Sugardaddies, Fine China and Concrete Slippers

A brief summary of Halloween - Cher wanted to be a Lionhead bunny just like the ones we have as pets so I tricked her out with some fur:

And that about sums it up. When you can dress your two year old as a fluffy pink Lionhead bunny, what's not to love? Halloween was good.

And my mobster from the last post? Frank has turned out to be quite the fun friend. We had him over for dinner last week and found out he moved from Staten Island to Vegas for "health reasons." I guess it's not very healthy to find yourself at the bottom of the Hudson River wearing concrete slippers.

But the real highlight of the week was from the day I spent about 8 hours hitting up thrift stores in my area for mismatched china. You really get a good idea of who is in your community when you spend a day bottomfeeding.

Stop One: Goodwill

I was paying for some items. My girls were with me and we saw a woman in the store (think Roseanne Barr) with a tiny chihuahua snuggled into a bed of blankets in the child seat portion of her shopping cart. Of course, my girls ran up to her and asked if they could pet her tiny yapping dog. She sneered at them and pushed the cart aside. "No. This is a service dog." I looked at the cashier and raised my eyebrows skeptically. The cashier rolled her eyes and scowled. I'm guessing this wasn't the first time someone had tried to cheat the system by passing off a luxury pet as a disability crutch.
Stop Two: The Charleston Outlet Thrift Store

This particular store lacked a certain credibility with their storefront signage. On my way in, I noticed an official sign that read, "Please do no leave your children unattended in our store. Any parents not attending to their children in this store will be reported to Clark County Child Protective Services." I called their bluff and asked the cashier if they had ever really reported a parent to CPS before. "No," she said, "but we're supposed to..." Yeah right. But you can bet your bootie I kept my two girls glued to my side in that place.


Stop Three: A Second Chance Thrift Store:

This place had some really upscale items, mostly from estate sales, at jaw-droppingly low prices. After spending way too much time looking around a picking up some great vintage items, I went to check out. Ahead of me in line was a young black man. He was engaged in sincere conversation with the store proprietor. The proprietor, another black gentleman was saying in a very calm voice, "just remember that once you walk out that door today, I don't ever want you coming back."

"Man, I wouldn't steal from you! I don't steal from my own people!"

"All I'm saying is that you are not welcome in this store."

"You think I'm stealing from you? I never steal from you."

"I don't want to get into that. Just walk out that door and don't come back in here ever."

"You're my people, man! I wouldn't steal from my people!"

"Next please," said the proprietor with a warm smile. I sheepishly laid my items on the counter while the young man sulked off towards the door.


Stop Four: Martin's Mart Thrift Store

This place only had one teacup I wanted. I brought it to the counter and asked the price. "Thirty five cents," said the cashier. I reached for my wallet to get the money but just then an older man walked into the store, carrying a large trash bag and looking like the definition of homeless.

"I got it," he said with a grin and flipped a couple coins on the counter. At that moment, he was Daddy Warbucks. The girls and I thanked him up and down and left the store with a light heart. Everybody loves a sugardaddy.


And in case you're wondering what I'm doing looking for odd bits of china, here's the project I've been working on this week:
Teacup candles. You can get really beautiful pieces of china for pennies if the rest of the set is missing. And for some reason I've decided to try my hand at soapmaking and bath bomb making as well. It's been a craft week for me. Check out my first batch of soap I made:

So yeah, it's been a fun week. Sorry for the long, rambly post. There's been a lot of good stuff going on.

My Friendly Neighborhood Mafia

Last month my bunny, Stu, escaped from our yard. I posted on Craigslist, put in a report at the animal shelter and searched the neighborhood but came up empty. I could only assume that one of the many pitbulls living in my neighborhood had finished him off. But yesterday my next door neighbor popped her head over the wall and informed me that Stu was in her front yard. I ran over but he bolted as soon as I approached.

I chased him three doors down where he mysteriously disappeared in an overgrown backyard. After some poking around, I saw evidence that Stu had been living in this yard for quite some time (read between the lines, a month's worth of poop in a corner). The owner of the house saw me poking around in his yard and came out to see what I thought I was doing trespassing. He was a short guy, probably 55ish, and his voice sounded exactly like Marlon Brando's Godfather. After I told him about Stu, he verified that yes, he'd seen Stu eating his flowers and defecating all over his property for about a month. He introduced himself as Frank told me I could do anything necessary to catch the little guy and gave me free reign of his yard.

I borrowed a rabbit trap from Animal Control came back the next day to set it up. Frank saw me and came out to oversee the operation. Pointing to Stu's poop pile and promised I would clean it up. He waved me off and said there was no need. "It's no problem," I said, "I don't want my rabbit stinking up your yard." In an instant, Frank grabbed my face with one had and popped a light smack across my cheek. Still holding my face, my cheeks squeezed between his thumb and forefinger, he said in a low voice, "you clean up that poop and I'll come to your house and throw dirt all over your front yard." He released my face.

"Got it," I laughed. Anybody willing to slap a total stranger probably wouldn't make an empty threat like that. The poop would stay. "So you're from the East Coast?" I asked, his accent sounded Brooklyn to me.

"Yeah, sumpin' like that," he replied.

"I grew up in Connecticut," I said.

"Well that makes us just like family," he said happily.

"Sounds good to me. I don't have any family in the area. How about you?"

"I've got some family living in the casinos," said Frank.

"Sounds like fun."

"Depends on who's winnin'," he said with a shrug.

I think it's safe to assume that this guy has got some sort of Mafia running through his blood. We finished up talking and I turned to leave. I'd gotten some leaves and dirt all over my backside from sitting down to set the trap. "Eh, you're a mess!" said Frank. Without so much as a dinner invitation, he brushed my legs and rear end clean. After the smack, I knew better to protest. After he judged me sufficiently brushed off, I thanked him and took off. Maybe I'll catch Stu, maybe I won't but at least I can sleep easy knowing that my neighborhood mobster likes me.

Flu Vaccine Fright Fest

On Monday, the H1N1 vaccine has hit the streets of Vegas and local moms are wasting no time getting their dose. Currently, the vaccine is only being offered at one location in the Vegas Area, and only to the highest at-risk group (child caretakers and children under 5 years old). I saw the lines out the door on the news yesterday and even though it didn't look at exciting as an American Idol casting call, I decided to grab a place in line this morning. It was going to be a long morning of waiting and I didn't want my kids to know what was going on until the last possible minute.

"Come on, kids. Get in the car. I've got an errand to run."
"Where are we going?" asked the ever vigilant Pixie.
"We've just got to drop by an office for a minute."
"What for?"
"I need to get some stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Who wants a cookie?"

That distracted them until we got to the Public Health Department. A long line of grim looking mothers pushing strollers was already spilling out the doors and trying to fill out medical forms in the high wind. I took my place in line.

None of the kids seemed to know they were the intended targets and stood around with bored expressions. One mother had brought a portable DVD player and had distracted my section of the line with a cartoon. The line inched slowly forward. We finally made it inside, around the reception desk, and towards a greeter. At this point, the line was siphoned down a thin hall. An attendant in scrubs made her way down the line talking to each mother. My time was running out. Pixie caught sight of the woman's clothes and turned to me with apprehension. "Mom... what is this place?"

The jig was up. No sooner were the words "flu shot" out of my mouth that my two children began screaming and scrambling for an escape. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to buckle them into the stroller. "I DON'T WANT A SHOT! I DON'T WANT A SHOT!" they screamed, and in seconds, the children waiting in the hall with us had caught the whiff of terror. All around us, the pleading, screaming and whimpering began in earnest. The woman with the DVD player glared at me. The line inched forward.

After a quick consultation with the nurse, I was relieved to hear my kids could simply get the flu mist squirted up their nose instead of a shot. With this information, I was finally able to calm them down. We were approaching the end of the hall when we noticed the noise coming out of The Room. A high-pitched tremor of not fear, but absolute terror. Apparently, we were approaching out final destination. I pushed the stroller in.

I was now lined up against the back of a large conference room with about 20 other moms, waiting our turn at one of the vaccination stations. There were about 15 women administering shots and each one faced a blue-faced, apoplectic child. We had to stand there with our kids and watch our fate play out in deafening reality. At this point, the waiting children were too terrified to cry, they just stood with wide, wet eyes, as the children at the vaccination stations demonstrated their best Halloween night screams while being stuck full of needles.

It was our turn. I got my shot, then brought Pixie to sit in my lap to get her nasal spray. "No shot, right Mom?" she asked with confidence.
"Right."
So when the nurse pulled out a long, skinny device with a pointed tip and brought it towards Pixie's face, all hell broke loose. It sure looked like a shot to me. In order to administer the spray, the nurse had to stick the mister up both nostrils and squirt. I had my leg wrapped around Pixie's lower body, one hand holding her head tight against my chest, and the other pinning her arms down. She was screaming just as loud as every other poor kid we'd seen in there. Then we had to do the same thing with little two year old Cher. There is no way that the nasal spray was any less terrifying than a shot. I'd say it's much worse. But finally we were done.

"And don't forget to come back in a month for another dose," called out the helpful nurse, just as we were leaving. Another round of fresh screams. I booked it for the door at the end of the rooms, desperate to get my kids out of The Room of Terror. As far as Haunted Houses go, this one pretty much takes the cake this year. I'm all Halloweened out.

The Football Widow

True, Peyton Manning looks better in spandex than I do, but is this really what I've earned?

Most people would agree that men are simple creatures. They like things will barbecue grill marks on them. They like remotes. They like naps. They say what they mean. Simple, right? So could someone please explain to me why the majority of men are obsessed with one of the most time consuming, complex endeavors ever? Football isn't simple. It isn't devoid of emotion. It keeps men awake when they would otherwise be napping away a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I've got to think there is more than cheerleaders in hot pants behind this aberration of nature.

College football began at the end of August. During the first quarter of the first game I turned to Spike and asked, "So when does the season end?"

"Honey, this is the first game of the season."

"Right. When does it end?"

It's not that I begrudge him a little sports (note to self - I totally begrudge him all sports) but football in particular gets me going. Here I am, the faithful little wife of ten years, married and accustomed to the ups and downs of matrimony, but come Saturday, all I can think about is how I want to bomb every college football field in America.

True, I can't run a five minute mile like most wide receivers. I can't hit a fly off the wall across the room with a perfect spiral football throw. I've never tackled a grown man to the ground or gotten a grass stain on my forehead. There will be no younger, fresher second string replacement for me when I'm tired, crabby or creaky. I shouldn't be surprised to be a football widow at the age of 30. Maybe I should make a better effort to compete in the field.

There are the "Ty Detmer" wives who are fun for a few years but then fizzle out. But I want to be a "Brett Favre" wife, getting better and sexier every year. Who is to say my time to shine is up? In order to regain my husband's admiration and affection on Saturdays, I need to get my butt to training camp and make myself a competitor.

A couple of possible training goals for myself:

• Buy calf-length spandex and practice putting them on without vomiting.
• Perfect my diaper toss so that I can hit the garbage can with a loaded diaper from 60 yards.
• Don't shower after working out
• Stop using multisyllabic words
• Practicing bulging my neck muscles in the mirror to perfect the intimidating look
• Trash a hotel room
• Pray for Obama to criminalize college sports

That's all I've got for you today. Pray for Mojo.

Please Stop Being So Nice

I can't go anywhere without my kids complimenting people. It's driving me nuts. True, it's probably my fault. I've tried to teach them to be nice to everyone and look for the good but things are getting out of control.

At first, they would just tell friends stuff like, "I like your shoes" or "cool necklace" but now it's gotten to the point where they roll down their windows in the car and shout out to strangers on the sidewalk stuff like, "YOU HAVE PRETTY HAIR" or "I LOVE YOUR DOG." We were at Costco the other day and my friend came up to say hello. Immediately, the girls started in.

"Nice watch."
"I love your bracelet."
"Your nail polish is beautiful."
"You have a pretty smile."
"I like your groceries."

I interrupted and said, "I'm sorry, my kids are compulsive complimenters." Her smile dimmed somewhat. I immediately knew I'd erred. Maybe my children's robotic compliments were the only ones she'd gotten that day. Had I just burst her bubble? Perhaps she was feeling insecure about her grocery choice that day. I tried to redeem myself, "not that you don't have nice fingernails... it's just that... they complement every..." I rolled to a stop, positive that anything that came out of my mouth after that would only do more damage.

So I've decided just to grit my teeth and bear it. Today we passed an elderly woman with shockingly blue hair in the parking lot of Walmart. My two year old ran up to her and went on and on about how great her hair was. I kept my mouth shut. Later in the store, they harassed some other poor woman complimenting her automatic wheelchair. Pixie, the four year old, is obsessed with men's belt buckles and any time we see a guy rockin' a Texas sized buckle on his belt, she gets all handsy and effusive and it's all I can do to keep her from pulling their pants down to get the buckle off. That one always ends up a little awkward.

I need to get over my issue with this. I can't stand an empty compliment but just because my kids are full of them, doesn't necessarily mean that they don't mean every word. So what do you think - do I need to become more like them or should I try and teach them a little more restraint? It's a weird issue. And it seems like there is an obvious answer - I just don't know what it is.

Happy Birthday Hollywood

This is Spike. Today is Hollywood's birthday. Feel free to leave a comment saying something you like about her, if you're so inclined.

How to Clear a Blocked Toilet

Now that I'm a homeowner, when something goes wrong in my house, I've got a rather scary decision to make. Call a professional, or become a professional. Due to my unflinching cheapness, I went ahead and bought the book published by Black&Decker, "Complete Home Repair." The empowerment began immediately.

So when my two year old flushed both a aluminum Capri Sun pouch and a large building block down her toilet, I took a deep breath and prepared for my curtain call. After consulting with my father over the phone who assured me he'd fixed clogged toilets millions of times, I plunged in.

Step one: Plunge in. Plunger had no effect.

Step two: Purchase a drum auger (snake) for $28 to try and weasel the blockage out. I got a few small pieces of the Capri Sun bag, but no sign of the wooden block.

Step three: Call my dad again and get itemized instructions on lifting off and replacing the toilet.

Step four: Remove toilet, clear blockage in no time and call father in victory. Bask in father's assurances that I am indeed, Wonderwoman. Hang up.

Step 5: Turn on the water supply to perform a test flush. Notice leak coming from a small crack I've accidentally made in water supply line behind toilet. Decide not to call Dad for further guidance since he's just finished telling me how great I am and I don't want to burst his bubble.

Step 6: Accidentally destroy old water supply line and valve while trying to remove it and go to hardware store for a $12 water supply value and line replacement.

Step 7: Install new supply line and valve. Turn on water supply and spot two minor leaks. Readjust the nuts to tighten the seal.

Step 8: Turn nuts the wrong way, have valve burst off. Have face placed strategically in front of water pipe so the blast of water pushes your contacts behind your eyeballs and then run soaking wet though the house, blinded, screaming, "TURN OFF THE WATER!" to a husband who I'm praying can hear me.

Step 9: Turn off water, utilize 15 towels to soak up the flood. Have husband use mystical Man Muscles" to screw nuts on tight enough.

Step 10: Try not to notice as I slog through the bathroom that my book, "Complete Home Repair" that I kept by my side through the entire operation has now become a waterlogged mess and will need replacement for an additional $25.


Total cost: $65. But hey, my Dad is proud of me - at least until he reads this post. No professional plumber can ever take that away from me.

I Wanna Be Paris

Cher is two and a half and it was time for me to bite the bullet and take her in for her first hair cut. Of course, she was petrified. Her older sister Pixie has indoctrinated her in the religion of hair and its innate value as a prop for awesomeness. So to help her get through the big cut, I brought both of them to Supercuts (sold as "the beauty salon") for a sisters-trim.

I had to sell it the right way. They were going to be more beautiful afterwards. Trims keep your hair healthy. They were starting to look like street bums. It would be easier to brush. But they were still tearing up at the idea of cutting of their golden locks. The clock was ticking and the hairdresser would call us to her station any minute. I couldn't send them in their tearful state and needed something. My eyes locked on a Glamour magazine. "Girls," I said, "look through this magazine and find a picture of the hair style you'd like. Then show the picture to the hairdresser and she'll make you look just like it." The fell for it and smushed into a chair together, excitedly turning through the pages of the magazine.

They quietly conferred over each picture. Then Pixie shouted, "Mommy! I want hair like this!" She held up a photo. It was Paris Hilton, pinch-faced and bare bodied, dressed as a mermaid with long, fake blond hair cascading down her torso. (See the picture here). I couldn't take away her dream now. "Great hon! Bring that picture up and you can look just like it." Pixie was sold. But Cher still browsed the pages anxiously. Would the trick work twice?

"Oooh, I want this! I want this!" Cher held up a photo of a woman and her dog and pointed to the dog. A lovely golden retriever with, let's face it, great hair. That would have to do.

"Pixie? Cher?" called the hair stylist. We were up. The girls couldn't wait to show their dream hair cut photos to the styles and I had to give her a helpful wink to let her know to play along. Luckily, it worked. Armed with their photos, the two kids made it through the shampoo station, the brushing and the cuts with wide grins on their faces. And by the time we left, Pixie was convinced that her new shoulder-length bob made her look exactly like a siren and Cher's 1/2 inch trim was enough to make her bark like a noble retriever.

I never thought I would say it, but thank you, Paris. You're a lifesaver.

Don't mess with Hollywood or Texas

This is Spike. I got a new cell phone from work, so I don't need my old one. To save a few bucks, Hollywood bravely agreed to call Sprint to cancel my line with them. First, someone told her it would be no problem, that she could get her own plan for $70 a month, and I could cancel my plan without paying a penalty. About five minutes later, the guy she talked to called back and said "oh, just kidding, you'll have to pay a $100 penalty."

Hollywood went to work calling various numbers, explaining what happened. At one point, someone claiming to be a "manager" told her that we would in fact have to pay $200 to get out of my line. Not a smart move on his part. I felt a little sorry for the guy as Hollywood politetly, calmly ripped him to shreds, pointing out that she had been repeatedly told different things and jerked around by a bunch of keystone cops, and the fact that he was a manager made him the most guilty of the bunch, since he presumably should have trained his employees not to be complete incompentents.

After her short vent, she wisely hung up and called back for a chance to talk to someone else. This time, she struck paydirt. The new guy told her she would only have to pay $60 a month, and that I could cancel with no fee.

The moral of this story is (a) don't deal with Sprint, (b) if you do have to, call them over and over until you get what you want, and (c) don't mess with Hollywood.

The Evil In My Home

"Mom, there's a bug crawling on the wall."
"Okay."
"Come see!"
"Fine."

I walk into the kitchen where my two year old has led me by the hand and look around to find the offending insect. "Where is it, Cher?"

"Ummm...I can't remember...," she waves a pointed finger distractedly at the walls and then her gaze lands on the floor. "There," she proclaims triumphantly.

"Honey, that's a tortoise."

"Yeah."

We bought our first home six months ago and I quickly went to work surrounding my family with non-human friends. Since my husband Spike is allergic to cats and can't stand dogs, I had to get a little more creative so now our backyard hosts a bevy of bunnies and a small clan of dessert tortoises. But not all the animals at my home are invited guests.

When we first looked at the house, we found a scorpion in one of the bathrooms. Our realtor assured us it was a once in a lifetime sighting and many other locals promised they had never seen a scorpion while living here. It turns out that's because all the scorpions in Vegas live at my house.

The week after we moved in, I was still finding them crawling on my kitchen floor and hiding under the laundry baskets. Soon after, my four year old Pixie was bit in the living room and spent a Sunday in the ER. When we finally called an exterminator, she delivered the grim news that the only way to kill scorpions was to hunt them down individually and crush their little brains to mush. No spray would kill them. With the help of a dark night and a black light, we were finally able to see just exactly how bad our scorpion infestation was. We caught (not saw, caught) 84 in the first hour of hunting.

Last night Spike proclaimed the scorpions to be, "his jealous mistress." Each night before bed, he pulls on his leather gloves, grabs the black light flashlight and picks up his Killing Stick. Then out to the yard he goes, hunting for anything that wiggles in his blackl ight. After a round of killing in the yard, he turns off the lights inside and sweeps each room, finding any scorpions that have managed to gain entry to our home, taking care not to wake our two daughters as we sweep and kill in their little purple bedroom. The scorpions are a little piece of Satan that has manifested itself in our otherwise happy home. And if you've never had the chance to see your spouse decked out with a blacklight, Killing Stick and grim smile, you've never known true love.

We are strangely proud of our infestation. When we invite your over for dinner, we'll insist you stay until dark so you can accompany Spike on one of his killing sprees. Then if you're really lucky, he'll capture a few with the salad tongs and make you get up close and personal with them to see just how tough you can pretend to be. Scorpions only come out in the dark so we are able to enjoy our yard during the day. But as soon as the sun sets, my girls come to me with big eyes and ask if the scorpions are coming out. We tiptoe inside and lock the doors. The yard is given over to the beasts.

Life has been eerily wonderful since moving out of the apartment phase of life and if it wasn't for the scorpions, we'd be like Adam and Eve, moving around Eden with bland smiles. But the scorpions keep it real for us. Just the right amount of wicked to make the good really pop. Now don't you wish you lived at our house?

Just a Friendly Little Beating

Scene: Lake Mead. My two girls and I are enjoying a Saturday at the beach. A man, his daughter and a pitbull puppy settle in ten feet away from us.

I'm a friendly gal, so I yell over, "that's a good looking pit." He smiles and we launch into congenial small talk. My girls are enthralled with anything puppy related and beg me to let them pet his dog. I get his permission, warn them that puppies can be overly excitable, and let them go.

Inevitably, (I know, I'm a terrible person), the puppy playfully grabs my two year old Cher's hand in his mouth and she starts to cry. I pull Cher back to my lap to calm her. The man comes over, completely apologetic but I assure him that she'll be fine. But the next thing I know, he's dragging his four month old puppy by the ears to where we are sitting. "Bad Lady! See what you did to this little girl?" Then, still holding her ears twisted tightly in his fists, he starts beating his dog in the face. "Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!" Each shout punctuated by a violent blow.

"No really, my daughter is fine!" I say. The beating continues at our feet. "She was just being a puppy! Please don't hit her. See? Her hand is fine." I hold out my daughters hand and show that no harm has been done.

"This is the only way she'll learn," says the man with an apologetic smile. Her ears get another twist. BAM. At this point, both my girls are totally freaked out and Cher's begins crying for the puppy instead of herself. For his finale, he grinds the dog's head into the sand. Finally convinced that he's shown me what a great guy he was, he releases Lady's ears and gives me a heroic grin like he's just slain a dragon. The dog lies terrified on the ground.

Funny, one minute you are chatting with a guy about the weather and the next minute, you feel like grabbing him by the ears and beating him senseless. Gotta love the beach.

Learning How to Knit

I'm only a month away from 30 and trying to embrace my inner old lady so what better to do than buy a pair of knitting needles and some yarn. My husband Spike was not amused. "This isn't you, Hollywood. You're edgy. You're avant garde. You are not a knitter." Be that as it may, with the help of online knitting guru Judy, I've taken up needles to fight for my right to be chubby, frumpy, and middle aged.

It wasn't easy. I've tried knitting before and each time was overcome by the sheer blandness of it and gave up after a few stitches. But after two children, a couple thousand dirty diapers, and a vengeful scale in my bathroom, I've found my mind sufficiently addled to take on knitting once more. This time, it stuck.

I can purl, rib, decrease, cast off, fair isle and stockinette with the best of them. When the kids start fussing, my needles slash and click like Edward Scissorhands. I can finally understand the allure of gun ownership. When I'm holding two pointed metal needles, I feel impervious. The metallic hiss they make as they slide across each other reminds me of Mel Gibson in Bravehart dragging his longsword across the nobleman's armor. With my needles at my side, nobody will mess with me. And really, how would you rather die - gun shot or knitting needles? I'm a force to be reckoned with.

So far I have used my knitting powers for good. And really, death by knitting needles seems to be a rare occurrence. I could only find one instance online of a knitting needle accident - a Palo Alto librarian was stabbed through the heart with a needle - but the tough old biddy survived. So the chances of me going all Tomb Raider on anybody's hinnie are slim. Plus, anyone who knits knows if you had the choice of protecting yourself from a heinous villain using your knitting needles or preserving the hours of stitching you'd already accomplished, you'd choose to save your knitting rather than your life.

So I bide my time, knitting dolls and cuffs, just waiting for some foolhardy lug to look at me the wrong way. And when he does, there will be no more question as to the "avant gardness" of my skills.

____________________________________________________________________


For those of you wondering what in the world has happened in my life over the past year since I've posted, here are a few tidbits:


We aren't the Hollywood Flakes anymore. We're the Henderson, NV Flakes. But don't even think about calling me "Henderson."

I'm now fat and Spike is lean. An amusing development.

After bleaching my hair unsuccessfully multiple times over my life and promising myself I would never do it again, I did it again. It looks terrible.

I'm sick of sewing.

Pixie, my four year old, learned to knit (see her instructional video here).

After mistakenly ordering a 30 lb bag of instant oats, I've become a master chef of all things oat related. Yum Yums, anyone?

I decided to blog again.

Eco-Unfriendly

I'm generally a big fan of The Disney Channel on cable. Turn it on, plunk the kids down, and get a half hour of work done. The morning shows don't even have commercials on during them. But they really kill you with the few minutes of airtime after the show is over. As soon as "Tigger and Pooh" ends, a bevy of short, public service type ads roll out in front of your child's vacant eyes. Remember to exercise. Being nice is cool. Apples are the new ice cream. You get my drift. Apparently they are running a new blurb about being eco-friendly. I only know because I'm one of the victims of the ad.

Out of nowhere, my four year old Pixie has started following me around the apartment turning off light switches. "We need to save electricity, mom," she says. "No we don't," I respond.

Imagine I'm going to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. She follows me, turning off the lights behind me, and when I get to the kitchen she flicks on the switch so I can see the peanut butter deep in the cabinet. I reach for the peanut butter. Off goes the light.

"Are you done now," she asks?
"I haven't even gotten the bread yet."
"You need to hurry and finish. We need to save electricity."
"Honey, it's fine if I have the lights on in the kitchen. Please turn them back on."
"But we have to turn out the light to save the electricity!"
"No. We don't."
"But mo-om!"

And around and around we go. Living with her is like living in that dream where you can only see 10 feet in any direction and the rest is obscured in darkness. She truly believes that electricity is on the same level as the endangered panda or perms. How could I treat it so wastefully? Heaven help me if she ever learns about recycling.

She's in bed asleep now so I have the entire front of the house lit up like a Viking pyre. I can't help but revel in the hum of precious electricity as it comes to it's pointless doom in my light bulbs. Just goes to show, parents should spend more time passing down their vices and less time with the television on. I should have known better.

Westurn!

My sister-in-law Mindy moved from Baltimore to po'dunk Wyoming this week. After years of living on the east coast, it's no small adjustment. Today Mindy sent the following email describing one of her first experiences in town:

"So this drunk cowboy guy came up to me in Wal Mart. He was missing a front tooth, wearing full cowboy garb, a crumpled up leathery face the works. And wanted to tell me what a great deal he got on DVDs. He started pulling them out of his bag. He pulled out Dances with Wolves and said "WESTURN!" then he pulled out 3:10 to Yuma and said "WESTURN!" and then he pulled out one more movie and said "WESTURN!" and I looked down and it was Brokeback Mountain. I started to tell him that he probably wouldn't like that one, but then I decided to let him discover that for himself."

Thanks, Mindy. I needed something to post about today.

How to Clean a Carpet

Yet more of my fabulous follies as an apartment manger. This job tempts me to hate mankind.

We have a family who moved in three years ago. They seemed nice, normal and promised to provide little or no hassle to me. But last year the wife knocked on my door.

"Hollywood, is there anything you could do for us? Our carpet is so dirty. Could we have a new one?"

I went down to their apartment and saw that the beige carpet we had installed only two years before was literally black throughout the entire apartment. I made a phone call. My management company was feeling generous so they put in a new carpet at no cost to the tenant. Yeah, they're just nice like that sometimes.

Last month there was another knock on my door. It was the wife.

"Do you think you could put a new carpet down in our apartment? It's black again. I was thinking you guys could put in a really dark carpet so you couldn't see the dirt."

"I don't think we are going to be able to do that. Have you tried cleaning it?"

"Yes. I clean it, but it always gets dirty again. Your carpet is so nice and clean..."

"I vacuum almost every day and shampoo it every few months."

"..."

"Would you like the phone number of a carpet cleaner?" I offered.

"I guess. Would the apartment company pay for cleaning?"

"No."

One week later she gave notice that they were moving out. On to newer, whiter carpet I suppose. I'm not the cleanest gal on the block, but I don't think these people even owned a vacuum. Even pigs don't live in their own filth. I wonder if she really weighed the options and decided that packing up and moving was more palatable than actually keeping her carpet clean. Gross. Really gross.

Rant over. For now.