Sad State of Play

Pfunk has a birthday coming up (sort of) (June 24).  In the event you are in the market (or biologically obligated) to purchase a gift for him, I think this post will serve as shopping inspiration.

The boy LOVES to be in the kitchen.  As I was unpacking, this sponge was the only "toy" I felt was safe enough to play with in a new house, without any real supervision.  This was pre-easel and pre-markers.  I do have to say, the table looks very shiny, but I do hope this picture is not some twisted form of foreshadowing.

Every boys favorite "outside" toy- 15 feet of white cable cord.

That's a swiffer.  In our yet to be paved- thank you snowy winter- driveway.  He runs with it, as if he actually is swiffering, from the garage to the top of the driveway and back.  He squeals with delight as he does this.  It may sound cute, but really, it's quite pathetic.

I need to draw your attention to the jacket as well.  It is large I know, but it was $16 and it's reversible(!). It's also a 3T and will likely fit him until he is 12.

My neighbors probably sit in their houses sipping their coffee as they watch my son "play" with his "toys".  Surely they notice Abby sitting, quivering- for no reason other than we are not safely in the house- and tethered to the porch and think, "Wow.  I wonder if this neighborhood is taking part in some sort of outreach program.  There goes our property value."

Zesty Pickle

Confession: I have one of those faces, and apparently one of those voices.

The other day I called Verizon to cancel my account with them. Actually I was calling to make sure the account had been cancelled and that I would not be charged for a service I no longer had. I hate when I have to do other people's jobs for them.

While the Verzion lady was waiting for her computer to reboot from a recent crash, (surprised? me either) she said, "Well, while we wait for this to do its thing, I will just tell you something woman to woman..."

I don't want to hear what you have to tell me. I was at her mercy. And she knew it. All I could do was listen and give the occasional obligatory "uh-huh."

She began be telling me not to answer the door for people I don't know. I know I may sound young on the phone, but I'm not home sick from 5th grade. What's next? Are you going to tell me that if a stranger calls I should say my mom is in the shower?

Verizon lady told me an awful tale about how she was home from work last Monday and -long story- short a guy broke in her back door window. She called the cops and they caught the guy.

I said, "Wow, sounds like you should get some sort of alarm system."

She said, "Yeeeeaaaa. It's my childhood home. People know I live alone. So..."

Huh? So does that mean you are not going to get an alarm? Does anyone else fail to see the connection between not getting an alarm and living in your childhood home?
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These things happen to me all the time. Strangers think I work in whatever store I happen to be in at the time. They think I have answers to their annoyingly ridiculous questions. They think I WANT to answer their annoyingly ridiculous questions.

Recently I was in a Target that had a grocery section. I was not in the grocery section. I could see the grocery section if I turned my head 45 degrees to the right, but I was a good 8 aisles away. I did not have ANY grocery items in my cart. This man walks over to me and says, "Do you know where they keep the cake mix?"

"Um. I think the grocery section is over there. Check the bakables aisle."

He nods and heads in the grocery direction.

As he approaches the bakables, he turns toward me and yells-YELLS- "HEY! YOU WERE RIGHT! THANKS!"
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When I was pregnant I was in the condiment aisle in front of the pickles (of course) at Safeway. It should be noted I was also sort of in front of the ketchup since they are next to each other. I could have just as likely been buying ketchup, pickles or checking the expiration date on my Edy's coupon.

An older man picked up a very large jar of pickles, labeled as "Zesty" and "Bold". He asked me. Me. Not talking, not looking at anyone, not even really looking at the pickles- me. Again, it should be noted I was not wearing anything resembling a name tag or a Safeway uniform.

"Do you think these will be spicy?" I told him probably. "Huh." He said as he put the large jar in his basket.
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I guess it is inherited. A man once asked my mom what raw broccoli was and how to cook it.

True story.

Further Evidence

Confession: I am an idiot.

Exhibit A

I teach at a community college. In one of the classes I teach, speeches are required and a lot of my students are apprehensive about being in front of the class. To help them I have a few non-graded, practice activities I do with the class.

This past Friday I did one of these activities with my class. Basically, each student gets in front of the class and speaks about something for 2 minutes. Usually they talk about a childhood memory or a goal they have after graduating college.

This kid- let's call him Frank. I once dated a guy named Frank who was into the drug scene a bit too much for my liking, but from now on every time I meet someone named Frank, I think he must also be into drugs. Name association is a terrible thing, although in this case, I was not far off.

Frank's turn comes up for this impromptu speech and he starts talking about how much he LOVES chocolate. Said he didn't have it until he was 12, but he fell in love with it right away. He was going on and on about Belgian chocolate, dark chocolate, wanting to make chocolate professionally- on and on.

Everyone is giggling. I thought they were giggling because he was clearly very passionate about chocolate, which did not fit into what we already knew about him from previous activities.

I even asked "What was the first chocolate you had? Like M&M's?"

More giggling- growing in intensity.

He replied, "No it was some foreign shit." P.S. I had just got done telling them that cussing in a presentation is largely frowned upon and will affect their grade negatively.

Later another student came up to me and said, "Mrs. Phillips you are so funny. You know he was talking about pot and not chocolate, right?"

It was then that it hit me, he was NOT (?) talking about chocolate. I gave her a look that could have been taken as- of course I know OR as- huh? Then I said, "Meg, do you have a question about the project?"

Oh, why did I have to ask the M&M question?

Exibit B

Josh and I are college educated people who have good jobs- until Sunday we thought we were smart.

We took a family trip to Ikea so we could purchase affordable things to fill our lovely new house with. Our new house with new furniture and new Ikea-like items. Can't you just hear the heavenly harp softly playing in the background?

We were on our way to the check out when I saw an easel.

Pdoodle likes, no- LOVES to draw. I usually tape a bunch of paper to the table and let him go to town. He usually stays on the paper, but that is what washable markers are for right?

So when I saw this $15 easel, I thought it would be a stroke of genius to purchase it and earn a little more unpacking and laundry time for myself- just another day in the life of an American Princess.

As Josh and I were working on hanging the final round of blinds, we commented on a very quite Pscribble. Then we saw it, well him.

Brandishing a red- RED marker Pdestoryer ran to the (new) chair and began scribbling.

Our living room furniture is orange and olive.

Thank you to the good people at the Coppola Winery and the angels who manufacture Goo Gone the marks are mostly...not totally, but mostly gone.

Looking back, I cannot believe I trusted a 20 month old with markers and paper and the general newness that is our house.

In other news, I have this site linked to a sight that emails me every month to tell me how many people read the blog, the average length of the visit and a few other things. It told me for February I had over 200 visits. Why then have my follower numbers held steady at 25?

Followers make me happy.

Full Disclosure

Which came first, the bad mommy or the whiney Parker?

I am NEVER moving again. I STILL do not have my credit card or debit card- thank you Bank of America. (I am in the process of switching banks.)

Verizon is being difficult about setting up a landline.

The Comcast guy who came to install our cable could not bury the line so our cable cord is running up the length of our driveway- ABOVE ground. He also told me he mounts flat screen TV's on the side (stop telling me about your personal life weirdo) and he would hang ours - 3 of them- for $250. INSANE.

I have been on the phone for the better part of each day since we moved into this new house.

NEVER moving again.

Between all the phone volley sessions, unpacking and laundry- yes I even have to do laundry in my new house- I have not been the happy go lucky mommy I usually am (read: not usually, but strive to be).

Left to his own devices, Parker has taken up a new hobby- whining. Among the words he knows and uses regularly is the word "this". It is usually mixed in with a little bit of "snack snack" followed a lot- a lot- of whining.

Learn to speak kid. I will give you whatever you want if it will make you stop THAT.

Yesterday, I hit an all time low. Since this blog is about confessions- here goes.

Pfunk knows the sign for all done. When he is eating and does this sign, I always make him take one more bite. I do this for a few reasons- 1. I want to establish and maintain my control. 2. I don't think he really knows when he is full and therefore done eating verse being bored and done eating. 3. It's usually not a big deal because I ALWAYS do it.

Flash to lunch time yesterday, one more bite was a major deal. He said, "no." I tried all my tricks.

Nothing.

I said, "Ok, I'm going to starting cleaning up. You can get up after you have one more bite."

He lost his shit. Crying. Screaming. That desperate hiccup-like breathing.

I stomp over- in my best (or worst) mommy is mad- fashion. I pull the tray off his chair and say, "Fine. But I need you to leave me alone for a little bit."

No need to call CPS- we were both in the kitchen and the new house is very open and empty rendering it mostly childproof.

As I stood at the sink doing dishes, I can hear his wailing and whining loud and clear, so I glance over. My sweetP is crouched down- still sobbing- peering at me from the space created between the chair and table. It sort of looked like a Normal Rockwell meets Mommy Dearest type of scene.

In what can only be described as mean, I said, "I can see you. Mommy needs a minute away from you and your whining."

I swear, P turned, walked down the hall and into a room that is occupied by a sole four and a half foot book shelf. On the top two shelves there are books, the bottom three shelves are either bare or have some of his toys on them.

I heard him pull out a toy and play with it for a few seconds. Then nothing.

Worried, I looked up. He was back in the kitchen. Not whining. Not crying. Just sweetly, silently watching me.

I picked him up and promised to stop yelling if he stopped whining. (what?) Parker looked at me and said, "yes."

He is a very sweet forgiving monkey. I am very lucky.

I Feel a Part II Coming On...

Discipling Parker.
Comforting Parker.
Locking myself out of the house.
Making dinner.
Grocery shopping.
Changing diapers.
Losing my wallet.

Common factor: The items on the above list cause a person (me) to feel as though they (again me) are stuck in their own personal version of Groundhog Day.

Most recently, the last item on the list is causing me a slight bit of repeat embarrassment.

I just posted this about losing my wallet.

I am a mother (a pretty darn good one if I do say so myself), a wife (mostly good most of the time) and a college trusts me to teach paying students how to be effective communicators and write standard early college level essays. However, I cannot seem to hold onto my wallet despite the fact that it even has a little strap that my wrist fits in perfectly. I cannot manage to go a month without misplacing it- severely.

It took me a full  6 hours to admit I lost it. I swore I would find it. I would not give in. I was on a quest.

Hours later, my determination dwindled and I conceded.

My first call was to cancel my credit card. As I the words were slowly dripping out of my mouth, “I need to report my card lo...lossssss...losT.” it hit me- if I cancelled my cards, I would be in the middle of moving without any connection to my money. If I cancelled mine then J’s would be shut down too.

I was near tears and my voice was beginning to shake. The nice man from my bank told me he would rush my new credit card and waive the “rush” fee.

One reason I love being a girl is the way men react when you get emotional- it’s like a damsel in distress/knight in shining armor thing and I’m 100% ok with it.

Once again, thank you kind stranger.

Then I realized I also have to get a new license, library card, Safeway Club Card, Giant Club Card, Banana Republic Credit Card, debit card and school faculty ID.

Not to mention hundreds of dollars in gift cards- mostly Home Depot earmarked for 3 ceiling fans with lights. When you come to the new house you need to come in the hours of daylight or see the house via candlelight.

I also lost P's orange ID card from Hopkins. This makes me teary for real- for real.

As if all of this is not a blow enough, now I have to relive my absentmindedness several times over to total strangers. A majority of these customer service representatives are nice, sympathetic and helpful, however not all fall into that category.

I suppose it is not all bad, I needed to change my address anyway with most of these places, but calling to say, "Hey! look at me in my new house, please send further correspondence to ____."

Is very different from saying, "I'm a sieve head and no longer have my wallet. Or possibly my son threw it away while I was not watching him- I think I saw him run by with scissors and my pink Vera Bradley wallet. I couldn't really see through my glass though- red wine is quite opaque."

As if all of this was not punishment enough- now I have to go to the MVA armed with my passport and settlement papers in an attempt to get a new license with my new address. I PRAY they make this easy. (har-har)

Also, Josh is a very smart man. He did not say word one about any of this. He just occupied Psizzle as I dug through the trash, tore apart my car, and unpacked a few recently packed boxes.

no luck- obviously.

Stay tuned- a trip to the MVA usually means a bonus blog entry.

Approval from the Source

A few years ago Josh was a staff writer for the Tester Newspaper- it's a military thing. Round about Valentine’s Day 2004, I wanted to repaint the living room in what is now our old house. I asked Josh to get me a gift card from Ace, so I could pick up some paint. He forgot and instead wrote the following piece. Posting is on my blog is not plagiarism; I'm close to the source and got permission. The article was published in that weeks' edition of the Tester.


This (aside from Parker and maybe my engagement ring) is my favorite gift from Josh.
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Wednesday, February 18, 2004

I'm a Valentine's Schmuck
Josh Phillips

Valentines Day.

A day to show your undying love for that special soulmate and promise her your affections until the sands in the hour glass of time trickle to the bottom and fall still.

Or if you're one of the millions of Average Joe's such as myself, it's a date marked on the calendar with a giant black "X" as an impending natural disaster.

Why? Because I always, without exception, manage to botch this supposedly simple holiday every single year.

Yes, another one has come to pass, ladies and gentlemen, and once again I share a doghouse with many a fellow man around the globe.

I don't know why, but this stuff happens to me year after year. After all, my intentions are good. But like The Simpson's Ned Flanders once said, "I can't feed my family on good intentions, Marge."

Very true.

Last year, it was a tsunami of problems when I ventured forth into the kitchen in search of adventure, danger and dinner. Like Indiana Jones exploring the pre-Columbian ruins in the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, I entered a place where only the bravest of men dare to venture and few ever return unscathed.

Cooking is obviously unfamiliar territory for me, but for my true love I'd climb the highest mountain, brave the deepest sea and ruin the simplest recipe.

I had found a meal on the Internet (honey-mustard salmon, if you're interested) that promised to be so simple, a small child was capable of preparing it. However, the supermarket was all sold out of "small child," so I was flying solo on this mission.

Remember that scene from the movie where Indiana was fleeing the cave as a giant boulder threatens to crush him underneath its massive weight? Well, substitute "boulder" with "stench of burnt mustard-coated fish" and the scenarios are practically interchangeable.

Even my dog wouldn't come out of hiding for three days and had to be fed by my old roommate. I can't say I blame him, though.

So, with the idea of cooking scratched forever more by my girlfriend and the good people of the Solomon's Volunteer Fire Department, I had to take a completely different approach to this year's Valentine's Day gift. This time, I thought the best approach would be to just simply ask her what she wanted and then deliver it to her that day.

Easy, right?

Can't miss plan, eh?

Well, for all practical purposes, it should have been. My girlfriend, the doll that she is, asked for two things and only two things: a CD of songs I would burn for her and a gift certificate to the hardware store so she could select paint for her kitchen redecoration project.

It was handed to me, fellas. This Valentine's Day is going to be a cinch! All I had to do was remember to do two little things. Couldn't be simpler!

I have a few theories on why men forget all the things that women tell us.

When early Neanderthal man was young and still hot-to-trot on the hunter/gatherer concept of society, the man and woman had two very different roles. Men went out and threw sharp sticks at the dinner, while women stayed home to care for the family.

Women listened to the needs and wants of the children and made mental notes on how to improve the family's way of life.

Men threw sharp sticks at things.

Women told the men how they felt life could be made easier if certain changes to their lives were made.

Men threw sharp sticks at things.

The role each sex played back then determined how many of us act today. Women communicate to us what they want, men throw the remote at the TV when the Dolphins turn the ball over. Times haven't changed all that much.

So this past V-Day, I showered, shaved, picked up the CD, bought a very sophisticated bottle of wine that happens to be one of her favorites and began to walk out the front door when I realized that something was missing. What was it? What did she tell me? Was it something important?

Oh, silly me, I know what I'm missing ... a Valentine's Day card, of course! So 10 minutes before my arrival at her home I was out at the supermarket, card-shopping for that special someone.

Why they don't overstock grocery stores with Valentine's Day cards is beyond me. How many do they actually order, anyway, 12 or 13? But being of quick mind and exquisite judgment, I made one of the most brilliant decisions in the history of Man, a move so legendary that it will be forever recorded in the annals of Man history.

I'll just spice up a non-Valentine's Day card!

Let's see what we got here: "Dear grandson ...." Nope, that one won't do. "With our deepest condolences ...." Nah, too heavy. "Happy Anniversary!" Yeah, close enough. What's the difference, right?

After crossing off a couple of the more trivial words such as "Happy 25th Anniversary" and "After 25 years of being married to you" I was in business! Just a few scribblings with my pen and it was an entirely new card!

Being the debonair kind of guy that I am, I presented Nikki with her gifts and asked her a romantic question: "What time do we eat?"

But of course, if you've been paying attention, you've probably already noticed that there was no mention of the hardware gift certificate or of any paint. That's because I forgot all about it and was subtly reminded the next day as we drove by the store on our way grocery-shopping.

My memory works fine on stuff like sports scores and statistics, but just seems to go to waste on stuff like that. I know I'm not the only one, but I'll be darned if I'm not going to do better next year. Because I'm going to remember what she wants. I'm going to get it done ahead of time to avoid all the embarrassment of looking like an insensitive Morlock.

Because when all is said and done, it really is all about your partner's ... WHAT?!?!?! The Yankees picked up A-Rod? Not the Yankees! Anyone but the Yankees!

Now where, was I? Oh yeah, throwin' sticks.

Suck It Up

Yesterday I deemed myself officially over the flu. I was still a bit nauseous and could only stomach half a bowl of chicken broth and a few small sips of ginger ale, but those were both major improvements.


Josh was attempting to sleep off the last of his bug as P and I played in the living room, when I had a thought. Could I get out of the house if I needed to?

I opened the heavy door and saw about 8 inches of snow piled up against the glass front door. We were literally snowed in. I tried opening it and closing it little by little there by pushing the snow ever so slowly out of my way so I could squeeze out and start properly digging with a shovel.

No such luck. The door was bowing. The glass bending.

After much thought I figured the only thing left to do was jump out the living room window. I have actually climbed in this very window many times as I went through a period where upon I forgot my key like it was my job.

Since the snow was very deep I did not have any leverage and like a reverse Winnie The Pooh in the honey tree, I was stuck in the window. Rather my right foot was stuck on the window frame. Josh had to push me out.

My neighbor, the one who left a Lazy Boy recliner outside for 3 weeks, witnessed the whole thing. Of course.

I trudged through the thigh-high snow and dug an exit path for my family. Sometimes, mommy just has to suck it up and dig her family out. It should be noted I did this on my own accord.  Josh thought I was nuts for jumping out the window to shovel at 5p.m. while it was still snowing.  He did laugh at me though.

Also, below is my favorite picture from this storm: