Myth # 1: Homeschoolers Are Better Behaved

Bwahahaaaahhhaaaaa
Let me say that again:  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

However, I long for this to be true. I've even told my children that when we are out in public during 'school' hours they have to prove to the public how awesomely behaved home schooled children are. That some people look at homeschoolers and think we're weird, so let's prove them wrong by being freakishly polite.

Today we dropped the girls at piano practice, then John and I headed to the grocery store. I absolutely had to go - no milk in the house  and these savages consume about a half gallon a day. Since I wasn't feeling good at all yesterday, I had bribed (YES. YES I did) the kids that if they could do all their independent work then work with me while I was on the sofa and they refrained from killing each other, I'd give them a treat. So I needed to pick up Oreo's.

Anyway, all that to say I then decided to spring on John the fact that I think he needs to be gluten free, like me. I've been reading about gluten and behavior/attention issues, and given the immense change in my health when my doctor told me to eliminate it, well, it's not going to hurt to try it with him.

Or perhaps it is.

Because he immediately made the connection that Oreo's are not gluten free. He started to whimper. I told him to pick any GF cookie from the shelf. His lip starts trembling. I turn him to see the candy- the entire candy aisle. Pick, I tell him. A whole Snickers bar? Absolutely. A jumbo Kit Kat? Why not? He reached out for the Peppermint Patties, I went all "Yay me! I rock!" in my head, he dropped his hand, threw back his head and roared. ROARED. 

He's had tantrums in stores before so I wasn't concerned at first. Except that he was really loud. I walked away, he followed. And kept yelling. No words, just yells.

An aisle later: Yelling.
Two aisles later: Roaring.
Four later: I'm laughing, which is pissing him off. I realize this is not a good thing - the making him angrier, but you guys- he sounded like a wild animal. And the store was full of people.

And then I realized that it was 3:15. Not quite early enough to be out of school ....but perhaps. My "OMG YOU HAVE TO BE WELL BEHAVED! WE ARE HOMESCHOOLERS! WE ARE POLITE!WE ARE WELL BEHAVED!" siren was going off inside my head. John? His siren was blasting for the world to hear.

So I just walked away. He followed. While we stood in line- he screamed. As I bagged the food- he screamed. As the clerk helped me with the food - he screamed. As we walked to the parking lot, as I loaded the groceries, as I told him to buckle up, as I pulled out of the parking lot, as I drove the entire way back to pick the girls up. All the way home.

After dinner the girls asked for their treat. John started to jump up and down. I walked away. He didn't follow - thank you Lord.

And right now he's upstairs with the girls singing "Roar."
Bwhaahahha

Something Died In There.

We left for a four day mini vacation on Friday. Took a six hour drive down to Virginia to see my husband's great Aunt. As we were leaving the house I turned on the dishwasher. My husband freaked his freak out and turned it off.

Because the dishwasher will break if you leave it turned on while you're not home.

I rolled my eyes, and threatened him with a great stink when we got home. However, I can't say much because he has this rule about washing machines as well, and once I ignored the rule. And came home to a river running through my laundry room, across the hallway and down the stairs.

Really.

So I continue to roll my eyes and declare that the dishwasher is going to reek. He promises it won't because he rinsed the dishes.

We leave.

We have a great time in VA, the kids play like crazy and we get to visit with his aunt.

We come home (the trip home is hellacious. It take 1 hour and 45 minutes for the kids to settle in and accept the fact that they are going to be in the car for 6 hours so for the love of all that is holy just be quiet and watch the movie. Any movie. Just.watch.it.).

We get home, empty the van (I go for a RUN, but more on that later), and shower the kids. After everyone is in bed, my husband opens the dishwasher to put soap in it.

AND THE STENCH. PEOPLE. THE UNHOLY STENCH.

It wafts over and through the entire downstairs. It's so bad I'm sure I can see it. It's oily and black and overwhelming. My eyes water, my nostrils flare and I gag. I start lighting candles.

We go to bed.

This morning: I open the clean dishwasher. AND THE STENCH. OH THE STENCH.

Then I become an old nag and start snipping at my husband about it. I fill it with soap, again, and slam the door.

2 hours later I open the door.

THE STENCH!!

I pour soap and vinegar in it. Say a little prayer, and turn it on.

2 hours later I open it.

THE STENCH!

I'm on the phone with Diana (over at hormonal imbalances. Did you know she's having TWINS?? we were OMG-ing over that) when I open the dishwasher for the THIRD time and guess what?

THE STENCH.

I reach in and pull out a glass. I can smell the sour milk -chunky egg-rotten cream cheese-old salad dressing smell baked onto it.

I gag. And rant at Diana. We decide to pour some bleach in.

2 hours later I open the dishwasher.

And the beautiful, warm, clean, nose hair burning scent of bleach wafts out.

SUCCESS.

(and yes, I washed them one more time to rinse the bleach off them.)

 

 

 

 

 

Lest You Think I'm Super Smart . . .

Because that was *totally* happening, right? You were all, "Wow, Kim is so highly intelligent, we can barely understand a word she says!" I know. People ask me if I'm a member of MENSA all.the.time. It gets a little old.

Ahem.

Anyway. I know I'm an intelligent woman. I know it. But then I went and admitted something to someone the other day and then started writing down all the silly/stupid/weird thoughts I've had and things I've done that plain do not make sense. Lord have mercy, there are many. So many that I made it into a little blog post with just the quick ones, the ones I could write out in a line or two. I think I may have mentioned a couple before, but they are so good they should be repeated. You're either going to love this or never come back because of my absolute stupidity on occasion.

So, here we go: (don't judge. Love)

*It wasn't until I started blogging that I understood what ads were for on blogs. I didn't 'get' that they linked backed to something. I was all, "Why would some company pay you to put their face on your blog? It's not like it does anything." Yeah.

*I once put on a pair of pants only to discover that they were too big - like a full size too big. I'd lost weight, without even trying! I strutted around all day, all proud of my hot self. When I took them off that night I discovered that they were my 'fat' pants and were a size bigger than I was.

* I once tried to get rid of the smell of gasoline on my husbands clothes by lighting candles.

*Last Christmas I had the kids make a Post It note paper chain for the Christmas tree. I got the idea from Momma Kiss. She rocked it. Me? Well. I used my husbands 'vintage' Star Trek Post It notes. That aren't made anymore. Winning!

*I needed to call 911 one time. And I forgot the number.

* This past April I found a filter on my vacuum cleaner that said 'clean every 6 months.' The vacuum is 5 years old.

*When President Regan died and they did the 21 gun salute, I asked my husband, "Are those live shells?" What I wanted to know was, are blanks just as loud as live shells. But that's not what I said. Without missing a beat he said, "Yup. They're shelling the town. Here's your sign." We still laugh about it today.

Now, 'fess up and tell me something you've thought/done that belongs on my list :)

 

 

The Old Switcher-ooo

So, I'm making some changes behind the scenes with my blog. And this is what I've learned:

I am not tech savy.

Diana at Hormonal Imbalances  is very tech savy.

I think that techie people (not Diana) are laughing at me. Loudly.

Http/FTP code makes my tiny little brain explode  into a million gazillion pieces (and yes, that is accurate).

I am not tech savy. It's actually quite amusing at how not tech savy I am. To me.

This is how some of that behind the scenes action went, on Wednesday night, between myself, Diana and a techie agent:

Diana: I'm going to change the ftp code.

Me: Huh? Ok. Do I need to ask a question?

Diana: No.

Me: OK. Do I hear Bella? Hi Bella!

Diana: I'm inputing a new pass key, changing the username.

Me: Okaaaay.

Diana: You need to chat the tech guy. Ask him, "mumbo jumbo? Code code html ftp code"

Me: *typing* what was that word?? You.are.a.farking.genius.

tech guy: Can I help you?

Me: *typing* can you? Here's what I need to know: mumbo jumbo. Alakazam. Open sesame.

tech guy: why don't I just go in and do that for you?

Me: I.love.you. Here is all my information and my social security number and possibly my first born child. Just make it stop. Or make it work. Whichever.

At the two hour mark Diana had worked some magic. I now have some magic to work. And I'm so not the magical type. So that's why the comments aren't working. I have some stuff to do behind the scenes that I'm clueless about and I seem to have royally messed up. Hopefully it will all be resolved in a day. Or five. Or when I grow a tech brain.

 

 

Dear "Friends Of Josh Groban": Really??

Warning: this is rant! Oh, yes it is!!

Dear "Friends Of Josh Groban,"

If you are here from 'the boards'? Keep reading. You won't be disappointed. I promise.

For the rest of you, my 'normal' readers? Neither will you. I promise.

Pre-sale tickets went on sale for Josh Groban's concert yesterday. The Internet was a-buzz with anticipation. As was I. Over at FOJG (Friends of Josh Groban)? Insanity. Some friends and I, knowing about pre-sales etc, had established a membership (yes, a membership, as in a fan club membership) to 'Friends of Josh Groban' last year. And for you here from the boards? YES, a group of us went in on one single membership. *gasp* Then the details were released and we discovered that the ticket limit was four and we needed five tickets. Cue many special words. So I sat down in front of my computer and bought another blankity blank fan club membership.

FOJG members, do not think I am making fun of your friendships, your connections, I am not. I have been on the free boards, the boards you do not need a membership to be on, for 4 years. Those boards are where I went to find those first gems of info about Josh Groban when I discovered that he made my children sleep. It was there that I met a beautiful group of women. A group of women who have supported and loved me these past four years through some trying and difficult times. We talk all the time. We meet at least once a year, and this year when we meet we'll be going to a Josh Groban concert together. So no, don't even think I'm knocking your friendships.

The procedure for abtaining said pre-sale tickets was unclear at first. I spent a day on the computer figuring out what to do. A day. I am an educated woman. I was not launching a nuclear weapon. I was purchasing concert tickets. But it seems the powers that be over at FOJG do not see it this way. It was a mess of questions, chat rooms, emails, more questions. I.was.buying.concert.tickets.

Did I mention that I had to buy a fan club membership? Yes, yes I did. As a member of "Friends of Josh Groban" I received a code which allowed me access to a pre-sale of tickets.

[caption id="attachment_438" align="alignright" width="150" caption="My membership packet. It has a laminated card. Jealous much?"][/caption]

(I also received a patch. A patch. To put on a coat. Yes. So I can proudly display my love for Josh at any and all events I attend. So that when I'm there and get asked, "Are you on the boards? In that snarky, snide way we've all heard, I can show my patch off and prove my solidarity to all things Josh. *Excuse me while I go vomit.*) I was able to buy tickets two days before the general public -- before preferred credit card holders etc. Was I excited? Beyond. Did I get awesome seats? Awe.some. Let me say it again: Awesomely awesome seats. Seats with awesome sauce on them. So the $19.99 I spent was worth it.

BUT:

I am going to throat punch the next FOJG 'board' member who rants about non-members who have access to seats before 'we' do. I am going to square up and knock you down, like the snitch I am, the next time I hear you whine about giving the best seats to the 'true fans.'

Let me explain to your closed little minds that those seats that were taken even before the pre-sale? The ones that had your panties all in a bunch? Were sold to people who paid thousands and thousands of dollars to attend concert events. Thousands. Not $19.99 or even $39.99 to be an 'ultimate' member of FOJG.  So they? Get dibs on those fine seats.

Selling the best seats to 'true fans.'  Yeah. . . As in the fans who have bought a freaking membership to a juvenile fan club that allows you access to boards where you can chat in rooms where you are moderated in case you say something inappropriate about Josh Groban. (Out of curiosity, what does inappropriate include? I think he's hot. As in, if  I were single (and not totally & completely in love with husband), and 8 years younger, and living in LA, and we ran in the same circles, I'd tell him how amazingly talented he is. And then I'd totally tell him he's kiss-worthy hot. Like run my hands through his hair and hold his piano hands hot. Is that inappropriate?) This makes you a 'true fan.'? Oh.my.gawd. Here's a news flash:

When my son was eight months old he was sick. And in the hospital. Undergoing a ton of tests. The only thing that calmed him, relaxed him into sleep, was the music of Josh Groban. I spent days in the hospital, my ipod at John's ear, Josh's music playing to him in order to bring John some peace as he was prodded, blood was drawn, wires were dropped down his throat, probes attached to his head, needles inserted into his tiny veins. Later, when I lost my damn mind and spent two weeks in the hospital for depression, the song, "February Song" became a mantra for me. An acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe somebody else had felt this way before. So I'm pretty sure I'm a 'true fan.'

FOJG members: My name is Violetsarah.

If you are a FOJG member and this doesn't apply to you? My sincerest apologies. That means you found this amusing. If you found this offensive? Then I'm talking about you.

For my 'regular' readers, feel free to gag. However, this doesn't mean I'm not still *totally* in love with the man.  :) I'm going to two concerts. Two! And I'll be all kinds of excited leading up to them. And I'll be posting pictures and videos after them. Be prepared!! :) And, you're welcome.

Live Long and Prosper

Remember this post where I showed you my crafty Christmas chain made of post in notes? Well, it turns out that my craftiness was not appreciated by all members of my household. Take a closer look at this picture.

I don't know what those post it notes say. Maybe some of you are Trekkies. Maybe you recognize the saying. My husband certainly recognized it. And the post it notes it's on. That were from his desk.

Fail.

I was cooking dinner and needed a distraction. I thought of Momma Kiss and her awesome Christmas chain. I went all Martha Stewart and threw some post it's at my kids that I dug out of my husbands desk. I thought the ones with the words on it were from some random PR company.

Fail.

So the kids happily made a Christmas chain while I cooked dinner. It was a fantastic dinner.

Every now and again my husband reads my blog. He reads because he thinks what I write is, and I quote, "amazing." How much do I love this man? He also reads because I told him about Dooce and how her husband doesn't have work. So he counts my followers and asks how much closer he is to not working. It is a distant, distant future. Sorry, babe.

On this day, he came home from work, gave me a hug and said what I'd written the day before had made him cry and I needed to warn him about those. Then he cocked his head to one side and got a funny look on his face.

"So, those post it notes. From my desk."

"I know, right? Crafty! And look, a great dinner!"

"They're Star Trek post it's. From my sister, Elaine. They were a Christmas gift. I only use them on special occasions."

Wait. . .what? Special occasion post it notes? But I apologized, profusely.

The next morning I logged onto Facebook and asked Elaine where she had found the Star Trek post its. Her reply:

"I don't know. I got them like 20 years ago."

What.The.Heck.

20 years. Really? And he still has them? That's at least 3 moves. Law school. Internship. 2 jobs. How do you have post it notes for 20 freaking years? She says because they are really special and I had better feel badly.

I say, you cannot have special post its. Or if you do, use them. It's like having special china you only take out for the special company, only nobody is every special enough. I'm pretty sure that Michelle Obama can't make it for dinner tonight, so take out the special china.

However, I've been on a mad search for Trekkie post its.

Epic Fail.

Well, at least we'll have the Christmas chain to take out and look at each year, reminding us of this special occasion, right?

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You Named Your Child WHAT?

Fair warning: I might offend you in this post. Please, keep reading, really, just be warned that this is *probably* not a politically correct view or post.

OK, really, Moms? Really? You spend nine months carrying this precious little life, labor, deliver this beautiful being into the world . . . and bless her by naming her . . . Tequila. Klassy.

Why, why, why are parents bestowing these horrible names upon their children? I totally understand wanting your child to have a unique name. I named my first daughter Violet. (and she was born before Violet Affleck and Violet from The Incredibles. We did get some side eyes.) I worried that the name 'Violet' was too unique even though it is an older name that used to be popular. But . . . Temptress? Uhmm, when was that popular? Oh, wait, it's going to catch on!

While I was teaching I had some students with "interesting" names, which I wrote down. I recently put out a message on Facebook for unique names from my friends. I'm including the best of the best (er, worst?) here, for your reading pleasure. With phonetic pronunciation when it was included.  Because even though not one of these names is a foreign name, you need help pronouncing them.

 When I asked for interesting names, my mom responded with this:

When your dad was working in booking (he was a sheriff's deputy) he booked a guy by the name of Johnny. Well, that's what he said his name was. But it was spelled JAHANNY.

Say that out loud. If you are completely and totally  uneducated and clueless, it works. But more to the point, when Mom said, "His name is Johnny." and then wrote "Jahanny" on the birth certificate, where the blankity blank blank were the nurses to correct her? Unless, of course, this was the unique and different spelling she was going for. Oh.

I taught a little boy by the name of Zach. No big deal, not different at all. But his mother spelled his full name: Zacharaich. Now. How am I supposed to teach him that the first 'ch' in his name makes a hard 'k' sound, but the second 'ch' in his name is silent?

Diana, from Hormonal Imbalances used to teach as well, and she sent me this gem: Izan. It's Nazi, spelled backwards. His parents thought it was really funny. *gag*

More fun with names:

Dayci    Daisy 
Algeria
Artemis
Quiera    Kee -air - ah
Alim
Burnae
Iree'nichole
Je'dyn
Myi'jay   mijay
Phideh  fiday
Quadair  kadair
Twy'Niah
Yonairr
Yassir
Sumaiya  Sue-My-ya
Zamyla
Micqiya
Ira (for a girl)
Deztini
Ticola
Darus  Dar -I -us  (no 'I' in the name, I know. But you da*m well better pronounce that 'I', let me tell you!)
Mar'Quesia  Mar -Kay - sha

Is a thought ever given as to how carrying this name will effect the child? Do we think that 'Temptress' is going to have great self esteem from all the teasing she is going to receive as soon as kids figure out what her name is? Do we think this self esteem of hers will help her to become a doctor? Or will it cause her to fulfill the stereotype of her name and dance around a pole?

Why does it seem as though these moms are think longer about their shade of lipstick than about their child's name? Was pole dancer really the goal that mom had for her tiny, perfect newborn? Because I just plain don't understand it.

Maybe people feel the need to stand out in this world that is such dependant on everything and everybody being the same and fitting in. I don't know. I do know that I cringe when I hear these unique names because my heart hurts for the child that has to carry them. Is that fair?

And my personal favorite?

My father also booked a woman by the name of Placenta. No, you did not read that wrong. Placenta. As in the organ a woman grows to sustain her baby. Really, I can't say anything else.

So, what's the most unique name you've come across?

*thanks to Diana, Kim, Leslie, Keren and Bethany for providing names.

Holiday Tips and Who Needs Martha?

Every year you have at least one dish that just doesn't go quite . . . right. This year that dish was the rolls -- my responsibility. The turkey-- that I brined, dried, rubbed, stuffed w/ onions and apples?  Not a problem. Roasted Garlic taters? Easy. The thaw and bake rolls, because that is just so difficult: fail. I've included pictures for your viewing pleasure. Do you see how gi-normous they are? We called them 'mutant rolls.' They were beyond huge.

After reading Momma Kiss's Favorite Things post, I was inspired to have the kids make their very own paper chain. Then I totally forgot about it. Then I got a reply from her about her paper chain! So the paper chain making began! The result:

Yes, and just like in Momma Kiss' house, our paper chain is also made of Post It's. Because that's how we roll. (and FYI, the 3 kids were fighting over the Post It's. Like knock down-drag out fighting. Construction paper has met its match and we'll never go back.) I'll save these pictures and show the kids how earth friendly we are: reduce, reuse, recycle!

Kim

Overheard: The ER

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My doc? Did not look like this.

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A couple weeks ago I had to visit the ER for a migraine. It was packed and I was there for five hours. My head was killing me and I desperately needed to be distracted. So I took a page out of Kate and Lydia's book over at Rants From Mommyland and started taking notes.  My observations are noted in red. Because you really need to know what I was thinking.

* "Uhm, Hi? This is my baby? He fell last night, and like, hit his head? And like, now he can't see?" Meanwhile the baby is totally waving at me. And I'm like 10 feet away.

* "This is my husband, he's the patient. He blacked out while driving and went into a ditch. On Friday." It's Monday. What.The.Blank.Did.You.Do.All.Week.End??

* Three uhm, 'boyz' are in line ahead of me. They could hang with Snoop Dogg. They all look totally fine. "Yo. I had a boil drained on Fri-DAY. Doc told me to come back TO-day. And these are my boyz." How did that conversation go? And you all don't have jobs/school/chores/something else more engaging to do on a Monday morning than sit in an emergency room while your 'boy' gets a boil checked?

* Husband, complaining while wife sits in wheelchair waiting to check in. "There's a line. Man! What if there were a national emergency? What then? Huh? What if there were bombs dropping from the sky? I bet they'd see us then, wouldn't they?" Really? They'd see us then?

*" No, I'm not at home! I'm at the emergency room, dumba$$. Because I have a cyst on my wrist and it's cutting off my circulation. My hand is all swoll. I can't talk now. Call my manager and tell him I haf to haf it tooken off." She doesn't see me writing down her conversation, because she is busy texting the entire time she's waiting to be seen. I feel all mean towards her, especially because she gets seen before me. Then I see her later. With her eye makeup all smeared and her wrist all bandaged. I'm a winner.

* "I hear an ambulance. They're bringing someone here w/ a broken leg. Because this is one of them trauma centers. But can they fix your leg? Oh noooo. They make us wait and wait . . " the wife gets up and starts wandering around the waiting room, on 'broken' leg. "What if there were a national emergency?" This, again? "What then? Huh? I bet they'd fix your leg, then, wouldn't they?!" Uh, no, they would not. Do you remember September 11? All the doctors rushed to the hospitals to help because we thought we'd be getting survivors here. Also? Your 'broken' leg would not be at the top of the important list if there were a national emergency.

Back in the treatment area:

* "Uhh, it just hurts so bad. I wish somebody would come and tell me why it hurts. Or tell me I could eat. I'm so hungry. Go see if I can eat. " The boyfriend trots off. The girlfriend pants and waits. "You can't eat because you just had a CAT scan to see why you are in so much pain. You might need surgery." Girlfriend hurls her phone at him. That should speed things up. "But I'm hungry! This is so wrong. Why can't I eat?" Time passes. More whining about wanting to eat. More panting because she is obviously in pain. A doctor comes by with her CAT scan results. "You're in pain because your LapBand has come off." What?? The boyfriend freaks out. The girlfriend is all calm. "There is something inside you? What is inside you? Tell me what is inside you!"  She keeps shushing him. "Just shut up. Find a doctor. I want to know what they're going to do and when. So I know if I can eat." Hhmm. What do you think caused you to need the LapBand in the first place??

Nurses and Doctors are saints, people. Saints.

Give me your best ER story!

Kim

Where's Your Magic Spot?

"Ladies, do you know where your 'magic spot' is?"

"Girls! Find your 'magic spot'!"

"OK, now let me see that 'magic spot'!"

"Good! Now, get into your cage and make sure you find your 'magic spot'!"

This is what I was doing on Thursday evening. What were you doing?

I was in a room full of people, listening to a woman yell out these instructions. It was highly entertaining, educational and thought provoking. Some people took pictures. I took notes. There was applause and laughter. Some people were uncomfortable, it's true. I've done this type of thing before, many times in fact, so I was not uncomfortable. But the lady sitting next me, Mary? Could not hold it together. She almost got us kicked out. It was dreadfully embarrassing, to be honest. I mean, we're adults. Finding our 'magic spots' should not be something unheard of.

Especially, since it was explained to us, a sticker is put directly on the 'magic spot' at the beginning of each session so as to make identifying it easier.

Had we perhaps seen the sticker?

When our daughters brought home their ballet shoes?

Because there, on the inside of the heels, would have been a sticker. Identifying the 'magic spot.'

It was observation night at Violet's dance class, and very educational. She danced beautifully and was so excited that I smiled the entire time she danced. Good thing she can't read lips or minds.

And Mary? Uhmm, I might have been contributing to her inability to hold it together. With things like, "Oh, just be happy. Go find your 'magic spot.'" And, "You're mad at your ex? Why? Couldn't he find your 'magic spot'?"

Were you worried?? eh, go find your 'magic spot.'

Kim

P.S Bonnie, A.M and everyone else, I love you. I adore you all. I have not stopped laughing!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!