That Sexy Mortgage

Second day of the divas being gone.

House is eerily quiet. But nice. I can do this.

Should be a great week. No kids…full of eating out, partying, hanging out with friends, going to the movies, having sex (!), right?

Wrong (insert buzzer sound here)!

I couldn't pay the whole mortgage this month. I paid what I could, but all my clients are soooo slow pay, plus, I hardly have any clients. No one is buying fancy suits so hubby isn't doing so well either. The bank, however, did call hubby at work today and informed him that the mortage hadn't been fully paid. He already knew this, but his gasket blew nonetheless and he called me to inform me that he couldn't receive calls like that at work. So I called the bank, placated them, and then, I called his mom and asked her for the money. She is on vacation on the west coast. I am guessing that my call wasn't really one she wanted to receive. We are so lucky to have her, and I felt like a big pile of dirt even having to ask her.

Soooo, no dinners out, no movies, and since we are so stressed out…definitely no sex.

I wonder if this recession will produce more babies or less? If people are staying home, are they not having sex because they are worried about money? Or are they having lots of sex because there is nothing else to do?

I know it's the last thing on my mind. All I can do is fret away my kid-free week about money.

How much time can one man spend in the bathroom?

Apparently quite a bit. By my calculations it goes something like this:

4 x .75 (3/4 hour) = 3 hours per day
3 hours x 7 days = 21 hours per week
21 x 52 = 1,092 hours PER YEAR!

That is astonishing. How much time is spent pooping? Reading? Picking cuticles?

The closed, locked bathroom door with a crack of light coming from the bottom of the door is a common, common sight in our house.

Even the divas are great at commenting on the phenomenon. "Where's Daddy?" I ask.
"He's pooping," they reply with complete seriousness.

This morning, hubby pointed out that Diva #1 has begun reading on the toilet. She also farts and laughs, burps and blows...all those joyful things that hubby finds so funny. If she gets married one day, she and her hubby will get along great.

Oh, and if anyone is interested, the literature of choice in our home for bathroom reading is "The Bottom Line" ( www.bottomlinesecrets.com ).

Grease Fire II

Well, the grease fire has reached it's full potential...read to find out.

After our bake element was shot I went on-line to GE and ordered a new bake element for $100. Of course the little pin which supported the element was attached, so I had no choice. The nice lady at GE assured me that even an idiot could install it. Just make sure to turn off the circuit breakers.

It arrived, and husband couldn't wait to install it. Did he read the directions? No. Did he call me at work to walk him through the installation? No. He just tried to install it. Lo and behold, as he took out the old element and tried to plug in the new one, a huge spark spewed out the back of the oven and sent a scintillating jolt through his body. Oops...he didn't turn off the circuit breaker.

The plug for the bake element had a big black ring around it. Smoke eeked out. It was dead.

So now what? I called the appliance repair place. $200 to come out and fix it. Plus $100 dollars for the element. That's $300. I know it's not the most environmentally sensitive solution, but it sounded like a new oven to me.

And so it is. And it's alot nicer. (Although picking it out wasn't so great -- I did find out at the appliance store that both kids can fit in a dryer at the same time). Best of all, mother in law paid for it because she can't have her son electrocuted, after all.

The lesson is this: a grease fire is not always a bad thing.

Thongs

What is it about thongs? Who invented these and what were they thinking? Nothing like a piece of string dividing your butt cheeks and digging into your nether regions.

I have a pair of Victoria's Secret "Pink" thongs that are cute, but they hurt me so badly that I am sore 3 or 4 days after wearing them. All thongs cause a different degree of discomfort, but I can never remember that these are the worst and I continue to wear them over and over. After I throw them in the hamper, the exact memory of the pain they cause me is instantly transferred to my butt and I just forget. It's kind of like having a baby. It really hurts, but yet women do it time and again.

Hmmm, must be a law of nature or something.

Why can't I control my life?

I haven't posted in awhile. Now I understand about blogs that don't get updated. I'm chalking mine up to pure chaos.

Divas started school the other day. One in kindergarten, the other in third grade. Third grade diva just transferred to a new school so she could be with her sister. She is a bit unhappy because it's only been two days and she is already being picked on for being small. Three boys got to her yesterday. As she described it, one was tall and skinny, one was fat, and the other had bulging out eyeballs. The fat one's name is Kirk. She retaliated by calling him "Kirkland." I thought that was amusing...my little Costco brand conscious diva. I told her to call him "Kirkland toilet paper."
That's not helping, I know.

Aside from having to have my kids to school at 7:30 am and being so tired that my eyeballs feel like they are made from sandpaper, in the past two weeks I have :
1) bounced TEN (10) checks
2) just gotten my water cut off for a bill that was 1 day late

Those are the worst things. A few others that contribute to my spiral are:
toenails that are too long, hair that desperately needs a highlight, a purse that is part trash can and part coupon/receipt holder, clothes that have been wet in the washer for two days, the towel rack in the upstairs bathroom that is still on the back of the toilet after being yanked out of the wall by Diva 2 in her attempt to get a fashion accessory (i.e. band-aid) out of the bathroom cabinet, a gaping hole in the wall of the laundry room from the door being flung open too many times, a screen door with no screen, eight piles of laundry that needs to be done...you get the picture.

If I could just get over my punch drunk hangover from being so tired I might make some headway in some of these areas.

And if I could only make some money...that would help.

All Quiet on The Home Front

Wow. It's been really quiet around the house. Divas are at the grandparents for a week and I don't know what to do with myself except for drink vodka and sleep.

The cleaning lady came yesterday and did a halfway job, but at least their are no little fingers to mess it all up. No papers lying about, beds are made, toys are in baskets. Amazing. For the last day and a half, I just sit and look, and listen to the silence of my former life (w/o kids).

Of course, husband wants sex so I give in so the week can be pleasant, and then he gets a raging stomach ache. I knew he was going to try to blame it on my cooking, but I feel fine so it has to be all the beers he drank or something else (grumpy disposition?).

I sat outside this morning, listened to the birds and the traffic on the boulevard, and felt thankful. I am thankful for my two beautiful divas who are two hours away, and for the little slice of quiet I am going to enjoy this week.

I am going to sleep, but I will hold off on the vodka drinking 'til at least tomorrow when I am going to the (oh my God!) MOVIES!!!!

The empty roll

Why? What is the law of nature that governs the emptiness of the toilet paper roll every single time I go to the bathroom in my house? It doesn't matter if it's the upstairs bathroom, the hall bathroom or my bathroom...they are always empty or just have a square or two on them. There has to be a Murphy's Law type thing that relates to this phenomenon.

If anyone knows, please tell me.

Who is this woman?

I ask myself this all the time now when I see myself in the mirror. I don't know this person. She looks different. Older. Maybe wiser, but am not so sure. I still feel so immature inside, but look haggard on the outside.

When I see myself in pictures I don't recognize myself either.

If I were to describe myself to someone from seeing myself in a photo, this is the image of think of.

Migrant Mother. Dorthea Lange.