Okay, so this online insurance quote company doesn't have the hairy little caveman. Or the big white duck. It's a pretty basic website, clear and concise without too much "stuff". Advantage Auto Quotes doesn't have flash intro, dancing pigs, or fireworks following your mouse.
Which is fortunate. It's waaaay too early for that stuff and I'm not even halfway through my coffee. I used to work in insurance and I do recommend this article, Lowering Your Car Insurance Rates if you've ever wondered why your insurance went up or how come you can't bring it down.
Now say a prayer for me. My son is about to get his learner's permit.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Friday, August 3, 2007
Back from Mexico
It was a fabulous trip, but when I more closely examined our pictures, I realized a ton of them had us interacting with animals and assorted creepy/crawly critter things. and some other just plain weird stuff.
Made me think of back in the day, when you had to go to your parents' friend's houses and sit through slideshows of their vacations while they stood up and droned, "And here we are getting wet at Niagra Falls."
click
"And here we are having dinner with the Shubalsky's."
click
"And here we are with a squirrel."
click
"And here's a tree."
All while we tried to stay awake.
So, here's my version of our Mexican slideshow. Try to keep your eyes open, now.
Here we are contracting bird flu.
Here I am wondering if sushi is a bad idea around here.
Here we were inquiring about the freshness of the meat.
Here we were drawing straws on who had to turn the lights off on the way out.
Here we are wondering just how many crabs we need to order.
And here is Joe with something that the sea threw up one morning.
No, seriously now, I LOVE Mexico. But if I had taken a bunch of normal pictures my slideshow might sound like this......
"And here's the Shubalsky's next to a coconut tree......"
I just couldn't put you through that. Adios!
Made me think of back in the day, when you had to go to your parents' friend's houses and sit through slideshows of their vacations while they stood up and droned, "And here we are getting wet at Niagra Falls."
click
"And here we are having dinner with the Shubalsky's."
click
"And here we are with a squirrel."
click
"And here's a tree."
All while we tried to stay awake.
So, here's my version of our Mexican slideshow. Try to keep your eyes open, now.
Here we are contracting bird flu.
Here I am wondering if sushi is a bad idea around here.
Here we were inquiring about the freshness of the meat.
Here we were drawing straws on who had to turn the lights off on the way out.
Here we are wondering just how many crabs we need to order.
And here is Joe with something that the sea threw up one morning.
No, seriously now, I LOVE Mexico. But if I had taken a bunch of normal pictures my slideshow might sound like this......
"And here's the Shubalsky's next to a coconut tree......"
I just couldn't put you through that. Adios!
Friday, July 13, 2007
NEWS FLASH!
This just in...our local police station had all of its toilets stolen.
Police have nothing to go on.
*Okay, I read it in Reader's Digest....but it cracked me up. I'm easily amused.
Police have nothing to go on.
*Okay, I read it in Reader's Digest....but it cracked me up. I'm easily amused.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Viva Mexico!
Well, it's vacation time. Mexico this year (if we ever get our passports that is... read my blog entry titled National Passport Hotline for a glimpse into the reality of trying to call the National Passport Hotline).
Getting ready for a trip in our house goes something like this: I start making lists approximately two months in advance. I purchase new underwear for the whole family 6 weeks early. The neighbors are informed, the goats get manicures, the plants get automatic feeders stuck in their roots. The children get haircuts, the house gets steam-cleaned, the house-sitter gets four hundred and thirty-two pages of instructions on how to take care of the house, the animals and the attack Doberman that we always rent when we leave town. (This translates into, "Don't bother trying to come over and steal our finest Saran-Wrap and/or one of the twins. The Doberman can make it to the fence in three seconds.)
So I haven't slept in two months. I have extensive packing check-off sheets for the family. The dogs are bathed, the goats are brushed, the floor is shiny, our paperwork and tickets are in order, we have six bottles of sunscreen available and I have twelve years' worth of snacks in my carry-on. Now here's where it gets interesting:
Four hours before we leave for the airport, the husband opens his suitcase. He throws in six pairs of shorts, shirts and underwear. He closes the suitcase and announces, "Let's go!"
The pre-teen daughter walks in with fourteen chapsticks and lip glosses in fun and fruity flavors and cries, "I don't have any GOOD lip stuff! I'm NOT GOING!"
The teenage boy shuffles in with a bag containing a bathing suit, three socks and a Game Boy, and wants to know when we eat.
The twins are upset because they aren't going, and threaten to eat all of my flowers while we're gone if we don't bring them back t shirts that say, "MY PARENTS WENT TO MEXICO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T SHIRT".
I contemplate going alone. But I'm afraid to leave them all in the house if I'm not here. So we're off like a dirty shirt. Or a band of Gypsies. Or whatever. Mexico has no idea what's coming.
Getting ready for a trip in our house goes something like this: I start making lists approximately two months in advance. I purchase new underwear for the whole family 6 weeks early. The neighbors are informed, the goats get manicures, the plants get automatic feeders stuck in their roots. The children get haircuts, the house gets steam-cleaned, the house-sitter gets four hundred and thirty-two pages of instructions on how to take care of the house, the animals and the attack Doberman that we always rent when we leave town. (This translates into, "Don't bother trying to come over and steal our finest Saran-Wrap and/or one of the twins. The Doberman can make it to the fence in three seconds.)
So I haven't slept in two months. I have extensive packing check-off sheets for the family. The dogs are bathed, the goats are brushed, the floor is shiny, our paperwork and tickets are in order, we have six bottles of sunscreen available and I have twelve years' worth of snacks in my carry-on. Now here's where it gets interesting:
Four hours before we leave for the airport, the husband opens his suitcase. He throws in six pairs of shorts, shirts and underwear. He closes the suitcase and announces, "Let's go!"
The pre-teen daughter walks in with fourteen chapsticks and lip glosses in fun and fruity flavors and cries, "I don't have any GOOD lip stuff! I'm NOT GOING!"
The teenage boy shuffles in with a bag containing a bathing suit, three socks and a Game Boy, and wants to know when we eat.
The twins are upset because they aren't going, and threaten to eat all of my flowers while we're gone if we don't bring them back t shirts that say, "MY PARENTS WENT TO MEXICO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T SHIRT".
I contemplate going alone. But I'm afraid to leave them all in the house if I'm not here. So we're off like a dirty shirt. Or a band of Gypsies. Or whatever. Mexico has no idea what's coming.
Monday, June 18, 2007
National Passport Hotline
Thank you for calling the National Passport Hotline. For English, press one.
Para Espanol, prensa dos.
To be immediately hung up on, press three.
To save heartache and just do it yourself, press four.
To listen to forty-one minutes of terrible classical music followed by complete dead silence, leaving you to stare at the phone and repeatedly say, "Hello? Am I still on hold?" press five.
To hear a very bland man announce that if you are not traveling in the next few weeks, there is NO NEED TO WORRY, press six.
To hear the rest of his statement which is, "Don't bother worrying, it won't change the fact that your passport isn't coming", press seven.
To hear the announcement that you may now travel to Mexico, Canada, and the Caribbean with your Government- issued ID and, in Mexico's case, a certified birth certificate, press eight.
To hear snickering because we not only have your passport, but also your birth certificate, press nine.
To hear your mother's voice scolding you that "You should have planned ahead!", press ten.
To hear the ocean waves that you may miss while waiting for your passport, press eleven.
To begin unpacking to the tune of, "You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille", press twelve.
To hear all of the above options, press thirteen. At the conclusion of the announcements, you will hear a recording telling you that your call is very important and please stay on the li.....
*click*
Para Espanol, prensa dos.
To be immediately hung up on, press three.
To save heartache and just do it yourself, press four.
To listen to forty-one minutes of terrible classical music followed by complete dead silence, leaving you to stare at the phone and repeatedly say, "Hello? Am I still on hold?" press five.
To hear a very bland man announce that if you are not traveling in the next few weeks, there is NO NEED TO WORRY, press six.
To hear the rest of his statement which is, "Don't bother worrying, it won't change the fact that your passport isn't coming", press seven.
To hear the announcement that you may now travel to Mexico, Canada, and the Caribbean with your Government- issued ID and, in Mexico's case, a certified birth certificate, press eight.
To hear snickering because we not only have your passport, but also your birth certificate, press nine.
To hear your mother's voice scolding you that "You should have planned ahead!", press ten.
To hear the ocean waves that you may miss while waiting for your passport, press eleven.
To begin unpacking to the tune of, "You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille", press twelve.
To hear all of the above options, press thirteen. At the conclusion of the announcements, you will hear a recording telling you that your call is very important and please stay on the li.....
*click*
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Gone in Sixty Seconds
Once upon a time, a bag of Ruffles lasted about a week in my house. A half-gallon of Rocky Road hung around for at least four days, and a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper lived peacefully among us for at least a week and a half.
No longer. The boy is a teenager.
The boy has been known to polish off several helpings of dinner, rinse his plate and pop a Hungry Man XXL frozen Beer-Battered Chicken Strip meal into the microwave, all in one fluid motion. When stared at, the boy looks annoyed and says, "WHAT?"
Two Chalupas from Taco Bell are a pre-dinner appetizer. A gallon of milk is simply a warm-up, and a box of cereal generally lasts about 20 minutes. I've caught him with his head in the fridge, talking lovingly to the fruit before annihilating it. He salivates when he sees me come home from the grocery store and does the "Happy Dance" around the bags of bread and produce. He's been known to hold a frozen burrito up to the ceiling with both hands and yell, "Behold! I give you the riches of the bean world!"
So........I made spaghetti and meatballs the other night. I was standing at the sink and said over my shoulder, "Get a bowl, Jethro," and turned to find him standing in front of me with a grin.....holding my PUNCHBOWL! My giant punchbowl.
I gotta go now, though. It's been three hours since I went to the store. The pantry is whispering like a forgotten graveyard and the boy is laying in the corner, clutching his stomach and crying. Come to think of it, his sister is crying too, but I think that's because she got too close to him while he was gnawing on the last of the Doritos. Better add Neosporin and Band-Aids to my list.
No longer. The boy is a teenager.
The boy has been known to polish off several helpings of dinner, rinse his plate and pop a Hungry Man XXL frozen Beer-Battered Chicken Strip meal into the microwave, all in one fluid motion. When stared at, the boy looks annoyed and says, "WHAT?"
Two Chalupas from Taco Bell are a pre-dinner appetizer. A gallon of milk is simply a warm-up, and a box of cereal generally lasts about 20 minutes. I've caught him with his head in the fridge, talking lovingly to the fruit before annihilating it. He salivates when he sees me come home from the grocery store and does the "Happy Dance" around the bags of bread and produce. He's been known to hold a frozen burrito up to the ceiling with both hands and yell, "Behold! I give you the riches of the bean world!"
So........I made spaghetti and meatballs the other night. I was standing at the sink and said over my shoulder, "Get a bowl, Jethro," and turned to find him standing in front of me with a grin.....holding my PUNCHBOWL! My giant punchbowl.
I gotta go now, though. It's been three hours since I went to the store. The pantry is whispering like a forgotten graveyard and the boy is laying in the corner, clutching his stomach and crying. Come to think of it, his sister is crying too, but I think that's because she got too close to him while he was gnawing on the last of the Doritos. Better add Neosporin and Band-Aids to my list.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Quiet Please, the Mice Are Sleeping
We live in an old farmhouse on acreage. We have a field; the field has blackberries. The blackberries are a commune for field mice. The field mice occasionally discover our laundry room and mistakenly think it's a 5-star hotel.
We also have two cats, both FIV- positive rescues. One cat (Amber) is from outer space and simply arrived one day, asking to rent a room in exchange for work around the house. This alien is quite useful as we only see her every couple of days; the other (Joshua) is from the streets of Philly and showed up with torn ears, the worst breath we have ever encountered and believes he has found Nirvana in the Gunnels residence. He is, at any given time, sitting on a family member and requesting food.
So the alien, in exchange for room rent, rids the house of unwanted field visitors. The street cat typically watches the alien working and says, "Better you than me, Sister. Now where's my tuna?"
We can hear Amber skipping through the house at night every so often, playing keepaway with some poor shmuck of a mouse who was only looking for late-night room service. And then, in true cat fashion, she deposits the rodent directly in the path of anyone heading the bathroom in the middle of the night. However, on one occasion, she chose to place the "sleeping" mouse inside the shoe of the preteen daughter who also lives here, apparently believing that this is what Earthlings enjoy discovering right before school.
Thankfully, I found it before daughter did, thus saving piercing screams and expensive therapy. I was unable to write about this incident at the time because the kids do read my blog and I figured daughter would never wear the shoes, or possibly ANY shoes, for the rest of her life and frankly they were brand-new shoes. I couldn't resist finally telling her, though, and by this time she was able to laugh about it.
I noticed she hasn't worn those shoes yet, though.
We also have two cats, both FIV- positive rescues. One cat (Amber) is from outer space and simply arrived one day, asking to rent a room in exchange for work around the house. This alien is quite useful as we only see her every couple of days; the other (Joshua) is from the streets of Philly and showed up with torn ears, the worst breath we have ever encountered and believes he has found Nirvana in the Gunnels residence. He is, at any given time, sitting on a family member and requesting food.
So the alien, in exchange for room rent, rids the house of unwanted field visitors. The street cat typically watches the alien working and says, "Better you than me, Sister. Now where's my tuna?"
We can hear Amber skipping through the house at night every so often, playing keepaway with some poor shmuck of a mouse who was only looking for late-night room service. And then, in true cat fashion, she deposits the rodent directly in the path of anyone heading the bathroom in the middle of the night. However, on one occasion, she chose to place the "sleeping" mouse inside the shoe of the preteen daughter who also lives here, apparently believing that this is what Earthlings enjoy discovering right before school.
Thankfully, I found it before daughter did, thus saving piercing screams and expensive therapy. I was unable to write about this incident at the time because the kids do read my blog and I figured daughter would never wear the shoes, or possibly ANY shoes, for the rest of her life and frankly they were brand-new shoes. I couldn't resist finally telling her, though, and by this time she was able to laugh about it.
I noticed she hasn't worn those shoes yet, though.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Goats in the Garage
So the husband and I are out in the goat yard trying to Reno-proof the fencing yet again. It's like he has strings attached to him and some mysterious puppet master periodically yanks him up and deposits him on the other side of the fence. Usually on the side where my flowers and vines prefer to be left alone but are disappearing rapidly.
I shooed the twins out to the south forty and husband and I sat and stared at the fence. After about ten minutes of that, I walked around the garage to check on the goats, who have been known to sneak off to 7-11 for Slurpees when left unattended. The goats now seem to be MIA. I yelled at Joe and asked him where the goats are, and he just looked at me, as if I hadn't been sitting next to him for ten minutes, staring at the fence.
So now we're in the garage, staring at each other, when we hear TAP TAP TAP. ABOVE our heads, mind you. I said, "WHAT is THAT?" and the tapping suddenly stopped. I went to the stairs and hollered up into the empty storage space, "You two better NOT be playing where you don't belong!" and the tapping returned, closer to the stairs, closer.....until two black and white goatie heads peeked around the corner, looked down at me with their goatie ears a flappin' and then they came tip tapping down the stairs, comfy as can be.
They waltzed past me, glanced at Joe, who was still staring at the ceiling with just a hint of a tear in his right eye, and headed back to their pen. Upon inspection of the storage space, I found two empty Slurpee cups and a copy of The National Inquirer, but I will simply choose to believe that my children left them there. Right? Right? Someone, please.... tell me I'm right.
I shooed the twins out to the south forty and husband and I sat and stared at the fence. After about ten minutes of that, I walked around the garage to check on the goats, who have been known to sneak off to 7-11 for Slurpees when left unattended. The goats now seem to be MIA. I yelled at Joe and asked him where the goats are, and he just looked at me, as if I hadn't been sitting next to him for ten minutes, staring at the fence.
So now we're in the garage, staring at each other, when we hear TAP TAP TAP. ABOVE our heads, mind you. I said, "WHAT is THAT?" and the tapping suddenly stopped. I went to the stairs and hollered up into the empty storage space, "You two better NOT be playing where you don't belong!" and the tapping returned, closer to the stairs, closer.....until two black and white goatie heads peeked around the corner, looked down at me with their goatie ears a flappin' and then they came tip tapping down the stairs, comfy as can be.
They waltzed past me, glanced at Joe, who was still staring at the ceiling with just a hint of a tear in his right eye, and headed back to their pen. Upon inspection of the storage space, I found two empty Slurpee cups and a copy of The National Inquirer, but I will simply choose to believe that my children left them there. Right? Right? Someone, please.... tell me I'm right.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Where'd the Easter Bunny Go?
Ahhh....time marches on, doesn't it? My babies aren't babies any more. Gone are the days of carefully picking out just the right color jellybeans to go in the right color plastic eggs to match the right color grass in the adorable little basket. No leaving creative signs of the Easter Bunny around the house.
No, this morning the kids opened the front door, saw what the Easter Goats left on my porch and announced, "Man, that must have been some BIG rabbit."
No matter. I keep thinking about the big picture. The fact that someone loved us enough to make the ultimate sacrifice when He could have thought, "These people are nuts! Call me a taxi."
Now I know we have confirmed reservations at the best property in the world....and that's what Easter is all about.
So Happy Easter, all. And step carefully on my porch. I haven't had enough coffee to go face it just yet.
No, this morning the kids opened the front door, saw what the Easter Goats left on my porch and announced, "Man, that must have been some BIG rabbit."
No matter. I keep thinking about the big picture. The fact that someone loved us enough to make the ultimate sacrifice when He could have thought, "These people are nuts! Call me a taxi."
Now I know we have confirmed reservations at the best property in the world....and that's what Easter is all about.
So Happy Easter, all. And step carefully on my porch. I haven't had enough coffee to go face it just yet.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
TUK Shoes~Excellent Customer Service
I firmly believe that any company is only as good as its customer service. Everyone has a horror story of making a purchase, only to be left wondering if, indeed, the company ever existed.
Case in point: I once paid a hospital an exorbitant amount of money to deliver a baby to me. I had to do all the work (34 hours of HARD LABOR, I might add) only to be presented with a red-faced, wrinkly, big headed baby that came with no instruction manual and apparently, no return policy. Terrible customer service.
But recently, I found TUK Shoes to be outstanding in the field of customer service. That same big headed baby (now a handsome and relatively normal sized teenager) bought a pair of TUK shoes. Unfortunately, within a month the D ring holding one of the shoelaces broke, leaving the shoes wearable but un-tieable. Yeah, I know that's not a real word but bear with me here.
So I called the TUK 800-number since I no longer had the receipt and spoke to a very helpful gal named Tristyn, who referred me to Steve Rodriguez, TUK's marketing director. Steve asked me to send the shoes back to him, which I did on Saturday. I received an email from Steve this afternoon, Tuesday, letting me know he had shipped a new pair of shoes out to me via UPS today with his apologies and regards. TODAY!
THAT is customer service as it should be. I thank Steve and would highly recommend
TUK Shoes to anyone.
~Donna
Case in point: I once paid a hospital an exorbitant amount of money to deliver a baby to me. I had to do all the work (34 hours of HARD LABOR, I might add) only to be presented with a red-faced, wrinkly, big headed baby that came with no instruction manual and apparently, no return policy. Terrible customer service.
But recently, I found TUK Shoes to be outstanding in the field of customer service. That same big headed baby (now a handsome and relatively normal sized teenager) bought a pair of TUK shoes. Unfortunately, within a month the D ring holding one of the shoelaces broke, leaving the shoes wearable but un-tieable. Yeah, I know that's not a real word but bear with me here.
So I called the TUK 800-number since I no longer had the receipt and spoke to a very helpful gal named Tristyn, who referred me to Steve Rodriguez, TUK's marketing director. Steve asked me to send the shoes back to him, which I did on Saturday. I received an email from Steve this afternoon, Tuesday, letting me know he had shipped a new pair of shoes out to me via UPS today with his apologies and regards. TODAY!
THAT is customer service as it should be. I thank Steve and would highly recommend
TUK Shoes to anyone.
~Donna
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Half a Gram of Protein Equals 2 Wings and 6 Legs
Okay, so I know protein is good for you. But in some forms, I just have to pass. On Survivor, the contestants get stranded only to crunch giant cockroaches with glee while assuring each other they need the protein. On Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern the guy travels to Asia to eat deep-fried beetles out of baskets propped up on calf brains. I generally watch those episodes with a kid in front of me so I can hide my eyes behind them while they yell out, "EW! GROSS! Mom, didja see that? The EYEBALL on that grasshopper popped out when he bit it!"
So I was not pleased this morning to go out to the barn and, while filling up the twins' water bucket, hear, "bjjjjzzzzzt" and realize I had sucked up a bug. Not landed in my mouth or even swallowed it, I had INHALED it. It was stuck in my lung and I was hacking and gasping and trying to yell, "EW! GROSS! Didja see that?" but there was no one out there.....except the twins.
As I jumped around the barn trying to expell something the Survivor folks would have fought each other over, I realized the twins were watching me and bleating. Reno said, "Good heavens, woman! Will you be okay?" (only he said it in French because he is multi-lingual) and Victor bleated out, "Today is Tuesday!" (which it's not even close, it's Saturday but I already told you, he isn't so bright) and at that point I fell over from coughing so hard. Or maybe it was the beginning of Ebola or encephalitis or something.
Either way, when I opened my eyes, the goats were standing over me, chewing their cuds and snickering. Reno claimed he had performed CPR on me and was I planning on billing insurance or paying by credit card? As I pondered that, Victor leaned over and brayed, "It's TUESDAY!"
So I've had my protein today, but tonight....one of those kids has to go feed the goats.
~Donna
So I was not pleased this morning to go out to the barn and, while filling up the twins' water bucket, hear, "bjjjjzzzzzt" and realize I had sucked up a bug. Not landed in my mouth or even swallowed it, I had INHALED it. It was stuck in my lung and I was hacking and gasping and trying to yell, "EW! GROSS! Didja see that?" but there was no one out there.....except the twins.
As I jumped around the barn trying to expell something the Survivor folks would have fought each other over, I realized the twins were watching me and bleating. Reno said, "Good heavens, woman! Will you be okay?" (only he said it in French because he is multi-lingual) and Victor bleated out, "Today is Tuesday!" (which it's not even close, it's Saturday but I already told you, he isn't so bright) and at that point I fell over from coughing so hard. Or maybe it was the beginning of Ebola or encephalitis or something.
Either way, when I opened my eyes, the goats were standing over me, chewing their cuds and snickering. Reno claimed he had performed CPR on me and was I planning on billing insurance or paying by credit card? As I pondered that, Victor leaned over and brayed, "It's TUESDAY!"
So I've had my protein today, but tonight....one of those kids has to go feed the goats.
~Donna
Friday, March 9, 2007
Dear Donna...
Dear Donna,
Seriously, don't those goats smell bad?
Bethany
Oregon
Dear Bethany,
It's an aquired smell, but they don't seem to mind.
Sincerely,
Donna
*Got a question you want answered here? Email me at passtheaspirin@gmail.com and I'll stick it in.
Seriously, don't those goats smell bad?
Bethany
Oregon
Dear Bethany,
It's an aquired smell, but they don't seem to mind.
Sincerely,
Donna
*Got a question you want answered here? Email me at passtheaspirin@gmail.com and I'll stick it in.
Cinderella and the Carriage That Should Have Remained a Pumpkin
I met her when she was only two and a half years old; I married her daddy when she was almost four. She is now eighteen, and one of the loveliest young women I know. She is also my favorite child, but don't tell my other two. They each think they're my favorite, and depending on the day and who has used peanut butter to shape the cat's fur into a Mohawk, they are right.
She and I share many things: the same taste in music, a fierce love for the man who helped bring her into this world, and a strange sense of humor. I call her Cinderella; she calls me Stepmonster. She's been known to go to the mall wearing giant bunny slippers and then pretends not to speak English when I turn to talk to her. I have a picture of her somewhere wearing a plastic bag on her head with her eyes rolled back, flashing a hand sign that's supposed to signal "Wal-Mart". On our family cruise this summer she looked over the edge of the ship, turned to me and said, "Did you see that? I think I saw your luggage float by."
Recently she and I got into a conversation with her father about status symbols. She brought up the latest chrome rims, the ones that keeping spinning after the car has come to a stop. You see them mostly on rigs like Escalades and other SUV's, brightly painted metallic giants accompanied by a thumpin' sound system. We debated the usefulness of these and how it appears that it's no longer a big deal to see them. Many expensive vehicles have them; they have become almost commonplace.
A short time later, she and I went to the grocery store (because she was my favorite that day, you know). As I pulled into a parking space, she started choking and sputtering. I automatically reached over and whacked her on the back, and she gasped, "No! LOOK AT THAT!" We got out of the car and stood staring at the vehicle two spaces down. It had the spinning rims. It was lowered. It was beige. It was a Ford Escort. I am telling the absolute truth. We stood there like a couple of idiots with our mouths hanging open until I finally nudged her because I was afraid we'd get hauled away.
As we walked past it, we completely lost control of ourselves. What started out as a giggle escalated into full- blown hysterics. We clutched each other and howled. She kept repeating, "It was an ESCORT! AN ESCORT!" I finally got semi-control over myself and clamped a hand over her mouth once we were in the store. I was afraid we'd run into whoever owned that tricked-out ride…the Escort with rolling rims. I honestly didn't want to know who drove such a car, although I offered to leave my stepdaughter's cell phone number on the windshield, which sobered her up in a hurry.
So we've added another inside joke. No one else truly gets the Stepmonster thing, nor do they do much beside stare blankly at us when we start going through the entire dialog of "Pretty In Pink". They don't understand the shopping mall jokes, or the way we gang up on her younger brother and sister by saying quite seriously, "Yes, you WERE found in a Taco Bell dumpster as an infant. Now go clean your room."
So whenever we see those rims on any car, we poke each other, yell "ESCORT!" and crack up. It may be a small thing, but it's all ours.
~Donna
Are you a stepfamily? Leave me a comment and tell me your story.
She and I share many things: the same taste in music, a fierce love for the man who helped bring her into this world, and a strange sense of humor. I call her Cinderella; she calls me Stepmonster. She's been known to go to the mall wearing giant bunny slippers and then pretends not to speak English when I turn to talk to her. I have a picture of her somewhere wearing a plastic bag on her head with her eyes rolled back, flashing a hand sign that's supposed to signal "Wal-Mart". On our family cruise this summer she looked over the edge of the ship, turned to me and said, "Did you see that? I think I saw your luggage float by."
Recently she and I got into a conversation with her father about status symbols. She brought up the latest chrome rims, the ones that keeping spinning after the car has come to a stop. You see them mostly on rigs like Escalades and other SUV's, brightly painted metallic giants accompanied by a thumpin' sound system. We debated the usefulness of these and how it appears that it's no longer a big deal to see them. Many expensive vehicles have them; they have become almost commonplace.
A short time later, she and I went to the grocery store (because she was my favorite that day, you know). As I pulled into a parking space, she started choking and sputtering. I automatically reached over and whacked her on the back, and she gasped, "No! LOOK AT THAT!" We got out of the car and stood staring at the vehicle two spaces down. It had the spinning rims. It was lowered. It was beige. It was a Ford Escort. I am telling the absolute truth. We stood there like a couple of idiots with our mouths hanging open until I finally nudged her because I was afraid we'd get hauled away.
As we walked past it, we completely lost control of ourselves. What started out as a giggle escalated into full- blown hysterics. We clutched each other and howled. She kept repeating, "It was an ESCORT! AN ESCORT!" I finally got semi-control over myself and clamped a hand over her mouth once we were in the store. I was afraid we'd run into whoever owned that tricked-out ride…the Escort with rolling rims. I honestly didn't want to know who drove such a car, although I offered to leave my stepdaughter's cell phone number on the windshield, which sobered her up in a hurry.
So we've added another inside joke. No one else truly gets the Stepmonster thing, nor do they do much beside stare blankly at us when we start going through the entire dialog of "Pretty In Pink". They don't understand the shopping mall jokes, or the way we gang up on her younger brother and sister by saying quite seriously, "Yes, you WERE found in a Taco Bell dumpster as an infant. Now go clean your room."
So whenever we see those rims on any car, we poke each other, yell "ESCORT!" and crack up. It may be a small thing, but it's all ours.
~Donna
Are you a stepfamily? Leave me a comment and tell me your story.
Of Rats and Daughters
Sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown must when Snoopy pretends to fly his doghouse around as a fighter pilot. I can totally relate to him when he smacks himself on the forehead and wails, "Good grief! Why can't I have a normal dog?"
I not only don't have a normal dog, I don't have a normal cat, or for that matter, any pets that actually act like they are supposed to. They find us and move in when we aren't looking. I've had them ring the doorbell and stroll in between my feet when I open the door. They've smuggled themselves in by hiding in Christmas trees. Once I found one using a screwdriver to pry open a window. He had built a ladder up to it and taped a cardboard sign up that read, "Suckers Here. You Don't Even Have To Work For Food."
Somewhere around the time my daughter was three years old, she and I were poking through a pet store when she found a cage full of tiny baby rats. She exclaimed, "OOOOOOOH Momma, look! Look how cuuuuuuuute! They are beeyooteeful!" I leaned down and peered in and did not see whatever she was looking at. All I saw was a teeming mass of bubonic plague with sharp teeth and beady little eyes. The sign said, "Baby Feeder Rats. " Feeder rats? What is that, you feed bad children to them? A pesky neighbor perhaps? As I thought about the possibilities, a teenage employee shuffled by and my daughter lit up, grabbed at his shirt and said, "Oh, mister! Your mousies are beyooteeful!"
He looked right at my girl and said, "Yeah, you can feed them to your snake. You got a snake?" and my daughter began screaming. Loudly. If you know my precious offspring, you know that the horror film industry already has their eye on her. I watched the boy run to the back room and heard the door lock. Then I turned around to find my three-year-old with her entire body draped across the cage sobbing. She was also praying.
"Dear God (hic), don't let these here mousies be (sniff) eaten. Amen."
Forget the mousies, I wanted to see the boy get eaten by the rats. I pried her off the cage and reached in as she begged me to let her hold one. I scooped one up and realized it must not be related to its plague- carrying brothers because it sat up like a squirrel in my palm, latched onto my thumb and began licking it. My daughter stopped crying long enough to sniffle, "Momma, he LIKES you!" I sighed. Sometimes they don't even need a screwdriver to get into our household.
So Daisy the rat came home. Daisy the rat was the darling of the family. Daisy the rat ate Cheetos while sitting on our shoulders. But like all of the pets that belong to us, we soon realized that Daisy had something wrong with her. It could have been something small, like only having three legs, or requiring a special diet, or being afraid of the dark and needing my husband to install an itty-bitty nightlight in her cage. But no. Turns out Daisy the rat had EPILEPSY. She would have seizures in her cage and bang against the sides and I would have to pull everything out until it was done. Then we'd give her a grape and she'd lick somebody's thumb until she fell back asleep.
One night I heard her banging around so I turned on the hall light and crept in there, hoping I wouldn't wake up my daughter. Poor Daisy was hitting the food dish so I reached in to move it and got too close. She bit me. I automatically yanked my hand out but unfortunately Daisy's teeth were still attached to my finger and she came out too. She went flying across the room and landed on my daughter's bed, who was still sleeping soundly. I was sputtering, "OW OW OW" and Daisy came out of the seizure and wobbled back across the floor towards me. She headed for my feet. I started hopping back and forth trying to avoid her. I hopped; she came closer. I feinted left; she zoomed in. I finally started screaming for my husband, who came in and saw me bouncing around with blood streaming from my hand and Daisy wobbling and circling my bare feet. He turned on the light and said, "Oh geez. Are you okay?" I started to answer him when I realized he was talking to THE RAT. She made a beeline for him. He picked her up, she licked his thumb, he put her back in her cage and my daughter never woke up.
I, on the other hand, was not current on tetanus, so I went to the doctor. Imagine having to explain that you were bitten by a rat. They were horrified. I said, "Oh no. It was my daughter's pet rat."
They all stared at me, and I realized that they were wondering what kind of mother would allow a child to own a rat that bites. So I said, "Oh wait, let me explain. The rat has epilepsy."
At this point the staff began whispering to each other and edging toward the phone. I gave up and shut my mouth, got my shot, and immediately changed medical offices.
Daisy the Cheeto- loving, thumb licking, flying rat lived with us (and was loved by us) for over two years, until she finally succumbed to a respiratory illness she had also carried since birth.
Not bad for snake food.
~Donna
I not only don't have a normal dog, I don't have a normal cat, or for that matter, any pets that actually act like they are supposed to. They find us and move in when we aren't looking. I've had them ring the doorbell and stroll in between my feet when I open the door. They've smuggled themselves in by hiding in Christmas trees. Once I found one using a screwdriver to pry open a window. He had built a ladder up to it and taped a cardboard sign up that read, "Suckers Here. You Don't Even Have To Work For Food."
Somewhere around the time my daughter was three years old, she and I were poking through a pet store when she found a cage full of tiny baby rats. She exclaimed, "OOOOOOOH Momma, look! Look how cuuuuuuuute! They are beeyooteeful!" I leaned down and peered in and did not see whatever she was looking at. All I saw was a teeming mass of bubonic plague with sharp teeth and beady little eyes. The sign said, "Baby Feeder Rats. " Feeder rats? What is that, you feed bad children to them? A pesky neighbor perhaps? As I thought about the possibilities, a teenage employee shuffled by and my daughter lit up, grabbed at his shirt and said, "Oh, mister! Your mousies are beyooteeful!"
He looked right at my girl and said, "Yeah, you can feed them to your snake. You got a snake?" and my daughter began screaming. Loudly. If you know my precious offspring, you know that the horror film industry already has their eye on her. I watched the boy run to the back room and heard the door lock. Then I turned around to find my three-year-old with her entire body draped across the cage sobbing. She was also praying.
"Dear God (hic), don't let these here mousies be (sniff) eaten. Amen."
Forget the mousies, I wanted to see the boy get eaten by the rats. I pried her off the cage and reached in as she begged me to let her hold one. I scooped one up and realized it must not be related to its plague- carrying brothers because it sat up like a squirrel in my palm, latched onto my thumb and began licking it. My daughter stopped crying long enough to sniffle, "Momma, he LIKES you!" I sighed. Sometimes they don't even need a screwdriver to get into our household.
So Daisy the rat came home. Daisy the rat was the darling of the family. Daisy the rat ate Cheetos while sitting on our shoulders. But like all of the pets that belong to us, we soon realized that Daisy had something wrong with her. It could have been something small, like only having three legs, or requiring a special diet, or being afraid of the dark and needing my husband to install an itty-bitty nightlight in her cage. But no. Turns out Daisy the rat had EPILEPSY. She would have seizures in her cage and bang against the sides and I would have to pull everything out until it was done. Then we'd give her a grape and she'd lick somebody's thumb until she fell back asleep.
One night I heard her banging around so I turned on the hall light and crept in there, hoping I wouldn't wake up my daughter. Poor Daisy was hitting the food dish so I reached in to move it and got too close. She bit me. I automatically yanked my hand out but unfortunately Daisy's teeth were still attached to my finger and she came out too. She went flying across the room and landed on my daughter's bed, who was still sleeping soundly. I was sputtering, "OW OW OW" and Daisy came out of the seizure and wobbled back across the floor towards me. She headed for my feet. I started hopping back and forth trying to avoid her. I hopped; she came closer. I feinted left; she zoomed in. I finally started screaming for my husband, who came in and saw me bouncing around with blood streaming from my hand and Daisy wobbling and circling my bare feet. He turned on the light and said, "Oh geez. Are you okay?" I started to answer him when I realized he was talking to THE RAT. She made a beeline for him. He picked her up, she licked his thumb, he put her back in her cage and my daughter never woke up.
I, on the other hand, was not current on tetanus, so I went to the doctor. Imagine having to explain that you were bitten by a rat. They were horrified. I said, "Oh no. It was my daughter's pet rat."
They all stared at me, and I realized that they were wondering what kind of mother would allow a child to own a rat that bites. So I said, "Oh wait, let me explain. The rat has epilepsy."
At this point the staff began whispering to each other and edging toward the phone. I gave up and shut my mouth, got my shot, and immediately changed medical offices.
Daisy the Cheeto- loving, thumb licking, flying rat lived with us (and was loved by us) for over two years, until she finally succumbed to a respiratory illness she had also carried since birth.
Not bad for snake food.
~Donna
I Have Twins!
Twin kids, yep. Goats, that is.
The twins arrived on a spring day last year. Black and white and adorable, they rode home chewing their cud in the back of my husband's canopied pickup truck.
Why goats, you may ask? Well...why not? They add a little flavor and a lot of odor to the rest of the zoo. Reno is the brighter of the two, Victor is sweet but quite blank. Reno comes when you call him and Victor stares at the sky like he was Chicken Little, waiting for hay to magically fall into his little goatie mouth.
Ever wondered about pygmy goats? Here's some recommended reading.
Pygmy Goats
Children and Pets and Remodeling, Oh My!
Greetings and welcome to Pass the Aspirin!
Life is a journey....and sometimes you find yourself packing for many. Join me as I travel through the week juggling schedules, backpacks, litter boxes, prescriptions, tools, alfalfa and the ever-present bottle of aspirin.
You may laugh, cry, sympathize or suddenly feel ill.....but I bet at some point you'll say to yourself, "Oh my....I've done that too!"
Can't wait to hear from you!
~Donna
Life is a journey....and sometimes you find yourself packing for many. Join me as I travel through the week juggling schedules, backpacks, litter boxes, prescriptions, tools, alfalfa and the ever-present bottle of aspirin.
You may laugh, cry, sympathize or suddenly feel ill.....but I bet at some point you'll say to yourself, "Oh my....I've done that too!"
Can't wait to hear from you!
~Donna
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