Commuting is slowly killing me. Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit, but it is driving me crazy, pun intended.
I have an hour’s drive each way to work, thankfully only a few days a week. But, it’s starting to become torturous. It’s not the traffic I mind. I have pretty much figured out the best route coming and going and the best and worst times to do either. If I do somehow end up in rush hour at 5:15 p.m., I know that I can plan on an extra 20 minutes to my commute. Not usually a problem. Crank the radio or call a cousin (now that I have a hands-free attachment to the phone.)
What is so painful is when I keep getting stuck behind slow drivers.
Keep in mind that I rarely drive faster than 60 mph, mainly because I’m not punching a clock, but also because Don Shelby assured me that it helps with gas mileage. It just doesn’t help so much with all the angry people forced to pass me as I drive the speed limit in the right lane.
You’d think I’d have a little grace then for the idiots driving too slow down roads that aren’t multi-laned. Nope.
I don’t even mind so much if they’re at least driving the speed limit. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve got stuck behind someone who either appears to not know where they’re going or isn’t paying attention to the line of 14 cars behind them or simply has nothing better to do than drive 44 miles an hour on a road with very minimal passing opportunities.
Just the other day, I was stuck behind someone from a very small town (I’m assuming that because the vehicle had an identifying dealership logo on it) who was tottering down the road in a late-model Suburu station wagon, travelling at the great rate of 42 mile an hour. Every once in awhile we peaked at 43. This went on for at least 12 miles before I finally was able to pass without breaking any MN laws.
I blasted my horn and was disgusted to see, no surprise here, it was a woman driver, perhaps mid-50s. And she had a male passenger. I wondered why he wasn’t driving. My guess is he might have been just as frustrated as me.
I hate to put females down, since I am one, but so many are such bad drivers. Or maybe bad drivers isn’t quite accurate. They’re not bad drivers in the sense that they drive recklessly or agressively; they simply drive stupidly. Or slowly. Or overly cautiously.
It is so frustrating to have only two real good ways in and out of the cities and both roads are single lane, leaving you at the mercy of someone on a Sunday drive on Tuesday afternoon.
I’m not trying to pass myself off as the world’s best female driver, because I sometimes pull out in front of other cars when I should have waited. I sometimes switch lanes and miss a vehicle in my blind spot. And sometimes I irritate people because I’m only driving 60 in a 55 mph zone and they want to go faster. Sometimes, I will increase the cruise control just a bit to make them less upset with me; other times I figure I’m already speeding and I’m not going to take the chance of wasting more than $100 on a speeding ticket.
But, still I know I don't upset that many people, nor am I the stereotypical female driver. Nor do I drive so slow that I have half a dozen or more people behind me who are mad enough to commit murder.
I'm not excusing road rage, but I can at least understand it. Especially when the anger is being caused by someone's lack of driving ability.
I believe there is a lane for slow drivers - it's called the shoulder.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
outnumbered
Working in the construction industry is a bit unusual when you're a girl.
I have yet to encounter another female, with the exception of the interior designer, on this painting job. It's not unnerving or weird, but it is interesting.
For instance, until people get to know me, I sense a slight reservation on their part to joke around too much. They appear to feel out the situation before giving out much teasing or abuse. There are the occasional comments of a sexual nature, although much of it has been pretty clean. None of that much offends me anyway. I suppose that puts some men at ease - that I'm not a prude and that I actually have a sense of humor. Just today, a plumber wanted to tell a joke and suggested that I leave the room. I assured him I would like to hear it, and indeed the joke, while not suitable for repeating here, was quite funny. I do think he was a little relieved that I laughed.
It has been an experience painting in the basement of a house that has one working toilet in a bathroom without a door. I can pretty much hear every little tinkle. It's a little weird. Often, one guy simply comes downstairs and yells out, "I'm going to the bathroom!" Not sure if he's trying to prepare me or make himself feel less uncomfortable. The other day another guy asked me if it was tough being on a job with all guys - especially considering the bathroom situation. I could hardly stifle my laughter as I told him I live in a one-bathroom house with FIVE other males, none of whom shut the door before doing their little pee-pee dances. (Okay, only the little ones do the dance.)
Men still are chivalrous, despite what you might see on television or anywhere else. I do not have to move heavy things out of my way or set up scaffolding to reach high places. The men on the job seem more than happy to flex their manly muscles and help me out. They also seem perfectly willing to let me use the little four-foot ladder, even if it might inconvenience them. I really should go buy my own. I do feel a little guilty about that.
The guys also seem to have no problem listening to many different kinds of music. One day it might be current country, the next it might be contemporary Christian, and they don't even seem to mind if I crank up the Refuge for Christian music with a bit of a wild(er) side. One of these days I might turn on a Spanish station, just to play with them.
I suppose in some ways this industry might be a good fit for me - I've always related to men better anyway and don't quite understand the mind games women can sometimes play. It's been a very comfortable environment for me, but part of that could be because at least four of the men that work on the painting, general construction and tile are all professing Christians. So, it stands to reason I would feel at ease with them and be able to have many, many interesting conversations ranging from baptism to false religion to marital bliss.
I should probably count my blessings. It would probably be completely different at another job site. At this one, they've adopted songs for everyone, for some reason they're all country. One guy's is "Don't Blink" by Kenny Chesney. Another's is Montgomery Gentry's "What Do Ya Think About That?" For me, they've selected Josh Turner's "Firecracker." Actually they said that would be the song hubby would pick for me. Still not quite sure what to think of that one.
I guess even if I'm outnumbered, I still feel like "one of the guys."
I have yet to encounter another female, with the exception of the interior designer, on this painting job. It's not unnerving or weird, but it is interesting.
For instance, until people get to know me, I sense a slight reservation on their part to joke around too much. They appear to feel out the situation before giving out much teasing or abuse. There are the occasional comments of a sexual nature, although much of it has been pretty clean. None of that much offends me anyway. I suppose that puts some men at ease - that I'm not a prude and that I actually have a sense of humor. Just today, a plumber wanted to tell a joke and suggested that I leave the room. I assured him I would like to hear it, and indeed the joke, while not suitable for repeating here, was quite funny. I do think he was a little relieved that I laughed.
It has been an experience painting in the basement of a house that has one working toilet in a bathroom without a door. I can pretty much hear every little tinkle. It's a little weird. Often, one guy simply comes downstairs and yells out, "I'm going to the bathroom!" Not sure if he's trying to prepare me or make himself feel less uncomfortable. The other day another guy asked me if it was tough being on a job with all guys - especially considering the bathroom situation. I could hardly stifle my laughter as I told him I live in a one-bathroom house with FIVE other males, none of whom shut the door before doing their little pee-pee dances. (Okay, only the little ones do the dance.)
Men still are chivalrous, despite what you might see on television or anywhere else. I do not have to move heavy things out of my way or set up scaffolding to reach high places. The men on the job seem more than happy to flex their manly muscles and help me out. They also seem perfectly willing to let me use the little four-foot ladder, even if it might inconvenience them. I really should go buy my own. I do feel a little guilty about that.
The guys also seem to have no problem listening to many different kinds of music. One day it might be current country, the next it might be contemporary Christian, and they don't even seem to mind if I crank up the Refuge for Christian music with a bit of a wild(er) side. One of these days I might turn on a Spanish station, just to play with them.
I suppose in some ways this industry might be a good fit for me - I've always related to men better anyway and don't quite understand the mind games women can sometimes play. It's been a very comfortable environment for me, but part of that could be because at least four of the men that work on the painting, general construction and tile are all professing Christians. So, it stands to reason I would feel at ease with them and be able to have many, many interesting conversations ranging from baptism to false religion to marital bliss.
I should probably count my blessings. It would probably be completely different at another job site. At this one, they've adopted songs for everyone, for some reason they're all country. One guy's is "Don't Blink" by Kenny Chesney. Another's is Montgomery Gentry's "What Do Ya Think About That?" For me, they've selected Josh Turner's "Firecracker." Actually they said that would be the song hubby would pick for me. Still not quite sure what to think of that one.
I guess even if I'm outnumbered, I still feel like "one of the guys."
Saturday, May 24, 2008
most embarrassing moment #37
A guy from church comes by to drop something off just as I'm about to take clothes off the line. I thought perhaps I could subtly take my bra down before he got out of the car, kind of swiping it off with some socks. That went okay and so I kept taking everything down while he was talking to me. I thought I was in the clear until I realized after taking down half of the rest of the clothes that there was also a pair of pink and white striped bikini underwear right near my fingertips.
Do I leave it there? Do I take it down? Do I act like everything is totally fine, even though my face is flaming red?
I chose option number two and left my back turned to him, removing clothes until the flushing passed.
At least the underwear were cute ones.
Do I leave it there? Do I take it down? Do I act like everything is totally fine, even though my face is flaming red?
I chose option number two and left my back turned to him, removing clothes until the flushing passed.
At least the underwear were cute ones.
Friday, May 23, 2008
had a bad day
Life is chaos with four boys. There is no limit to fights, punches, dirty socks and loudness.
Hubby came home from lunch today to catch me smack dab in the middle of a near-meltdown over two boys who wouldn't pick up Legos because they each thought the other was responsible for them, one boy who kept trying to dip a knife into the Miracle Whip and lick it and the other boy who kept pestering me about what the word "snicker" meant.
I told him - it's the look on your dad's face right now and the sound that's about to come out of his mouth, which will quickly be followed by a gasp after I throw my dishrag at him. He didn't get it.
Hubby then very astutely observed (out loud) that I hadn't made it into the garden yet today. (It was 11:30 a.m.) My goal was to finish planting and perhaps make it up north for the holiday weekend, but there wasn't a single pot clean to boil an egg, the laundry room was piled with clothes and I spent most of the morning chasing poopy diaper boy around the house. So, no I didn't get to the garden yet.
Then he wondered if perhaps I'd rather be painting today. (There's a running joke there - that me taking on a painting job an hour away was my way of escaping my children.) And the answer would be - YES, I'd rather be walking up and down a ladder repainting a bedroom for the third time than be right here right now. If that makes me a bad mother, so be it.
It's quiet there. It's peaceful there. I can actually hear ABBA on my ipod. I can actually walk without tripping over some shoe or toy. I can think. I can breathe.
This is a job that I started exactly eights months ago tomorrow and am still not done. (This is no reflection on my painting skills mind you, but on the homeowner's color preferences and inability to make a decision on a paint color until the entire room is done.) Even still, I'd rather be there.
Maybe tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I'm laughing about someone else's bad day and finding that life is indeed better when you can laugh at and with another funny mom.
Everyone has a bad day now and then. If you don't, I don't believe you're human.
Hubby came home from lunch today to catch me smack dab in the middle of a near-meltdown over two boys who wouldn't pick up Legos because they each thought the other was responsible for them, one boy who kept trying to dip a knife into the Miracle Whip and lick it and the other boy who kept pestering me about what the word "snicker" meant.
I told him - it's the look on your dad's face right now and the sound that's about to come out of his mouth, which will quickly be followed by a gasp after I throw my dishrag at him. He didn't get it.
Hubby then very astutely observed (out loud) that I hadn't made it into the garden yet today. (It was 11:30 a.m.) My goal was to finish planting and perhaps make it up north for the holiday weekend, but there wasn't a single pot clean to boil an egg, the laundry room was piled with clothes and I spent most of the morning chasing poopy diaper boy around the house. So, no I didn't get to the garden yet.
Then he wondered if perhaps I'd rather be painting today. (There's a running joke there - that me taking on a painting job an hour away was my way of escaping my children.) And the answer would be - YES, I'd rather be walking up and down a ladder repainting a bedroom for the third time than be right here right now. If that makes me a bad mother, so be it.
It's quiet there. It's peaceful there. I can actually hear ABBA on my ipod. I can actually walk without tripping over some shoe or toy. I can think. I can breathe.
This is a job that I started exactly eights months ago tomorrow and am still not done. (This is no reflection on my painting skills mind you, but on the homeowner's color preferences and inability to make a decision on a paint color until the entire room is done.) Even still, I'd rather be there.
Maybe tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I'm laughing about someone else's bad day and finding that life is indeed better when you can laugh at and with another funny mom.
Everyone has a bad day now and then. If you don't, I don't believe you're human.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
dog day
Today, for the first time in his entire life, hubby filed a worker's comp report for an on-the-job injury. In his line of work, you'd think it would be something terribly serious like a gunshot wound or a black eye.
Instead, he got bit by a three-legged dog.
Honestly I'm more upset that the stupid animal bit through a pair of brand-new Sketchers. And tore a hole in the back of a pair of really nice, flat-front Gap khakis. When he called me to tell me about it, I told him he better get new shoes out of this deal.
He claimed I was more worried about the clothing than the husband. (I wasn't, okay I kind of was. But, dang it's so irritating to finally find a pair of shoes he likes and than have a dog bite a hole right through the leather heel.) In my defense, though, I did call the two nurses in the family to see what he should do, and then gave him step-by-step instruction on how to soak his foot and what to use.
By the time I got home, he was playing Ms. Pacman and had his foot soaking in one of my bread pans. One tooth had punctured his heel and his sock was bloody. I did inspect the foot before the shoes and the pants. He had to visit the doctor, which was mostly a waste of time, but I suppose necessary for documentation. Thankfully I convinced him to decline the tetanus shot. (Don't even get me started on where tetanus is found and how that would be inside a dog's mouth. Or about what's being used as a preservative in the shot itself. Let's just give his immune system something more to work on. Anyway...that's another story.) So, now the dog is apparently quarantined for 10 days in case of rabies.
As if we don't have enough to worry about with kittens, chickens, a garden that will never get planted, a building project and four boys. Let's add rabies to the list. (Although I don't think the odds of it are very high.)
The boys were pretty concerned when they heard about the dog bite (we have dog fear issues in a few of them.) He said they wouldn't need to worry about rabies unless he started biting them. And then he started chasing them around the house.
I think he's going to be fine.
Instead, he got bit by a three-legged dog.
Honestly I'm more upset that the stupid animal bit through a pair of brand-new Sketchers. And tore a hole in the back of a pair of really nice, flat-front Gap khakis. When he called me to tell me about it, I told him he better get new shoes out of this deal.
He claimed I was more worried about the clothing than the husband. (I wasn't, okay I kind of was. But, dang it's so irritating to finally find a pair of shoes he likes and than have a dog bite a hole right through the leather heel.) In my defense, though, I did call the two nurses in the family to see what he should do, and then gave him step-by-step instruction on how to soak his foot and what to use.
By the time I got home, he was playing Ms. Pacman and had his foot soaking in one of my bread pans. One tooth had punctured his heel and his sock was bloody. I did inspect the foot before the shoes and the pants. He had to visit the doctor, which was mostly a waste of time, but I suppose necessary for documentation. Thankfully I convinced him to decline the tetanus shot. (Don't even get me started on where tetanus is found and how that would be inside a dog's mouth. Or about what's being used as a preservative in the shot itself. Let's just give his immune system something more to work on. Anyway...that's another story.) So, now the dog is apparently quarantined for 10 days in case of rabies.
As if we don't have enough to worry about with kittens, chickens, a garden that will never get planted, a building project and four boys. Let's add rabies to the list. (Although I don't think the odds of it are very high.)
The boys were pretty concerned when they heard about the dog bite (we have dog fear issues in a few of them.) He said they wouldn't need to worry about rabies unless he started biting them. And then he started chasing them around the house.
I think he's going to be fine.
in the wash today...
Hundreds of fuzzy white lint balls because I was too lazy to hand wash an angora sweater. Fun!
Monday, May 19, 2008
shop menards
The kids are getting too smart. We can hardly keep up with their logic anymore.
The other day we were shopping at the local home improvement warehouse. Hubby was walking the aisles with the seven-year-old when he heard him mutter, "This stupid store!"
Not seeing any blood, broken bones or items falling off shelves, Hubby asked him what was wrong.
"They're just so stupid here. They can't even sing their song right."
What?
"It should be 'shop at Menards.' Not 'shop Menards.' " he stated.
Troy still couldn't figure out what he was talking about, until he realized the store's jingle (which plays incessantly over the loudspeaker) goes:
Save big money.
Save big money.
When you shop Menards.
Trying to explain that it sounded better that way didn't make him feel any better.
"This place is so stupid. Why can't they just say it right?"
A few minutes later, Hubby heard him muttering again while the song played, "Blah blah blah stupid store." And apparently he went on and on about it, every time it played.
I suppose technically he's right - his grammar queen of a mother would have told him so. Dad wasn't quite inclined to do that.
Wonder who he takes after.
The other day we were shopping at the local home improvement warehouse. Hubby was walking the aisles with the seven-year-old when he heard him mutter, "This stupid store!"
Not seeing any blood, broken bones or items falling off shelves, Hubby asked him what was wrong.
"They're just so stupid here. They can't even sing their song right."
What?
"It should be 'shop at Menards.' Not 'shop Menards.' " he stated.
Troy still couldn't figure out what he was talking about, until he realized the store's jingle (which plays incessantly over the loudspeaker) goes:
Save big money.
Save big money.
When you shop Menards.
Trying to explain that it sounded better that way didn't make him feel any better.
"This place is so stupid. Why can't they just say it right?"
A few minutes later, Hubby heard him muttering again while the song played, "Blah blah blah stupid store." And apparently he went on and on about it, every time it played.
I suppose technically he's right - his grammar queen of a mother would have told him so. Dad wasn't quite inclined to do that.
Wonder who he takes after.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
my BIG WANTS list
So, about this list idea hubby mentioned a few days ago...at first I thought it was a horrible idea - takes all the fun out of receiving a gift if you have to give someone a list and they don't know you well enough to know what you'd like or want. Well, the practical side of me won out. I'd rather get something I can use or need. So here's my rather expensive list. :)
a Bosch or Kitchen Aid stand mixer
a Vitamix blender (makes soup and ice cream!)
a flour mill (to grind wheat berries, etc. into flour)
political ads to be banned from TV and radio
mulch for my flower garden
a clematis for my flower garden
something for the clematis to climb (but something different than the normal fan-shaped trellis)
a tumbling composter
world peace
shorts (mine are horribly outdated)
a new telephone with an answering machine
a steamer so I won't ever have to iron again
a four-foot fiberglass ladder (it's my new form of exercise - tone those leg muscles by balancing on ladder rungs)
plastic surgery to get rid of stretch marks and flabby skin
cast iron frying pans (since I threw out all my nonstick ones)
socks
a good book - surprise me
yarn
knitting pattern books
a gift certificate to the yarn shop
one of those headlamp thingees so I can knit in the dark
a haircut
flip flops (they never last past one summer anyway)
yarn
a spinning wheel so I can spin my own yarn
a niddy noddy for winding yarn
no more periods
CDs - Switchfoot, Plumb, Skillet, Jars of Clay, Barlowgirl, Downhere, Reliant K, old Newsboys, Chasen, Johnny Cash, Sara Groves, TobyMac, David Crowder Band, and more that I can't think of...
cotton sweaters from garage sales to unravel for the yarn
a new washing machine and clothes dryer
Burt's Bees lip gloss
flowered underwear so I can be cool like Karen
tote bags (especially anything funky or retro)
yoga pants
cookbooks
vintage 60s dresses - size 6 or 8 please
children who behave
no more talk about NASCAR in my house for at least a week
CHOCOLATE!!!!!!
Turns out I have quite a list... You can all start shopping now. :) Oh, and I've already bought the clematis and found an old step ladder that I'm going to cut a bit shorter to use as a trellis. Will post when it's done. And someone just told me that opening a contractor's account at Home Depot will get me a free stepladder. Cross that off the list too. Wow, maybe I should've posted these sooner. I might get more of what I want.
a Bosch or Kitchen Aid stand mixer
a Vitamix blender (makes soup and ice cream!)
a flour mill (to grind wheat berries, etc. into flour)
political ads to be banned from TV and radio
mulch for my flower garden
a clematis for my flower garden
something for the clematis to climb (but something different than the normal fan-shaped trellis)
a tumbling composter
world peace
shorts (mine are horribly outdated)
a new telephone with an answering machine
a steamer so I won't ever have to iron again
a four-foot fiberglass ladder (it's my new form of exercise - tone those leg muscles by balancing on ladder rungs)
plastic surgery to get rid of stretch marks and flabby skin
cast iron frying pans (since I threw out all my nonstick ones)
socks
a good book - surprise me
yarn
knitting pattern books
a gift certificate to the yarn shop
one of those headlamp thingees so I can knit in the dark
a haircut
flip flops (they never last past one summer anyway)
yarn
a spinning wheel so I can spin my own yarn
a niddy noddy for winding yarn
no more periods
CDs - Switchfoot, Plumb, Skillet, Jars of Clay, Barlowgirl, Downhere, Reliant K, old Newsboys, Chasen, Johnny Cash, Sara Groves, TobyMac, David Crowder Band, and more that I can't think of...
cotton sweaters from garage sales to unravel for the yarn
a new washing machine and clothes dryer
Burt's Bees lip gloss
flowered underwear so I can be cool like Karen
tote bags (especially anything funky or retro)
yoga pants
cookbooks
vintage 60s dresses - size 6 or 8 please
children who behave
no more talk about NASCAR in my house for at least a week
CHOCOLATE!!!!!!
Turns out I have quite a list... You can all start shopping now. :) Oh, and I've already bought the clematis and found an old step ladder that I'm going to cut a bit shorter to use as a trellis. Will post when it's done. And someone just told me that opening a contractor's account at Home Depot will get me a free stepladder. Cross that off the list too. Wow, maybe I should've posted these sooner. I might get more of what I want.
Monday, May 12, 2008
lost in translation
Note: The following blog may shake your faith and upset your world. At the very least, it may make you question life as you know it, once you learn that the writer isn't perfect after all, like you may have previously believed. With all your preconceptions shattered, perhaps you can find some comfort in knowing that, yes, everyone makes mistakes. (Some of us are just more public about them.) If you didn't previously believe that the writer was the perfect wife, woman and mother, then perhaps you'll find some sort of satisfaction in the following revelation of the truth - finally!
So, Mother's Day was another fiasco here.
Not because of Hubby, well partly because of him. Not because of me. Oh, yeah, it's confession time - it was mostly because of me.
Here's the scenario: I am a gift person. Meaning, my love language is receiving gifts. I speak the language of finding or making the perfect gift for someone, wrapping it beautifully and hoping they will appreciate all the work I put into the gift. I receive love best through gifts and absolutely LOVE when someone finds me something unique, thoughtful and practical. Something that's "me." Here's a sample - one of the best gifts I've received was a yarn ball winder from my mother-in-law. Every time I use it, I'm grateful that I received such a thoughtful gift. (Now, just because I didn't mention something that you might have given me, doesn't mean I didn't appreciate it, but I don't have time or space or brain cells to recall, list and describe all the great gifts I've gotten.)
So, here's why the yarn winder was so great. It was second hand (I love recycling). It was unique (Who has a yarn winder?) And it was related to something I'm interested in (Knitting) and something I'd use (winding yarn - duh.) I love to get gifts (did I already mention that?) But even more so when it seems like the person has put time and thought into finding the gift.
Here's the problem. My husband's love language is acts of service. He doesn't care much to receive gifts. He hates to buy gifts. He would much rather do something for me than buy me a gift for say Mother's Day. So not only does this create a problem for me receiving gifts but also for me getting him things. I tend to have to think about things I could do for him rather than wrap for him. It's not always a pretty sight.
A few days before D-Day (Mother's Day) Hubby was frustrated with purchasing a gift he knew I'd be expecting and wanting. The only trouble was, he told me so. Actually he told me Mother's Day was too stressful and it wasn't worth it. Then told me not to feel bad because he wasn't upset with me. And then he wanted a list.
Yeah. That went over about as well as the beta fish I got a couple years ago for Mother's Day.
Anyway, I did my best to hold it together, feeling like "I" wasn't worth it. Unfortunately, my best was to tell about five people what he said and how irritated I was about it. Because buying gifts comes more easy to me, it's very very hard for me to imagine how difficult it could be to come up with an idea and find it, let alone find it with four boys in tow. (Keep in mind that I've had his Father's Day gift purchased for about three weeks now.)
Sunday morning the kids gave me breakfast in bed - cereal and a bagel - way too much for me to eat, but still it was nice. (I'm not much of a morning person, so I probably didn't come across very grateful.) I came downstairs to a mirrored garden ball and a cast iron plant holder for outside. It was a nice gift. I like to have my flower garden looking nice, so it was practical, unique and thoughtful. I should have left it at that. But, the trouble was, I couldn't look at it without thinking about how stressful and frustrating it was for him to buy it and how he was feeling like it wasn't worth it while shopping for it. Took a lot of the fun out of the moment.
But, I didn't leave it at that. Later that day, I tried to tease hubby and my father-in-law about a person who had left a bunch of gifts hidden in random places for his wife, like inside a roll of fresh toilet paper and a carton of crackers. Hubby commented that this person probably didn't have four boys along with him at the time he was shopping. (Oh, wait it gets worse.) Then my mother-in-law tried to tell me that she didn't always get gifts from her husband for Mother's Day and that it was okay.
I told her that her love language probably wasn't gifts and that it wouldn't have been okay with me because a gift is very important to me and then I told her (person number six) what hubby had said a few days earlier and how feeling like the whole thing wasn't worth it kind of made the whole thing not worth it. I was so frustrated my face was beat red and I had all I could do to keep from running into the bathroom crying because I felt so misunderstood. I was also embarrassed that I couldn't just keep my stupid mouth shut about the whole stupid thing.
The rest of the night was painful, at best. So, needless to say, I am not perfect. I am not the perfect wife. I am not the perfect woman. I am not even the perfect gifter, because if I was, I'd realize that the thing I bought for my husband will underwhelm him and that he'd much rather I give him a back rub or clean out the garage.
Anyone out there speak my love language? Or hubby's? I really could use a translator right now.
So, Mother's Day was another fiasco here.
Not because of Hubby, well partly because of him. Not because of me. Oh, yeah, it's confession time - it was mostly because of me.
Here's the scenario: I am a gift person. Meaning, my love language is receiving gifts. I speak the language of finding or making the perfect gift for someone, wrapping it beautifully and hoping they will appreciate all the work I put into the gift. I receive love best through gifts and absolutely LOVE when someone finds me something unique, thoughtful and practical. Something that's "me." Here's a sample - one of the best gifts I've received was a yarn ball winder from my mother-in-law. Every time I use it, I'm grateful that I received such a thoughtful gift. (Now, just because I didn't mention something that you might have given me, doesn't mean I didn't appreciate it, but I don't have time or space or brain cells to recall, list and describe all the great gifts I've gotten.)
So, here's why the yarn winder was so great. It was second hand (I love recycling). It was unique (Who has a yarn winder?) And it was related to something I'm interested in (Knitting) and something I'd use (winding yarn - duh.) I love to get gifts (did I already mention that?) But even more so when it seems like the person has put time and thought into finding the gift.
Here's the problem. My husband's love language is acts of service. He doesn't care much to receive gifts. He hates to buy gifts. He would much rather do something for me than buy me a gift for say Mother's Day. So not only does this create a problem for me receiving gifts but also for me getting him things. I tend to have to think about things I could do for him rather than wrap for him. It's not always a pretty sight.
A few days before D-Day (Mother's Day) Hubby was frustrated with purchasing a gift he knew I'd be expecting and wanting. The only trouble was, he told me so. Actually he told me Mother's Day was too stressful and it wasn't worth it. Then told me not to feel bad because he wasn't upset with me. And then he wanted a list.
Yeah. That went over about as well as the beta fish I got a couple years ago for Mother's Day.
Anyway, I did my best to hold it together, feeling like "I" wasn't worth it. Unfortunately, my best was to tell about five people what he said and how irritated I was about it. Because buying gifts comes more easy to me, it's very very hard for me to imagine how difficult it could be to come up with an idea and find it, let alone find it with four boys in tow. (Keep in mind that I've had his Father's Day gift purchased for about three weeks now.)
Sunday morning the kids gave me breakfast in bed - cereal and a bagel - way too much for me to eat, but still it was nice. (I'm not much of a morning person, so I probably didn't come across very grateful.) I came downstairs to a mirrored garden ball and a cast iron plant holder for outside. It was a nice gift. I like to have my flower garden looking nice, so it was practical, unique and thoughtful. I should have left it at that. But, the trouble was, I couldn't look at it without thinking about how stressful and frustrating it was for him to buy it and how he was feeling like it wasn't worth it while shopping for it. Took a lot of the fun out of the moment.
But, I didn't leave it at that. Later that day, I tried to tease hubby and my father-in-law about a person who had left a bunch of gifts hidden in random places for his wife, like inside a roll of fresh toilet paper and a carton of crackers. Hubby commented that this person probably didn't have four boys along with him at the time he was shopping. (Oh, wait it gets worse.) Then my mother-in-law tried to tell me that she didn't always get gifts from her husband for Mother's Day and that it was okay.
I told her that her love language probably wasn't gifts and that it wouldn't have been okay with me because a gift is very important to me and then I told her (person number six) what hubby had said a few days earlier and how feeling like the whole thing wasn't worth it kind of made the whole thing not worth it. I was so frustrated my face was beat red and I had all I could do to keep from running into the bathroom crying because I felt so misunderstood. I was also embarrassed that I couldn't just keep my stupid mouth shut about the whole stupid thing.
The rest of the night was painful, at best. So, needless to say, I am not perfect. I am not the perfect wife. I am not the perfect woman. I am not even the perfect gifter, because if I was, I'd realize that the thing I bought for my husband will underwhelm him and that he'd much rather I give him a back rub or clean out the garage.
Anyone out there speak my love language? Or hubby's? I really could use a translator right now.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
shopping around
The other night we went tub shopping. And we went with four boys. And yes, we’re slightly crazy.
We packed into the truck, nearly breaking some capacity laws and definitely violating some personal space rules.
After the inevitable jostles, pokes and tears, we pulled out of the driveway. No seriously, we made it the six miles to the local home improvement center to search for a couple of bathtubs and a lot of PVC.
One child insisted on going round and round the turnstyle at the store’s entrance, much to the amusement of the customer service guy. If there’s a counter attached to that mechanism, it’s going to be way off.
We got the baby into the cart and wheeled to the plumbing department - praying they make a tub deep enough to keep water inside when boys decide to wage war during bathtime. (What we really need is a tub with five-foot sides that will only fill up with five inches of water.)
Do we buy fiberglass or enamel-coated steel? Nonskid marks on the bottom? Biscuit or white? Too many choices for a bathtub that will have brown rings after mud-loving boys bathe.
After eeny, meeny, miney... (cut short because two loose boys were climbing in and out of all the shower stalls) we selected not quite the cheapest tub and then tried to wipe off the face print on one of the glass doors.
We moved on to the aisles filled with PVC parts and one boys got upset because he couldn’t push the cart. Apparently, he didn’t remember that he’d been banned from cart-pushing for life after the last trip to Wal-Mart when he tried to pop wheelies while his brother was inside the cart. He also thought it was great fun to play NASCAR around the endcaps, nearly taking an old lady’s foot off. He humphed that life wasn’t fair and something about giving people another chance, but I chose to ignore it.
I’m not sure what has happened. It never used to be a problem taking our children into a retail establishment. Sometime after 3.5 kids, I lost control of the little critters. Perhaps we finally got outnumbered. Or older. Or more distracted. Or maybe they just got smarter and stronger.
I told hubby that I now know why my Dad kept us all in the van while Mom shopped for groceries BY HERSELF. How he survived with seven kids cooped up for what seemed like hours in a minivan is nothing short of a miracle.
Back to reality in the plumbing department: we now had an entire cart full of wyes, elbows and tees. Eldest son was dispatched to get another cart and the fight was on. Who would get to push the second cart? We’re not as dumb as we may look. Mom got one. Dad took the other. Problem solved.
We took the two heaping carts of plastic plumbing pieces to the front. Checkout took 15 minutes and the receipt was three feet long. The cashier wished us well as we left. I believe his exact words were “Have fun!”
Unfortunately, the trip wasn’t over yet. We crammed in for a 20-minutes trip to Plymouth in search of a whirlpool tub for the master bath. We weren’t smart enough to bring snacks to distract the boys - and they had already lost their DQ privileges for their antics at the last place.
Store #2 wasn’t another adventure. Hubby caved into pushing a car cart that only fit two. And all four wanted in - after all it was a #48 Jimmie Johnson car. Boy #1 was told he couldn’t ride in it wearing a Dale Earnhardt hat. (Don’t even ask me how I know this - NASCAR has taken over our house.)
The other boys switched off, each arguing that the other got to ride longer. Thankfully the search here was quick - we picked the first tub we saw and figured we could live with it if it turned out to be too small, too big or too white.
Evidently boy #2 caught on that Dad was stressed, because back in the truck, he put his arm around Dad’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Occasionally he would pat his father on the back, smiling the whole while, like this trip was exactly what he would have chosen to do, tight quarters and all.
I wonder sometimes if we’re getting uptight in our old age, letting little things like shopping cart derbies get the best of us. Do we expect too much out of four boys who (from what I can tell) are just being boys? Should we be sitting back, like our seven-year-old, and enjoying the ride wherever it takes us? Not many people can say they’ve traveled in a pickup with five other people, two of whom are a bit smelly. We might be packed in, but we’re usually in good company. Time moves so fast, that soon the ride with these boys will be over.
Lord willing we’ll still get a few more shopping adventures to experience.
We packed into the truck, nearly breaking some capacity laws and definitely violating some personal space rules.
After the inevitable jostles, pokes and tears, we pulled out of the driveway. No seriously, we made it the six miles to the local home improvement center to search for a couple of bathtubs and a lot of PVC.
One child insisted on going round and round the turnstyle at the store’s entrance, much to the amusement of the customer service guy. If there’s a counter attached to that mechanism, it’s going to be way off.
We got the baby into the cart and wheeled to the plumbing department - praying they make a tub deep enough to keep water inside when boys decide to wage war during bathtime. (What we really need is a tub with five-foot sides that will only fill up with five inches of water.)
Do we buy fiberglass or enamel-coated steel? Nonskid marks on the bottom? Biscuit or white? Too many choices for a bathtub that will have brown rings after mud-loving boys bathe.
After eeny, meeny, miney... (cut short because two loose boys were climbing in and out of all the shower stalls) we selected not quite the cheapest tub and then tried to wipe off the face print on one of the glass doors.
We moved on to the aisles filled with PVC parts and one boys got upset because he couldn’t push the cart. Apparently, he didn’t remember that he’d been banned from cart-pushing for life after the last trip to Wal-Mart when he tried to pop wheelies while his brother was inside the cart. He also thought it was great fun to play NASCAR around the endcaps, nearly taking an old lady’s foot off. He humphed that life wasn’t fair and something about giving people another chance, but I chose to ignore it.
I’m not sure what has happened. It never used to be a problem taking our children into a retail establishment. Sometime after 3.5 kids, I lost control of the little critters. Perhaps we finally got outnumbered. Or older. Or more distracted. Or maybe they just got smarter and stronger.
I told hubby that I now know why my Dad kept us all in the van while Mom shopped for groceries BY HERSELF. How he survived with seven kids cooped up for what seemed like hours in a minivan is nothing short of a miracle.
Back to reality in the plumbing department: we now had an entire cart full of wyes, elbows and tees. Eldest son was dispatched to get another cart and the fight was on. Who would get to push the second cart? We’re not as dumb as we may look. Mom got one. Dad took the other. Problem solved.
We took the two heaping carts of plastic plumbing pieces to the front. Checkout took 15 minutes and the receipt was three feet long. The cashier wished us well as we left. I believe his exact words were “Have fun!”
Unfortunately, the trip wasn’t over yet. We crammed in for a 20-minutes trip to Plymouth in search of a whirlpool tub for the master bath. We weren’t smart enough to bring snacks to distract the boys - and they had already lost their DQ privileges for their antics at the last place.
Store #2 wasn’t another adventure. Hubby caved into pushing a car cart that only fit two. And all four wanted in - after all it was a #48 Jimmie Johnson car. Boy #1 was told he couldn’t ride in it wearing a Dale Earnhardt hat. (Don’t even ask me how I know this - NASCAR has taken over our house.)
The other boys switched off, each arguing that the other got to ride longer. Thankfully the search here was quick - we picked the first tub we saw and figured we could live with it if it turned out to be too small, too big or too white.
Evidently boy #2 caught on that Dad was stressed, because back in the truck, he put his arm around Dad’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Occasionally he would pat his father on the back, smiling the whole while, like this trip was exactly what he would have chosen to do, tight quarters and all.
I wonder sometimes if we’re getting uptight in our old age, letting little things like shopping cart derbies get the best of us. Do we expect too much out of four boys who (from what I can tell) are just being boys? Should we be sitting back, like our seven-year-old, and enjoying the ride wherever it takes us? Not many people can say they’ve traveled in a pickup with five other people, two of whom are a bit smelly. We might be packed in, but we’re usually in good company. Time moves so fast, that soon the ride with these boys will be over.
Lord willing we’ll still get a few more shopping adventures to experience.
Monday, May 5, 2008
in the wash today...
a clean, crumpled dollar bill. Yay! The rules of this house say that it is now mine. (I made up those rules.)
Saturday, May 3, 2008
conversations
The banter at the dinner table is getting rather interesting.
The two-year-old makes bald-faced statements in a rather yelling tone: "I big, you widdle!" And then he'll repeat himself 17 times while trying to shove as many fries into his mouth as possible.
If anyone should happen to argue with him, say to tell him he's little, he simply reiterates himself at a louder decibel. The other boys have tried to convince him he's wrong, but with limited success. He can just about out-shout any of them.
The four-year-old apparently can't stand to be upstaged. "I'm smart, you're wrong!" Number Three tells his younger brother.
"I big," Little Brother insists.
"Uh, uh - then what's two plus two?"
Blank look at that one.
"See, you're little, I'm smart," Big Brother taunts.
"You dumb" is Number Four's completely serious response.
Big Brother can't convince him of anything else after that. He finally gives up and leaves the table. Toddler is unfazed - he simply starts talking to himself, "I big, you wrong."
"I mart, you wrong."
Maybe he's talking to the hamburger that he refused to eat. I suppose it's hard to eat something with which you're conversing. I wouldn't be surprised if he figures out he's bigger than the burger and starts telling it so.
The two-year-old makes bald-faced statements in a rather yelling tone: "I big, you widdle!" And then he'll repeat himself 17 times while trying to shove as many fries into his mouth as possible.
If anyone should happen to argue with him, say to tell him he's little, he simply reiterates himself at a louder decibel. The other boys have tried to convince him he's wrong, but with limited success. He can just about out-shout any of them.
The four-year-old apparently can't stand to be upstaged. "I'm smart, you're wrong!" Number Three tells his younger brother.
"I big," Little Brother insists.
"Uh, uh - then what's two plus two?"
Blank look at that one.
"See, you're little, I'm smart," Big Brother taunts.
"You dumb" is Number Four's completely serious response.
Big Brother can't convince him of anything else after that. He finally gives up and leaves the table. Toddler is unfazed - he simply starts talking to himself, "I big, you wrong."
"I mart, you wrong."
Maybe he's talking to the hamburger that he refused to eat. I suppose it's hard to eat something with which you're conversing. I wouldn't be surprised if he figures out he's bigger than the burger and starts telling it so.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
puzzles
I usually consider myself a problem-solving kind of gal. I do Sudoko. I can conjugate verbs. I know how to find the area of a triangle. I can visualize things in 3-D (a very helpful talent when trying to imagine what a bathroom floorplan will look like and how high you should build the shower walls.) The trouble is, seeing something doesn't necessarily mean making a decision is any easier. But that's another topic for another time.
So, yes I can generally figure out things and how they are supposed to work, except anything related to physics. Worst subject ever.
Today, I finally got a chance to sit down and play around with the serger I bought three weeks ago and hadn't even taken out of the bag. You'd think I would have got right to the challenge of it all, but... nope. The sad thing is, the first thing I sewed with it was my brother's underwear. Gross, huh?
Oh please. They were brand-new and too long for him. So, yes, the serger got broke in by hemming the waistband on some Hanes boxer-briefs. SAD.
But, the darn machine is a nightmare. It's got more levers and switches than any power tool I've ever come across. Right now, I'd take a table saw over this gadget. I've only mastered one stitch - and that took an hour just to figure out all the different things I had to switch around and then rethread. Now that I want to do a three-thread overlock stitch, I had to turn one lever, switch one needle, change the presser foot and of course, rethread the entire machine, in the right order. I gave up tonight because I couldn't tell the difference between the blue dots and the green dots which are supposed to show you how to thread the thread through all these little guides and such.
Is this a sign that I'm getting old? Or lazy? Or maybe I'm just not as smart as I thought I was. One thing I know - this is why I never liked puzzles. I need instant gratification. I need to see some progress - a stitch on fabric, a row of knitting, a completed square of numbers in Sudoku, not billions of pieces on a table in no particular order, just waiting to get chewed on by the baby.
Puzzles can wait until I'm really old. Or until there's no danger of losing pieces. Or until I have no brain cells left in my head to figure out other, better, more enticing problems - like how to tile a mud-set shower or why my kids always fight.
So, yes I can generally figure out things and how they are supposed to work, except anything related to physics. Worst subject ever.
Today, I finally got a chance to sit down and play around with the serger I bought three weeks ago and hadn't even taken out of the bag. You'd think I would have got right to the challenge of it all, but... nope. The sad thing is, the first thing I sewed with it was my brother's underwear. Gross, huh?
Oh please. They were brand-new and too long for him. So, yes, the serger got broke in by hemming the waistband on some Hanes boxer-briefs. SAD.
But, the darn machine is a nightmare. It's got more levers and switches than any power tool I've ever come across. Right now, I'd take a table saw over this gadget. I've only mastered one stitch - and that took an hour just to figure out all the different things I had to switch around and then rethread. Now that I want to do a three-thread overlock stitch, I had to turn one lever, switch one needle, change the presser foot and of course, rethread the entire machine, in the right order. I gave up tonight because I couldn't tell the difference between the blue dots and the green dots which are supposed to show you how to thread the thread through all these little guides and such.
Is this a sign that I'm getting old? Or lazy? Or maybe I'm just not as smart as I thought I was. One thing I know - this is why I never liked puzzles. I need instant gratification. I need to see some progress - a stitch on fabric, a row of knitting, a completed square of numbers in Sudoku, not billions of pieces on a table in no particular order, just waiting to get chewed on by the baby.
Puzzles can wait until I'm really old. Or until there's no danger of losing pieces. Or until I have no brain cells left in my head to figure out other, better, more enticing problems - like how to tile a mud-set shower or why my kids always fight.
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