My mother in law verses the chainsaw

I posted this story on a babycenter board that I'm a member of, but it's so long (and funny) that I feel compelled to post it here for posterity. Plus, everyone loves a good "My mother in law got chainsawed" story.

My MIL... God love her. But she's a little daft sometimes. And this is why she'll never watch my children alone again.

Picture the scene: southeast of Houston in April. DH is with his parents, haven taken our kids down ahead of me while he was on transfer leave. My husband occasionally does things that make no sense. Like deciding he's a logger. Granted, my uncle is one, but it's not something you become by association, like an idiot or a wagon. 

So, my husband the lumberjack (here on out known as Wonderjack) offers to take care of the three trees in his parents front yard in one of those attempts for parental validation covered up by "helpfulness". Of course, this means that Wonderjack has to use a chainsaw, which he's totally a pro at since we happen to also own one. Owning a chainsaw makes you a manly pro at using them the same way that owning a car made Wonderjack a good driver and buying a set of knives made Gordon Ramsay wish he could have my talent. 

Also, since these are trees were talking about, not stumps, this also meant the use of a ladder. 

Supplies gathered, Wonderjack left our kids in my mother in laws capable care inside the house, where she presumably fluttered window to window watching, while burning a pot of water in the stove. She was told to stay in the house, and watch the kids. The manly lumberjacks were going out to deal with those pesky trees, and kids could be hurt. So I give Wonderjack points for at least thinking about this fact. Unfortunately, points didn't prevent what would happen next. 

Wonderjack cut down the first tree with no incident. Then my MIL decided to go hover and check out what was taking do long. Because cutting down trees is such a quick process. 

My MIL has a tendency to do this. Hover and watch, fingers in pots when you're cooking. It's mostly harmless, even if a touch annoying. But this time she forgot about the five and six year old little girls in her care. Actually I prefer to think she didn't forget, but rather believed on blind faith that an ADHD little girl and her little sister would just sit quietly, saying "yes, grandma" and twiddle their thumbs until she returned. 

So MIL the brainiac meanders on over to Wwonderjack, who is up on a ladder, actively using a chainsaw. At the very moment that she walked under the ladder, Wonderjack lost his balance. With a chainsaw in hands. Mother in law (did I mention she's a genius?) dives for her baby boy. You know, the one with the chainsaw. 

And promptly takes a chainsaw to the shoulder. 

With my daughters watching. Forget about that part? Oh yes, my highly obedient little darlings had wandered outside after grandma, figuring if it was so interesting that grandma needed to go look, they needed to see too.

Now, luckily for my MIL, chainsaws in this day and age have a safety, so when you release, they turn off. Otherwise, she'd be mastering fire alarm cooking with one arm. She ended up with 11 stitches to her shoulder, and a bill for 200$ from the hospital, a story that both she and my husband will never live down, and a ban from ever watching my children again.

My Baby's Cuter Than Your Baby

Yeah, I really think that. So do you. Not that you think mine's cuter (I mean, I think you should think that) but that every parent thinks their baby is the cutest thing freaking ever. And pretty much every parent is right. Once in a while... well, once in a while Bill Engvall's ugly baby skit is spot on (Handsome little man there! Oh! It's a girl? Think of all the money you'll save on prom dresses!) but mostly, babies are cute.

But, you know. Mine's cuter.

Oh! Look! You've got the camera pointed at me again!

Random Thought

Why doesn't redbox say what they really mean?

"Fuck. You returned it. We were really hoping you'd pay 35$ plus tax for Santa verses the Water Gremlins."

Here's the deal

If I have time in between finishing dinner and your butt finally coming back to my table to do this:

Chances are you're not getting a great tip. Just sayin'. 

Today is the First Day...

Of summer vacation.

We have a full summer ahead of us. I could just do like I've done every other year and send my kids outside with a bottle of water and some sunscreen, but I made this huge list of things we're going to do this summer.

It's actually not at all daunting. We have arts and crafts projects (painted pots, stepping stones, bird feeders), simple pleasures (blow dandelions, watch a sunset), family activities (go to the movies, have a pajama night, have a card night), culinary adventures (learn to cook with mom, eat a new food every week, try a new restaurant) and sight seeing (go to the aquarium, various museums, the zoo, the water park, the beach). And it's all written up on a cheap poster board with my favorite sharpies with little squares to mark off as we go.

Of course, we're off to an auspicious start to the summer - it's raining. I appreciate the rain. It keeps the ground fires at bay, and in a state made of up of mostly unprocessed bark dust (trees), it's preferable that things remain moist. But my kids don't appreciate the rain - it keeps them inside.

So here's to summer, and to finishing what is essentially a three month project!

Beer

Conversation had at the mini-Nex tonight while buying my husband some beer, like the adorable '50s housewife I am:

"How's your day going?"

Well, I'm hot, I have no ac, the boy is teething, we're going to have a sleepover tonight, my fibro's acting up, and I'm pretty sure my meds need adjusted. But this is too much information, so I answer: "Buying beer for my husband. Pretty sure that's a valid answer to that question."

"This stuff any good?"

"My husband says it's one of the best."

"Well, I don't know about that."

"Well, we are in beer country over here. But this is supposed to be one of the best in this region." The beer is Silver City Brewery's red, by the way. Mix it with their fat scotch and you have a fred, which is apparent THE BEST BEER EVER in the words of my husband, and a local's 'secret' that I totally didn't just give away.

"Well, I really like budweiser myself."

Me: *eye twitch*

Dip Dying With KoolAid

Note to self - as a parent, when the directions to something unique, like dip-dying, involve the usage of gloves, wear them, or you'll be googling "how to get koolaid stains out of skin" like I totally just didn't have too.

The answer is toothpaste, by the way.

Thoughts on Painters

Housing, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the siding of the new houses that are clearly visible from the main road is more important than renovating our 25 year old kitchen cabinets, and are now in the process of painting those visual eyesores they call town houses. Because, you know, can't offend the big wigs driving past.

I'm not bitter.

It's not like I have less counter space than a studio apartment. Or no pre-installed lighting in any rooms. Or showers that don't leak. Drains that don't back up constantly, or a true working garbage disposal. Or doors and windows that seal properly.

But I'm not bitter.

It's not like I pay 1500$ a month for the above listed monstrosities.

But that's not the point of this post.

Point is, as I was driving by the painters, I realized that they were wearing all white, as they're painting the townhouses in a distinctly not-white color. Which made me think, who decided white was a good color for a painter's uniform? I mean, no one in their right mind paints anything pure white. Especially not the Navy, who specialize in nicotine yellow for housing.

So what color does work for it? Should they have rotating uniforms, I wondered? Matching their outfits to the color they're working with? Or a rainbow camouflage, so that any splotches would never be seen? It could be like an initiation ritual - hark back to 1992, when all the cool teenagers splatter painted their bedrooms. Only they do it with clothes.

No. No I decided the appropriate uniform for a painter should be Vaseline. No replacement of uniforms. No washing required. Just your normal shower, and perfectly soft skin every day.

And gloves, of course. Wouldn't want to drop those paint brushes when you're all Vaselined up.

Truth Is...

I'm out. I'm not doing family functions anymore. In fact, if you aren't one degree of separation from me, or older than 75, I couldn't give a shit anymore. The level of family dysfunction that exists here is not what I came back to this state for, and I'm not going to sit here and waste my time playing happy family to people who will turn around and talk behind my back or associate with those who do. I'm not going to schmooze with an aunt who trashes my mother, no matter what the back story. I'm not going to take sides in a war I didn't sign up for, however, if requested to take sides, I will back out for my own sense of self preservation.

Frankly. I'm done. I have a six month old, two almost pre-teen daughters, two dogs, a cat and my own life to take care of. I can't care about this crap anymore. I can't keep having panic attacks every time I see the interactions of a bunch of people who refuse to say what they really mean.

So that's it.

Some days you just walk on by

Others, you find yourself wondering what a troll king tastes like. Is it rancid from the first cut, or taste like buttery unicorn meat? Is it best served with mustard or ketchup, or does it require its own special sauce that, had the troll king catchers been paying attention, would have come with the meat. These are questions I'll never have the answers to.

Don't Worry About It

It's fine. Desperation is a good look on you.

Fathers Day

Happy Father's Day!!

And happy un-fathers day to all the dead beats, abusers, cruel fathers, those who don't have enough "time" to spend with their kids, and those who simply don't care to. Happy unfathers day to those who have completely forgotten every birthday or holiday their child takes joy in, and have no interest in what their kids are interested in. Happy un-fathers day to all the dads who couldn't even guess at what their kid's favorite color is, let alone their eye color. I hope today is a solid reminder of exactly what kind of person you are, and that you're secure in the knowledge that one day, when they stop searching for some sort of approval from you, they'll realize that they actually hate you. So fuck you, for all the little ones who can't say it.

For those awesome dads, like my husband, who get down on the floor to play, and know what our girl's favorite barbies are, who knows dress sizes, shoe sizes, schedules, rituals, fears, favorites,how to cheer them up on a crappy day, and has kissed hundreds of boo-boos. For those awesome dads who have no sense of embarrassment cause the baby spit up on his shirt (again). For those awesome dads, who are so big, as giants, in the eyes of their kids, and when their kids grow up, they grow to realize that their dad is just another person, but a person they WANT to know, who they WANT in their lives... Happy fathers day. And thank you.

My Mom's To Blame

My mom is a special brand of crazy. It's not the type my aunt has, in that we all avoid her if she's been drinking and we're relatively certain that she's diagnosable in the form of some kind of rage-aholic disorder.

No, my mom's brand of crazy is the type that she's passed on to myself and my sister, that has allowed us to believe fried chicken is a desert food, entire conversations can be had in grunts, squeals and emoticons, and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with getting up at 2am to make fried wontons. You know, if you like that sort of thing.

Dad, who would have been a stabilizing influence to the crazy, was overruled pretty quickly by the overwhelming amount of X chromosomes in our house. Poor man just couldn't win. So he subscribed to the 'fade-into-the-background-and-pretend-it's-not-happening' mantra.

My mom's brand of crazy is the kind that is developed from years of dealing with idiots, hardship, and assholes, and developing coping strategies that result in some pretty amusing events.

Like un-birthday parties. Dancing with no pants (true story. She denies it. It happened.). Random music parties that I'm pretty sure the cops could have shut down (never mind it was only mom, me and my sister). Making green eggs and ham.

It's resulted in some odd things being bought. Like a metal cow with wings, who still lives in her house.

And thanks to mom, it's now resulted in me doing the same odd stuff. I've made green risotto (It was St Patrick's day!), purple rice, rainbow cakes and multicolored pancakes.

And yesterday, it resulted in the purchase of this:

That is a big metal peacock. I found it on clearance at Target. I had to have it. Just had to. So I politely asked my husband, who's opinion I give great weight to about my purchases (ahem), who said yes. Unequivocally. So I bought him. He was on clearance, yo. How can you turn down a yard peacock who is on clearance?

And the kids love it. Yssa insists that I bought it because she's doing a report on peacocks, apparently. V just likes it:

So. I now have a big metal peacock in my front yard. And it's all my mom's fault.

Oops.

I really should watch what I say in public.

At the military commissary today, I picked out two of those tuscan cantaloupes, the ones that look like a cantaloupe had sex with a lace doily, and gave birth to a new breed of cantaloupe with ruffles. They're adorable. As I picked them up, my husband is yet again giving me shit about how I can't walk past produce without buying some. What can I say? I like fresh food.

And without missing a beat, I say "You should be thankful I have two melons."

Which would have been really amusing had there not been two women standing behind us that looked much more conservative than I'll ever be.

I still haven't decided if I'm embarrassed by this one.

I Never Expected

To be a medical examiner and CSI. Barbie body parts currently abound in my home. My daughters appear to be plastic doll serial killers. I currently have a barbie leg at the base of my stairs and a monster high doll hanging, by her neck, from the blinds in one of the bedrooms. I can only hope this is the beginning of my sort of crazy, and not the variety that lands them on a one hour special on TLC.

Conversation between me and my husband

Me: "I'm pretty sure I'm living the real life adaptation of 'Everybody Poops'."

DH: "What did you just say?"

Me: "Well, I got up this morning, and let the dogs out. And while I'm scooping the kitten's box, I look out the window to see Belle-Dog and Dog-Bell pooping simultaneously and staring at me guiltily. Just as I get done with the litter box, Critter insists he needs his diaper changed. And he does - it's a complete blow-out. Then, as I am using the restroom, I look into the trash can to realize that YDD has put her dirty toilet paper in the trash can. Again. So - real life adaptation of 'Everybody Poops'."

DH: "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The Start

I'm crazy. At least, sometimes I think I am. Not "Bat Shit Crazy, you might want to search my bag for a shiv", just your run of the mill I'm that person that everyone shakes their heads and wonders "What-why?" crazy.

I do some random stuff. Say some random things. I like a lot, and do a little of everything. I'm not terribly great at anything, but enjoy doing most everything. Except taxes. And taxidermy. I'm not much fond of either of those. I find myself pretty amusing, and don't really care if the people around me do or not.

So here it goes. This is quite literally just a jumble of everything I do, random thinks I've thunk, and some of the crazy things I say.