translating 'cris'

I chose to share this one because
I anticipate that it will be appreciated
 by one of my favorite bloggers
who is also a devote knitter:
 'The more, the messier'. 
Mini wrote for the letter 'Y'
 in her kindergarten journal: 
'My yarn is running away.' 
(spelled: 
My yurn is runeen a way')

Who has time for blogging and housework and whipping up fabulous meals and attending an average of 8 basketball games a week and driving to Irish dancing 5 times a week when there is an important project in the works over here?  Certainly not this over-the-top-project-taker-oner.

I never thought of myself as a perfectionist, but my latest project suggests that I might be in denial.  Well, maybe I fall short of being a perfectionist and just revel in being extremely thorough. 

I may have mentioned that I decided to organize some cute/funny photos of the kids to hang in giant frames in the basement.  It started when I emptied the study closet in order to have the hardwood floors refinished.  I discovered an envelope of photographs that I set aside at some point in order to display them in the basement.  I guess I got distracted, or something, because those pictures were just hidden away in the closet.   

We think this is a zipper on the ground. 
Mini clearly struggled to
incorporate the letter Z in her
 writing as she wrote:
  'Huny wut era you doon.  Nuthyn.' 
Translation:
 Honey, what are you doing?  Nothing. 
(chasing a zipper across the grass is implied).

Well, I became refocused.  The only issue is that I felt like there were many, many more photos that would qualify as cute/funny.  I hated to create photo arrangements that were technically incomplete. 

Now weeks later, I have combed thru almost every photo album that I created prior to the digital photo age.  I have yanked the majority of the pictures out of the albums, scanned them into my computer, replaced them in the albums, and have begun to upload these non-digital versions to Snapfish.  I've also paged thru thousands of photographs already stored at Snapfish and added the cute/funny variety to my cart. 

The project is overwhelming with no end in sight.  I have yet to add the non-digital, recently-scanned photos to my cart, so why is my cart already busting at the seams at 1,400 photos?  I guess because I took a hell of a lot of cute/funny pictures over the years.  I intend to go back thru all these photos before I actually purchase them.  (Ah, more time consumption.  Remember the gift(s) from my aunt?  Talk about memories and housework avoidance).  Some I plan to crop.  Others I plan to eliminate knowing that I have uncovered higher ranking photos that can be considered extremely cute/funny vs regular cute/funny.  This part of the process might prove challenging. 

This is Laddie's jaguar picture. 
There is a zebra one that is
equally awesome.  His zebra also eats
grass aka 'cris'.  To see
it you might have to
visit the stairwell
leading to our basement.

Along the way, I also organized the kids' big boxes of artwork and memorable school papers.  These gems were also being stored in the study closet.  You know where this is going?  I always meant to frame their art.  Since being thorough is my goal, I have now organized several giant poster sized frames full of their art work and their amusing writing samples from kindergarten, 1st, and 2nd grades. 

We could wallpaper the entire house in these photos, kiddie art, and hilarious misspelled stories.  Not sure how many frames will fit in the basement, but I have big plans for the stairwell.  It's prime real estate for eye-candy like this!

Laddie called yesterday when I was trying to squeeze in as many kindergarten papers as possible into one of the gi-normous frames.  I asked if he could recall what he was implying when he wrote in kindergarten:  'My jaguar likes to eat hay, cris, and more hay.'  (none of it was spelled correctly but 'cris' was the only word I wasn't sure about). 

Without hesitation he informed me that 'cris' was grass.  Makes perfect sense. 

Mom's stubborn mantra of lunacy

If you haven't read:  'Is your Dad OK?', this is your chance so you can follow along.  I promise it is not lengthy.  Just click the link!  You've been warned.

Turns out Dad drove to church.  Realized he forgot some paper or book.  Drove home.  His windows were fogged up, so he decided to pull over.  Rather than walk home, which was closer, and use Mom's beloved Jaguar (which she would probably never allow him to drive anyway - remember his run in with grass/mud, etc.) or get a ride from her, he opted to walk to church.

He probably could've borrowed a phone once he arrived at bible study to call Mom to give her a head's up.  Instead he abandoned his car near the entrance to his neighborhood on Frontage Road.  Any neighbor could've spotted it and set this dramatic chain of events in motion.  Instead it was a woman I know.  A woman that I try to keep a safe distance from (more background on her later.  Get excited).

My other theory is that Dad arrived at bible study and chose to pray that no one would become alarmed when they spotted his car.  He must've forgotten a few key facts.  1. Personalized plates.  2. He's 78.  3. And the car's position off-roading it was bound to draw attention.  Duh.

Mom had gone directly to church where she found and spoke with Dad.  Then she stopped and looked at his car on the way home.  Then she drove home and called me.  That was a long 26 minutes.  I'm thinking it could've taken half that time, but the woman has never had a speeding ticket.  That would throw off her mantra (see below).  It was almost as if she stopped to have a cup of coffee . . . again, I'm getting ahead of myself.  Mantra - it's coming.

If I was a stress shopper, I could've done a lot of damage seeing as I was wandering somewhat aimlessly in my favorite department store, Von Maur.  I half wonder if she called my sister, Marie, first to tell her what was going on while I stood staring nervously at sales racks imagining what kind of peril Dad could have met.  I don't think I want to know the shape her priority-phone-call-tree took.

Coach spent the next hour and a half waiting for a tow truck with my Dad perched in the front seat of Coach's car.  Coach hasn't spoken to Dad since Christmas . . . after the horrible awful.  Awkward.

When I finally heard back from Mom, I told her I needed to hang up and call Ann.  'Because you don't have a cell phone, I need to let Ann know that everything is OK.'  If only guilt would force Mom's hand at purchasing a cell phone.  These 'why-the-hell-don't-they-get-a-cell-phone' incidents have cropped up before, so I don't know that this one will be the straw that broke the camel's back - or the straw that broke Mom's stubborn will - which is obviously stronger than a camel's back.

Coach informed me that a cop showed up at the foggy-window-car-stuck-in-the-mud scene.  Someone had called it in.  The caller saw a man pull over and then stumble away after exiting the car.  Mom, who was emotionally charged at this point, explained Dad's stumble in a high-pitched, defensive voice.  'He was thrown from a horse a year and a half ago, and now he walks with a limp!'  Coach said the cop insisted that he wasn't accusing Dad of anything.  (I can't believe I found another link to share.  If you aren't up on my family dynamics, give these links a read.  We are a quirky bunch.  Except for me.  I'm totally normal.  Scarred, but normal).

Mom won't eat onions
(and lots of other food items). 
Dad is accustomed to 
eating a fairly bland diet.
 Whenever I make my very popular
chili, I invite him to come 
and take a container home.
  I admit this coffee cup is 
only used for hot chocolate.
  I do not drink coffee either, but
it isn't something I am overly 
proud of.  I just don't like caffeine.

This morning I sent my siblings an email.  I encouraged all of them to stand together and REFUSE to communicate with Mom and Dad UNTIL they secure a cell phone as a safety net.  I can't wait to see how my suggestion hits the fan.

It is hard to summarize Mom's incredibly ridiculous stubbornness in one post, but Mom prides herself on her mantra.  She tosses these prideful statements out willy nilly as she sees fit, rarely all at once, but I am listing them here in one swoop:  'I have never even tasted beer.  I don't drink coffee.  I don't watch  movies that aren't real.  I have never sent an email.  I don't drive if there is any snow out (note:  we live in Chicago).  I don't eat onions.  I don't visit the doctor.  I have never had a speeding ticket (proof that I am adopted).  We don't own a cell phone.  It drives the kids crazy, but we've gotten by without one for all of these years.'

It has nothing to do with being tight fisted.  Hello, she drives a jag.  She is just adamant that they not own or operate a cell.

In my email to my siblings, I pointed out that if Mom caves and goes the cell phone route vs the living-on-the-edge-as-a-couple-in-their-mid-to-upper-70's route, she can still make all of her other claims.  No one was ever really in any grave danger for refusing to drink coffee.

Do you have loved ones that refuse to embrace technology, or major food groups, or medical intervention?  Do tell.

'Is your dad OK?'

It started out as a usual Wednesday night.  I dropped the girls at Irish dancing class at 7.  I ran to Walmart.  Then I went to the mall where they were holding a pair of winter boots for Coach.  These boots are identical to the pair I just bought for Eddie.  To make life interesting, they are even the same size.  I assume they will cross that bridge next winter.

The store had to get them sent from another store, because they were out of size 13.  While we waited, the snow melted AND the boots were marked down even lower.  They were initially on sale for $75 from $150.  Now they were marked down to $37.  They price adjusted Eddies pair, because it had been less than 2 weeks.  Bonus.

A woman who I don't talk to very often called my cell phone.  Not really interested in getting caught up with her while I was at the mall (or even if I was at home for that matter -more about that later), I almost didn't answer it, but alas . . . she asked me if my dad was OK.  'Yes.  Why?'

She was driving down a street near my parents' house (and mine) and she thought she saw my Dad's car at the side of the road.  'Um, it wasn't just pulled over.  It was like in the mud.  Ripped up grass kind of thing.'  Dad doesn't go out all that often, and I assumed it was just another burgundy Rendez Vous, but Dad has personalized plates and I was pretty sure she knew that.  I called Mom and asked if Dad was home.  He was not home.  He was at bible study at church.  Crap.

I left out the part about destroyed grass to avoid raising Mom's blood pressure too much, but I told her that I had gotten word that Dad's car was pulled over at the side of the road.  Coach couldn't go check on Dad because he was teaching a class on-line.  I was killing time near dancing class, so I couldn't get there quickly.  Mom said she was going to go check it out.

Not sure if you remember this quirky tidbit about my folks:  they don't own a cell phone.  Dad is willing.  Mom is stubborn.

I didn't hear back from Mom for 26 minutes.  The drive to church from my folks' house is less than 5 minutes.  If his car was somewhere between her house and church, it would take even less than 5 minutes.  Round trip.  It stood to reason.

Meanwhile, Coach called me to say his class was wrapping up.  Did I want him to get the girls at dancing.  'I stuck around up here, so no.  But can you check on my folks?'  I told him the story and he raced off to see what was what.  We live between my folks' home and church.

Coach called me a few minutes later.  He found Dad's car.  Neither of my folks were there.  He pointed out the good news:  Dad had to be well enough to get into Mom's car, because she wouldn't have been able to lift him.  Next stop:  their house.  He called me from their house.  They weren't home.

Still not sure why it took 26 minutes to get an update
on why Dad's car was stuck in the mud.

Now I assume that Mom is driving Dad to the hospital.  This seemed the only logical explanation.  I called my sister, Ann.  She was home, which is to say she is about 10 minutes from all of the supposed excitement.  She said she would call the hospital, and then just drive over there.

I was heading to the exit at the mall and my phone rang.  Caller ID read:  Mom and Dad.  This means they were home.  Because NO ONE has a key to their house.  That is one of Mom's rules.  What the heck was going on?

teenage outings AFTER MIDNIGHT?!! Not on my watch

More about Tank's sleepover . . .

Tank's movie-seeing-basketball teammates finally texted to say that when the movie ended their folks said 'no' to the sleepover.  I wanted to ask them if they had ever asked their folks about Tank's invite back on Thursday when Tank claims he invited them.  Had they not heard about my taco dip, or my cookies?  I guess teenagers change their plans faster than they can draft text messages.  Still I thought it was kind of crappy.  Tank didn't seem bothered by it. 

Maybe the kids are right.  Maybe I just don't know 'stuff'.

I was still awake at 11:45 and I noticed that Tank was coming upstairs from the basement quite a bit.  He even looked out on the deck thru the shade at one point.  I was suspicious, but also tired.  I was working on my picture project on the family room couch.  I initially stayed awake because I thought it would be weird for guests to arrive after I was in bed - not that I should expect them to greet me or anything.  Now I planned to go to bed once I had organized my last stack of photos.

I asked Tank what his deal was.  Every time he appeared he commented on how he couldn't believe I was still awake.  Red flag?  I asked him why he was looking outside.  He told me he wanted to see how much it snowed.

Evidence of the late night escape.
 Crazy kids!

Sunday morning Tank's coat was on the family room floor serving as a throw rug in front of the sliding door to the deck.  His shoes and other shoes were on top of the coat.  Obviously he and his guest/s had left the house AFTER MIDNIGHT!  (Are you groaning with me?)

Tank and one buddy appeared for my big breakfast extravaganza at 10 am.  The other buddy left at 8 am before I was downstairs (oh, I did see the back of the girl's head as she left the house close to 10 pm).  I asked about the late night outing.  Tank said his buddy's phone needed to be charged, so his buddy walked to the Shell station to buy a charger.

What?!  Uncool.  I reminded him that we may not have iPhones, but that I do own an iPad.  I'm guessing my charger would have worked.  This kid's folks assumed he was safe in our house, not trolling the streets in search of an iPhone charger.  Well, even though I don't know them, I assume they were under that impression. 

Tank claims that he didn't actually leave the house.  Maybe he just stood on the deck to orient the kid to where the Shell station is located.  It's about a mile away from our house.  Sure, I believe that Tank stayed put while his friend ventured out.  Now my head hurts. 
Maybe I should have had it examined after all. 

I'm afraid Tank' high school career is going to put my patience to the test.

cousins, sleep overs, and dangers of sitting down

I am in a funk.  I'm guessing it is because Coach was teaching a class all weekend.  He was in town, but it was like he was at work.  I was not thrilled to handle all the family 'stuff' solo for the weekend.

Eddie flew to Omaha on Saturday afternoon to visit Creighton.  He is staying with a cousin from Coach's side.  Having a cousin show you the ropes during a college visit is a great way to get a feel for a place, so I'm assuming this school will receive high marks.

My sister hosted the younger set of nephews for a sleepover last night.  She has a new townhouse, and wanted to have them all over while her daughter was at her dad's place.  Reg was excited to hang with four boy cousins from my side.

7 layer taco dip - after it was enjoyed.

Instead of embracing the quiet house with two kids sleeping elsewhere, I suggested to Tank that he invite his group of buddies over here.  They could sleep over, too.  I must have my head examined.

I did forget, when I was being so generous, that Coach would not be here Sunday morning to help whip up a big breakfast for a bunch of teenage boys.  Again, head examination needs to be scheduled.

I asked Tank several times if he did indeed invite the guys.  Were they coming?  How many?  This kid is not big on details.  He finally told me Saturday afternoon that he had like 6 guys coming.  I made a batch of 7 layer taco dip and picked up 36 little bottles of Gatorade.  We still had about 5 unopened bags of chips (I overdid it) from Ed's Superbowl party, and I always have dozens of my infamous cookies in the freezer.  All those numbers, there must be a mathematical equation in there somewhere.

Coach's mentor from his fellowship years was in town for the class, so he met him out for a beer last night.  The girls and I watched a movie.  I intended to put a movie on for them so I could continue to  scan a bunch of photos into my desktop that were taken prior to owning a digital camera.  Don't ask.  Anyway, I made the mistake of sitting down on the couch while I found a movie that I hoped was suitable for them.  Sitting down was my mistake.  I never got up.

I had the great idea to hang some photo collages in the basement.  I was going to use extra photos hanging around, but I felt like that would make the project incomplete.  Knowing that I had lots of other 'frame-worthy' photos, I decided to be more thorough.  It's official.  I am  crazy.  Taking non-digital photos out of albums and scanning them into my overly taxed hard drive, staring at my online storage of digital photos captured in the last 12 years:  just a few of the steps of this now over-the-top photo project.

Tank was in there watching the movie with us, too.  Odd.  I thought his friends were coming over.  One buddy texted to say he was hanging out with a girl, was it OK if she came over?  I said sure, but she WAS NOT sleeping over.  Tank's her not participating in the sleepover was implied.  Phew.  Anyway, a couple of guys (and the plus 1) showed up at like 8:30.  Tank initially told me 7:00.  Then 7:30.  Again, details.

I asked where the basketball team pals were.  He said they went to see a movie, so they might come afterwards.

I blame cell phones and perhaps poor manners:  the two teenage boys texted Tank that they had arrived, so he could meet them at the door.  I later saw their shoes in the front hall, but never actually laid eyes on them.  There was no doorbell ringing, no 'hi, nice to meet you.'  Tank is a freshman, so I am not familiar with this group.

Apparently they'd like to keep it that way.
(That's not where the story ends, just where this post ends . . . )

snow day

I even bought a pair of half price snow boots
for Curly.  She has a hand me down
pair of Uggs from a friend.  I am not a fan
of Uggs and it took awhile for me to
grasp that they are crazy expensive winter
 boots that aren't meant to be worn in the snow. 
What?!

I almost escaped the mall on Wednesday without spending a dime.  Almost.  

I usually frequent my favorite department store after I drop the girls off at dancing Wednesday nights.  This week I only had a few things to return and something to exchange.  With no upcoming birthday invitations and no one desperate for some wardrobe item, there was nothing else on my shopping agenda.  

Then it hit me.  Boots.  

There was a time when we tucked
all of our patio furniture under a big cover to
 protect it.  Ah, the good ole days
 when we had time to take care of our things.

I used to have a bin full of boots that we would haul out of the basement storage room every year.  Apparently everyone outgrew the boots in the bin, and I stopped purchasing replacements for the 'big kids.'  I blame this in part on the fact that as the teens got older, they stopped running out to play in the snow.  Coach had a pair of construction type boots that one of the older boys might wear if he was commissioned to shovel our driveway.  There was also a lone size pair of nines that a big boy might squish his toes into, if he was desperate.  

Since Tank mows lawns in the summer, he handles snow removal for several houses during the winter months.  If you aren't from Chicago, then you might not know that a huge snowstorm was headed our way starting Thursday night (Feb. 8th . . I know this is old news.  I had to update all of you on our leaking ceiling and Coach's transformation around home improvement projects).

'What is the biggest size men's winter boot you have on sale?' I asked the salesman in the men's shoe department.  Of course they were Uggs.  The price was reasonable, considering the brand: $195 reduced to $90.  Tank wears a size 15 and the largest size they had was a 14.  I took it.  Beggars, and mothers of big footed teens, can't be choosy.  

I called home and tried to get Reg to tell me what size he would need.  I was still in denial that we had no boots stashed in the basement.  He insisted that the only pair he could find (the 9s) were too big for him.  

This kid has some kind of disorder.  He insists that his feet are several sizes larger than they really are, so it was odd for him to admit that he slid back and forth in the 9s.  I equate his issue to his belief that he will be a better basketball player if he has huge feet.  

A few years ago he called a quick good-bye as he left the house for basketball.  Another mom was driving him.  I was busy making dinner and gave him a wave without really looking at him.  When he came home I noticed that we was wearing clown-shoe-sized high tops that he had scored from a bin in the basement.  I recognized that he had a problem.  I also quizzed him about how successful he had been playing basketball in shoes that were easily 3 sizes too big.  I mean, they were cool looking shoes, but seriously?

Tank likes to open brand new bags of
 marshmallows willy nilly.  It's fun to find stale
bags months later.  This
was a great opportunity to use up
 the many open bags.  And use them up they did!

Anyway, in addition to the skis Uggs I bought for Tank, I grabbed boots that I hoped would fit Reg and Eddie.  

Yes, there was a snow day.  On a Friday.  Friday is my day off.  Who needs a day to get things done?  So much more important to make several batches of grilled cheese and roughly a gallon of hot chocolate in several installments.  

Other exciting accomplishments included:  recycling several huge boot boxes from the awesome new boots, calling the store to see if they could hunt down a size 13 or 14 boot like Ed's or Tank's for Coach (who was jealous of his boys' new boots), digging up dry mittens and gloves every few hours for the snow worshiping younger set, and working as Tank's volunteer secretary as additional requests arrived for his shoveling services.  

Got boots?  Check.  

Manly

In honor of Valentine's Day, I will share with you something about the love of my life that I have been stewing about recently.  I am anxious to receive comments from those of you who can relate, and from those of you who are lucky enough not to relate.

While I find all of the blogging names I chose for my family members to be quite fitting, I am contemplating changing Coach's moniker to 'Manly.'

This is my original
set of 'Little House' books. 
A little worn,
but still on the girls' desk.

Did you read the 'Little House on the Prairie' books?  Spoiler alert.  Laura marries a man named 'Manly.'  If memory serves, his real name is Almanzo, and they call him Manly.  What an awful name!  Incredibly, Coach has lately been subconsciously begging me to call him that.

It started with the leaking kitchen ceiling.  I've witnessed the telltale fixer-upper behavior before.  It involves three components:
     1.  a look that makes me feel invisible as he stares straight through me while I assume he envisions the isles of Home Depot,
     2.  the infamous I-know-more-than-most-because-this-is-home-repair-conversation tone,
     3.  and lots of nodding when speaking to an expert about the issue like 'Yeah, you speak my language.'
It makes me cringe.  The man can focus on nothing else when a complicated or uncomplicated future-home-repair sight crops up.

Warning:  I think these
icicles could kill someone!
  Keep your distance, unless
 of course you know something
 about home maintenance and
 construction, and arrive bearing
Home Depot gift cards.

The audio think-out-loud-thought-process while we were navigating our current situation sounds like:  'When will it stop leaking?  Maybe I should cut more holes in the drywall.  I think I will go outside again and stare up at the roof.  What if it starts leaking over there?  Should I empty the buckets before we go to bed?  I wish it wasn't a Sunday, because I could ask my patients for roofer recommendations.'  Here is where I suggest we ask our equally-capable-of-sharing-roofer-recommendation friends in the area.

I don't mean to downplay the crappiness of the situation.  I just grasped early on that it was out of our control beyond calling someone to handle it.  But, uh, Manly can converse about nothing else.

I called a few roofers after I heard back from our friends.  Coach spoke to one said roofer when he returned my call.  He suggested that Coach toss some rock salt up into the gutters if possible.  This gave Coach a new focus.

Sunday night Coach reminded me several times to call that roofer back, because that was how they left it.  I grasped the 'call him and he said he will come over' concept the first time.  I know, I know, I am not a fixer-upper type and I don't own a tool belt, so it's hard to know if I have the skill set for phoning a roofer.

Monday morning I called first thing and the guy called me back just before I started my workout class.  He then called me in the middle of the class to let me know that he had cleared some snow from the roof and tossed some salt in the gutters.  He pointed out that we probably need to add insulation in the attic based on how the snow was melting off the roof.

When I finished my class, I stopped by Coach's physical therapy clinic that is attached to the health club.  I relayed the info I received from the roof guy.  Coach kept trying to interrupt me.  He was frustrated with me.  It's hard to pinpoint if it was the rate that I was sharing the information or the lack of details or my general incompetence.

Laura and the real 'Manly'

Fortunately when our contractor showed up on Monday, he pointed out that this save-the-day roofer had only removed snow from the lower roof, which was not the problem at all.  Of course he will send me an invoice regardless.  The contractor called a different guy who came out yesterday (Tuesday).  He had the equipment to remove snow from the upper roof and he dug a trench in the gutter where the water might be able to drain when it melts today in the 40 degree temperatures.

If that doesn't work, I can always put on a bonnet and holler to Coach when he comes home, 'Save us Manly!'

when it snows it pours?

Wait, why are there buckets on the floor
of your almost complete kitchen, you ask.

The kitchen is almost done.  We hope to meet with the contractor this week to iron out the details of the questionable billing.  I have little hope that it will end well.

Coach took the 3 youngest kids sledding yesterday.  Ah, sledding.  This was an activity we partook in regularly when the crew was younger.  Bundling them up.  Packing the sleds.  Driving to a hill that came highly recommended.  The last few years we haven't worked sledding into our busy lives.  I think part of the problem is not that we are so busy, but that the timing was all off.  It didn't snow enough last winter, and when we got any snow in recent history it was followed closely by freaky cold temperatures.  No fun!

Coach called to say they were on their way home.  I put some milk on the stove to warm for hot chocolate and returned to the study briefly.  I heard Mini walk in and a moment later she started to holler something about the kitchen. 

It is tough to see here, but
 if you look closely you
can see the water mark on
the drywall surrounding
the area where our recessed
light used to be.

Dear God, could I have burned down the BRAND NEW kitchen by abandoning the warming milk for a few minutes?  No.  Mini was alerting me to the water dripping from one of the recessed lights.  

I raced upstairs.  The kids have been known to leave standing water on the bathroom floor after a shower.  Like so many of their antics, I have no explanation.  

The floor was dry in both upstairs bathrooms.  No overflowing toilet either.  Hmm.

I texted the contractor.  I texted the plumber.  The plumber told us to stop using the toilet.  It hadn't been used in over an hour.  I texted to let him know that turning the water off to the toilet wasn't helping.  He said he would stop by.

Our plumber is the best.  He has bailed us out of many situations.  He has assisted us in non-plumbing issues too.  A regular MacGyver.  Are you aware that I plug up the kitchen sink every time we are leaving to go out of town?  It has happened so regularly, that is is now a thing.  A tradition.  

Now when I try to reach inside the fridge
I get the added pleasure of having
 drips of brownish water drip on my head. 
Anyone want to come over for dinner?

He determined that it was not our plumbing.  We had an ice dam.  Our second floor gutters were full of ice.  The snow that was melting was flowing inside our walls.  Our siding on the rear of the house is ruined.  I can only imagine what our insulation looks like, or smells like.  Have you ever gotten a whiff of wet insulation?  Puke.  And our brand new kitchen ceiling is destroyed.  And new leaks are springing up every few hours.  

When it snows it pours.

Now I notice all the other houses with crazy, over-sized icicles.  I'm wondering if that is a sign of things to come for them, because our icicles are dangerously huge.  Well, until Tank decided to start knocking them off the upstairs windows with a kiddie sized shovel from the comfort of his bedroom.  He was tossing them down to the younger siblings who were using them to enhance their igloos. 

It's official.  I am ready for winter to end.

next time: back away from the sale rack

My past-it's-prime vest.

Yesterday I wore a vest that I bought a few years ago.  Wearing this vest reminded me of a few things:

1.  It is time to clean out my closet.  

Vests that appeared to double as shrubbery suitable for hunters to wear as camouflage in thickly wooded forests WERE stylish . . . a few years ago.  I tend to gravitate towards classic styled wardrobe pieces that won't most likely appear outdated overnight.  (Thus my avoidance of the cold shoulder look- not to mention that it only accentuates my poor posture).  This vest is the exception to that rule.  It is the kind of thing that you can't wear too often, because it is just THAT memorable.  I wore it a few times - few and far between. 

I didn't realize that it had 'expired' until I wore it downstairs yesterday before the junior high kids left for school.  It was met with loud, dramatic moans . . . followed by a negative, unsolicited commentary.  'You aren't wearing that?  Are you?'  Curly didn't witness my wardrobe malfunction until after school.  She embraced it with gusto.  Go figure. 

This book, the inspiration for our
bear hunt, belonged to my kids. 
Making it practically an antique.

My shaggy vest did keep the tots I sit for entertained.  Earlier in the week I orchestrated a bear hunt in our family room.  I dug out a handful of bear stuffed toys/beanie babies and hid them in plain sight around the room.  Then I read them parts of one of their favorite board books:  'We're Going on a Bear Hunt'.  Each time we came to a new hurdle, like thick oozy mud, I urged them to walk into the family room making the appropriate squelch, squerch sounds as they hunted for the hidden bears.  In keeping with the bear hunt theme, I wandered around the table during breakfast in my vest and acted like I was a fluffy bear challenging them to hunt me.  Each kid got a turn having the stringy attachments shaken in his face.  My bear impersonation received rave reviews. 

Peanut-butter-eating
baby enjoying my vest.

I do prefer the nicer weather for my sitting services.  Visiting a park takes a lot of the pressure off of me.  A park is a natural form of entertainment - not to mention instantly tiring.  Wearing out tots is always a goal of mine.  In lieu of outdoor time, I occasionally rise to the occasion with fun indoor activities.  Good to know I haven't lost my touch. 

I will note that when the baby arrived this week and her folks handed me the instructions for her cereal which included lacing it with peanut butter, I felt like a grandma.  New techniques like that remind me that my children were born forever ago.  I am old.  Damn it. 

I digress.  I have found recently that I am gravitating toward the same articles of clothing.  Meanwhile there are many other items that just sit there.  Occasionally I remember to work them into my rotation, so that I don't feel compelled to give them away.  A sign that it is time to purge.

2.  Some things should remain on the sale rack.

Oh, how I love a deal.  I remember that I paid $19 for the aforementioned vest.  If memory serves (and despite my advanced age -it usually does), I believe it was initially marked $79.  I quickly nicknamed it my 'Chewbacca vest'.  Despite the self-deprecating nickname, I still wore it out of the house. 

I think this time I probably should've slowly backed away from the sales rack.  Although, you never know when you might need to pretend you are a bear, Chewy, or a hunter. 

New math or contractor math?

A quick update from the resident Dumb Ass on the kitchen drama.

To be clear, I know we owe the kitchen crew the next payment.  They spread the payments out over the duration of the job.  They gave me a schedule.  The amount I would owe corresponded with various construction/remodel milestones.  Pretty standard. 

Exhibit A:  my calendar is positioned
 over the new built in bench
 by the mini island (I have nicknamed
this the snack bar).  Soon we will
have the option of sliding the
 barn doors in front of it.  As an aside,
Mini has repeatedly told me that she
can't believe I came up with the
idea for the little built in bench,
and mini island that houses the
 fridge drawers.  I may not be a
self-taught kitchen designer,
but I occasionally have a good idea!

Avoiding us for 3 weeks sent up a red flag that has me wondering how legit their bookkeeping is.  We definitely owe more than the designated payment on my handy-dandy schedule, because some things went over budget.  I totally accept that.  For instance, the little barn doors we are installing in front of the recessed, command-central calendar were an added expense.

KD (kitchen designer) emailed me on Thursday with the statement that I requested.  I almost fell over.  Now they are asking for a check for $6,000 more than the amount KD asked for the week prior.  AND they claim that this total includes the $5,000 credit that I was supposed to receive towards appliances.  Riddle me this:  how can my additional expenses INCREASE by $6,000 from one week to the next?

It seems like I'm being slapped on the wrist for asking for a statement.

First of all, the appliance credit changed to $3,600 from the originally discussed $5,000.  Supposedly this has something to do with the materials that I chose.  Interesting.  They never mentioned how materials would impact the 5 grand in the beginning?

I was shaking for the rest of the day on Thursday.  I was worried that they wouldn't come and do any of the electrical work they were supposed to do on Saturday, if I didn't give them a check on Friday.

No one bothered to show up on Friday, so dodged that 'give-us-a-check' bullet.  In good news, the electrician DID grace us with his presence on Saturday.  He installed the fridge drawers in the mini-island and light fixtures over the island.  Wonders never cease.

I want the owner to sit down and have a face to face with Coach and I before we write him a check.  Before I demand a face to face, I need to nail Coach down to an available time.  I tried for this last week.

Coach agreed to work late for one of his employees on Friday.  (Here is where I blew a gasket.  All the man does is work.  Let someone else cover for Joe Blow.  Damn it).  He taught a class on Saturday AND Sunday.  Monday he works from 5 am till about 9 pm.  Maybe Wednesday?

Someone suggested that I ask jerky kitchen people to send all invoices pertaining to our project to our accountant.  I like that idea.  We might owe them exactly what they claim we owe them, but they are just tossing me numbers about how much we owe for cute barn doors and over-budget counters, etc.  I am not seeing any invoices to back up their math.  Is this what we refer to as new math?

Do you vote for a sit down?  Do you vote that Coach should work less?  (ha - I crack myself up)  Do you vote for the invoices to go to my accountant?  Do you vote that I stop posting about my kitchen?  Vote now! 

Bad-ass to dumb-ass in minutes

Hey, I just found a photo from the
team pasta dinner that we hosted and
the original, ridiculous hood that I kept
knocking into with my noggin is
included in the pic.  I was kicking
 myself for not snapping a photo of it.
 Technically this picture should
 appear in my last post, but you can now 
flip back to it and get the whole picture. 
Literally.

I sent the owner of the company (that is supposedly working on our kitchen) a strongly worded text message on January 17th.  I suggested that we begin to deduct money in $500 increments from our final bill for every week that no work was done.

No response.  None.  Zip.  No, seriously.

I sent similar messages inquiring as to where the heck everyone was to the contractor and the daughter.  Silence.  I seriously began to wonder if they had gone bankrupt or something.

Then January 27th, the kitchen designing daughter texted me.  She'd been sick with the flu.  I mean I know the flu can take a toll, but to lose all feeling in your fingers so that you are unable to send a text communicating something along the lines of:  'I am sick' - that strain of the flu was new to me.  Three weeks is a very long time to be out sick, can we agree there?  Not to mention, there are other members of the staff that could've stepped in.  Did every electrician in a 20 mile radius have an ill timed flu bug as well?

'I've been trying to get in touch with the contractor too,' read another freaky text from the 'self-taught' daughter that officially blew my mind.  What does that mean?  Why can't she communicate with the contractor and why is she sharing that with me, the customer?!

This is the glass tile I chose
 for the backsplash.
 I shared this with her when
she returned from her trip
 to Mexico.  Her boyfriend surprised
her for Christmas.  I was also surprised,
because no one communicated
that she was out of town. 
She didn't resurface until January 9th.
 I chose this tile around Dec. 18th.
  Still not on my walls. 
Not convinced that she has ordered it.  

She asked me via text what I had decided about a few kitchen related decisions.  The next day she stopped by to go over a few things.  Again she mentioned her flu deathbed.  She even said, 'We've all been so sick.'  I suppose I could've asked her who she was counting in the 'we've'  but I didn't bother.  Was it just her boyfriend, or was everyone that worked construction in the greater Chicagoland area?  It was fishy.

During her visit, she started asking me about what still needed to be done in the kitchen.  I thought some of what she wanted to know was more contractor related stuff.  I wondered to myself, if the contractor with the accent like the guy in Despicable Me was still employed by her father.

She pulled out a piece of paper and began to tally up a bill for me.  She asked for a check.

I thought I was being a bad-ass.  I told her that I wouldn't write a check until I saw a statement, because I suspected that they weren't giving me the $5,000 appliance credit that they had agreed to give me.

And that, I suspect, was when I should have held my cards closer to my chest.  Why did I mention the credit?  Let them produce a document without the credit and THEN call them out on the absence of the credit!

Bad-ass turned dumb-ass in a matter of minutes.

And she's self taught!

I had hoped to write about
my awesome new boots. 
Note: in the background of this photo
 there is a drawer missing . . . 
part of the charm of
my unfinished kitchen and
still no backsplash.  There
are other incomplete areas,
 but hey - aren't these
boots the bomb?

I had a few other things I wanted to write about, but I thought I'd share this breaking news . . .  our kitchen job has officially reached nightmare status.

No one showed up to work on ANYTHING for over 3 weeks.  Let me clarify that.  There has been very minimal progress made SINCE Christmas - so snail's pace for 5 weeks but NOTHING FOR 3 WEEKS.  A man hung some shelves in my pantry about a week after Christmas.  He started to construct a custom hood that was horrible.  I asked him to stop.

I can't believe it, but I neglected
 to take a photo of the early
construction of the horrible hood. 
They just finally removed it
 the other day.  I am so sorry
 I can't show it to you.  Take my
word for it:  low, twice as deep as the
 other cabinets, hazardous.  In the
weeks that it was left unfinished
there, I banged my noggin on it
countless times. 
Eddie and Coach, too.

This little mini-island is like a
snack bar between the kitchen and
 family room.  The fridge drawers have
 been sitting in a box since mid December. 
They finally have the cabinet fronts on them
 and I've been told an electrician
is coming in the morning to
install them inside the cabinet.

It was huge and boxy and was going to look like another cabinet - in a kitchen chock full of cabinets.  It promised to protrude into the space where my head would naturally glide each time I walked in front of the stove top, or perhaps when I cooked something.  In other words, this custom hood was threatening to knock me and the other tall members of our household unconscious each and every time one of us walked by it.

Oddly enough when the kitchen designer (aka the owner's daughter) asked me what kind of hood I wanted, my only specifications were:  not boxy, not resembling another cabinet, still shaped like a hood with an angled front.  Translation:  what he was building was all wrong.

This is one of the times - and there have been others - when the owner's words haunt me.  'And she's self taught.'  That is what the owner shared with me when he told me that his 20-something year old daughter was working as his kitchen designer.  The statement made me cringe.  Not a positive selling point.  I had already hired him.  I hoped for the best.  This is not where the story ends . . .

Full disclosure:  My kitchen is actually a mess.  I visited both the grocery store AND Costco today.  That sucked.  I didn't babysit today, so I would've preferred to accomplish something other than collecting provisions for the fam.  I finally sat down to post something even though all of this non-perishable food was heaped all over the table.  Priorities.  I felt guilty showing the first picture and not admitting to what was lingering just beyond.