lesson of the week: new york is not all city

Take a deep breath, people, because this might be a tough one. Very nearly every person I meet who a) is not a New York State resident, or b) has ever been to New York City but nowheres else in the state, says,

You're from New York? You don't seem like a city girl.

Or

You're from New York? And you have a yard?

Or

What do you mean you're 10 miles from a grocery store? You're from New York! There's one on every corner!

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. And eyes.

Exhibit A: Niagara Falls.

This is in New York State, but not the City, and is pretty much the farthest point in the state away from the City.

Exhibit B: Adirondack Park.

You're pretty much not allowed to have a city here. Or you'll go to jail. The Indians should have thought that one over years ago. Just think how nice Long Island could be. Alas.

Exhibit C: Letchworth State Park.

Made the list of Top 100 Places to Camp in the Whole of America. Also known as The Grand Canyon of The East. Super sweet. And you can actually take a ride in a hot air balloon over the Gorge. If you're into That Sort Of Thing. And also, not in The City.

Exhibit D: The New York State Thruway.

If you need to go to the city, you can hop on this road. And drive east until you die. Because that's how long it takes to get to New York City from Where I Live. Especially if you are driving with any number of children that is greater than one (1) infant.

The Dayton Time. I make you suffer through the steep, upward slope that is my Photoshop learning curve. That should say, It is the World's Longest Toll Road. New York State: We make you pay. And the letters? That is what every option in my last eye exam looked like.

Exhibit E: The Farmland is the Best On The Planet.

This is a documented truth, but you can go verify it for yourveryownself if you are That Sort Of Person. Or you could just trust me on this one. I am batting my eyes very believeableish right now, people.

Exhibit F: The Finger Lakes Region.

It's lovely. There is a winery on every corner.

And that is why Upstate New York is better than The City.

The End.

apparently i need a day off

I don't want you to be bored, or sad, or feeling like I don't love you any more. But I happened to notice on The Mister's little blog-a-doo that I have issues and I? Must. Go. To. Target.

Seeyabye.

Oh wait, I got all distracted thinking about Target and forgot to tell you to read about my issues.

Okay Tarzhay. Seeyabye.

et cetera, and the line

Item 1-Regarding yesterday's brief post: The backhoe, and by backhoe, I mean The Best Birthday Present Ever Effing Backhoe is not put together. The scoop part is attached to the body. But thanks to a certain three year-old, who happens to LOVE to work and to help, a part found itself missing. After looking for the part for two hours, and enlisting the help of The Mister's Parents, we came to the conclusion that we had lost two hours of our lives that we will never get back. That's SIX HOURS of lifetime wasted. And one plastic part that walks free. Bastard part.

But the best/worst part of the Bastard Part Story? The Mister came home, read the wordless directions (and please don't even get me started on the whole Wordless Directions Thing), and determined that the Six Hours Of Wasted Lifetime Bastard Part was? Cosmetic. Only. Not. Necessary.

Pardon me for a minute whilst I go bash my head on the nearest wall...

That's better, thankyouverymuch.

I possibly will maybe put the rest of the Thing together this afternoon. Possibly maybe not.

Item 2-Regarding the Alcohol In My Life and On My Blog: There is more alcohol on my blog than in my life. My first pregnancy pretty much ruined alcohol for me, and since I've been knocked and/or nursing continuously since September, 2004, I joke about drinking. Let's pause whilst I do the math to inform you of the number of years, days, and months since my body has been The Mister's my own.

Three years and ten months.

Forty-six months.

Two hundred seven weeks.

One thousand, three hundred eighty days.

Thirty-three thousand, one hundred twenty hours.

One million, nine hundred eighty-seven thousand, two hundred minutes.

Approximately. Because who's counting?

Aaaaaaaanyway.

When I drink (infrequently), I enjoy Guinness, Yuengling Porter, or Maker's Mark Whiskey. In small quantities, and not consumed with the intention of cultivating a buzz or being drunk. There is a family history of alcoholism on both sides of my family, and while I am adopted, the environmental factors of growing up with alcoholics make just as much of an impact as the genetic factors. I am too smart for that. Now. I am too smart for that now.

And really, caffeine is my Legal Addictive Stimulant of choice. I foshizzle do not need any depressants in my life. Moving on.

Item 3-Regarding The Line, and My Distance From It: There are days. We all have had them, when we wake up and the world feels more like a golf ball than a big ol' planet, and there's not enought space and not enough patience and not enough room to breathe or think or step back from The Line. And nobody can say the right thing. Nobody behaves properly. Nobody listens. And maybe there's a book that Somebody left sitting on the kitchen table, for the 657,984,321,897th time, and maybe the book gets picked up and thrown at the wall. And maybe the dishes don't fit real nice-like in the dishwasher, and the little bowl-separator thingy that can be moved for convenience's sake will not stay in place, and maybe instead of acting like a sane person, the bowls get slammed around in the dishwasher whilst the bowl-slammer shouts made-up curse words at nobody in particular. And maybe Somebody left a half-eaten apple sitting on the purple velvet sofa, and refused to put said half-eaten apple in the compost bin, or the filthy shirt in the washer. And maybe Somebody else refuses to clean up theirveryown mess, or put theirveryown laundry away, or won't stop. Won't stop doing what? It doesn't matter. They just won't stop.

And instead of The Line appearing in its normal state, a four-foot wide banner of red, with STOP!!! painted in humongo black letters, again and again down the length of it, The Line is a tightrope. It is the tightrope on which I am riding a unicycle, with my children and my husband wrestling together on my head, whilst I juggle lit sticks of dynamite thrown to me by clowns.

And that, people, is really bad news, because I couldn't ride a unicycle on the ground. And if my family were actually standing on my head, my neck would be broken instantly. And juggling? ANY juggling? Forget about it. And don't get me started on clowns, either.

I have not been observing The Line today. I called a couple people to come over, help me pull it together, and I think they thought I was kidding. So I'm here, in my house, with my sweet children. Sweet, possibly frightened children who are pretty much convinced their mommy's a nutjob.

And I feel like shit about it. I know how to be the better parent. I know how to act like an adult. I am not making excuses for myself; I was not able to do those things today. Physically, mentally, completely unable.

I love my home, my husband, my kids, but it's all so messy, and the mess is making me nuts. I am crap at organizing, and everyone in my house refuses to get rid of anything, and we still have stuff that belonged to The Mister's Grandparents that was here when we moved in. Stuff that hasn't been touched in years.

I really hate it here sometimes. Really, really. There is chaos everywhere I look. I folded and put away laundry for two hours today, and you'd never know by the way it looks. I can't even take care of the laundry, let alone the bag of LoopLoops HB spilled on the living room rug.

I don't have a good closing for this, a happy ending, or any ending for that matter. I'm going outside. To sit in my garden, where there is no chaos. And I am not going to listen to the team of voices on The Other Side Of The Line, urging me to fail again.

oh dear, i'm about to lose my mind

This came today:

Except it doesn't look like this, and thankfully, the Boy In Orange is not attached to it.

It looks like the Boy In Orange took a screwdriver and dismantled the whole blasted thing.

The Dayton Time needs a hero.

I. AM. THAT. HERO!!!!

Look out, pile of parts. I am going to undismantle you. Or throw you across the yard whilst cursing your very existence. Either way, I'm getting a beer now. Just so's I'm ready for what's about to happen.

happy birthday, wee man!

Happy third birthday, bud.

I remember the night before you were born. I tucked Miss O in her bed, read her stories, and as soon as I walked out her bedroom door I burst into tears. You see, that was the last time it was going to be just the three of us. I was sad because I'd never have the chance again to sit with her as long as she wanted me to, because there'd be another person to care for.

What was I ever worried about?

You are such a wonderful, happy child. You are the wise soul who can find fun in almost any situation. You are the silly soul who can reduce others to tears...of laughter...at the drop of a hat.

You are the master of physical comedy.

You charm the pants off everyone you meet. (I sortakinda hope you grow out of this one, it could be a problem later on in life. And I know you don't know what I mean right now, but one day you will.)

You peed your pants whilst sitting in this crate of gourds.
We totally pretended we didn't know.

You are an awesome helper. You love to work. You live to work. The best part is, you work and help with a cheery disposition. Are you the new PollyAnna? You know, except for the whole boy thing?

You mug like a professional.

Again, with the mugging.

And riding the trike? You rock.

I hope you like your presents, and the dinner you chose: steak, steak sauce (it is its own item), carrots, broccoli, olives, and white rice. Also ice cream sandwiches, sweeties, and cake.

The best present ever.

listen to the funny lady

Someone actually said this, about me, in my presence, to a child today. Out loud and everything. No sotto voce for him. Then he lied and said I was on Saturday Night Live. As if. They can't afford me. But I would totally boost ratings.

And the children listened. And obeyed. And The Funny Lady regaled them with stories of Knocking Down Walls With Sledgehammers, and Not Being Allowed To Actually Ever Touch An Actual Hammer, and How To Get Grownups To Give Money, and How You Should Never, Ever Turn Down Free Doughnuts. You know, Life Lessons.

I had forgotten how much children between the ages of five and ten LOVE the word toilet. LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE toilet. I can't even think of a way to describe how much joy and pleasure is brought to that demographic by saying the simple word toilet.

But first, I must back up and explain how I came to be discussing toilets with children to whom I did not birth myveryownself, in a church, at Vacation Bible School. It's all very natural, I swear. They invited me. I was the guest speaker. So, obviously I talked about toilets. Because what else do you talk about with other people's children, in church, at Vacation Bible School? Exactly. TOILETS!!!!

All of the VBS's I know about have a time during the experience devoted to missions. This community wisely chose Habitat for Humanity of Genesee County. Clever folks. My directions were this:

The focus of the talk is to be a brief overview of Habitat in Genesee County with some personal reflection on why volunteering with Habitat is so important to the speaker. The faith aspect of the organization is certainly appropriate to discuss. The goal of the week is to give the kids a sense of the breadth of volunteer opportunities as well as the personal satisfaction and strengthening of faith that comes from volunteering.

How we got to toilets: I was explaining how we rehab houses. We smash it all out and throw it in a dumpster, and then we put it all in brand new. Well, I didn't have them hooked. The boys were all sledgehammers, whatever, and the girls were all, eeeewwww, dirty, and I knew I had to reel 'em in real fast, or they'd swim away and I'd never get to eat them...oh wait, wrong story. Anyway. So I said, But we put the old nasty toilets back in the houses.

That got them.

After they were done being grossed out by themselves for peeing their drawers due to excessive laughter by my obviously false statement, they were like dancing monkeys in the palm of my hand. Except for that I would never, ever have any sort of nasty monkey in my hand. Especially dancing.

So I used TOILETS to keep their attention for the rest of the time, and talked about volunteering with a cheerful attitude and a happy heart in terms of TOILETS. They had a blast, and appreciated my natural flair for TOILET humour. And using TOILETS to educate the masses.

And, I will let it be known that the adult chaperones were? LAUGHING TOO.

Because?

TOILETS ARE FUNNY.

you must go now

So The Mister has a new blog that is his Daddy Blog.

And I feel that I owe it to him in light of this post and this post, to point you in his general direction so that you can ogle his fabulousness read his last two posts that proclaim his general fabulousness.

Be sure to let him know what a darling he is (read: leave the man a sweet comment about his sweetness).

Then come back here, and tell me all about how lovely my husband is, and how I totally hooked a good one, and for heaven's sake, why did I play such games with him?