BlabberMouse

Deck the House

And so.We are finally, finally, FINALLY building The Deck.

It’s been a long time coming. There have been many years of redneck driveway barbecues and plastic patio furniture, and I think it’s time for Mama to have a big-girl patio set and a nice sturdy platform to put it on.

My aunt recommended a deck builder, and he came by last week to give us a quote. He said he’d need until the weekend to pull the quote together. And while he has yet to give us the quote—he did give us HIS ENTIRE LIFE STORY. You know, to TIDE US OVER until he returns, which will be, oh … approximately … half past the first ice hockey game in hell.

I don’t do chatty contractors. I’m all, take your level and go SEE IF SOMETHING IS LEVEL. But do not speak to me. Because chances are I will discover that you are an asshole. And no matter how happy I am with the work that you have done, I will always remember you as THE MISOGYNIST BASTARD WHO BUILT MY NEW BATHROOM.

So.

I have an uncle and a cousin. Actually I have about a million uncles and cousins, but two of them have offered to assist with the building of our deck. Actually three of them have, but one of them has about eight million other domestic improvement projects he needs to be working on (JOE, I’m talking to you), and I will not permit him to step away from his duties to partake in the pursuit of my personal happiness. 

Now these gentlemen are not only awesome and valiant and kind and good and smart and my favorite people in the world right now, but they also know what they’re doing. They spent an hour and a half at our house this morning measuring and strategizing the deck, and there was much manly talk of bolts and joists and cantilevers, and I was all, OH MY GOD IF I WERE NOT RELATED TO YOU PEOPLE I WOULD BE VERY AROUSED RIGHT NOW.

 I’m fascinated by people who understand how things are built. I was in a new-business meeting last week, and the potential client, a homebuilder, was all, “Do you know that there are people in this country who think brick houses are actually MADE of bricks? They don’t realize it’s a FAÇADE! It’s unreal!”

I put on my “HA! HA HAHHAHAHAHAHAHHA! STUPID FUCKING PEOPLE! SO CLUELESS! WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?” smile, but of course I had no idea. And, in my mind, I immediately went to the three little pigs, thinking, “But! But! Remember how the little resourceful brother pig built his house of bricks and the big bad wolf …”

And the potential client (I kid you not) said, “It’s like the three little pigs! They think because they have a brick house, nothing can blow it down!” And all the men in the room had a huge hearty chuckle about the stupidity of, well, ME, basically.

I LOVE MY JOB.

But not nearly as much as I’m going to love my new deck.

The September Issue

The September issue of Her is (say it with me, friends) ...

IN THE PINK BINS!!!

The cover illustration is my favorite one yet. LOVE. It.

This month, my column is about my foray into the wide and wonderful world of buying on Craigslist. 

Have a fab Friday, friends.

--The Mouse

And THEN ... and yadayadayada ... blah blah blah

Week two of kindergarten, and the mornings have been a little rough. I'm not going to bore you with the details, actually, wait ... what am I saying? That is exactly what I am going to do! I am going to bore the bowel movements right out of you people (99 and 3/4 guaranteed)!

Prepare your colons.

Gus has to be in his classroom, ready to learn, by 8:00 a.m., so he typically starts panicking at home around 7:20. He sits on my bed and cries while I finish getting dressed and asks me questions like, "How can I make myself feel happy?" and "What can I think about that would make me feel not so sad?"

The answer? Nothing. Anxiety and hyper-sentimentalism are your genetic destiny. ENJOY!

I have tried everything from hand puppets to fart jokes to farting hand puppets making fart jokes to take his mind off his troubles, and you know what? THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY CANS OF REFRIED BEANS I CAN EAT BEFORE EIGHT A.M. It's just not ladylike.

By the time we get to school, he's worked himself into a frenzy about HOW CAN I LIVE WITHOUT YOU FOR THE NEXT SEVEN HOURS? I CAN'T. DON'T LEAVE ME HERE. PLEASE JUST ONE MORE KISSSSSS! Etc. etc. Etc.

It's wonderful!

When I pick him up, he says he had a great day, loves school, is all excited to walk me through the contents of his backpack, says he's looking forward to going tomorrow, and then:

Rinse, lather, repeat.

His teacher uses a story called "The Kissing Hand" to make the kids feel better. It's about a raccoon who has anxiety about his first day of school. Or, I should say, his first night of school. Gus informed me that raccoons attend kindergarten "in the night time" because they sleep during the day. (Live and learn.) Each morning, as I'm leaving, I hear Gus's teacher tell him to come get his kissing hand. According to Gus, "The kissing hand doesn't always work. Sometimes it does. But sometimes it doesn't. It's mixed up." Which is true for a lot of things. (Yes, I'm talking to you, bullet points in Microsoft Word.)

Wow! This story has gone on a bit too long, no? What is that noise I keep hearing? Almost like a giant cymbal ... Or, like, a gong or something. WEIRD.

FINE.

I'm sure he'll get used to being dropped off at school and everything will be fine the end.

Changing the subject.

Errrm ...

Oh! My new blog posts are up at Her Nashville.

They are not about children. Or school.

Enjoy.

Better Late Than Never

I sort of blew off the obligatory “First Day of Kindergarten: My Baby is Now A Man” post, didn’t I?
 
Gus has been loving his new school so much, and looking so damn cute in his little shorts and belt and collared shirt and GINORMOUS Swiss Army backpack, that I pushed the first-day drama to the back of my mind.
 
But to summarize:
 
Gus cried, I cried, and then the teacher said something along the lines of “PLEASE LEAVE NOW GOODBYE” and locked her door.
 
I would have locked my door, too, if I knew I were still at large. What with my gasping, sobbing mouth and big leaky eyeballs. Patrick must have thought we were sending his brother away for good, and then sitting at the PTO Boo-Hoo Breakfast afterwards, sniffling into a mini-muffin, while another mother tried to distract me with talk of “getting involved”, I was all, So that went well.
 
I think it was the boy-to-backpack ratio that did me in. There was just so much backpack and so little boy. And then there was his little lunchbox. With his little ham sandwich. And his little juice box. And his little apple. And his little pack of Craisins. And his little cheese stick (I totally over-packed that first lunch). It was just too much!
 
But I’m over it now.
 
And so is Gus. He barely speaks to me when I pick him up. He’s just out the doors and running around with his new best friend, whom I keep referring to as Allen, even though his name is actually not Allen, his name is James. I do not know WHY I can not remember this child’s name. I just look at him and I’m all, Hello there, Allen! And I can’t remember his mom’s name either. When I first met her, I introduced myself and she introduced herself, and before her name was even out of her mouth, I’d forgotten it. So now it’s Not Allen and Not Allen’s mom whose name I do not know. I am horrible. Let’s be clear.
 
And now it’s been a whole wonderful week of school. A week of happy drop offs and happy pick ups and more time spent with my oldest son than I’ve had since he was … little.
 

Budweiser True

Yesterday after work I took Gus to the office supply store to get a pocket folder for his Spanish class. This particular store is located in a shopping strip frequented by professional panhandlers, who get extremely ornery when you don’t empty your pockets at their request.
 
As we were getting out of the car, a man approached us asking for change, and I uttered my usual half-assed “sorry” and steered Gus past him into the store.

The man started bitching and moaning after us, saying “DAMN! People is being MEAN to me today” and Gus asked me why I didn’t just give the guy some money.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s going to help.”

“Well if he needs some money,” Gus said, “You should probably just give it to him.”

“Okay, then," I said. "Here’s a dollar. When we go back outside, you can give it to him. Okay?”

Unfortunately, by the time we got back outside, the panhandler had moved on to greener parking lots.
 
“Why did that man need money anyway?” Gus asked.
 
“Well, some people don’t have houses and can’t get jobs ..."

Gus thought about this for a minute and said, “Well, he can’t buy a house with a dollar.”

“That’s true.”
 
“But he could probably buy his self a beer.”
 
“!”

“And then he’d be happy because men love beer.”

"That's very true."

"It makes myself feel good to help people," he said, holding the dollar and scanning the streets for people in need. "We have to take care of others."