Creature Bug

Week 260: The Tale of Templeton, chapter one

Although there are at least four, maybe five, cats on this farm--the newest addition arriving yesterday in all his lovely free-kitten-from-the-grocery-store-parking-lot glory--clearly they are on summer vacation. And by "vacation" I mean they aren't doing their mousing duties.

This can only explain why a mouse ended up in and under and (what sounded like) on top of the house.

I'd heard her scratching in the heating ducts for a couple days and hoped that she would find a way out of the house and into the field where life would be so much more pleasant for both of us. But it was not to be.

On Friday night, when Jason went into the kitchen to get a snack, he saw the mouse in the kitchen. He saw her. She saw him. And then she skittered into the vent. Jason relayed the news to me. I was unsettled.

The real kicker, though, came later that night as I was getting ready for bed. I could hear Miss Templeton--that's what Sydney had decided to name her--scurrying around behind the bathroom wall. There I was exfoliating my face, and scratch scratch scratch went Miss Templeton. I rinsed my face, holding my breath as I turned off the water. Scritch scratch. Sounded like more than just moving around; sounding like nesting.

"There's a mouse in the bathroom wall," I said to Jason, who had just fallen asleep but woke up to hear my complaint.

"Okay," he said, and went back to sleep.

I reached for my toothbrush, and then I heard it: a soft thump. A whisper of a thud. right. beneath. the. sink.

Carefully, I opened the cabinet doors and peered inside. Rustling.

I peered under the sink. Saw a flicker of movement. Stepped back. Held my breath. Nothing. Closed the door.

As quietly as I could, I finished brushing my teeth, and then cracked open the cabinet door again.

AND THERE SHE WAS. Sitting on a bath towel. Her nose twitching.

"JASON!" I hoarsely whispered so that I wouldn't wake up the girls. "JASON! The mouse. It's right here!"

He was so not interested.

I persisted and eventually woke him up. "GET UP. GET UUUUUP. Get the mouse. She's right here."

Jason got up, but he was tired and he wasn't happy. "What do you want me to do? What...what...what am I supposed to use?"

I whispered loudly, "THE MOUSE IS RIGHT HERE. Kill it!"

Jason walked down the hallway, and came back. "I can't...what...can we do this in the morning? What am I going to use?"

"Uhhhh..." I mentally searched the house for usable unpacked items, "a fly swatter?"

"A FLY SWATTER? A fly swatter will not kill a mouse."

I didn't want to leave the mouse unattended, but knew that Jason would need some help finding a suitable killing object. I started opening drawers in the kitchen. "A hammer? A newspaper? How about this wooden spoon?"

"You'll have to throw that spoon away, you know." I hesitated. It was a solid wooden spoon, one of my better ones. I remembered a less sturdy one was in the drawer. "Use this one," I said.

Of course, by the time we got back to the bathroom sink, Templeton was gone. Jason cleared out the area under the sink, at which point I realized that the little mouse had been using my, ahem, under-the-sink items as nesting material. Fabulous.

She was gone. Jason, bless him, kissed me and went back to sleep. The wooden spoon lay unused on the dresser.

It was a long night.

To be continued.

The Acceptance Speech

In the category for Best Mystery Illness in Stephanie's Lungs, the nominees are:

• Pneumonia
• Walking Pneumonia
• Bronchitis
• Asthma
• Common Cold

And the winner is...

Random Act of Violence

If you live locally, you might have heard last night's news story about hypodermic needles being attached to business doors and pay phones. One of the victims of the "prank" (?!) was Jason's dad. Early yesterday morning, when he was opening up the door to his coffee shop, he discovered--the painful way--that someone had attached a needle to the door handle. He checked the other doors in the adjacent businesses, but they were clear. Turns out, that the one door he didn't check--on the backside of the building complex--had a needle on the door handle too, and so the manager of that business was also pricked by a needle. Down the road someone else was pricked by a needle taped to the handle of a pay phone at the library.

Jason's dad is fine, and at the moment it appears there is no health concern. But still. It's more than a little alarming to have this happen.

If you want to read about it, here's the link the news story.

If you want to see the news coverage that aired last night--Jason's dad is interviewed--here's the link to that.

Week 243: When the pie goes missing

Have you ever had one of those mornings where you got to sleep in, and you woke up after a fabulous dream, and the kids were still sleeping, and the birds were chirping, and it's a national holiday so hooray for no school?

And then you realize that you can't breathe because a head cold moved into your nose, and the sniffling makes you begin coughing until you practically pass out from lack of air, and the phone rings and it's your finance guy saying oh-by-the-way your life insurance policy is going to cost DOUBLE because you took anti-depressants once upon a time and so now you're certifiably a health risk?

And it's like,

 

WHO THE HECK STOLE MY LEMON MERINGUE PIE?!

Yep. It's like that.

Living on the 3rd Floor

Our downstairs neighbor visited us again.

It was the week before Christmas vacation officially started. It was cold and icy outside, and so Jason was keeping us all from going stir-crazy by wrestling around with the girls. At 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Which, in our neighbor's estimation, was evidently too late (or too early?) for such noises like children playing around. I wasn't home, but Jason relayed the conversation to me, and my stress level ratcheted up a level. Our neighbor said to Jason, "It's none of my business, but I don't know why anyone with children would choose a 3rd level apartment."

The answer is that it was the apartment available. It's probably the same answer she'd give if I asked her why she's living in a 2nd level apartment.

Other than being concerned about our downstairs neighbor, I don't mind living on the 3rd floor. The view is nice. The sunlight is nice. And the stairs really don't bother me, especially since my exercise has been approximately zero since we moved here.

I will say that the 3rd floor isn't ideal for some things. It's really hard to get the stroller down the stairs, so we rarely use it anymore (a leading cause of the "no exercise" routine). The stairs are also a leading cause of lateness because Jules hates to be carried down the stairs. "I do it!" She can do it, all right. One stair at a time. It's okay, as long as I have a lot of time.

The most nerve wracking aspect of living on the 3rd floor is the inevitable moment when I have to leave the girls alone in the apartment, mostly so that I can go down and get groceries from the car. I wouldn't panic except that Jules's search-and-destroy instincts are lightening quick. I leave, and probably something will get broken. The carton of eggs (twice, now), squished grapes, ripped paper...it's all just a little too tempting for her.

Beyond the broken stuff, there's the fact that the girls often come looking for me, and I meet them on the stairs as I'm hauling six bags of groceries back to the apartment. It's good for my prayer life, I suppose, this constantly praying that they will stay safe in those 45 seconds I leave them. I have become hugely empathetic for families who live in apartments with small children. It is not easy.

Thankfully, living on the 3rd floor means that we don't have the local population of homeless people wandering by our door. They pretty much stick to wandering by the windows of the first floor apartments (which would totally freak me out), and digging around in the dumpsters. Evidently our dumpsters are highly desirable, because they pretty regularly go through them. Yikes.

But at the end of June, we move out of our 3rd floor apartment, which ought to bring both my neighbor and me a little more peace, in every sense of the word. And at the end of June, I will say farewell to living in Oregon, and hello to living in Washington, where I will stomp my feet very loudly in celebration.

Go Marching

My kitchen has become a little war zone. The countertops are covered with cinnamon, the corners and ledges lined with whole cloves. Under the cabinets is a smear of dish soap, behind the fridge some peculiar spray. My bottle of vinegar is almost gone, as is the Clorox GreenWorks.

And yet.

I'm still losing the battle.

Sugar ants have attacked, and I can't get rid of them.

We've had problems with them before, but some home spray poison the apartment managers gave us seemed to keep them at bay just long enough for the ants to regroup and revise their attack strategy.

When we arrived home Sunday night after being gone for the weekend, I opened up the cupboards to see that our bottle of syrup had transformed into a miniature ant hill. Another cupboard revealed a nest of ants curiously shaped like our former honey bear. The boxes of tea, the Torani syrups, the bowl of oranges: all have fallen victim to the ants' sweet tooth, er, teeth.

Even though sugar ants are a far cry from slugs, they still get on my nerves. I admit that on Sunday night after I picked up the bread basket only to discover the ants having an early Christmas party, I might have screamed. Or squealed. Some high pitched sound of some sort.

My scream made the girls panic, so I was quickly demoted from active duty and put on toothbrush patrol. Of course, I found ants in the bathroom too.

We are fighting hard against the ants. Even Jules has learned how to spot them, and even brings them to me squished on the tip of her tiny fingers. My first line of defense was some pesticide the apartment complex gave me. Fail. Cinnamon also doesn't work. I woke up this morning to see ants doing a line dance through the cinnamon. They saw me, tipped their hats, and called out Good Morning. Seriously.

The whole cloves are only effective on the particular spot the cloves are sitting on. The ants won't walk on the cloves. But they will walk around them. Also particularly alarming about the cloves is that in my peripheral vision they look like monstrous bugs hiding in the corners. I can tell myself a hundred times that the cloves and just cloves, but in a moment of distraction I see those dark shadows and my subconscious tells me they are giant legless spiders. Or beetles. Or sharks.

My subconscious is a bit crazy.

The vinegar also doesn't work, and the GreenWorks only succeeds in killing, not preventing them from coming back. It's nice to have a quick spray that kills them since my index finger is starting to get a permanent ant-shaped indentation. I refuse to use bleach. Ever. With anything. I suspect it wouldn't work anyway since these ants have clearly built up an immunity to every home remedy.

This afternoon, the girls and I went to Home Depot where we picked up Terro (new phrase in Jules's vocabulary? "Ant poison"). So now I'm resisting the urge to kill every ant I see since evidently the ants have to make it back to their homes alive, bearing the unfortunate gifts. It's a great test of will power.

Hopefully the Terro works. And soon. In the time it has taken me to type up this post I've had an ant scurry across the keyboard and also found one meandering down my shirt. Ugh.

Any tactical advice you can pass on? Clearly the ants have refined their technique to include torture, and that's no good. At all.

Study sickness

My plan for today was to study for my comprehensive graduate exams.

Did I tell you I have to take comprehensive graduate exams? In three weeks? Over material that I have learned over the past eight years? I didn't?

Maybe it's because I'm in denial.

Anyway, I have to study for these exams because they are very tricky and ask me all sorts of questions like prescriptive and descriptive approaches to grammar and writing. While I found that topic very interesting, I could not spend an hour writing about it. That's where the studying comes in.

However, at approximately 7 pm last night, my stomach started warring it out over the prescriptive and descriptive approaches to pizza digestion. My stomach spent more than an hour quarreling about it, and still, this afternoon, hasn't quite resolved the issue. I hate it when my stomach fights with itself. It's never pretty.

In short, I am enduring a sick day. Fortunately, it is Friday and so the girls are up with the grandparents. Unfortunately, it is Friday, which means I technically have less than 3 weeks until my graduate exams.

I think my stomach is starting to hurt again.

and the Walls came tumbling down

Even though the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008 (aka: The Bailout) passed today, Wall Street apparently didn't rejoice that much. Not a happy Friday for them.

And considering I found out today that the apartment we were hoping to move into was rented to someone else (our application was 2nd in line), it was not a happy Friday for me either. I'm not sure if I cried more tears than those Wall Street investors did, but it's possible. At the end of the day, we've both changed into our jammies and headed to bed.

Ah, such is life. We'll find another apartment eventually. Hopefully.

As for Wall Street, I don't know what I hope for them. I'm definitely hoping that the CEOs of the companies that are getting bailed out don't end up with nice compensation packages, but I'm not betting on it.

Unlike them, who seemed to have bet a great deal and are just now realizing the catastrophe of their risky behavior.

Other than our 403(B) retirement fund taking a big hit, we haven't lost much in the credit crisis. Thankfully the bank that we are using for our construction loan is doing just fine. No troubles for them mean no troubles for us. It's still uncertain times though. I can't quite figure out if this bailout is really going to help. Certainly, on a psychological level (which is largely what keeps our banking system working anyway) it's helpful, but beyond that...well...it could just be that not only are we going to lose, but we're going to lose big (an interesting link here for an article from Slate).

What say you, my fellow Americans?

Right now, the answer is probably "maybe," but either way, $700 billion is a lot of money. Thankfully, my faith is not built on financial institutions, and my hope doesn't rely on investors. Good thing too.

Living where slugs come to die

I remember in elementary school playing a game called What's Grosser than Gross. In my circle of friends, the answers usually involved a rusty nail, or great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts, and we'd squeeze our eyes shut and squeal with laughter. Ten-year-olds thrive on gross.

Here's the thing, though: I outgrew the humor of grossness. Call me stuffy, but I just don't think "gross" is funny anymore. Which is probably why I'm struggling to laugh over our current apartment predicament, whereby each day brings me more Grosser than Gross encounters.

What's Grosser than Gross? The smell of an old Motel 6 room.
What's Grosser than That? When that smell is your home.

What's Grosser than Gross? Cleaning yucky bathrooms.
What's Grosser than That? Finding that the underside of a toilet bowl was not sufficiently cleaned from all the previous owner's "dirt" while cleaning the yucky bathroom.

What's Grosser than Gross? Old apartment carpet that feels like greasy hair.
What's Grosser than That? Discovering one morning that the greasy haired carpet was SLIMED by a slug, which then dried up and died on your favorite floor pillow.

And really, the slug thing? We don't know how he get in. I vacuumed up the slug and he rattled around in the cannister as I went about my daily routine of vacuuming the carpet again, hoping that maybe this time my vacuuming will turn the carpet into new carpet. Even now, recalling the slugging, my mind goes blank and my emotions go flat, probably as a self-defense mechanism to keep me sane.

I realize that once I put it all in perspective--we have a place to live that is relatively safe; we are not facing the loss of all our worldly possessions like those in Galveston; we have relatively few worries other than an old, gross apartment--all my complaints seem petty. I'm always telling myself to KEEP IT IN PERSPECTIVE. It could be worse. Much worse. We could have slugs crawling up our bedspread and snuggling beside us while we sleep. And, oh my gosh, I just typed that and my skin broke out in a cold sweat of horror. Perspective.

But when I walked through the apartment door tonight, and was accosted by that musty smell for the 100th time, I answer my inner voice with, "Shut up about perspective, already. My perspective is that I hate this apartment." I admit, I'm the one who picked out this apartment. Sure, it was the only one that we could find available on such short notice after selling our house. Sure, it's in the location we wanted. Sure, we are saving ourselves buckets of money by living in an apartment instead of renting a house. But I'm sensing that all that money we are saving ourselves might have to go back into therapy and medication.

The truth is, and those who have talked with me over the past month have heard me say it, I am not as strong as I think I am. I like to think that I'm not such a needy, snobby princess type. Who needs new carpet? Who needs carport parking? Who needs sunlight in the bedrooms? Who needs a clean toilet? Turns out, I guess I do. It's been a humbling experience, realizing that I'm a touch high maintenance (and Jason kisses me and says, "Oh, sweetums. You've always been high maintenance, and I love you for it").

I would like to be more like my sister, who can make the best out of any living situation. Andrea used to live in an apartment in Florida where the constant presence of teeny tiny ants was such a normal thing for her that she would even eat them in her cereal. Believe or not, when I visited her, I thought, "Maybe I could get use to this. Maybe I too could eat ants in my cereal."

Note to self: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? You would sooner end up in the psych ward than eat ants for breakfast. You are forgiven for your outrageous line of thinking because you were 7-months pregnant.

And, so, we are moving. Again. To some place newer, and nicer, and more expensive. A place that has a washer and dryer, windows that receive actual sunlight, rooms that have ceiling lights, carpet on which I will allow my kids to walk barefoot. We'll have to pay the $250 fee for moving out of this apartment early, and we'll have to apologize profusely to our landlord who was so accommodating to get us into a place when we needed it. I do feel bad about that.

The alternative, however, is here. With the slugs. Where at the end of the day, I sit on the couch, unable to muster any amount of emotion--positive or negative--because I've slipped into survival mode. My experiment in living with less has resulted in a great, big, slimed failure which is perhaps a Grosser than Gross character trait.

But what's Grosser than That?

Slugs in my living room.

Rollercoaster

At the end of each day, I sit at the computer, wandering the web, my mind simultaneously a vat of mud and brimming with ideas. The journey of selling our house has ruined my concentration, especially this week when it seems that at any moment the whole deal will fall apart.

We got an email tonight letting us know that the buyer is probably going to withdraw her offer.

Hope remains that we can work it out, but it's been a tough week. Tough knowing when we'll need to find a place to stay after the house sells. Tough knowing if the house will sell. Tough knowing that at the end of the day we feel no closer to actually breaking ground on building the new house.

And then today, I was feeling completely stressed out with
emails to realtors,
phone calls to contractors,
photo retouching for a new job I have (and like, but today was definitely a logistics headache),
and somehow trying to get lunch on the table. 

At this moment of pulling my hair out, Sydney asked to play with play-dough. Seriously. Play-dough is a thorn in my side, a plague in my clean kitchen, an irritant almost as strong as rap music. Nevertheless, she was patient with me as I hunched over the computer for an hour, and so I pulled it out for her.

Thirty minutes later--when she was done--
rather than clean the table,
sweep the floor,
and wash the play-dough toys, 
I decided that we just needed to be outside.

I needed to be far, far away from my computer.

I needed to be close to my babies, sitting on a blanket, eating frozen blueberries, watching Sydney dance and Jules spin.

 

 

It may be a crazy ride, but at least I've got one handsome guy, two pretty little people, and a dozen bags of frozen blueberries by my side. Hope lives on.

Week 217: Just a Phone Call Away

I had to call the phone company today because I noticed a peculiar charge had shown up on our bill. Not only was the charge something I didn't recognize, but it came accompanied by a little note from the phone company that said something to the effect of "You can dispute this charge. You also don't have to pay it."

Really? Then why the heck did you put the charge on my bill IN THE FIRST PLACE if you think it's bogus? That was a question I was bound to ask John, the customer service rep who was lucky enough to field my phone call, except then I never did because we got distracted talking about children (he has three girls, ages 5, 3, and 7 months) and the tricks of keeping small toys out of reach of baby hands. Then we chatted about money, and finances, and 20 minutes later I was thinking, "Maybe I should invite his family over for dinner or something," but that really would have been just a little too crazy, yes? Anyway, he told me to call the bogus company directly and demand the charge be removed.

So, at this point, I'm 25 minutes into having an $8 charge removed from my bill. But I call the other company up, and get my sassy voice on and say, "I don't want to hear whatever it is you have to say, I just want you to take this charge off." The poor woman on the other line--who also probably has a family to feed, but I just couldn't get caught up in her drama right then--said okay, and that was that. Or at least, that was that until I get the next phone bill.

Sometimes I wonder how much my time is worth when I make these awful phone calls where I can't get through to a person until I jump through all the vocal hoops. You know the ones.

Please say your account number.
I'm sorry, can you repeat that?
Would you like to talk to a service representative?
Yes.
What is the matter related to? You can be honest.
Billing.
Did you say Add More Features?
Bill-ing.
Please say Yes or No.
For the love, just let me talk to a real person!

Even when I call Kaiser Permanente just to make a doctor's appointment, I have to make sure that I have a good, solid block of time to wait through the tedious world of Being On Hold. Jules is napping. Sydney is watching a movie. The dog is outside. Nothing is baking. I will sit here and dedicate my life to being On The Phone, with nothing but laundry to fold or a magazine to read. But I must make note not to read any articles that might make me cry, or else then I find myself talking to the advice nurse and crying, and then she's not quite sure who she should be making appointments for or whether something really disastrous has happened.

Are you okay? Has something happened?
"I'm fine," I weep into the phone. "It's just that Alison in this month's Real Simple article is such a brave woman, and I got all choked up over her story. And can you imagine raising those kids by yourself with your husband so far away on deployment?"

Pshaw. I'd never actually admit that to the advice nurse. Better she feel pity for me than scorn.

For the record, I've cried on the phone with an advice nurse twice; only once can be blamed on a magazine article. The other time was when after 10 minutes of being on hold, the nurse came on just as I was dealing with a screaming child on the changing table with a poopy diaper.

I had a lot to cry about.

Since I was in the Phone Zone, I called KP today to ask about the symptoms of appendicitis because I was concerned my appendix might be failing me. But one of the symptoms is a fever, which I don't have. I then risked the possibility of sounding like a hypochondriac and inquired about making an appointment regarding all these migraines I've had, but the appointment calendar only goes out 10 days, and nothing was open so I have to call back in a couple days to check again.

Time spent accomplishing pretty much nothing?

Ten minutes.

The worst has to be when I called a credit card company last month because I received a statement that said I owed 72 cents. Not dollars. CENTS. I was irked because I had already called the company twice before to find out the exact balance so we could pay it off and close the account. I got the amount, but it was evidently relayed to me incorrectly.

So. I call the company and ask what the deal is. Miss Cheery Voice tells me I owe 72 cents.

"Seriously?" I ask, trying to be as equally cheerful. "Can you just waive that? It's 72 cents."

But she and I know that's where the issue is: it's 72 cents. Seventy-two cents isn't going to break me.

Oh, says Miss Cheery Voice, just pay it online. Already more than 5 minutes has lapsed, and I just want to get off the phone. I try one more time.

"I tried to pay this account, and you guys are making it impossible to do that."

This will be the last time; then the balance will be zero.

How much is my time worth? Do I really want to argue with this woman? Am I going to lose this battle?

Yes. I am. I give up and say, Okay. Whatever.

I go online to pay the stupid 72 cents and discover that the lowest acceptable amount is $1. I agonize over giving them an extra 28 cents. In another life, I might raise my fist to the heavens and scream about Principles! and Big Guys sticking it to the Little Guys!

In the end, though, I pay it.

Nap time has ended, movie is over, dog is barking, and dinner needs to get cooked. I can't worry about big guys when I'm tripping over my little guys.

And there you have it: My time isn't worth 28 cents. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Oh, Spring! Where Art Thou?

My brother-in-law called the other day and told me it was 80 degrees in Rhode Island. It's so unfair. It's not even close to 80 degrees here. In fact, on Saturday the coldest place in the 48-continental states? Redmond, Oregon. Oregon is definitely not the place to be this week for spring weather.

Today was my last day of teaching classes (hello summer vacation!), and when class ended, my students had to wander out into the pouring down rain as I called after them, "Have a good summer!" They didn't think that was very funny.

I'm not the only one who thinks it's too cold around here. A little visitor this morning confirmed my suspicions that, despite it nearing the end of April, it is far too cold outside.

Hello there, little bird! Come to try on Sydney's winter boots?

What's that? You had other ideas for the boots?

Yes, they are quite warm! Why do you ask?

Oh, I totally understand. Take all you need.

*sigh* Hang in there. I'm sure warmer weather is right around the corner.

Happy summer vacation to me!

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 201: Spring Broke

Dear Mother Nature,

Here's the thing: when we talk about "Spring Break" what we're actually referring to is a break from activities during the spring. Not--as you clearly mistook the directions--a break in spring weather. I'm not talking about the rain. Sure, sure. It's Oregon, we get rain, fine. I wasn't asking for a miracle of sunshine or anything. But to give us hail, to give us frigid temperatures, to give us SNOW is just unkind. And then to give us all that repeated, over the course of several days? Seriously. It was the most craptastic weather week ever.

If we lived on the East Coast, or Alaska, or even Minnesota...I'd understand. Snow happens. But here? SNOW?! The end of March? I think you've got yourself all turned around and upside down. Clearly this must be the case because I see that global warming is affecting Antarctica, what with part of the Wilkins Ice Shelf collapsing and all. I'm just saying, why don't you give Antarctica and us Pac NWers a break and warm us up instead of those poor drowning polar bears. (Or rather, as my geography-smarts husband pointed out, poor drowning penguins. Polar bears are North Pole; penguins are South Pole. Meh.)

I'm even doing my part to help you out. Just last night we observed Earth Hour, albeit with a few minor changes. Obviously we couldn't really be expected to turn the tv off at 8 pm, not with NCAA games going on. But the lights were out, I was reading by candlelight, and to make up for getting a late start on the whole affair, we kept those candles burning until almost 10 pm. See? I'm trying.

And while this week there was more of this...

than this...

no matter what you threw at my man (sleet, hail, snow, torrential rains), you couldn't keep him from doing this:

That's right, no thanks to you, my becoming-handier-by-the-day husband finished a fabulous railing around the patio. So there.

Of course, the weather didn't prevent me from going to see The Other Boleyn Girl with Rachel on Tuesday. It didn't keep Sydney from returning to the farm on Thursday to visit her grandparents, and it didn't keep Jason and I from having a nice relaxing evening on Friday watching 3:10 to Yuma. There's only so much you can do to dampen our Spring Break.

Just for future reference, however, school ends for me the first week of May, and so I fully expect some sunshine around that time. Otherwise, there will be serious grumblings going on around here. Thanks much. Don't think it doesn't go unnoticed that next week is supposed to be nicer weather, which coincides quite nicely with Washington's spring break. Why do you have to go and be all unfair like that?

Well, that's about it. Sure, spring break was more like spring broke, but any week that none of us is working is pretty good week afterall.

Later gator,
Stephanie

PS: Give my regards to the Easter Bunny and the Toothfairy.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

complaining against my complaints

It's been a hard week. At the end of each day I have felt equal parts exhausted, exasperated, and discouraged. I don't know where the discouragement is coming from (well that's not quite true; the discouragement is coming from feeling exasperated), but I do know the exasperation has to do with my efforts to clean the house amidst the child-sized tornadoes that keep the house in a constant state of chaos. All week I have been working to clean the house. It's Friday. The house still isn't clean.

The exhaustion is from working so hard to come up with answers for Sydney. "Why can't I eat chocolate for lunch?" Because, I say. I explain it to her, once, in patient tones. She says, "But I want to." No, you can't. But I want to.

I could ignore her, except she'll keep repeating the same thing over and over until I satisfactorily remedy the situation.

I try to change the topic, divert her attention, send her to her room, walk out of the room myself. Sometimes the tricks work. Sometimes they don't. However it turns out, even five minutes later I'm exhausted just trying to keep up with the answers. (And while I usually welcome advice--because goodness knows so many of you have 'been there, done that'--I just want to vent right now. You're very thoughtful to try to help, though.)

Also this week I have discovered a great number of my students--who are all nice and polite and mild mannered--are a somber, serious group. Usually around this time in the semester they start to warm up, giving me that much needed spark of joy that I get from teaching. It's different this semester. They don't laugh at my jokes. They don't ask questions. They just do their assignments, don't complain, say thank you at the end of class, and go on their merry way. It's all very easy, of course, except that for some reason all this distant politeness wears me down.

Add to this a good dose of personal drama that has to go unexplained due to all sorts of reasons, and I'm just worn out. Really, it's the drama that has magnified the other problems. I'd hardly care about the house except that I try to clean as a measure of working through some frustrations, and when I can't keep the house clean--this small area of which I am desperately seeking some control--my head starts spinning. Almost literally, in fact. Last night, though I was weary and exhausted, I couldn't close my eyes because every time I did the world started spinning. After a few seconds I'd be so dizzy I'd have to open my eyes.

While I usually feel better after a good rant, it's hard for me these days because all I keep thinking about it how I should be counting my blessings. I place a high value on perspective, but sometimes all that perspective gets in the way of me having a good cry. I want to cry, but then that little voice says, "Do you know what other people are going through? What on earth do you have to cry about?" If I'm to be honest with myself, I have nothing significant to cry about. I know the sorrows that other people endure, sorrows so much heavier than my own, so the sob gets stuck in my throat and I put on a brave face and try to focus on joy and peace. I feel like I did so many years ago when I broke a favorite plate the day after 9/11. Part of me wanted to cry and cry over this small loss, but I couldn't let myself cry knowing that a far larger loss had just shaken our nation.

Sometimes I hate perspective. Especially when I'm feeling discouraged, exasperated, and exhausted, and all I really want to do is cry.

*****

(c) 2008 by Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Scraped

Want a story about treachery, thievery, and blackmail? A story fraught with danger and deceit?

Yeah, well. That story ain't here. But I can tell you the story of how I discovered other people making money off my bloggy stuff. It's not super exciting, but it'll have to do for the weekend's entertainment.

So, last week when I was checking up on my Technorati profile I happened to glance through the page that lists sites that have linked to little ole' Creature Bug. I recognized all the sites as belonging to people I know except four. I checked out those four pages and discovered that while they did, in fact, have me linked as the source to the post they were duplicating on their site, the post was surrounded by Google Ads and the whole thing smacked of "making money off my work." I normally love other bloggers linking back to me, but this was not along those lines at all.

I know in my last post I said something about plagiarism, but what these sites did wasn't exactly plagiarism (which is when you take someone's work and call it your own). What happened to Jenny at Absolutely Bananas was plagiarism. (Read her whole awful ordeal here.) This was more along the lines of copyright infringement. It's a form of scraping, and in my case the issue might happen like this:

• I have a post called "Pictures from Camden" (two of the sites chose this post)
• The "link site" takes this post and puts it on their blog (with a courtesy link back to me)
• Someone goes to Google and searches for "pictures from camden" and up pop a dozen places to choose from, including mine and the link site's.
• Someone goes to the link site, sees my post and then maybe ends up here afterall.

No, big deal really. Except in the part where someone goes to the link site instead of coming here. That additional step means that someone else might be making money off my posts. They also might have objectionable content on their site that I wouldn't like to be associated with. If it sounds confusing, this post at Blogging Basics 101 explains it much better than I could.

I have now started a folder in my Favorites Center called Thievery, where I am collecting helpful links in my effort to protect my content, as well as the links to the sites that scraped my content.

• Whois Source helped me look up the owners of the domains that were illegally linking me. I obtained email addresses for three of the four sites through Whois.
• I searched for copies of my webpage using Copyscape (came up clean)
• I found a helpful article on what to do when someone copies material from my blog.

Unfortunately, Typepad doesn't offer a "permanent signature line" feature where I wouldn't have to type in the copyright info at the bottom of every post, so that I will do manually. Including the copyright info at the bottom of each post is really only effective against individuals who might take your entire RSS feed and refeed it into their mirror site. Hopefully Typepad will start providing this feature because I know I'll forget to include that copyright info on my posts.

So. That's the ordeal. I wasn't going to do anything about it until I read the post at Absolutely Bananas, and then I decided to at least try some of the tactics she suggests. The end result is that I emailed three of the four, and two of the sites have taken down the post (yay!). One site continues to have my Pictures of Camden post up, even though I emailed AND commented on the post. The fourth site I don't really have any way of contacting. A bogus email address is on their Whois records, and the site itself has no email or comment capabilities. To top it all off, the ISP for the site is in Russia. Call me a product of the eighties, but I have little faith that me emailing an ISP in Russia will motivate them to get a site to remove my link. I'm not pursuing it. But you're welcome to try if you like--here's the page. (I don't see any ads, so I don't think they'll generate any revenue from you clicking through. I can't quite figure out what the point of the site is.)

I kind of feel like I ought to be more irritated than I am, but I'm not. For one thing, I knew when I signed up for this kind of writing that there was always going to be the possibility of someone taking my work. For me, it goes with the territory. Certainly, I'm not going to take thievery lying down...I'll add my watermark on photos and my copyright link at the bottom of posts. I'll email and badger and do sleuth work every once in awhile (like Googling certain phrases from my posts to see if they pop up anywhere they shouldn't).

However, it's quite possible that someone out there has taken a photo of mine, resubmitted it as their own, and is making money and/or a great story out of it. I know bloggers that have had this happen to them, and some of them even stopped blogging because of it. Very understandable since there's a strong "creepy" factor to people taking bits and pieces of your life.

For me, though, I'm just going to keep plugging along. For one thing, if I'm always worried about my content then it would take all the fun out of hanging out here. Even though it irritates me that these sites took something from me, they aren't really taking anything from my life. I'm still the one living it. For another thing, my list of fears is a mile long anyway and I just can't add any blog related items to that list. It'd drive me crazy and make me lose sleep. Meh. I prefer sanity, and we all know how much I love my sleep.

Speaking of which...I forgot. I've been up since 4 this morning. Maybe I should go to sleep.

Final suggestions for foiling potential thieves:

• watermark your photos
• add a copyright signature to the end of every post (or you could just do that "partial post" thing where only part of your post shows up in a reader, but I hate that. I know some of you swear by it, but my secret confession is that sometimes I don't end up reading the post if you don't have the whole thing displayed).
• sign your blog up on Technorati so you can see who is linking to you
• Remember: you can't live in fear because that means they win (see, I'm also a product of the 21st century)

Also remember, don't steal. It's not nice. The end. And have a great weekend, plagiarism free!

*****

(c) 2008 by Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Week 186: Lottofafluza

Before getting into the story of how firefighters ended up in my bedroom at 5:30am Saturday morning, I must be upfront that today is a product-review post. I say that so that you don't think I'm using my husband's illness in order to shill a product. While I occasionally agree to receiving free products and then further reviewing them on my blog, and while I may even encourage you to buy books through my Amazon links so that I can become rich and buy myself a pair of designer jeans (right!), when it comes down to it I'm just writing about my family, not trying to sell things. I just wanted to make that clear so you don't feel like I tricked you into reading this post.

But the story must be told, and the product must be reviewed, so they shall share the post space harmoniously together, like peanut butter and jelly. Except not exactly like peanut butter and jelly because Jason is allergic to peanuts and that would only further lead me to calling 9-1-1 again.

So, the firefighters. Me calling 9-1-1. The story unfolds thusly.

Friday afternoon was just a regular afternoon. Jason had gone for a nine-mile run, then had taken Jules out grocery shopping so that I could get some grading done (Sydney was staying the night with her grandparents). Later that night, Jason started complaining of not feeling well. He had major stomach pains, and was showing symptoms of having the flu (food poisoning is also a possible suspect). Although I had great pity for him in my heart, I have a hard time summoning my maternal instincts for anyone other than my girls (and other small children). I can fetch things, but I prefer to keep my distance because bodily fluids seriously gross me out. I did what I could, which was to provide fluids and medicine.

During the night, Jason continued to not feel well. I would periodically wake up, mumble, "Is there something I can get you?" and then promptly fall back asleep (kind of reminds me of the time I told Jason I was pregnant with Sydney, and he said, "Really?" and then fell back asleep, which he says is what happens when you wake someone up at 2am to share pregnancy news).

Sometime around 5am, I hear a loud crash in the bathroom, and rush in there to find Jason unconscious, the crashing sound having resulted from his head hitting the wall. Since he's only allowing me to share this story because it was so traumatic for me, I am leaving out most of the horrible and frightening details. However, I will say that when I first saw him I was terrified at the condition I found him in. After checking his pulse and realizing that he was still breathing, I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

I know some people say that in moments of crisis they can't recall exactly what transpired, but I remember every little detail. I remember the sound of the woman's voice on the phone, the questions she asked, the first thing Jason said when he regained consciousness. I remember it all, and I was scared. After Jason realized that I had called for an ambulance, he was not exactly thrilled. He was now perfectly lucid, and even though he wasn't feeling great, he was not suffering any significant effects of what had just occurred.

Within a few minutes of my phone call, the firetruck arrived at our house. I was relieved they didn't have their sirens on because that might have woke Jules up. I was also relieved that there was now no imminent threat to Jason's health.

It was this sense of relief that can only explain why at this point I completely lost my senses. I saw those firefighters come marching down our driveway and could only think of one thing: they were wearing some heavy duty boots. Which were going to be walking on my clean carpets. As the men were about to enter the house, I squeaked out in my most embarrassed voice, "Oh dear. You're going to walk your boots all over my carpets aren't you?"

I realized that it sounded horribly insensitive, and what did I honestly expect? That they would take off their shoes before coming in the house? Fortunately, the nice firefighter did not laugh at me and said, "I'm pretty sure they aren't muddy." And then later--after they had checked Jason out and we had declined a trip to the hospital--he managed to tease me about what I had said. I'm sure I turned eight million shades of red before he said, "It's okay. My wife would have said the same thing." So, I'm not totally crazy. Just a little bit crazy.

Jason spent most of Saturday recovering, and by that evening he was able to keep some soup and jello down. By Sunday he was mostly recovered, and barring a relapse, he'll have no trouble teaching today and tomorrow before beginning his Christmas vacation. I'm thankful he's okay. I'm thankful for the firefighters who were here and did such a wonderful job. I'm thankful that Sydney wasn't here that night. And, I have to say it again, I'm thankful Jason is okay. I hope I never have to experience that again.

*****

Up until this weekend we had been pretty lucky to escape any significant sicknesses this year. Sure, there's been the occasional cold, and a few days Jason and I had a sore throat. Naturally, I have my migraines every once in awhile which I treat with Peppermint oil and Excedrin. The colds we pretty much suffered through, but the sore throats we were able to ward off with a dose of Simply Gargle, a salt-water gargle that tastes absolutely awful but makes your throat feel a million times better. I confess I'm not really a big fan of medicinal gargles, but Parent Bloggers Network hooked me up with Simply Gargle, and I had every sore-throated person I know try it. My parents loved it. Our nanny's sister loved it (although she said, "It tastes SO gross, but my throat feels better"). And Jason and I, while we despise the taste of it, now use it because its handy one-use capsules are easy to store, and it makes my throat feel like butter (in a good way). I even used it one day when my throat was just tired after a day of lecturing since Simply Gargle is not a medicine that I would have to ingest. I'm not against taking medicine, but if I can find one that will solve my aches without having to swallow it? Now, that's a good idea. Another good idea? Visit their website and sign up to receive a free sample of Simply Gargle. If you don't want your free sample just give it to me. I do enough talking to require a salt-water gargle weekly.

I know during this season of germs and sicknesses, I need to make sure my medicine cabinet is well stocked. I have to get something for the flu (fingers crossed we don't get it again), and I have to go get another box of Simply Gargle because we're out. I'm really hoping the next illness we get in our house is as mild as a sore throat because I don't think my nerves could take another dose of the flu.

Or the carpets either, for that matter.

From the classroom

For the past several days Jason has been teaching his students about the environment, ways to recycle, some of the research regarding global warming, etc. Since it is directed at junior high students, it's not highly indepth, but students of that age are old enough to learn how to take care of our planet and understand the value of recycling and our limited natural resources.

Yesterday, he came home from school feeling a bit down because he has had a few students come in and tell him some negative comments they have heard from their parents regarding this environment unit. Comments like, "I hope he's teaching you the other side of the issue," and "What on earth are they teaching you at that school?! Nothing." Additionally, parents are upset that Jason showed some clips from An Inconvenient Truth, presumably because the film features Al Gore and so that *must* make the whole thing a bunch of hogwash.

Okay, so maybe some people don't believe in global warming. Whatever. But to think that teaching students about recycling and limited natural resources is a bad idea? Right. Don't recycle. Litter everywhere. Use as much paper as you possibly can. Leave your lights on all the time and the water too. Good idea.

It's a good thing I don't have a teaching position where I interact with parents anymore. Because even though I've matured in some areas, I'm not sure if I could keep myself from saying unprofessional things toward them. All I can say: some people are ridiculous.

Skunked again

Last year I didn't win any prizes for NaBloPoMo.

This year I didn't win any prizes for NaBloPoMo. I couldn't even celebrate vicariously through any of my friends who were participating, because none of them won either. Meh.

If you'd like to comfort me in my time of loser-ness, you could perhaps take a gander at my Amazon wish list. (Note to whichever family member drew my name for the Christmas exchange: get me the rainboots. THE RAINBOOTS.) Diamonds are also oddly comforting, although you wouldn't think so with those jagged edges and bright sparkles.

Even if you decide not to add me to your Christmas list, I will say it warms my heart to read all your nice comments about the new banner. I'm kind of crazy in love with those two little girls, even though they refuse to allow me to sleep through the night.

Week 176: Pity me...

...my children aren't taking naps anymore.

It's all for the best that Sydney doesn't nap. On her new no-nap schedule she goes to bed between 8 and 8:30 and then doesn't wake up until 8 in the morning. I'm all about sleeping in, so I'm glad to see I've won her over to my side (which is to say, not the side that Jason is on, the side that wakes up before the sun comes up to go play basketball or run or bike half a marathon or something).

Sweet little Julianne, however, needs to take a nap. I need her to take a nap. I need her to not be wandering all over the house, ripping everything from everywhere and destroying anything that can be destroyed. Syd and I need a break from the adorableness that exudes from Jules. I mean, really. Too much adorableness in one day is exhausting. Just ask us. We need to wallow in the regular. Certainly, Sydney is chock full of cuteness and hilarity and fabulousness, but she offsets all that with throwing a fit every once in awhile. Plus, I can count on a good solid hour of just doing my own thing (reading, grading, blogging, napping) while she is fully immersed in the world of musicals. At the moment, her most favorite movie is "Singing in the Rain," and so has been a daily fixture at our house for, oh, three weeks. That Gene Kelly. He's kind of adorable too.

Where was I?

Yes, naps.

Jules takes a 20 minute nap a day. Per day. At one shot. The end.

I find it near impossible to get anything done. I've tried just letting her cry in her crib until she goes back to sleep, but then she cries for 40 minutes until the hour is up and I go get her. Also, Sydney doesn't help matters by notifying me every minute or so that "Jules is crying Jules is crying Jules is crying Jules is crying." It's fun around her. Real fun.

Fortunately--and I forgot to mention this earlier--but we have Rebekah living with us, who is a full-time student as well as our trusty, amazing, wonderful nanny who takes care of the girls while I'm teaching. Some evenings, if her homework is mostly done, she comes in and entertains the girls while I'm attempting to make dinner. OR! She makes us dinner. No, you can't have her. And yes, we love her to pieces.

So, yes, we're not taking naps around here. Kind of crabby about that. Even though Jules is going to bed at 8, it's little consolation because I'm ready to go to bed around that time too. I'm hoping that this is just a phase, and eventually she'll figure out that the house is a happier place to be when we all get to have a little quiet time to ourselves.

Week 172: Things that go drip in the night

Our house is having an early mid-life crisis. Even though it's not quite 30, it has definitely had issues this week. Its previous identity as a responsible and mature home has come under fire. Responsible, it isn't. Mature? While practical jokes at 29 are still okay, expensive practical jokes are frowned upon. Seriously frowned upon.

For instance, Monday night I woke up to a torrential rains thundering down, and within a few moments Jules was awake too. Even though I'm not a big fan of middle-of-the-night feedings, since I was awake then I decided to indulge her. As I fed her in her room, I heard an unsettling sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

By the dim glow of the night light I could see water dripping from the ceiling. Fabulous.

I woke Jason up, and even though it was the night before the first day of school he had to crawl up into the space above Julianne's room and find the leak. He found it, and I did my part by handing him a bucket. Even though a leaky roof isn't a good sign, it wasn't something we were really worried about. We have a tile roof. It was a cracked tile. Jason fixed it the next day. End of story.

Then Saturday night I hear a peep from Jules room, and since I had once again found myself awake then I thought I would go check on her. She would have gone back to sleep, but even from the other side of the door I could smell the diaper that needed changing. So, in I go, change the diaper, and--since it was extra smelly--I decide to put it outside.

As I walk past a floor vent (which leads to the crawl space under the house) I hear a funny sound. A funny rushing hushing sound. It's the middle of the night, and my imagination, as it has been documented, is extra active in the middle of the night. I say this to explain what I at first thought the sound was.

I feed Jules, then go get Jason who had woken up when I opened the front door. "What's wrong?" he said.

"I hear something under the house."

"Like what? An animal?"

"No. Well, maybe. You better come listen."

He drags himself out of bed and walks down the hall to the floor vent. "Listen!" I say. He listens. I tentatively offer my suggestion.

"I think it's bees." I'm wild with fear that a swarm of bees is under the house, has somehow found solace there in the middle of the night, and will at any moment come swarming up through the vents and attack us.

Jason stares at me incredulously. "Bees?" he stammers. He makes a little motion with his hand that is supposed to indicate flying insects, but which looks to me like he thinks I'm referring to swimming bees. "Bees?!"

"Like a swarm of bees. Yellow jackets."

"Aren't bees dormant in the middle of the night?"

It's 3:30 in the morning and we are having a discussion about the nesting habits of bees. I strain to recall information from a junior high science project. "Don't their wings still move at night?" I flutter my arms helpfully.

"It's not bees," he says with authority. I am only mildly convinced.

He goes to the coat closet to remove the floor panel that leads to the crawl space. On the upside, we had already replaced the batteries in the flashlight from Monday's leaky roof incident, so without further ado he leans into the hole to take a look around.

I am still quite concerned that the moment he flashes the light around a swarm of bees will come tearing up through the floor, so I stand back, ready to run at a moment's notice.

"There's water dripping," he says. "I can hear it." He leans further in the hole, and sees a burst pipe spraying water all over the underside of the house. "A pipe broke."

And in an instant I really do wish he had seen bees instead of a broken pipe.

Jason gets the water main turned off, and we somehow try to go back to sleep, our minds wondering how on earth we will pay for a broken pipe. In the morning we call a plumber, but since our house was inconsiderate enough to have its pipe-breaking party on a weekend then we have to pay an extra $100 emergency call fee.

Plumbers comes, look at damage, and deliver the bad news: It's a broken pipe, but as it turns out all our pipes have serious corrosion and need to be replaced. The one that broke isn't even as bad as some of the other pipes. Copper pipes have a shelf life, which ours seem to have come to.

Short term fix just to get the water working and allow me to shower: $700.

Long term fix: $7000.

We're calling our insurance company, and hope they have some better news to offer us on this point. There's no way we're paying seven grand to re-pipe our house. We'd be better off just waiting for the pipes to break one by one. Of course, now I'm afraid any sound I hear is a burst pipe.

I'm not sure if that's better or worse than imagining the sound of bees.

So in one week, Jason has had to make trips to the top and bottom of the house. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the far side of the house (where the central air is located) isn't the next issue for the house. No more water pranks. No breaking down. No sowing wild oats. It just needs to buck up and accept its status as a responsible house whose sole job is to protect its inhabitants.

Either way, if Jules cries in the middle of the night tonight I'm not getting up. Because whatever it is, we can't afford it.

Make Offer

After 10 years of marriage, after 6 1/2 years of home ownership, we are taking the big leap: we're having a garage sale.

We've spent the last ten hours putting everything together, pricing it, wiping the dust off it, organizing it into categories ('No, the electronic department is over there! This is the housewares!"). My conclusion before we even open tomorrow: so totally not worth the effort. Maybe I'll change my tune if we bring in bucket loads of cash. Maybe.

I don't know anything about garage sales since I've probably been to 10 in my life. I suspect this has put me at a disadvantage in pricing items. I look at the ice cream maker, the panini grill, the electric keyboard and think, "Well, whatever anyone pays me will be more than I would have gotten by giving to it Goodwill." Also, I'm not good at the bargaining thing. I can already imagine the awkward conversations:

Strange person: "You want $4 for this? For this? How about I give you fifty cents?"
Me: Um, whatever. Just don't come back and egg my house.

I just wrote that and got a serious panic attack. Strangers. Wandering around my garage. Eh.

$3.25

Why do I have no problem spending $3.25 for a latte, but I HATE spending that much for a gallon of gasoline?

Oh. my. word. It's enough to make me want to start walking everywhere...if only everything was close enough to walk to. Right now, only the post office and the coffee shop are close enough to walk to, and not much need to walk to either place since (1) the post office comes to me every day and (2) who can buy coffee when I'm shelling out $40 to fill the car?

The day's end

Okay, so I'll tell you part of the reason why I've been in a no-good, awful, horrible mood today, but you have to PROMISE not to laugh. At least, not so loudly that I can hear you.

I'm blaming my misery on Oprah. Well, not directly on Oprah, perhaps more on her producers. I got my hopes up--ridiculously so--and then as the days have crept by since April 14th I've become more resigned to my fate. My fate, that is, of not being chosen. Even though I was not entitled to being chosen, I was still just hoping a tiny bit that I would be. The whole thing is proof positive that I am not getting enough sleep. Also, being spit up on half a dozen times a day appears to be taking its toll. It is the only way to explain how insanely and oddly disappointed I am right now.

Perhaps I should explain.

Several weeks ago I wandered by Oprah's site and saw that she was having a contest that made my heart beat just a little bit faster. It was contest for a backyard makeover. Oh. my. goodness. gracious. This was my chance.

If you've been around here long enough you enough that our backyard is a disaster. There was a pool, now there's a pit. There was grass, now there's mud. There was prettiness, and now it's the reason I don't raise the curtains on my windows anymore. To be fair, it was third in my list of priorities of change. First the wood floors. Then the leather couches. Check, and check. Third on the to-do list: backyard.

Still waiting.

Even though there are some minor repairs I could do to curb the catastrophe of the backyard, so much of it revolves around the deck being fixed. I'm not keen on planting pretty pretty flowers and lovely green grass only to have them smushed to a certain death when the deck is repaired. I have, therefore, been waiting. Not patiently (ask Jason and he'll vouch for that character flaw) but waiting nonetheless. The tax refund brought me hope, but then an unforeseen money issue came up and *poof* tax refund gone. Backyard repair postponed indefinitely.

So I got out the video camera. I wrote the script. I edited the video. I sent it off to the powers that be at Harpo Productions in Chicago. I prayed fervently that someone would take pity on me. Heck, I had plenty of pity to loan them from my own personal stash. I figured I had a 1 in 500 chance of getting it. I have no scientific basis for those odds; I just pulled them out of the air. The contest ended April 14th. The winner would be contacted by the producers by April 24th.

I know, I know. There's still time. My phone could ring tomorrow. Possibly. Maybe.

Probably not.

I mean, really. Who calls with good news on a Tuesday? No one. Unless you were born on a Tuesday, in which case everyone that your parents called would have received good news because you being born is worth of the "good news" classification. OTHER THAN birth announcements, Tuesdays are not inspiring. They are the sophomores of the week. Not new; not old. Just passing time.

I realize how silly I was to get my hopes up. But you have to understand how much the problem of the backyard weighs on me. I'm at the point where I'd consider selling our house just so I could get a new backyard, that's how desperate I am. I would even sell the car and ride the bus for the next year just to be able to go outside with the girls and not panic that Sydney will fall off the deck. If you're thinking it's a matter of hard work and *presto* the yard will be fixed, that's not the case. It's a matter of money.

In all seriousness, I'll be okay. There are worse things than not having a backyard. People all over the world don't have backyards, and they are perfectly happy. I realize how shallow it seems to be so worked up over a patch of weeds and few splinters. I know I'm an idiot for not wanting to invite people over simply because our backyard isn't up to par. It's a character flaw that needs work.

Until I become a better and more mature person who focuses her energy on real problems, rather than petty ones, I'm working through my disappointment.

Maybe, eventually, I'll even forgive Oprah. I'm not perfect though. It could take awhile.

Deep breaths and counting to 10

Counting the grumpies out...

1

Because of a mix-up in communication, Sydney is staying tonight at Jason's parents' house. She was supposed to come home tonight, but...long story short...she isn't coming home until tomorrow. I'm okay with her being gone one night a week, but two weekends in a row she's been gone for two nights. I couldn't figure out while I was in such a foul mood tonight until Jason said, "You miss Sydney, huh?" That's it. I miss her. And it's made my evening less enjoyable.

2

I was already emotionally raw anyway because this morning I had to leave Jules for over 3 hours with a friend of mine. I've been dropping Jules off with a babysitter since she was four weeks old so that I could go teach, but that's easier. It's only for two hours/two days a week, and she's only a building away, playing happily in a dorm room while a small mob of college girls ooh and ah over her. If something were to happen, I'm right there. I can cancel class and that's that. Plus, she can go two hours without needing to be nursed.

But today was different. Different because it was longer, and so I had to pump out a bottle for her (which she refused to take). And different because I was driving away from her.
To class.
To sit for two hours.
To learn about graduate level linguistics.

Yep, there's not much that's easy about that, on any level.

3

When I came home from my class I had to meet with a contractor because this room has a leak in the ceiling. We had problems with the ceiling in this room a year after we moved in, and now we're hoping that the warranty for the work the company did is still good five years later. If not, we'll be calling the insurance company.

4

So with the potential for paying for the roof, as well as momentarily carrying two mortgages (long story), we were a bit stressed tonight when we realized we forgot to figure in the cost of my graduate class. I hate being stressed about money. Hate. it. Yes, I can choose not to be stressed about money, but you know, that'd be way too easy.

5

Fortunately, this is the last required graduate class we'll have to pay for. Jason finished his classes last summer, and in eight weeks I'll be finished with mine. Even though I have loved working on my master's degree, I will also love being done. When I started it (holy cow, six years ago!) I had no plans that it would take me this long. Figured I'd be done in three years. But then we ran out of money. Oh, and then I had a baby. Small things like that. I put off taking linguistics until the very end hoping that I would be able to get out of it and study something else (like...anything else), but they're sticklers over there and making me finish this degree with all its requirements.

6

However, for all my freaking-out-this-is-going-to-ruin-my-GPA worries, I actually totally and amazingly enjoyed class today. Despite being preoccupied with wondering if Jules was going to starve while I was gone, I liked what we were talking about. And that's saying something since the last time I took a linguistics class was 10 years ago, and I intentionally forgot everything I learned because I found it so horrid. One key difference between then and now: I love the professor. She's hilarious and passionate about linguistics, which makes the class a million times better than it could be in a different situation. After two hours I was not only willing to pay the $50 for the textbook, but also considering spending even more money on texts that aren't required. She's good.

7

The trouble with starting a class and having homework is that I won't be able to spend as much time reading Anna Karenina as I'd like. I joined this book club, but heavens to Betsy, I still haven't finished the required reading from three weeks ago. It helped that last week I got the translation Raehan recommended; it doesn't help that I inexplicably can't read novels while I'm nursing. For some reason, I'm drawn to magazine reading when I nurse Julianne. I admit that I have read through all the issues of ESPN (and they come twice a month) since she was born. I also read and re-read through Real Simple. April's issue has a great article about throwing away 50 things. It inspired me, and I'm going to do it.

8

I'll throw away those 50 things, even if it means waiting until school is out. Which happens to be in 2 weeks! I was rejoicing about the end of the school year, and my students said they found it very comforting that I was looking forward to summer vacation as much as they were. I said, "I'm looking forward to it MORE than you are!" I love teaching, but it's still something that weighs on me mentally. You wouldn't think so, since it's only for a few hours a week, but it doesn't take much for my brain to get tired.

9

No matter how tired my brain gets, though, I am cognizant enough to thank you for voting for my collage over at the Cozi blog, helping me in my pursuit for a new tshirt (sheesh...the lengths I go to to get new clothes!). I'll find out Monday if I win. *fingers crossed*

10

I know we're supposed to count our blessings, but sometimes I need to work up to that. Deep breaths. Drink tea. Close my eyes. Count to ten. Look at all the beautiful things around me, as well as consider all the lovely things here in the blogworld. Like how wonderfully nice you were for going over to Sarah's blog and giving her such positive comments on her hard work for the remodel. The nicest thing you can do for someone at their blog is to give them a supportive comment, and you folks did that. I love you people. You've encouraged me, and you've encouraged my family. Truly, on a scale of 1 to 10? You're a 10.

The last word

I tried to be clever and outsmart Google. And I did. Sort of.

It all started last fall when I was in the middle of teaching a class about the elements of the communication process, and a student "taking notes" on his laptop said, "Do you have a blog called Creature Bug?"

Hmm. Sometimes WiFi access in the classrooms really isn't a treat.

"Yes...why?"

"I Googled your name and it came up."

Neat-o.

Now, I've always known that Google could find me (whether it's my blog or my house or my home phone number), but after my classroom experience I thought I would pursue the avenue of making it at least a little bit more difficult. I don't much care for spiders, real or virtual, so I found a code that acts like a can of Raid and kills those Google spiders that had previously crawled all over my pretty little blog. My reasons for having the no-follow code are twofold.

Firstly, I could see from my site meter stats that people were coming to my blog looking for answers to some search. I suspect I hardly ever gave them answers. And I always was a bit disappointed when they were searching for something that I really did know something about (like Irish literature) and then they'd wander away. I was left calling after them, "Wait! You want to talk about Joyce's influence on Roddy Doyle? Come back!" but they were gone, and I was left holding Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha in the cold. (and if by some fluke chance you stuck around after a Google search let me know, and maybe I'll reconsider my opinion)

Secondly, it was some small attempt to have a bit of privacy. I know, this sounds ridiculous since I have a real names/real places blog. Which, thanks to my dad's Christmas letter, all my family and friends know about. But I know them. I like them (mostly. heh). And all the strangers who come here are looking for a blog. They aren't looking for something weird.

So, anyway, I added the code. Then I mostly forgot about it except to notice that I never got hits from Google searches anymore (although I still get Google image hits, which annoy me). And every once in awhile I would do a Google search for my name, and it appears I have dropped off the face of the Internet planet. Which is okay by me. Mostly.

Then last week I was trying to find an old post of mine, so I figured the quick way was to -- yes, you can see it coming, can't you? -- go to Google and search for it.

I searched. And searched. And searched. And then shook my fist at Google for not finding what I was looking for.

"Why? Why can't you find this you stupid search engine? I thought you were the king of Internet stalking?"

Then it hit me. I couldn't find what I was looking for because I had added the code that told Google to ignore me. Oh, I do love a good dose of irony.

Yes, I outsmarted Google. But it appears that they got the last word.

Sniffles

I had such a fabulous Friday--a phone call to gossip about Gray's Anatomy, a new recipe, a lovely drive up to Washington, a baby shower that my aunt and cousin and SIL threw for me, tiramisu--but instead of waking up Saturday to write about it, I woke up Saturday with a monster cold. A terrible, no good, perfectly horribly rotten cold, with ear aches. In both ears.

And just for good measure, Jason had to be gone all day yesterday so I suffered through the day without him. I felt so awful I didn't have enough energy to feel even the least bit guilty that I allowed Sydney to watch 3 hours of TV while I was curled up on the couch with my hot water bottle.

We're in survival mode, and if Winnie the Pooh can help me get through my misery, then so be it.

However, this afternoon's TV experience has been no good. The Seahawks lost, The Patriots are losing, and I just saw a Taco Bell ad on TV using the word "stuft." As in "Stuft Tacos." As in "my nose is stuft." As in "we've stuft spelling rules in the garbage." If I didn't already feel sick, I would now.

I'm taking a nap.

Losing Power

Yesterday morning I was pretty sure that my day could not possibly be as interesting as the Thursday my sister had. After all, her day involved watching a leashed cat eating dumplings in a Chinese restaurant. Hard to top that.

Nevertheless, my day wasn't without a bit of drama. We had a fierce windstorm here yesterday which resulted in us losing power. We were gone at the time of the power outage, believing whole heartedly that our (new) VCR was recording The Office and Scrubs for us. We got home--two hours after the power had gone out--to a dark home that had (1) no recorded TV shows waiting for us and (2) a cell phone and laptop computer with dead batteries.

Boo.

"What are we going to do NOW?" we wailed in unison since our main forms of entertainment had been taken away from us. But, of course, we didn't wail too long because the novelty of losing power is still kind of exciting to me. We, being candle burning folk, had the house glowy and bright in no time. I even brought out the candlesticks, which I never use because their uncontained flames always alarm me a bit. And when I say "never use" I mean the candlesticks we used last night are from our wedding. Nine and half years ago.

It was a nice change of pace to wander around the house with candlesticks, feeling just a little bit like old pioneers. Of course, the old pioneers wouldn't have had to disable their garage door opener in order to get the car in the garage. And the old pioneers wouldn't have rummaged through storage looking for a corded phone to replace the cordless phones. Nevertheless. We spent the evening around the fireplace playing cribbage and being thankful that Sydney was staying the night at my parents' house so that we didn't have to worry about her burning herself on the candles. Eventually we trotted off to bed, going to sleep with the smell of snuffed candles lingering around us.

And then we woke up this morning.

Still without power.

No heat. No toast. No hot apple cider. No long hot showers (although fortunately we did still both get hot showers since it had stayed hot in the tank). No hairdryer. No email. No Internet. And (possibly) no food still edible in the fridge.

No fun.

A full twelve hours without power, and already the adventure had worn off. As I headed off to my ultrasound appointment (at 7:00 in the morning!), I prayed that the power would be back on when I returned home.

Thankfully, it is. I needed some electricity to help boost my spirits since I'm not in the cheeriest of moods after my appointment. It appears to be that somebody has played a terribly mean practical joke on me because the ultrasound revealed that not only am I probably not at 40 weeks today (which they had estimated) I may in fact still be TWO weeks away from 40 weeks. Talk about a loss of power.

Ah well. Baby's heart was still beating strong, and that's the important part. So she comes later rather than sooner. So we get to have a Christmas with three instead of four. So this little wind storm of a Baby has knocked our parental power out. Even though it's not terribly convenient, we'll wait it out. I've got plenty of candles.

Thankful for a sense of humor

"Say, Stephanie, you looked like you've gained a lot more weight this pregnancy."

"Thanks. And Happy Thanksgiving to you too."

True, I didn't laugh when she said it. But I will.

In twenty years.

It's been a busy day...

...and I still have things to do.

I'd like to be watching Studio 60.

Instead I'm grading papers.

Bleh.

A great mystery

One of the great mysteries of life is why we don't replace our VCR. It has lost the ability to rewind or fast forward unless we are previewing the video. We still make futile attempts to get it to work--pushing the button, coaxing/threatening it, tapping the top of the machine, pushing the buttons again in repeated succession trying to trick it into working. All this only results in the VCR making a screaming screeching sound in protest.

Yes, I've heard about the wonders of TiVo and DVR and whatever other amazing contraptions are out there, but that would mean we'd have to get cable in order to use those items. Cable costs money. And it would probably also cost us time watching shows we don't already watch. Money and Time. Neither of which we are willing to sacrifice for whatever is on those extra five hundred channels.

We rarely had use for our VCR until this season. Studio 60 is on too late for us, so we tape it. The Office is on while we are at a Bible study, so we tape it. That means that twice a week we have to suffer through the incompetence of our VCR.

And suffer we do. Though not in silence thanks to the screeching VCR and complaining mumbles from us.

VCRs cost what...$30? Is all this misery worth $30? Probably not. And yet we persist. We suffer on and we persist. And we may not even add a VCR to our Christmas list because that would bump some other more interesting item off the list.

It's a mystery why we continue to put up with our VCR. We are, I guess, very mysterious people.

Pregnant With Scissors

My hair and I have a tenuous relationship at best. It's curly--or probably more accurate, mostly curly. Provided I give it all sorts of love in the form of curling sprays and diffused hairdrying, we get along. Mostly. There are the inevitable days that I wish for straight hair, the days that I fight against it and end up pulling it into a pony-tail, the days that I envy my sister's stick straight hair (though, as she will tell it, she doesn't always love her hair either).

The last couple weeks my hair and I have spent the mornings bickering. I try my best to stay level-headed, yet it throws all sorts of pregnancy induced rantings at me. I will admit my faults here and there. I haven't had it cut since June, so it's very complainy and particular. But my lack of getting a hair cut isn't totally my fault. It requires planning in advance for a morning that I don't have Sydney. It requires money. It requires I pick up the phone and call the salon. These are major responsibilities, and I'm growing a baby for crying out loud, can't my hair just give me a break??!

Evidently not.

So this morning, in a fit of pregnancy induced frustration, I took the scissors out of the junk drawer and cut my hair. Two inches (more or less). Snip.

What woman among us won't admit to once doing the same thing? Maybe it was back in junior high when we woke up one day thinking, "I would look good with bangs. Yeah. Lots of bangs." Nevertheless. We've been there. Right?

Well, I'm there.

*sigh*

And now I really do need to go get my hair cut.

Week 122: Doghouse

Sometimes all it takes is a little dirt to throw a relationship into a tailspin. Or in this case, a lot of dirt, a handful of fleas, peeing on my freshly cleaned carpets, and a stink to high heaven.

When we moved into our house nearly six years ago, I was keen on getting a dog. A little dog. A hypo-allergenic dog. A low maintenance dog. Jason was not quite so keen, but lost the battle when my mom got us a puppy that I had hinted about wanting. Our little bundle arrived at our house in March 2001, a fuzzy brown and white shi-tzu, who was the absolute cutest puppy I had ever seen. She was beautiful and strong willed, so we named her Daisy Pearl (after The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter--I was in the throes of teaching American lit that year). I adored her.

These days, not so much. It was inevitable, I suppose, that a meltdown would occur. Of course, these days I'm just a washcloth leaving a piece of fuzz on my face away from a meltdown (the fuzz incident happening on Sunday), but this particular one has been building for several months.

Timing and circumstances beyond Daisy's control have put her into the proverbial dog house. Conflict started brewing last spring when we decided not to chemically clean off our deck because we planned on totally redoing it during the summer. Daisy somehow picked up the dirt smell off the deck, which annoyed the heck out of us. I have a very keen sense of smell normally and so the problem was magnified to epic proportions after I became pregnant. Then we tore up our backyard--also with the intent on fixing it this summer--leaving lots of dirt and flea nests and weeds and burrs and more dirt exposed. Daisy rambled through it all, picking up the fleas and assorted horticultural wonders. We spent many monies on special flea medication, and since Daisy also has allergies to grasses, another small sum on allergy medication. It was all a short term problem, we assured each other. But in the meantime, I got rid of all our upholstered furniture (seriously, I'm that crazy), I got a lavender scented pet spray to disinfect Daisy should she get within five feet of me, and Daisy became an outside dog. Oh, and eventually the backyard would be finished and then we wouldn't have to worry about it.

Ah, the backyard. Indeed.

It's not finished. It isn't, as it turns out, even started to be finished. We had the landscape architects come out. We looked at books. I have a scale map drawn out of how the backyard will look when it's finished. But on the priority list of things for the summer it was third. Wood floors, leather couch, backyard.

Wood floors? Check.

Leather couch? *fingers crossed* End of the month. (Or remain sitting on the floor in our couchless livingroom.)

Backyard? There are no words funny or serious enough to convey what I presently feel towards our backyard. We are out of money, and won't get more until next summer. It's a problem only Oprah could fix, and evidently she won't. (Really. I asked.)

All this leaves Daisy and me at a crossroads. For people who haven't ever had a dog, then getting rid of her would seem like no problem. For me...I'd rather give up blueberry bagels then give up Daisy. She is near and dear to some place in my heart. Some place that is back with pre-pregnancy jeans and caffeinated beverages. Plus, Sydney adores Daisy and takes so much pleasure in alternately bossing her around and hugging her.

In the grand scheme of things, it is so such a small problem. As I was writing about all this (which took me a couple days because I'm seriously the crazy pregnant wife who can't stop crying about anything) I watched the news cycle spin around me. There are parents who lost their daughters to a deranged gunman; there are parents who lost their kids to a war in Iraq (just yesterday a local man was killed); there are families who still don't have a place to live after Katrina. And here I am sobbing on and on about how I can't put up with my dog one more day. "My poor hormonal wife," Jason remarked on Sunday when through a flood of tears I confessed that I didn't think I could make it through church because I was such a nervous wreck. And don't take his remark in the wrong way. It made me feel better that at least he knows that I have a legitimate reason for my behavior.

At this point, we aren't giving Daisy away. We'll get through it. Somehow. And then eventually the baby will be born, and I will *hopefully* regain some measure of sanity regarding the whole problem. Until then, let's hope I don't give away any more furniture or throw out any more washcloths.

I hate being crazy.

Week 119 & 120: Technical Difficulties

Technically, I have had time to blog. Somewhere in my schedule. At some point. I'm sure of it.

Truthfully, I am just a moody shmoody joe who would rather cry hormonal tears into Mr. Snoodle--my trusty pregnancy body pillow--than write it out. Writing may be therapy, but there comes a point when the whining just isn't funny anymore, and that's when the therapist tells you to suck it up and quit your bellyaching.

I'll be back. Promise. I may have to hype myself up on chocolate covered strawberries to get here, but at some point I have to not be moody anymore. Right? Good heavens, I have to level out eventually (preferably before baby comes and I'm attacked by PPD).

PS: In spite of all the moodiness, we are doing well. And I had the carpets cleaned today, so that's always happy times.

Keyboard drama

I tried to be clever and replace the broken "o" button with the "]" button because, not being one to spend so much time with HTML and other bracketing conversations, I thought it would be a good compromise.

Instead, in my efforts I completely broke the "]" key and now I have a little green mechanism showing. Now I have two buttons that don't work (that is, they refuse to snap back onto the keyboard because the little plastic part the attaches to the keyboard is broken)

But at least I figured out that I can just take off the broken button and just push the green thing under it and type in a relatively unhindered fashion, aside from my ring finger occasionally sliding off the button and getting caught between the green thing and the "p."

Typing should not be this difficult.

Still, my random mommy stories can continue once again if I can manage to not be too distracted by the post modern look my keyboard has taken.

Week 117: Mean fairy

Last night, as I sat down to blog a little bit, a pewter fairy statue from my bookcase fell off the bookcase and onto my keyboard where it broke the letter "o." So now, every time I type that letter the button pops off and I have to reposition it in order to type it again.

You might think a person could work around using the letter "o," but that person would require a great deal more imagination than I have.

So, until I get some super glue, typing will have to wait because this short entry has taken me all of abut (I've given up fixing it) 5 minutes since I have t' pause and repsitin the letter. Seriusly. Ridiculus.

I am nt taking this little fairy prank as a sign that I shuld stay away frm the cmputer. R shuld I?

PS: thanks fr all yur kind wrds frm my last pst. U all are the best at taking care uv crazy pregnant girlies like me.