1 New Text Message

Boy. Don't cha' just love when you get the old "1 New Text Message" prompt on your cellphone? It's exhilarating, right? We won't even talk about the experience of having it say like "12 New Text Messages". There's not a flashing font available to capture the moment of that. Well, I was in conversation with another teacher this morning when I got the "1 New Text Message" signal on my phone. Seeing that it was from McDaDa (aka Steven), I knew it must be great. Besides a couple of friends, my mom, and my sister, my text messages decrease when school is in session. Not to mention, I NEVER get a text from McDaDa. So, what could this glorious occassion be that I, wife of ten years, mother of a baby born on his birthday, possibly have done to have earned the excitement of "1 New Text Message"? Jump up and down for me, this could be a turning point in my life. I almost couldn't even continue my conversation with my colleague because I just had to pause to check it. Oh, I couldn't hardly contain myself, I felt a smile of something great just coming across my curious face. The anticipation of posssibly a dinner invite, a good job on your diet, a get up so early and go-get-it attitude pat on the back....The flute medley was just a-startin'. Here's the message....brace yourself, oh if it had only had a picture for what could possibly be within this text:

1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE

from Steven

Jan 30, 2008 8:23 a.m.

LB has acted like absolute sh...t the last 2 am's and as far as I'm concerned doesn't deserve any privileges. She's always going to be a brat if we let her get by with it.

Quite possibly, Alec Baldwin could have just done the voice over for that one. If you have seen that, YouTube him screaming at his kid on the phone.

Now, now. Steven doesn't raise his voice, nor does he cuss.

So, the flute medley of promises to come subside and Bon Jovi's "Shock To The Heart" song suddenly take over. Gah. What's a girl to do with that?

Not just, sh...t, but "absolute sh...t". Is that like a number value that can't go negative because it's the absolute? And, how far is McDaDa concerned? Like does he have the vote of the common citizen or that of the electoral college? 'Cause at times, it sho' does seem like the United States of your Himness.

What more privileges can I take away from her? She basically just exists and is four. I won't even address the last line. What do we think about the LB part? Like did I need her initials to know he was ranting about the only other resident in the household.

I felt like my mom when she was at work and my sister and I would call her because we were in the middle of a knock-down drag-out. There was nothing she could do. She was at work. The fact that Sanna was chasing me in circles from the back deck through the house and locked me in my dad's room with the phone while she threatened my life just wasn't appealing enough for anyone to come to my rescue. Not to mention we were in Chattanooga at Dad's and she was at work---IN CALIFORNIA.

Oh, my. Let's see shall I sit on the edge of my seat awaiting the end of my Friday work day so that I could ref a fight with only one of the fighters? In this corner of the ring, weighing in at 42 pounds, we have LB. In the other corner.......he's at work, or possibly in the car, texting his wife. It's what I'd refer to as a therapuetic text.

I don't know what more to do. I've read and implemented SuperNanny toddler years' chapters, talked to the pediatrician, prayed, and I'm out of options. Oh, wait, (do your best mock my husband voice for this line), "As far as I'm concerned, no body deserves to co-exist in this house because they're acting like /absolute sh...t/".

You know, I used to wish for texts from him, maybe I didn't know what I was wishing for.

TTFN (TaTaForNow)

Let's Give 'Em Something To Blog About

I always took comfort that if something tragic should happen, the service workers won't be looking at your messy whatever (paramedic...undies, fireman....cleanliness, etc.). That's a lie. I'll tell you why that's a lie momentarily.

So, we went to dinner with Sanna and her husband's family in Chattavegas around 4 this afternoon.

When we returned home around 7, the minute I came in the door, I was like, "Steven! Come quick. There's a weird burnt smell and a haze."

Waited. Waited. Ticked off, but more than ticked, I was puzzled.

So, rather than go look for him, I decided to figure it out myself. OR. SO I. THOUGHT.

I told Libby to stay put at the kitchen door while I checked the house out. Needless to say, she didn't. She went on to the bathroom to, well, do #2. That means I couldn't beg, pay or bribe her to get out of the bathroom from the hour long ritual of handwashing, singing in the mirror, refolding the drying towels, etc.

Steven had gotten out of the car and instead of coming inside, he went outside to fix the exterior lighting timers. Ill that in life's toughest moments, I'm like a one legged man in a butt kicking contest, I go through the house downstairs, every room, every closet, upstairs, the same routine. I was freaking. For one reason, I'm a neat freak and didn't want anything to smell bad and two, the place could be burning down any minute.

I couldn't figure it out. I called my mom. She said to call the fire department. I tried to get Libby out of the bathroom so that we could locate Steven to get his take on things, but I couldn't get her out of the bathroom. At this point, I'm ticked at Steven, puzzled with the smell, and aggrevated with Libby. As my Granny would say, "PLLLLease. Somebody. Plllease. Jus' please."

I decided that it would be embarrassing for a firetruck to come with lights all on with sirens when we don't see actual smoke or have any reason to believe there is a fire. When Steven finally came inside, I said, "get a load of the overwhelming smell and not the one Libby probably produced in the the bathroom because she's been in there long enough to douse the place in Febreeze." He said, "yeah, it's bad under the house, too." I handed him the phone and said, "This is a you thing. I'm going to give Libby a bath. This shouldn't take both of us to remedy." I pried Libby from the bathroom and headed upstairs.

Upstairs, I shifted the laundry, and ran bath water. Steven comes up and says that the fire department wanted the house vacated due to the smell until they got there to check it out. Now, this vacate order comes from a man who, while employed by the local hospital, refuses to imposition perfect pregnant stranger women dragging IV's by the "No Smoking" sign smoking cigarettes in front of the hospital doors. He won't even tell them it's a smoke free campus or make them feel badly about the stinch they are subjecting others to, much less the health hazards they are posing. So, when he tells us to vacate the place........I just looked at him like....right. Well, he finally vacated us to the car and we moved out to the driveway so we could have the car running while we waited.

Not one, but 2 huge lights going, sirens sounding engines came and about 12 volunteer fire department cars/trucks with lights flashing came, too. Every one of the 10-15 men scoured our house inside and out about 10 times. They could smell it, but didn't see a haze. They questioned us and even Libby. Did we do anything out of the norm this afternoon, did Libby throw any toys up into the lights, etc.

They told us to remove all the Glade plug ins and not to use them. They told us not to leave the iron plugged up. However, they couldn't tell us what the smell was.

About the time they were wrapping things up, my sister shows up with her camera. She decided to request a photo op. I'm thinking, "My house could be about to blow up, I have been evacuated and you are getting Libby out of my car to get her and Kaylee's pictures with the fireman?!" Next thing you know, she'll be asking to honk the horn on the fire truck and take a station tour.

Okay, the part about "service workers don't comment on your mess." Whatev. They told us that the filters needed changing. I've been busy. They were last changed on December 9th. What's the smell, people?! So, tonight, I am here with a smell that I/we/they can only conclude is a skunk. Cry. Here's some pictures of a few of the nice fireman who may find themselves back over here at 2 am, compliments of my sister:

Right here.

Us: Liiiiibby. Look right here. Right here. Smiiile. Pleeease.
Her:

Why does she think smiling is that gesture something similar to Gilbert Godfrey's face?

Us: Liiiiiibby. Look at the camera. Come on. Right here. Look. Right here.

Why won't she look at the camera?

Finally!
Happy Thursday!

A Letter To My Body? From McLoser To Hot Mess

My sister recently said that because I was so high strung about things and clumsey that I was a "hot mess". I, of course, said that a "hot mess" is an oblivious someone who actually looks good while existing in a constant state of disarray. Therefore, I am not a "hot mess" because I don't look good, I'm organized and well aware of the state in which I operate. I finished with the fact that she needs to quit watching the show "Chelsea Lately" because she doesn't pay attention enough to completely gather the context in order to correctly apply latest lingo. She then called me a prude. I took it. I am.

So, what's with the McLoser title. If I am going to correct someone else about using the latest lingo, isn't "McLoser" an oxymoron? Before I go forward with the McLoser part, I have to back up to another moment which is entitled, "Letter To My Body". Gosh, I should make this post invitee only, but then who would I invite? No one ever comments. Ooooooo. Maybe no one reads this and I can totally nail the 'more than you wanted to know' tone.

Eeeiii---where the heck did all that come from? Back to my 5--readers that is.

Okay, so in the summer, I have no idea how I did it, but I stumbled upon a site that someone blogged an entry called, "Letter To My Body." I thought, "now there's a frickin letter I could rant all the way through". Then, I realized that if you don't like yourself, you won't really do something good for yourself. I decided I was in no frame of mind to write a letter to my body. (Not that the cyber world was waiting for it.) Now, being the observant chick I am, I could definitely write a letter to someone else's body, but not mine. Ugh. I would like to think I could fully embrace the title, "hot mess" and relish in a total "love letter" state of being with myself. But, no. Not me.

So, here's the thing, I read through the letters that these ladies had written to their bodies. They were so happy with their post pregnancy pouch because it reminded them of the blessing they had in a child. They loved their blah, blah and blah because blah, blah, blah. See, I go blurry when someone tries to remind me of the old, "Be thankful you have....you could be....". When you are as grouchy as me about your body, you don't want to be thankful. Somewhere, deep inside, you really just want to get mad enough to remedy the problem. But, again, you can't stay mad at yourself because you wouldn't do anything for someone you don't like, right? Well, I probably would because I am just retarded like that. But, let's stay in the moment and the "norm" area of the population when going along with my blanket assumptions.

So, here we are at McLoser. My wonderful colleagues have decided to do a "Biggest Loser" movement. I could care less about the winnings, hate competitions, but I'm in it. How could you look like this and not be in it? Ouch. That was a line from what a "letter to my body" might have said. I am deliberately making strides to watch what I eat and incorporate exercise because the one element that brings me into focus is the fact that four others on my McLoser team are counting on me to try. Oh, yeah, in my letter to my body, it would end with this" PS-Thank you Cigna for not paying for lapband for me. I'll see you at the heart attack table, EOB in hand.

There, I am a McLoser aimed for Hot Mess. We'll see.

24

Get your best Kiefer voice ready. Here goes:

5am-6am: Waking up-ish. Pray. Shower. Changed laundry over.
6am-7am: Complete Getting Ready. Change outfit because "Biggest Loser" hasn't started yet at school. Prepare Libby for departure.
7am-8am: Drive over the mountain from Westside to the Eastside to work. Mundane, but necessary morning duties.
8am-9am: Teach a computer class.
9am-10am: Meet with AP regarding curriculum. Assist a class and their teacher in lab.
10am-11am: Model lesson with a 2nd grade class.
11am-noon: ish. Leadership Team Lunch Meeting
Noon-1pm: Complete CRCT Family Night Preparations. Meet with teachers to strategize instructional methods for a certain group of kids.
1pm-2pm: Teach a computer class to 2nd grade kids. Devise a model lesson for a writing effort.
2pm-3pm: Meet with a teacher regarding a lesson coaching session. Dismissal. Team Meeting.
3pm-4pm: Team Meeting
4pm-5pm: Meet with teacher about student work and possibilities for next steps.
5pm-6pm: Supper with Steven and Libby
6pm-7pm: Played and read with Libby.
7pm-8pm: Coereced Libby through bath time.
8pm-9pm: Operation Bedtime for Libby. Laundry --major folding, putting away operation. Possibly sew a button.
9pm-10pm: Fed Facebook addiction.
10pm-11pm: Reviewed research literature from state department.
11pm-midnight: Update blog. Watch a couple DVR'd shows.
Midnight-3am: Pray. Sleep. Put Libby back to bed.
3am-5am: Sleep.
See first line for the next 24 hours. Only change the meeting at lunch to Raider Nation meeting.

Raise Your Hand

Raise your hand if you are ubba sick of my Christmas blog being left up for 900 years! My hand is up as I type. Not really, but the sentiment is so there.

We have been living it up this past few weeks, and not writing it up. Kind of a shame, huh?

Here are some pics to highlight what's been up. They are out of order, but at least they have descriptors.

If you'll notice the blog roll is missing.....when I change backgrounds, it leaves me having to update that to, so it will be uploaded asap.

Amy and Anna talking (not texting, actually talking!)

Libby got a guitar for Christmas and we LOVE it. Ha haaaa, it's pretty loud and has prerecorded things on it. She informed us that she wanted one with strings like the guy at church, but she guessed this one would do for now.

Chloe, Libby and PawPaw (Steven's Dad)

Chloe teaching Libby to use a DS. Maybe she'll teach us one day.

Christmas Eve Party at my house. Don't you just love the Alabama china?

Zach, Chloe and Libby

Three of the 4 nicest guys in the world. The fourth, Steven's dad, was probably wrangling kids. When Steven was little, he said he used to couldn't wait 'til he was older than his brothers.

Just Libby

Libby and I were set to decorate cookies for Santa. I bought the gingerbread mix, cookie cutters, a rolling pin, etc. I was so tired that I just let her ice and sprinkle cookies Steven's dad had made. She liked it.

I don't know.

We made toffee!

Libby at her Christmas program. She said she wore a square dress?

Libby's new big girl bed arrived.

The side profile of her new big girl bed.

Measuring for the bed. I have no clue why they measured, we had already bought and ordered it. This was 15 minutes before it was delivered.

More soon!