I remember being in a group of officer’s wives at a dinner once. One was a collector of Gone with the Wind memorabilia. One collected plates. At some point they turned to me and asked, “So… What do you collect?” I was caught completely off guard, and not only because I am somewhat of a social misfit. I didn’t have anything interesting to make conversation about because I don’t collect anything of significance or along any theme. I think I mumbled something awkward about having a large music selection and then took cover under my chair.

If I don’t collect anything, what am I doing with all this stuff?! Pottery from my life as an art major; a stuffed Papa Smurf from childhood; every rose Mr. MG has ever given me, carefully dried and set out in multiple vases; and books stacked on top of books and crammed sideways on the shelves. (I could say I collect books, but that sounds like my house is full of rare and precious volumes of yore, not paperbacks and fifty stained guides on how to make more cookies.) I’m not a collector, I’m a gatherer or random folderol.

For a long time now, L and I have been planing a trip to go to a nearby town that is known for it’s bazillion antique stores. We had put it off for many different reasons multiple times and finally figured we’d better just GO before school started again. Once school gets started, I am done with fun little weekday trips.

I planned on bringing all three kids with me. I warned L, “You may be screaming for a tubal ligation by the end of the day.” (She has one very cute 15 month old, who she was dropping off at her sister’s house on the way to shop. Chicken!) Most people would not think it wise to bring a four year old boy into store after store of densely arranged fragile, expensive artifacts – let alone his sisters, big and little. But since I am obviously not wise at all, it only gave me the briefest of pauses.

It turned out to be a very nice day. I resisted the overpriced jadeite mixing bowls and Fiesta ware pitchers. The Princess oohed and ahhed over every horse figurine and walked hand-in-hand with L so much that few people knew she was my child. L found a gorgeous cake platter with a matching server. Moo charmed strangers on the street and played with her toes and hooted. Even the Bear enjoyed the day and hated for it to end. Nothing broken. No fits of whining or crying or boredom. Hardly any complaining. Really and truly, it was proof of a loving, merciful God.

And look! I have a new depression glass tea cup, bought on sale!

Not that I have any other depression glass items. That would be a collection.

It took nearly three months, but the bark mulch is done! Yesterday I moved the last few wheelbarrowfulls, folded the tarp, and swept the driveway. (To tell you the truth, it doesn’t really look like our house anymore without the ugly mess in the driveway.) I forgot to take a picture of it when it was delivered, but it required a dump truck if that gives you any idea. It feels really good to be done with it.

And the painting? Getting closer. If I had a full day with no young people underfoot, I could get it done, no problem. As it is, it will probably take between another six weeks to the rest of my life.

Now it’s time to sort cold weather clothing. And ready the year’s school materials. And maybe one more trip to Office Max because it’s teacher appreciation week and you can never have too many sticky notes. And away we go!

Guess I’m not done after all.

Note to self: check the ingredients of anything you eat before it goes in your mouth. Before! Do not wait until a day or two after, because by then it is way too late. Because, once you digest it, there is no going back. Because even things you don’t suspect may have, say, jalapeno puree in it. And because there isn’t enough diaper cream in the world.

Sorry, Moo.

I realize I am exposing myself as a crummy house keeper, but there is a funky smell around here. And this time it’s not the fridge. But I can’t find the source and it’s driving me crazy! I have gone around, sniffing everything that could harbor odor, and am still coming up with nothing. It’s not the trash, the garbage disposal, or the diaper can. (Okay, the diaper can reeks, but the funk I am looking for is a different kind of stink. Like something up and died.) At this point, I am wondering if it is my imagination, or possibly my upper lip.

In this house, when you can’t blame anyone else, you blame the cats. These worthless felines are your one stop shop for all things messy and annoying. (We like that sort of thing, so we have three.) Need papers chewed up? Done! Had enough of sleeping through the night? They are happy to yowl from the foot of the bed at three a.m. to help you with that. Do you like cleaning up mysterious bodily functions? They will provide not only substances that should have gone in the litter box delivered throughout the house, but will also barf discretely in corners and closets for you to enjoy cleaning later. So it follows that the strange funk could be all about the cats. They are so generous!

I decided to get a black light. Urine glows yellow under black light, so I could get down to the bottom of what was causing the smell. (No pun intended.)

I am happy to report that the cats are much better behaved than I gave them credit for. What happens in the cat box has been staying in the cat box. So the source of the funk is still unknown. Drat!

But far worse than mystery funk was what I discovered when I was foolish enough to carry the black light into the downstairs bathroom. The one with the tan wallpaper and dreadful carpeted floor. (Ug – don’t even get me started on why someone would put carpet in a bathroom. So nasty.) See, black light doesn’t just work on cat and dog urine. It glows for the human variety as well.

Oh. My. Goodness.

You’ve heard the whole thing about how flushing the toilet sends a microscopic spray into the air and coats everything within ten feet? Well, let’s just say that between someone leaving the lid up and also the bad aim of a four year old male who will remain anonymous (yes, Bear, I am looking at you), there were spattery glow spots from floor to approximately shoulder height on the walls. I want to take a shower just thinking about it.

I will be scrubbing entire room with eucalyptus Doctor Bronner’s tonight. If nothing else, that should at least mask the stink of death I can’t locate. For a while.

When you do this a lot, and with plenty of suction:

and you throw in a new set of these:

it’s bound to happen:

Yup, she blistered her own sucking finger. It got a little weepy looking and I had to put a touch of peroxide on it. Once I got that washed off, she comforted herself by – you got it – sucking on her finger.

You remember Rick’s salsa from glory, right? The amazing, fabbo salsa that makes you glad God gave us food for recreation and not just for fuel. Really, if you’ve tried it, you will remember. It’s the kind of salsa that you can’t get out of your mind.

I have to give it up.

*sob*

It all started when I realized that something I ate was giving Moo a five-alarm diaper rash. Not just the wah-mama-this-really-stinks-that-my-bum-is-on-fire kind of rash. We’re talking blisters. The skin was so raw, diaper cream wouldn’t even stick to it to give the poor kid some relief. I hadn’t introduced a new food for a while, so it had to be me.

What had I eaten recently? Well, let’s see… Could it be the chimichanga with the good red sauce from my favorite Mexican place? Maybe the entire jar of Rick’s salsa I scarfed in two days? (Burp.) The jalapeno potato chips? The pizza with pickled Greek peppers and crushed red pepper flakes?

Obviously, I have a problem. I have an addiction to hot food. Not hot temperature-wise, because I am a mama and don’t often get to eat anything while it’s still warmed through. No, I am a serious capsaicin junkie. And my baby is begging for mercy.

(On a side note: when I was a teenager, I never would have believed the lengths I would go to in order to comfort a distressed baby. If you had told me then that I would someday position my face six inches from another human’s behind so I could blow on their cheeks, well, I would have laughed until I barfed.)

(Another side note: Moo now makes blowing noises when she has a sore bum.)

I tried backing off on the heat. I saved it for the occasional meal, and then sparingly. And still the tukas fire raged every time!

Finally, two nights ago, I tried one spoonful of medium Pace picante to flavor a batch of guacamole. One spoonful versus a huge avocado. And I didn’t even eat it all – maybe half. And this morning? It was so bad, the wipey was pink. Bad, evil mama!

I am off all spiciness whatsoever until she fully weans. At eight months old, she has a long way to go which means I do, too. I gave up caffeine and sugar when she was inside my body; now I must give up chilies for her, as well. I tell you, labor and delivery wasn’t as hard as this. At least that only lasted four hours.

I would talk about this song, but I think he has used all the words necessary. Enjoy!

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Heavens to murgatroid! School packs that double as shields during a school shooting. What will they think of next, I ask you?

It’s possible that this takes advantage of a parent’s natural fear. But the fact remains that the fear is there because school shootings are no longer uncommon. They are a part of our culture. Enough so that we can accessorize for it.

It’s one more reason I’m glad we homeschool, where the incidences of shootings are uncommonly low.

We use Sonlight for a lot of our curriculum needs, and we love it a lot. One of the perks is full access to their online forums, and they are a hoot! You can go there and post a picture of your child’s rash and ask if anyone has an idea about what caused it. Or you can debate deep theological issues. Or discuss if a certain movie is right for your pre-teen. Or maybe pick up a recipe for home-made laundry detergent. Oh, yeah, and sometimes people talk about the books, too.

Thursday we got to go to our first Meet Up of Sonlighters, and it was very cool and very weird to meet these people I had talked with on the computer. Worlds collide! Imaginary friends come to life!

The park where we congregated has a great petting zoo and while petting the goats we ran into L and her baby Bear, which was double weird since we had driven an hour and a half to get there. Now I had flesh-and-blood friends and imaginary friends in the same place. My brain started making little popping noises from the short circuiting.

So now I have faces to put to screen names, and we got to cavort in a fabulous park, as well. As we got ready to load up and drive home, both the Bigs were whining and crying and weeping and wailing. A sure-fire sign that they had had a blast.

(Pictures of the day are up on my Flickr page…)

To the anonymous person who left a message on my voicemail (marked private, of course):

I don’t know if you are a stoned friend from college or a drunk relative. The bad English accent kind of threw me off. But I have not laughed that hard for a long time. I couldn’t make out everything you said, but I am so glad you got loaded and bored while the phone was within your reach.

Oh – And I hope putting the ice in your bra helped. I mean, something’s gotta.