Tuesday, January 31

Aspiring American Idol

Overhead conversation in the bathroom between Eric (9) and aspiring American Idol, Caroline (8) after watching the show Tuesday night:

"Caroline, I don't think your voice is quite to the level of the competition yet, but I think it will be when you get to puberty."

Eatin' my words

Update from Saturday's rabies escapade---the raccoon tested positive for rabies!

Who's the Sucker?

The world is a sad place. I went to the doctor yesterday to get a rabies booster because of the raccoon John shot on Saturday. I found out that I have to lose 5 pounds and the doctor will be calling in six months to do a weight check on me. They wanted to do a intestinal parasite exam, but I declined that. I did break down and splurged for the $20 prepackaged diet food (sort of like Jenny Craig) and I also got sucked in to a year's worth of preventative medicine for a problem that I don't have. Last time I bought it, I took it once or twice and had to pitch the entire year's worth of medicine because it got so old. Who am I? the pitiful family dog, Max.

Who's the sucker? My human, the boy one. Not the smart one. The girl already learned her lesson on the many visits to the vet. But the boy is new at it. The girl tells the vet that we only want the $10 rabies booster, and that even if I go on a diet, I will dig in the garbage, catch stuff outside and not lose any weight. The girl has figured out that the $8 Iams diet food maintains my weight just as well as the $20 vet diet food. Also, the girl has a hard enough time giving her human kids their medicine, so I'll only get mine once or twice and then it will be forgotten. But the boy thinks it is a bargain to get a year's supply for just $21 so he bought it. AND he opted for the pain-in-the-neck syrup that you have to draw out with a syringe instead of the handy little gumdrop style that I used to have. I think it is because he works on an ambulance and it makes him feel more like a doctor to give it in a syringe dropper, but he'll never remember, so they'll be throwing it away soon enough.

So, instead of the girl taking me and spending $10 (with the boy commenting on how EXPENSIVE vet visits are), the boy took me and the bill looked like this: Well visit exam $28.85, Rabies booster $10.35, 10-pound bag diet food $19.40, heartworm medicine $21.85 (total of $80). I don't think it occurred to the boy that if this had been one of his human kids, he would have only paid a $20 co-pay for the whole kit-n-caboodle.

Monday, January 30

Master of None

I'm not really a DIY type person except in desperate situations. Unfortunately, I am married to an engineer and that type thinks they are jacks of all trades, experts in everything, no training needed. Combine that with the genetic need for every father to try his hand at cutting his son's hair, and you have disaster written all over it.

For the last nine years, I have steadfastly held to the position that my husband is NOT to touch our son's hair. I take him regularly to get his hair cut by someone trained to do it. The problem is that my son has the worst hair on the planet. All sorts of cowlicks and double-crowns, growing nicely in one direction and then jetting off in another. So no matter who cuts his hair, it always looks terrible--with one exception--my marathon friend, Karen, who was a hairdresser in her past life. However, Karen is now a stay-at-home mom like me, and her kids are in school at the same time mine are. That sounds really convenient, but it is actually terribly hard to coordinate our schedules to get a haircut. So although Eric's hair has looked better this year than it ever has before, John gets a little impatient by haircut time. About a month ago, he hacked, whacked and trimmed Eric's hair into a little cyclone looking style. I almost resorted to a buzz cut, but since his hair grows in every direction, even that looks bad.

Soooo, last night I started digging in my ever-increasing library and found that at one point I must have been contemplating cutting hair, because I found a book entitled "Cutting your family's hair". Of course, for you that know me well, I already had a little arsenal of hairstyling tools including clippers, hair scissors, thinning shears and even the little "groom yourself" thingy they show on TV. After mulling the book over for the afternoon, reading all the tips on how to hold your scissors correctly, following guides and all, I sat Eric down on the toilet seat and began cutting away. The difference between me and John is that whatever the outcome of John's haircut is, he prides himself on doing it himself. He'll tell everybody he did it and complement himself on a job well done. My deal is that if it looks bad, Eric is not to tell anybody that mom did it.

I about drove myself crazy with all the measuring, going around the ears, cleaning up around the back and all, but I can say that it looks better than the last shop I took him to. I just have to stop looking at it under a magnifying glass every time he walks by me, because all the little imperfections are driving me nuts. I predict I'll be visiting marathon Karen before long.

Sunday, January 29

Gen Y Wannabe

Last night (Sat) my 40-something husband, who fancies himself a 20-something studly, introduced me to a missed event of my teenhood--garage band concerts.

We have a kid in our church that has a very talented band, and we really enjoy the music from Dear John. Neil Eash, the lead singer, guitarist and writer of all the music, regularly plays in our services. A couple of weeks ago, my John invited us to a "house show" the band was having. I immediately had red flags going up, envisioning being the only people over 25 in a group of people eventually getting arrested for disturbing the peace of the neighborhood. But try as I might, my husband insisted that the band would be very disappointed if we didn't show up.

I'm positive we were the only people who had to get a babysitter for the event. After a quick dinner at Bud's place in Apalachin, we showed up at the neighborhood at 7pm. Us old fogies were the first of the audience to arrive. It seemed a little strange to walk into a house when you don't even know who it is owned by! About half an hour later, 25 of us descended into a basement the size of a one-car garage complete with speakers, microphones, light and smoke machine. We all stood around for the next 2 hours listening to awesome music. It took a little while for it to become natural perching on the staircase of a basement with the vibrations giving my rear-end a massage. But in the end, I left feeling like a college co-ed. We even went out for coffee afterward. Guess my John's not as old as I say he is.

See the band and hear music at www.dearjohnmusic.com.

Saturday, January 28

Rabid Family

Since hunting season is over, John just couldn't go another minute without shooting something. This afternoon, about 3:30 (Sat) my 9 year-old Eric came screaming and crying to the back door. As I was letting him in, he explained through sobs that there was a rabid animal attacking our dog, Max, in the front yard. After investigating, John saw the raccoon which was hunching down under our front porch. Although he feined worry, he ran upstairs (I saw the big grin on his face) and grabbed his ever-at-the-ready shotgun. He put two bullets under our porch while screaming wildly at our dog to stay back. I haven't checked yet to see if either of the shots went through our wall in our basement.

We have experience with this sort of thing. Our house seems to be a magnet for crazy animals. Two summers ago, a raccoon came on our porch and bit our dog. The raccoon was foaming at the mouth and we were pretty sure that it had rabies. At the advice of the DEC, we bagged the raccoon and sent it for rabies testing. They advised us to look the dog over and we found a bite mark on her ankle and proceed to give the dog a bath. Our kids were in bed at the time but in the excitement they got up to see what was going on. They DEC assured us that it would be fine to have contact with our dog. On the Monday morning after, we received a call that the raccoon was indeed rabid and that anyone having contact with the dog would need to have the rabies series. Since that involved everybody in our family, I uncharacteristically panicked.

I began to cry and started calling all the area health departments, my family doctor, my children's pediatrician, the vet as well as the physicians for whom I do transcription. I got a different story from everyone I talked to about the risks and what steps we should take. I even checked the internet which seemed to be the most reliable source of information I got. Let's just say there seems to be no one in this rabies-prone area that actually knows what to do in the case of a rabies emergency. The bottom line was that John and I knew for sure we had touched the dog when she had wet rabid saliva on her fur. We weren't sure if the kids had or not. If any of us contracted rabies, we would not know until it was too late for treatment, and the treatment is 100 percent effective. For that reason, we all went through an extrememly painful and drawn-out series of shots and my poor kids have never gotten over it.

This time, "mad hunter" did all the shooting, bagging, checking, bathing and if anybody gets shots, it'll be him. The rest of us stayed clear.

Friday, January 27

Bruised Bedhead

Wednesday night was not the most pleasant. I shared my bed with "The Claw". My husband was on a business trip overnight and Caroline, who jumps at any chance to sleep with me, announced that she would keep me from being lonely while dad was gone. "Great" said I through gritted teeth.

You need to know this about my husband and I. We get along great, we never fight, we're quite affectionate with one another, but we take our sleeping business seriously (or at least I do). We have a king sized bed and we each have our own side. And when we are sleeping, we stay ON IT. We are not spooners, snugglers, huggers or anything of the sort unless we are awake. We do not thrash, steal covers, roll over on one another--we keep to ourselves.

Caroline, however, sleeps in a twin bed which is taken up by an adult-sized pink fuzzy horse, 7 stuffed cats and a myriad of other stuffed animals. She has a spot the size of a shoebox to sleep on and her animals all just love it when she lays, crawls, hangs and plops on top of them. I am a different story. I got Caroline settled into my bed about 8:30 pm just before I sat down to pound out some more medical transcription.

CLAW: "Mom, whose side should I sleep on".
Me: "Definitely Dad's. He would be so happy to know you are keeping his spot warm while he's gone. Now be sure to stay right on his side, on his pillow, because that's how he sleeps".
CLAW: "Mom, I think I need an extra blanket. Mom, can you close the closet doors and the bathroom door? I get kind of creeped out when any doors are open. Oh, and can you turn on Dad's CD that he likes to listen to when he's going to sleep? And I might need a drink. Oh and can Fluffy sleep with us (adult size pink horse)."

After getting her all settled, I transcribed until about 11pm and went in to find head on dad's side, feet on mine. Moving her over caused a whole sleep-induced conversation of mumbling, stirring, protesting and the sort. Just as I got settled beside her, the whacking, scratching, kicking, poking, prodding started and continued all night.

I woke up feeling fresh as a rotten cucumber the next morning and I had bruises like I'd just finished a full-contact kickboxing match. The crazy thing is, I'll glady let her sleep with me next time John's gone too.

Thursday, January 26

Queen of the Quick Fix

I've done a bit of self-reflection this morning. I was prepared to tell you that I've discovered that I am actually a Suzy Homemaker. But in examining the facts, I have realized that I'm something a bit less glamorous--a quick fixer. This is a well-established pattern for me that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. We'll be seeing with the latest project I've just finished...

I just hemmed a pair of Caroline's pants. Well, to be accurate, hemming would entail using measuring tape, scissors, needle/thread and perhaps a sewing machine. I only used the scissors out of that list, so I guess "shortened" would be the truth. I bought Caroline 2 pair of pants that fit perfectly except they each were about six inches too long. Normally I don't do this because I realize if something can't be fixed quickly, I'll never do it, but we were desperate. Finding somebody to do thejob is NOT a quick fix. First you have to locate somebody available, then take the pants with the kid for fitting, then pick them up when they are finished. Instead, they have been sitting at home not being worn. But Caroline kept asking to wear them so in my normal style of self-confidence I figured it can't be rocket science to fix a pair of pants.

My process: I took the two pair of pants, and laid them side by side. One was much longer than the other. I "measured" how long Caroline's legs were with the automatic built-in measuring tape in the front of my head (frequently called eyeballs) and estimated how much needed to be taken off the shorter pair of pants. This part was especially tricky because Caroline was at school. I turned them inside out, folded the cuff to the precise measurement I had estimated and plugged in the iron. While the iron heated up, I rooted around my closet for a little bottle called "Patch Attach". I discovered this quick fix when Caroline needed Brownie patches "sewn" on her Brownie sash. I gave a generous slathering of glue to the underside of the cuff and let it set a minute (according to the directions). I then set the iron on the cuff and left it there, taking it off just before the scorching point. I laid the other pant leg on top of the finished one to see how much to fold under and repeated the whole process. When I turned them right-side out, wah-lah--it looked pretty good.

The second pair of pants was a little harder. Not only did they start out quite a bit longer, now that the first pair was shortened, there would be too much cuff to fold under (see, there is some calculating going on). So I laid the finished pair of pants on top of the ones to be done and took scissors and hacked off some of the excess. Then I repeated the whole process and came out with 2 pairs of pants that were relatively the same length.

The real test was when Caroline got home, I found that my measuring system worked pretty well. And the bonus is, I'll probably get really good at this shortening thing, because I'm guessing I'll get to re-glue the pants each time they go through the wash!

PS--I have an appointment in February with John's aunt to actually learn how to properly hem a pair of pants.

Tuesday, January 24

It's a Crock - or is it?

My mom's a nurse, so I was raised around all things medical. I'm married to a medic and I do medical transcription myself so when I don't feel well, I don't worry, fret or think I have cancer, I just get irritable. I'm aggravated because I have a nagging pain, I'm frustrated because my routine gets interrupted if I don't feel like doing my normal stuff and I'll admit, I just like having the excuse to be cranky.

A couple of weeks ago I developed a shin splint from jump roping in my kickboxing class--silly me--barefoot isn't a great way to interval jump for 15 minutes. The pain was off and on, and then because I was walking funny, my ankle and Achilles tendon started to hurt. It wasn't long before my lower back was tight and sore from limping around. So, when I get irritable about being in pain, I figure that my mother trained me well enough in self-medication so I begin to pop pills. All sorts of them. I'm sure I put my kidneys and liver in overdrive with the cocktails, but first I try my favorite, Aleve. It that doesn't work, I switch to Motrin. I'll even resort to aspirin and Tylenol if I need to. And when all else fails, I call the CHIROPRACTOR.

Even though I am relatively intelligent I like to experiment and I don't even mind trying things that I would laugh at other people for. But I'm married to a skeptic, so I pretend to believe that the chiropractor is a voodoo doctor who will perform brain surgery with a twist of your backbone. But I like him anyway (because I'm a balanced, open-minded person).

To make a long story short, after my whole shin splint injury, I woke up Sunday morning with a terrible headache. I went to my little in-home pharmacy and tried every variety of pain pill I had, including my new migraine medicine that has been working great...but nothing worked for 2 days. So Tuesday morning I decided that my headache must be related to some sort of bone situation, so I called the chiropractor. As luck would have it (and it never has before) they had an opening a mere 1 hour after I called. So I zoomed in, ready to be MANipulated.

I went in telling him I had a two day headache. Well, starting with my feet, the chiropractor said my knees were a little out of whack. Only after he jerked on my toes and feet did I tell him I had a shin splint--see there? As he checked out my spine, he saw the result of me walking funny....Told ya he could fix it. Then as he felt all the way to my neck, he found "headache central" as he called it!

Well, just know that I'll do whatever works, I don't care if it makes sense or not. I walked out without a headache, without any shin or ankle pain and I don't care what my skeptic husband says. All I know is that the "knee bone IS connected to the thigh bone" and right on up to my head bone! Now if I can just develop an excuse to try accupuncture...

Lessons of Esteem from a Jack Russell Terrier

I have a dog named Max. The vet says she's too fat. I take that to heart, but the dog isn't concerned about her health or her looks. She is perfectly happy with herself. I switch her over to diet dog food and start rationing her food. She doesn't like that at all. She takes matters into her own paws and begins to sort through our bedroom garbage cans for pieces of chewed gum, tidbits of snacks that have been discarded or pretty much anything else that has a scent to it. In a pinch, she will even resort to pieces of kleenex or a broken crayon. Her favorite hangout is underneath our kitchen barstools because that is the seat of choice for my 8 and 9 year olds. It never fails that "accidentally" the dog finds droppings of people food, however small, and gobbles it so quickly that I'm sure she doesn't even get a chance to savor it. And then she is off for more. But the kicker is, not once does she say "this is going straight to my waistline". Her stomach is growling and it tastes good, and for her, that's all that matters.

Me, on the other hand...I exercise religiously. I watch what I eat. I do sometimes look like the dog scrounging through the garbage can, especially when I am down on my knees rummaging through the snack cabinet when I know good and well there is NO junk food within. Because of my impulse to munch, I specifically buy snacks the kids will like, but that don't have much allure for me. If I'm really desperate, the chocolate chip bag will get torn open and I'll inhale a few. But my frame of mind is totally different from the dog's. I'm never quite happy with the way I look, and as I am scrounging for satisfaction, I am telling myself "I really shouldn't be doing this" or "I'm gonna be mad at myself when I get on the scale tomorrow". So even though I eat it, I don't really savor it either.

I think the lesson here is that the dog looks fine--a little extra padding maybe but we're not talking a health danger. The key is, she's the sweetest, most loving, most delightful dog you'll meet. She treats strangers like they are her long lost friend and if you dare show any sign of acknowledgement toward her, she will be in your face and on your lap for life.

Although I may be a treat scrounger as well, I am a nice person with a lot of friends. I am a pretty good mom to my kids and I like to think that John feels like he hit the jackpot in the marriage department ;) I have a lot of good qualities that should outweigh the fact that I outweight what I'd like. So why does it matter? I'm going to start thinking more like the dog.

Monday, January 23

WHO Stopped the Hamster Wheel?

It's kind of nice to have the rat race stopped unexpectedly sometimes. We woke up this morning to a blanket of snow, and apparently sleet happened last night as well. At 6:30 am there was a 2 hour delay for school and by 8:30, they had declared it closed for the day. Truthfully, from the viewpoint of our house, we can't figure out why there's no school because the road is clear and there isn't much more white stuff coming down. But on the good side: Cartoons all day (check), jammies till we feel like dressing (check), eating dry cereal in front of the TV (check), Social Studies report due today for Eric (delayed), Brownie Scouts after school (cancelled), Karate after Brownies (cancelled).

Now if I can just drag myself away from the Wiggles on TV, I won't feel like a loser by the end of the day!

Saturday, January 21

Butterfly Kisses

The day was a flurry of activity as Caroline got up bright and early Saturday morning, saying that she "really needed to get her rest today for the big dance tonight". We were off to the archery shop at 8:40 (Jen in charge this week, if you remember last week's entry!) and upon seeing the florist next door, made an emergency detour to see if they could whip up a small wrist corsage in blue. I had sort of forgotten this little touch from last year and knew Caroline would be horrified to have it overlooked. Luckily the shop obliged. Next was a stop to drop Eric off at a friend's while Caroline and I went to get a quick hair trim and stop at our favorite jewelry store, Van Horn Jewelers in Owego, NY. While there, Caroline picked out the absolute brightest, biggest bauble of a necklace to top off her outfit. It set her back a whole $3.40 of her allowance money (thank goodness an expensive jewelry store also has a "costume" section). She was thrilled when she decided that her new necklace would nicely complement her delicate pastel blue corsage--and the gold dress with black lace overlay. That's why it is great to be 8.

By the time we were done with my hair cut and the jewelry stop, it was time to dash back home to have my marathon friend/kboxing buddy, Karen meet us at home to do Caroline's hair. Caroline had her heart set on having a curly up-do, and I haven't mastered that skill yet. By 4:30 pm, Caroline was primped, pinned and bedecked and ready for a nice dinner to Friendly's with her dad and a night of showing off her pretty dress. She was practicing the twist all the way down the porch stairs and into John's truck as they took off. They'll be burning the junior midnight oil as the dance goes waaay past bedtime--8:30!

Profile of a GENIUS

This is Eric. He is 9. He's my son and I think he's smart. He thinks he's a genius. I didn't know he thought this until Thanksgiving time when my nephew, Chandler, asked his dad (my brother) if it was true that Eric was a genius. I've always known Eric took pride in his brains. The biggest complement you can give him is to call him "a nerd". He thinks it is funny. Partly because he is nine, and partly because it's true. Last year, in 3rd grade, he came home and announced that he was president of the Dork Club. He belly-laughed as he explained that the only kids he would allow in were his friends that would agree to be dorks. He is an above-average student and has a talent for learning quickly, but I suspect he's pretty normal.

Since he proclaimed himself a genius, John and I have had to give him a few lessons on humility (this is a little difficult for John, being that Eric's confidence level is genetically linked to John's). I had to explain that there is no "monopoly on smart" and that he is not the only intelligent family member under our roof. He was a bit insulted when I suggested that he is not necessarily the smartest of our foursome. He said he'd be willing to take an IQ test. I'm hoping the confidence thing pulls him through the awkward social stages he is heading toward!

Some other facts about my little guy--
He's one of the most spiritually sensitive kids I've met. He has a very tender conscience and I've never met a more honest person. It makes us feel the pressure of responsibility to help him nurture a close relationship with Jesus.

He loves everything to do with army guys. He loves reading books about the civil war and he runs through our yard for hours with his wooden rifle ordering his "men" around. The cars passing probably think he is a little lunatic. We think it is hilarious.

He has every Dilbert cartoon book as well as Calvin and Hobbes. He will read and re-read them, laughing his head off each time. He loves running to John and reading the funniest strip he can find. John laughs like crazy right along with him--I'm not good enough at pretending to be amused over and over by the same thing and John doesn't have to pretend.

I'm betting on a career choice of either a rocket scientist or a preacher. That's my boy.

Friday, January 20

The Name Says It All

Names say a lot. And that's bad for me, since I am more of a face person. I have three main groups of friends. I have my church friends--about a half-dozen girls that are moms with kids about the same age as mine, who share my faith and consider it a priority to have their kids involved at church. Next I have my fitness buddies--the group of girls that I have been working out and kickboxing with for several years. I also have my PTA group--the parents who have kids in my childrens' school, who think it is important to know the school, the teachers and have a say in what happens there. The problem is, these major parts of my life don't generally intersect. This makes for a lot of interesting coversation between myself and any one member of one of these groups.

For instance when I refer to one of my friends to a girl outside that particular group, I actually talk about them like this:
A few of the church girls--
--Jill, my jewelry store friend (she and her husband own Van Horn Jewelers in Owego, NY).
--Marissa, my Berkshire friend (because everybody knows I have a friend who lives out in Timbuk2).
--Angel, my funny friend (she is always the life of the party)
--Crystal, my friend who does everything

Or some kickboxing ones--
--Karen, my marathon friend (she ran the NYC marathon in 2004)
--Lisa Kickbox (because after kickboxing with her for over a year, I still had no idea of her last name. Fortunately, my cell phone directory figures that "Kickbox" is a totally reasonable last name)
--Paige Kickbox (again, the cell phone directory doesn't care that her name is actually spelled Paij as long as it sounds right)
--Twee (I found out her last name a week ago, but still am guessing the spelling on the first name is wrong. However, no need to add "Kickbox" to the end, because I don't know any other Twee's).

A couple of the PTA ones:
--Marianne, my PTA friend (she is the co-president with me)
--Sue, my tall friend

and sometimes, the name has a sadder connotation like:
Annette, who's son had leukemia

Or a happy one like:
Mary, my friend who introduced me to my John

But the truth is, in order to describe these people to one another--an important fact is true. They have shared their lives with me and I have shared mine back with them. Although the descriptions seem silly, they work, and everybody knows who I am talking about. And although they may not have met one another, many of them feel as if they know the others. And that makes me smile.

Thursday, January 19

Cooking on a Whole New Level

Caroline and I, who love to cook together, have taken our cooking experience to a whole new level. We just returned from a field trip with her 3rd grade SPARK group and we went to Roberson Museum. I have to admit that the other few times I have been to this museum were little more than dull. Needless to say, I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of being with a group of unruly eight year olds from 10am-2pm. Rather than touring and observing as a typical museum, they had several experiments set up for the kids to do, and all the kids acted much more mature than their 8 years, so I was pleasantly surprised.

The highlight of the day was making ice cream with liquid nitrogen. I am a little surprised that they would trust such young kids around this stuff--but they all did a great job. They used the basic ingredients of homemade ice cream- heavy cream, half-n-half, sugar, vanilla and then poured a ladle of liquid nitrogen in the bowl. As the kids stirred the ingredients, the liquid was transformed quickly to rock-hard ice cream (very similar to Dippin' Dots--just a much bigger dot)!

We also did a chromatography experiment with M&Ms and the colored candy coating on them. I won't bore you with the details, because it was complicated stuff, but the kids really seemed to get the jist of what was going on. The last thing they did was to go into the planeterium and learn to identify all sorts of stars and constellations.

Last but not least, was lunch along with a trip to the souvenier shop. Caroline used her allowance money to get herself a polished stone rock, and yet another, overpriced but adorable, stuffed cat!

ps--Caroline was not the "designated stirrer" so the girl in the photograph is a classmate.

Wednesday, January 18

I'm not a pig--really

Did you ever wonder what 10 years worth of dust would look like? I readily admit I'm no domestic diva, but I'm not gross either. My house is not usually a showroom, but for the most part it is generally tidy with not much more than a week's worth of dirt in most places ;) There is one exception to this rule though--the fan on my cathedral ceiling in the living room. For over a year now, I have been mulling over how to clean the 10 years worth of dirt that has built up on a fan that is totally out of reach. With John (my husband) not seeming at all stressed over this allergy-fest inducing item in our house, I have gone so far as to consider purchasing the "Little Giant" ladder that they infomercial on TV or even renting a scaffold to put between the 2 beams going through the living room.

On Monday, with the kids home for Martin Luther King Jr day, I was drifting around the house noticing all sorts of little things that had been bugging me. As I went downstairs from my balcony, I again noticed the ickiness of the ceiling fan that had been bothering me every time I descended to my bottom floor. I finally decided enough was enough, and took my life into my own hands. I went and got my Swiffer duster with extra-long extend-a-handle (I proudly admit I have every version of Swiffer ever made, although not all of them get regular use). I boldly stepped out on one of the beams crossing my living room ceiling (I can easily do this because John has never completed our stairway railing going to the second floor). I held on to the railing post and stretched my arm as far as possible and wa-la! It kind of reached the ceiling fan. I batted around, whacking at the fan, causing most of the dust to rain down on my carpet just from the flurry of activity.

I can now say that although the fan is not spic-and-span, you can't tell it from the naked eye looking from down below. The picture is a little sample of what had to be cleaned off my carpet after the job was done. And I didn't even sneeze!

Tuesday, January 17

Chapter # ?

This is chapter who knows how many in a story written by me. Hope you enjoy the adventure as much as I do.

Sunday, January 1

Profile Pic

This is me.