I can’t even explain to you how many times I’ve sat down in front of my computer, opened up WordPress and then just stared at it because I don’t know how to title my post. It’s like I’m trying to title a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, except harder because I’ve already done that (in my head) at least five dozen times.
Things have been busy around this neck of the urban woods. We have 27 days until we go to Vegas and 33 days until we can move into our new house. We’ve already made one trip to Goodwill and have plans for at least one more before we move, because as much as I love my stuff I’ve had for years and have never taken out of a box, I like not having to carry as much boxes even better.
I found a box of various greeting cards that possibly date back until the 1980s. Thanks to a suggestion from Dez (courtesy of Mrs. Dez), I’m totally scanning them and putting them into a hard cover book, so I can just throw the box away. I think it comes from growing up with two grandmas that had the most fantastic photo albums ever, but I just love being able to go back and look at those kinds of things. And, yes, that’s including the note from my fourth grade teacher, who thanked me for taking care of our classroom guinea pig (Chipper) over Christmas break. I also passed several years of swimming lessons with flying colors, in the event that you’re curious. And my letters to Santa? Very well thought out for a six year old.
And the Beanie Babies. Damn those things. I don’t even care about them, but I spent way too much time on Ebay trying to find certain ones to just throw them out… possibly over 15 years ago. Sigh. Who wants some Beanie Babies? Most have the tags!
I think I said this when we moved into this house, but I really mean it moving into this next one. I seriously don’t want to move again for at least two years. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
My favorite 15 year old in Missouri is a huge Drake fan. Or at least was. I can’t keep track of what kids are into these days. It wasn’t until I heard the song Headlines, that I realized I kind of like this Drake kid, too.
I might be too strung out on compliments, overdosed on confidence
Started not to give a fuck and stopped fearing the consequence
Drinking every night because we drink to my accomplishments
Faded way too long, I’m floatin’ in and out of consciousness
And they saying I’m back, I agree with that
I just take my time with all this shit, I still believe in that
I had someone tell me I fell off, ooh I needed that
And they want to see me pick back up, well, where’d I leave it at?
I know I exaggerated things, now I got it like that
Tuck my napkin in my shirt cause I’m just mobbin’ like that
You know good and well that you don’t want a problem like that
You gonna make someone around me catch a body like that
No, don’t do it, please don’t do it
Cause one of us goes in, and we all go through it
And Drizzy got the money, so Drizzy gonna pay it
Those my brothers, I ain’t even gotta say it
That’s just something they know
Here’s the best part. If you go to this link, you can click on the lyrics and find out what they actually mean. I could keep myself entertained all day on a site called RapGenius.
I even found you this video if you’re so inclined to hear the whole song:
Successfully co-parenting a 14 year old boy has helped me learn many, many things, most of which will never grace this blog with its presence, because I don’t want people knowing that much information about my kid. It’s too bad, because I could really use some advice on some of that information, you know? One thing I’ve learned hard and fast? Boys stink. The Kid is REALLY good about applying deodorant and, yes, some AXE body spray, but at least I know I’ll never have the stinky kid in class.
He’s a facts-based kid, though, so if I ever run into needing scientific evidence, this not-his-mom has found this little graphic to share:
You know, because we needed a new shower curtain and all. Apparently I was in some sort of whimsical mood when picking it out? All I know is that it’s too “loud”, in the words of my grandma (RIP), and I can’t look at it first thing in the morning.
The three of us went out to dinner Saturday night. Our original plan was dinner at Matt’s Bar and catching a 7pm showing of Moneyball at the Riverview Theater. Apparently everyone else in Minneapolis was in the mood for burgers with molten lava cheese squirting down their throats, because Matt’s had a line out the door. We drive down to 5-8 Club and only had to stand in line a few minutes before we got seated. We put the kibosh on the movie plans and decided to hit a Redbox instead. Dinner was lovely. Burgers were consumed. Football was watched. Then we decided to pick up some candy and ice cream to have our own movie night at home.
We walked into the front porch and it instantly smelled like burning plastic. It smelled RANCID. We headed straight into the kitchen and this is what we found.
We have no idea what happened. We hadn’t used the stove since Thursday evening, so I’m sure we would have noticed had we left the burner on that long. The General pulled a knob off from the non-charred side to try to turn off the stove, but there was no way that was happening. The Kid and I took the animals outside to get them some fresh hair, since they’d been inhaling burning plastic smoke for God only knows how long. While we were outside, she pulled it away from the wall and unplugged it. And then we all took a breathe, because everyone was okay and nothing was damaged past the stove.
Riley was kenneled. Marshall can’t even jump onto the bed without using the bedside stand as a step. No idea how it started. No idea how it stopped. And absolutely no idea how the stove was the only thing that was damaged.
We’re considering ourselves so, so, so, so lucky. I maintain my theory of last week that we have a couple of grandmas and three grandpas in heaven making sure the three of us are safe. Between the five of them, I think they probably have some degree of pull up there.
I called the landlord to give her the heads up and we’re working on getting that taken care of. The General is busy figuring out how to get the smell of charred stovetop out of our clothes, and we’ve been living with the windows open for the past 24 hours and ignoring the fact that it’s a might bit cold for the first time this winter.
I’ve always been a sucker for kids. Kind of always felt the need to be a protector of some sort, because someone had to stand up for them, you know? Having one that came with The General and planning on having another one with the next couple of years has made me even more aware of how just downright mean some parents are.
I was never a victim of child abuse in any kind. Unless you count riding around in the back of a truck in the 80s as child abuse, which I think people might now. And I can’t imagine ever inflicting any kind of abuse. The Kid, however, might argue that saying taking out the trash, cleaning out the litter box, and picking up after dinner could be borderline child abuse.
This graphic kind of blew my mind and I can’t get some of the statistics out of my head. It’s not just babies or teenagers or boys or girls dealing with abuse and it’s not just moms or just dads dishing it out. The numbers below kind of make me sick to my stomach.
I've covered them in aluminum foil. I've used tape to block the entire opening and filled it with trash. I've helped completely switch two cubes when their cube-dwellers were out of town at the same time. I've also filled them with balloons. I'm crafty like that.
There's a Pimp My Cube Contest that's a little bit different. These folks want you to take a video of your really horrible and boring cube. Maybe it's all the same color with no chance of seeing daylight unless you jump two feet in the air. (That was my last job.) Or maybe you have a monitor that weighs 42 pounds and a phone that still has a rotary dial. You'll need to narrate your video, especially in the event that you have to explain that your cube is right next to the lunch room and someone burns popcorn every day at 2pm on the dot. You can't record that kind of smell, man. I don't know. Maybe it has blood on the walls, like this guy's:
Make a video. Upload it. Tell all your friends and family and co-workers to vote for it. You could win some serious prizes. Prize packages are worth up to $1200! The contest period is from 12/5/11 at noon to 1/31/12 at noon. Don't miss out!
I don't have a cube now. I sit in a giant room of 8 desks. I'd pimp that whole room if I could.
You’re dying to read the scoop on our new house, right?
We found out we had to move on January 1 and we got a call from our new landlord last night while we were at dinner confirming that we were approved for the house. Nine days. We like efficiency. And probably had some grandmas and grandpas looking out for us to make sure we weren’t homeless, too.
So anyway, our house is .7 miles from our new house. It’s technically in a different neighborhood, but not far enough away that we won’t continue to shop at all of our regular stores. You know how important it is when you have a specific gas station you like to use, right? Because I do. I still miss my friend from the Super America that was closest to our duplex in Northeast Minneapolis.
bathtub AND shower
three stories (bedroom on each floor)
allows Marshall and Riley (landlord loves boxers!)
garage (and driveway)
within five miles of my work
central air (and a brand new furnace)
fenced in backyard
less than a block from a main bus stop
family room downstairs
onsite laundry (front load washer!)
Basically, everything on our wishlist I posted about last week. Needless to say, we’re beyond thrilled. We clicked right away with the owner of our new house, just like we did with the owner of our current house. We’re visiting Vegas the last weekend of February and as long as we don’t win a billion dollars, we’ll be moving the first weekend in March and we may need some help. If we win a billion dollars, we’ll still move, but pay someone and then be on the lookout for some additional homes in the Key West area and a place of The General’s choosing.
Well, it does. But because I’m pretty sure the kids he hangs out with know how to use Google (even if it is just to search for manga, Star Wars or boobs), this is how I can sum up what raising a teenager is like:
High school is tricky and it would have been cool had someone told me that, you know? His grades are seriously great and so far improved over last year, thee are times I can’t believe it. He has some pretty cool friends. He’s so smart. He’s developing into this guy that’s fun to hang out with and I forget I’m supposed to be helping raise.
With high school comes social stuff and awkward growing and dating and homework and all this other stuff that I super loved in high school (minus the dating), so it’s cool to see him deal with all of it in his own way that just works best for him. And man, oh, man, do I want to blog about ALL OF IT.
Okay, first off – I’m not saying I go above and beyond for this kid and should be rewarded for it. I do what parents do and that’s my job. So don’t get crazy.
Secondly, the point. The Kid has had an interest in manga, this Japanese comic book type thingy, and has been reading them (parent-approved, of course) over the past several years, even before I met him. I took him to Dollar Tree for some ridiculous reason a couple of weeks ago and we started trolling through the book section. I told him he could get one book, mainly since I was buying one. He found Rock and Roll Love, which I let him buy. It was a dollar. If The General, who was at home, wouldn’t approve of it, we could have pitched it and/or set it on fire.
I’ve been reading my Dollar Tree purchase, Don’t Let The Lipstick Fool You, which is Lisa Leslie’s autobiography but I didn’t feel like it last night. I figured I’d try to pick up some of this Rock and Roll Love nonsense and see if maybe it’s something we could have in common. Well, sorry, little guy, we do not.
Manga is kind of the dumbest thing I’ve ever read in my life. Now, granted this book was for kids 10 and up, but holy cow. I read probably 30 pages of it thinking just MAYBE I’d be able to get into it and the only thing I got into was a ball of rage for continuing to look at this book full of pictures of people that all looked the same.
Now, this morning, I’m complaining about it to his mom. And she tells me that the only reason he’s reading it is because his new girlfriend (YES, GIRLFRIEND) likes manga. It takes a lot off my shoulders to realize he’s reading crap for someone else and now I don’t have to read it, too.
I'm Wendy. Hi there. I live in North Minneapolis and am originally from Missouri. By day, I work as a recruiter. At night, I hang out with my fiancé, our teenage son, a large boxer, a runt of a small dog and a surly tomcat that's currently sitting in the kitchen sink.