I hate my car. No really, I do.

It was an Alexander kind of day. You know, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"?

Me and him, we're like THIS.

My wonderful, loving, supportive Hubby ran to the store last night after I got home from shadowing my director at a party. We needed a few last-minute things before our annual ski trip with friends and he knew the last thing I wanted to do was take the kids in the morning.

But I ended up doing it anyway. See, he didn't get salt. And we were out. Completely, totally out. Not a grain to be had in my house. Made making pancake mix a smidge difficult.

So when I finally dragged myself and the monkeys out to mail a package, hit the library and get ONE thing at the grocery store, I missed a telltale sign that we were going nowhere. A massively flat tire on the right rear of my van. At least when I started the van, she yelled at me.

"Hey dumbass! Your tire pressure is SEVEN. You ain't goin' nowhere."

No really, that's what she said. She's tired of me bad mouthing her all the time. Just because the seats didn't work and now they don't match and smell like new plastic, or the headlight is temperamental, or the radio loses ONLY my presets, not Craig's, or every once in a while it acts like there's no power steering...

Sorry. I digress.

My only saving grace was that we haven't returned the Grandparents' pickup that brought the New Other Woman home. I squeezed two kid seats into the front with me and we were off. Slowly. I'm not what you'd call a truck girl. I swung her wide and parked far away from everyone else at the library but got brave at Kroger. Darned if I didn't park it PERFECTLY between the lines and with about a foot to spare between the hood and the car across from me. Score.

But of course, there was still my van. Hubby came home early, tried to get enough air in it to drive and could instantly hear the hiss. When he backed it up to see the culprit, we found this:

I have replaced and/or patched that same tire FIVE times now in the three years I've had the van. The first was the week after we brought it home. I should have taken that as a sign.

This car really, really hates me.

And she was due for new tires anyway, so $800 later, we can drive to Michigan for our ski weekend.

Starting out to be a damn expensive weekend...

Menu plan Monday and the why

We've been tightening our belts around here after surviving Christmas and two birthdays within a month of each other. I think my credit card might be speaking to me right now, but I'm not sure. It got a workout.

Every month or so, Hubby will look at the finances and tell me where we fall in a number of categories. Eating out is always our downfall, especially Hubby's lunches at work. But the one category that I have complete and yet zero control is our grocery budget. When he reads me the number at the end of the month, it boggles my mind. It makes me mad. I shake an angry fist at the people who keep jacking up food prices (yes, I get that it is a domino effect and they're not doing it for shits and giggles. Let me have my rant). I watch for sales! I use what coupons I have! I buy generic! What the hey!?

I've been planning my meals by the week for awhile now, thanks to a friend who set up a Facebook group for planning and ideas. It's cut down immensely on the "oh crap everything is frozen what the h-e-double hockey sticks are we gonna eat" nights that end up in take-out. Or the afternoons of me flipping through my recipes and sighing heavily when nothing sounds good.

In January, we took it up a notch: a MONTH of meals, so that we could do one big trip for everything I'd need for the month except for milk and produce that wouldn't survive that long.

It was a success in that I stuck to the plan pretty well, which was great since it took all my energy to even make dinner most nights. The downside is that it still didn't save us all that much. Of course, we had a run to Sam's in there for TP and paper towels and other stuff that we won't need for months. I'm blaming that.

February is almost over and I've stuck to the plan again, but I haven't seen the bottom line to know if we've really saved.

I'll keep doing it for next month too, but it's going to get a little more interesting. Hubby wants to stop stock-piling so it's less to worry about if/when we move. It'll be a short enough distance that we don't need to worry about the freezer, but a full pantry will just be a pain. So no more massive cereal-buying sprees when it's on sale and I have coupons. (Hubby had a bowl for a snack last night and said, "Is it bad that the cereal pile (on top of the pantry) is so high I have to jump to get the one I want?")

And on top of all that, last week No. 3 decided s/he wasn't too keen on dairy, which has made meals and snacks harder for me. Doc says it would be strange for lactose issues to just show up, and said it may be a phase. Um, are babies really allowed to have phases in utero?

So this week, we are mostly dairy-free (Tuesday will be interesting).

Monday: Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and green beans
Tuesday: Chicken and rice casserole and salad
Wednesday: Pork chops, stuffing and a veggie
Thursday: Spaghetti with smoked sausage, garlic bread and salad
Friday-Sunday: ski trip with another family. I'm making enchiladas for one dinner and bringing pancake mix and a Butter Braid for breakfast contributions.

We don't do things that way...

Most people take on new projects one at a time, so they can fully submerse themselves in whatever it is and come out the other side refreshed and ready to take on something else.

I am not most people. Case in point:

I was MIA through the Thanksgiving-birthday-Christmas-birthday cluster that is November through January. That's a given. But right about the time I should have been able to recover, we got those two little pink lines on a stick that said, "Hold on, you're in for another wild ride!"

So for the last 13 weeks or so, I have been a tired, forgetful, exhausted mess.

But wait, there's more.

Before we knew for sure we were adding to our family, I felt like I needed another outlet. Something a little more regular than my paid writing gigs and that required slightly more different brain cells than it does to mother my kids 24/7. And so while I've never been a salesperson and have only ever hosted ONE direct sales party in my life, I signed up to be a consultant with Thirty-One gifts.

Yes, I knew I was pregnant when I did it. That really shouldn't surprise anyone that I'm that crazy.

In case those two things weren't enough, Hubby and I started taking a look around at the chaos that is our house. Our dear, sweet house where we brought our first two babies home. Our first house in the nice neighborhood with awesome neighbors I wouldn't trade for the world.

But the actuality is, no matter how big we thought it was seven years ago, we've about filled it to the brim. And now we're bringing another person here to live. A little person who will have a crap-load of stuff no matter how many clothes/toys/etc. I have from his or her older brother and sister.

I don't have an office. Hubby really doesn't either. Between the Other Woman and the New Other Woman, his tools and "workshop" the cars, the kids' toys and general storage, our garage is crying uncle.

N's room has a kick-butt new closet organizer, but it would be a squeeze to put both kids in there once No. 3 arrives.

You get the picture. So today, Mother Nature permitting, our realtor is coming with a "For Sale" sign for our house. If I think about packing up the contents of our house and physically moving all of our crap treasures for too long, I start to hyperventilate. Hubby isn't fazed. He is the master packer and could probably have our entire house packed in five evenings. My job will be to make up for my lack of strength and ability to carry anything since I'm pregnant by calling everyone we know and begging for help, once the time comes. We aren't looking to go far - we've settled into this school district and don't want to be any farther (or closer, really) to Hubby's job.


I hope our neighbors will forgive us.

And that I don't lose my ever-loving mind between now and well, forever...

The death of customer service

For the last few Christmases, Hubby and I have opted to buy one big household item instead of exchanging gifts. This year was a little bigger than usual, but sorely needed: a new stove.

We researched models, scoured reviews and comparison shopped. We decided to pull the trigger and take advantage of a Cyber Monday deal that gave us a significantly lower price plus free delivery and haul-away. Sounded too good to be true. There's always a catch, right?

Right.

The earliest delivery was Dec. 22. I hesitated, but knowing we wouldn't find a lower price or a way to pick up the stove ourselves, I didn't have much choice. It was still before Christmas, so we could thoroughly enjoy cooking on it for Christmas Eve dinner and Hubby could cook to his heart's content over break.

At 4:30 p.m. the afternoon before delivery I got a call saying the stove was on back order from the manufacturer (not cool, GE). They only deliver to our area on Tuesdays, which put delivery on the 27th, when we were out of town. Next available delivery after that? Jan. 3.

Freaking A.

But right at the beginning of our 4-hour window today, I got a call from the delivery truck that he was 25 minutes away. Sounded promising.

Until he arrived and said he couldn't unhook the old range and haul it away without installing the new one. I didn't pay for installation. Something about an open gas line (pssh)... But no one told me that was the case when I opted OUT of paying for installation and Mr. Delivery Guy didn't have a cap or anything to account for the fact that he wasn't going to be installing the range. He suggested leaving the old range until Hubby got home to install it. I not so politely asked him what I was supposed to do with it in the meantime. He suggested the garage. Uh, no hand cart dude, and I'm not carrying a damn stove that shouldn't be in my house.

I had had it up to *here* with the run around and delays from Home Depot and GE, so I gave him an ultimatum: either he figured out how to safely leave me my new stove and get rid of the old one, or I would be refusing delivery.

He quickly ducked out to his truck to call the home office.

Good idea.

The home office wisely decided that a good way to appease a disgruntled customer was to install the stove free of charge.

Another good idea.

But you better believe I won't be buying from either company again any time soon.

It is pretty though...

If at first you don't suceed...

I downloaded a massive update for my POS phone last week after 3 phone calls and more than an hour and half of my life that I will never have back on the phone with Verizon and Samsung. Hubby was getting stabbity about the whole thing, so I am still refraining from mentioning any of my phone's eff-ups foibles in his presence.

I was going to tell you all about the *ahem* struggles our garden is having. I snapped some pictures on my phone when we checked on it last night.

They are still on my phone.

You see, when I plug my phone into my computer, Nothing. Happens. Something is supposed to pop up to ask me if my phone and computer can talk to each other. I'm guessing that my laptop stole my phone's girlfriend or something, because my phone doesn't want to talk to the computer. Like never ever again.

I dared to ask Hubby about it, but lest he turn stabbity again, I took it away after a few screens didn't solve the problem.

I was willing to give the POS a chance, since I've actually held two conversations on it without doing anything wonky, but today kinda sealed the deal.

It's gonna be a long wait until Dec 2012.

Garage sale etiquette

I hosted a garage sale last weekend. I was tired of sitting in the garage and listening to a tired 2-year-old chatter incessantly by about noon on day 1. Day 2 was about 9,000 degrees by noon, so the sale did not last much past that.

I've done a sale almost every year since we moved in, and some things will never change. Here are the top five things that annoyed the snot out of me while people are traipsing through my garage buying or not buying my crap treasures.

5. Inevitably, one small child will suddenly have the pressing need to use the bathroom, which is a) right inside the garage, b) covered in laundry and c) in no way even remotely clean since I spent the previous week trying to assemble the garage sale. I am pleasant and accommodating, because, well, hello, my life revolves around pee, and someday I may have to do the same thing. Or find a bush, which we've proven my kids have no problem with.

4. I had black footprints on my kitchen floor after 3 days of all of us running in and out and in and out and in and out of the garage. Like my floor needs extra help to get dirty.

3. Moms, I can understand that letting your kid paw through the 25- and 50-cent boxes is how you can browse. That is why I put them out. But the least you can teach your kids to do is throw the rejects back INTO the box when you're done, instead of leaving everything laying in the middle of the floor. Seriously. But of course, these are the same mothers who leave clothes that used to be folded thrown willy-nilly across the tables. Hmm, apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

2. I had chairs to sell, and guaranteed, every person who spoke a language besides English sat on them, chattering away in Spanish or German, all the while teasing me that they MIGHT be thinking about buying them. NONE of them did. Thankfully someone did take them off my hands.

1. I had probably 2 dozen adult and kids' books for sale. The sign on the table clearly said 50 cents for adult books, 25 for kids books.

One woman browsed, picked up three books, asked me about the author and small-talked about mysteries before putting them down on the table to pay. I politely asked for $1.50.

"They aren't a quarter?" I pointed to the sign and explained, no, they were not.

"Oh then I don't want them. I never pay more than a quarter for my books. That's all I ever mark mine as. If you think you can get 50 cents for them, go for it honey."

And she walked out of the garage.

For the record, I sold almost all of them and my books are in excellent condition, so they're worth a heck of a lot more than 50 cents, you old bat.

I don't think I'll be too eager to have a garage sale next year.

Phone envy turned hatred -FAIL

Late last fall, I started getting itchy. More friends around me were getting smartphones, and while my phone had a qwerty keyboard and was "cool" when I got it, that wasn't cutting it anymore.

I was all but convinced that Hubby would NOT be a fan of me getting a smartphone since I'm home most of the day and have wi-fi available. I didn't have a great mp3 player and the idea of an e-reader intrigued me. So I talked Hubby into letting me get an iPod touch. He has never been a fan of Apple, but I can be convincing when I need to be.

I carried it around with me constantly. I love(d) it. I had game apps and books at my fingertips. I started actually downloading iTunes and using my iPod when I folded laundry (Pandora is my friend). I was content.

Then something changed. Hubby started getting the itch. He decided his phone wasn't cutting it anymore either. So one Saturday, we hit the Verizon store. I was in no way expecting to walk out of the store with anything. When we spend money, we debate it, think, talk, research and in all ways possible make sure we're making a rational decision. Sometimes he drives me batty, most of the time I know it's just how he operates and makes sure he's being smart. He will never run out and empty our savings account on something hokey.

But as odd as it was that he decided he wanted a smartphone, it was even stranger when he listened to the sales guy's pitch on the HTC Thunderbolt and was sold. Another saleswoman had grabbed an iPad and shuffled our hellions darling children off to a corner to read and play games so we could think without them trying to dismantle the store.

I was caught. I had no excuse. Now I was the one wishing for time and research and a confident answer. The "dumb" phones were sucky so I pointed at a random smartphone. The sales guy asked why. I was thinking, "Dude, because I want you all to leave me alone and get out of this fricking place." I mumbled something and he pointed me to the Devil's phone Samsung Fascinate. It wasn't as bulky as what Hubby had picked out and looked OK. Sales Guy said his girlfriend had it and loved it.

Fine. Whatever. Done.

I asked how long I had to return it if I found out I absolutely hated it. Sales Guy said 15 days. Fair enough.

On Day 16 (I kid you not), all heck broke loose. The screen stopped going to sleep when I'd put it to my ear, so my ear would mute calls, end calls, go to apps or pages that I couldn't do while on the phone thereby ending calls, and in other words, made it impossible for me to use it AS A FREAKING PHONE. I tried calling Verizon's help one night and got nowhere because I was not listed as a primary on our account and Hubby wasn't home. I updated my system with a download that took TWO HOURS and actually, crap got worse. My calendar stopped working and it was combining contacts with similar names (Thanks phone, my mother-in-law and my best friend from elementary school are in fact NOT the same person and their names are NOT spelled the same.)

I started standing perfectly still, not doing anything else while on the phone and it is STILL effing with my calls. I am at my wit's end. I can't use my phone for work anymore, because I will look oh-so-professional when I mute them and can't get it to let me talk. And what mother can talk on the phone without doing 4,000 other things at the same time? At that rate, I won't have a conversation until my kids are teenagers.

I am done. I am only answering calls on speakerphone (so if you call me, sorry) and Hubby changed me to a primary on the account so I can go raise heck. Now if only I knew what phone would let me do all those cool app-ey things AND still talk to people. You better believe I won't be asking any sales people.

Butt I Don't Wanna!

Most days I am grateful I never went into advertising or public relations. Ya, I don't actually make any money (and didn't even with a full-time job), but at least I still have my soul. There are commercials on TV that make me pause, blink, lose brain cells and instantly forget whatever product they were trying to promote. And then I wish I could have the previous 60 seconds of my life back.

Case in point.

I have an intense, irrational hatred of The Bears. By that I mean the Charmin bears. I'm sorry, I am no nature expert, but you cannot tell me that a bear needs to find a tree in the woods to do their business. Or that they somehow sew leaves together to make their own back woods Charmin so it can spin on a tiny twig roll right at bear arm height on said "business" tree.

Give me a freaking break...

My hatred evolved to the point that I changed the channel anytime I caught a glimpse of the bears. I would never even think to BUY Charmin. It would be like supporting the bears and the ad managers and their collective insanity.

And don't get me started on feminine hygiene products. I guess I don't have the right kind of friends, because we don't sit around and talk about, well, ya know... THAT stuff. And if that's what the "right" friends talk about, I'll stick with my "wrong" ones, thank you very much.

But somewhere along the line, some ad person must have thought that line of thinking was the way to go. Because I just saw a commercial that told me I need to talk about grown-up butt wipes with my friends. 

No. I don't wanna. And you can't make me. 

I don't want to know what is going with my friends' butts or anyone else's, for that matter. It's bad enough the last 4 years of my life have been preoccupied with wiping two small butts. I am *this* close to only having to worry about my own again. 

And when I do, I'm not sharing it with anyone.

Pity party

I had a chance for a mom's night out tonight. It has been on my calendar for weeks and I was excited to get ready for sandal season with a pedicure.

This was all before the evil weather people call for SNOW last weekend and I felt like I had secretly been transported to Alaska without my knowledge. I saw the sun today, so I'm almost over that. Almost.

I had been warning Hubby for weeks, so he couldn't claim ignorance when I would say he was in charge of feeding and then putting our darlings to bed. Then I checked my work schedule, which is not so much a schedule, just requires me to know when the local school board is meeting. Apparently spring break week messed with their normal schedule.

Mom's Night Out FAIL.

So I got to go to work. And stop at Walmart with the Thursday night crazies who are in no hurry to be anywhere besides Walmart. To come home and work some more. I had no choice but to break into the stash of jelly beans to keep my blood sugar up. Now that I've gorged myself on Sarris', I need to fold two more loads of laundry.

Oh and I can't breathe very well. The Weather Channel's web site went from high pollen to very high pollen, and I was out with the kids for 20 minutes while Hubby started cutting grass.

And I spent $70 to put gas in the van. She was just almost on E, so apparently it coulda been worse.

Ya, today rocks.

Yes, I am the grammar Nazi. Love me anyway.

Apparently there is a lot of pressure being friends with a writer. Let me set a few things straight.

Yes, I notice if you make a typo in a blog or email. I will not ridicule you for it until the end of time.

I have fat finger syndrome from time to time when texting. Life goes on.

Even I don't know how to spell crap sometimes. I once had a complete brain fart and couldn't come up with "melancholy." All that was coming to mind was the Smashing Pumpkins double CD, "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness." Good music. Not helpful with spelling though.
I hate when people don't know how to use apostrophes. But the problem is, I seem to be the only one who knows how, so really, it's a lost cause. Christmas card season gives me the shakes... all those last names with apostrophes where there shouldn't be...noooo.... happy place... must... find... happy... place...

If I pick up the newspaper and find a mistake in the first sentence of an article, I have to put it down. I understand the pressures of deadline (been there, done that, didn't even get a lousy T-shirt), but I have to just walk away for minute or two. If my desire to be informed nosy is strong, I'll skip the offending paragraph and move on. How else can I become a true neb nose?

Hubby had a comma problem when we got married. I am proud to say that after seven years of intense therapy, he has his comma usage under control now. Enrolling him in Commas Anonymous helped a lot. Now if only I could get his semi-colons in check...

Don't worry, I think I have all my grammar and word-usage rants out of my system for the time being, despite the fact I found ANOTHER book at the library that had a mistake in it.

Clearly I need to figure out how to become a children's book editor...

Homophones and how to piss me off

I finally bit the bullet and took the kids on a whim to get a library card. Ahem. PAY for a library card, since we have no home library and have to go to the neighboring township for that. Believe it or not, that was one thing that made me hesitate about buying our house. That and there are no sidewalks. I'm a city kid. I like houses with sidewalks for ya know, walking and little ones to ride bikes. And a library to call my own.

But now that I've had to consciously pay money for it (as opposed to being all wrapped up in taxey stuff that I so don't even begin to understand), you better believe we are gonna use that little piece of plastic.

I figured this is what I need to do to keep my kids interested in reading without going totally broke and getting buried under new books. We kinda hit a lull in reading our books, so it was time to kick start everyone again.

Except for one of the books that Nathaniel picked out. IT HAD A MISTAKE IN IT!!

It said this adorable, annoying little chipmunk was going to... ugh I hate typing it... PEDDLE her bike to her friend's house.

Now that would easily slip past spell check since the word is spelled correctly, but I sincerely hope that publishers use more than that to put a book into print. For small children still learning the English language to see. And absorb. And use again and again, because they saw it in a book at the library AND THEREFORE IT MUST BE RIGHT.

Seriously. Books are supposed to be better than the internet. You can't believe anything you read online (except this fantastic blog) but if it's in a book, gosh darn it, it's gotta be right.

I want to hide that stupid cheery chipmunk until we take the rest of the books back to the library so I don't have to read it again. And you better believe I will be avoiding all of the other books in that series.

OK, totally throwing this author under the bus... it's the Wickleville Woods series. "Heidi's Hike," specifically. Not only is it a dumb story, it's mis-teaching homophones. I can't endorse that sort of behavior.


Would I be off my rocker to take the book in and be like, look Miss Children's Librarian, this book is WRONG and you shouldn't be letting kids read it?!

It wouldn't be the first time somebody told me I was crazy...

Songs of lowest praise

I've let the news sink in for 24 hours, but I can honestly say I am still baffled.

I admit I had a preconceived notion of what a "failing" school was and what kinds of students they produce: poor, inner-city, low socio-economic class, don't amount to much, blah, blah, etc. 

I had no idea all I needed to do was look in the mirror.

Pennsylvania has revamped its system of tracking graduation rates to better account for students who don't finish in four years. The news does not bode well for my dear old alma mater, Washington High School. Preliminary numbers for 2010 have 47.54 percent of students graduating. That is by far the worst in its area and third-lowest in the ENTIRE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA. 

Yes, I said third-lowest in the state. Worse than Pittsburgh or Philadelphia city schools. Beat only by charter cyber-schools.

Facebook was lit up like a Christmas tree last night as my high school classmates starting finding the initial story and sharing it. And sharing and sharing. Most had the same reaction that I did: were we really that bad 10 years ago? And what has happened since?

Even then, I knew our drop-out rate was high. We lost 100 students between my freshman year and graduation. Someone told me we were among the worst in the state, and looking back, I believe it. Although some of those were transfers, not nearly as many as I'd like to believe. If my fuzzy memory is correct, that means in 1999, the rate was 49.5 percent. 

Dang.

To put it into the context of something I know now, South Bend schools have been in the news with a state takeover looming for a few of its struggling schools. Their graduation rate for 2010? 73.5 percent.

*Now to be fair, I don't know if Indiana and Pa. use the same kind of crazy calculations, but that's a difference of 25 percent. I'd say it's a close enough comparison. You get the idea.

So what happens now? I don't know. The superintendent was quoted in the local paper by saying the numbers were unfair, that Wash High has a lot of students take more than 4 years because of a transient population. She oughtta be glad I don't live there anymore, because that is exactly NOT what I would like to hear if my kids were in that school district.

I don't care how many kids move there after failing 9th grade somewhere else or need to make up extra credits to graduate. Handing diplomas to less than HALF of your students in a given year is an effing EMBARRASSMENT. I don't want to hear excuses, I want to hear how you're finally going to do something about it. Because this isn't a new problem. But somebody is finally going to call you on it.

Want to be even more informed? Read this.