No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

Speaking of bunk beds...okay, so I was speaking of them in my head because I was again going through the really fun process of changing the sheets on them...I'm reminded of my excellent bunk bed story from college.

I'm pretty sure this is exactly how it happened.

FACT: I had a "job" at the stables to reduce the Equestrian Team fees I (read: my parents) had to pay.
FACT: Said job had to be completed prior to 7:45 am when students showed up for their 8:00 am lessons.
FACT: I had no car and it was a LONG walk to the stables, so Susan and Asuka picked me up at 5:45 am every weekday morning.
FACT: It's cold at 5:45 am.

SITUATION: Thursday night (must have been at a party, because there is no way I could have been this drunk from underage consumption at a bar) I mysteriously make it into my top bunk.

ACTION:

In the wee hours of the morning, suddenly awake and realize the alarm has been missed. Creep quietly from the top bunk so as not to awaken anyone else...or maybe jump/fall off the side, perhaps kicking Joni in the head.

Proceed to put on sweats over whatever outfit I went to bed in. After all, it is cold outside. As a matter of fact, it is really cold. Probably need more than sweats, so what else should I put on quickly....hmmm...ah, perfect solution, the sheet from my bed.

Ever so quietly, with lightening speed, remove the sheet...or maybe pull and tug so hard that the sheet AND the mattress fall down on top of me.

Wrestle the sheet off the downed mattress and wrap in toga style around my body. There may or may not have been an ignored roommate intervention at this point.

Trip over the mattress on the floor, race down the three flights of stairs, and run as fast as my toga can carry me to the parking lot.

Silence. No sign of movement anywhere. They must have gotten tired of waiting and now I will have to walk the mile and a half. I'm obviously dressed inappropriately for this and head back up to the room for more suitable gear.

Trip over my mattress and finally hear Allison's voice through the fog telling me..."It's only 3:30, go back to bed."

Climb up and realize mattress is still on the ground, hence the tripping.

Climb down and stare at mattress to decide how to get it back up.

Give up and collapse onto the mattress.

One hour later, suddenly awake and realize the alarm has been missed...do you see a pattern?

Refrudgerator

That's not a typo - that's a D&G reference. They know who they are.

My parents recently got all new appliances for their kitchen. I requested to get the old fridge. We are Costco people - and the four cartons of orange juice, economy package of Gogurt and vat of pickles take up valuable real estate.

And of course since my parents old fridge is newer than our old fridge, I suggest we move the newer old one into the kitchen and the older old one to the garage. That's logic! And you can't go wrong with logic.

I have a sneaky suspicion I subconsciously knew I would get good blog material out of the endeavor.

We made a deal with my little brother that if he brought the fridge over and helped us switch them out, he could bring his daughter to play with Morgan and Zoe. Then he could stay and watch all three of them while Scott and I went and had a grown up dinner. That's also logic!

Now, we had originally thought it would be easiest to bring the fridge through the front door so we wouldn't have to make such a sharp turn. But before John got there I mentioned that I didn't think it would fit between the counter and the stove, unless we moved the stove out, too.

So we did some measurements in the back hallway and decided, even though it would be tight, the backdoor would work. We were going to have to take the refrigerator doors off either way.

Of course taking the doors off required a socket wrench doohickey in the one size that could not be found in our pristine workshop. So there was naturally a trip to the hardware store, but that was the only one, which I consider a small miracle.

Of course we wedged the refrigerator in the door frame while trying to make the sharp turn around the counter, but all I had to do was mention that we could always pry the door trim off that it was caught on, and it miraculously freed itself.

Of course we had to move the stove anyway to get the older old refrigerator out the front door. And that's right, we brought the new one in before taking the old one out. How else were we going to keep our vat of pickles cold?

Time it took to get the newer old refrigerator in: 2 hours and 38 minutes.

Time it took to get the older old refrigerator out: 29 minutes.

I just made those up, but that is a rough estimate.

Naturally, I had a few cocktails at our grown up dinner to celebrate our appliance upgrade. This could be why I found myself waking up Scott at 5 AM, while I was trying to find my glasses. "I think the neighbors drove their car into our back yard!"

See, I had gotten up to use the bathroom and take some Advil, and I heard what sounded like the low hum of an idling engine (turns out it was most likely a locust of some sort). I wedge myself between the toilet, radiator and shower wall to look out the high window, where I distinctly see a large white truck parked where only my yard should be.

Once returning with my glasses, and Scott on my heels, I wedge myself again (instead of walking downstairs and looking out a normal window, of course) and can still see the truck...until I focus enough to realize I'm not looking through the window.

It's one of those older windows that crank outwards from the house. And it is at the perfect angle to create a reflection of our driveway and Scott's white Ford Edge parked where it always is.

I take my Advil and fall back into blissful sleep.

17 Days To Christmas (I Think, Lost Count)

Have to take a little break from memory lane. Nothing says a special occasion like water pouring out your kitchen light fixtures.

The first time this happened was the day of my cousin's wedding. We actually had already moved to our new house and were in the process of selling the old one. I believe we had an Open House scheduled for the next day, which is a good thing, or Scott might not have gone over there until the next weekend.

Today's story starts a couple weekends back when I notice the bathroom floor has become a moat for discarded socks, one of Zoe's 10 toothbrushes, and the endless supply of dog hair.

A closer inspection found that if you didn't turn the shower faucet just so, it would drip water down to the rim of the tub, and unfortunately flow out instead of in. Four Home Depot trips later and problem solved.

This brings us to today:

5AM-ish or some other god-awful time well before the butt-crack of dawn - Alarm goes off for Scott to head to the gym for his swim and he hits the snooze.

Sidebar: The number of times the snooze is hit is proportionate to the amount of time I add to my own internal wake up call. For instance, if I tell myself I will get out of bed at 6AM (which is just foolishness, really), each time Scott hits the snooze, I add on at minimum 15 minutes. Considering he tends to hit the snooze at least twice, I typically get an extra half hour of sleep more than I intended. That is, if the devil's spawn doesn't force me up first.

5:45AM-ish - Scott gets out of bed.

6AM - Scott is on the phone leaving a message for his office that pipes have burst in our kitchen and he is not going in.
Sidebar 2: I thought it was kind of him to call his office before coming up to tell me the bad news. Unfortunately, I'm a light sleeper in the morning, so I was up and down the stairs before he finished his message.

Water is, in fact, dripping from the kitchen ceiling and light fixtures at not quite an alarming rate, but enough to be pretty certain the day is going to suck.

On the positive side, I had to move all those things off our counter anyway to clean behind them prior to Christmas. This actually forced me to do it. And to realize how much bigger the kitchen looks when I don't have crap laying all over the place.

7:10AM - Scott's first trip to Home Depot for a plumbing manual. I put Dad on speed dial. Considering there is electricity involved, I decide to work from home in case 911 (and a plumber) need to be called.

8AM - It is determined that our faucet leak was not fixed so much as diverted to a more secretive location.

8:30AM - Second trip to Home Depot for part and ceiling paint. As we are walking out from the self-checkout. Random female cashier yells. "Hey, dude, welcome back."

Cool.

Fortunately, the rest of the repairs are not blog worthy. Part was replaced, leak was stopped, ceiling and electrical was dried. And all without having to do any demolition or call my dad for advice. We must be getting better at this stuff.

And by we, I am by no means implying I do anything other than tell Scott what I would do if I were him.

The Laundry Chute

When you read this you are going to laugh. Rest assured it is NOT funny.

This morning started in the usual manner. Zoe’s persistent “mama…MAMA...MAMA…” chant raised me out of bed at 6 AM. Things went smoothly for the most part. Everyone was chipper and there was minimal whining from the older contingent, including me.

We were ready to go ahead of schedule. Well, not ahead of schedule, but ahead of when we usually make it out the door. It was easy…too easy.

Where are my car keys?

Incidentally, I only have one set, because the dealership couldn't find the other one when I bought the car and said they would order it for me. Two weeks later I called them, “Oh sorry, no one placed the order. I’ll do that today.” Two weeks later I called them, “Oh sorry, no one placed the order. I’ll do that today.” That is not a typo, it did happen twice. And there ended my love affair with Volkswagen, seeing as I still don't have them in my possession four years later.

I put the bags and the girls in the car before going back inside to make a sweep. I work backwards as my dad taught me to do when I lost Ross’s class ring in high school.

Hmmm...we came home from the library…I search the library bag, the diaper bag, the counters, the couches, the bathroom, the bedroom, and finally the meat drawer of the refrigerator (that’s where I found the class ring back in the day). Obviously, I must have put the keys in my pocket.

When I changed into pajamas last night, I threw my clothes down the laundry chute, which is in the bathroom on the second floor and goes all the way down to the basement. Isn’t that convenient?

I head downstairs. There is my shirt…my shorts are not there. Maybe I put them back in my closet, since I didn’t really get them dirty. Back upstairs. No, not in my closet, not in the bathroom. This leaves only one option…they are stuck in the laundry chute. I pick a dirty sock off the floor and toss it in to test, then head back to the basement. Sure enough…no sock.

Many expletives shouted.

Grab the mop, climb on the table in front of the shoot and stick the handle up. No contact. At this point I let the girls out of the car to play. I go upstairs, bang on the chute and shove the handle down. No contact. The shorts are on the first floor. Unreachable. I look for something heavy I can throw down in the hopes I can dislodge the clog.

I use Morgan’s metal piggy bank that is filled with all the change she steals out of our pockets. Don’t worry. There are plenty of clothes at the bottom of the chute to cushion the fall.

I hear it hit the bottom. Hurray! Back to the basement. The sock and a pair of Scott’s underwear have arrived, but no shorts. I look up the shoot. Definitely still something in there, but I can see light, so it is a fact that the shorts are snagged on the duct work. Still unreachable.

Many more expletives shouted.

If any of you have ever witnessed my road rage, you can multiply that by about 10, so it’s good that I had forgotten I was going to turn the AC off before I left and the windows are still closed.

Despite the AC being on, I am already sweating. My shirt has come un-tucked, and the laundry table is not so clean, so my black pants are not so black anymore.

I go back upstairs. My next bright idea is to send something down that will force the shorts to become un-snagged. Bath towel. I send it down, it stops halfway, but I am prepared with my make shift weight to throw down.

Unfortunately, the piggy bank doesn’t work this time. And I suddenly realize that if I have to dislodge the stuff from the basement, that bank is going to fall on my head. Not a shining moment in my life. More expletives. More sweat. More tears.

I’m ready to call Scott’s mom to see if she can come take the girls to daycare and I will work from home. Back in the basement, I use the mop handle again…wooosh, down comes the bank and the towel. No injuries, but no shorts. I look up and see them dangling.

I need something other than a broom handle. I need something with a hook. I need the damn thing from the info-mercial that looks like the alligator toy. You know the one where there is an alligator head on a stick and a little trigger at the bottom that works the alligator mouth and you go around and grab people’s butts with it. That’s what I F-ing need.

I do not have that.

I am able to fashion a hook and I can actually feel it hitting the material, but those F-ing shorts are not moving. It is like they are clinging for dear life to the F-ing ductwork. It’s probably my damn keys causing the problem. I hate keys. I hate cars. I hate having to leave for work.

Wait a second.

I was wearing jeans when I came back from the library, and then I changed into my shorts because it had gotten hot. I look around the floor. I pick up the jeans out of the pile and pull my keys out of the pocket.

This is NOT funny.

Laundry chute to be boarded up upon my arrival home this evening.