I'm Off!

Or will be, soon, and yes, you can take "off" any way you please :-)

Ma is a-travelin' up Minneesottee-way at the stroke of noon!

The kids are a little hyper as evidenced by Nolan and Trevor squirreling themselves away in their room to organize yet another club/secret organization/detective agency.

With branch forts/messy "nests" offices on various floors.

Ma is vividly aware that she will be abandoning her high-calling-of-motherhood* for lo, these next two days. She has made provisions, however, by way of BBQ chicken in the crock pot, frozen cookie dough in the freezer (for Super Bowl night), and frozen pizza for tomorrow's supper (with chili soup as Loren's healthier substitute).

In addition, the pinto beans (also for Super Bowl dip) are almost done.

Perhaps we didn't get through every bit of school, but their math and computer drills ares done, so that is very little, really, but then, who cares? something.

More importantly, the Rocky and Bullwinkle schedule has been plotted.

On a less frivolous note, they have their assignments for cleaning the bathroom.

Also, "eating breakfast" and "brushing teeth" have been duly noted on The Paper.**

(yeah, pretty sure some of that wouldn't get done if I didn't write it down...)

Left to do: pack and slice up apples for the trip, as well as reheat the leftover coffee.

(I am taking the coffee maker because, well....when you get old you need everything the same)

Ciao.

*for people who are not males-lauding-the-"high-calling-of-motherhood" this means dealing with daily squabbles concerning who gets the mail, how much game time, and "Why are you reading Calvin & Hobbes when you're supposed to be doing math?!!"

**instructions detailing jobs and extracurricular activities such as breathing

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Time Keeps on Slippin', Slippin', Slippin'....

From one of those cerebral songs of yesteryear, the late 60's and 70's.

Forty years later it is minus 8 degrees and the secondary heat pump went out. To lunch, I guess. Loren is downstairs working on it, at this very moment.

It's not critical, since it provides heat for the garage and acts as a back-up source if the other heat pump takes a vacation. So, like I said, it's not critical as long as the main heat pump works.

In really good news, Loren was back at Mayo for part of Monday, for his one month check after the stent procedure.

Everything looks really great.

I mean, REALLY GREAT!

His cholesterol showed a significant decrease. He has stepped up  the exercise and we have decreased or substituted certain foods. Hard to believe he is down to normal levels :-)

Now I have a prayer request outside of our immediate family.

This past weekend my oldest brother, Doug, had a sledding accident. He is 65 but has the enthusiasm of a 25-year-old. Seriously!

Running into a metal fence post was not optimal, however; he hit his head, requiring stitches, and broke his patella in several places. Sounds like things are a tad rough so I would really, really appreciate prayer for him and his wife, Cindy.

Thanks very much!

I'll try and post again...hopefully before ten days go by.

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In Which Ma Saves the Day, AGAIN

After yesterday's incredible feat of amazingness, today brought....

Wait, could it be you haven't heard of yesterday's accomplishment?

*cue music: "Becky, the Round-Nose Ma-Deer"*

It all began a few days ago when the unwelcome yet distinctive smell of dead mouse wafted into the kitchen.

The source? The pantry.

Other than the freezer's abode, the pantry is a cubicle not known for holding foodstuffs so much as being a dumping ground  for detritus.

One response to this assault on the senses would be waiting it out. Endure the reek until all the morbid molecules disperse.

Burn scented candles. Lots and lots of candles.

Hold your breath when grabbing frozen food.

However, if one's freezer quest demands more than a few seconds, this approach can prove to be not only tiresome but a pulmonary health risk.

Well, Ma knew what she had to do; she had to turn her face to the wind and clean the pantry.

Using skills carefully honed during her four years at college, our intrepid adventurer began moving hats, boxes, coolers, and other treasures acquired over the years. Included were empty seed packets, empty cookie tins, and empty ice cream buckets. The floor, however, was not empty; suffering assorted chewings and mouse droppings.

It did not take long before Ma came to her first dead rodent. She could have stopped there, but no, she toiled on (after breaks, the news, the treadmill, etc. ).

In the end, another corpse was discovered, along with copious amounts of insulation fluff, at the back of the mini-fridge.

The final toll included three bags of trash, a box for the dump, and one for Goodwill.

They will go to the addition to wait with the other boxes for Goodwill and the other boxes for the dump.

I'm sure they'll all be very happy.

But that was yesterday. What about today? What new, life-affirming tour de force?

Nothing less than making bread.

With nary a loaf in the freezer it was time for Ma to roll up her sleeves (the real and the metaphorical) and construct the staff of life.

Which baketh even now.

And thus. We live. Another. Day.

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As the Mouse Turns

(or as I like to think of it, "Sure, old houses have character, I just don't appreciate the character's droppings in my measuring cups.")

It was lunchtime.

And with machinations typical to noon repast, Trevor had left the table again, to effect delicate adjustments via the microwave.

"I hear something...like a mouse chewing wood."

Great. I got up from the table, cocked my good ear--the one with 45% efficiency--and listened.

Faint cracking and crunching sounds were indeed emanating from the kitchen counter.

Carefully I lifted the freshly baked loaves of bread, followed by assorted decorative canisters, followed by pulling forward the Christmas garland.

The upper strata of counter clutter removed, it took but a few moments to move the toaster its accompanying crumbs. Scattered peanut shells appeared, the remnants of forgotten Christmas sacks.

One by one I lifted odd bowls which destiny had ordained as junk-holders.

As a added precaution, I located a rusted mouse trap and positioned it at one end of the counter.

It would never spring, but perhaps jumping over it would slow any potential escape by a few milliseconds.

Finally, the last obstacle removed, I glimpsed the trembling mouse, crouched against the back splash, its eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

In all honesty its eyes could have been glazed due to eating poison, but I prefer to think my corpulently superior presence had given Mr. Mouse that deer-in-the-headlight look.

Now, normally this might have induced sympathy in my aged and compassionate heart. But after finding mouse droppings in a 1-cup glass measure this morning....No.

"What weapon?" I thought to myself. I could go for a wooden spoon, but in that time the rodent-of-evil might whisk out of sight.

Instead, having recently viewed an old Gunsmoke episode, I chose the forthright approach and went after the mouse with my fist.

The mouse had messed with the wrong Ma.

The mouse was going to pay.

Until it ran away, that is. I made some contact but the mouse jumped to the floor and disappeared from sight.

Now my hand was starting to hurt; punching the counter was probably not a great idea.

However, within minutes I heard an urgent call from Nolan, in the living room,  "Mom....I found the mouse!"

And there it was, spread-eagle under the card table; the table holding the boys' Risk game.

Ah, sweet irony of life.
For though you coyly played with me,
And pranced on glass and cutlery,
It's clear who won out in the end.
The risks you took you couldn't defend.

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Getting Stoked

Baby it's Wind-Chilly Out There.

Ma, Trevor and Nolan braved the cold to buy groceries, deliver/mail four more Christmas letters (just thought of two more....*sigh*....) and most importantly,

get coffee.

So yes, we will be getting below zero again on Monday and Tuesday (-19 and -25....I mean, seriously ?) but at least it will moderate on Wednesday. To minus ten degrees.

Doesn't matter, for

I have coffee.

Monday starts the diet. It won't be bad. In fact, with no more holidays and no looming birthdays, I am looking forward to significant cutbacks. I embrace them!

Well, not until Monday, obviously. Until then I intend to embrace a bagel or two, possibly a pot of pudding.

In the end, however, none of that matters, since

THERE IS COFFEE IN THE HOUSE.

Unfortunately, school resumes Monday. Not too crazy about that, or the longish push for May. Still, it's all gonna work out.

Why?

BECAUSE COFFEE.

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In Which Ma Survives YET ANOTHER Technological Attack

*sigh*

It has been an utterly (inciteful to the point of violence) thrilling morning fer Ma, on the Inter-Webby-Socials.

I can (snarl) laugh about it now, since it is (not quite) all over.

Originally I had been prepared to stay inciteful-to-the-point-of-violence all day long but after spending some time in the bathroom reading Dave Barry and trying not to guffaw out loud--which naturally begs the question, "Can one silently guffaw?"--I decided to take my lemons and make blogade.

For you see, starting last evening, I made the disquieting discovery on Google+ that every attempt at using the apostrophe would take me out of the status or comment box and into a "quickfind, links only" search at the bottom of the page.

Normally, I would be ecstatic at such sidetracking, because I am a stay at home mom and everyone knows we have nothing to do (actually, that's pretty much what I've done over Christmas vacation: nothing). But last night, and again this morning, I was extremely irked.

My first inclination was to go online and (whine) ask for help. Unfortunately for me, everyone else in the world was not following my vacation example; everyone else was working.

Time for Ma to google her problem!

And soon I found evidence that others had been assaulted with the apostrophe-reroute-of-death.

"There is hope!" I thought. It should be simple matter to follow their simple instructions, which upon further study, were not....that...simple.

I clicked on a website that looked quite promising. I felt an immediate kinship based on the profile picture of a couple, who looked...and I know you may not believe this....looked slightly older than me. 

"Okay!" I thought. "These are people I can relate to!"

I followed their instructions to pull up the Firefox "about:config" page, which immediately made me feel at ease with the message, "Danger, DANGER! You are a stupid person and may void your warranty!!!"

Actually, it contained only that last phrase, but still...

By clicking on the "I promise to be careful", which was actually there, by the way, I came upon a long list of stuffs. It was very important looking stuffs; a long list of options stuffs.

Near the end of each line was a "true" or "false" leading me to believe I had secretly been forwarded to one of my dreams which involved being back in college and taking a quiz for which I hadn't studied.

Carefully I perused the list of (what looked to be) hundreds of items. The exact phrase was not found. Therefore I could not click it off of "true" onto "false."

Time for phase two, the option that was supposed to be even easier and quicker than whatever it was I had just failed.

Except, resizing the browser window didn't appear to be that easy, either. It appeared to involve copying and pasting html into....something. Something which I could not get to. I even took a few suggestions from one of the college kids. That did not work. On top of everything, I could no longer "copy and paste."

I can take a lot of things, but removing "copy and paste" from my short list of word processing abilities leaves me with a smoking brain.

And so, frustrated beyond the pale, I resorted to that which every computer user has over time immemorial: I rebooted.

Amazingly, all seems to be in working order. Except for not being able to use the strike option in blogger (oh look, it's working...aaaarrrrgggghhhh

Or not.

But let's not get frustrated again. Let's remember the important lesson, here.

The important lesson being:

I need to take a nap.

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