What’s Comin’ Will Come, an’ We’ll Meet it When it Does

Those words up there are the title of a blog post I had swimming in my head last night as I was making a much dreaded trip to Wal Mart to buy cold supplies.

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With alll the snucking and snorfelling and trumpeting into tissues that some of my kids were doing, we were running low; and there were more of us coming down with it.  I could feel myself going downhill yesterday, so I knew I’d wake up feeling like garbage today.  I knew what was comin’.  I was right.  It did, and I do.

But people!  There is so much more comin’ today!  Like a new stove, and a new fridge, and a new microwave!  Incidentally, I won’t cook with a microwave, but we can’t leave the old one that doesn’t work hanging above the stove because it won’t match, so we’ve spent hundreds of dollars to buy a matching appliance that will not be used) (but will help with the resale value of the house should we move).  Exciting stuff!  Right?

Why, yes!  So exciting, in fact, that the person who did the measuring for the new refrigerator, a person who shall remain nameless and relationship-less for purposes of this post (speaking of relationships, did you all hear that Brangelina is divorcing?) found that the soon-to-be-old fridge was standard width, depth, and height.  When we picked out the new fridge and this person saw that it was the same standard width and depth, this person, unbeknownst to the other person, made the assumption that it was also the same standard height.

We all know what they say about assuming.

So what’s comin’, what we’ll meet when it does, is a brand new refrigerator that is about two inches too tall to fit under the over-the-fridge cupboards.

The way we see it, we now have two options: send the sucker back and probably pay some “yes, we’re idiots” fee, or raise the cupboards — all of the cupboards — about two inches.  We have 2.5 hours until our delivery window starts, so naturally my grandmother’s china is currently sitting on my bedroom floor, and The Husband is in the kitchen, with nothing but his power tools and ingenuity, trying to raise cabinets two inches all by himself.  We all know this means that ours will be the first appliance delivery in the history of appliance deliveries that occurs at the very beginning of the delivery window, if not earlier.

I’d help The Husband, of course, except I have to write about it all to avoid having some kind of heretofore never experienced nervous breakdown.  I did ask him what I could do to help.  He told me to pray.  Vigorously.  Does typing count?  Probably not.  I don’t think God reads my blog.

Are you there, God?  It’s me, E.

I hear the sound of power tools coming from my kitchen.  I can feel the cortisol pulsing through my body.  I don’t think the fight or flight response was designed to make a sick person want to flee her own house, was it?  I need chocolate.

You know what else is comin’?  What with the cupboards all being raised a couple inches?  Painting.  I’m going to have to repaint the kitchen.  I still have some of the paint from the last time I painted it, so maybe I’ll only have to paint the new exposed swaths of wall.  But still.  Paintin’ is comin’.

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T-1 hour now (I actually did go help a bit), and guess what???  The delivery guys called.  They’re running early.  They’ll be here in HALF an hour.  On the up side, the necessary cupboards have been moved up the requisite space and nothing got broken in the process.  That’s a tender mercy right there, I tell you.  Who knew we, mostly him, could do that that quickly?  On the down side, the necessary cupboards have been moved up the requisite space which means the unnecessary cupboards now also need to be moved so that our kitchen doesn’t give everyone vertigo, and we?  Are not particularly tall people.

Some of the younger kids are rather happy that they can finally reach to get their cups and their bowls.  What kind of parent raises the cupboards two inches shortly after that milestone has been hit?  The kind who doesn’t thoroughly measure for a new refrigerator, apparently.

“Hey, Quinn, how about you go get cups for you and Spuds.  Ha ha!  You can’t anymore, shorty!  Whatcha’ been doin’?  Drinkin’ Miracle-Shrink?”

As I’ve said before, we’re not saving for their college.  We’re saving for their therapy.

But L~ came home during The Raising of the Cupboards, and I gave her a grocery list and my credit card.  So you know what else is comin’?  Chocolate.  And I’ll meet it when it does.

So will Tewt the Newt.

 

Three Years ago on Facebook . . .

Sept. 16, 2013

Yesterday I learned that almost-nine-year-old boys apparently find it hilarious to silently pass gas in church and watch their mother’s face contort and eyes water until said mother informs the boy that if she can smell it, so can the people sitting in front of her. It’s amazing how wide with mortification almost-nine-year-old-Korean-born eyes can get. Why can’t little boys figure this stuff out on their own?

Maybe We Talk About Harry Potter a Little Too Much?

Tonight at bedtime, Spuds, who has a cold, came to me and said, “Mom, we should get a deluminator.”

“You mean like the one Quinn has?” I asked, because Quinn does, in fact, have a deluminator which turns a little lantern off and on.”

“Yeah,” said Spuds, “but a real one. ”

“Ummm . . . a real one?” I asked tentatively and with a little surprise.  I thought the boy already knew those things aren’t real (in the sense that they don’t work on any and every light built by mankind).

“You know,” he said.  “A real one.  Not one that’s like a cow or a lizard or anything.”

“You want a deluminator but not a cow deluminator?” I asked in complete confusion.  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I’ve never seen, let alone heard of, a cow deluminator.”

The mind boggles.  What would be the purpose of a cow deluminator?  For the love . . . please don’t tell me it would be to turn cows on (and off, obviously).  I mean, I used to know someone who collected bull semen for a living, so maybe it would have come in handy in his line of work, but that seems like a lot of magical inventing for a very limited use, no?  Anyway, back to the conversation . . . 

“You know,” he persisted.  “Like the one we took out of Quinn’s room when we were cleaning it”

At this point we were walking up the stairs toward the boys’ bedrooms.

“We took a cow deluminator out of Quinn’s room???  I really don’t know what you’re talking . . .”

And there, at the top of the stairs, was the trusty husband waiting for us next to:


“Do you mean the cow humidifier?”

“Oh, yeah.  That’s what I meant!”

Thank the stars!  Because I did not want my kid asking Santa for a magical device that does nothing more and nothing less than get our bovine population’s hopes up only to profoundly disappoint them moments later, over and over, with the flick of a switch.  We live in the country.  We buy local beef.  I’m thinking that would have to affect the meat in some way.

Tewt the Newt would like to clarify that he is not a lizard.

Yippe-ki-Yay Mumble Mumbles

People, we are one pig head short of and two adults over for a William Golding novel.  I swear.  I mean, we have the boys.  Not as many as Mr. Golding envisioned; but two of them, if left unsupervised, could lose all semblance of their humanity in about 3.5 unsupervised seconds.  And?  We have the flies.  Dear heavens to Murgatroid (unless your British like Mr. Golding, then it’s Murgatroyd), we have the flies.

We live in the country, so houseflies, irritating though they are, are nothing new; but last summer?  The population that got into our house quadrupled to the power of five.  Or something.  I’m not math-y; but I am pretty sure these bugs are out for blood.  Or info. Whatever happened last summer apparently just involved an inordinate number of scout flies, many of whom gave their lives to gather whatever intel the rest of the flies needed in order to lay the groundwork for the Fly League Invasion of Entirety, Summer 2016 (code name FLIES 16).  This summer I actually wouldn’t be surprised to find a pig head on a stake in my living room.  It would explain a lot.  For crying out loud, we even have a dragonfly in here right now.  Where’s a maniacal, bloodthirsty band of boys when you need them?

(Cleaning the toy room at the moment, thankyouverymuch.)

We can’t figure it out, this fly problem of ours.  This evening, as he stood with a fly swatter in each hand, coiled to spring at the next unfortunate winged menace to land on the front door windows, The Husband said, “I half wish we would just find a dead possum under one of the boys’ beds, because then we could throw it out and know we’re done with all this.”  I don’t think the husband has read Mr. Golding’s book, or he, too, would have said “pig head” rather than “possum.”  We just gutted the boys’ rooms a week or two ago, however, so that, along with the distinct lack of olfactory putrescence emanating from the upper level of our home, pretty much guarantees we won’t find any rotting animals, road kill or otherwise, under the beds.

There is nothing like a fly invasion in one’s home to precipitate these most unexpected conversations.

“You know what I like?” I asked as The Husband, L~, and I ran from foyer to dining room, window to window, and back again flailing and swatting away.  “I like it when I manage to hit one clean out of the air and I hear it hit the swatter, and then I hear it hit the wall or the window or whatever and ricochet off.  It is just so.  . . .”

“THE most satisfying feeling!” the husband exulted as he smashed a fly against a window.

Egad!  The dragonfly just flew into a wall sconce globe.  I guess that takes care of that problem.  I need to set a reminder on my phone to buy a bug net at the dollar store next spring.

“Yes!  Exactly!  So satisfying,” I said as I swung for another.  “Like, yippe-ki-yay . . . mumble mumble!” (and I did say, “mumble mumble”).

Strange how an overabundance of houseflies can cause me to identify with a fictional character’s satisfaction of blood lust even though I’ve never actually watched the whole movie.  Yes, Bruce Willis and my fly swatter are my home boys, until we get a good freeze, anyway.

After a good two hours of Fly Reduction with Intended Entire Destruction (code name FRIED) activities tonight, I am listening to the ungodly buzz of at least three flies as I type (which means there are probably about 20 still alive in my house).  Hopefully one of our two bug zappers (oh yeah, we’re all kinds of swanky right now with two, yes TWO bug zappers IN. OUR. HOUSE!) . . . hopefully the remaining flies, however many there are, will succumb to a bug zapper after I turn out all the lights tonight.

Yippe-ki-yay, mumble mumbles.

Tewt the Newt doesn’t even want you around.

 

 

 

Proud Mom Moments

I don’t know why it took so long, but today we found out that L~ got a 5 on the AP English exam she took last spring.  My English major/mom heart is happy.

Shortly after getting this news, I was shopping at Costco with the 13-year-old, almost-12-year-old, and the two nine-year-olds.  You all know I deserve a massage and a medal now, right?  Because I do.  Anyway, as I was pushing around the cart laden with, among many, many other things, 160lbs of dog food (who needs Crossfit when you’ve got about 250 lbs worth of dogs at home?) we saw this:


and my almost-12-year-old son said, “That’s from Macbeth!  ‘Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.'”

My heart almost exploded.  But only almost because, you know, somebody had to pay for and drive all those canine comestibles home.  At any rate, I’m feeling a little more excited about starting our homeschool year next week.

Tewt the Newt thinks that’s a good thing.

How Was Your Weekend?

Mine?  Oh mine was just smashing.

We divided and conquered this weekend.  The Husband took A~ out Far Away In The West to start her sophomore year of college while I took the rest (minus L~) back home for a few days.

The Husband’s weekend:

1. In Provo, carrying boxes o’ stuff toward A~’s apartment, he gets stopped by a random college dude who says to him, “Hey! So you’re moving in here?” Yeah, no, but here comes my daughter.  Say hi.

2. Wearing his “BYU Dad” t-shirt and catching a connecting flight in Phoenix he is stopped by a female airline employee who says, “You just dropped a kid off at BYU? Provo? Boy or girl?” Upon being told he dropped off our daughter in Provo, she gave him the once over and said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll be a cutie for sure. My son just got off his mission and is at the Y now. What’s your daughter’s name? They have to meet each other.” Yes, information was exchanged. That’s the way we Mormons roll.

My weekend:

1. Single parent traveling with a passel of kids for a series of different appointments.

2. The pharmacist/naturopath saying, “Yeah, I can kind of see your enlarged thyroid from here . . .” (he was sitting several feet away from me, on the other side of a desk).

So The Husband gets mistaken for a college student, and I get a goiter.

#herestoyouMrsRobinson