The toe

Can I just start off by saying feet gross me out a little bit.  This picture makes me feel all sorts of yuck.  But I post it as proof that cleaning is hazardous to your health.

Behold!  The broken toe... casualty of an errant vacuum cleaner left abandoned on the floor in hopes that some little nocturnal elves would come calling and put it to use.  

My dog sheds her boy weight in fur everyday.  This means I have to vacuum everyday.  Sometimes twice, or her little furbleweeds will grow big enough that I fear they will morph into some sort of living thing. Like a gremlin.

All that to say; I hardly ever put away my vacuum.  There's no point.

You think that I'd learn the first time I tripped over it to either put it away, or avoid it entirely.  But it was the second trip, a mere 5 minutes later that snapped that third toe like a twig.

There are no words.  Except there are.  And although I won't type them here,  I sure did yell them.  

Don't worry, the kids were asleep.

Google is my friend

What do you do when the child-lock engages on your back door on the driver side and you are not able to close the door. And it's edging ever closer to bedtime and you have your two kids in the backseat?

You do your best with your limited knowledge and car keys.

And what do you do when you've exhausted all your knowledge and you still can't fix it?

You call your husband who is in Vegas.

And what do you do when your husband is unable to help you from the state of Nevada?

You go into the store and find the nearest warm-blooded male who looks like he might have a clue.

And what do you when he can't fix it, and visions of camping out in the parking lot start to look like a reality?

You call your husband back and ask him to google "how to fix a stuck child lock". Then rejoice and thank God for google and people who have enough time on their hands to post such quandaries to the world-wide-web-information-super-highway when he finds the answer and it works.

I love google.

Trying to control the uncontrollable by peeing in a cup

There is so much in life that we are unable to control. And to a person whose eye starts twitching at the mere thought of loss of control, that is a tough pill to swallow.

My life lately has been an exercise in "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference." Perhaps there's a lesson I need to be learning here.

Perhaps not.

All I know is, there may or may not be a curse upon our new house. And I seem to have lost my ability to control curses, because nothing is working. Let's look at the facts, shall we?

We move in. I notice that wasps have colonized the outside of our house. I cannot abide by flying, stinging insects. Bugman is called. Pricetag? $180.

Fred tries to use sprinkler system. Sprinkler system does not work properly. Fred calls guy out too look at it. Price tag to fix? $1500. We do not fix it. Fred does. For $4.

Ants have infested our upstairs bathroom. I will not share my house with insects. Bugman is called. Pricetag? Actually free... included in the $180 mentioned above.

Elise contracts a mystery rash. A very BAD mystery rash. That STILL isn't completely gone. Pricetag? Pedi visit + derm visit + over-the-counter meds + rx meds... you do the math.

Big storm causes tree limb to fall on Fred's car doing $3500 worth of damage. Pricetag? $500 deductible.

A car driving by (or something just as insignificant) causes another limb to fall, narrowly missing Fred's car. We decided to rid ourselves of this arbored-menace and have it cut down. Pricetag? $280.

Ants move their infestation to the downstairs bathroom. Bugman called yet again. Pricetag? Included.

Downstairs AC goes out. Home warranty people contacted. Run around given. Three different companies come to diagnose. Days go by. Part ordered from Texarkana. More days go by (apparently they are WALKING the part to Dallas). Phone calls made. Joanne is angered. Temperatures reach 87 degrees in the house. Joanne's head explodes. Eight days later AC is fixed. Pricetag? $134 + so much pain and suffering.

This is all in one month, people.

The latest trial is that there is a mole (or moles) in our backyard, threatening to do damage to all the hard work Fred has put into our lawn. I have been enjoying having a lawn that the kids can play on, as opposed to the obstacle course of weeds, fire ant hills, bare patches and mole holes that was the lawn at our old place.

We're not going down without a fight.

Today on the phone my Mom told me you can remedy moles by pouring urine down their holes.

And I was all, "really? Urine? I CAN DO THAT!"

So Fred got a cup and both of us made a contribution to the cause. We then ran giggling like a bunch of idiots to the backyard to pour pee down a hole. It was so awesome, I can't even begin to tell you. Finally... we were taking control of our own destiny (for FREE) and vanquishing the moles!

It's too soon to tell if it's working, but I finally feel like I've gained a little bit of control back in my life.

And if you're ever in our bathroom, and see a cup with the letter "P" written on it. Please don't use it.

For obvious reasons.

Bob Geldof had it right.

To paraphrase those Blackeyed Peas; when I woke up this morning, I had a feeling, that today was going to be a good day. Today was going to be a good, good day. A feeling. Woo hoo. That today's going to be a good... wait.

Sorry, got a bit caught up in the music in my head. As I said, I thought today was going to be fun. Mostly because Elise started up her gymnastics class, and that girl loves her some tumblin'. She had been talking about it all weekend, and was very excited to go. And there's just something about being a parent and watching your child enjoy the crap out of something. Not because she's extremely gifted at it, because let's face it; she has my genes swimming around in her. But because of the pure joy that they get out the experience.

Plus, I really like the bouncy floor we get to run around on.

So fast forward to about 9:15 am. Class starts at 9:30, and I can see the street I need to turn into to get to the rec centre when my car starts to sputter. I frantically try to turn left into the closest parking lot. I don't make it and my car dies straddling the middle of the road.

How crappily sucktastic.

So I sit there with my hazards on, calling Fred, all the while stuck in the middle of a two-lane each way, pretty busy road, with my precious cargo in the back. When I get ahold of Fred and explain my situation to him, he asks me what road I was on.

Let me take a time out here to explain to you guys how we women work: We are not a GPS. We don't know the name of the road we are on, unless it's the street we LIVE on. We know we need to turn left at the 7-11 and that's about all we know. Now that I live in Texas and have no landmarks to guide me, I don't know my north from my south. And when you ask me what road I am on while I am in the middle of a pretty stressful situation, my answer will be so high-pitched and shrieky; only animals and small children will be able to hear it.

Anyway, we manage to figure it out, and Fred tells me he's on his way. Meanwhile, all the fine citizens of the city of Hurst are driving past, either glaring at me, or honking while waving at me with only one finger. You sure have a strange way of greeting people in Texas.

Apparently, my 5 ft. 7, 120-pound frame is too intimidating for anyone to stop and render aid, so Elise and I languish there for 20 minutes. Until two rather nice gentlemen decide I'm not a threat to them, and they help to push my car into a parking lot. I'm thankful they did help... but still, 20 minutes in supposedly one of the nicest states in the union. Not good, Texas. Not good.

I did manage to break down in the not-so-nice section of Hurst, so there were auto shops a-plenty. When Fred arrived, her ran across the street to fetch some help. The guy he brought immediately went to work; banging his rather large wrench against something on the underside of the car. Hey! I didn't know I was qualified to be a mechanic! Apparently, his knowledge did not go beyond thumping on my car and was unable to help.

Fortunately, we have a rather amazing mechanic (no, you cannot have his name), who managed to diagnose the problem OVER THE PHONE. How cool is that? Turns out it was the fuel pump.

This post has gotten rather long, so I'm going to cut it off here and not mention the gut-wrenching stress over being so far away from home, with my child who has diabetes and needed to eat her lunch coming up pretty soon (I was prepared with some food, but not enough to cover her lunch). Nor will I mention the Battle-Royal Elise and I got into over her nap; which led to her falling asleep, face down on her floor, 90 minutes after I put her down.

I will mention that I received a very nice award from the uber-funny Wym. She said (and I quote):

Joanne is the most passionate mother I read about. Her daughter has Type 1 diabetes. Check her out and help her cause.

That, is just about the best thing you could ever say about me and helped to make me feel better about this terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-Monday. I'm also supposed to write 7 things about me and pass the award along to others, but I think I'll save that for another day. Thanks Wym, for the smile!

A FailMom kind of day

You know you've had a FailMom kind of day when:

It takes you THREE tries to get the oatmeal-making right this morning (OATMEAL for the love of all that's holy). Try #1 has you boiling up a pot of quinoa instead of your oatmeal. Because quinoa and steel-cut oats look exactly the same. Not in the real world, but in a world where you've only gotten three hours of sleep, they do. Try# 2 has you wandering upstairs and completely forgetting about your breakfast, thus burning the oatmeal and making the entire downstairs a total stink-fest. You finally get it right, over an hour later. Good thing the oatmeal was for you and not your kid who had already been given her insulin and needed to eat like, 50 minutes ago.

You manage to convince yourself that it is no big deal that your daughter is wearing the same top for the third day in a row, and more than that; it's okay that it's a pyjama top. And it's completely fine to take her out into public dressed like that because hey, at least you made an attempt to find matching pants. Emphasis on the word attempt.

You peek out through the shower curtain and notice your child is keeping herself busy by building the Leaning Tower of Feminine Hygiene Product Packages. You then shrug and tell yourself it's cheaper than having to buy her actual building blocks, since they serve a dual purpose.

You try to introduce your daughter to a brand new and totally fun game called, "Let's all take a Nap!" Wherein the object of the game is for you both to lie on the floor completely still and pretend to sleep . The secret object of the game is for you to actually sleep, while your child believes you are playing a fun game.

While you are making dinner, you allow your kid to pull out every pot, pan and other cooking utensil from the cupboard because you're just happy she's keeping herself occupied. You then notice with complete horror that there is blood everywhere and discover she has cut herself with the apple slicer-thingy. Not a bad cut, but a cut nonetheless. You then, being a mother of a T1 diabetic child, quickly ponder if you should use said blood to do a BG test, because hey... you need to test her in about 15 minutes anyway.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen... I am a star.