Construction Continues ...

We've had some action in the basement lately. Last time you saw it, the basement looked like this:

Okay, okay. First it looked like this …

… and then it looked like this.

Now it looks way different. Like, totally different. You won't even recognize the place. Look. We have light switches.

And lights.

And they work! I sincerely hope we, ahem, cover those bare bulbs though. It's kinda tough on the ol' eyeballs to look directly at bare bulbs.

There are no actual walls yet, but the framing is done.

And the air vents are installed. I was instrumental in this process. The HVAC guys absolutely could not have done it without me. It's true. My endless amount of construction knowledge (coupled with my ability to offer homemade cookies and bottles of water) made me a critical member of the team.

Now all we need is insulation, drywall, carpet, trim and a potty. So I guess what I'm saying is that the basement is still a long way from being completed, but it's closer to being finished than it was a month ago.

I'd like to think that is because of my vast knowledge of all things construction oriented and my willingness to help out.

Whether asked or not. Pin It Now!

Long Live The VW Bug

Picture it: October of 1988.

The hair was big. The jeans were acid wash. The shoes were high tops. The sunglasses were Wayfarers.

With palm trees painted on them.

Seriously.

Palm trees.

I was, in a nutshell, completely rad. 

More importantly, I got my first car.

Behold. Me and my 1976 VW Bug.

Wasn't she a real beaut? The classic Bug design. German engineering at it's finest really. I loved that car. We looked so good together. Sure she had no heat and you had to keep one foot on the gas at all times to keep the engine running, but she was so much fun.

Right now you are looking at these pictures and thinking 'Wow! What a total bad ass and her finely crafted, yet threatening, vehicle!'.

You'd be correct.

Seriously. Wouldn't you be intimated to see this bad boy come up in your rear view mirror?

Yeah. I thought so.

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Our Summer To Do List: A Comical Adventure

Friday marked the last day of school for my kids. I know, I know. Getting out of school for summer vacation before Memorial Day seems really early, but we're Hoosiers. We like getting out of school by the end of May.

Every year at the start of summer vacation, my husband has a mild freak out that the girls and I will waste the entire summer doing nothing because we can't think of anything better to do than watch a marathon of Dance Moms or Long Island Medium. Puh-leeze. Then (he fears), three days before school starts, we will think of one point five million fun things to do. But sadly, we won't have time to do them.

In an effort to not have the girls feel like they've wasted the summer, Friday night my husband insisted that they make a list of all the things they would like to do over summer vacation.

As in a formal list.

Like actually written down on paper.

With neat handwriting and numbered items.

And spaces to check off activities as we do them.

Good grief.

I think a written down, formal list is just this side of ridiculous. The girls think he is torturing them. But we obliged him.

I'm sure my husband was envisioning a list full of fun activities such as go to the park, eat a picnic lunch, or rollerskating. And I will admit the girl's list started out that way … until I stepped in with a suggestion. My suggestion was to have some serious items like hike on a trail and go to a drive-in movie and then veer off in the more comical direction.

Grow a beard may have been my first suggestion.

I might have pitched the idea of learning new swear words.

And I may have proposed the idea of using my husband's current favorite expression 'back in the day' into the conversation at least once a day.

My kids took the idea and ran with it. They added my suggestions and came up with more. I won't bore you with the entire eighty-four item list (eighty-four items because there are eighty-four days of summer vacation), but here are some highlights taken directly from their list:

4. Get a dog

11. Pretend to have a severe allergic reaction to showering

12. Build a time machine and travel back in time to see if Dad ever had to make a summer to do list

17. Freak mom out by laying in a ditch pretending to be dead

29. Paint Dad's toenails while he sleeps

40. Drive a fire truck

56. Have a totally chocolate dinner

63. Fart

68. Put goggly eyes on the people in the photos hanging up in the living room

77. Lift weights and get really buff like Larry the Lobster on Spongebob

82. Get matching duck tattoos (my personal favorite)

The girls handed my husband their list late Friday night. I was impressed because they handed it to him with completely straight faces and giving no indication that matching duck tattoos awaited him. I, on the other hand, started giggling and had to leave the room in order to not give anything away.

At first my husband was pleased … then he looked puzzled … then he laughed because it's hard to keep a straight face when envisioning your children nightly faking anaphylactic shock every time you tell them to get in the shower.

Here's to a great summer! Pin It Now!

Owing A Debt Of Gratitude For Indoor Plumbing

My throat hurts.

From screaming.

'Cause a bee flew in the car window this morning.

He didn't stay in the Honda for very long. He buzzed in. He buzzed out.

My screaming? Oh that went on for a mile or two. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm merely setting up the premise that situations like this are the main reason I'm not a big fan of nature.

And it's all Chuck the Plumber's fault that I was dealing with nature this morning.

I didn't want to leave my house this morning. I wanted to sit quietly and sift through all of the end of year, 'I cleaned out my desk/locker at school' papers that my children have brought home in the last few days. Instead, I had to leave my paper mess because Chuck the Plumber is here to do whatever it is that plumbers do to install a bathroom in a basement. Chuck the Plumber told me that he would need to shut off the water to the house for a few hours in order to move some pipes around downstairs.

Essentially, Chuck the Plumber has thrust me back to the era in which there was no running water in houses.

Back to a time when a flushing potty was just a glimmer in Thomas Crapper's eye.

Ew.

I am currently without water in my house and nothing, nothing makes me have to pee more than knowing I can't. Well, that and the fact that I've already downed about sixty-four ounces of water this morning. Oh I could trek outside to find a suitable tree or some corn stalks or something, but I really don't want to. A bee could sting me and that would not make my day very cheery.

Finding a tree isn't my only option, I suppose. I could drive into town to use a public restroom, but that would take at least half an hour round trip. Whilst in town, I'd probably decide to pop through the drive thru at McDonald's for a large Diet Coke and then I'd be in the same situation in an hour because I tend to be forgetful.

And I have a tiny, tiny bladder.

I'd hate to get home only to discover that my water is still shut off and nature was a callin' again. Geez Louise. What I wouldn't give to have a potty again.

Gotta be honest. Right now, I'm kinda jealous of Caroline Ingalls. At least she had an outhouse. Sure it didn't flush and probably smelled putrid, but at least she had a place to go. With a door to ensure some semblance of privacy. And keep out the bees of Walnut Grove.

I only have corn and it's currently about eight inches tall. Bees love it.

My point is this: I opted to zip into town for a quick-and-grody-but-still-better-than-bee-infested-corn bathroom break. Do you see the irony here people? I went into town to avoid nature and nature buzzed her way into the down window of my Honda.

Let's all say a silent prayer that Chuck the Plumber turns the water back on before my thirty-two ounce Diet Coke kicks in. Not sure I can brave another trip into town. Pin It Now!

Lovely

Carnations are lovely.

Simply lovely.

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What's In A Name?

My youngest daughter is a soccer player. Her team is coached by her dad and is comprised of pretty much the same set of players for the last six seasons. Since Coach Dad is a fairly laid back guy, he doesn't really care what name the girls choose to have printed on the backs of their team shirts. Just as long as they have something printed above their number.

For some reason, this year became the Year of the Nickname. Almost all twelve girls on the soccer team have decided to put a nickname on the back of their team shirt in lieu of their first or last name.

In my opinion, your nickname on a sports team of any kind should be intimidating. The nickname on the back of a team shirt should cause the opposing team to sit up and take notice. Put them on edge. Rethink their strategy. Cause them to worry or even doubt themselves. Shake their confidence a bit.

Mess with their heads.

Nicknames like Serial Killer or Psychotic Lunatic might be a bit over the top for an Under 10 girls soccer team, but I think Tormentor or Bulldozer are appropriate.

Maybe Bloodthirsty.

Merciless.

I could get on board with Flesh Eater.

Or Ferocious.

I like Biter.

Yeah, I like Biter a lot.

Undertaker.

Perhaps Leg Breaker.

Demonic.

Medieval.

Even Crazy Legs is good.

At the very least, Impolite.

Or Colors Outside The Lines.

You know, real intimidating stuff. Stuff that messes with the minds of the opposing teams. Psychological warfare and all.

I think the name on the back of a team shirt sets the tone for the games.

My soccer player totally has this figured out. She knew exactly what nickname to put on the back of her shirt to make sure all the other players both feared and respected her …

… Smiley.

She's Smiley because the print shop couldn't do her first choice of :D.

Just messes with your head, doesn't it? Pin It Now!

Know What I Find Interesting? Piano Innards

Wednesday afternoon I made a new friend, Milo. Milo works for the local music company that tunes pianos as well as restores them and he came out to my house. Isn't Milo the most perfect name for a guy in the music business?

And hons, Milo is an absolute fountain of piano knowledge. We chatted for at least twenty minutes, from tuning forks to brands of pianos to the percentage of Americans in the 1920s who played a musical instrument.

Forty-eight percent, by the way. Almost half of all Americans during the 20s played a musical instrument. I bet about that many women wore those dresses with row upon row of that nifty fringe on them, too. Milo didn't care to make a wager on the fringe dresses thing, but I'm getting off topic here.

Milo was at my house to tune the piano and (here is where the plot thickens) he tuned this very piano back in 1989. Milo took one look at the brand name of the piano, whipped up the top lid and hollered 'This piano was serviced in 1989 by my company … oh look at that. I tuned this very piano in 1989. There's the date and my code.'

I tossed out my trademark intellectual response  of 'Wow! That's pretty cool.' and then followed up with the equally as brainy comment 'I almost didn't recognize you without your mullet and skinny tie'.

Wisely ignoring my statement, Milo told me that my piano was actually made in my hometown. It was made by hand in the same shop of the company which employs Milo today. In a world where fewer and fewer items are locally made, I think that's a pretty peachy concept.

More importantly, it's good to know that if one of those skinny legs in the front of the piano ever snaps off, I can get a replacement leg in a brief, twenty-five minute drive downtown. Then I can say hey to Milo, too.

'Cause I know he misses me pestering him with all sorts of questions about piano innards.

I find piano innards fascinating.

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ABBA Probably Saved My Life

Yesterday morning, I summoned up all my courage and went for a run outside.

Yep.

Outdoors.

Alone.

By myself.

With only the wilderness and psycho perverts driving Camrys for company.

Gulp.

I did what I always do in this type of situation: I texted a description of my outfit to my husband. You know, just in case the police ask what I was wearing when I disappeared. I watch Dateline. I know how these things work.

I may be way off base here, but I believe my husband is poking fun at my choice of outfit. I agree. Not everyone can pull off an outfit comprised of lavender, black, turquoise, and lime green, but … well. Okay. He has a point. It wasn't my best look.

Nothing out of the ordinary occurred on the first mile and a half. I was very much into a la-de-de, la-de-da, just minding my own business, listening to 70s music kind of a place. Then BAM! Out of nowhere a rather large deer came leaping across the road right in front of me. Almost took me out, too.

Seriously. I could have died.

Side note: After wrestling the deer to the ground and escaping from his evil clutches, I ran my fastest three-quarters of a mile back to my house ever. Yay me!

Upon arriving home, I texted my husband so he could stop worrying about my safety and well being. I know he sits at his desk at work and stresses out because I'm alone in the wilderness and could be attacked by a psycho pervert in a Camry or a coyote at any moment.

At least, that's how I picture him.

My husband has yet to text me back. I'm pretty sure he's busy thanking his lucky stars for ABBA. ABBA probably saved my life. Pin It Now!

True Art Has A Price … And It's $65

Saturday I found myself wandering around an antiques store. Generally speaking, I avoid antiques stores because they smell weird and stuff is stacked from floor to ceiling. Stuff precariously stacked that high awakens some kind of normally dormant claustrophobia in me. I imagine the stuff falling on me, causing certain death. I'd really hate for my cause of death to be listed as 'blunt force trauma to the head likely caused by repeatedly being whacked with a vast collection of old egg beaters and folding yardsticks'.

Weird smell and claustrophobia aside, I browsed around this antique store for quite a while. Actually, it was about twenty minutes. But look at all the treasures I found.

A semi-beautiful swan … thing? 

Wait. What is it? A lamp? A sculpture? Some one's project from Ceramics 101 in college?

Oh. Yep. There it is. A switch.

This bad boy is definitely a lamp. Too bad the switch is located in the swan's heinie. That's just not right.

The swan lamp was marked at $65. I passed. Although I enjoy a good table lamp as much as the next person, anything north of twenty bucks for illuminating swan art is too steep for me.

I was in the basement of the antiques store when I saw something else that spoke to me.

According to the tag, it's a Joe Dirt Lead Foot. According to me, it needs to become the new gas pedal for my Honda. Pronto. According to my husband, for $65 it needs to stay on the shelf.

As I was pouting over the price tag on the foot pedal, I saw something truly amazing that spoke to me. I'll bet you can guess which item hanging on the wall I felt the need to own.

A red wooden guitar shaped clock with a picture of Elvis from his Aloha From Hawaii tour? Yes, please.

Listen up. Hons, that is true art. Museum quality art.

Like the swan heinie lamp and the gas pedal, the Elvis guitar had a $65 price tag.

I'm not entirely sure what's up with that, but apparently true art has a price tag … and it's $65. Pin It Now!

Two, Two, Two Stories In One

Yesterday afternoon I was chatting on the phone with Tata. Since she despises the telephone almost as much as I do, this conversation was both a rare and delightful occasion. Naturally, the subject of my basement came up.

T: So how's the construction going?
Me: Good. It's kinda weird to have people in the basement while I'm upstairs. It makes taking a shower really uncomfortable.
T: Why? Are you afraid they can look up the drain pipe and see you?
Me: NO! Well ... I am now.

T laughs at my discomfort. Of course. She finds my discomfort and/or embarrassment absolutely hilarious.

Me: I figured if ever my tub was going to go crashing through the floor with me in it, it would happen when the construction dudes were in my basement. I'm not sure that's a bad thing. On the one hand, I'm naked, probably have shampoo in my eyes, and have just fallen through the floor into a basement full of men. I'd could quite easily die of embarrassment. On the other hand, I could quite easily, you know, die if I ever fall through the floor. I will need medical attention or, at the very least, someone to call 911. So it might actually be very good timing to have the floor give way while I'm in the shower and there are construction dudes in my basement.
T: … I suppose pooping is out of the question for you until construction is over.

I may never use my bathroom again.


                                                                                              

Completely unrelated the bathroom story, there were a couple of leaks in the walls of the basement. We've had them fixed before, but apparently the person who 'fixed' them was a complete nimrod and didn't do it correctly. Today a lovely non-nimrod guy named Marty correctly fixed the leaks.

Okay. To be completely honest, he did the first step of a two step process. The second step will be completed on Monday. I know this because Marty very patiently explained it to me.

Fixing the leaks required drilling into the concrete and squirting some type of something into the drilled holes that expands and fills in any other cracks.

Did you catch that? The phrase squirting some type of something? See how much I'm learning about construction? I should get my own crew soon.

Getting the leaks fixed properly is fantastic. I was upstairs during the fixing and I noticed a familiar odor emanating from the basement. The scent was one that I have not smelled in quite a long time. It was definitely from my childhood, which meant it could be Love's Baby Soft, Taco Bell, or … a perm.

That's it! Whatever is wafting up from my basement reeks of an Ogilvie home perm!

Kinda makes me wonder exactly what the construction guys are doing down there.

I can not wait to smell what the second step in this two step leak fixing process is! I'm hoping for more smells from my childhood. Maybe it will smell like Aqua Net. Or a strawberry scratch-n-sniff sticker. Fingers crossed it smells like Fruit Stripe gum. Now that would be awesome. Pin It Now!

Apparently I Have No Construction Skills

Today is a happy day - the construction dudes are at my house to start on the basement. They were supposed to start last week, but it had been raining and they couldn't do much with the ground being soggy.

Huh? What? Umm … hello? The basement is inside, so what difference does it make if the ground outside is soggy? I like to think I know a little bit about construction and the wonderful thing about working inside is that the weather outside is completely irrelevant.

Oh, and by 'knowing a little bit about construction', I mean I've been dragged against my will by my husband to a lumber yard. The yard also had some nails. And I've watched HGTV for years. I can pretty much (in my head) build anything. That is the extent of my construction knowledge base.

According to the contractor, the trucks delivering equipment and supplies need the ground to be firm in order to park in the yard. Oh, they're not parking for parking's sake. They are delivering heavy … I don't know … stuff and they don't want to have to carry it very far.

Hence the parking job.

I offered my assistance more than once to the construction dudes. I boasted a bit about my ability to measure once and cut twice, you know, just to be sure you're doing it right. Then I went 'heh heh … I meant measure twice and cut once'. They politely declined my help after that faux pas.

And once they learned that my construction knowledge is based solely on reruns of Trading Spaces, HGTV, and one trip to a lumberyard that also carried some nails.

What can I say? Some of us are more visionaries than actual doers. Clearly, I'm neither. BUT I do make a mean chocolate chip cookie and I can sing along (off key) to almost every song on the radio, no matter what the station is. I believe those are valuable skills necessary for building a basement.

They disagreed. I was politely asked to leave the basement. Again.

After being here for almost ninety minutes, two things have happened. One: some measurements were taken and not by me.

And two: the basement door was taken off its hinges and became a coat rack.

Now the construction dudes are gone. At first, I thought maybe they had gone to lunch. Then I realized that it wasn't quite 10:30 in the morning. I have no idea where they are or what their plans for this afternoon are.

I sincerely hope that they do not need my assistance this afternoon because I will not be home. I will be where I now believe that I will be most helpful: shopping for new linens and towels at Macy's. Pin It Now!

Adding Burnt Orange Subarus To My List Of 'Things I Fear When Running Outside'

It was chilly this morning, about 57 degrees. There was a slight fog in the air. After I had run a few errands (including a trip to my beloved Target), the sun had come out and warmed the place up a bit. I don't quite know what got into me on my drive home, but I decided to do my morning run outside instead of on the treadmill in my basement.

You remember me running outside, right? I will sum it up by saying that I have a healthy fear of both zombies and perverts. And I've added coyotes into the mix as well. Running alone on a quasi-deserted road does not sound appealing to me, but like I said earlier, I don't quite know what got into me.

As per my norm, I texted my husband that I was going outside to run.

He, as per his norm, did not respond. However, I'm ninety-nine percent sure that he did an eye roll at work upon reading my message.

Deciding that I needed music to accompany me outside, I opted to borrow my husband's arm band/iPhone holder thingy to hold my phone instead of trekking all the way down to the basement for my adorable hot pink iPod. I've never used his arm band thingy before, but I wanted to be sure that it would fit snugly on my arm. I'd be really bummed if my phone flew out of the holder thingy, landed on the road and shattered into 1.5 million pieces because it wasn't securely fastened to my puny totally ripped and buff bicep.

The thought of my phone smashing to the ground bothered me enough that I repeatedly tightened the arm band during my five minute warm up. I didn't realize how much I had tightened it until my right arm started to feel all weird and tingly. It felt like when you get your blood pressure checked and the nurse is just squeezing the cuff tighter and tighter until you are positive that your arm is going to be squeezed right off of your body. Then she lets up on the pressure, smiles, and says to you that your blood pressure is normal and would you like some Band-Aids from where you dug your fingernails into your own hand?

Once I let up on the holder thingy, the feeling returned to my right arm and once again peace returned to my universe.

All in all, I have to say that it was a rather uneventful run. At one point the Schwan's ice cream delivery truck passed me. Bet it was funny to see me run after it.

Oh, and some complete whack-a-do in a burnt orange Subaru darn near plowed into me because she was texting and driving. People. Do not text and drive. You just might plow into some unsuspecting, slightly chubby, very sweaty gal on her daily run. She will put a serious dent in the front of your Subaru, man.

I take two things away from the Subaru experience. One: it pays to be alert. Two: I must now add 'whack-a-dos in burnt orange Subarus' to my list of things to fear when running outside.

The treadmill in the basement is rather boring, but that is where you will find me tomorrow morning. No one ever died from zombies, perverts, coyotes, or burnt orange Subarus down there.

I think. Pin It Now!

Indy Mini Marathon

Saturday was the Indianapolis 500 mini marathon in (of all places) Indianapolis. It is the largest mini marathon in the nation with 35,000 participants and I, naturally, won the race! Exciting news, no? Yep, I ran the entire 13.1 mile race in (are you ready for this?) an hour and five minutes.

You may congratulate me now. And shower me with praises, roses, and/or cash.

I ran my little heart out to come in at 1:05.08. That's a crazy good time. Here is the official photo of my finish.

http://www.500festival.com/news/two-new-faces-finish-first-2012-oneamerica-500-festival-mini-marathon

I'm the one in the middle, raising my arms in victory. You've always pictured me to be a slightly doughy Midwestern woman with an aversion to physical work, haven't you? To that I say HA! I'm actually a very toned twenty-seven year old man from Kenya with seriously jazzy running shoes. My shoes matched my running shirt because I'm all about being fashionable when I run.

And I totally rocked this race.

No. Not really. The photo is of George Towett, the real winner. He totally rocked this race. Good job George! He reads my blog, you know. Faithfully. Every day.

No. Not really. I'm not big in Kenya. Or Kentucky where George now lives.

This year I had several friends running in the mini. I'm not sure why.

Did they not realize that the race is 13.1 miles long? Didja hear me, people? Thirteen point one miles. Miles, people, miles. How could all of my friends have overlooked this fact? It truly boggles the mind, doesn't it?

Let me be blunt: I don't even like to ride in the car for 13.1 miles and 35,000 people ran or walked this distance Saturday. On purpose.

Know what I think? I think 35,000 people were high this weekend in Indianapolis.

Obviously.

All kidding aside, I would like to give a sincere congratulations to every person who walked, ran, wheeled or mamboed their way across the finish line on Saturday. My hat is off to you all. 13.1 miles is incredibly impressive.

Who knows? Perhaps next year I will be one of the 35,000 participants showing off major running skills, a perfectly toned bod and snazzy shoes that match my shirt.

Nope. Not gonna happen. Pin It Now!

Replacing the Batphone? Well, Maybe ...

Just when I thought my life couldn't possibly get any cooler, my husband texted me a photo of the following product: a cordless handset for my iPhone.

A Batphone without the cord.

Without the cord, people.

No. Cord.

Ta da!

I know what you're thinking: 'Holy cordless handset, Batman!' And you'd be correct.

Pin It Now!

My Thoughts On The Godfather Part II

A few weeks ago, I checked another movie off of my Must See list: The Godfather Part II. I know, I know. It was a few weeks ago. But I've been mulling over this post since then. Why have I been stewing about my thoughts for a few weeks? Because The Godfather Part II is both a sequel and a prequel and it took me a while to wrap my brain around it.

To be completely honest, I wanted to watch the movie again before I wrote this post. Sadly, the video store hasn't had a copy in stock to rent at the same time that I have a three hour, uninterrupted stretch of time to watch Part II. Realizing that it might be months before I have a three hour, uninterrupted stretch of time, I figured that it would be better to get my thoughts about Part II out there before I forgot all the good stuff.

I thoroughly enjoyed The Godfather, which automatically made me suspicious of The Godfather II. I wasn't convinced that Part II would be as fabulous as Part I. Sequels are a dicey business, my friends. I give you Teen Wolf Too as an example: it's not nearly as good as the original Teen Wolf. And interestingly enough, The Godfather Part III shows up on virtually every Worst Sequels Ever Made list. My point is this: my expectations were low for The Godfather II. Very, very low. That being said, I think I liked it.

A brief synopsis: Part II tells the story of how both Michael and his father (Vito) became Dons and their respective Godfather-ships. Does that make sense? Any sense at all? Can you follow my story description? Frances Ford Coppola tells the story better than I do.

Obviously.

He won awards for telling this story. I've never won any awards for telling a story, but my 'lively' cover letter got me a job interview that eventually led to my teaching gig at the local community college. But I digress.

There are four things that struck me after watching Part II.

1. After hearing about Vito's childhood in Italy, I totally get the giant chip on his shoulder. First off (spoiler alert), his dad is murdered, his brother is killed during his dad's funeral, AND his mom calls him dumb-witted. Yeesh. That's enough to honk anybody off. It's no wonder that he sailed off to America to lead a life of crime and make people offers they couldn't refuse.

2. Diane Keaton's eyebrows distracted me throughout most of the movie. Seriously. Couldn't take my eyes off of 'em. Love Diane, but those brows were totally tweezed off and then drawn back on with a pencil or something. Google it. You'll be amazed.

3. During a meeting in Cuba, a gold phone is presented to the Cuban dictator. I instantly fell in love with the gold phone and my love is so deep that I'd almost be willing to trade my Batphone for it. A gold phone is so going on my birthday list.

4. I kept wondering where Cheech was in Part II. Cheech did not make an appearance. Phooey. Instead, Peter Clemenza was played by that guy who was in 'City Slickers' with Billy Crystal.

To recap: I think I liked Part II. It's really difficult to not like a movie that features a gold phone. And, you know, tells the back story to The Godfather while at the same time continuing the plot. Not once did I have the urge to throw my Snuggie over my head and that's considered high praise for movies on my Must See list. Pin It Now!

Basement Chronicles: The Omitted Conversation

I pride myself on my journalistic integrity, which is interesting because I've never taken a journalism class in my life and I (admittedly) on occasion tend to … ahem … enhance the truth to suit my needs. Sometimes enhancing the truth means omitting stuff altogether, particularly the parts of a story in which I come off looking really bad.

Take last night's conversation for example. Evidently, I took some liberties with the 'cleaning out the basement' episode on my blog.

Husband: I read yesterday's blog post about the basement.

Me: Really?

Husband: Yep. It was pretty good, but you made some omissions.

Me: Omissions? Really? I thought I pretty much covered everything.

Husband: You neglected to write about how you flopped on the couch after lunch and refused to go back to the basement until all the work was done, including hanging drywall, laying carpet, and arranging furniture.

Me: Hmm … I don't remember that happening.

Husband: Also, there was no mention of you clutching the couch cushion for dear life when I tried to drag you off of it to finish helping.

Me: You know, you really shouldn't go around dragging people off of furniture. It's rude. Besides, you totally interrupted my much needed nap.

Husband: Much needed nap? What?! We had only been downstairs working for an hour.

Me: True. But I was doing mental as well as physical work. And everybody knows that it's the mental stuff that wears a body out.

Husband: What mental work? It was all physical labor, if you can call pushing a couch twenty feet physical labor.

Me: Well, you didn't see me cross both arms and blink really hard while nodding my head a la Jeanie from 'I Dream of Jeanie'. I was trying to get the whole job done in less than a second. A nanosecond really. That's total mental work.

Husband: Oh, it's mental all right.

Me: And I did a lot of trying to move stuff using only the power of my mind. Total telekinesis, baby.

Husband: And how did that go?

Me: Not well. I need to work on harnessing my mental powers. That's what I was doing on the couch - harnessing my mental powers. It just looks like napping to the untrained eye.

Husband: You know I'm not buying this, right?

Me: Sigh. I know. It would make my life so much easier if you did.

Husband: And you already admitted to napping.

Me: It would make my life so much easier if you weren't so danged logical.


To recap: I did not enjoy cleaning out the basement and I made several attempts to avoid having to do actual work, including having a death grip on the couch cushions, channeling Barbara Eden, and telekinesis. Nothing worked. The basement got cleaned out and now, even though I come off looking pathetic, you all know the whole story. My journalistic integrity is still completely intact. Pin It Now!