The Stitch

I have a stye. It hurts. I complain a lot because of it. In fact, as I am typing this, I have a warm, wet washcloth tied in place over my eye with a hairband, and a sad, droopy frown.

Brian is calling me "Ole One-Eye."

It's very painful - so painful that I actually went to the doctor. I don't go to the doctor unless I have a broken bone or a baby is trying to claw its way out of me. So, you *know* it hurts.

Doc looked at it and said, "Yep. It's a stye. Put hot washcloths on it, here's a prescription, and good luck. If it gets worse, call an ophthalmologist because there's nothing more we can do." So I paid $40 for a tube of goopy glorified Vaseline, and thunk about the imminent phone call. . . .

I'm dreading telling Mom because I know what she's going to ask,

"What were you doing peeing in the road?"

You see, when we were growing up, Mom used to tell us that you would get styes in your eyes if you ever peed in the road. So, that night in 8th grade when I was rebelling against my parents and I peed in the road - yeah, it finally caught up with me and now I have a stye.

Now that I'm an adult (sort of), I look back on all the stuff Mom used to tell us and wonder what the Hell she was thinking when she opened her mouth and told us these nightmarish things.

"If you play with your belly button, it will come unscrewed and your butt will fall off."

It kept us from playing with our navels until we were like 16. Then we realized that "DUH, you can't unscrew a bellybutton with your FINGER!" And then I got it pierced. My butt never fell off. So there.

She also told us that if we didn't wear underpants we would get worms.

Yeah. No words, eh?

Here's a fun story for you: We were obsessive little underpants-wearers because of that "Mom-Inspired Factoid." One day our babysitter, Peg, who was 17, BEYOND cool, and very much into the hippie scene of the 1970s, came to "hang" with us while Mom and Dad had a date night. Peg was doing her homework from some terribly interesting-high-school-ish brown paper bag-wrapped textbooks, while we watched in awe. She dropped her pen and it rolled across the floor. She got up and as she bent over to retrieve it, Shannon and I gasped in utter horror.

"Ummmmm, Peggy, aren't you wearing any underwear????" Shannon asked.

"Underwear? What's that?" Peg joshed without even cracking a smile.

Shannon, in a panic, told Peg very excitedly, "You're going to get WORMS! Did you know that??? WORMS!" As she sputtered her lecture, I flew away from the table, knowing that if I moved quickly enough, the worms wouldn't get me. Shannon was totally on her own.

I still wear underwear - religiously, and I can't stomach the thought of wearing thongs, Nosirreeee. It's full-sized white cotton granny britches for me. When I wear my hip-hugger jeans and bend over, yes, my ganny undies climb all the way up to the middle of my back. It's VERY attractive.

So, as I look back on all the "Mom-isms" from my childhood, I wonder how I can find ways to turn my kiddo into a hypochondriac/thong-fearing/navally-obsessed individual, or if I should open her world to NEW ways to freak her world - and at the same time, make mine better.

"If you don't keep the floor mopped, you'll get a goiter."

"Children who don't wash dishes every night might go blind. Clean dishes really do help you see better."

"Boys? A date? Oh, didn't I ever tell you the story about the skunk who got rabies because she went on a date?"

Peace, till next

Why I love my husband and my ass hates him:

I asked him to go to the store and buy some candy for the Halloween party we are throwing on Saturday.

The man returned with THIRTY POUNDS of candy.

That's right, folks. THat would be SIX 5-pound bags of Laffy Taffy, nerds, Runts, Snickers, Reeses, Almond Joys, DOTS, Sweet Tarts, Bottle Caps, M&Ms, Junior Mints, Twix, Tootsie Rolls and Charleston Chews.

Oh, how I love that man.

Peace, till next

I didn't want to post the skunk follow-up story, but I feel obligated. Otherwise you'll all be left wondering what happened.

Apparently skunks who squawk tend to be pretty much rabid. :-(

The next morning we woke up and we had a pretty sick skunker in our side yard. It was one of those situations where you instantly knew something was dreadfully wrong, just by looking at him. This poor fellow was not in a happy place, so, as I fed Elizabeth her morning bottle, I asked Brian to call the rabies hotline.

I heard Brian's side of the conversation: Yep. Mmmmhmmm. No - I don't have one - ahhhh. OK. Yes, we can do that. Ok. Bye.

Brian hung up and told me what the rabies hotline folks told him: "Yep. Sounds like you got a hot one. You need to shoot it, bury it and pour bleach on it."

My mouth hung open in utter disbelief and I softly informed Brian, "Over. My. Dead. Stinking. Body."

Because the thought of Brian with a gun is FAR more scary than Brian with a welding torch. Not to mention that all the neighborhood doggies around here really like digging up dead stuff, rolling in it, then dragging it home to their families as a gift. The thought of a rabid animal in my backyard - even DEAD, BURIED, and BLEACHED - was not an acceptable one.

"Give me the phone." I requested of Brian and handed kiddo off to him.

I called Ranger Rick and told him that there was no way I was letting my husband go out and play Rabies Roulette with Mr. Skunk. He told me that it's too bad we didn't live in the village, 'cuz the cops would come out and shoot it for me.

I explained it was not an issue of shooting or getting sprayed or whether or not there are green beans on Mars. It was an issue of a RABID ANIMAL in my yard, that I wanted NOT to be there anymore!

So he gave me the name of a guy who "handles" this sort of thing, and he explained that it would cost a bit of money. I didn't care. I like my family without rabies on the side, thankyouverymuch.

In the end, a very nice gentleman came out and took care of the situation very humanely and very affordably. I was really sad that our little skunk had contracted this horrible disease, but very grateful that the whole mess didn't have a much worse outcome.

Peace, till next

As you all know, I'm temporarily sewing from my dining room because my sewing room is undergoing some major renovations.

Tonight, in our dining room, directly in front of a BIG window where all the zombie-green, brain-sucking night creatures of the world can see me, I was cutting out a lovely green satin Satine gown for a delightful customer. As I was cutting, I heard a strange screeching noise - I assumed, emanating from the television.

"Another annoying commercial," I sighed. But then the commercial ended and the screeching continued. I turned the volume down, the screeching volume went up and the goosebumps scrambled down my spine. The noise was coming from the yard. OUR yard: Right Outside My Big, Scary, Ominous, DARK Dining Room Window.

So I scurried out to the porch, where Skye kicked it up to freak-out mode, and I was not far behind. I peered through the window screen to catch a glimpse of the Hell that is now apparently nesting in my yard, and as soon as my nose touched the screen, I threw my body backwards because I knew that Whateveritwas, would not hesitate to cram its proboscis right through that screen and suck my brains out, on-spot.

I backed up, grabbed the flashlight and turned it on. It was dead. I grabbed the backup flashlight and turned it on. It was dead. I grabbed the puny "I didn't want to see anything anyway" flashlight, turned it on - and it worked, but as soon as the beam hit the backyard, I realized that I was turning myself into a flashing beacon for the Screaming Yard Thing to hone in on and devour me. I turned the light off, locked the door, and retreated back in the house.

I called Brian, who was at welding class.

He: Hi there!

She: Yeah, you could come home any time now and save me from the Thing in the yard that is screaming and dying and bleeding up our lawn.

He: Wha??

She: Yeah, it's NOT happy and it's screaming and we - me and Skye - are totally freaked out. It's probably going to eat us, you know.

He: Alright. I'll finish up and head home. Are you sure it's not a cat?

She: YES! It's not a cat! It's too screechy and eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrreeeeeeeeekeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-rrrrrreeeeeeeeekeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrreeeeeeeeek-ish to be a cat! And you might want to buy a gun on the way home because I know it's going to be big and mean.

He: I'll be home in a few - just relax!

She: HURRY!

Alone, scared, and ready to call the fire department, police AND ambulance corps, I turned to the next group of most-helpful-people I know. The Yahoo Group of eBay Seamstresses. Because they would definitely know what to do.

I told them of the hideous screaming blood fest in my yard and they suggested maybe it was a raccoon or a cat. To which I responded:

It's too high-pitched for cats - it's a small animal, like a rabid chipmunk with sharp, pointy fangs and talons and a nasty thirst for blood.

And I explain that Brian wasn't home - that he was at welding class - and I wasn't not quite sure what to do - to which Laura responded:

Personally I'd be more afraid of the concept of my sweetie taking a welding class. ;)
But maybe that's just me. ;)

And I had to agree. Brian with a flaming red-hot welding torchy-thingy isn't really the stuff of happy-fluffy-bunny-bedtime-stories.

But, back to the screaming Creatures of Doom in my yard: The screaming continued, and I kept creeping up to check on E-Beth every 3 minutes or so, to make sure the Yardzilla hadn't broken into the second story of my home to steal my baby like an Australian dingo.

Of course, every time I peeked she was there, and getting annoyed with me constantly opening her door and poking her.

Finally, Brian pulled in and I quickly unlocked the door so he wouldn't laugh at me for locking the Screaming Lawn Monster out.

Of course, three minutes before he arrived, the screaming had stopped.

I let him hear the whole story - and he laughed AT me, not WITH me. Then, just as I finished the story with a grand finale of "and it wanted to eat me and Skye both. . . . I could sense it," the screaming started back up again, as if on cue.

Brian grabbed his welding gloves and slapped them over his hands - because apparently welding gloves have some sort of magical monster deterrent woven into the fibers. He looked terribly confident and manly - like something from Little House on the Prairie - maybe Pa goin' to slay the wombats or something.

He ventured out and within a nifty-nano-second he was rightbackinthehousequickier'n'shit, gloves off, problem solved.

"Check it out," he said, as he pulled the window closed quickly and snapped ON the craptastic flashlight.

Skunks in our yard - The Screaming Noise of Agony and Death was apparently elated (but LOUD) squeals of Absolute Joy and Heavenly Bliss.

The skunks had raided our pile of winter acorn squash (squashes, squashii(?)) and were rolling them across the lawn, playing, scampering and SQUEALING in utter delight.

nice. nice. nice. I have skunks now. In my yard. Right by my door. And they LIKE IT THERE.

I hope it's ONLY because of the squash.

They can have it all. I am not going out there to steal it back. I don't even LIKE squash.

The dog is SO grounded to the INDOORS - and until the squashskunks are gone from our yard, so am I.

Peace, till next

This past summer, my husband and my father did a bang-up job on the landscaping. They started all sorts of flowery seedlings and by the end of the season, the beds had exploded into a rainbow of colors. They also ventured into Bonsai growing and Brian started to collect all of our broken dishes, with plans to create some concrete sculptures adorned with glass mosaic designs. (And we wonder where little E-Beth gets all this bleeping energy??)

So Brian bought a dozen books on concrete designs, and set to work. He plucked some gigantic sunflower leaves and used them to make molds - the end result was a beautiful concrete dish for catching just enough rain water for a delicate bird bath. He made a few of these pretty outdoor bowls and then started on his mosaic work.

He had plans to make a little concrete/mosaic mushroom field to "plant" in our yard, hiding them in little nooks among the morning glories and asters. I imagined how pretty they would be with the tiny pieces of jewel-colored glass and polished stoned embedded into the concrete, catching twinkling rays of sunshine on hot, summer days.

He finished the first mushroom a few weeks ago, and I excitedly ran outside to see his latest piece of lawn art.

This is what I saw:

Don't get me wrong. It's beautiful, and it will absolutely catch twinkling rays of sunshine on hot summer days, and my husband is quite possibly one of the most resourceful and talented men on earth. But I'm not exactly sure I want my yard to be filled with giant jewel-encrusted concrete penises.

Peace, till next

For our wedding, friend Gretchen (who was busy having her baby on our wedding day), gave us a very cool clock (it tied in with our 1950s-theme wedding). When we came home from the hospital with E-Beth, I spent a lot of time on the couch recovering from a C-section. I frequently forget to put on my reading glasses, and without them, I'm not able to see the time on the VCR. So Brian brought out the Gretchen clock, and placed it on the floor, resting against the entertainment center so I could see the hour and attend to E-Beth's feedings on time.

The clock stayed on the floor for several months. (Hey, I have more important things to do than pick the damn clock up off the floor, folks!)

And it was only when E-Beth found the floor clock to be "The Most Interesting Thing In The Room That I can Crawl To And Destroy Instantly" did we pick the clock up, and actually HANG it on the wall, where it belongs.

We hung it in the corner of the living room - visible from every angle, for quick time-viewing purposes. This is also the same corner E-Beth faces whenever we feed her a bottle.

According to Elizabeth, this clock - the Gretchen Floor Clock - is the Funniest *expletive*-ing Clock In The World.

We settle down in the big, comfy, fuzzy blue rocking chair, and as soon as kiddo rests her eyes on that clock, she starts laughing hysterically. And because we are psychic and can not only read our child's mind, we can understand what she is saying between her bursts of snortling (Yes, she snorts) laughter:

"What the HELL are you two thinking? That is the craziest thing in the world! Putting a perfectly good FLOOR clock on the WALL. Are you INSANE?"

Peace, till next

I just received another glorious box of antique letters - it's filled to the brim with hundreds of yellow, crunchy-aged letters, bank books and corset ads. This is the second batch of letters to the Siegert family (the first batch contained letters to Elsa from Roscoe.)

I've come to the realization, that as much as I love these letters from the past, they will never "belong" to me. I'll enjoy them briefly, but it's become my goal to find the rightful owners and return them all. I've been doing a bit of research to see if I can find heirs, but so far, no luck. I will keep searching until I find them - what a story they tell.

One of the letters I found in this treasure box stood out as special, and I *had* to share it with you. It was written in 1928, bundled with a bunch of extremely "well-mannered" letters - and it stands out like a purple mohawk haircut on Santa Claus.

The letter was written to Elsa's Mom, from Elsa's cousin Millie. She writes about her health and how she misses Grand Mother, (who apparently used to live with Millie, but now lives with Elsa's family). Near the end of the letter, Millie writes:

"This house shook awful the other day. Grand Mother must have farted, for it knocked me out of bed."

Peace, till next

A journal entry from my sister, Erin:

I grew up in the country -- Hicksville, USA -- and lived in rural NY for most of my adult life as well. Recently, my husband got relocated for work and we moved to SuburbiaLand. We are in a very nice development with walking trails, a pool a clubhouse and a very tiny yard. I am getting used to the noise of neighbors and not being able to walk around the house "sans robe" with the blinds open, however, there are some aspects of suburban life that I don't understand.

Let's take, for example, lawn care. Back in Hicksville we had roughly 70 acres to maintain. We mowed two acres and the rest just kind of "did its own thing" - as nature tends to do. Caring for the lawn meant hopping on the riding mower for about three hours every other week, or when the grass was tall enough that you might lose your child in it. The cost: $6.00 for a couple gallons of gas per month. It's a little different out here in suburbia.

We have roughly a one billionth of an acre to care for. There is a very expensive, hi-tech sprinkler system that waters the front lawn. When we arrived, it was set to sprinkle every day for one hour. The grass grew six inches that day. So I opened the access panel, deciphered the instructions and adjusted it to water every other day. Or so I thought. The next three days, the sprinklers came on each morning at 6:00 am like clockwork. I opened the panel and set it to water ONLY on Sundays. Well, I must be irrigation-challenged, becuase the next day was Thursday and, you betcha, the lawn sprinklers popped to life once again. Maybe the system is possessed. At any rate, I got the water bill for the usage -- YIKES! $35 for a month's worth of water?!?! FOR GRASS?!?!

Of course, then you have to add the cost of a lawn service to that. Because, hey, if you're gonna water your lawn everyday, it's going to require a LOT of mowing! So that's another $25 per mow. Yes, people, for lawn mowing. What every happened to bribing the local teenager with a six-pack of PBR? I'm considering buying a goat, but am afraid the homeowner's assocation might have some by-law restricting grass-chewing animals.

Well, this morning I finally got a little wise and UNPLUGGED the sprinkler system. Let's see the damn thing re-program itself now!

From SuburbiaLand, USA, this is Erin -- waging the war against manicured lawns, one sprinkler at a time.

Peace, till next

Close your mouth, but open your teeth slightly. Now, in the back of your throat, make a "GNK" noise without opening your mouth. Now repeat that noise

One.

Hundred.

Times.

This is Elizabeth's new favorite word. If anyone out there knows what it means, please drop me a line. From what I understand of Elizaspeak, I think it means, "You just wait until I'm old enough to have my own blog. I've got one word for ya: Payback."

E-Beth and Grandpa.

From Heather: Since my sister, Erin, has developed a children's line of clothing for the website, she has graciously offered to contribute to the updates on this journal - let's give her a round of applause and make her feel most welcome!

OK, so here it is, the first of October, and I'm substitute-posting for Heather. Let me give you a little background info -- I'm Erin, Heather's MUCH YOUNGER SISTER. I'm not nearly as creative as Heather, but what I lack in talent, I make up for in hostility and cynicism. I am married to a wonderful guy - Patrick, and have two kids - Ethan 2 years and Daphne 4 months.

Two year olds are an interesting bunch. Ethan has a nasty habit of chewing his hand -- not his nails, or his thumb -- his ENTIRE hand. I think he's getting his molars so he crams his entire fist to the back of his mouth and just sort of holds it there (maybe for safe keeping?).

Anyhow, he thinks it's really funny when he gags while doing this. Probably because I laugh at him. My Bad. Of course, when I'm done laughing, I tell him that if he continues to do that, he's going to make himself throw up. Unfortunately, he has no idea what that means, so he continues to eat his hand. The upside is, that even if he does vomit, I'm betting he'll only do it once!

So, (this is just too predictable -- do I even have to finish the story?!?) the other night, he's standing in his bath (any other standing bathers out there?), chomping on his hand. I just got the warning out, when bbbbbblllllllllluuuuuuuuucchchchchhbl, little chunks of partially digested cheetos and grapes dribble out his mouth.

So now I have to clean him off before I start puking myself. Except I can't because I'm too busy laughing (again, My Bad) at the pissed off look he's giving me because in his twisted little 2 year old mind, I made him puke! Well, needless to say, we're all still alive and he's no longer covered in vomit. BUT as all Moms know, every day is an adventure -- and just when you think you know what they're going to do, they surprise you. Like yesterday -- when he did it AGAIN.

Peace, till next