The community center pool forbids anyone over the age of 5 to use the opposite sex bathroom, which forces Vaughn and I to use the “family room” for changing. I get the general logic of this rule, except for the arbitrary age of 5. I remember reading in one of my parenting magazines someone had asked at what age should their child stop seeing the opposite sex parent naked. According to the experts, to avoid permanent psychological scarring and years of therapy, children should not be subjected to the spectacle of their opposite sex parent in the buff after the age of 3. So far, Vaughn has wracked up over 3 years of mental damage, but I’m hoping at some point to avoid more. This is a rather difficult prospect since we are forced to share a bathroom (because there is only one in our little bungalow), there are no locks on our bedroom door, and I have a habit of running around au naturel.
So, just when I’m trying to wean him off seeing me nude, we’re forced into a situation where it’s impossible to avoid. On the bright side, he won’t be exposed to any unclad foreign female forms and I don’t have to be naked publicly.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Primates on the Loose
Vaughn crawled into bed with us in the wee hours of the morning, again. Sleeping with him is like sleeping with an octopus with restless leg syndrome (RLS), or in the octopus's case, RAS (restless arm syndrome). He acts as a human divining rod for the nearest source of warmth, honing in with preternatural accuracy until he detects an adult body, usually mine. Despite the fact that we have a generous king sized bed, he manages to make it feel cramped, sprawling out like a chalk outline from a crime scene, with his fellow bedmates clinging perilously close to the edges of either side of the bed in an effort to escape the spastically thrown arm or leg flung their way. His excuse this particular time for invading our parental refuge was he thinks (dreamt?) there was an ape running around in our yard.
Yes, well, I believe he settled in our bed.
Yes, well, I believe he settled in our bed.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Inverse Bigot
Vaughn has coined a new PC term for African Americans—Black Americans, which actually makes a lot more sense. His latest thing, “Did you know that Black Americans play basketball better than anybody?” I have no idea where he is coming up with this reverse racism. (That is reverse isn’t it, saying essentially, “White people can’t jump,” or is that insulting to African Americans?)
We had a substitute mail carrier today, who happens to be African American. I’m pulling up in the driveway just as the mail carrier is delivering our mail. Vaughn quickly assesses the situation with his keen powers of observation and from his perch in the backseat cries:
“I LOVE BLACK AMERICANS!”
We had a substitute mail carrier today, who happens to be African American. I’m pulling up in the driveway just as the mail carrier is delivering our mail. Vaughn quickly assesses the situation with his keen powers of observation and from his perch in the backseat cries:
“I LOVE BLACK AMERICANS!”
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Do Not Stop Chainsaw Blade with Hands (and other obvious admonitions)
Ever have one of those times when you have to unintentionally clean? Where you have created such a mess that there is just no way you can walk away from it and hope that it will eventually just kind of dry and flake off?
This brings us to me, a blender, the ingredients for the makings of a frappuccino and a spoon at 6 in the morning, post midnight 4th of July fireworks.
I had decided to take a short break from work to get my coffee fix and create one of my newest discoveries—homemade frappuccinos with the use of a new instant frappuccino syrup. I pour all the ingredients into the mixer, and of course, it immediately stalls. Now, at this point, I’m not so stupid as to put a spoon in while the blender is going, so I wisely turn the blender off, give it a stir, and off we go. Everything is going along swimmingly, but it starts developing that stagnant top layer that stubbornly refuses to meander its way down to the blade. I hastily analyze the blade-to-fluid-depth ratio and irrationally think I can quickly and safely, whilst blender is in motion, jab a spoon into the surface layer to just coax it on to its inevitable whirlpool of blended fate. Evidently, my depth perception is tragically flawed. The instant the spoon touches the deceptively still top of fluid, the mixture explodes out of the blender, reminiscent of the fireworks I’d witnessed the previous evening, only gooier and less “ooing” and “aahing” and more “oohing” and “awwwing.”
I’d like to blame this all on sleep deprivation and getting up at a time when birds are even smart enough to still be asleep, but to be honest, this is not the first time I’ve done this, AND I was more awake. However, I do think I have broken my record on centrifugal splatter. Half the kitchen (literally) was covered in delicious partially blended frappuccino delight, from floor to ceiling and everything in between, including me.
Through this little experience I’ve learned a few inalienable truths:
1. Kids are messy, but adults are messier. I have come to the conclusion that the bigger the being, the bigger the mess. Some of this I’m sure can be accounted for purely based on volume—bigger volume source, bigger volume output. However, I also believe that because something is bigger, specifically in the case of the human species, something is more than likely older. And being older means one has more potentially messy equipment creators at one’s disposal, with just enough knowledge of their operation as to maximize the messiness.
2. I don’t know what it is about a metal device whirling at eye blurring speeds that compels one to stick something into it (and I like to think that this isn’t just me), but I truly think there is something humanly instinctive about needing to stick a spoon into the middle of such a device, especially if it is surrounded by liquid. I mean, your hand is gravitating inexplicably toward this twirling sharp metal propeller before your mind is even registering what’s happening. Hence, the dazed look on one’s face when one finds oneself spackled in copious amounts of viscous fluid. (Dave has assured me that he has never been compelled to act on such stupidity.)
3. Of course, the substance always has to be something sticky, the kind of sticky that no cleaning solution can ever truly remove. You just have to wait for it eventually to transfer its stickiness to some other surface over time and journey on to places unknown. I have yet to find a glue that has the kind of tenacious adherence of spilled sugary substances.
It occurred to me as I was cleaning up this monumental mess that if I’d walked in on this scene with Vaughn in my place instead of me one of the first things out of my mouth would have been, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???!!!!!” But somehow the vision of Vaughn squeezing out the entire contents of his toothpaste onto the sink counter in an effort to get it onto his toothbrush pales in comparison to my frozen coffee drink debacle. I don’t think those words will be easily forthcoming from my lips the next time I see Vaughn gnawing notches into his wooden desk with a dulled saw Daddy gave him. (Evidently, a stupidity to which Dave is not immune.)
On a side note, in my cleaning, I discovered that my kitchen ceiling has a 6-year-old even finish of grease that gives it that lovely yellowed “aged” look--what I like to call dirty kitchen patina. (Six years is an approximation because I think the last time I was inspired to that thoroughly clean the kitchen to the point of including the ceilings was when I was experiencing that odd phenomenon of nesting that one goes through just before the birth of a child, also known as the Martha Stewart Syndrome.) That evenly greasy tint is now marred by my unintended cleaning and now has the appearance that I am attempting some kind of paint sponging technique in one corner of my kitchen ceiling, only instead of that nicely mottled appearance it has more of a grimy yellowish-white swirl pattern. Ah well, eventually, I’m sure, the grease will reaccumulate, and once again, we will have back that overcast yellow tinge; that is, as long as I can prevent my hand from poking another spoon into those hypnotically spiraling blades.
*Captain Kirk voice* Can’t stop. ...must…put…spoon…in…blade…
This brings us to me, a blender, the ingredients for the makings of a frappuccino and a spoon at 6 in the morning, post midnight 4th of July fireworks.
I had decided to take a short break from work to get my coffee fix and create one of my newest discoveries—homemade frappuccinos with the use of a new instant frappuccino syrup. I pour all the ingredients into the mixer, and of course, it immediately stalls. Now, at this point, I’m not so stupid as to put a spoon in while the blender is going, so I wisely turn the blender off, give it a stir, and off we go. Everything is going along swimmingly, but it starts developing that stagnant top layer that stubbornly refuses to meander its way down to the blade. I hastily analyze the blade-to-fluid-depth ratio and irrationally think I can quickly and safely, whilst blender is in motion, jab a spoon into the surface layer to just coax it on to its inevitable whirlpool of blended fate. Evidently, my depth perception is tragically flawed. The instant the spoon touches the deceptively still top of fluid, the mixture explodes out of the blender, reminiscent of the fireworks I’d witnessed the previous evening, only gooier and less “ooing” and “aahing” and more “oohing” and “awwwing.”
I’d like to blame this all on sleep deprivation and getting up at a time when birds are even smart enough to still be asleep, but to be honest, this is not the first time I’ve done this, AND I was more awake. However, I do think I have broken my record on centrifugal splatter. Half the kitchen (literally) was covered in delicious partially blended frappuccino delight, from floor to ceiling and everything in between, including me.
Through this little experience I’ve learned a few inalienable truths:
1. Kids are messy, but adults are messier. I have come to the conclusion that the bigger the being, the bigger the mess. Some of this I’m sure can be accounted for purely based on volume—bigger volume source, bigger volume output. However, I also believe that because something is bigger, specifically in the case of the human species, something is more than likely older. And being older means one has more potentially messy equipment creators at one’s disposal, with just enough knowledge of their operation as to maximize the messiness.
2. I don’t know what it is about a metal device whirling at eye blurring speeds that compels one to stick something into it (and I like to think that this isn’t just me), but I truly think there is something humanly instinctive about needing to stick a spoon into the middle of such a device, especially if it is surrounded by liquid. I mean, your hand is gravitating inexplicably toward this twirling sharp metal propeller before your mind is even registering what’s happening. Hence, the dazed look on one’s face when one finds oneself spackled in copious amounts of viscous fluid. (Dave has assured me that he has never been compelled to act on such stupidity.)
3. Of course, the substance always has to be something sticky, the kind of sticky that no cleaning solution can ever truly remove. You just have to wait for it eventually to transfer its stickiness to some other surface over time and journey on to places unknown. I have yet to find a glue that has the kind of tenacious adherence of spilled sugary substances.
It occurred to me as I was cleaning up this monumental mess that if I’d walked in on this scene with Vaughn in my place instead of me one of the first things out of my mouth would have been, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???!!!!!” But somehow the vision of Vaughn squeezing out the entire contents of his toothpaste onto the sink counter in an effort to get it onto his toothbrush pales in comparison to my frozen coffee drink debacle. I don’t think those words will be easily forthcoming from my lips the next time I see Vaughn gnawing notches into his wooden desk with a dulled saw Daddy gave him. (Evidently, a stupidity to which Dave is not immune.)
On a side note, in my cleaning, I discovered that my kitchen ceiling has a 6-year-old even finish of grease that gives it that lovely yellowed “aged” look--what I like to call dirty kitchen patina. (Six years is an approximation because I think the last time I was inspired to that thoroughly clean the kitchen to the point of including the ceilings was when I was experiencing that odd phenomenon of nesting that one goes through just before the birth of a child, also known as the Martha Stewart Syndrome.) That evenly greasy tint is now marred by my unintended cleaning and now has the appearance that I am attempting some kind of paint sponging technique in one corner of my kitchen ceiling, only instead of that nicely mottled appearance it has more of a grimy yellowish-white swirl pattern. Ah well, eventually, I’m sure, the grease will reaccumulate, and once again, we will have back that overcast yellow tinge; that is, as long as I can prevent my hand from poking another spoon into those hypnotically spiraling blades.
*Captain Kirk voice* Can’t stop. ...must…put…spoon…in…blade…
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