PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS! itty bitty living space

I have finally found a reason to come out of blogging semi-retirement. No, it's not some deep insight into life or touching story of my beautiful children. It is this: I am so proud of myself and I have to brag, errrr...share. I have fulfilled a life-time dream and have become an IKEA hacker! (Okay, technically I didn't even know about IKEA until I was in my 30's, but it seems like a lifetime ago, ergo the life-time dream. Okay.)

In case you've missed my 200 posts on Facebook about it, we have moved. And we have downsized. To the tune of about 50%. (At least until we finish soe basement.) Enter the necessity: Lots of stuff...little space. Followed by the birth of invention: Using every inch efficiently.

Let me just put this out there right now... I am THRILLED to downsize--that former house was like a 10 ton burden on me (although a very beloved burden. Much like children.)--and I am loving so much less real estate to care for. In addition, I have an odd attraction towards conquering spacial dilemmas. Especially since IKEA came on the scene with its itty-bitty European living quarters focus.

ADD to all of that......I now live 5 minutes closer to IKEA (putting my travel time at 3.5 minutes. I know! I'm living the dream!)

So, on to the actual reason for this post. My 4 children now share a bathroom that is, well, normal-size for the average American. And 3 of those kids are females in the prime of their vanity. Therefore, we are in need of big-time storage solutions. And we've previously established that I'm cheap, right? So I'm scouring IKEA on one of my weekly (daily?) expeditions, and I see this.

Which is designed for this:

On clearance. For $3.99.

And then I see a small glass shelf, on clearance for 99 cents. So I came up with this:

Times 3 (one for each female):

I know, right? But let's not leave out the tricky part, which is me realizing that the glass could slide right off the base and create havoc. So I used some clear plastic tubing, did this:

And snip snip:

And the finished product (thank you for holding your applause until the end):

Our red carpet is green

Ahhhhh, summer. Around here, it means staying up late, sleeping in late, visits to the Sno Shack (nothing but the best in parking lot cuisine for us) and gracing the park with our acute sniffing abilities. Oh, did I mention that we take the dog?

We have a GREAT park closeby. For Boozer, it's pretty much Nirvana. I'm thinking it's what he's dreaming about when he lies in the middle of our floor, snoozing, and his legs start running without him. (Not as good as the YouTube dog, but still entertaining.)

Partly because Boozer enjoys the park so much, we, his humans, think it's pretty great too. So here's a pictorial representation of a classic outing to the park:

We take turns walking the beast...


He does a little exploration...

And a little more...


And rinse and repeat until you're at the end of your rope...

Then there's this...


Oh, and A LOT of this...


We are basically a walking freak show, and it takes us FOREVER to get around the park, due to human curiosity. Every ten feet we're stopped by someone, and we take turns fielding the questions. I sound like I'm complaining (because, let's face it, that's pretty much my job), but we really enjoy it. And Boozer? He thinks he's Mick Jagger. He loves every second of the petting, the cooing, the 'can my child sit on his back?' (Well, not that so much, but he'll usually put up with it once or twice.)

And least you think it's all about the canine at the park, here's a great shot of one of our humans:

Yes, we love the park, and we're just egotistical enough to think that the park loves us. After all, would it shine like this for just anyone? I think not!

Time Warp

Ya know how time flies when you’re having fun? Let’s be honest, time just plain flies. You don’t have to be having fun, although that’s a more…well..fun…option. We have lived here in this house for twelve years. My brain knows that that is a long time. My brain tells me that that’s longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. My brain likes to point out that two of our four children have never lived anywhere else; and they’re not little kids anymore. HOWEVah, some other vital organ—probably my heart—will say that our house is fairly new, that we had all the kids when we moved here, that we look FORWARD to living here a long time.

THEN I COME ACROSS A PHOTO LIKE THIS:



and all of my innards are forced to comply with reality. Because here’s the exact same shot now:


I can't even get all of that tree in the picture now! And getting those two to hug was a little more difficult this time. I'm sure there was some pinching going on somewhere in there. But they're still cute, aren't they?

Why texting is for youngsters

Several months ago, poor Shnookie4 went through a horrible week of consistent, severe headaches. Then they just disappeared. Until now. He's been in frequent pain for a couple of weeks now. On Sunday, I told him that if he wasn't better the next day, I'd call and make a doctor's appointment for him. I was at the fabric store the next day when I got a text from him saying he still felt rotten. I told him to tell Hubby and ask him to set an appointment.

I got home from the store, which is when Hubby told me about the appointment and all. Then he said, "Just so you know when you get there, I told them he needs his heart checked." Puzzled, I said, "Why in the world would you tell them that?" Well...evidently, Shnookie texted him the following message: "Dad, please call the doctor. I need him to look at my head." Hubby--not a huge texter and without glasses on--saw 'head' as 'heart.' And there you are. (However, when they asked what Shnookie's symptoms are, Hubby told them his head was really killing him.)

DUH-BULL-YOU DUH-BULL-YOU DUH-BULL-YOU

Today I am angry with the world wide web. You may notice the irony in me using the world wide web as a vehicle to vent about the world wide web, but here’s where I’ll get to go “HA!” followed by a long explanation concluding with “I rest my case.”

After a long convoluted thought process the other night (yup—lost the remote again), I realized that I have lost a precious and significant portion of my life to the dummies who decided to call it the world wide web.

Think about it. Sure, it’s only 3 little syllables to utter aloud. World Wide Web. HOWEVER, who ever calls it by its whole name? We are, afterall a shortcut society who will use an acronym even when it takes longer than just saying the actual phrase. THUS, we end up using the longest letter in the alphabet--DUH-BULL-YOU—not once, but 3 times, over and over everyday all over the world.

Based on the statistic that 82% of statistics are made up on the spot, I feel confident saying that this waste of breath has robbed the average person of .75% of his or her life. That may only equal a month (or not…I can’t be bothered with math), but that’s a whole month one could spend playing Farkle.

Let’s face it…there are so many other names these buffoons could have given the web, even if they wanted to stick with the catchy alliteration. Global Guidance Generator…Cosmic Connection Circulator… Intercontinental Information Infuser. And that’s just off the top of my thesaurus.

In conclusion, I rest my case.

Be sure and tune into my next rant at ggg.ablognamedBETTY. com.

Here, have a fake cigar

So, I participated in the "grandmother for a weekend" program. I don't want to brag, but I think I did pretty well. I should be ready to grandmother a real baby sometime in the next decade.

Shnookie2 is taking child development in school, and the pinnacle of that experience is being entrusted with a fake baby for a weekend. And when I say 'fake,' I mean fake on steroids. These babies have computers inside that simulate the craziness of motherhood pretty well. In fact, I think they may have surpassed the mark on discouraging teen pregnancy here--we'll be lucky if this generation will EVER have children after a weekend with these little gremlins.

As you may have guessed, this weekend was Shnookie's long-awaited turn with Robo Baby. She was hoping for an Asian boy, but ended up with a Caucasian girl (we've all been there). Of course, she was just thankful it was healthy. She named her Payton Shea Bishlack (which is the compound last name Shnookie's friends have started using for her to avoid the 2 last-names confusion). Please note that Payton is pronounced according the Utah dialect: no T... "Pay-en." (To hear Shnookie saying it like a Utahn over and over was somewhat disturbing. Then I realized that she has been raised in Utah, so what do I expect?? It's not like I can blame someone else! Not that I won't try...)

Here's a picture of Pay-en with her custodial parent. (She won't tell me who the father is, but I'm suspecting it's either one of those Old Navy mannequins or else Ken ((Barbie will be livid!))):

I think she has my nose. Speaking of which, the girls were playing the "I'm gonna steal your nose" game with her, and she didn't smile once. Hmph! Fake kids these days.

In case you haven't seen one of these babies, the rules are pretty much like Parenting 101. When it cries, try changing its diaper or feeding it or burping it. If you do the right thing, it will giggle once and then be quiet. HOWEVER, sometimes it just cries and there's nothing that will make it stop. That was a condition I was all too familiar with. This process goes on 24/7--right through the night.

The biggest concern when mothering one of these creatures is that you avoid abuse at all costs. You can't let its head tip back, or drop it, or shake it, etc, because it registers abuse in its little implant computer and its parent will have to answer for it. Protecting your charge sounds much more simple than it is, since humans seem to have an inordinate amount of macabre curiosity. Social situations--especially of the teenage boy variety--are a nightmare. Evidently, there is nothing more people would like to do than throw a plastic baby against the wall and see what happens. And the more Shnookie begged them not to hurt it, the more they wanted to see blood. I had to reassure Shnookie repeatedly that this phenomenon is unique to fake babies and she won't have to fight people off of her future real babies. We are an odd group, we humans!

So here's the visual that will stay with me from this experience: Me walking out of the chapel and seeing Shnookie2, holding her baby out in the foyer, right in the middle of a group of other mothers and their (real) babies. They were swapping stories. I kid you not!

And here's the audio I will remember, from a phone call: "MOM!! Come and get the baby! I'm in a meeting and she won't stop crying!!"

Well, I drove over to the meeting, picked up the baby, and thanked my lucky stars that I will never hear that phrase again from my teenage daughter.

And then I went home and put the baby in the dryer on fluff cycle. Just to see what would happen.

Things that go bump in the night

We had a bit of excitement in the neighborhood last night. Unfortunately, we were at the center of it. And nary a single one of us even knew it at the time. There we were, going about our business, blissfully ignorant (like always). Personally, I was on this here machine, cursing the phone for its ringing, ringing, ringing while I was doggedly ignoring, ignoring, ignoring it. Next thing I knew, half the neighborhood was on our doorstep, knocking, knocking, knocking.

(Take note: when there's an emergency and you don't answer your phone, your neighbors will gather all their friends and come to your door.)

Through my dogged ignoringness, I hear my kids open the door (they just don't get the 'hit-the-floor-and-don't-move' policy we have for such occasions.), and I hear the words "car" "tree" and "Snookie1" float up to me. You can imagine how fast I threw down the laptop and flew downstairs. When I got the whole sentence, it went something this: "Shnookie1's car just rolled down the hill and hit our tree. He's not in it."

Okay, whew. But last I knew, Shnookie1 wasn't even home, so I was a wee bit confused. (Evidently,this is another disadvantage about holing up in your room with the laptop. Children come and go and live their lives without you.) Anyway, I found him in the shower (well, not literally). I was pounding on the bathroom door, yelling the situation through it. No doubt he only heard snippets like "your car" and "tree," because his "what?"s became more and more incredulous the more I yelled. Finally, I belted a "GET OUT OF THE SHOWER AND COME HERE!!!"

We live at the top of a curved incline. Somehow, Shnook's car started it's little journey ever so slowly, then picked up momentum on the hill, where it crossed the street, missed a shiny new truck by mere inches, went across a lawn and then met with a sturdy tree. If it had missed the tree, it would've continued straight into a house. And by then it would've been going at a pretty good clip.

By the time Shnookie1 and I got there, quite a crowd had gathered. Who knew that many people were out after dark on a Monday night?! I, of course, grabbed my camera before we left home. (I told myself it was for insurance purposes, but who am I kidding? I want to be able to remind him of this the rest of his life in visual form.)

Here's the scene: (Shnook isn't slumped over; he's bending over to see the ignition.)



And here's how the tree looks:


I think everyone will live.

We're still not sure exactly how the car got a'rollin. It's always parked in the same place, and it's never happened before. Shnook is pretty sure he had it in park, but who knows. My theory? The Headless Horseman moved to town recently and is chaffing from too much time in the saddle. He saw a sweet ride (he's headless--he can't see well) with cushy seats and took off in it. Obviously, it's the only logical conclusion.