She Lives

More Bloggified Love and White Lights

I'm feeling the love.  Again.

Thank you, Angelika!  Deny it all you like, but I know you love me, girl.  You're so stinkin' good at ignoring my annoyishness, too.  Love you back!

I'm not sure how this award is supposed to work, and I just passed awards along to FIFTEEN bloggers, so I'm only doing two this time because two is my favoritist number.  My criteria:  pass it along to whomever I want. 

Spicy Bug. I think it will look good on her way cool blog design.

And Hmmm...Should I pick someone really manly for this one?  Whaddya think?   Would it look good on a blog full of monster trucks and WWF wrestling posts?

Naaah... Tired Mama gets the second one.  'Cause I feel her pain.

So!  As I sit here on this rainy Black Friday morning, trying to digest yesterday's feast and avoid leaving the house under any circumstances for any reason whatsoever, I find myself in deep thought and contemplation.  Scary, I know. 

My thoughts drift (or bounce around, as it were) and I find my meditative self reflecting upon the timeless question that has baffled mankind and provides the catalyst to much philosophical debate amongst scholars even to this day. 

WHY THE STINKIN' HAY DO MY BLASTED NEIGHBORS HAVE THEIR DADGUMMED CHRISTMAS LIGHTS UP SO FLIPPIN' EARLY THIS YEAR!?!?!!?

My street always puts up lights Thanksgiving weekend and turns them on the first weekend in December.  For the past seven Christmases, which is how long this street has existed, forcryinginafusebox.   It's what we do.  It's what we've always done. We have a pact.  Involving white lights and the Christmas Light Guys who come with their truck and super-long ladders so they can reach our roof lines. 

Last week, half my street went ahead and lit up.  The other half put theirs up the day before Thanksgiving and flipped the switches to ON last night.  I mean, what gives, bro?  I didn't see no memo, man.  And why did two of you way down in the cul-de-sac go with colored lights this year?  This is White Light Lane, man.  You're rockin' Santa's boat.  I hope he passes up your house this year.

Being the rebellious wench that I am, I refuse.  My lights will go up this weekend and go on next weekend. It's the neighborly thing to do.  WHITE lights, man.  I may even go get some of those white light trees and white light reindeer and white light stars and snowflakes and stuff just to drive my point home a bit. 

NEXT weekend!

Thursday 13 #87

13 Things For Which You Can Be Thankful

Because everyone else, in true T-13 Turkey Day tradition, is listing what they're they're thankful for today, I'll put my twisted little spin on the mix.  Just in case you can't think of anything for which to be thankful . . .

1)  I don't do your laundry.  I have bleach and don't know how to use it without spilling onto the non-whites piled on the floor awaiting the next load.

2)  I am not your mother.  You would have to finish your chores by the next time you wanted to eat.

3)  I am not your wife.  I cook every day.  And I'm not Rachel Ray.

4)  I am not cooking your Thanksgiving dinner.  Or anyone else's, praise the Lord!  (See #3)

5)  You are not a teenage boy interested in my daughter.  When it comes to my girl, I am not afraid to go to prison.  There was yet another one sitting in my living room playing Scrabble with my baby last night.  While I watched.  And never blinked.

6)  You are not my dog.  I would make you learn demeaning tricks like "sit pretty" and "roll over" and "dance-y dog."  Worse still, you would have to perform them for company and my own selfish amusement.

7)  You are not behind me in line at the grocery store.  I'm the one who knows all the checkers and gets caught up on their lives as they ring me up.  It usually lasts well beyond the time they hand me my receipt.

8)  You don't have to ride with me in my Suburban Assault Vehicle.  I keep my radio set like this:
Treble |
Bass    ||||||
Volume ||||||||||||||
(Speed limit?  What speed limit?)

9)  You never have to go clothes shopping with me.   'Nuff said.

10) You are not my hairdresser.  You'd only see me every six months, would have to do the impossible, and I would never take your advice about covering my gray.

11)  You are not my son's teacher.  (See ya Monday, lady!)

12)  You weren't here yesterday.  My printer was giving me fits.  All day.  And I had a LOT to print.  Many band press packs, in fact.  Honey, I can pitch a fit with the best of 'em.  By the end of the day it was printer zero, me fifty.

13)  You are not my enemy.  I would have to sic Jesus on you.  Or Jack Bauer.  Depends what you did to tick me off.

Have a happy, happy Thanksgiving!! 
And be thankful! 

Truly. 

We are blessed.

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Secret Stash

My family messes with my stuff too much.  Sometimes living with these people is as irritating as standing as a fire aunt mound.  At least you can move yourself off the mound.  And kill the little buggers.

I do love them, though.  The family.  Not the ants.

So, in order to keep my family, my sanity and my handy stuff handy, I have everything vital and imperative to the functionality of Hacienda She-Lives duplicated.  Yepperz.  Twofers. Twinkies.  Two, two, two things in one.  One for public use.  One for my very private use.  The former where the family can find it (and borrow it and lose it) whenever they need it.  The latter, hidden in top secret locations known only to myself.  (I'd tell you where, but then I'd have to keel you.)

The items in question include, but are not limited to the following:

• Tools - hammer and pliers are the most susceptible to random disappearances. Primary culprit:  My husband.
• Scissors - Never mind that they all have their own pair in their own desks, they always come after MINE.  Especially the girl child.
• Cellophane tape - Ditto.  What is it about girls cutting and taping things?  Will she ever outgrow it?
• Chocolate - Both children are my prime suspects here.  I leave Hershey's and Nestles where they can find it. The good stuff is MINE!
• Cookies - The men at my house are notorious cookie monsters.  Two for them, one for me.
• Razor blades - I guess the girl child thinks she needs a new blade every other day or something.  "Sorry sweetie, if you don't see it there, you'll just have to make do."
• Girlie unmentionables - And I repeat, "Sorry sweetie, if you don't see it there, you'll just have to make do."  And tell me next time BEFORE you run completely out so you don't get into this predicament again!
• Stamps - Yes, we do still use them on occasion.
• Quarters - Hubby again.  Has to wash his car from time to time.  "If there aren't any in the bowl, you'll just have to stop at the bank on your way, dear," I say as I remember my big change jar that's probably got about 'leventy-seven dollars worth of quarters in it by now.  (I'm saving up for an extra fridge.  Ssshhhh....)
• Keys - There are spare car and house keys for hubby and spare house keys for the kids.  I have a spare sets for myself elsewhere.
• Pens and pencils - Quit stealing my favorite mechanical pencils and giving them away to your friends at school, forcrayolasake!  Heh.  No more, baby.

There it is.  Secret Stash.  Works for me!  (So don't blow it by telling the fam, okay?)

I Am Thankful For . . .

So, I get a note home from the boy's (almost 12 y/o) teacher yesterday.  It's a disciplinary note that I'm supposed to sign and send back. It says, and I quote ...

"The students were asked to complete the sentence, 'I am thankful. . . '

"[He] wrote, 'I am thankful I live on planet Earth instead of Uranus.' "

I am so not making this up, people.  That's a serious infraction of our 6th grade center's disciplinary policies and guidelines.  I think Uranus is even mentioned in the Student Handbook that my kids and I have to sign at the beginning of every school year. 

People ask whether weapons and drugs are a problem in our district.  Well, you can bet Uranus that they're not.  Our students are too busy hassling with Ur-anally retentive teachers.

Actually, it's just this one teacher.  In the whole district.  This is the second time there has been some sort of complaint about my boy's behavior from this teacher.  The last one was when he had to stay after school for not completing his homework.  Yeah.  He's a regular hoodlum.

What's interesting, though, is that the teacher wrote her note to us on a photocopy of my son's assignment.  His assignment says "...Uranus".  Her note below it says, "...Ur anus" all with a space like that.  Selective vision?   Maybe uranus needs glasses or something?

My boy says he didn't mean anything by the Uranus thing.  So now he's in trouble for trying to fool me into thinking he's telling the truth.  I think it's called lying.  His anus is in deep doo-doo with mom and dad right now for trying to squirm out of this one.  He is to man up and apologize to the teacher.  Today.   When he turns in the signed note.  I made him practice, "I apologize. What I did was inappropriate."  About 20 or 30 times.  Just so he'd get the hang of it.

And I wrote the teacher a note back asking for a conference.  There may be more going on here than meets the anu. . . er, the eye.

What should I say to this planet-hating teacher?  (Well, what would Uranus do?  gah!)   What would YOU say?  Seriously.

Links, Awards and Other Good Blogishness

Those fun little meme-ish awards have been coming to me in pairs of late.  Which is positively grand because 2 is my favorite lucky number.  Seeing as how 2 is the only number with which I can add, subtract, multiply and divide in my head with any consistent degree of accuracy, it all makes sense.  To me.

Well Patricia from Communication Exchange understands me, bless her heart.   Which, I'm sure, is why she gave me both awards.  She likes my blog muchly.

So, I get the Lemonade Award and the Smile Award.  I think they go together like peas and cay-ruts, don't you?  Okay, so maybe peas and corn.  Dunno...

And now it is my duty and honor to pass them along.  They both have qualifications and rules and other administrative details that must be adhered to so I'll do that part first.

The rules for the Lemonade Award are: 1) Put the logo on your blog or post, 2) Nominate at least 10 blogs which show great attitude and/or gratitude, 3) Be sure to link to your nominees within your post, 4) Let them know that they have received this award by commenting on their blog., 5) Share the love and link to this post and to the person from whom you received your award.

The qualifications for the Smile Award are: 1) Display a cheerful attitude, 2) Love one another, 3) Make mistakes, 4) Learn from others, 5) Be a positive contributor to the blog world, 6) Love life, 7) Love kids. The rules for the Smile Award are: 1) Please link back, 2) Post the rules, 3) Choose 5 people to give it to, 4) Recipients must fill the characteristics above, 5) Create a post to share this, 6) Thank the winners.

Okay!  I can do this.  But wow!  That's a lot of linkishness for me; 10 lemonade people and 5 Smile people.  What if I divide it by 2?  Okay, that doesn't work.  Unless somebody wants to be a remainder. Any takers? 

Fine.

 The Lemonade Award goes to [Drumroll please.  Why can't I ever find a good drummer when I need one?]

1. Mr. New Dilemma - Always upbeat and making lemonade from lemons.
2. Jennifer - Who can turn furry teeth into a trip to the spa.
3. Angela - Whose scarlet A stands for Amazing!
4. Kathy - Who can turn a plastic grocery bag into a compelling saga.
5. Maureen -  Definitely some great attitude.
6. Carole - Definitely cheerful and positive.
   
7. Mrs. Mullett - Seriously endowed with the LOL Factor.
8. Brenda - She made me smile by crying over sad movies.
9. Lydian - Retro housekeeping with attitude.
10. Rachel - Who just wants her little one to sleep through the night.

The Smile Award goes to [Forget the drumroll.   Anybody got a trumpet?  Kazoo?  Anything?]

1. Ken Armstrong - I think he likes kids, but not so much cats.
2. Susanne - Been making me smile for a long time now.
3. Big Mama - Who can tickle your funny bone and touch your heart without even trying hard.
4. Another Carol - I just found her blog. I just like it, too.
5. Shannon - I defy you to find someone who has contributed more to the mommy blog niche.

One last thing. . .

Survivor Corps is an organization dedicated to helping our returning service men and women.  Many members of our military are affected by the war in ways that are often overlooked - Sometimes it involves physical injury, sometimes mental.

I have a friend - plays guitar, actually - that served in Iraq, came home injured, and has suffered from debilitating depression to the point that his marriage is threatened, his ability to enjoy life again shattered.  He may need a little help picking up the pieces.

With Christmas ahead, I'm already seeing signs of people looking around to see who they can help out this year.  Our returning troops need our help, too.  If you can offer a donation, great.  If not, can you at least help spread the word on your blog?

And pray for them from time to time, too.  That part's huge.

Finger Exercises

It happens every year when the first cold front comes.   I couldn't find them.  And I need-need-needed them.  For the exciting varsity high school game.  And my husband was all, "You can't ever find anything" which isn't true.  And "Hurry up or we'll be late," all leaving three hours before the game starts when it's only forty-five minutes up there. And "We'll never get a seat at the restaurant this time of day," where "never" means he'll wait longer than thirty seconds.  Goodness.  Doesn't he know how stinkin' important they are to me in cold weather?  The're Im-Per-A-Tive!

My gloves.  I couldn't find my gloves.  Anywhere.  I found my kids' gloves, the gloves my mother-in-law gave me that I don't wear, my husband's gloves, my gardening gloves that I couldn't find all summer, my old weightlifting gloves, my Ove-Glove, my dog's sweater (C'mon!  Get real.  My dog does not have gloves, people.  *snap*).  But I could not find MY gloves.  My Isotoners.  Not the brown pair NOR the black pair.  Maddening!  Absolutely, insanely maddening!

I think my gloves spend the warmer months conspiring, figuring out clever ways to avoid the first wearing of the season or something.  Maybe that's why the call them Isotoners?  I can't think of any other reason, actually. It's a dumb name.  Sounds like they're supposed to make your fingers buff or something. Isometric Finger Toners.   Like, who wants buff fingers when their midsection looks like it belongs to the Michelin Man?  Some airheaded, middle-aged bass player, maybe?

Speaking of, I'm seriously worried about gigs coming up this winter.  The outdoor ones, I mean.  I didn't have any outdoor gigs last winter - seemed I spent the whole winter in studio.  But now, between two (three?) bands, I seem to have three outdoor gigs between now and late February.  (And some indoor ones, thank you, Jesus!)  I'm a little scared of pain during the outdoor ones, though.  And long-term finger damage.

Have you ever tried to play a stringed instrument in cold weather?  Have you ever tried to lance a boil at the top of your own butt crack without a mirror?  It's about as much fun, equally painful, involves similar risk of injury and is certainly every bit as impossible. 

Not that I've ever lanced a boil at the top of my butt crack, of course.  Goodness! Where in the world did I come up with such a thought?  Ack!  Maybe it's time for a thyroid check?  Heavens!

I have played in cold weather before, though. The last time I remember doing so, we'd gone Christmas caroling with a church group. Myself and this guy brought our guitars.  And quickly wish we hadn't.  But we were asked and thought sure, why not?  Because it's impossible to play guitar in sub-zero, polar ice, penguin-freezing temperatures, that's why not.  Glory!  This is Texas, forcryinginanicepond!  We don't need no stinkin' cold weather. 

We haven't had a cold Christmas in a few years, anyway.

So, I'm devising a plan to keep my fingers warm during outdoor gigs.  So far, my plan involves surgical gloves, cotton gloves - not Isotoners - (Should I do white or black?), two space heaters, pocket hand warmers, a tub of cold water, and prayer.

It's a good plan.  Taken from countless hours of googled research on the 'Net.  I read every link. For hours.  All hundreds of them.  And found about three that actually talked about how to play guitar in cold weather without your fingers falling off your hands. (That would h-u-r-t, man!)  I'm assuming these guys are more experienced than I am, since they live in the polar regions of Michigan and Canada and Missouri.  Where it snows.

Meanwhile, I'm still working on learning all these blues songs I need to know to sub in for my friend's bassist.  It's a lot of practice.  Some of it's a little boring because blues bass lines can be. . . uh. . . repetitive. Sort of like finger exercises that you'll actually put to use in front of a live audience.  But the repetition is what makes them cool.  And it makes my fingers strong.  Especially the fast ones.  Those are kinda fun.  Funky, really.  Kinda like funky grooves, man. 

My kids hate when I talk about funky grooves.  They think the word 'groove' has to always be about 60's hippie stuff.  They also hate that I say 'man' a lot.  Like, "Dig that funky groove, man."   Hippie stuff.  *snort*  Haven't they ever heard of beatniks?  You know, beanie hats, skinny pants, short boots, black clothes, goatees, all singing songs about youthful angst and revolting the world into change.  Like the models in today's fashion magazines.  Like that.  My kids are so square, man!

It is, therefore, very important that my fingers remain strong, warm, and injury-free.  Hence,  I-So-Tone-Ers.    I'm beginning to see where it makes sense.

Scary, huh?

I'm going to another highly exciting high school football game tonight. And it's going to be on TV.  And it's going to be cold, cold, colder than last week.  I got gloves and I know how to use 'em!

Oh, they were in the pockets of my brown and black coats respectively.  Same place I found them last year.  Go figure.

Have you been searching for something elusive these days?

Thursday 13 #86

13 THINGS I JUST DON'T GET

1)  Television.  When cable TV first came out, it was da bomb because it was so very commercial-free because we paid money to have it.  Now I pay more money for Direct TV (whatever that means) and it has a b'zillion commercials on each of its b'zillion channels but there's never anything on worth watching.  What happened!?!?

2)  Commercials.  Sunday we watched the Cowboys' game in true Far Western Suburbia, Texas-style, all cozy like, with popcorn and so forth...And there's this commercial that just blew my kids' (and my) mind.  It's for viagra, right?  And it mentions 4 hour erections.  And it talks about these semi-lethal side-effects.  And my kids are fuh-reeked out.  My husband noticed the lady looks to be around 40 years old, is all smiling and laughing and enjoying her dancing self, and the man never smiles at her - just sort of wisks her away for. . . I dunno . . . four hours?

3)  Telephone solicitation.  Maybe because door-to-door is passe'?  How many "no's" d'ya suppose those folks get each day?  How many times must I ask to come off their calling list before it actually happens?  How many times are they going to call and get my voice mail and not leave me a message before they "get" that I have caller ID and I'm on to them?

4)  People who drive on the interstate in the right-hand lane, see you trying to merge on, and refuse to speed up, slow down or move over.  Hello???  Would you prefer I just side-swipe you?  It can be arranged!  My Suburban Assault Vehicle is much later than your Yugo.  Wingnut.

5)  People who feed deer.   Right here in Far Western Suburbia.  And we are overrun with deer.  They are pretty and all that Bambi stuff.  And I'm all pacifistic an what-not, so I'm not about hunting them by luring them with food then sitting in a constructed edifice and picking them off as they come to eat in the dead of winter.  But the stinkin' things are pests.  I can't drive around here at night without nearly hitting one...or two.  And, if it weren't for barbed wire, they would destroy my semi-beautiful garden.  Stop feeding them!  Let nature control their blasted, doe-ish population, man. 

6)  People who feed squirrels.  They're worse than the stinkin' deer 'cause they absolutely laugh at barbed wire.

7)  Twitter.  Bloggers are, as a people group, already half-scared of stalkers, but they send updates to tell a bunch of people they've never met what they're doing every 30 seconds.  It's like self-stalking or something.  Somebody help me understand this.

8)  Death metal.  Especially that scream-ish stuff.  I don't get it at all. 

9)  Horror movies.  Scaring the crap out of me to the point of making me ghastly afraid of my own shadow for days afterwards is not my idea of entertainment, and I refuse to pay money to be left in that state of mind.  [shudder]

10)  Athiests.  They may not believe God exists now, but they will.

11)  Extreme anything.  Moderation is bliss.

12)  The U.S. government.  I get how it's supposed to function.  What I don't get is how it managed to get so far away from how it's supposed to function.

13)  This post.  I was in a really good mood until I wrote it.  Now I want a .22 and a direct shot at Bambi.  Or a politician.  Your choice.

Is there anything you don't get? 

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My Almost Perfect Weekend

Almost.  It was almost perfect.  My weekend, that is. 

I know you're going to read this and think, "What's so almost perfect about that?"  Well, it floated my boat.  And we're all about floating boats, right?

Friday morning, the hubby left for work and turned right around and came home. He wasn't feeling sick - I promise.  I know! - but he wasn't feeling quite right, either.  The boss told him to go on home. My gain.  Yee-haw!  I do love my man.

After the yee-haw,(ahem), I went out and ran a few errands, one of which included taking the girl child (16y/o) some of those flat clippy things for her hair.  You know which ones I'm talking about?  The top part sort of bends open then snaps closed?  Oh, I'll never be able to describe them. Some things are simply beyond me to describe. Like how badly I need coffee right now after the almost perfect weekend. 

Then I went and picked up the boy (almost 12 y/o) from school a couple hours early.  For no reason at all.  And we stopped for milk shakes.  Because it was warm out and milkshakes are fun.  He had a Sonic Blast, which is like super-fun.  I had an iced coffee, which isn't as fun, but I needed some java if I was going to the football game that evening.  Getting my boy out of school for no reason is way cool.  I love that kid, man!  He's the greatest.  Even when he does stink. Which he didn't Friday.  Yay! 

It was nice having him run up to Wal-Mart with me.  Because I hate Wal-Mart and everyone knows it, including him.  Wal-Mart is my least favorite place anywhere, but he made it okay.  He held my hand in the parking lot - be still my beating heart! - and pushed the cart for me and was really patient and helpful when I was trying on the clip-on shades.  (Not to be confused with the flat, clippy hair things.)  He even did the self-checkout beeper machine for me.  The little darling.  Maybe I should take him out of school early more often?

A cold front came in late that afternoon. Which meant it would be the first football game of the season where we had to bundle up like the folks on TV in the northern 'spheres of the country.  Cool!  Well, cold, really.  I don't do cold well, but it was fun getting all bundled up and wearing clothes I usually only get to wear about twice a year.  Because I live in the part of the country where you either need shorts or a parka - there's no in between. And you could need them both in the same day, right?  Like, this morning is cold out, but it'll be sunny with a high of 75 this afternoon.  I should write a song.

It was an away game.  That's always an adventure. In a little town north of here.  But it was a playoff game, so the school we played was away, too.  We stopped off at this mega-famous friend chicken place that's mega-famous.  I ate at one of their other locations down south of where we live and it was awesome!  Not as good as Willie Mae's in New Orleans, to be sure, but really, really good friend chicken, girl.  The one we ate at Friday is the original. We though it'd be cool to eat at the original. Because it's all original and all. 

It wasn't very good, I didn't think.  So, my weekend wasn't 100% perfect, but hey!  So far I was loving it!   And it's just Friday. And I looked nice in my brown leather jacket and matching high-heeled boots which, for the first time ever, didn't hurt the balls of my feet.  (Thank you, Dr. Scholl's!)  

And it gets even better!  It's my boat and it floats.

So, the game was incredibly exciting.  Which is groovy, because our undefeated team didn't just win all the games during regular season, they slaughtered every team.  I'm talking scores like 51-3.  All season long.  We never stayed very far into the 3rd quarter because, well, we'd already seen our bobby-pinned color guard guard the colors, so we'd leave and listen to the rest of the game on the radio.

This time we stayed for the whole thing.  We still won by whole lot, 31-14? But our boys had to really work for it this time.  It was such an exciting game.  I had so much fun.  I sat next to my daughter's friend's mother, who used to be the librarian at my son's school.  We really shook our noisemakers, honey!

The next game will be scary, though.  That's the team to beat.  We CAN beat them!  Whether we do or not is yet to be seen, though.  Either way, we won't be leaving bobby pins on anyone's field.

After we got home, my husband (not me, yay!)  picked the girl up from school and got her home by 1AM.   I had to get her up again at 5AM Saturday morning to get her back to school so she could take the bus to the UIL competition about an hour away.  Poor baby girl.  She was so tired.  Bad UIL, Bad!  (Like I said, "Almost!")

I had a great rehearsal that morning and went to lunch with friends. Mexican food.  I do love me some Mexican food!  We thought about having margaritas, but . . . well, we all agreed that would probably make us sleepy.  (After being up since 5AM?  Y'think?) So I had iced tea instead. 

Then I hung out with my boys all afternoon watching college football. And I took a nice nap.  (I should have had that margarita, man.)  My girl was home by 6PM and in bed by 8PM, poor baby.  (Bad, bad, bad UIL!)  We had sandwhiches for supper, so I didn't have to cook.  That's two days in a row of not having to cook.  Yeah, baby!

And both kids had good report cards.  Which doesn't just float my boat, it also powers it.  Oh, yeah!  And they did the whole room-check thing again.  (I got da pow-wah!)

Slept late Sunday morning and didn't go to church.  (Almost, people.  Almost.)

I actually did some chores Sunday morning while I listened to sermons on my iPod, which sort of screws up the whole Day-of-Rest thing, but I figure I got a nice day of rest Saturday so it evens out.  And spent the afternoon alternately watching pro ball with my boys and learning a bunch of new songs I need to know 'cause I'm subbing in for a friend's band in a couple of weeks and want to do a good job for him, right?  Doesn't do to sub in for a friend and not know the songs, is my motto. 

My hunky hubby cooked chili for supper and it was good.  (THREE days of no cooking for me?  GREAT weekend!  My boat's like a high-powered ski boat, okay?)

And the Cowboys beat the Redskins!  (More Yee-haw after that!  heh)

That's my idea of an almost perfect weekend.

What can I say?  I'm a simple girl.

And how was YOUR weekend?

Thursday 13 #85

Not one to post those forwarded things I get from my forward-esque friends in email, I'm making an exception today.I have no idea who the author of this list is, but I thank her.  She deserves a medal.

13  Things PMS Stands For: 

1.  Pass My Shotgun 

2.  Psychotic Mood Shift 

3.  Perpetual Munching  Spree 

4.  Puffy Mid-Section 

5.  People Make me Sick 

6.  Provide Me with Sweets 

7.  Pardon My Sobbing 

8.  Pimples May Surface 

9.  Pass My Sweat pants 

10.  Pissy Mood Syndrome 

11.  Plainly; Men Suck 

12.  Pack My Stuff 

and  my favoriteone : 

13.  Potential  Murder Suspect

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I am the Teen Clean Queen!

I am a stinkin', bloggified, parental genius! 

This is good.  Really good. 

Disclaimer:  Uh. . . if you already do this or your mom did it when you were a kid or your sister's, neighbor's dog's friend does it, or you read it in a mag-a-zayeeene uh-huh, I don't want to know.   I would much prefer to embrace the delusion that I have broken uncharted parenting territory and made some great, amazing discovery all by my wee, little, suckered self.

It's never happened before, it may never happen again and it's probably not really happening now, but humor me, okay?

The Problem:

I do send the kids to clean up their areas, but they don't.  They'll say they did, but it's all a bunch of smoke-n-mirrors designed to dupe me into letting them go on with their overindulged little lives as they sit smack dab in the midst of the chaotic mess they've made of my home's upstairs.  It's enough to depress a mother for life, I tell ya.

Now, they each have their own bedroom and bathroom for which they are responsible.  Between the bedrooms is a common area (game room/electronic show room) that they must cooperatively maintain.   I'm talking superficial stuff; picking up, dusting, vacuuming, putting the sundry discs back into the cases, nullify all evidence of food fights, etc. . . . I do the heavy lifting up there; ceiling fans, baseboards, upholstery, window treatments, bury dead bodies,  etc.  Got that much?   Okay.

What I've always done in the past is tell them to go clean up. Then they're supposed to call me to come check what they've done.  Then I have to tell them what to do to make it right because they never do it right the first time.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  This process can go on for a long time with them never quite getting things right.  Blah.  I hate it.  Sometimes I just omit the repeat 'cause it wears me slick, all that stomping up and down the stairs, getting more and more irritated that my offspring cannot follow directions.

The Solution: 

Enter the brilliance of my lone moment of parental clarity.  (Yes, I am deleriously gloating in the moment.  It fills my heart with joy to do so, so don't blow it for me, okay?)

Rather than inspecting the areas myself this past weekend, I had the kids inspect each others' areas.  Oh, yeah.  I know.  Pure genius with a capital Gee.  I may have to write a book or something.  Move over Dr. Spock. 

The stipulation:

When each child declared their sibling's spaces as good, I then came up for the final inspection. (Tip:  I'm thinking this is a good time to put on a long black cape, a shiny black headpiece with a car grille faceplate, and make a lot of noise when I breathe, like cooooooh-puh, cooooooh-puh.  I could carry carry a light saber and use it to check  under the beds.  I think I'll try that next time while saying stuff about the power of the dark side, right?)

So, back to reality. . . If an area did not meet my standards, the inspector AND the inhabitant of said area would both be denied privs for the rest of that day.  (Privs.  As in all the things they love and hold dear to their precious little pubescent hearts and don't want to be denied for a single moment, much less a whole day.)

The Results:

Oh, joyous momenteousness of it all, it stinkin' worked, man!  Right on! 

Everything passed on first inspection and I didn't have to make twelvety dozen trips up and down the stairs to check-n-correct, growing more and more convinced my children were less trainable than IQ-less chimps.  (In the housekeeping department, that is.  I've already established that mentally challenged chimps have better hygiene practices than my boy (almost 12y/o) and better attitudes than my girl (16y/o).  Those of you with little ones will experience the bursting of your hyper-inflated bubbles once the post-elementary school realities kick you in the head. 

So! The upstairs now looks like Better Homes and Gardens meets Best Buy and all is well with the world!

For now.   I'm sure they'll put their hardened, hormonally labile heads together and devise a way to thwart my plan.  In the meantime . . .

The Glory:

I am the Queen of Everything!  Bow to me.

 That's what's working for me! 

Got tips on getting teens to clean their rooms?  Approach the throne.

Then go visit Shannon for more WFMW tips and things.

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