Brusha, brusha, brusha

An occupational hazard of being a video guy is that IP is occasionally hired to produce productions outside the boundaries of our hometown.  As I type, he is stuck in sunny Florida, while I’m single parenting it for the week.  Not only am I the only taxi on duty, but we are adjusting to being back in school and work, plus we are in the final stages of some bedroom remodeling.  (Because why wouldn’t one start bedroom remodeling in August, when we are preparing to go back to school.  Sure, I’ve got tons of sanity to spare.)

IP and I dropped the mini-mes off at school on Wednesday and he jetted out-of-town.

I woke up on Thursday morning and was barreling through the morning routine solo when I was stopped dead in my tracks….. my toothbrush was MIA.  Now, I a firm believer in the whole ‘Toy Story‘ phenomenon.  I know that when I leave a room, my kid’s toys get up and boogie on down.  But I don’t believe those characteristics apply to my hygiene products.  At least I hope they don’t….

A quick scan of the counter and I realize not only is my toothbrush missing, but IP’s is still very present.

Great, he took my toothbrush to the beach and left me at home.

So I handled the situation the best way I knew how.

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Not liking being the fodder for my jokes, IP fought fire with fire.

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Damn, I think he wins!

 

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Hot Dog!

I’m an avid watcher of Shark Tank. I love that show. I watch it so much that I would like to fancy myself a pseudo-expert in the entrepreneurial world. I can tell when Damon believes an idea is garbage. I know when Barbara doesn’t see a return on her investment. I see the look in Robert’s eyes when he doesn’t believe in the person. I can see when Mark is going to bow out because it’s not in his wheel house, meaning he can’t stamp it with the Mavericks logo and hock it at NBA games. I can feel a rant about a company’s inflated valuation coming from Mr. Wonderful a mile away.

My family and I make bets about which sharks will jump at the truly innovative new products and who will turn down the necessary non-sense someone is trying to unleash on our marketplace.

I was barreling through the grocery store yesterday when I was stopped dead in my tracks by this.

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I instantly threw on my Shark Tank hat.

Really? How did this product make it through production and into the marketplace? Are there really a bunch of knife-less households in America where people sit around staring at their full-sized hot dogs after cooking them, contemplating how they are now going to cut up the dog into delightful, bite-sized piece? Who are these people willing to shell out $4.00 of their hard-earned money for a clunky piece of draw clutter? I mean, it’s kind of cute, but seriously folks. You green lighted production of this woofer to do a job of a task that can be done with the side of a fork or, for free, by the human fingers attached at the person holding said hot dog?

I’m blaming Lori, Queen of QVC.

Warning

Warning!!!  Warning!!!

I felt it was necessary to inform you, my readers, of a potential future blog post which might be coming your way.

As I’m sure you all know, this is a toilet.

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People have been using this marvel of modern ingenuity for years now.  First, to expel their waste from themselves and then, from their homes.

Well, most people that is.  The knuckleheads that I loving call family have mastered the first part of the equation.  But they all apparently suffer from a major skill set deficiency and are unable to complete the second half of the task.  Everyday, without fail, I enter a bathroom in my home to find an unwanted and unasked for present.

I’ve tried asking them nicely.  I’ve tried begging.  I’ve even tried yelling.  None of them have worked so far, so I’ve been forced to resort to shame.

I made a public announcement to my beloveds that the next loaded bowl found would be photographed and become the star of a new blog post titled, ‘Who’s Poop is This!’

Gaping mouthed children – “You wouldn’t!”

Me – “I would.  If you don’t want it to be you, then flush the toilet.”

So, consider yourself forewarned.  If you see the blog above mentioned title appear, remember…..

It is what you think it is.

It won’t be pretty.

Click at your own risk.

Yep, it’s time for you to go back

The other day, I was playing a friendly little game of HORSE with T-Dog.

Many of you may not know this, but I enjoy shooting hoops.  I never played on a team and would probably really suck in an actual competitive situation, but I used to spend hours of time as a kid just shooting around on my own.  My parents live on top of a steep hill, with the basketball hoops right at the crest of the hill.  If I missed a shot poorly, the ball could get away from me in a hurry and be houses away before I could blink.  After a few treks down the hill, I learned to aim better and save myself from running the hill!

Our little game was going fairly well.  After each of us earning an H, we matched each other shot for shot for a number of rounds.  They T-Dog got a few on me.

He made a beautiful outside shot.  I missed

“O,”  he yelled.

Immediately after, she swished a shot from the other side.  I missed again!

“U!”  he screamed.

I burst out laughing.

“What?”  he asked.

“U?  Um, I think it’s time for you to go back to school!”

(For all those interested.  After fixing my awarded ‘U’ to it’s proper ‘R’, I held firm at my H-O-R status.  After sticking him on two inside shots, the little man earned his O and R.  Then I sank two outside 45 degreers that he missed, getting him a S and a final E.  Suck it T-Dog.  This is Mama’s court!)

Everything else pales in comparison

Since finishing college, I’ve taken great pride in filling out the ‘occupation’ section on forms.

Even though there are incredibly crazy, stressful days, I truly enjoy being a social worker.  I like that my job entails talking to people, a skill I apparently excel at since my grandfather has nicknamed me ratchet jaw.  Despite their cranky attitudes and explosive displays, I enjoy working with my students.  Under all that gruff exterior that they show the world, hides a group of great kids waiting to make their appearance, and I get to help them find their way out.  Plus, nights, weekends, holidays, and summers off help.  🙂  (Sidebar ~ I’m being forced to return to work tomorrow.  Only 190 workdays until next summer break….not that I’m counting or anything!)

As I’m sure you know, unless you live under a rock, which you don’t because you’re on the internet right now, there is another new heir to the royal throne.  (Not that it really matters because that ol’ lady refuses to give it up, greedy much!)  I’m not a royal watcher.  I didn’t get up for the wedding.  I don’t run out and buy the latest Kate dress knock-off.  I didn’t join a baby naming pool.  But sometimes curiosity gets the best of you.

The other day, Twitter notified my that they royal baby’s birth certificate had been officially filed.  This I had to see.

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Seriously!?!?!

Occupation – Prince/Princess of the United Kingdom.  Nothing, NOTHING, you could write down, no other occupation measures up.  ‘Oh, you’re a brain surgeon.  That’s cute.  I’m a princess.’

Not quite what I was thinking buddy

Wednesday is my grocery shopping day.  I’m one of those price checking chicks.  The new ads come out Wednesday morning, so I rake over the sale prices, matching up the discounts with my necessities, then head out for the hunt.

One might think, with all the preparation, I actually enjoy this experience.

Wrong.

I loathe grocery shopping.   The squeaky, wobbly carts, the slow, aisle blocking shoppers, moving the same item six times just to get it in your kitchen cabinet.   And yet, the people I live with keep eating, so I have to go out week after week.

So, every week, I have a competition with myself to see how fast I can get in and out.  I time myself from parking lot entry to parking lot exit.  My goal yesterday was 1 hour.   The sun was out and I had a pool lounger calling my name.

I entered the lot at 2:19.  Start the clock.  Short list, minimal fellow shoppers impeding my path, open and quick-moving check outs.  As I started the ignition to leave the lot, my clock time read 3:05.  I WIN!  (Nothing, but I win, so there!)

All that stood between me and the pool was getting this stuff in the cabinets.  As I quickly unloaded the goods, I chucked the package of TP at T-Dog, asking him to put it away.

“Ok Mom.”

3:34 Groceries are away.  Here I come pool!

I rounded the hallway corner, I saw this.

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Well I could have thrown it down the hallway, plus I clearly remember asking him to put it away and him answering in the affirmative.  Instead of nagging, I simply stepped over the tissue, got into my suit, grabbed my towel, and walked out the door.

I’ve decided I’m starting a silent wait-and-see protest a la Ray/Deborah/and the stinky cheese suitcase.  My question now is, how long will it be there before someone puts it away, because I’m not touching it.