Loved the effect rain is leaving on windshield, so I posted it to Instagr.am (like a good blogger!)
Category: It’s not the years, HONEY – it’s the mileage!
-
Parenting Tip #8,913,256: Bogus Text Scammers Suck – We should throw old cell phones at them!
I was waiting in the pick up lane for my youngest, when my cell phone doink-doink-ed (it’s my tone, don’t judge!) while I was in the middle of trying to upload a picture to Instagr.am.
What?!? It was raining and, well, I get REAL bored waiting sometimes.
It was a text message from my 16yo and I figured she wanted to either take a ride with me to drop off my oldest girl at work (who hates it when she has to drive in the rain, me too!) or she was texting to make sure I was driving my oldest to work, so that she can go with me to…you know…pick her up, as well.
Because I am THAT fun to be with, you betcha.
Heather: Mommy i got this text…is it legit??? Your entry last month has WON! Goto [link withheld for blog posting purposes, bastards!] and enter your Winning Code: [code withheld for blog posting purposes, bastards!] to claim your Free $1,000 Bestbuy Giftcard!
Me: No!!!
Me: Especially, since we did not buy anything at Best Buy…bastards! [yes, I really texted that]
Heather: I didn’t click it, but are you sure…..
Heather: But, what if I entered something on their site and forgot?
Aaaaaand, therein lies the rub.
Raising 3 teens and with our youngest kid in double-digits, we are avid consumers and frequently apply for savings cards: CVS, Game Stop, Modells, Petsmart, Pet Valu, Shop Rite, Sports Authority, Stop and Shop…you name it and I probably have a savings card for it.
Because we are equal-opportunity, like that.
We also register online with some of our favorite stores (I’m looking at you, Best Buy and Pier 1) for the chance to win free stuff.
Because parents of teens spend a butt-load of money, already.
Me: Sounds like a scam. Texting codes allows them to hack into your stuff. You can always call Best Buy.
Heather: Okay, because that’s a loooooot of money.
Me: I know, which is why you should call them to verify.
Aaaaaand, she did.
Heather: I will….ugh, if it’s a scam that really sucks.
Me: Agreed
The customer service representative over at Best Buy confirmed the scam: they get tons of calls ALL THE TIME about it.
Aaaaaand, Heather’s right, THAT TOTALLY SUCKS!
Heather: Wahwahwaaaaaah. If it’s real, I’ll cry tears of joy.
Me: Me too, for you!
Because sending folks bogus texts or trick advertisements…promising our teens and tweens shiny new things, for free…is just all sorts of wrong…DAMMIT!
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
Better Start Hoping for Rainy Days, B*tch
Growing up, my parents always grew their own vegetables in the summertime. We lived with my grandmother before I started grade school and she had a vegetable garden.
Later, my father would build a greenhouse in our backyard, using plumbing pipes and sheets of plastic film salvaged from an abandoned work site (or believed to be abandoned, anyway) which would one day play center stage for make believe expeditions to Egypt and China, late night bug hunts and marathons of hide-and-go-seek.
My parents surprised us with plotting out and planting our first vegetable garden, a few weeks after my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I moved into this (not yet full) house and did so, on the sly, while we were both at work.
“Our grandchildren are going to need a place to play.”
We’ve been on many, many lovely expeditions since then and adopted several frogs, hundreds of worms and scores of other less invasive creepy-crawlies over the years and, well, I can’t imagine a summer without digging in the dirt.
“Yes, but your back can’t handle it anymore.”
My husband suggested perhaps I should NOT plant a vegetable garden, this year (stupid busted up back) and we went to the mats…or, raised beds…on whether or not I would be able to handle worrying about…you know…one more thing.
“But, I love digging in the dirt.”
Ripping out weeds by their roots, burying a spade deep into the earth, digging out my frustrations and casting them away with every rock and stone — it’s cheaper than therapy, I tell ya’.
It took me ALL day — what once would have been only a few short hours of work — and, trust me when I tell you it is certainly NOT the most beautiful vegetable garden you will ever see…especially, in this part of Jersey…DAMMIT!
Busted up back or not…yesterday…I made roughly 6 yards of dirt MY B*TCH and, well, I swear you could STILL hear her laughing.
Turns out she is a bit of a sadist, the b*tch.
“So, I see you’re still insisting on growing a vegetable garden then.”
YES! Aaaaand, I guess we better start hoping for rainy days…you know…so maybe I can get some housework done…or NOT!
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
If It Wasn’t For the Graffiti and Hairy Legs, I Would Be Clueless
My youngest daughter is going to the 5th grade dance with someone and I know this for a fact because the front door told me so.
Hope has talked (and graffiti’d) about little else since, well, the 4th grade, really, other than maybe her oldest sister’s senior prom (ACK!) her 11th birthday (UGH!) oh, and her 5th grade graduation (GAH!) all of which are happening in the same week, next month.
Aaaaand, I have absolutely NO CLUE how we will get through ALL these snot-worthy milestones (and by we, I mean mostly me!) because, the fact that I have a kid old enough to be graduating high school? Blows…my…mind!
What’s left of it, anyway.
“What’s this about you going to the dance with someone?”
My husband came home from work, must have read the front door and, well, you know, his “Hi, I’m [enter daughter’s name, here] dad, want to see my shot gun collection?” was showing.
“Oh, you know, just some kid in my class.”
Because, really, at this age? Kids get asked out at recess and break up by lunch time.
“His name is So-and-So.”
[eyes go wide]
“Really, but I thought you were going with What’s His Name?”
I mean, his name wasn’t written on the front door, or anything, but that IS what she told me last week.
“I was, but not anymore.”
Long story, short (you’re welcome):
- What’s His Name asked another girl, first.
- She said no.
- So, What’s His Name asked Hope.
- She said yes.
- Then, the other girl changed her mind.
So, the little jerk…I mean…What’s His Name un-asked Hope to the dance.
“Oh, but he asked her first and I’m okay with it.”
Because, you know, she’s 10 going on 29, tough as gel nails and, well, I want to be Hope when I grow up.
“That’s REAL grown-up of you, sweetie!”
[one beat, two beats]
“So, can I get fake nails for the dance?”
She is quick, this one.
“Nope.”
However, it’s NOT my first time driving the mean bus and, well, she has until her senior prom to get over it…you know…when I’ll probably be all wigged out (AGAIN!) and blowing snot (DITTO!) to even care that she’s wearing spiked-stilettos…on her ears…even.
“Fiiiiiiiine, but I am NOT going to shave my legs!”
Good. Me, either.
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
I do not have a pain-management problem, I have a pain problem and maybe a slight case of Trypanophobia.
I had my second doctor’s appointment scheduled for today.
That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to.
Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.
(HURL!)
Me? I watched the day float right on by and…you know…give me the finger.
Now that I think on it some more, it’s sort of ironic, really:
- We ALL had appointments
- We ALL sought treatment for various neurological and/or spinal conditions
- We ALL just sat there, way passed our appointed time(s)
- Patiently listening for our respective names to be called
- Shifting from one cheek, to the other
- Or, in one guys case, shoulder blade
- Came in an ambulance, wheeled in on a stretcher
- He still complained
- We were all, like, dude, at least you’re laying down
- Shuddup
Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of “WTH?!?” watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.
Fast-forward 2 hours.
“Elizabeth?”
[cue choir of angels]
“THAT’S ME, THAT’S ME!!!”
Schmuck.
Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already knew….my lower back…she is fubar.
“You have substantially moderate damage to discs at L1 and L2.”
In other words, less clinical like…my lower back, she is fubar…good news is, however, there are two options…other than surgery:
Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.
Ironically enough, they call it pain management.
So, I’m considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear:
“SCREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!”
It was my 13 year-old son. I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar.
Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating: “SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!” because…you know…he’s 13 and his voice is changing…SNORT!
[eyes go wide]
Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, “WTH?!?” at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.
“EYE-YEEEEEEE, MOM, COME HERE, QUICK!!!!”
But…I…can’t…get…passed…the…
“A BEEEEEEEE STUUUUUUUUUNG MEEEEEEEEE, EYE-YEEEEEEEE!!!!”
…laundry…on…the…stairs…wait a minute…a bee…seriously?!?
“Come on down Bud and I’ll look at it.”
Now, I’m hearing heavy panting.
“I…I…NO…YOU…COME…UPSTAIRS!!!!”
Fast-forward 2 hours…just kidding…but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn’t actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.
“Wow, it popped you…twice!”
Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee…5 times…would find the one bee…that got in the house.
“Dude, calm down, it’s only a bee.”
Mind you, as I’m scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing…beeeeecause:
- The boy is nearly 6 feet tall
- There is NO MORE ROOM in my bed
- I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn
- To take my parents to the hospital, tomorrow morning
- Mom’s arm, she is fubar
- Dad’s back, she…I mean…he is fubar
- Aaaaad my back hurts
“FOUND IT!”
[get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]
“See, it doesn’t have it’s stinger and woulda died anyways.”
I know, I know, the boy is 13. Still, he’s been stung 5…no, wait…make it 7 times…can you blame him?
I’m just happy he did not puke.
“I…[sniff-sniff]…feel like…[cough]…someone jammed…[sniff-sniff]…a couple of needles into my body”
[eyes go wide]
Aaaaand, then I puked. The End.
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
The House Next Door: The Appraisal
…continued from The House Next Door: Under Contract
“Sooooo, are you guys going to allow the buyer make an offer on your house?”
1993: The real estate lawyer, who seemed very well-versed in the matter, insisted that investing in a “starter home” was the way to go and — considering I was pregnant with our first child, at the time — our timing could NOT have been better.
“As long as you move before the kid starts kindergarten!”
2012: 19 years, 4 kids, 3 cats, 3 refinances and 1 doofus-dawg later (give or take a couple of goldfish) my husband and I have FINALLY accepted the fact that…you know…we are in it…up to our collective chin hairs…and, frankly, with a lot of people losing their jobs AND homes (stupid economy) we are, pretty much, here to stay.
Unless, Ty Pennington showed up (shows ending, enough said) or we hit the lottery (dreaming along with 6 billion other people, dammit) or if someone bought the house next door (it’s under contract) and made an offer on our property.
Aaaaand, now that the house next door is under contract…Miss Grace’s 100+ year-old house will most likely be razed, to make room for a WAY BIGGER and much newer house, apartments or even a couple of townhouses…like they did down the street from us…you know…now what?
On the one hand, our house? It’s just a house:
- in need of a new roof and paint job
- the front porch and back stairs are drooping a bit (okay, a lot)
- the windows need to be replaced
- not to mention 1/3 of the living room ceiling (stupid Hurricane Irene)
- and that’s only about half of the stuff we meant to…you know…get to…eventually
On the other hand, the property is valued much higher:
- a builder could buy both our tracks of land
- raze both our houses and put up another cul-de-sac
- connecting to the ones behind our combined properties
- and…BAM!…you got a whole new neighborhood.
Then again, I’ve grown accustomed to the creaks, groans and killer dust bunnies (named a few of them, in fact) not to mention, the peace and quiet of our BIG backyard.
Besides, how do you put a value on ALL the time invested in:
- trading secrets under the shade of an old oak tree
- jumping your cares and troubles away with an epic cannon ball
- gathering onion grass, dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace, used to prepare Sunday dinner for the fairies who live under the stump of a fallen birch
- The blood, sweat and tears spent cultivating a piece of land, growing food for our table and flowers on the windowsills
- perfuming the air with scents of lavender, basil, anise, with hints of lemon balm, sweet William and about half a dozen butterfly bushes
- providing the perfect venue for outdoor celebrations with family and friends
It’s not just a house. It’s our home. Now that there is a tiny (and I mean, the tiny-est of tiny-ies) chance we may FINALLY be able to move up (i.e. the 3 girls will not have to share a bedroom and the boy gets a real bedroom door) I’m not sure what we would do.
“I heard Daddy tell Grandpa we’re moving!”
[eyes go wide]
“Is that true?!?”
….to be continued.
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
The House Next Door: Under Contract
If houses could talk, ours would be complaining about that weird neighbor, too 😉
My son had one of his buddies over for a playdate…ummmm, I mean…the guys were just sort of hanging out…you know…not doing nothing, together (got to be REAL careful how you blog about a 13-year-old, just sayin’) which, of course, allowed me a chance to catch up with one of my momfriends.
“Did the lady next door pass?”
[eyes go wide]
“Which lady?”
Because, you know, there happens to be a house, with a lady living next door, on either side of us, and, well, you have to be REAL specific when asking me questions.
“Your 103-year-old neighbor.”
I’ve blogged about Miss Grace many, many times over the past 9 years. In fact, I got my first ever publishing gig outside this blog by submitting one of my favorite stories about her.
The last time I wrote about the house next door, however, I thought she was 104.
“I don’t think so, why?”
Then again, age doesn’t really matter (DAMMIT!) especially, once you’ve lived over a century and, well, good thing I have momfriends who know more about my neighbors…than I do.
“Because, there’s a for sale sign outside her house.”
Aaaaaand, momfriends can be a REAL asset…especially, when they are much more observant than…you know…I am.
“I just thought they were helping her clean up the yard, or something.”
Long story short (you’re welcome) Miss Grace is just fine (thank goodness!) but, she hasn’t been able to physically keep up with the house (not for the lack of trying, either) so, her family was finally able to convince Miss Grace that she just should not be living…alone…anymore.
“Hey, did you know that the house next door is under contract?”
Another momfriend called me the other day and, well, this is where most folks would be surprised to learn just how much I really do rely on my momfriends…you know…for stuff like this.
Not to mention, I have more than one momfriend.
“Yeah, I know.”
The house has been on the market for only, like, a month. Considering it is even older than Miss Grace (her father built it) and the property is HUGE (at least a double-lot, like ours) I’m guessing the house next door is being bid on by a contractor, or something.
“Sooooo, are you guys going to allow the buyer make an offer on your house?”
….to be continued.
© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
