best option is to stay put.

So in the words of the 12yo from dinner tonight: Bring it on, Isaac - gimme your best shot.

Trebuchets and ticklish spots

I live in a house of REALLY ticklish people. I am not one of them. This periodically drives the 6yo crazy and he badgers me to tell him where my ticklish spot is. I really didn't think I had one and I certainly wasn't going to tell him if I did but turns out I do and he can't get to it. And here's how I found it. 

Last week, my friend Em and I led the science station at our BSA district's Cub Scout day camp. It was SO MUCH FUN. We made glurch and oobleck and sleds out of plywood to pull the Boy Scouts around on and we fired trebuchets and water balloon slingshots and even had homemade root beer made with dry ice.

Our trebuchets were much smaller than this and flung tennis balls. Scientific discovery: trebuchet size doesn't really matter (at least when it comes to fun; I would imagine battering down a castle might be different). 

I also accidentally sprayed myself in the face with Diet Coke while trying to load up the Mentos geyser. Two discoveries: Diet Coke in the eyes isn't so problematic and I can move pretty darned fast in emergencies like that.

I even spent my (40th!) birthday at day camp which may sound sad to some but turns out it was also pretty d*mned fun. How many people can say they've been serenaded by a few hundred little boys and parents on their birthday? Me!

But I'm also allergic to dust and as our camp location meteorologically fits the definition of drought, it also fits the definition of Dust Bowl.

No, it wasn't quite that bad. But that's probably only because it wasn't really windy out there.

I spent the week fighting to keep my sinuses clear, living on a combination of Benadryl, Allegra, and caffeine. I ended up with a sinus infection.

I had never had a sinus infection until I had pituitary surgery almost 5 years ago. I was diagnosed with acromegaly caused by a tumor on my pituitary that was producing excess growth hormone; I had the tumor removed. Through my nose. It's really a genius way to get to the pituitary (take a pencil and stab it up your nose and that's where it would end up if there wasn't bone and other tissue in the way) but in my case, it also seriously horked up my sinuses. 

Also suffered from acromegaly. Prepubescent. I was very much post-pubescent and I am still short.

My regular ENT (at the hospital where I had the surgery) is notoriously hard to see so I tried a new tactic and called my primary care doctor's office. FAIL. His partner was unwilling to believe I have a bacterial infection, disinclined to believe that I could identify which sinus is actually infected, and wants me to wait until Monday. Statistically, it is unlikely that I have a bacterial infection - okay, I can appreciate that. However, statistically, I'm already enough of a medical freak that I once had medical students lining up *just to look at me* in the emergency room right after my surgery, simply because their chances of seeing someone with my disease in person is so slight. I've already been diagnosed with a disease that affects about 6 out of 100,000 and after my surgery, had not one but two of the least likely complications from the surgery. I have lived statistical unlikelihood, dude.

My symptoms being intolerable (but not including a fever, a strike against bacterial apparently, but also a symptom I never get), I went ahead and called my ENT and halle-freaking-lujah, got in to see him this morning. It's a beautiful (if also completely disgusting) thing: he reaches into the center of my skull, my sphenoid sinus, and plucks and vacuums out the yuck that is there. It. Feels. AMAZING. And turns out, it also TICKLES. A lot.

Weirdly, I've had this procedure done on this sinus before. At least a couple of times. Never noticed. Today, I was ready to fall out of the chair. The ENT thought he was hurting me. Nope. Just tickling.

So I've apparently found my ticklish spot. And there's no way in h*ll the 6yo's going to be able to reach it. Lucky me.

3:30AM

My Nook Simple Touch with Glowlight and I have bonded. I love it. Truly. Madly. Deeply. I have a tendency to stay up *way* too late reading but I also fully recognize this is my own d*mn fault and I fully accept the consequences. 

With a road trip planned for Friday night (a round-trip of 6 hours driving to be completed in one day), Thursday night was not the best night to choose to stay awake reading but there I was at 3:30AM, unable to shut off the Nook (*what's going to happen next????*) and vaguely startled by the door to the boys' bedroom opening. Immediately assuming someone has to pee, I also assume the footsteps will race down the hall to the bathroom. They do not. They pad quietly into my room, around my bed, and stop right in front of my face, on the other side of my Nook, and scare the crap out of me. 

In a perfectly calm, wide-awake voice, it's the 6yo:

"Um, mom, can I borrow your backscratcher?" I am speechless. I'm also in a bit of a fog since I've been unexpectedly dragged out of my book zone and back into parent zone. And I suppose I expected I don't feel good or something hurts or my brother's snoring but definitely not I need your backscratcher. Which looks like this:

I bought it at World Market. It's on my list of Best Purchases Ever.

and is typically on my nightstand. Which undoubtedly explains why it was my side of the bed he chose to approach (I will later discover that's not entirely true). 

The backscratcher is not on my nightstand. I offer to go get it for him and send him back to bed. Back scratching delivered, he curls back up in the pile of Guys in his bed and I am guessing goes back to sleep.

Fast forward a bit: yesterday morning we dropped off the 12yo to go to Boy Scout camp in Wisconsin. A week of merit badge classes, dirt, and hopefully more than one change in underwear. We get him back in 6 days. 

The 6yo is ecstatic in some ways: at breakfast yesterday, the 12yo grudgingly agreed to let the 6yo sleep in his bed, the Top Bunk, while he's gone. I had to agree to wash the sheets (and we all know how much I enjoy putting sheets on the Top Bunk) and point out that it's no different than when he wants to sleep in our bed when we're gone and Mimi stays here. FINE. 

I was not Parent on Duty for bedtime last night so I can't say for sure but I *think* that the 6yo went to sleep in the Top Bunk. By the time we went to bed, he'd been downstairs once for water (a highly unusual circumstance) and was holed up in his own nest of Guys on the bottom bunk. And by 3:30AM, he was visiting again - and this is how I know it wasn't just the backscratcher on my nightstand drawing him to my side of the bed. Apparently, at 3:30, I'm the Go To Parent. 

"Mom, can I sleep in your bed? I don't want to sleep alone." 

I guess he misses his brother. Although this morning, he told me he can't wait to tell the 12yo that he got to sleep in Mom and Dad's bed last night.

I wish I had a picture

Two days ago, a SATURDAY to be exact, FedEx delivered this rather shabby box of mystery to our house (and I emphasize Saturday because I thought only requested deliveries made the cut for the weekend; this was most definitely not a request):

Most entertaining to me is that they also left a sticky on the sidelight window telling us that they'd left us a delivery on our front porch. Yes, thank you, Mr. Obvious. Good thing I didn't trip on the box while trying to read the note that told me it was there. 

The spousal unit periodically orders stuff for work and accidentally ships it home so a package that's not instantly identifiable is not immediate cause for concern. Or bomb squads. Things like that.

But this one rang no bells there either. And forget about checking the packing list; my curious husband just ripped right into that box. And found this:

Note the high quality packing material. Oh, and the soot.

This looks to me like the laptop has a bit of a copper stogie thing going on. I was apparently the only one who thought that. 

See, two and half years + one day earlier, that particular object (on the last day of its lease, no less) burst into flames, setting off the smoke alarm, and waking us up at 3:45AM. Unprepared for incendiary drama, even by the incessant beeping, we dithered, expecting that the smoke alarm was just doing it's usual I-need-new-batteries thing which for whatever reason only ever happened IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING NIGHT. 

My darling husband got up to replace the battery and discovered, much to our surprise, an actual fire. Panic ensued for about 1.5 seconds. Okay, I panicked. He rather calmly, in an act unsanctioned by fire departments everywhere, approached the flames, unplugged the device, threw it in the sink and turned on the water. Problem solved, sortof.* (Disclaimer: I in no way condone his behavior. If you have a fire in your very own house, I recommend you call a professional. A professional FIRE FIGHTER. And then, take their advice and don't keep sneaking back in to peak at the fire. I know someone who did that, it's just not wise.)

It looked sortof like this except it was sitting on the kitchen counter.  I actually only know that by report. By the time I came downstairs, the faucet had done its job.

We filed a claim with our homeowner's insurance and they promised to do battle to get us our deductible back (which they make you pay and then try to get the party at fault to reimburse). They filed suit. They sent updates. We got letters from attorneys making it clear they were either morbidly stupid or didn't care at all - misspelling our last name is forgivable when you are consistent in your misspelling; inconsistent incorrectness is just evidence that you're a slack*ss. They were also rude.

Recently we got the final notice that the insurance company had finally given up. No huge surprise, we weren't holding out hope of getting our deductible back anyway.

But we sure as hell didn't expect to get the cause of the fire back. And I would almost give up my deductible again to get a picture of my darling husband's face when he realized what he was looking at in that box.

W.T.F. doesn't even come close.

*I say "sortof" since putting out a fire has the direct and exceedingly problematic impact of creating enormous amounts of smoke. The smoke was a far bigger deal than the actual fire damage which was limited to the laptop, a Formica countertop, and the hardwood floor where burning bits had fallen. I will now also publicly apologize to the poor dumpster divers who took my ruined Christmas trees that were soot- and smoke-damaged but then packed back in their boxes and left on the curb on trash day. They disappeared before the trash was picked up and it was only then that I realized that I didn't write on the boxes that they were damaged beyond all reasonable use. I can only hope that the horrible smell that came out of the boxes with the trees was off-putting enough. My bad. 

And I don't even like rum . . .

One of my strategies as a parent has been to not learn everything I can about everything in which my kids are interested. This is ostensibly so that they have to figure it out for themselves, thus learning as they go. In reality, it also saves my *ss from having to fix everything ("Sorry! Mom doesn't know how that works!!") when there is a problem.

That's not to say that I don't help. But if my goal is to assist them in solving their own problems, having the answers isn't always necessary. And that saves me from learning about things in which *I* have no particular interest. Like a lot of Xbox games (but that's another story).

Minecraft is one of those interests about which I have no particular desire to learn.

And to illustrate my ignorance, I have no idea what's going on this picture. And I don't really care.

This is what it looks like sometimes in my house:

Well, except that we only have one laptop. And both of my kids are boys. And they typically are playing on the computer in their pajamas. Okay, it doesn't really look like this at all . . . 

Minecraft occupies enormous amounts of their time, both on and off the computer. If they're on, they're playing, researching, watching Minecraft videos on YouTube . . . if they're off, they're talking about what they're going to build, how they'll build it, how many chickens it will kill . . . .

And lately, thanks I suspect to YouTube, they've discovered mods. They MUST HAVE MODS. Which are apparently things that modify (see, I figured that one out on my own) Minecraft and give one access to all sorts of cool things: planes, parachutes, monkeys, Mario, pina coladas. Yes, Pina Coladas. Like the one that Milton got by mistake.

Excuse me? Excuse me, senor? May I speak to you please? I asked for a mai tai, and they brought me a pina colada, and I said no salt, NO salt for the margarita, but it had salt on it, big grains of salt, floating in the glass...

This morning, they are playing Minecraft and insist on showing me almost all the cool stuff in the Tropic Mod that was installed last night (by Computer Expert Dad) - and for two boys who love Florida, Tropic Mod is apparently rocking their world. And I use almost because after I left the room, I overheard:

"Hey, N, you could order a delicious Pina Colada! Aren't these Pina Coladas great?"

"Hey, don't toss out my Pina Coladas!" 

"I'm going back to the beach. You can have my Pina Colada." 

"This place is perfect! It has Pina Coladas!"

"Pina Coladas! Pina Coladas! Pina Coladas!" (That from the 12yo, walking in a circle around the house.)

So apparently the most fun thing in this particular mod isn't the beach or the ocean or the swimming pools that they are building. It's the cocktails. 

The Dustman Cometh (or, I completely suck at my job)

The 12yo lost another tooth:

And from this angle, it actually resembles a tooth. In reality, it's more like a veneer. It's creepy. 

I suppose in some (most?) houses this event would occasion a visit from the Tooth Fairy and a modest addition to the tooth-loser's personal worth. Here? Not so much. 

I totally suck at this. The tooth came out two days' ago. Tooth Fairy has yet to make an appearance. In the Tooth Fairy's defense, I didn't KNOW the tooth had come out until the next morning because it came out after he'd gone to bed and all he did was stick it in the pirate-y tooth box and go to sleep. When he came down to breakfast yesterday, I was treated to a finger-assisted gaping maw, as he pointed to the most recent residence of the tooth. Then, sounding a little bewildered: "The Tooth Fairy hasn't come yet, though."

I explained that perhaps he needed to inform his parents first, clearly not fully registering my own role in this scenario. Expectations were raised. 

FAIL, part two. This afternoon, he looked at me and said, "You know the Tooth Fairy still hasn't come." SH*T. Before I could decide to either come clean or tell him the Tooth Fairy was on vacation, he continued, "Maybe I need to tell Dad, too." 

Yeah, that's it - *both* parents need to be involved to secure a spot on the Tooth Fairy's itinerary. I pointed out that he should probably tell Dad when he came home. 

The really bad part? This is at least the third time the Tooth Fairy has screwed up and forgotten teeth. Both children have been involved. Tooth Fairy has made midday visits like she's running late. Heck, the Easter Bunny forgot sh*t this year. I SUCK. 

And in addition to failing as the Tooth Fairy (and the Easter Bunny), I'm also getting some very subtle commentary on my housekeeping skills, too:

I know, it's a crappy picture. It's not easy to photograph the stickman that your child has drawn in the dust on top of his ceiling fan. And yes, that IS a giant stuffed alligator on the floor below. His name is Cade. He's a bad*ss.

I only discovered the Dustman because I didn't remember until he was getting ready for bed that I washed his sheets this morning and hadn't actually put any sheets back on his (top bunk) bed. Commence frantic bed-making.

I think it's time for a glass of wine now. 

On the unimportance of clean clothes

The 12yo went camping this weekend. With his Boy Scout Troop, which generally leaves me feeling a little bereft. As a stay-at-home, homeschooling parent, I am very much used to having him around so when he's gone, it's odd. Not bad - just odd. I'm really glad he goes and I knew he was going to have fun, but his absence leaves a hole (particularly noticeable to the 6yo) and it's nice to get him back. Dirt and all.

On Friday, as he was gathering his stuff to pack to go, I was very neatly (and graciously!) cramming packing it all in gallon-size zipper bags. Extra shirt, shorts, underpants, socks, rain gear, sweatshirt, etc. Keeps it dry, keeps it separate, keeps it easy to find . . . keeps it from being used, too, apparently.

I even made a special trip to Target the night before to buy the bags. 

When he left the house on Friday to be dropped off for the campout, he was wearing his Class 'A' uniform shirt, jeans, hiking socks and shoes, and a Class 'B' underneath the Class 'A' - to make it easier to strip off the Class 'A' when he got to the campsite.

When he returned this morning, he was wearing the same jeans, hiking socks, shoes, and Class 'B' that he'd left the house in. Two days ago. The only difference was the removal of the Class 'A' which had been crammed into the backpack and left like this:

Look close - that *was* a freshly laundered shirt. With no wrinkles. It did not come home in the plastic bag packed for that purpose. 

 He also neglected to use this:

Or bugspray either, for that matter.

Which means he came home tanned, dirty, with a bag full of clean clothes. He was also happy to report that he didn't need his first aid kit (a bonus since at sleep-away camp last summer, he burned his finger badly enough to need a nurse visit and tore up his shin badly enough that 4 hours later it was still bleeding and needed butterfly bandages to pull the edges back together). And he was barely out of the car before he informed me that for the very first time (in a year-and-a-half of being a Boy Scout), he came home with everything that he took with him. Score.

And he caught the requisite fish to finish his fishing merit badge, started at camp last summer. Which probably looked a little like this:

Without the p*ssed off little brother in the background. I so love this picture.

I TOLD YOU SO. D*mmit.

I broke my thumb in February. It's called skier's thumb and since I'm a skier (and had actually been skiing that day), I could probably have gone with the story that I hurt it skiing. Which I did not.

Not these. But very very close.

I fell down stairs. Well, actually, I slipped at the top of the stairs ('cause I was still wearing my ski socks) and bounced down about the first six or seven. Normal reaction when falling? Fling out one's limbs! In this case, wildly grab for the railing and when the steps prove to be just as slippery and one keeps bouncing down them, the handrail bracket will attempt to stop one's thumb which will be yanked painfully backwards in a move eerily reminiscent of getting one's hand caught on a ski pole during a crash.

The yanking backwards will sprain the ligaments in the thumb, strain the tendons, and tear little bone chips off the joints where the ligaments attach. It hurts. Quite a lot actually.

But it never occurred to me that it was broken so it took me about 9 days of "hmm, my thumb and my hand still hurt A LOT" to call the doctor. I saw the PA, she ordered an x-ray after insisting she was sure it was just a sprain, and then she called me in the car to say, "It's broken! The radiologist thinks it's broken in two places! You need to go to an orthopedic surgeon!" Oh. FABULOUS.

So I went to the orthopedic surgeon who spent about 2.3 seconds looking at my thumb and then gave me the most uncomfortable brace to wear.

This actually looks more comfortable than what they gave me. Sexier, too - I got one in BSA brown. 

It was ugly and uncomfortable and I didn't like it so I immediately went out and bought a new one. It cost about $17 which was probably about 10% of what my insurance was getting charged for the piece of crap I wasn't wearing. 

I had to go back and see him again and each time I did, the office staff charged me my $20 copay. The second time, I questioned it and we had a conversation that involved me explaining that the last time I saw an orthopedic surgeon (two years ago, no broken bones but an actual skiing injury), I did not have to pay the copay. They countered with, "Did you have a broken bone?" Well, no, but it's an orthopedic surgeon and why am I paying for follow-up? "Our policy is that you pay each time with a broken bone." Which seems like a crappy way to differentiate but they did "go and check" (I am sure they were really checking with their insurance filing people and not just gossiping about what they were going to order for lunch; I heard them talking about things like "sandwiches" and "carry-out" and "I'll pay you later" so I'm certain that was it) - and then they made me pay again. 

So I payed them my second $20 that I didn't think I should and spent about 1.8 seconds with the doctor and left, never to return, because I'm pretty sure that it's cheaper to feel my own knuckle and tell myself it will heal in a few more weeks and just take it easy than it is to keep paying my copay to have the doctor do that. And I'm sure he has better things to do anyway than listen to me. He's probably glad I'm gone, anyway, since the second time I saw him he told me that I wasn't to ski on our trip to Colorado that month that was specifically planned to ski. I said, "Thank you, but I'm going to ski. That's why I'm going there." His eyes got very big. I wondered how often patients say to him, "Thanks for the advice that I'm not going to take." 

And now I'm wanting very much to call his office staff to tell them, "I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!" Because look what I got in the mail from them today:

Yes, that would be in the amount of two co-pays I shouldn't have paid. 

So there.

Nook (and the husband) for the win

I am not a good playground mommy. I used to hover and then I erred too far on the side of letting them play so I've also been that mom whose child was screaming in pain and I didn't even notice. Last time it happened, the mom (who was hovering!) was commenting in a snarky voice about where this child's (awful!) parents were when I finally wandered over to find it was my kid wailing like he'd been Tasered.

By this kid. 

(The other part of playground mommy-hood I suck at is being tolerant of bullsh*t from other kids and moms. But that's a subject for another day. Maybe.)

I've never really had a chance to be a sports mom either so I guess I don't really know how much I suck at that. My 12yo never really wanted to play sports and the times we forced him to do so he did, were short-lived and mostly spent trying to keep him from melting down.

But now that the 6yo is playing baseball, so far I have found that I really don't enjoy it. I dread it. I don't want to go. I want to stay at home. With the 12yo. Who also doesn't want to go. N enjoys playing but doesn't necessarily live for it and for crying out loud, he's on the Rookie 1st grade team. These are 6 and 7 year olds. Most of them are more interested in knocking themselves on the cup because they can *and* it won't hurt. Do I *really* have to sit through every second of every practice and every game?? Maybe that makes me a bad sports mom. Or just a bad mom.

Could be worse. At least I'm not her. 

It doesn't help at all that we kindof got screwed with his team - we requested a particular teammate and ended up in an entirely different league. Where we know no one. First (and only) two practices lasted for an hour and forty minutes. Even N said that if all the practices are that long, he doesn't want to go. This is what we both felt like:

About the length of the practice. I also feel this way about having to leave the house.

So I guess we're going to see what we can do about switching teams. Baseball teams. 

And in the meantime, I finally got to go buy my Mother's Day present today:

Sweet!!

It's a Nook Simple Touch with Glow Light, a built-in book light. It's been out-of-stock for weeks and I was allegedly on a list but when they just write your name on a piece of paper and lay it on the counter and say, "We'll call you" - well, frankly, that doesn't inspire confidence. And the B&N website kept saying today was the day they were available for shipping; until today, when they updated that to say, "Sh*t, we're out-of-stock again, try June 5." So I called the store where I was allegedly on the list and a) she found me on the list and b) they got 3 in today! And I guess because I called, I got one of the three. Which is an admittedly crappy way of parceling out your limited stock - "Gee, let's wait and see who CALLS us first! And if they're on the list, they win!"

But I'm not going to gripe about it. AT ALL. Because *I* was the winner of that little contest (who dashed out the door to get there before they fully understood the questionable nature of their order fulfillment). And I am sitting here charging my very own Nook with Glow Light (yes, they had me at Glow Light) and the fact that I am sitting here at all means that I have the Best. Husband. Ever. 'Cause he came home and picked up N and took him to baseball and I don't have to go. 

So it's Nook - and husband - for the win.

Just dropped in

Last night, we discovered the reason for the large concentration of bird poo in one particular area on the deck:

Though it's not entirely this guy's fault. There's a sibling and at least one parental unit who I'm sure contributed to the mess.

This little poo machine fell out of his nest onto the deck. Or, more probably, was pushed. Feathers in? Check. Wings are flapping? Check. Get the heck out of the nest and fly away, little guy. And please, go crap right on the deck (which is exactly what he did right before I took this picture; you just can't see the white spot of goo until his wee little tail from this angle). 

He was followed shortly by a sibling who landed smack on the table and left this little gift, too:

I don't like shell in my egg. Actually, I don't like yolk either.

I was a little concerned for their safety as they staggered and waddled around, flapping their itty bitty little wings. I didn't particularly want to get involved in any sort of rescue, mostly because I figured I would muff the whole thing and a potentially survivable situation would turn into avian murder, so I was really hoping they would be okay. On their own. Quickly. 

And apparently they were. They continued to take relatively small tumbles down from the deck onto the patio and then the ground and before long, were hopping through the grass behind a grown-up bird (I'm assuming the one that had just pushed them out of the nest) and before long, they were gone. I'm pretty sure this is what's referred to as fledging and it was pretty darned cool to see it up close. I guess some birds fledge before they are ready to fly (where the heck do they go??) but these little guys seemed quite capable of at least short bursts of flight as they tried desperately to get away from me. 

More of a hop here. Note the little pile of poo in the bottom right corner. 

I used to really dislike birds. I think they're pretty awesome now. And in this case, I'm happy about a few things: 1) they survived; 2) we got to watch the major life change that is leaving the nest; and 3) they will stop carpet bombing my deck from their nest. Awesome. 

Angry Hands

I love the phrase jazz hands. I don't use it often in conversation but whenever I hear someone else use it, it makes me laugh. A lot.

I have a friend who does a particularly good version of Jazz Hands. While skating. I need to get her to teach me. 

But there are other ways we can fling our hands around at strangers. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine was involved in a road rage incident. This particular friend (and every time she tells it, I laugh out loud like I do at jazz hands: this is SO unlike her) flipped a DOUBLE birdie at the other lady. The other lady - and I use lady 'cause I'm nice (really, what kind of lady follows someone around for 10 minutes and then gets out of her car and yells? Okay, maybe a lady who has been flipped off with the double birdie. I digress.) wasn't particularly nice and my friend was actually trying to assume responsibility and apologize and this woman wasn't having any part of it. The birds flew the coop.

So today, following a lovely Memorial Day parade on a record-setting hot day (in which some of us were participating in at least partially polyester uniforms; there was lots of sweating involved), we sought refuge at Chili's (after P and his friend, whose birthday is today, decided that by golly, they wanted Chili's for lunch). The road rage story was told. Again. (I still laughed.)

And upon leaving the restaurant, two of the three vehicles our group was occupying apparently had an almost incident (with each other) in the parking lot. And the Angry Hands were released! We followed each other onto the highway afterwards - Angry Hands waving at each other! Parents with children in the car, many of the parents in uniform, no less: Angry Hands!!

Smile for the birdie, kids!