LifePundit

I'm Sure the Walrus Took My Bucket

I'm too pooped after the horseshow yesterday to do anything other than rant about my mother-in-law here. I've written two rants about her latest and deleted them because I don't think they make me or the world a better place. One day I may assemble all of her wacko, rude and unintentionally funny voicemails and post them somewhere. But not today. So I'm going to put up the post from today's smellshorsey instead. I hope, if you don't already know about lolcats and lolrus, you'll get a laugh here. I'm deleting the horse show results part because if you wanted to know about them, you would have already gone to smellshorsey.

But yesterday, like most horse show days, I felt like the lolrus. If you don't know what a lolrus is, thank you. I just found out last week and have been laughing ever since. A lolrus is like a lolcat, and if you don't know what a lolcat is either, thank you. I thought I was the last to know. I just found out last week and am now addicted.

You can read The Complete Walrus Bucket Saga here. (The star walrus/seal died last week, which I'm sure won't stop his search for his bucket.) If this link doesn't first make sense, read this first.

You've probably seen lolcats. I've had them e-mailed to me. Some were immediately funny. Some I didn't get at all. Now that I have been to I Can Has Cheezburger, I Get It! And I think it is Extremely Funny. (It took a while for me to follow what was going on. Click around and you'll figure it out.)

Anyway, back to the horseshow. No, even farther back than that. Let's go back to when Lily joined Pony Club.

Pony Club is a great organization and I wish that Lily could participate fully. The monthly meetings are sometimes a couple of hours from here (you have to trailer your horse to meetings) and the rallies even farther (geographically -- and they take a weekend). The meetings are sometimes too hard to get to for a Sunday afternoon but very valuable if you can make it. I hope one day she can be an active member again. 

Pony Club teaches children (and their parents) how to do things Exactly Right. This requires that you have All the Equipment. For one of Lily's first meetings, they sent a list of the things she needed to bring. Included on this list were FOUR buckets.

Four buckets for one pony? I'd kept two horses here for several years with two buckets. And I suddenly needed four buckets to take one pony to one meeting? What the heck. It's just a couple of buckets, though when you go about needing to have double of what you already have horses can get expensive. So I went to one of my local feed stores to buy two more buckets. I ran into a man there having to buy a lot more stuff for his daughter to take to the Pony Club meeting, which was probably easier for him since he was a bank president.

I picked out pretty blue buckets, very much like the one the lolrus had. We wrote Lily's name on the buckets along with the initials for her Pony Club chapter. Too bad the lolrus didn't have fingers and a paint pen -- he would have had a much better chance of hanging onto his bucket.

For the record, I don't know why Lily needed four buckets. I figure one was for food and one was for water. That's reasonable. She said one of the other buckets was to keep water in in case there was a fire, so she and the other children could keep the barn from burning down. I find this alarming. A 9-year-old armed with a bucket is not a firefighter. I'm not sure anyone knows what the fourth bucket was for. Maybe the lolrus.

These two new blue buckets are our favorites. And it seems that everyone else loves them, too. Because every time I go somewhere and take one of these buckets, somebody takes it.

It has her name written on it. About three inches high. But somebody always takes the bucket.

Mind you, they are not stealing it. Though it is full of water and parked within Buddy's reach as he waits for his classes at horse shows, somebody always thinks it is their bucket. We do a bucket search and rescue at every outing. If Lily's name weren't on it, we would have lost it long ago.

It disappeared TWICE yesterday. So that meant that twice during the show Lily and I were fanning out across the show grounds looking for a blue bucket.

Lolrus, I feel your pain! I has bucket! Somebody taked my bucket!

Lily found it the first time, several trailers over. She dumped the water out of it and brought it back. Whoever had it probably thinks somebody stold their bucket.

The second time it went missing, I found myself following a woman I slightly know as she carried a blue bucket across the show grounds. It's always awkward accosting someone over your bucket. You feel small, petty and suspicious. "Excuse me, is that my bucket? Excuse me, I think you have accidentally stolen my bucket."

You gots mai bucket. I wants it now.

Turns out is was HER bucket. Oops.

Next time I buy buckets, which at the rate these keep disappearing may be soon, they will be a color no one wants. Not a pretty blue. They will be the most ghastly, garish buckets I can find.

We found the bucket. It had gotten mixed up with a riding school's batch of buckets. I didn't leave it out for Buddy anymore. I hid my bucket.

Mai bucket. Keep hans off.

Stupidest thing I ever said

Since it's Stupid Day over at smellshorsey, I thought it could be stupid day here, too.

But I will immediately interrupt myself: One day a friend's child came home from school very upset. "Mom, Greg said the "s" word today." Now, Greg was the child's brother.

The mom was horrified. Right before she brought the Wrath of Mom down on Greg, she had the sense to ask, "What 's' word did he say?"

Her daughter whispered the answer: stupid!

So, forgive me those of you who have been taught that "stupid" is the new "s" word.

I bring this up because I'm trying to keep from having to tell you the story of the stupidest thing I've ever said. Because it is really stupid.

One spring break Tiger (ferocious outdoor cat) caught a baby bunny. The poor thing screamed, and if you've never heard a rabbit scream, try to keep it that way. It's a soul-chilling sound. We got the baby bunny away from Tiger, but it was slightly injured with a couple of puncture wounds. It looked otherwise very healthy (though that could change from the bite). And it was SO cute!

We put the bunny in a big plastic storage box (no lid but partly covered with a towel to give the baby bunny some sense of shelter) and carried it to the local wildlife rescue center, which may as well be in another state. As it turns out, it is probably on another planet.

There was a woman poking around in the weeds in front of the wildlife center. She had long scraggly hair and was harvesting some grass. As I got out of the car, she looked at me, and as if she had psychic powers, she pronounced, "Bunny." Now, our box was opaque, so how did she know it was a bunny?

She began to remind me of the "witch" in Thomasina. "Yes," I said, mystified.

"Follow me," she said and walked away from us. And Lily and I followed. It was then that I saw something I have never, ever seen before.

In her hair, hanging upside down, were four baby possums. You have to be generous to find adult, fully formed and fully furred possums attractive. These baby possums didn't have much fur. You could see skin. And there was something Gollom-like about their tightly gripping claws. They hung and swung in her hair as she walked. And it was then that I noticed yellow urine spots all over her shoulders. I didn't even want to think about what was in her hair.

We entered the building and she turned to face me. We had paperwork to fill out, the baby bunny to attend to, and of course, the matter of a financial contribution and a belled collar for my cat. But I couldn't follow any of that. I asked her to turn around again.

I checked. Yes, indeed. There were baby possums hanging in her hair and peeing on her shoulders. And that's when I said the stupidest thing I have ever said. I asked, "Are those real?"

They did sort of resemble rubber chickens, which is my only excuse. But who would buy baby rubber possums and hang them in their hair? Indeed, who buys rubber chickens?

"Yes," she answered. "I'm their mom. I let them ride around every day after they eat."

Maybe it wouldn't have been such a stupid question if it had been, "Lady, are you real?"

Let Chloe replace Jack in "24"

Keiffer Sutherland got his second DUI so he'll have to do jail time. Normally Hollywood DUIs don't even register on my radar, but this one's got me really worried.

I hear that "24" is already behind schedule. And now, Jack's got to go to jail? For real?

Wait a minute! That might be worth seeing. How will he break out? Will he eat and use the bathroom while he's there?

Will he use his time there to extract by whatever means necessary, and we know what those are, information from the other prisoners?  Will he knock out a guard, wear his uniform, and then let all the prisoners out, covering his own escape?

Or will he find Jesus? It doesn't usually take but about ten minutes in jail for a celebrity to find Jesus. And then about five minutes after release for them to forget all about him.

I need a "24" fix and may not be able to wait until January as it is. I think this alone is enough reason to keep Jack out of jail. Oh, wait. I mean Keiffer.

Or maybe there's another option. Why not let Chloe star in this one while Keiffer gets his soul right and uncovers the terrorists in the LA prison system? Or wherever it was that he was caught. I'm sure that there are probably bad guys there, and Jack -- I mean Keiffer -- is just the one to find them.

We also don't get to see enough of Chloe. This might be a good time. Let her at least star in the first few episodes, at least until Jack uncovers the secret plot and gets out of jail.

One last thing: Paul (my husband) is very involved in a prison ministry. Not everybody who gets converted in jail forgets it when they get out. He knows one guy there who's in for life with no parole. That guy found Jesus. And he called off his lawyers and the appeals process. He said he did the crime, and he's not going to stand there and lie with his hand on the bible again. He did it. If that means he spends the rest of his life in jail, that's the way it is.

That astounds me. I'm a Christian. And I'm shamed by this criminal, because I'm afraid I would stand there and lie to get out of that place -- I've been in there (for a service) and I'd do anything to get out. Even lie with my hand on the bible, knowing that God would forgive me later.

Jack/Keiffer has a problem with the law. And if I am honest, I guess I have to say that he is not alone.

Big Sexy Hair

This is a rant, not an ad. Here is a link to the product but I don't think I'll get credit because I'm just set up for books and don't know how to make this a book. But since Lori needs some, I thought maybe the rest of you would like to know where to get the Big Sexy stuff.

I cannot operate my hair. I am not gifted in hair, though I am good at growing hair. I hear that my hair grows fast.

I wish I could somehow take advantage of this. Get a job growing hair. Actually, my great aunt had The Longest Hair in the World and was in Ripley's Believe It or Not sideshow during the Depression. This is the inspiration for my novel that does not yet exist.

But that's not the point of this post. I'm going to rant about hair products here.

My "do" is supposed to be sort of fluffy on top. My hairdresser achieves this with a product called "Big Sexy Hair." (I thought Big Hair was out.) Since I cannot operate hair, I bought said Big Sexy Hair for my very own use. Some days my hair looks good. Some days my hair looks like I've had a riding hat on it. Even when I haven't. At no point does it look like Big Sexy Hair. I'm not sure I want it to look like Big Sexy Hair. Isn't that very 1980s?

We have a friend who kept her Big Hair well into the '90s. One day she went to the hairdresser and came back with Small Hair. She looked smashing. We all told her so, hoping she would take the hint. She said, "Nope. My hair is too dinky."

Too dinky. First time I've heard that.

Anyway, back to Big Sexy. It's a good product, but why name it that, put it in a big red can and make the letters large enough to see on a billboard? Silly me. Because sex sells. And most of us want to be Big Sexy.

It's not that I don't want to be Big Sexy. I've already got Big Sexy Butt. Why not have Big Sexy Hair?

Well, because when Lily sees the can on the counter, I have to go into explanations. "Mom, why do you want Big Sexy Hair?"

And I never give the right answer. You see, I'm trying to teach her that in spite of everything she sees on TV, at Wal-Mart and even in church, there are other flattering looks besides Big Sexy Boobs Hanging Out Everywhere. And Butts, Too. Have you seen the magazines for teenagers?

There's a time and place for cleavage. Seventh grade is not one of those times or places. Somehow, that big red can of Big Sexy Hair muddies the water. So I quit using the stupid product and stashed the can in the back of the cabinet.

Then my hairdresser gave me a new "do." And I really can't operate it. I tried all the products that I bought in an attempt to replace Big Sexy. Each one is worse than the last.

So last night I fished out my giant red can of Big Sexy Hair. And today, my hair is behaving in a Medium-ish Sorta Attractive Way. That's as close as I need to get to Big Sexy right now. I'm not sure the whole neighborhood could stand it if I was suddenly transformed into Big Sexy.

I don't think I'll put a brown paper wrapper on the product. If I'm smart, I'll use it for a teachable moment about how sex sells, and what does the way we dress and act say about what we're selling?

I know I'm overthinking about all of this.  Can't help it. I'm a mom.

The day my father woke up dead in the hospital

My father was in the hospital again. This time, he was dead. He said he heard somebody say so. It grieved him to hear it.

Two people came into the room. "Too late," he said. "I'm already dead." They ignored him, which is about what you'd expect if you are dead.

An attendant came in and messed around with his IV. "You're wasting your time," he said. "Don't you know that I'm dead?" And she ignored him, which further confirmed his fear that he was dead. Nobody seemed to hear him.

Then no one else came in. He was alone. Alone. Alone.

And he needed to urinate. Badly. But no one came in. And he needed help. Since he was dead, he couldn't push the call button.

Oh, it hurt to hold it. Wouldn't somebody come in to help him? But no one came.

Finally he decided, "I'm dead, so it doesn't matter if I wet the bed." So he did.

He was embarrassed when they came in to clean him up, but very relieved that he was not dead.

True story. And he does not have dementia, though there are times he could use more oxygen.

Obey your cat for a happy home life

We've got three cats. One lives indoors and is the only polite cat I've ever known. One lives in the barn/tackroom because he was my mother's cat and got in the habit of marking his territory in their house. He's about to lose his tackroom privileges for the very same reason. Then there's the in-between cat, the one who used to live indoors until he lost his indoor privileges (this cat does not care what you think. This cat believes he is entitled to eat out of your plate with you, on the kitchen table. If you knock him on the floor, he will hop right back up and continue eating out of your plate). The neighborhood dogs are afraid of this cat. They walk around him. Far around him.

The vet is afraid of this cat. The cat has a large, ominous warning on his folder in a bright shade of orange. He's actually a very affectionate, interesting cat. He's just his own person.

But today I'm going to talk about Izzy, the indoor, polite cat. She would never get on the table. Every morning she sits on the corner of our bed, waiting for me to wake up, before asking me to feed her. She would never wake me up to ask for special service. And she's obedient. She will even sit, like a dog,  on command. So I appreciate Izzy.

I kept forgetting to get kitty litter, but since we use the scoop-able kind, I just kept scooping it out. It had gotten fragrant and become a thin layer of kitty litter, but I still couldn't remember to get more litter. Izzy reminded me very dramatically yesterday.

When we came in the door from church, there it was. Right in front of the litter box was a carefully placed pile. I dropped everything and quickly cleaned out her sandbox and filled it with a very novel item: sand. We showed it to Izzy. She leaned her head very carefully into the litter box door. Then she puffed up and ran off.

So Lily brought her back. The silly cat is afraid of sand!  I tried to explain that there was nothing better than real sand for doing her business, but she was too busy running away from the stuff.

I did not hesitate. I went directly to the store.

You have to take these things seriously, because cats take them very seriously. Years ago I neglected another cat's litterbox and he peed on me in the middle of the night. While I was sleeping! I thought I had wet the bed because I was covered with something warm and wet. But nope, wasn't me.

I was so tired I stripped the bed and went into the living room to finish my night by sleeping on the sofa. After some time for him to reload, he came in and peed on me -- yet again while I was sleeping.

I called the vet the next morning to find out about this behavior. The vet said the cat was "protesting" a dirty litter box.

Well, now. This protest  got and kept my attention. Clean up the litter box or be peed on while you are asleep.

Until yesterday, I had never, ever had a dirty litter box again. When a cat trains you, you stay well trained.

Home improvement project status

Oh dear. I knew I would not be showing you a finished room today, but our lack of progress surprised even me. We got part of the room "cut in" for painting. Click to make photo big enough to see, or then again, who would want to?

I read somewhere about a house where every room was blue, and I'm beginning to be scared that I am doing that. This was supposed to be blue-green. It is not. Not sure that once we get it finished I'll have the "umph" to go over it with a green colorwash.

The Bowflex is supposed to go. Not sure where or how, but I'm assured it's going. Want it?

Our current do-it-yourself project

I'm a sucker for home improvement shows. Paul is not. He can see what's coming, so he changes to the tennis channel or the clean your toilet channel or any channel that does not involve a couple happily transforming their home in a weekend. Yes, I know those couples have professional help and money from the network, but that doesn't mean we couldn't add another room next weekend....

Actually, our whole house is a home improvement project. We built it ourselves, we being defined as Paul. But I'll write about that later, after I'm finished talking it over with my therapist some more.

Because we built the house "ourselves" and because we barely moved in one month before Lily was born (and I was working full-time so we never really moved in), there are some spaces that are still asking to be decorated the first time, much less getting a makeover.

One such space is a large, nameless, formless void at the top of the stairs. As you know, nature abhors a void, so this one is filled with stuff that doesn't go anywhere else. Or can't fit anywhere else, to be more precise. Or stuff we just don't know what to do with. And also things bound for the attic that haven't made it there yet. I get depressed every time I walk through there. And I walk through every time I walk into my office or go into Lily's bedroom or the guest room, which as you know from Domestic Rule #3: Use your guest room for storage, is really barricaded to prevent unwelcome guests.

One day recently I glimpsed the tail-end of "Trading Spaces" and saw a vision of what I want to do with this space. The room they had done wasn't a bit like our Void but that's no reason not to go with The Vision.

Everything goes but the exercise equipment, a bookcase, desk and Lily's computer station. We'll paint the walls blue-green and accent everything else with black, since the exercise equipment is black. All those family pictures that suddenly came my way when three family members closed their households will be reframed in black frames, and I'll make black and white valences for the windows. It will be sort of understated and dramatic at the same time. I have no idea what that means, but I think what I'm trying to say is that I will smile when I see it and when I'm exercising I won't get meaner and madder than usual because it's a soothing, happy color.

We're doing all this this weekend. Except for the sewing part, and the re-framing part, and probably the painting part. And certainly the part where the smiling happy couple is just having a really nice together experience.

Here's how far along we are already. I picked out a paint color. Then Paul said, "Why don't you do some kind of textured or faux paint (he didn't say faux, though he speaks French, he's not a faux-sayer but that's what he meant) because those &*($&@#()& framers I used messed up this one place....."

The place isn't perfect, but I don't see it like Paul does. And I enjoy faux painting and special effects. We've sponged the kitchen, rag-rolled one bathroom, leatherized another (Ralph Lauren special paint that costs a fortune and does not resemble leather or any other substance in the known universe -- if it hadn't been so expensive and hard to do, we would have painted over it. Funny how that works.) I've painted a sunburst on the dining room ceiling and we painted harlequins in the Prayer and Poker Room (where he plays cards with his friends and I meditate and pray -- talk about a multi-purpose room!). Oh, and I've done suede paint, too. And marblelized some furniture. I'm not artistic, but I can follow directions.  I listen to books on tape and get great pleasure out of the whole process. At least for the first two hours.

Anyway, so I abandon my paint chip and go to Lowe's for something fun and special that will hide the framer's little oddity.  And after much agonizing over which color and texture the whole family likes, we finally select two and go to Lowe's to buy whichever is cheaper. I won't tell you how many hours it took us to find this out (and we ran through FOUR sales people), but both of the paint types we selected are new and on the shelves -- and not in the computer yet, so they could not make them the colors we needed. They were unable to tell us when they would be able to sell us the paints! And though they had the stuff, they could not tint it!

Well, now. We go to plan B, which is to just buy some of this other stuff that they promise they can tint for us. It is also a special effects paint, and I know better, but I am so over the whole paint selecting business that I just select a color that sort of resembles the color I previously selected. So, they go to get the paint for us. Turns out it will be $300 just for the bottom coat!

To paint The Void?

So I'm back to picking out paint chips. All I want is a happy blue-green. We find one in one of their color idea catalogs. Then I pick up the paint chip that is supposed to match. The catalog color and the paint chip color, though they bear the same name, are not similar. One is blue and one is green. We ask paint salesman #4 to find out which is right. We never see him again. I take a bunch of paint chips home.

We decide on a beautiful blue-green color, which Paul picks up and brings home. He slaps some on the wall. It is not blue-green, though it is a pretty shade of blue.

And I look at the paint chip again. Why did I think a color named "High Noon" would be bluish-green? What planet's sky is blue-green at noon?

We've already bought the paint. I may put a green colorwash over it. I may not.

I call my niece, who is an architect and very good at these sorts of things, as well as everything else. "I can't find a blue-green," I say.

She's been looking for one, too. And says she can't find it.

And now I know why. Outside of the Crayola box, there is no blue-green.

The most dangerous job for a stay-at-home mom

While I blog and write freelance articles and you blog and run an accounting business and you over there blog and run a home decor business, all from our homes, this mom takes down al-Qaida.

They should make a movie about her!

Here's the story from the WLTX web site, in case the link above expires or something:

South Carolina Mom Works to Take Down al-Qaida               

     UNDATED (AP) -- Laura Mansfield is the first to admit she isn't your stereotypical terror analyst.

The South Carolina mother of three sits with her laptop at her dining table, poring over Jihadist Web sites and occasionally unearthing a hidden al-Qaida video that the terror network hadn't yet released.

Mansfield, who uses that name as a pseudonym because she receives death threats, was the first to find the most recent Osama bin Laden tape. She did it after writing software to hack into the password-protected site. Her reaction: "I'm just a fat 50-year-old mom who scooped al-Qaida."

Mansfield tips off government sources when she finds the videos, and as a fluent Arabic speaker also translates what she finds and sends her work out to subscribers including the government, law enforcement agencies and scholars.

Domestic Rule #5: Complain to the manufacturer

I try not to complain, but I'm so very good at complaining that it seems a shame not to keep doing something at which I so obviously excel.

However, most complaints merely make you a weary companion for your soon-to-be-former friends. A little complaining goes a long way.

So, complain wisely. Complain about legitimate things to the people who can do something about it.

I'm talking about contacting the manufacturer if you have a problem with their product. For example (and this is not a paid advertisement), after my 18-year-old Mr. Coffee broke, I bought another one. However, Mr. Coffee #2 was very persnickety about how you loaded the basket into him, and if you did not hold your mouth right and say several voodoo incantations, the hot coffee would go, not into the coffee pot, but all over the counter, into your drawers and run onto the floor. Which would be fine if you were the sort who liked to lick your coffee up off of a flat surface every morning.

Worse, since I bought the fancy one that brews your coffee while you are sleeping (and the aroma wakes you up -- I think I'll be excited about this feature for the rest of my life), it was a particularly bad surprise to walk groggily into the kitchen expecting to pour a great cup of coffee and instead getting to mop the whole place up.

So, I found Mr. Coffee's web site and sent them a polite complaint. In no time at all I had a reply that apologized to me, asked for the model number and then asked for my address so they could send me a new one!

Just like that. And they did, and the new one is perfect. One little e-mail and Mr. Coffee made me happy. And that makes me very, very happy. I like them even better than before.

When Paul put down ceramic tile in the kitchen (see Domestic Rule #4: Threaten to do it yourself), the grout color in no way resembled the grout color on the color selection chart. It was in the same color family, just about forty shades too light. Instead of noticing the beautiful new tile, you noticed the bright colored grout lines. Now, I've been in advertising long enough to know that the problem was probably with the company that printed the color selection chart. It's really difficult to get the colors to be true. However, sympathetic though I may be, that is not my problem. So I went on the Internet and found the grout manufacturer's web site and sent in a polite but complaining e-mail. I received an immediate reply and a request for my address. They sent me four bottles of grout colorant in four different shades for me to try. I found the one that was exactly the color I was hoping for, sent them another e-mail, and they sent enough colorant to finish the job. They were apologetic, helpful and solved my problem very quickly.

Now, it would have been better no doubt if the grout had been the expected color the first time around. And I have some concern that over time the colorant will wear off. And I am here to tell you that applying grout colorant with a toothbrush all over your floor is not a recreational use of time. Still, I am very happy with the service that we received. The world is not perfect, and if I can just get somebody who will help me make things close enough to right for me, that's all I'm asking for.

(And not at all what I've gotten with the ION USB Turntable folks.)

So, the moral of the story is that if something isn't right, complain. There just might be somebody out there whose job is to make you happy.