The Rinrins

Mystery Solved

Where do the socks go when you do the laundry? You know, always missing one when the load is finished? Well, I know.

I discovered the secret while I was out in public one day, using the restroom.

They go to the inside of your underwear.  When you find them, you have to carry your sock around in your purse until you get home.  And then, you will be struck in horror with the realization that you have been wearing a sock in your underwear all day.

So, girls, check your drawers.

The hot hot heat

We're in day three of the 105 degree temp. Our neighbor's kid has heat sickness; they had to move out to stay with someone with air conditioning. The kids are getting cranky. Yesterday we tried to get out for some errands and be back by 10.  We went to a toy store to buy puzzles.

Everything started nicely this morning: we all slept in one room, and when they all woke up, big brother read to the baby for a while and they snuggled. Seriously cute stuff, almost making me want to sleep in one room all the time.

Then the girls had an elaborate game of school going on. Ellery plays school by packing any bag she can find with food from our cupboard, then going to "school" and eating it.  Big sister plays along perfectly. And really, this is all she knows, me packing lunches for the kids and taking them to school.

But the layers of cordiality began to fray. Looking at the same walls all day every day for hours and hours and hours caused a breakdown.  This moon colony is self destructing.

It's really too hot to go anywhere, even the beach. It's a two hour drive one way, and our car's air conditioner can not keep everyone cool enough for a trip that long.  The kids aren't shoppers, and neither am I, so the mall is out. The library sounds nice, but we have plenty of unread books right now, and it's not worth getting in the car.

But sometimes we must do what we do not want to do.

I decided to drive us all to the Burgerville and take a short picnic at a little cemetery near us.

We found shade, and there was a breeze, but it was 98 and uncomfortable, and soon Ellery looked as red as a lobster. We took a 10 minute walk down a wooded path saturated with blackberry brambles to navigate. My plan was working, though: make everyone miserable enough for long enough that they will willingly go home and be GLAD to be there.

Now they are happy, eating bananas and watching Spongebob. It is 101 outside, 85 inside. We're in for the day.

Tomorrow comes the big cool down, though: it's only going to hit 97.

Aww, Baby's First Rhetoric

From our 29 month old, while playing in the bath:

"DARN IT!"

(daddy): "Why did you say that?"

"Well, I can't say damn it, can I."

My name and my facebook

I finally joined Facebook. Everyone says it's better than myspace, and myspace really sucked, so I figured I could only move up.

I found some old friends, a girl I was in the Scouts with, and almost every current friend I have.

When I am seriously bored, as in really dredging up activities to divert my attention from housework and everyone else is asleep like right now, I search my name on google. Back in the beginning days of google, I didn't find much. I've never come across anyone with my name, ever.

One day, I found a couple who had named their dog Visty. I can't find them anymore. I couldn't figure it out, though. Who would come up with such a name as that for their dog? I found another young teenager on some weird anime website, who had her artwork posted. I emailed her. Why is your name Visty? Is it your real name? Did you hear it somewhere? Did your parents make it up?

She never emailed back. I suppose I did sound a little eccentric. Or psychotic.

The only other connection I made was older (like 40's or 50's) Pakistani men. And the name of a Czecoslovakian newspaper, The Electric Visty.

This was years ago, and the internet has changed so much. I haven't googled myself in a while, so today I got bored and searched for my name on Facebook.

It seems that on the other side of the world, Visty is pretty common. Lots of younger Asian girls have the first name. Lots and lots. And they are all pretty and thin, and they are all doing their come-hither looks at the camera. This makes me a little wary. I hope Visty doesn't mean the equivalent of being named Cherry in our country. I might have to do some more googling.

Then I thought, I'll check my middle name too. Jae. Well, I've known for a while that it's not unheard of in Asian societies. But yeah, I can see now that my middle name is pretty much solid Asian. The older man with the dog named Visty probably served in some mid-century jungle war, and the girl on the anime website was probably inventing a name for herself that reflected her Japanimation love.

This is really funny to me, because as a kid growing up in the South, my name sounded very rooted there, like Daisy May or Sarah Lou. Visty Jae. Say it with a southern accent.

And now there is this weird possibility, as the world community draws close ranks, that I have an Asian name.

Hopefully it doesn't translate to Cherry Pie, because if it does I am never going to visit China.

It's like the airport

I had to go to the post office last week. I don't like to, and I avoid it as much as I can. I buy my stamps at the grocery store. But for boxes, I have no choice. As soon as I grasped the metal bars on the double doors, my stomach flipped in anticipation. He was here. Crap.

Our post office has three employees, A fairly normal, nice older man; an aggressive woman who hates all things postal and the people who send them, and will throw your ass out at the first sign of weakness; and Fasttalkingguy.

On the days I get lucky and am routed to Grandpa's line, I suddenly feel 50 pounds lighter. Birds sing, I feel happy. When the chute directs me to Helga the School Marm, I close my eyes and brace for the blows about the face and shoulders. When fate sends me to Fasttalkingguy, which is often, I want to stab him with his own nametag.

Most of my visits are with Fasttalkingguy and Helga. I think they have Grandpa taped up in the back gagged with a stapler, so they can have their fun.

I always start calmly, but it's only a self-preservation technique. I know what's coming.

"Hello, I'd like to mail this packa..."
"Isthereanythinginhereillegalexplosiveperishabledangerouscorrosiveorjustplain messyorugly?" He grabs it from me and throws it on the scale.
"No, it's just pape..."
"Icangetitthereinonehourwiththesuperexpressluckyspaceshuttleservicefor$315.78"
"No, thanks, just Priori..."
"For$196.40Icansenditovernightexpressandgetittherein17hours"
"No"
He huffs with disappointment.
"Icanhaveittherein5hoursbyusingmyownburromakingnostopsfor$5.75orIcanshoveit underthecounterwithmyfootandloseitforeverforabucktwoninetyeight"
"No, Priority is fine."

He whips around and puts one tiny sticker on the corner. My old post office would put a row of the stickers along the edge. Clearly, he is disgusted by my lunacy. Hey lady, he seems to say as he shoots me a look, it's your dollar.

"Wouldyoulikeinsurancedeliveryconfirmationcertifiedmailregisteredletterortopsecret spystatusonthis"
"No" He launches my box across the room into a giant bin. I try to hand him my money, but his mania will not be deterred. "Wouldyoulikeanyotherservicestodayanyboxespackingpaterialsstampsbubble wraporburros"
"No"
"Willyoubepayingwithcashcheckmoneyorderdebitcreditorlivestocktoday?"
I staunchly refuse to answer this question. There's no reason for it. He will know the answer as soon as I put it in his hot little sweaty hand.

I don't bring anything but cash anymore. Going the debit route only buys 8 more minutes of Hell.
"Swipeithereitwillaskforyourpinyouhavetopressharditwillaskyoutopressenter whichisthisbuttonrighthere"
And in a moment, it's over. With all that talking, he never ends the conversation. No thank you, no have a nice day, no you may leave now, get out of my line. I shake my head to clear the buzzing, locate my children, and swoon a little from exhaustion. I feel dizzy and sleepy, like much time has passed. I reach up gingerly to check to see if I have grown a long white beard.Fasttalkingguy expresses his extreme discomfort at my loitering by yelling for the next customer
"HellohowcanIhelpyoutodayrightdownhere"

I need a plan. I think next time I will go up to him, slap the box on the counter and say, "DomesticmailonlyclothesinsidePrioritynoextrasnootherservicestodaycash". It will either deflate him like a balloon with a pinhole, or he'll want to marry me so I can have his babies.

Very effective neighbor repellant

So the neighbor across the street offered me something the other day. She received a free sample of a Stayfree maxipad in the mail. One pad. Did I want it?

She is not much older than I am in years, but in other ways, she is much older. In the way of requiring maxipads now and again, she is markedly older.

"I can't use it. Do you want it?"

Another neighbor, from next door, was also in my yard, chatting. She and I were both stunned into a moment of silent anxiety. There was ample opportunity for oversharing here. Though I felt maybe that boundary had already been crossed.

She was the first to politely decline. Her voice wavered, trying not to offend: "I wouldn't use it. I can't stand the---(looks side to side and whispers)--diaper feeling."  Amazingly, despite the whispering of a word that could easily been interpreted as mother-baby talk, she gestured with her hand to draw attention to her crotch. In case we didn't get it. Ohhhhhhhhhh, we both said. What she's trying to say is, "I use tampons".  She smiled apologetically, though, letting us know that if we, in fact, liked the diaper feeling, she wasn't going to judge.

It was just one pad. I suppose I could have taken it and dismantled the entire thing, recycling the cardboard box and coupons, throwing the pad and plastic away. But I didn't want to. Time to fess up. Hell, it could be fun maybe, sharing yourself with your neighbors, getting to know one another.

"I use pads, but mine are cloth."

There was an audible snapping sound as their heads turned sharply in my direction. What? Cloth? CLOTH PADS?? What is this thing you speak of?

When the first neighbor, repulsed by the diaper feeling, appeared that she might go into fits of dry heaves, I said, "Well, I also use cloth diapers once in a while, too, so it's not that different, really."

In strict politeness and nothing more, she shrugged it off, painted an accepting grin on her face, and nodded. Yeah. Just like that. I could see the visions of unrestrained poo and pee and menstrual blood which has not been locked into a wafer thin ultra-absorbent core swirling around in her head, threatening to overtake her.  I looked away, to give her some privacy.

The other neighbor's approach was curiosity. "Really? Cloth pads? Like, just cloth?"

"Well, yes, it's just cloth. Like cloth diapers. But they don't feel like a diaper," I added quickly and I shot a glance at the first neighbor, trying to catch her in a grimace. "They just feel really soft. Like thicker underwear. Like a shoulder pad. For your crotch." There followed a quiet, thoughtful moment.  I think the first neighbor and I were experiencing the awkwardness of realizing we had both admitted to knowing just exactly what it feels like to wear a diaper.

"Do they just sit in there? Like a square?"

"No, they're shaped the same, and they even have little wings and snaps. There is a waterproof barrier, just in case, but it's not crinkly or anything."

Both of them together looked into space and said, "huh". I knew they were both wondering if I was on my period right that minute.  Possibly standing there with a big wad of cloth between my legs, bleeding all over the place. 

I wasn't going to tell them that I do use disposables sometimes, when I am out. I had already thrown the grenade; there was nothing to be done. I guess I could have mentioned that I went to cloth because I couldn't quite get the hang of the Diva Cup.

Little Activist

Last year, in 2nd grade, Brenna began her career of activism which I am sure will be a lifelong pursuit. She created the Recess Nature Club. To be a member, kids had to perform the duties of conservation of whichever organism needed the most protection. In that particular time, the most endangered animal on school grounds was the earthworm.

Small, soft, slow, and infinitely stompable, the earthworm serves as fodder for bored schoolboys nationwide. In a rainy climate such as ours, earthworms are forced out onto the dangerous asphalt playground as a regular course. As soon as the bell rang and the 2nd graders were released, Brenna and her club would get to work, diligently relocating as many worms as they could, keeping a furious pace to stay ahead of certain stomp-hungry boys.

On sunny days, the Nature Club would create nests for small passing creatures, perhaps a mouse or tired bird, or they might spend an entire recess digging up and replanting a wayward flower to a safer distance from traffic.

This year, the Nature Club isn't convening as often. Maybe the 3rd grade boys have moved on, realizing their youthful folly and begging forgiveness from whatever gods they pray to. This year, Brenna began a petition.

She and a few other girls got together to write a petition which would allow the school to start a garden. She brought it home, and we signed it. Our neighbors signed it. Her teacher signed it, and the TAG leader, the vice-principal!, signed it. Her classmates signed it.  All the girls pooled their copies and turned them in to the principal.

The result: the school can have a garden, limited, but functioning!

During this last week of school, I will cement plans with the principal to attempt to get something rolling, offer whatever help might be needed, and make sure these girls and their many, many signatures aren't forgotten. 

I couldn't be more proud of my little girl.

Why was I so stupid to forget to make a copy of that petition?

The Blog of Self Deprecation, otherwise known as You Know You're a Dumbshit When:

Today was another day typical of warm days here in the PacNw: it starts out cold. And between the hours of 9 am and 4 pm, you will feel a change of more than 30 degrees.

I wore jeans and a t shirt.

This morning, I rolled up my jeans, in anticipation of the lovely weather on the horizon.

Then I put on my shoes to take the little one for a walk. While on the phone to the neighbor. While fending off the Irate Toddler.

People looked at me a little funny while we strolled. I commented silently on the rudeness of all the old biddy nannies I was seeing everywhere. An old man outright LAUGHED. He guffawed. I couldn't figure out what he thought was so damn funny. I thought he might be crazy.

I get home, and hours later, realize that I had rolled down one pant leg. Okay, so what? One leg up, one leg down. Not the strangest thing in the world.

I go about my day. I donate to the guys at the Goodwill mobile unit. I take used flower pots to a nursery. I did not, thankfully, go anywhere public.

Because just now, as I am making a total ass out of myself in the living room, executing a one person waltz to help Brenna feel the 3/4 time signature piano piece she is supposed to be practicing, she can't stop laughing.

Stop it! I'm trying to dance here.

She doesn't stop.

"Mom, I just want you to look at your feet!"

Apparently, earlier this morning I also put different shoes on each of my feet.

At least I rolled my pant leg down. If only she knew.

The old man doesn't get a free pass, though. He was all the way across the street letting his little mutt poop on someone's grass. There's no way he could have seen the difference in my shoes. He was just crazy.

What's lurking in the drains?

We have lived in this fairly new house for almost 2 years now. The kids' bathroom sink has never worked right. No amount of Drano has made a dent in the mysterious problem. A few months back, Rick got some pretty gravel out of the top part of the drain, so apparently the previous owner's not only had ferrets, dogs, and birds, but also fish. In a tank. That they cleaned out in the bathroom sink. Dumbasses.

The drain worked a little better for a while, but last night the waters rose to the brim. Today Rick endeavored to take the drain apart.

As I returned from an errand, he called me into the bathroom.

"I want you to see this."

"I don't want to see it. Do I have to see it?"

I am not that squeamish; I once pulled a foot long weenie of compacted hair as thick as a cooked Ball Park Frank out of our apartment bathtub drain. Without falling over dead.  But the residual effects of that trauma have stayed with me.

"Yeah, I want you to see it so you can understand." I'm showing it in black and white to protect you.

He said he had already emptied out the Rubbermaid tub a few times in the toilet, full of the usual drain junk. He was telling me all about the handfuls of gravel..........

OH MY F%$* IS THAT A FROG!??!?!?
"Why, yes, yes it is."

IS IT REAL?!?!?!?!??

"No. It's rubber."

He then tells the story of how he was digging around for more gravel and felt an obstruction in the overflow drain. He fashioned a little hook from a piece of metal and started probing. He's probing, probing, feels resistance, tries to get under it, feels it moving up, brings it to the surface and

sees

a

head.

I wasn't home but I know how he reacted. I've seen this man watch horror movies. He doesn't jump off the couch when the killer appears from behind, because he's already in the other room, on his feet, with his hand over his mouth. You don't know what I would give to have seen this. The tragedy of missing the scene will weigh on me always.

It's a good thing it wasn't me doing this. Not that there was any risk of that; I was about to call a plumber. After the compacted hair weenie my plumbing days are over. But if I had been digging, probing, feeling a soft resistance to something that just wouldn't budge and suddenly

saw

a

BODY

that was potentially a preserved body of a real frog that had been rotting in our drain for 18 months that I was now tearing apart with a piece of metal, well I would have vomited all over myself. Lord.

Do you get what I am telling you??? Those freaking wackaloons emptied an entire aquarium, INCLUDING THE FAKE WILDLIFE, into a tiny bathroom sink. Probably more than once.

God, I hope the dead fish made it down.

That sink is going to work better than Niagra Falls now.

Budding Photographer

Rick came upstairs this evening and he said he had a present for me. It was a good one, that's for sure. The story goes that Brenna was coaxing the baby to sit in one of the enormous beanbag chairs to read, because it would be cute. For us. To see the little baby in the big beanbag. Oh yes. She's after my heart.

Then Rick decided to take a picture. He snapped 11 shots, and I was scrolling through them when I saw the last one, my present:

Oh, swoon. My goodness gracious heavens to betsy. It's like my birthday. Does that man know how to make me happy or what?

Then I noticed something.

The picture quality is, well, off. Lately I have been frustrated by my attempts at trying new settings and exposures, and I was thinking that my problems were just my own problems. But I see this picture, and I look closer to see this:

See all that crazy circus coloration in her skin? If you have a digital SLR and see this on your pictures, it means a small person has picked up your camera, initiated the menu, scrolled through the settings, selected "Picture Quality", and then scrolled down from the highest to the WORST.

I browsed back through our photos to see when she did this. She's done it before, but not while I wasn't looking. She knows that if she pushes enough buttons and turns enough dials that a picture will appear on the LCD screen, because I show her the pictures I have taken. Maybe she did it on February 24, the day she climbed up to the kitchen counter and pushed enough buttons to actually take a picture herself:

And another:

New focus point:

Here she swivels the camera on the counter over to her sister. I think this is when the light bulb went on for her and she realized exactly what she was doing:

But I guess the door was more interesting, because she swivels back:

Here is when she, I think, is trying to take a picture of her own hand. At first I thought that was Garrett's hand, coming to the rescue. But Brenna tells me he wasn't there.

Hmm, wonder what the door is doing?

Yep. Still there.
Then she swivels again, past her sister, and we get a shot of my outrageously messy kitchen counter:

And then, her last effort before Sissy comes to take away all her fun:

I am spending some time today going through all my camera settings and fixing things.