A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to IKEA

 So this week, as we continue the theme of everything deciding after a year of only living with us, the machines are all quitting, the furniture followed suit.  Out one bed and a few drawers, we opted to do as the Swedes do...and went to that store known for three things...making Americans follow a maze without having a ride at the end, selling furniture Mjollnir like in temperment, refusing to be assembled by those it deems not worthy, and the unique capacity to make people not presumably under duress, part with money to purchase frozen sweedish meatballs for human consumption.   

We purchased a bed after an hour of walking around, and two desks and yes, even some Sweedish meatballs.  My second oldest started assembly, my desk was easy.  My daughter's bed, not so much.  It seemed we'd neglected to purchase the right slats and the base bar. We also accidentally purchased a full rather than twin...but that, we could deal with so the next day, we drove again to the Ikea (it's an hour there each time).  

Home again, home again, jiggity jig, and we can't open the bar. It's supposed to expand.  We tried WD40, we tried olive oil, and we had three people pulling as hard as they could --with visions of someone being impaled by the process if the damn thing gave.   My son decided to try a hair dryer.  To our surprise, he was able to slide the bar with ease. It did give him bragging rights, especially since everyone else had tried and failed.   I told him to tell his older sister, there was a simpler explanation...we were not worthy.   

The mattress we need arrives tomorrow...and the sheets and comforter that would fit, on Tuesday, so sometime after March 9th, my daughter will have a working bed and maybe, a full night's sleep.   

As for me, four hours of driving and an equal amount of frustration for four adults and satisfaction for one modest but still somehow smug teen and I microwaved the meatballs for dinner, vowing never to darken the doors of the most overrated Sweedish import since the SAAB, Hagar the Horrible and, well I do like ABBA.   

I do however, love my new desk and the breakfast table, having caught wind of the recent wave of revolutions by inanimate objects, feels wobbly.  

Over at the Register Today

with a piece I wish wasn't inspired by the news and real life.  It is a sin to be scandalized by sin. I'm not, but I'm still sad about it because the world needs more saints.  

What's My Sign Today? Hold Please

Today, I spent 30 minutes trying to get back onto my blog, because I forgot the password to my email, and thus had to get the code from my phone to access my email so I could then access the password for the blog. Getting the code meant finding the phone, which I'd put on silent yesterday and now couldn't find by sound.  

My son needs documentation proving he is the age I say he is, birth certificate proves he was born, but not who he is now, ergo we need his student ID, which he has lost, which prevents me from taking him to get a learner's permit or a social security card.  So I need him to go get a new student ID so I can then take the student ID to go get him a social security card so we can then go and have him take a test to get a learner's permit.  We also need my oldest college student to give me documentation so I can add her to the insurance, and only a DL will do.  She's not here so I need to email her to send me a copy so I can go to the office and give the copy to the officials.

Or I can bring my tax forms, but since they were filed over the internet, the signature page isn't signed, so it doesn't count unless I go by the accountant, have them sign, and then bring it.   The accountant isn't open on Monday, so it will have to wait until tomorrow before it can begin.

My entire morning can be summed up as "There's a Hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza."  The entire world is giving me the message, "Be back in five minutes.  Hold please."  I recognize when the universe is saying give up, try again tomorrow.  I yield.

If anyone needs me this afternoon, I'll be slumming on my bed watching Netflix and eating chocolate.

I Want THURSDAY BACK!

Blogger deleted my post yesterday. GRRRRRRR!  So I intended to leave a comment yesterday and I know there was at least one blog I didn't get to visit.  My apologies.  --Sherry

Everything Old is New Again

POTTY WARS ADDENDUM...from 2007


It's not going well.

Indisposed, daughter (who is two), knocks. "Don't come in!" I urge. She opens the door and very gently puts down a box of baby wipes. "Here you go Mom." She says and walks away.


It's really not going well.

Me: You should use the potty J.

"No Mom."

Me: Why not?

"Then I'll get my beautiful potty all dirty."

It's not going well at all.

At the grocery store, "We need diapers Mom! Don't forget diapers Mom."

Nice lady listening: "Don't you want to be a big boy and use underwear and go to school?" I nod my head eagerly in agreement.

"NO. Then I'd have to leave Mom alone with the baby!"

Mind you, this gent potty trained 3 days before he became 4 because I told him it was illegal to celebrate his 4th birthday if he Wasn't potty trained ---he never used a diaper or had an accident from that point forward, not once.  No....I know I may be spending time in purgatory for this one but I still am not sorry.

Fast Forward to 2011, 45 days until she turns 4...

She is watching Dora.  Dora is currently the spokeswoman for the Potty Dance, a movement (if you will) to help parents with persuading their toddler set to use the facilities.  The commercial came on and cued by the reminder, her father asked, "Don't you want to do the potty dance?"

She curled up in the fetal position.   She didn't say it but I believe her body language said, "Et Tu Dora?"

The Expert is In

I admit, as a child I identified with Lucy Van Pelt far more than one ought.  I understood her need to occasionally just be crabby and bossy to her younger brother.  Those cartoon hits "POW" were emotionally satisfying.  My younger brother can testify to this reality as well.  Lucy was many things, but always passionate about her own opinion, the Cartoon Patroness of bloggers so to speak. Theoretically, I've matured since then but there are moments when I backslide.

My current stash of knowledge and expertise generated from 44 years on this earth, a Master's plus and independent study seems absent some sort of creative campaign with bells and whistles, insufficient to lure my offspring into 1) seeking my counsel 2) sticking around long enough for me to say something and 3) following through.  

For example:

Yesterday, my eight year old came to me and said, "My stomach hurts."  I looked her over, suggested putting on some less restrictive sweatpants and maybe lying down.   Five minutes later, she complained again, but her attire indicated no adjustments had been made.  I gave the same advice.  She then marched over to the TV, sat down and said, "It feels better now" only to then dramatically groan when her sister came to sit down and explain, "My stomach hurts." all over again.   

Two weeks ago when school let out, I asked everyone to clean out their backpacks of all food, paper and stuff on the first day home.  I explained why.   I called everyone to the kitchen with a trash can at the ready.   Yesterday, if penicillin still needed to be discovered, I would have been in business.  

When I spent three weeks organizing people's drawers, I created a system.  I briefed each child on the system to make sorting and putting away clothing a breeze.  Let us just say, a tornado ripped through the system and we are starting over.   

So I have to acknowledge that Mom's counsel however sage --brush your teeth, study in advance, practice practice practice, lay out your clothes the night before, write it down, make a list, set your alarm...gets lost before it ever graces the eardrums and I need a new medium for conveying all that it is my obligation to impart.    I am thinking of hanging up a sign over my door, "The Expert is IN" as a means of gaining street cred with my children. 

Alas, Lucy's approach of saying, "You Blockhead.  Five cents please." won't assist in this matter however cathartic it might seem to feel in the moment anymore than the recriminations, "Did you study? practice? plan? Call? Think? Clean?  Look? Try?  Remember?"    

Somewhere in the morphing from child to adult, from adult to Mom, I became Charlie Brown and now spend my days believing I can kick that football if only I try once more.  Except I'm tired of running and falling on my back and saying, "AUUGHH."

I miss being Lucy.   So I'm hanging up a sign.  "Homework Help  5 Cents."  with an IN and an OUT sign.  Novelty will get me at least a dime's worth of their time, which is more than I can muster now with cookies and milk.   If nothing else, when they don't listen, I can charge more and explain, "You get what you pay for."  

The Unsecret Formula for Surviving Life's Mishaps

Yesterday, my son was sky high. He texted me about getting a 94 on his German test. His father and I were both very pleased.

My husband took the train to New York last night. As a result, this morning, my son had gallantly offered to take the bus. He left the house at 6:00 a.m. calling me 15 minutes later as the 90 bus had passed him by.  My son explained that the driver pretended he wasn't at the stop and even felt him hitting the side but kept going. "The guy even gave me eye contact through the mirror!" He was understandably, upset. I told him to come home and I'd drive him.

While I was getting everyone else ready, he came in and updated his Facebook about the incident. Getting in the car, I pointed out that maybe, that wasn't the wisest choice of actions at 6:30.

We started on the road, it was crowded. We saw the offending bus. His father called and after listening sympathetically, said well, "Happy about the 94, sorry about the 90." "That's not funny." my son said. "Not today." and after a moment, "Maybe tomorrow."

It was at this point, I revealed my secret formula, "Suffering + Time =Humor."

He said,"I'll take my humor without the suffering, thanks. I can make up jokes. I have a great immagination. I don't need the pain as inspiration."

We were quiet for a few minutes, then his phone indicated a text message.

He made a face. "I hate text chain mails. I always kill chains. I don't care if it ruins my businesses for the next thirty years! This one, by hitting delete, I've lost out on true love." He explained.

"So that explains your bad luck this morning."
"I guess it does."

"You know, your true love is on that bus."
"Well, one things's for sure, it wasn't the bus driver."*

"See? That didn't take long."

*Mental note: may have to subcontract blog out to son more.

What am I doing and Why am I doing it exactly?

"Remember that thou art dust and to dust, thou shall return." Excepting I can't.  The upstairs machine awaits a belt and sits idle in the meantime while the dirt devils and dust bunnies breed.  As such, the "to dust" on my list remains undone.

I thought I could cope.  Then my shop vac quit.  My 12.5 horsepower 20 gallon wet dry industrial machine that is only six months old (bought it on Mother's day), couldn't cut it.  In mid cleaning of the kitchen, it just turned itself off.  I called it a cheater, a quitter and a lazy bum.  I kicked it, cursed it, took it apart and still, it sits like a large hunk of useless plastic, daring me to throw it out but it knows I don't want to, I want it to work.
 
There's a metaphore in there somewhere about government but like the dust bunnies, I'll just let it sit there waiting for pick up.
But because Nature adores a vacumn, the belts I ordered for the other machine arrived today.  It took all morning to disassemble and attach the new belt. 

Appliances in my home must age in dog years.  In terms of jobs created or saved, I'm not sure if the dishswasher, dryer, washer and stove are labor saving devices or not. 

 I think they freeze up to get a vacation, because my dishwasher also decided to lose a 99 cent pin holding the upper rack in place.  Having called the appliance store and then done that circuit route again to find the place that would have the part, I ordered it and the piece will arrive next week. I told my husband, it's like the cleaning machines are on strike.

He pointed out, "You could too you know."  They don't have to work if they don't work.

Now there's an idea....hmmmmm.

Commuter Pop Quiz

Problem #1

Child A always sits in the front seat.

Child B and C are in the second row but not next to each other.

Child D sits in the third row, leaving a whole fourth row empty and two seats on either side.

Children E, F, G and H get in the car. E cannot sit near F or G or H and cannot sit in the far back row or Child E will start a fight. Child F will cry if placed in the back. Child H will also sulk if anyone at all sits in the same row, claiming to need more space.

How long before Mom decides making three separate trips to the school to pick up children is a viable alternative to the otherwise cantankerous ride home?

Explain your reasoning.

Problem #2

Why does it take 30 minutes to traverse the 6.63 miles to the Metro after 6:25 in the morning, but only 15 minutes starting even one minute before?

Follow Up: Why does it take less time to load 8 children into a van plus backpacks and lunches, allotting for possible trains to travel 10 miles to school, than to take one to the Metro?

Problem #3

Why does it take 45 minutes to successfully load the car with two toddlers and one baby and one adult, purse and diaper bag in order to get to school for pick up, but only 5 minutes for five children, two toddlers, one baby, one adult, six back packs, a purse and a diaper bag to disembark at home?

Please submit your answers in the comments questions. Suggestions welcome and if implemented, will be awarded extra credit.

My Two Cents vs. Their Three

Picking up the mail in January, I froze, and not just from the -10 degree wind chill whipping around for my winter pleasure. In my hands amidst the bills and late Christmas cards, flyers for pizza and leftover catalogs were an OVERDUE NOTICE.

I always pay all our bills at the beginning of each month. I keep the tabs and am scrupulous about knowing what checks I write and for whom. Maybe the Christmas rush had allowed me to miss one…I was upset as I sat at the table and began to open it up. Would my clerical error ruin our credit rating? The notice seemed to scold me with its very presence.

Opening the letter my fear gave way to rage. “This letter is to inform you that the bill on your 2004 Mini-van loan for the amount of $.03 is PAST DUE. Please remit the sum of $.03 to the Ameri-Bank account immediately to avoid procedures that could affect your CREDIT RATING.

I put down the letter. I got out my checkbook and past bill stubs. Sure enough, I had written the check for $379.76. The bill was $379.79. I called the 1-800 number to discuss the matter.

“May I help you Ms?” A disinterested voice came on after I had spent the better part of 15 minutes punching buttons on the phone tree to get to a human being.

“Yes! I’m calling about my account…”

She then proceeded to interrupt me to ask for all the information I had just spent 15 minutes punching into the phone tree. “How may I serve you today?” she said finally in a bored voice.

“Why am I getting an OVERDUE NOTICE?” I asked. “You have proof that I made my payment promptly.”

“Yes, it shows that you paid, but our computers indicate that you haven’t satisfied the terms of your contract for the loan.”

“Because of three cents?”

“Yes Ms.” She replied. “What if everyone started writing their checks for pennies less than the actual bill, the company would loose thousands of dollars.”

Momentarily stopped by the thought that a business could loose thousands because of a second of dyslexia, common sense reasserted itself in my brain. “This isn’t a vast conspiracy; I just switched a number by accident, from a nine to a six. I can’t just write three more cents on the next bill?”

“No Ms, our computer indicates that your account is not in compliance. Any additional money sent in next week would apply to the principle but not satisfy the outstanding balance left unpaid.” She droned.

“But it’s three cents. If I write a check for three cents it will cost .39 cents to mail it and more than that for you to process it. Why am I getting a threatening we will destroy your credit rating over three cents?”

“I understand Ms. But our computer reads the payment as insufficient funds and as such you have to send in a check immediately or it will forward your account to the appropriate collection agencies.” I could almost hear her filing her nails and chewing gum in indifference.

“What? For Three CENTS?”

“Yes Ms.” She said this with the evident self detachment culled from hours of telling countless people the same information for even smaller sums.
…..

Trying not to seethe at the incomprehensibility of having my credit rating ruined over three copper coins easily found on the bottom of my car for which the payments were made, I mentally debated the satisfaction of mailing three pennies, of mailing the next full payment in nothing but pennies, and of simply blowing the whole thing off.

“What about an electronic transfer?” I asked, trying to avoid an unnecessary chore and make the best of a stupid situation.

“There is a twelve dollar fee for the transfer Ms.”

“So it would cost me twelve dollars and three cents to square my account?”

“Yes—“

Not feeling particularly civil at that moment, I hung up in mid Ms.

As I wrote the check and began addressing the envelope, I wondered if the bank would fine me for having written a check for such a tiny amount. Phoning the bank, they explained that yes indeed, there would be a 5 dollar fee for writing a check for three cents. I could avoid the fee if the amount exceeded a dollar. I also figured that mailing three cents physically would cost $.45 cents in postage, and that probably sending three physical cents would warrant another letter from the bank.

Ripping up the check, I wrote a new one for a dollar with a note, “Since we both could use the change, I’m transferring my account.”