Disintegrating Toilets, Part 2: Fixit Flamingo and his Proteges

Well, I finally figured out how to post a video. Or maybe Heidi figured it out. Neither one of us are sure because we did it the same way today that I did yesterday and for some reason it worked today. Shortly after getting the video posted, however, Heidi and I managed to delete the video editing software from my computer and it refuses to reinstall. Apparently the version of Ulead VideoStudio I was using isn't really compatible with Vista. So, long story short, enjoy the video 'cause it might be the only one you ever see here.

Have a good weekend!

Disintegrating Toilets

So I spent the afternoon trying to figure out how to post a video onto my blog and I never got it to work. I suspect that the root of the problem lies along a spectrum that has my impatience at one end and dinner at the other. I'm sure Joe could figure it out but he's busy putting lights up, trying to get the water filtration system working like it should, and generally being a handy husband. Last night he fixed the upstairs toilet. Twice. And then he fixed it again this morning.

Now that it's out in the open I don't mind telling you that our toilets break all the time. You may think that's something to be ashamed of ("Geez, what are they eating over there?"), but it's because of the nasty water we have that can eat through stainless steel. The inside parts of the toilets just disintegrate every few months. Our water is like a weapon of mass destruction -- you could just spray it over the enemy and all their guns, bombs, tanks, and humvees would evaporate, while the stink of it would make enemy soldiers fall over dead. All of our brand new faucets, our dishwasher, and now, I suspect, our washing machine, have fallen victim to Satan's water. Don't worry, I'm not going to post a photo of the inside of one of our toilets.

I was reading someone else's blog today and she referred to her husband as HWSBBA (He Who Shan't Be Blogged About). I'm pretty sure Joe wishes I had adopted that policy when I started this blog, but now it's too late. Cat's out of the bag and all that. Really. No going back. Sorry honey.

Blocks, Bubbles, and Live Bands

I know moms everywhere wonder how their toddler can look like that up there one second, and that down there the next. I wonder that, too.

I don't know why he started playing inside the block bin. I would like to tell you that there is a perfectly rational explanation for it, but the best I can come up with is that he just really likes to immerse himself in his toy experiences. You know, become one with the toys, as it were. But that's not what this post is about.

I'm not sure what this post is about, actually, aside from me trying to bust through a little writer's block. So here are some thoughts I have about bubbles. I used to like bubbles, before I had children. Don't get me wrong, the kids look awfully cute blowing bubbles:

Look at his little eyes all crossed up -- adorable. Those two photos were taken about 20 seconds before I left the boys on the porch to go inside and figure out what gourmet delicacy I was going to make for dinner ("hmmm, rice from a pouch or potatoes from a box . . . which should it be, which, which, which?"). When I stepped back outside three minutes later Mace was soaked in bubble juice from head to toe and the table was covered as well.

My first issue with bubbles: it always ends in a mess. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: "Do you seriously have such bad writer's block that all you can think of to write about is how bubbles are messy when by definition bubbles are, you know, clean?" Well, you try cleaning up an entire bottle of bubbles off your porch and then you can leave me a comment about how I'm right and you are so wrong.

Now when your toddler is covered from head to toe in bubbles, he naturally does only one thing -- rubs his eyes. Which leads to my second issue with bubbles: any bubble session ends with my toddler screaming bloody murder. Now if Johnson & Johnson can figure out how to make tear-free shampoo, why can't Magic Bubble figure out how to make tear-free bubbles? The conspicuous absence of tear-free bubbles from Wal-Mart leads me to assume that tear-free bubbles wouldn't actually make bubbles -- cause haven't you noticed that the tear-free shampoo doesn't really bubble up in the bathtub? And doesn't that make you think that maybe tear-free shampoo doesn't actually work? Seems like to really work, shampoo should lather up. When Joe is channeling Monty Python, he likes to say he doesn't want to use sham-poo, he wants to use real-poo. I have to agree with him. [And every time he cracks that joke, I laugh.]

But that's not what this post is about.

This post is about Alexis, one of my church friends who is a first-rate musician with a fantastic voice. And this is about Dez, sitting down behind Alexis in the striped shirt. Dez is also a first-rate musician with a fantastic voice. Alexis and Dez and several other of our church friends attended an event tonight where there was live music. Alexis and Dez really had it rough tonight, however, because the live music (using the term loosely as you'll discover) had actually lost half of their group (and apparently their instruments and mikes) the week before. Here's the band:

The guy with the drumsticks played a skateboard and a hubcap. I can't explain the guy dressed like a banana. But the band sure tried, didn't they Alexis? Didn't they Dez? They really, really tried. Bless their hearts.

This is The Last Lighting Post, I Promise

Let me get this over with, because it's painful. Here is a photo of the pretty twinkly lights on our house -- all one color, tastefully done, worthy of Martha Stewart:

Here is Joe, feeling proud of his handiwork, basking in the glow of his wife's approval for a monochromatic job well done:

Wait a sec. What's he looking at? What is that evil sneer? Do I smell a passive aggressive traitor in our midst?

Join with me now in a moment of silence for the Martha Stewart lighting extravganza that we all should have known was never really possible.
And seriously, look at the green rope lighting underneath the trailer. The blue rope lighting on the antenna wasn't enough?

Let's move on.

This week I received alerts from half of my readers (two of them, that is) regarding a wardrobe change for trashy angel (if I could figure out how to put in a link to my November 17th post, it would be here, cause that's where I alerted you all to trashy angel's presence in our midst this holiday season). Here is her bra-less brazen hussy self in November:

And here she is today:

Though she appears to have only one pose, she clearly has a hairdresser. If she can afford a hairdresser, why can't she afford a bra? Joe insists that bras are for women who need them (the non-perky types) and according to him, Trashy Angel/Trashy Mrs. Claus doesn't need one so it's okay for her not to be wearing one. Um . . . .no. See, only after they have children do women with cup sizes C and below really need a bra. Prior to having children, women with cup sizes C and below wear bras for modesty's sake. I think we all understand what I'm saying here. No need to be graphic. Don't be too hard on Joe -- sometimes his most firmly held beliefs are only oral expressions of his wishful thinking.

But none of this rambling on about a brazen hussy's tendency to chain herself to a flagpole in front of an apartment complex explains Trashy Angel's sudden wardrobe change. I have a few guesses:

1) Those rainstorms we had last weekend created a, shall we say, "see-through" situation and traffic became snarled along Hillsborough Avenue, as (male) drivers could not keep from slowing down to see if they could assist this poor naked woman chained to a flagpole.

2) The non-Christian residents in the apartment complex complained to management about the obvious religious bias being displayed at the entrance -- a bias toward brazen hussy angels.

3) Someone really wanted to use the french maid's apron that came with their halloween costume, but it didn't go with the angel costume.

Regardless of the costume change, I love it that Trashy Angel/Trashy Mrs. Claus has to actually be chained to the flagpole, lest she run away to a "gentleman's club" on Dale Mabry Avenue or Vegas, where, at least by Joe's estimation, she would have a bright career.

Toenatopsis: A Meditation on Toes

The toes of my feet make my life so complete.
Not the hairs of my head nor my nose so neat.
I have ten little darlings to wallow in mud,
to wiggle and scream when upon them they're trud.
And what would I do without all ten of my toes?
Would I walk like a pigeon or caw like a crow?
Oh woe is me if ever I lose the ten little piggies I hide in my shoes.

(I thought it was high time I introduced you savages to some real literature. [You should be thankful I didn't post "There's a Bagel in My Backpack."] That, and I had to post something or you would email me and complain.)

Everest the Elf

Last year I bought the book, The Elf on the Shelf, along with the elf. The idea behind the book is that every year Santa sends an elf to every child's house to spy on the child. Every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, the elf shows up at your house in the morning and then leaves at night while you are sleeping to report back to Santa on the child's behavior. A couple of rules come with the elf: 1) you have to name him (our elf is Everest); 2) you should talk to him (plead your case if need be); and 3) you cannot touch him. For the grown-ups, the elf comes with a duty to move him every morning to a new spot so that the children think he's really going to the North Pole and coming back every night. Quite frankly, it's a lot of pressure. A couple of times last year I had to make up outlandish stories about blizzards and flu outbreaks in the North Pole to explain why the elf was still in the same spot in the morning as he had been the day before:

Casey: "Mom, Everest didn't go to the North Pole last night!"

Mom: "Well you must have been so bad yesterday that Everest couldn't bear to go report on you to Santa. You are breaking that poor little elf's heart. He must be giving you a second chance today -- so you better be doubly good. Come in here and help me scrub this toilet."

Casey: "Yes Ma'am!!"

Here's where Everest was this morning:

Here's where he was yesterday:

(Joe thinks it's funny to put Everest in clearly uncomfortable positions -- and no, Everest is not anatomically correct; that's an elephant's trunk -- though he'd be a hit among the lady elves, I grant you that. Not that Everest is a player, mind you. I'm sure he and Mrs. Everest are very happy together. It was just a ridiculously-inappropriate-for-a-family-friendly-blog turn of speech.)

And the day before:

And the day before that:

Joe and I are doing our part in moving Everest around the house as you can see. But I think Casey is starting to catch on. Today in the car on the way to school, Casey said, "Hey Mom, have you ever noticed that Everest never blinks?" Once he starts doubting the elf, it's all downhill. Next thing you know he'll be asking me why Santa sounds so much like Pop Pop and then he'll want to know how the tooth fairy gets through the window and then he'll be wanting to know where babies come from. It's too soon. I can't take it. I have to think of a reason why Everest never blinks.

This picture says so much about my day. Just in case your mind cannot process everything happening in this one photo, please note the following: 1) car seat is not in the car; 2) car seat fabric covering is missing; 3) Mace is sans pants; 4) annoying play electric guitar is clenched tightly in his hands.

Do you ever have days when you think maybe God is trying to tell you something but you really can't put your finger on what it is? I was getting a gist of it and then the day started unraveling. The highlights: 1) our nanny put a swim diaper on Mace thinking it was a pull-up, so by the time we got home from picking Casey up from school and going by the uniform store he was soaking wet and the car seat was, too; Mace being soaked was not a big deal -- cause he can be changed -- it was the car seat cover that presented a problem and took me thirty minutes to get off the plastic base so that I could throw it in the wash; 2) Casey took off his glasses at the uniform store to look through a pair of toy binoculars and left them there, but by the time I realized it I had already dismantled the car seat so we couldn't go back to get them; 3) the rest of the day involved chili cheese hamburger helper and a very nice German couple, but if I went into all that I wouldn't have the strength to post this photo of the house:

Ooooh --- ahhhh. Sooooo prettty. I'm thinking we need to put the icicle lights up on the second story roof too, though. Joe is still insulted about the car washing comment from yesterday's post, so it looks like I'll be doing the second story lights myself.