Sharp Corners

After wrestling with my dead washing machine (and almost flooding the laundry room in the process because I’m a huge klutz), I broke down and bought a new one yesterday. Since that money had been earmarked for my previously chosen birthday present that hadn’t yet been retrieved from the store, I wasn’t going down without a fight. In a brazen attempt to fix it myself, I grabbed a handful of screwdrivers, a wrench, some duct tape and a small saw then got down to the business of trying to remove the back of the washer. Yeah, right. I won’t go into details of my mission but it’s sufficient to say there was a lot of banging and prolific swearing. I gave up after an hour.

Shopping for boring housewares (toasters, blenders and other things that I don’t care about) doesn’t thrill me to begin with so having to deal with the Overlords of Home Appliances really set my teeth on edge. While I’m thrilled that the salespeople at these stores have valuable information to share, I wish they were a little less vehement in their approach. One guy tried to sell me a washer with "triple porcelain coating" as if I intended to use the machine as a commode for visiting dignitaries. Another tried to impress upon me the importance of an "impotent water level selector" or some such thing but by then I’d stopped listening. The only thing that caught my attention was some contraption that has an agitator that spins your clothes three different ways for maximum cleanliness. I totally fell for that.

So my new washing machine will be here tomorrow and I’ll spend roughly the next fourteen weeks doing the laundry that’s accumulated since it broke down. I’m sure my excitement is palpable.

I was outed yesterday about my birthday. Eh.

Thank you for the emails, they made my day. In answer to some of your questions:

How old? – 37, but still younger then my best friend. HA!

Was it grand? – Yes, it was glorious. And filling too. There was ahi, 24 oz steaks, free-flowing champagne and a huge cake.

What did you get? – I’d tell you but then I’d have to poke your eyes out with the chopstick I use to scratch inside my cast.

Any embarrassing stories? – Well, yes, but for once I get to be the embarasee instead of the embarrassed. Over the course of our time together, J occasionally makes me little drawings and pictures which always seem to capture some little snippet of my life. Last night he gave me a picture he drew (with colors and everything!) that left me bawling like a baby. Just when I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of my delirium over this man, he goes and does something like that. He is one in ten million and would probably be embarrassed to know I am saying so in such a public manner. Tough. Happy birthday to me.

I’m landlocked. I had my two oldest boys mop the floors for me which is a grand thing providing I can overlook the miniscule footprints, missed clumps of pet hair and rivers of mop water running through various parts of the house. Prior to setting them free with the cleaning supplies, I thoughtfully gave them a map of how I wanted them toget the job done. "Start over here, work your way over here and then, walking backwards as you swab, end up here." They listened, learned and did exactly as they were told. Only I seemed to understand at the outset that I’d end up having them mop themselves right into the playroom where they’d get stuck until the floors dry. Maybe they’ll develop foresight as they get older. Heh.

After reading yesterday’s post about going to the beach, SARcasmom says she thinks I sound like a fun mother. I think my oldest would beg to differ. He found a huge rock while digging in the sand yesterday and, in typical seven year old glee, begged to take it home. As if I really want a huge, non-moving lump in my house. I already have Rocco. My son really wanted this rock though so I told him he could only have it if he wrote a seven sentence story about it when we got home. I need to check with Mean Teacher to see if "The rock is 200 pounds or maybe 5,000 pounds" counts since he didn’t seem to factor reality into his writing.

Speaking of reality and writing, I have plenty of both beckoning me right now so I must go. Besides, the floors are finally dry.

I took the boys to get an early start on skin cancer hang out at the beach all morning. For as laid back a parent as I usually am (are you buying that?), my neurosis kicks into high gear around large expanses of open water. Even though I think I have superpowers, I realize I am but one person leading three squirmy youngsters into a potentially fatal situation so everyone must wear life jackets. Even the beachcombers looking for shells have to don vests as they walk through my piece of staked-out sand. I’ve considered tethering each child by a rope which I would then tie to a tree but figure I might get arrested for false imprisonment of a minor or something.

The boys love to chase the seagulls and try to catch them as they flee in terror so I was particularly amused when a pelican started circling overhead. I told them to duck because the bird intended to use their heads as posts on which to rest while he looked for food. Heh.

My youngest waded into the water at one point and started shrieking, "SEA SNAKE! SEA SNAKE!" at the top of his young lungs. He ran out of the water as my other two ran in (with me hot on their heels, natch). Sure enough, there was four-fifths of a dead snake floating just offshore. Not wanting to miss a chance to gross out my kids (er, educate them, I mean), I scooped it up with a stick and brought it onto the sand where we had a rollicking good time trying to identify it since it had no, you know, head or anything .

And to think, last time we were at this beach, my son found a $20 bill. Oh well, we had fun anyway so if the only souvenir we get this time is a half-masticated corn snake, I can deal.