Add Lou E Loon into the will

Until about four months ago, I would have insisted that Kate was fearless. For the most part, that is true. However, that claim was abolished the day she saw her first person in costume. Rocket, the Jet’s Pizza mascot, corrupted my once fearless child. I did not witness his entry at the time, but without warning, Kate propelled herself from the ground, directly into my arms, screeching GO HOME RIGHT NOW in no uncertain terms. In retrospect, this sounds fairly mundane. I must reiterate that you did not witness a 30” being launch herself in a direct vertical from the ground to my arms.

Last night we went to a minor league baseball game. Right as the first pitch was thrown, Kate suddenly became interested in the game. She was sitting on the lawn, about a foot from the fence, right behind third base. I looked up and saw the large, looming Loon making his way on our direction. I glanced at Kate and saw the panic and terror in her face. In my own panic, I scanned the area around us. There was no way to escape, we were deer caught in the headlights.

The Loon peeked through the fence and motioned Kate to come closer. She backed into me, quite possibly hoping that she would become invisible. He cupped his hands and held them out towards her. Craig gently pulled Kate towards the Loon. Yes, I know, add more in the therapy fund for this one too. The Loon opened his hands and held out a pink baseball to Kate.



Our costume-freak-out-syndrome has been cured, thanks to Lou E Loon. For hours all we heard was, “He’s not scary. He was a nice bird.”

For the rest of the game, when necessary to maintain some degree of control, I would lean in to Kate and say, “You had better listen to your mother, or the bird is going to come and take that ball back.” Don’t you judge me; desperate times call for desperate measures.

I used to have a house that sparkled

Almost two years ago I quit my job in the hospitality business. When I left that job, I also left approximately 35% of my annual income with it. Overnight our disposable income packed up and boarded the first bus out of town. We stood in the dust cloud in disbelief rubbing our eyes, wondering what on earth we just did. Not only did our money take a first class ride outta here, it came on the heels of having newly added daycare expense. In our budget, the line item for daycare is titled: Making Someone Else’s Mortgage Payment.

Sure, I miss the luxuries. I miss the travel, the shopping, the dining, and the entertainment. I yearn for cute shoes, chunky jewelry, the Aveda salon, and more time at Banana Republic. Those luxuries have been replaced with play dough, bike rides to the library, blowing bubbles in the yard, and singing Ring around the Rosie at the top of my lungs. This is what I call trading up and I would not change it for the world.

So, what is the problem? Unfortunately, my ex-housekeeper refuses to work for free. Call me shallow, but this is a problem, a major problem people. I was hoping perhaps she would consider pro-bono work. No such luck. Possibly a resume builder with a guarantee that I would be an excellent reference. No such luck. A demand that all of my friends who still have money use her services. No such luck. A written contract guaranteeing that Craig and Kate will work on better aim when using the toilet. No such luck.

I'm officially screwed.

Until Renovations Do Us Part

We are entering into Operation Get This Damn House Finished. In December it will have been four years since we moved into this house. Simply stated: four years of renovation hell. Over the course of the past six years, we have worked on a few different transactions with the same realtor. When we bought this house, she said, “I love working with you guys because you have vision.” I think that is Real-Estate-ese for “You are the only ones stupid enough to consider a house this ugly.”

If you have ever been to our house, I know you have heard Craig say, “You TOLD me that we were only going to work on one room PER YEAR.” I say this with confidence because it is the soundtrack to my life. He has recorded it and has it on continual playback, echoing in my sleep. Believe me. You know, I admit that I vaguely recall some discussion of the sort. Leave it to Craig to remember the details. I am a big picture person; the details get me in trouble all.of.the.time.

In my defense, I believe that I was born missing the patience gene. I am slightly too “Type A” to believe that patience is a virtue. Also, I could not have predicted that Psycho Cat would decide that the carpet in the corner of the living room was her new litter box. I mean, we needed to start renovating that room after we tore all of the carpet out, right? I also could not have predicted that the glass-top to our stove would break. I also could not have predicted that the stove I fell in love was not really the same size as the old one, I just call that good taste. I mean, we needed to renovate the kitchen after that happened, right?

The house is about 70% complete and if I have to look at one more unfinished project in that house, I might be tempted pull out my hair and then start all over. If that happens, Craig will be joining the witness protection program. Since I’d like to keep him around, we are going to work on getting the remaining 30% done instead. If you tell Craig that other husband’s do not do this much work around their house, you are as good as dead to me. For the record, he still does not know that many other husbands’ don’t cook, clean, or go grocery shopping. Those will be our little secrets, okay?

I am excited to share renovation pictures with you along the way. I am going to find my old hard drive and get some before pictures. You truly cannot appreciate the “after” until you have seen the “before”. I will title the photo album: Proof that I Have the World’s Best and Most Patient Husband.

I Used to Welcome Chaos

It was a lame title, I know. It was stage fright, performance anxiety, the pressure of coming up with something perfect, something all encompassing. It was pathetic. For weeks I've racked my brain for a good title. Each time I would ask someone for their opinion, I would start with, "I can't believe I cannot come up with something. I swear, I used to be witty." Eventually it just stuck. June, the Queen of Wittiness, gave it two thumbs up, so apparently she too thinks I Used to be Witty.

Be on the lookout for some fun changes, a new .com, a new design, and some flair. I can't continue to be associated with such boringness and I applaud you for tolerating it for these torturous couple of weeks.

For your listening pleasure, I will leave you with what I have been listening to today. I heart Mat Kearney.

Now Walk your Feet up to your Hands

How did you spend your night last night? If it was not watching a freshly bathed, naked, two year old learning how to do a somersault, then you’ve got nothing on me.