Hoocher is in city residence, having taken his leisure from the Outpost while The Chairman and VP are away, avoiding their responsibilities to family, pet and blogsite alike. Nana and Bupa are hosting The Governor and The Senator for now, but we will have our custodial turn in a few days. The VP had it right, when he exclaimed during a goodbye wave, “Let the spoiling begin!” (There’s this little dairy store that scoops up the most incredible coconut-almond ice cream. I save—and savor—visits there when I can take The Senator for a double-scoop of cotton-candy ice cream as justification for my own indulgence. Maybe The Governor will be old enough to join us this time. I’ll try to include the cousins, too, if I can get a low-rate home-equity loan. As you can guess, “little dairy store” means not only gold-medal, small-batch ice cream but also gold-standard prices.)
Tomorrow, Hoocher gets company! (Sounds like a kids’ book, doesn’t it?) Uncle B’s hyper Sheltie, Rusty, will be here. Hoocher will take Rusty in stride, but if Rusty’s off-stride, we have plans to keep them separated.
This morning was the much-feared trip to the dentist. Knowing the probability of a full-blown Governor melt-down, I set my expectations low. I should have aimed for “none.”
Things started off on a promising note. We had yet another new hygienist. Her name was Chris, and she was wonderful. Very friendly, very comforting. And she took the time to introduce herself and talk a little bit about how our former hygienist had left to take a job closer to home.
The Senator climbed up into the chair first and was a model patient. Open mouth, hold still, rinse, spit. He was done before The Governor had time to break any expensive equipment. The dentist came in, did the final inspection, and The Senator was shooed out of the chair Delta Cum Laude.
Chris then invited The Governor to hop in the chair. He climbed aboard and got a kick out of riding up and tilting backwards. And then all enjoyment came to an abrupt end. He fought the polishing brush. He fought the mirror. He hated the bright light. He wouldn’t lay on his back. Floss? Not a chance in hell.
Chris eventually gave up, assuring me that this frequently happens on first-time visits and we were sure to have better luck in six months. The dentist came back into the room. He got a quick glance at The Gov’s teeth during a prolonged screaming fit and pronounced that since he couldn’t see any gaping black holes, The Gov was probably okay until the next appointment.
If we’re allowed back.
The boys got their new toothbrushes and The Senator got to rummage around in the hallowed Treasure Chest for a prize. The Governor had just stopped wailing when he realized that he was not going to be allowed to pick out a toy. Cue more screaming and crying. I think we were half-way home before he wore himself out and slumped in his car seat, exhausted and drained.
When November rolls around, I am pretty sure that The Governor’s dental appointment will ironically fall on one of those precious father-son bonding days. If not, The Governor can look forward to being the only kid in his sixth grade class with a full set of false teeth.
Today has seemed rather like an episode of The Twilight Zone. We went to the nursing home this morning for the most surreal visit we’ve ever had. The halls and common rooms were quiet and fairly empty. Many residents were not in their rooms, and those who were at home were sleeping soundly. I began to fear that a few of my favorite people has passed away because their names had been removed from their doors. Turns out, there was just a bit of shuffling to accommodate some new residents. The only real sign of life, other than the white noise of nurses and aides going about their business, was Malina screaming and moaning because she had to take a bath.
I fully expected to see Rod Serling walk around the corner with a camera crew.
Since we’ve been home, The Governor has been acting strangely. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter chanting to an empty cereal bowl. I almost wish Rod Serling would walk around the corner with a camera crew.
Maybe it’s all because I’m still out of sorts from my visit to the dentist yesterday. I showed up for my appointment only to find that the lady who has cleaned my teeth for the past several years was gone. No license on the wall; no picture of the kids, nothing. I wasn’t told what happened to her.
I got a new hygienist. She was friendly. Her work with the pick and mirror wasn’t horribly painful, but when she fired up the polishing brush, I nearly jumped out the chair and bolted. That’s supposed to be the easy part of the appointment. Not any longer. Apparently, she thought I was hiding some extra molars in the far corners of my cheeks. Ouch.
I can only hope she’s the hygienist on duty when I bring the boys in on Thursday. When The Governor gets in the chair, it’s payback time.
Here at The Outpost, one of our favorite summertime activities is firing off model rockets. It’s exciting to give the countdown, hear the engine ignite, and watch the rocket shoot up into the sky until it’s out of sight. The real highlight, of course, is trying to retrieve the rocket from the neighbors’ soybean fields or cow pasture. And there is a veritable rocket graveyard located in the top branches of several Outpost oak trees - parachutes fluttering in the breeze like memorial flags. In spite of the losses, we carry on and send additional missiles into the great blue yonder feeling, I imagine, not too unlike NASA scientists.
So imagine my excitement to hear that the son of a coworker has gone semi-pro. Eric Eide and his 4H team from Farmington took first place in their division at the Team America Rocketry Challenge in Virginia this past weekend. Details of the event are here, although they have not updated the site yet to reflect this year’s winners.
Sponsored by the AIA (Aerospace Industries Association), NASA, the National Association of Rocketry, and many corporate sponsors, the contest challenge was to build a rocket that would carry a raw egg, stay airborne for a minimum of sixty seconds, and return the egg to earth uncracked. And this contest was not just for bragging rights; winners shared $60,000 in prizes.
Congratulations to Eric and his 4H teammates! Eric, I’m inviting you and your family for an Outpost Rocketry Day this summer so The VP and I can learn some tricks of the trade. If you can make the rocket come down and smash the egg on The VP, I will give you $60,000 as well.
If you're interested in scratching Pepsi products off your grocery list, Aelfheld has the rundown for you. Don't forget Taco Bell and Pizza Hut too.
Modesty is one of my primary virtues, I’m proud to say. And t his explains why I have been practicing before the mirror a suitably humble response to the praise certain to come my way.
The Green Goddess was away from her planting so—without request or instruction—I have taken to her garden with zeal and all of the tools I could collect. She will be pleased to learn of my hard work and development of novel (unique would be immodest) gardening processes that will enhance her horticultural life.
For example, she will be overjoyed to discover my improvement over the handwork drudgery of pulling weeds from the flower bed she has spent years nurturing along the south fence to our backyard. I have eliminated the stoop-work by applying Round-up to the entire flower bed. Those pesky weeds will disappear, effortlessly, and I am prepared to bask in her praise, diffidently, of course.
Next, I turned my arboreal skills to the perennials and annuals in two raised-bed plots. Out came my newly lubed and gassed Honda tiller, heretofore used only with the GG’s close—but unnecessary—supervision. Today, I soloed and with great skill. I carefully avoided areas where the annuals were planted, because they return annually (well, duh) as their name indicates. However, I applied those tiller blades to the perennials with a vengeance, making the planting of new perennials a quick and easy chore.
There was only one little problem, and that was resolved quickly. I apparently over fertilized one of the major plantings, as a neighbor hinted, asking when the snow had fallen. The GG has no cause for concern, though, because I expediently rescued the flora by using her new vacuum cleaner to inhale the excess of powder. Replacement topsoil will be ordered, and a new motor for the vacuum cleaner should arrive within the week.
This has been an exhilarating experience, since I had NO idea that, like the Green Goddess, I possessed the “green thumb” of a Master Gardener, though I cannot officially claim the title, which involves academic achievement and volunteer hours. I am hoping, though, for an honorary appellation, in light of my recent and soon-to-be-recognized activities.
Togetherness is important, which is why I’m waiting for GG’s return, so we can share seeking an answer to a question I’ve posed hypothetically for years: What will happen, if you add a tad of tequila to the hummingbird feeder?
It’s proof time in the hullabaloo over the theory of evolution versus creationism. Witness this denouement, first hand, in our driveway, say, in about two weeks. Bleachers are being erected as I write, and ticket prices will be announced presently.
This proof-positive occasion will be more crucial to the controversy than even the Scopes (monkey) trial in Dayton, Tenn., in 1925—an oratorical collision between William Jennings Bryan striking blows for intelligent design and Clarence Darrow with a chimp on his shoulder.
Given the currently low level of discourse on the topic, it’s entirely appropriate that the issue will be resolved, once and for all, not by animal life, but by plant life.
The Green Goddess spent the winter sprouting flowers from seeds under fluorescent lights in our basement—a task accomplished, thankfully, without a midnight raid by federal agents concerned about other forms of plant life emerging under bright lights.
In April, our seedlings were transplanted into pots and placed on the driveway to catch sun and rain—a temporary home prior to planting. In a normal climate, they would have been snug in their flower bed for weeks. However, in Minnesota—and especially this year—freezing temperatures and even sleet remain a threat into the second half of May. Thus, our plants remain potted, and the continuing threat of frost means they must be carried into the garage every night and returned to sunlight (overcast skies, really) every morning.
That’s been going on for about a month, now, and we are anticipating that, in two more weeks, those plants will be so darn sick of being hauled in and out of the garage that—if evolution is the correct theory—their roots will begin evolving into feet, and they will walk themselves into and out of the garage. Then, only one question will remain. Will these plants begin sprouting arms instead of branches? If so, would the next step, mastery of the electronic garage opener, be a sign of further evolution—or intelligent design?
Come witness the walking of the potted plants. See it decided whether evolution is—or is not—monkey business!
Some days I think of things that are innately horrible ideas, and yet I go ahead and do them anyway. This morning I took The Governor for a short trip through Target. It was going to be a long trip, but we had to cut and bail in the Ziplock baggie aisle because The Gov was going into meltdown mode.
We made it through the check-out line without any disruptions, and I even got him buckled into his car seat with minimal struggles. So the part of my brain that ignores and overrules saner areas of the grey jelly put forth the suggestion: That wasn’t so bad. Why not a quick trip through the grocery store?
Intelligence and common sense, working together for the greater good protested. No! No way! You’re pushing your luck.
It’ll be a quick trip. I just need a few things for dinner.Fool! He’s deceiving you. You’ll regret it by the dairy aisle.
Naw. We can do this. I’ll buy a treat for the car ride home and use it as behavior insurance.
Twenty bucks says he forfeit his claim to it within the first ten minutes. But buy the treat anyway. You’re not going to listen to us.
I didn’t. I should have.
The Gov and I got into the store and spent several minutes haggling over which cart to take. We settled on the model with the car in front, but then had to battle over whether or not he could ride on the top of the cab. He lost that fight, and several other skirmishes. I won’t bore you with the aisle by aisle conflicts, but suffice it to say that by the time we were paying, he had gone nuclear.
He was jumping up and down in the back of the cart screaming, “I HATE this cart! I call this cart an IDIOT cart! You are a BAD mom! I am VERY MAD right now!”
I paid, I apologized, I bagged, I threw him over my shoulder fireman-style and we left. He continued screaming all the way across the parking lot, lambasting me as an unqualified parent.
When he ran out of breath, I reminded him, “It’s a good thing I AM your mom. Anyone else would have beaten you severely by now.”
His comeback: scream some more. He wore himself out half way home and started to fall asleep in the car. Since I didn’t want him napping until we got home, I had to do something drastic to keep him awake. I pulled over, rummaged through the groceries, found his treat, and started eating it in front of him. I nibbled that doughnut for eight miles. And he wailed every inch of the way.
When we walked in the door, he took off his shoes and made a beeline for my bed. He was asleep within seconds.
I finished putting the groceries away, and now I’m thinking a cold beer might be just the thing to wash down that doughnut.
Have a great weekend.
Last night after the kids went to bed I went grocery shopping. It's not my favorite thing to do at 10 p.m., but the milk was expired, the cereal jar was empty, and the bananas had been ferried out the door by the ants, so I had no choice.
Still, shopping without worrying that someone is ripping open a package of pork chops or trying to bowl with a liter of ginger ale has its appeal. Plus, everyone in the house would be asleep when I got back, so I wouldn't have six hands digging in bags trying to find hidden treasures.
Or so I thought.
I pulled in the driveway and saw The VP in the kitchen window. Sweet! He waited up for me! Which bag has the Reddi-Whip?
It wasn't to be.
I opened the door and he wailed, "The Governor is sick! Sick! He threw up on me! I've got him in the tub, but you need to get in here. I've got to take a shower because the vomit is BURNING my skin!"
How did men ever come to rule the world? Toddler vomit, the secret biological weapon. In my husband's world, he just got doused with a gallon of toxic waste. In my world, The Governor drooled a little. After dealing with The Senator's power-barfing for years, anything less than a pint is spit-up.
We got The Governor squared away, but he truly was sick. I was up a few more times with him throughout the night. No one got much sleep. Especially The VP. I could tell because when he backed out of the garage this morning, he bashed the passenger-side mirror on the door frame and sent broken glass everywhere.
Now that, folks, is a page out of my playbook. He never does stuff like that. Poor man. I ran outside and helped him sweep up the mess and tried hard not to gloat. Didn't work. I told him, "You know, Honey, sometimes I feel bad for not fixing a great dinner when I'm tired. But you just raised the bar. I can get away with anything now. Thanks, Baby!" I left before he threw the push broom at me.
That really made my day.
Now that I haven't posted for a week and traffic has gone down to a cozy twenty or so readers...I'm back.
I wasn't going to post at all today, but my soccer buddy Kevin always tells me, I don't read that girl blog! Too bad, Kev. I post stuff about you all the time over there. Risque photos too.
Back?
Lack of blogging hasn't meant lack of material. I left Friday morning for Missouri to attend a baby shower for my cousin. I'm not much for sitting around comparing labor stories, but I had to go. My cousin and her two sisters are incredibly funny. When they're in a room together, no one stops laughing until someone leaves or food is served. I couldn't give it a miss.
Sunday afternoon I got home and went straight to soccer. Sitting in a car for seven hours before a game doesn't pass as much of a warm-up. It wasn't my best match ever. There was a woman who showed up this week who appeared to have never played the sport before at all, so she took a little pressure off my performance. Next Sunday I'll be out drinking with Casey and Margaret before the game, so I hope the novice shows up again.
Yesterday The Governor and I spent some quality time together. My favorite part was nap-time. He's been a little under the weather, so just mention "nap" and he throws a tantrum that wears him out completely. I dumped him on my pillow and jumped in on The VP's side. We snoozed for two hours.
I love my life. I'd be napping with him now, but I didn't want Kevin to think I've completely given up here. This post is just for you, Kev. Next week maybe I'll toss in a naughty photo as well. Hope you're having a great day at the office.
Well, it’s official. I’m a soccer mom. While I’ve been playing the sport for years, today I got to drive The Senator to his first practice. I guess the pollsters will be calling night and day now to find out my opinions on world stability and social security.
This morning we did our usual stint at the nursing home. The fire alarm kept going off which meant LOCKDOWN! Nurses and aides glide through each wing shutting all the bedroom doors. If there ever is a real fire, all these wheelchair-bound, bed-ridden, elderly people are escaping through their windows, I guess. Good thing there isn’t a second floor to the place.
This afternoon, after soccer, we went to swimming lessons. The Governor and I usually sit in the stands and watch as The Senator practices his back floats. Today The Gov decided to put on a pair of purple swim goggles and sell bratwurst to the rest of the parents in the bleachers. He made a killing. Who’s going to say no to a crazy midget in purple eyewear selling pretend food?
And speaking of crazies…The VP showed me his latest purchase yesterday: a little Smith and Wesson .38 Special.
I didn’t know a gun could be adorable. It looks like something Super Size Barbie would carry in her purse next to the cell phone. The Senator’s SuperSoaker could probably deliver a bigger punch.
If somebody breaks into our house, I’m not convinced this hunk of metal is going to put the fear of God into him. This isn’t to say it’s completely ineffective. Apparently the goal is to get the intruder laughing so hard he has to double over and catch his breath. Then, while he’s bent at the waist, you whack him in the back of the head with a real weapon, like the cast-iron frying pan.
Or your wife goes for the 12 gauge shotgun you bought her for a wedding present.
As my favorite superhero says, “Girls, come on. Leave the saving of the world to the men? I don't think so.”