How to Build a Trampoline

Step 1: Move the gargantuan box from the porch out to the lawn. Approximate distance: 900 feet.

Step 2: Remember to hold on to box while listing to the left so it doesn't fall off the dolly.

Step 3: Open box, remove pieces. Complain about how trampolines aren't as easy to put together as they were 20 years ago. Gasp with the realization that you are now old enough to use phrases like that.

Step 4: Grunt, groan and cuss out trampoline. Sweat and pull a muscle. Hit metal frame with spring. Jump aside as it comes back to hit you. Select one amazing swear word and use it.

Step 5: Drag trampoline all over 6 acres trying to find a single level spot. Swear some more. Make mental note to go to church more often.

Step 6: Beat kids to trampoline and yell that they can't have a turn until you're done. Make mental note to get a grip. Or some Xanax.

Notice the pissed-off  9 in the background.

Step 7: Proceed to do unintentional flips and extra high jumps. Flop backwards and hit self in face with own hand.

 

 Ow.

 

Step 8: Remove self from trampoline like a crab. 

Step 9: Watch kids jump and enjoy themselves. Reminisce with sister about good old days before backaches and broken hands.

Anything missing here?

Apparently, I'm still waiting for y'all to find Eloquence's Facebook page on your own.

Would anybody like a link?

Sweet. It just so happens that I can do that for you.

https://www.facebook.com/ASmatteringLackOfEloquence

Sorry about that. My thoughts are somewhat incomplete these days.

I'm Branching Out

I have done something terrible.

Actually, I've done all kinds of terrible things, but most recently, like within the last day, I have taken myself to Facebook and created a page for Eloquence.

I KNOW.

Like I need another place to abuse proper punctuation and sentence structure.

Sometimes, I just want to write a sentence or two about something funny, but it's not necessarily enough to blog about.

Plus, I think everyone knows how much time I spend on Facebook anyway. (Really, I wonder if I should have created some kind of self-help page instead of taking Eloquence over there.)

Feel free to come on by and check it out. "Like" the page if you want and then you'll automatically know when I've written about some new crazy adventure I've experienced without having to type in all those letters in the web address.

Really, I'm just thinking about you.

Also? I have joined The Twitter. Uh... really I have no idea what I'm doing on that thing, but Facebook suggested it so naturally I hopped on over and made a mess of that as well.

I don't really even know how to use it.

But I think you can find me under @noeloquence

If not, meh. No big loss.

See you all over the internet, apparently.

Migration of a Nation

The League met last night.

There's me! Kinda.

Between the four of us girls we managed to knock back four bottles of wine, two bottles of champagne and half a bottle of tequila. We were obviously in fine form.

I've never mentioned mine and Elle's love for tacky flamingo's, but just know that we love those ugly little one-legged hawks.

Our neighbor that lives on the corner recently acquired a girl friend. And with her came a flock of plastic pink flamingo's. I guess. I dunno; they just showed up one night. There's about ten or twelve of them just littering his yard.

Whomever did this? My new hero.

Anyway, last night someone suggested stealing the birds. I think it was Rawr.


Me: Uh, HELLO. Bad idea? I'm not going to jail for that. I have no make-up on and my mug shot would look like crap.

Elle: LET'S DO IT!

Me: Shut up, Elle. We're not stealing them.

Shenanigan: [blank stare, probably wondering what in the crap she's gotten herself into]

Rawr: [surfing youtube for 80s music, oblivious]

Me: Let's go move them around his yard instead.

Elle: YES! MORE WINE! OH! AND BATTLE FORMATIONS!


Elle always yells when she drinks.


So that is how, at midnight, the four of us ended up donning black hoodies and running down the street and into our neighbor's yard to rearrange his flock of plastic birds.

 A very blurry shot of Shenanigan assisting in the migration

Elle's formation. I have no idea what they are doing. Personally, I felt that we should have arranged them in a big cluster, staring at his door.

Rawr had mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear AFTER everything was said and done to inform us that her husband had watched the neighbor pull up in his truck mere minutes before we descended upon his yard.

Which means he was probably watching us from the window.

Which means when we go back tonight to arrange them again, he may be waiting for us.

Playing Games

Scene: My living room. It is just before 8am. My 10 is trying to get the Wii remote to sync with the console. Cords, remotes, batteries and game cases are spread everywhere. Having no luck, 10 has asked me to assist. 

Me: Buddy, did you check the connection?

10: Yeah. I checked everything. I pushed the sync buttons a couple times.

Me: [fiddling with buttons and cords] Um... [pushing everything all at once] Hm. Nothing is happening.

10: Can we call Dad?

Me: NO. Ahem. No. I can do it.

10: [eyeing me] How long before we can call Dad?

Me: I CAN DO IT.

Cut to ten minutes later. Laptop is open to three different sites detailing "Ways to sync your Wii console to your remote."

Me: So you push this.... and hold this... [concentrating] and then.... nothing. 

10: [blinks]

Me: UGH. [walks over to Wii console] Why does everything have to be so diffic-- AAAAAAAAAGH!!

This is where I will leave out the horrifying screams, the swearing (because there was a LOT of it) and the hopping around on one foot while blood sprayed everywhere.

For I had punctured my little toe with a broken Pick-Up Stick.

Apparently, some little jerk-face had broken one in half and thrown it to the ground where it became embedded in the living room rug. Who knows how long the Stick had lain there, just waiting for a sock-covered foot to come along where it could strike at the last moment and plunge itself into the tiny spot between my little toe and the pad of my foot.

And stay there.

Peeps, I had to pull it out. Like, 1/4 of an inch of it was in my toe. Which doesn't seem like a lot, you know? But it is. Trust me.

I gushed blood all over the hardwoods while my 10 brought me tiny pieces of tissue. I tried not to snap at him because, after all it wasn't his fault. Or was it.

Me: Honey, do you think you could just grab the whole box? I can't really walk without getting blood on the rug and floors.

10: [watching the blood pool on the floor with a sick look on his face] Uhhh...

Me: DO NOT FAINT. I need more tissues.

Just then, my 5 pipes up from the edge of the room where apparently she'd been watching this entire fiasco unfold.

5: MEDIC! [starts laughing]

I use that word when the little kids get boo-boos. I've always meant it as a joke and it seemed to calm the kids down when Elle and I would act out a Civil War Scene by calling for more bandages, pain killers and a hack saw. Maybe not that last part, but you get it, right?

It's not as humorous in the heat of the moment as I'd imagined.

I cleaned up my wound, mopped up the blood and got myself a band-aid (which was pretty reassuring because I could have sworn that I would need surgery based on the pain scale alone)

Me: [dumping all remotes on couch] Call your dad.

Shake it like you mean it

My 9 has been sick since Friday. I had to pick her up early from school because she had a fever. All weekend she's been lethargic and laying around the house half asleep.

Just now, I was watching her as she lay on the couch. She was shaking her head from side to side ever so slightly. Worrying that maybe her fever has increased and now she needs medical attention, I reached for the phone as I questioned her.

Me: 9? [thinking she's experiencing a seizure] What are you doing? Are you okay?

9: [continues to shake head and smiles] I'm trying something.

Me: Such as...

9: I'm trying to see if I can feel my hangie-ball thing move in the back of my throat.

Me: [shaking my own head from side to side] Nope.

9: Nope. [in rapid succession] How much was this couch? Where did you buy it? Why does it feel like this? MOM?

Omigawd, I think she DOES need help.

Where the heck is it?

Are you allowed to use the internet to complain about a certain delivery service that happens to be a government agency, the name of which rhymes with Toast Office? Because I want to.

Normally, when I get mad I like to talk about how I'm going to get even with the person who hath wronged me.

I'll say things like:

• Elle, now that you ate the last of the ice cream I will have to puree your face.
• Also, Elle. Just because you said you were having ooey gooey feelings of happiness today doesn't mean you need to come in my room and rub them all on me. BTW, earlier when you asked if your face was too tan? I lied. You look like you hail from Mexico.
• Which one of you broke my favorite toothbrush? Because now it's shaped like a shiv and do you KNOW WHAT THEY USE SHIVSS FOR?

That last one was directed at my parents, not my kids. I'm not an animal, guys. 

Seeing as how there are all KINDS of jokes regarding people at this particular Office going, shall we say, postal, I will refrain from getting myself arrested or having my papers delivered in shreds because I shot off at the mouth.

But, I can explain why I'm mad, right?

Last month, Rawr and I were both plopped on my couch discussing our albino complexions. Living in the Pacific Northwest means that the sun comes out every three years and only for about five minutes, then it shoots away into another solar system never to be seen again.

Layman's terms: It rains a whole effing lot here.

Rawr has some kind of super-freak Tan Gene that allows her to turn a nice bronze color just by stepping out onto her porch. I, on the other hand, am a red head and my skin is allergic to sunlight.

Remember my Bridesmaid responsibility in a few weeks? Yeah. Deep purple dress on blue-white skin. I'm going to look like a bruise.

Rawr told me about a Bronzer Oil Tan Thingie that she uses and so I said to myself, Screw this, I'm going to try some!

We won't talk about my taking a week to order it because I already had some lotion that is supposed to give your skin a tint and I wanted to try that first. Forward two days later: I looked like the love child of Casper the Ghost and an Umpa Loompa. Very stripey.

So, I broke down and ordered the stuff, it shipped, Rawr and I checked the confirmation number on the website and on the day it declared my package Delivered! she and I turned to each other in confusion.

Me: [staring at the screen. Walking to front door, looking at stoop] Uh, I see nothing. Where is my crap?

Rawr: Probably delivered to the cul-de-sac.

Me: Oh. Where the Stealers and Liars live. Sweet.

(Stealers and Liars- Whole. Other. Post.) What is SUPER awesome is that some idiot contractor or street-namer or politician labeled my road as Street. The cul-de-sac behind us has the same street name, but is labeled as Way. An added bonus would be recycling the exact same house numbers.

So, if you're following along, the folks on my street have the exact same address as the people on the street behind us, only one is Street and the other is Way. Follow?

So we're always getting each others mail. Or stealing it, right Elle?

I'm going to cut out a whole lot of junk details and just tell you guys that after calling the USPS, we discovered that my package had been delivered to my California address. We'll skip over the part where I haven't ordered from Ebay in years and when I recently logged in and ordered said item, I changed my billing address but not my delivery address. Oops.

Fear not, for I have a change-of-address still in effect because of my recent (as of ten months ago) move. So, the package should have been forwarded to me at my new address. Or, the package should have been returned to the sender, which is was not. The USPS worker I spoke with on the phone confirmed that one or the other of these actions should have been taken.

I've spoken to the same woman each time I call and she keeps giving me the run-around. At the end of each phone call she promises me that someone will call me back by the end of the following day. No one ever does. This has been going on for a month.

Tonight I called the 800 number and presented myself in a very cave lady-like manner. I'm not proud of it, but I was pretty pissed off, and all I got was a new case number. And a promise that someone will return my call the following business day. It's a good thing that I was alone when that happened. No one likes to witness Sailor Swearing.

So. As of this day forward, I refuse to use the United States Postal Service. I'm cancelling my mail and will only be receiving correspondence via carrier pigeon. I will no longer smile at my postal worker and I will fax everything else to where it needs to go. 

This is pretty much 100% fool proof.

Stupid Ebay. Stupid Scandinavian Skin!

Stupid address.

Heart Attacks; not just for the unhealthy

The other day, Rawr and I were outside sitting on the porch while keeping an eye on the younger brood while they drew all over the driveway with sidewalk chalk.

Rawr's ten year old daughter is quite artistic with using chalk as a medium. If she ever gets jumped into a street gang I can already tell who the tagger for the group will be.

Rawr's thirteen year old son and my ten year old son were walking back and forth between houses with my 10s Science Encyclopedia. My 10 is infatuated with subjects like Science and Space. He loves encyclopedias and other stuff that makes me feel dumb for harboring a terrible addiction to novels instead of any actual information that would make me smarter.

The boys were looking a bit secretive about the whole encyclopedia thing, but I didn't think much of it. I've thumbed through it before and I know there is a bunch of information on animals, insects, space and the like.

I was talking to Rawr when all of a sudden Rawr and I both became acutely aware of the boys' conversation that was taking place not three feet from us.

The boys had the book open and were showing it to their younger sisters (ages 10 and 9).

Rawr's 13: See? It shows all about how babies are made.

My 10: Yeah. Look at it.

Me: [seizures, heart attack]

Rawr: [eyeing me warily] What are you freaking out about, you fool?

Rawr's 13: Ovaries, uterus, cervix, vagi--

Me: STOP. STOP NOW.

You are all going to judge me, and that's okay. But I haven't exactly explained all of that baby-making stuff to my 10 because he's never showed any interest. I did try to bring it up a few years ago but he was disgusted so I stopped.

He's going to be in sixth grade next year, which puts him in middle school, so I know that we need to discuss it soon. But given my (former) Mormon upbringing, I have this super-prude sense of morality and taboo subjects and everything like that gives me HIVES just thinking about it.

My 5, on the other hand, likes to talk about it ALL THE TIME.

I've given her just enough information to satisfy her curiosity because she is at the stage where she will tell complete strangers very unnecessary details of our lives. Like the time she told the lady at Costco that we buy a lot of coffee because Mommy drinks too much. I had to clarify that I drank a lot of coffee but I'm not sure the lady believed me.

My 9, on the other hand, is completely oblivious to everything. She is exactly like I was at her age, so I kind of feel like I have some massive insight to how she functions. Which is good for now, and if she continues to be my mini-me, may God have mercy on my soul over the next ten years. And thanks, Dad, for putting that curse on me when I was twelve ("I hope you have a daughter just like you").

I've tried to let my kids know that they can ask me about anything, and when they do, I like to think that my face remains unchanged while inside, my organs are vomiting on each other.

I wish these little dweebs would stay young and innocent forever. 

It Was Hot

I hope everyone enjoyed their weekend. Rawr, Elle and I made it to church, which was a first for me in the last five months, so there's that. I wasn't entirely sure that the pastor even remembered me.

Rawr and I decided to take advantage of the 85 degree weather today by wearing sun dresses and pretending that this weather was going to last long enough for our stores of Vitamin D to be replenished before being sucked back into three more months of never-ending rain.

I seldom wear dresses, but being inspired by Rawr and her sense of style (and also maybe a little bit by Elle and her statement that I dress like the frigid Ice Queen from the Land of Prude), I stuffed my sense of morality and chose a dress that was a little more low cut than I am used to. Like, I had to sew some of the bodice together because no one should show that much front.

Clothing adjusted, Rawr and I decided to throw caution to the wind and walk to a small park about 3/4 of a mile from our neighborhood.

Which is always a fantastic idea with five kids under the age of five.

About a block away, one of them started the whole, "My leg hurts. I can't walk. I'm tired/thirsty/having a panic attack because no one will stop at that convenience store and buy me a soda pop that I'm already not allowed to drink but I keep asking for it anyway."

My 5 decided to take on the role of Mother to all of the children by barking out orders and criticisms at a deafening level.

5: NEGOMI! STOP WALKING LIKE THAT. You could DIE!

Negomi: Lemme 'lone, 5. You're not the boss a' me!

5: LISTEN TO ME!

And so on.

We eventually made it to the park where the kids all complained because some a-hole hung the swings up so high that even I, at 5'10 (height, not weight), needed a step stool to get onto, and then they proceeded to claim amnesia when it came to maintaining their swinging.

PUSH ME! HIGHER. NOW LADY! I'M SLOWING DOWN. YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG! Hey. Where are you going?

Two of the kids got picked up by their mom while we were still at the park, which kind of calmed things down a bit.

Losing them made the return trip a bit easier because I could put the two older girls in the wagon and Rawr and I were saved the experience of After Park Sniveling about who's turn it was to walk on the walk home. Having to haul eighty pounds of preschoolers in the wagon, I was the one who wanted to complain. It took me using both hands to move that sucker as I made a mental note to reduce their diet to kiwi and bottled water.

Halfway home, Rawr and I were sweaty, cranky and tired. I was sick of having to adjust the top of my dress because I felt like I was flashing everyone, and judging by the looks I was getting from people we passed on the sidewalk, I knew that my neurotic paranoia was not all in my head. I was going to knock Elle out when I got home for telling me to "loosen up."

While Rawr and I were hauling the wagon across an intersection, my dress got caught on the edge of the wagon canopy and was yanked sideways (relax, I was wearing appropriate under garments). I couldn't just stop in the middle of the road to yank it back into place, so I started running and trying to jerk my shoulder sideways and get the top to replace itself.

As I neared the edge of the sidewalk, I heard from a car turning right behind me, "Hey Emily!" I turned around and met the eyes of my pastor.

Apparently, he does remember my name.

I waved hello, yanked my top up and took off down the sidewalk while Rawr guffawed behind me.

Turtlenecks. ALL SUMMER LONG.

Sunshine and Happiness

Rawr and I have had a super busy week.

Rawr has had like, a million appointments and since her car is on the fritz this week, I was busy by proxy.

By ten o'clock this morning, Rawr and I were ready for a break.

We decided to take her four kids and my 5 to the park downtown to enjoy the sunshine and just relax. And for once all of the kids behaved. It was a Christmas Miracle. You know, in May.

My 5 spent the time perfecting her moves on the twirly bar until she lost her balance and fell (she was fine; didn't even cry).

Always ready! This is the point at which her feet left the bar.

But today was nice. Nothing weird even happened, either.

Unless you count the time where I was pushing my 5 on the swing and the kid next to us launched out of his swing at 250 mph and I thought we were going to get taken out by his flailing arms and/or legs.

I was shocked that he was able to get up and walk away.

It was a great day.

Bedtime

Every night my three kids and I read together before bed. Usually, my 9 year old daughter is the one who reads aloud. She is a great reader and really throws herself into it, which makes this time very entertaining.

My 10 is usually rolling around on his bed, tossing mini toys at the 9 with the hopes of enraging her to the point where she throws the book down and threatens bodily harm, so at that point I usually make him take over.

Last night I was laying on the bottom bunk with my 5, but instead of listening like I normally do, I found my mind straying toward other topics.

Cat food. How do they make it? What does it taste like? And could I get Elle to eat it without knowing?

Bills, car repair, air in my tires; the usual grown-up junk. Stuff I Hate To Do.

My 5 noticed I seemed distant and poked me in the arm.

5: Momma, what is this thing? [pokes at mole on my arm]
Me: It's a panic button. Don't push it unless there is threat of a thermonuclear meltdown.
5: Does it hurt if I do this? [pinches my arm]
Me: No. But knock it off and listen to your sister.
5: Would it hurt if I bite it?

AND PROCEEDS TO BITE MY ARM.

I kind of yelped, told her NO! and scooted further away from her.

I think she felt bad, which was unfortunate because when she does something wrong, she feels like she has to fix it.

So I lay there and tried to refocus until she started tickling me.

Peeps, you may not know this, but I cannot stand to be tickled. It makes me want to jump out of my skin. I get all tingly and panicky and start to expel this frantic laugh/cry/scream in a really high-pitched voice that people misinterpret as merriment. It is anything but.

I am terrified that someone will use this against me for evil one day. I could never be an international spy because all the kidnappers would have to do is run a background check, talk to some neighbors and find out that the briefest hint of feeling under my arms will cause me to flip the eff out.

I managed to pry my 5 off of me, call it quits on the chapter book and shut the light off.

As I was leaving the room, my 9 called out to me.

9: Mom? If you really want her to listen while you read a book, you just have to sit on her. She'll cry a little, but then you can enjoy the story because you can actually HEAR IT.

Good to know.

Dirty Thirty

Rawr turned 30 this week. Last night we hosted a BBQ Birthday with The League Inc. (which is fancy for us girls, their husbands and kids plus a bunch of neighborhood stragglers).

As I have been requested to not "put this shit on the internet," I will keep most of the wordy details to myself, instead sharing just the highlights.

• Rawr drank two margaritas and spent today vomiting and sobbing. Her husband requested that we "stop doing this to her immediately."
• I met a new neighbor for the first time when I came back to the patio and found him sitting in my chair. Shenanigan invited him, which was good, because I haven't really perfected my groin-kick yet and I was scared that I would have to use it.
• It is entirely possible for children to consume copious amounts of watermelon and subsequently act like crackheads far into the night. Incidentally, three cupcakes each will appear to have no effect after the watermelon high.
• 400 kabobs really can be eaten by seven adults in under 45 minutes.
• Leftover BBQ food is so much better the next day.
• Fair skinned red heads should totally ignore all the "pasty soul-stealing ginger" comments and not try to even out tan lines the next day as it leads to big fat ugly sunburns on the knees and shoulders which cannot be alleviated by Ocean Potion aloe vera, contrary to bottle directions.

Me (sans eyebrows & before The Burns), Elle, Shenanigan and Birthday Rawr (complete with baby)

Pretty Typical

My life is not any more entertaining that yours. Maybe. I dunno, do any of you get foot fungus from playing competitive Tramp Ball or deploy Warmongers to protect unsuspecting neighbors?

If you do, meet me at Starbucks in an hour for Coffee. We are now best friends.

I would like to list a few situations that I have found myself in as of late. Not any one is singularly remarkable, but usually in the middle of it I find myself thinking Is it just me, or does this happen to other people and I just make a big deal out of it?


Take today.

Rawr and I were at the liquor store with the kids (HELLO, we left them in the car. Only dumb people take their kids into the liquor store with them because everyone knows that kids always ask you to buy them something and you already know what would happen if I told them they couldn't have anything. They would throw a fit and I would look like a bad mom. For many different reasons. Oh, also? Rawr and I went into the store in shifts. It's not like we left three preschoolers in the car alone. That would just be stupid).

(I explain a lot, don't I? I'm working on it. I am very wordy)

When it was my turn, I wandered the store trying to look like I knew what I was doing. After fifteen minutes and a store clerk assuring me that he would help me select a vodka (NO NO NO NEVERNONONO. NO. I had a bad experience!), I found what I was looking for and made my way to the cash register.

I watched the lady, twenty years my senior, scan the items as I pulled my I.D. from my wallet. And I watched her total the order and look at me. In the face.

Clerk: That's forty three fifty six.

Me: [GASP- I may want to look into AA] Okay, and here's my ID! I know you'll need that. Ha ha HA.

Clerk: [blank stare]

Me: [throwing ID and glaring]

Clerk: [reluctantly retrieves card from counter, DOESN'T EVEN LOOK AT IT, and hands it back]

Me: [scowl]

[realize that the scowl probably makes me look older. Switch to serene look of mildness]

[clerk ignores me and examines her nails while I swipe my debit card]

Me:[mutters under breath] Old Hag.


Clerk: [jerks head up] What?

Me: Can I get a BAG.

Really. This is how it's going to be? I hit my thirties and suddenly spend every available moment DARING people to assume I'm over twenty six?

Apparently, when you make it to your thirties, your memory will start to slip as well.

Tonight I was in the kitchen making Rawr's birthday cake (party tomorrow and knowing The League, it will end in an epic manner). Mumsie has an ah-mazing chocolate cake recipe complete with a delish chocolate frosting bonus. I realized that I was out of powdered sugar, so Mumsie ran to the store while I set about cleaning the huge mess my lovely kids had made.

Do you bake? You know how when you're a giant chocolate whore and you keep sticking your fingers in the batter even though you know there's a forty-five percent chance that you'll get salmonella from the eggs but you do it anyway? Well, there aren't any eggs in frosting, right?

As I walked past the bowl, I stuck my finger in and grabbed a big gob of frosting and shoved it in my mouth. (Note: I actually HATE frosting, but this stuff is different because it's home made and delicious)

Me: [stupidly] Hm, this looks good. [swipe] HACK. AUGH. [cough, sputter, choke to pieces]

Apparently, baking chocolate is still bitter even when everything is in the bowl and just waiting on the sugar.

I thought my taste buds were going to seize and explode, and not in a good way.

My 5 looked at me and shook her head knowingly.

I may have given her a piece of bakers chocolate when she was three because she wouldn't stop pestering me while I was baking and when she took a giant bite DESPITE MY WARNING, she immediately threw up all over the kitchen.

She's been there, done that.

Other situations that I have found myself in:

• When I was 12 I got my entire left hand stuck in the mixing beaters while making a cake. Mumsie thought turning it on again would loosen the beaters. It did not.
• Rawr's husband thinks it's a funny game to sneak up on me and grab my sides, resulting in me screaming bloody murder and punching him in the chest while everyone else laughs to death. (I get a little hit-ty when spooked)
• Hiding behind the drink station on my third week of work while a hostile customer tried to climb the counter and beat me up. Because he thought I called his wife a name after she threatened to stab me with a pair of sunglasses, when all I was doing was calling for my boss (Rich!).
• Chasing two drunk college freshman down the sidewalk at 10am (with burrito smeared down my face and on my shirt) after I told them they weren't allowed to have a food fight in my restaurant. 
• When I was in junior high, the back of our house caved in due to snow damage While my parents were in the process of rebuilding, I ignored my dad's warning to stop hopping from board to board and the next thing I knew, I was in the hospital getting a tetanus shot and I had to throw away my shoe.
• I convinced Elle to steal something while in another country, which I'm pretty sure makes her an international felon. I will never turn her in, though, because I may need to blackmail her in the future.

I kind of think that's enough for now.

Grease Monkey I am not

Yesterday, Rawr came to me while a vehicular issue. It seemed earlier in the day her SUV tried to kill itself at the gas station and Rawr was lucky to have made it home.

(Listen, I need to have a talk with this gal. If she thinks I have ANY idea how to fix cars, I've been doing too good a job at hiding who I really am. Which is a girl. Who just barely bought her first tool kit because they've been out of the pink one for two months and it doesn't appear that anyone at Target knows how to use a re-order form so the grey one was going to have to work. Yeah. That kind of girl.)

I followed Rawr over to her house and we popped the hood, peering into the depths of the engine compartment.

We stood in front of the car with our chins resting in our hands, looking puzzled.

We tried banging on the black thingie with the hose coming out of one end.

Rawr bent over the edge of the engine with her butt hanging out like all the hot girls do.

We even tried kicking the tire. Everything you see in a movie, we tried.

Nope.

My dad is good with cars, so I spent twenty minutes on the phone with him trying to diagnose what Rawr's car was doing. Or not doing, I guess. Something in the steering was being affected, so my dad told us to check the power steering fluid. Rawr bent to locate the fluid thingie-ma-bob while I thanked my dad.

Before hanging up, my dad asked inquired as to whether or not I had checked an/or changed the oil in my car.

Me: [puzzled] I thought you said you just changed it up at your house.

Dad: Nooo.... you said it was running low and it needed changing.

Me: [freaking out] It's been like, TWO THOUSAND MILES SINCE THEN. Am I running around without oil?!

Dad: Em?

Me: YEAH?!

Dad: Oh. Hey! I thought I was talking to your sister this entire time.

Me: I see.

Yes. Elle and I do sound eerily similar on the phone, and yes, we have used this to our advantage at times.

But seriously?

SERIOUSLY?!

And the car is still broken.

Mini Blind Death

I learned two things today.

The inability to hang blinds will kill Rawr.

I am unable to drill through metal window frames with a screw driver. And not for lack of trying.

Today sucked.

Somewhere Over the Fence

Earlier this afternoon I was standing at the top of the stairs weeding through the never-ending pile of laundry when I heard the doorbell chime. I'd had a pretty wild day of children screaming through the house, bloody knees and one of the 5s playing barber with my friend's little girl, so I wasn't exactly looking for any company.

Plus, Rawr is out of town, so I was pretty baffled as to who was outside. Usually, it's her 4 that uses the doorbell like it's a candy dispenser.

Just as I was pulling open the door, it was flung open from the outside and in poured my nine year old daughter. It was eleven o'clock in the morning.

The last time I saw my kid she was standing on the sidewalk when I dropped her off at school.

Me: Kid? KID! What the he--

9: MOM! [throws herself in my arms] I RAN AWAY! [proceeds to sob]

Me: [bewildered] Ah...

9: I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! They just take and take and TAKE FROM PEOPLE'S BUCKETS!

Let's pause for a second. I am totally not exploiting my child's anguish for the sake of a laugh. In fact, it wasn't funny at all. Someday, before the internet is outdated, my kids may want to read some of this junk I write here on No Eloquence and I will show them. Plus, I have a horrible memory and I know that if something out of the ordinary happens and I blog about it, I'm more likely to remember it later. When I read it again. After I forgot it happened in the first place.

Back to the mysterious 9 standing in the entryway at lunchtime on a school day.

Oh, and the bucket-thing.

At my kids' school, they talk about "Bucket Filling" with positive comments, helping and the like. "Taking from the bucket" is when another child is rude or does something to upset another student. There are no actual buckets. I asked.

From what my 9 told me, her BFF and two other girls were teasing another boy on the playground and I guess my 9 had about enough of it and tried to involve the Yard Duty.

Unsatisfied with the standard "kids, knock it off" that was offered by the staff, my 9 apparently freaked out and scaled the 6 foot fence, then proceeded to run home and tell her mom because no one else was going to handle the situation effectively.

Me: [incredulous] You jumped the FENCE?

9: WELL THEY LOCKED THE GATES, MOM. HOW ELSE WAS I SUPPOSED TO GET OUT?

Me: [sigh] Honey, you left school grounds alone. What if someone tried to stop you?

9: Mom. I hid every time a car came by. I was like a shadow.

Before you do the whole freak-out thing and call CPS, I lived like 2 blocks from the school.

After I calmed the kid down and got the whole story out of her, I issued her the standard "This is what you SHOULD have done" lecture, gave her a hug and a glass of water and returned her to school. I met with her principal and discussed how exactly no one noticed her jumping the back fence and spoke with her about the other kids teasing the boy. The principal was very apologetic and I kind of think that glimmer in her eye was going to cause trouble for the staff that was on playground duty.

I'm pretty proud of my daughter for sticking up for another kid on the playground. I'm also a little worried about what is going to happen during her teen years when she figures out how easy it is to climb through a window and sneak out.

Sometimes, I wonder what normalcy looks like.