there's no place like home...where are my ruby slippers?

What do you get when you mix Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder with finding a toilet in your bedroom?

Oh, I dunno, shit for brains?

Behold the master bath:

The perils of remodeling.

Toto, I don't think all the Xanax in Kansas will get us through this...

help me

Okay this is really going to take some scraping of those pre-parenthood brain cells. You know, the ones who occupy that microscopic recess in the cob-webbed corner of your brain, hoping to be liberated some day, and burst forth with the vast knowledge they hold?

Yes those.

I'm about to call the mental hospital because I cannot remember a term from my political science class a couple years ago. It was two words, the second being rejoinder. I just can't conjure up the first word. I seems like it was at least three syllables, and my brain keeps leaning towards a c-word, but I'm not sure. The term is borne of a particular aspect of international relations, if that helps.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE someone know this word! I have read two textbook glossaries this morning (over 100 pages), and scoured the internet, which appears to be barren of variations of rejoinders. I pray to God I will not be forced to retake these classes at CCC, for reasons that most of you know. (He is not 87 Brandy!)

I only choose brilliant friends, so I expect a call soon!

pescacide

You'd never know it by looking at us, but we love to kill fish. Particularly sweet, innocent, 7-for-a-dollar goldfish purchased by our eager 8 year old, proudly, and with her own money. Our neighbors would tell you we are quiet, and keep to ourselves, and that aside from our egregiously neglected landscaping, we are normal folk. They'd be aghast to know that we have been flushing corpses by the dozen. It all started when Reilly caught some minnows in that sludge, er, pond at Wallace Marine Park, and brought one home. We were forced to house this rags-to-riches fishy, and Todd bought him a sweet little condo outfitted with many accoutrements. For all the lavishing, this silvery ingrate lasted about two weeks. To soothe Rei's ever-animal-loving heart, we bought what she calls, "like these weird red minnows," who also keeled over, one by one. Well, three by three, really. Next up were scads of guppies, too many to name, which is just as well since they were a really dysfunctional lot. The way Reilly remembers it, "Well, the dad died, and the lady at the pet store said it was because the mother annoyed him to death, so I bought another dad and he also died of annoyance. That's when the babies all died." I guess the mom croaked out of loneliness. I know what you're thinking, that we were careless in our treatment of these fish. Nothing could be further from the truth. Todd is meticulous in the maintenance of the tank, the pump, the lights. Hell he probably would have given these bastards full body massages if he could have caught them. It wasn't our fault.

With every death I suggested we throw in the towel and get the fucking obtuse tank off of my counter, but Rei would invariably come bounding in with fresh hope in a baggie. This is when she changed course and bought the seven goldfish. First I was really irritated at the arbitrariness of selling seven of something for a dollar. When I finally got over that, I hoped against hope that at least some of these little guys would survive our death chamber. Rei's favorites of these were Click and Fin. They outlived their tank mates by several weeks, but alas, just last Tuesday I found Rei sitting at the counter, by the tank of death, head in arms. Upon closer inspection, I saw that she was drawing a goodbye card for Click, shown above, who had croaked in the night. With tears in her eyes, she dated it and did her best to accept that we kill every fish that swims into our lives. Even the ones we name. We have one left, her beloved Fin, and I am absolutely dreading the moment that Fin becomes Finito. You know? What did we do wrong? We did everything by the book, tried several kinds of fish, food, etc., and still no dice. Did we miss something really obvious, like fish don't thrive in manufactured homes??? Ugh. As much as it's a part of life, and part of nature (in our case, science for the year, lol), I hate seeing Rei well up every other day. She's losing faith. I'm tempted to buy her a pony just to cheer her up. (Yes, of course it would be a Shetland Pony, what with our cramped living room.) Anyway, if anyone has any ideas, p-l-e-a-s-e let me know so I can put the kibosh on this serial killing.

This is Fin, and our tank of doom.

current blogosphere forecast...

Except of course in Adam's neck of the woods, which looks like this:


Let's get with it people, you do not want to see me mad.

no fair!

Reilly's lunch: Crepes. A decadent stretchy, flour-y, BUTTERY masterpiece with sugar on top! (Please note her Obama pin. She wears it every single day.)

Why God?

(Oh, in case you were wondering, I was left to eat a bag o'salad while gazing at her little piece of heaven.)

a toast

(That's a tiny roma tomato for perspective.)

As many of you know, B and I joined a gym recently, and have been working our asses off in hopes meeting a specific July weight goal. To augment this regimen, and in B's case, because of diabetes, we've sworn off all delicious-tasting food, in favor of low-carb, low-taste things such as hay and spinach. One thing I am allowed is a piece of Oroweat Best toast, with Adam's peanut butter, and a banana sliced on top. This has become a favorite of mine because, let's face it, bananas are sweet, and this option far outweighs the horse food cereal or a Kashi waffle rock with a drizzle of wanna-be maple syrup.

We've been working out every chance we get, and even got in some good time last night, dashing into the club at the last minute. I went to bed hungry and was really looking forward to my pb & banana toast this morning. So, imagine if you will, the depth of my sadness to discover that the shriveled-up grandma heel of bread was the only piece left. After I toasted it, and it shrank to half its size, I spread a teaspoon of pb on it, and then sliced eight pieces of banana onto it, whereas a normal slice of toast holds an entire banana. I sat down to eat and found myself glaring at this meager meal, but ultimately, ate it in one bite and began the countdown to lunch, which I might add, will be early today.

blockage

Saturdays have become the dustpan of my week, the day on which I attempt to take up the slack of neglected cleaning and schoolwork. I used to be very good at this, and had no trouble living up to my email address: lovetocleanup. For years I have sprung awake, turned on the painful-yet-motivating 80's pop, and shown this house who's boss. Later, when every surface was glistening and the smell of lemon-scented Lysol permeated the entire house, I would sit with Quinn and Reilly and tie up the loose ends of our school week. It was a wonderful routine, and I was the shining, lemon-scented star.

For reasons I do not know, I am currently suffering from the cleaner's version of writer's block. (As well as actual writer's block, as you are no doubt noticing.) I don't know where to start, or how to care. Our house has become Seussian in its disorder. We have lamps on amps (literally), 43-year-old boys with toys, Playmobil stables on tables, bags of rags, and the curtains are hurtin' for a cleaning. But I just can't. Everything is so precariously perched, it's impossible to wipe down a surface without sending 700 guitar magazines into the air. As most of you know, we are aiming to ditch this MFSH (mother-f-ing s*** hole) and get us some bigger, brighter digs this year. As such, I have completely disengaged from this house, except to hate it. Anyone can tell you that I am grossly exaggerating in every description, but that doesn't change the rage I feel when I see that Todd has stacked four amplifiers almost to the ceiling, or a week's worth of mail just as high, or that the kids have built an array of creations whose very survival dictates that they remain in our living room. I am also excessively fond of bags of shredded papers taking root by the laundry room door, every surface having become a veritable junk yard, and of course, the worthless leopard geckos who reside on my decorative table, looking smugly at me, knowing that the purpose of the table was to be bare. I could go on and on. Instead, I will try to re-channel my anger into productivity.

I'll start changing my email address to: whyshouldicleanthisfuckingplace.

Have a great weekend!