Tag: Random

Just a bunch of squirrelly everywhere nonsense.

Bathroom Toads

Just a typical day at the Steevesies’!

After talking with Justin for 30 minutes this morning, I headed into the bathroom to put my contacts in, with Xander hot on my tail.

“Mom!!! What is that!?”

Already my glasses are off, so who knows. “What is what??”

“That! On the floor!”

With contacts in, I look down. At a tan blob. “It’s just–oh!”

There was only one thing to do: FaceTime Justin again.

“Justin. Something happened to Bruce!

“What?!”

“Justin, I came into the bathroom to put my contacts in, and Bruce was laying on the bathroom floor–he’s turned into a toad!”

That is the most likely explanation I can come up with. The other options are:

1. An animal decided he should be inside, but since no one was foaming at the mouth, I don’t believe he was carried to his bathroom location.

2. He hopped there. I did have the back door open, so while this option is plausible, it’s pretty unlikely. The trip to the bathroom would’ve been a long, and possibly treacherous one.

3. He’s been subletting the bathroom, and this is the first time we’ve crossed paths. Again, possible, but unlikely.

It’s just a classic case of Bathroom Toad.

I’ve relocated him outside, but I fully expect him to be sitting on the couch when I get home from work–watching The Muppet Movie, and snacking on flies.

I’m Sam Steeves, and I Speak for the Bees

…except sweat bees. They are the douchebags of the bee community.

An entire bee community, plagued by little guy syndrome.

I’m trying to be productive on my Mostly Day Off. I finally finished mowing my lawn, since my previous attempt was rained out, and prior to that, it had been…ok, so maybe some of it was knee high.

It happens.

In Kentucky.

Where it rained for a week straight. And I work too much. And my whole Coming Off Antidepressants has lead to a lot of couch slothing.

But yeah, it happens.

Besides, Justin isn’t here to judge me, so I can do what I want!

I mean…until housing leaves a note on my door that my back yard is not zoned as a Natural Zone, and I need to get my crappy together and mow that jungle.

I should get a job with the housing office–I could really bring a new voice to their “friendly reminders.”

Ok, so I googled it. And they don’t mean to be assholes.

Sorry sweat bee. I didn’t mean to scare you into stinging me when I squatted down and accidentally trapped you between my thigh and calf. It was an honest mistake.

In their defense, I’m a very sweaty girl. I’d probably hang out on me too, if I was attracted to sweat.

I’m irresistible.

To bees.

I’m irresistible to sweat bees. Get back to pollinating. I won’t squish any of your friends.

Sending Out an SOS

It’s been a long day/week/month/year (pick one). I unintentionally let work consume me. But this isn’t about my job. Or my depression. Or my fresh tattoo repeatedly getting stuck to my underwear all day long (for real, I would like to know the trick to making that not happen, although I’m sure it’s Don’t Tattoo Your Bajingo). This is about my flipping smoke alarms that are wired together, like a giant torture device.

Do you want tinnitus, because I’m pretty sure this is how you get tinnitus.

Let’s flash back to an hour ago. I had just peeled my underwear off of my tattoo, and was debating what I could possibly wear instead of underwear (hey Siri, what’s a good alternative to clothes), when I heard my children fighting.

Someone threw a pillow, the other threw a punch. Both were shrieking that the other was responsible. “Cut it out you two,” because I’m still trying to figure out how to approach the whole tattoo-sticking-to-my-underwear situation.

Then a door slammed.

And then, one of my nightmares came true……again.

For the fourth time in the 6 years we’ve lived here, the smoke detectors went off. This isn’t one little beeping alarm. Oh no, this is six alarms shrieking in unison throughout the house, and thus begins the fun game: guess which smoke detector has a dying battery. Instant. Anxiety.

Maybe I don’t change the batteries often enough, but twice they’ve had to replace the main control/alarm/shrieky wall decoration. One year I even said, “when I keep the carbon monoxide detector (aka the piece that holds the entire shriek system together) plugged into the system, every single alarm goes off and I can’t make them stop!” He shrugged and said, “Thur ain’t no reason for a carbon monoxide detector in these houses anyway, so just go ahead ‘n’ leave it unplugged.” Sounds like a plan! Until the follow year during our annual inspection, the next guy said, “let me replace that for you.” No! Please don’t!

I don’t even know why they’re all interconnected, other than to destroy my eardrums as I run screaming through the house, disconnecting every single flipping smoke detector in the house. Somebody make it stop!!!

My ears are still ringing.

This is probably what Justin hears every day of his life.

I now have 5 smoke detectors and a carbon monoxide detector, sitting battery-free on my counter. Until I feel like playing this game again.

I keep asking, “is there still an alarm going off?!”

Now. About this tattoo-sticking-to-my-underwear issue……

Dental Therapy

My Mom is by far, the best Dental Hygienist in existence. Of course, I’m possibly biased. All I know is, once upon a time (close to 30 years ago, to be precise), I had my teeth cleaned by a different hygienist in the office where my Mom worked; the experience was not fun. She stabbed my gums a lot, asked a million questions while her hands were in my mouth, and was less than understanding of my small mouth and my jaw’s need to occasionally close.

In the 12 years that I’ve lived away from home, I have still continued to get my teeth cleaned by my Mom during visits home. If I needed work done, I would even wait until visits to do that as well. I have no issues seeing other dentists–it’s the cleanings that worry me. It’s probably the one thing that makes me want to cry like a sleepy toddler: “I want my Mom!!!”

In December, she cleaned my teeth. And pointed out 2 broken fillings (I have some serious clenching/grinding issues). It was time to put my big girl panties on, suck it up, and see a local dentist.

After two months of putting it off, I followed the recommendation of a lifeguard who spent her senior year doing CP (career practicum) in a dental office. And, wow.

First of all, I had a minor panic moment when the hygienist said she was going to take a panoramic x-ray and asked if I had any earrings in–and then looked and said, “oh my gosh. Ok, so, we’ll do everything else, and you can take those all out and we can do the x-ray at the end.”

Of course I had decided to put 90% of my earrings (or 20) in that morning.

You know you’re the daughter of a hygienist, when you become so relaxed during a cleaning that you almost fall asleep. Who needs a massage!? Can I just get my teeth cleaned once a month?!

I have officially met the second greatest Dental Hygienist in the world.

And guess what? Yup, I clench and grind. And broke 2 fillings. And also: Jaw arthritis. Jarthritis?

As an introvert, I think I will use that as an excuse to not have to conduct job interviews: “you know I would love to talk to this kid about why she thinks she would make a good sales clerk. But my jarthritis is really acting up today, and what happens if it stops working and I end up mumbling!?”

It Must Be Love

Last night, it hit me at about 6pm that when we woke up, it would be Valentine’s Day. Well, crud.

After work, I rushed my kids over to the PX, so they could get valentines to hand out to their classmates (I briefly debated NOT going to get any, but I already fight the internal “bad mom” demons).

The number of men frantically wandering around the store was laughable. Chocolates, teddy bears, balloons, wine–nothing was safe. I unintentionally made eye contact with one man; the fear in his eyes was intense, as if I might seek out his significant other and tell her that he was frantically buying one of everything, 30 minutes before the store closes on the night before Valentine’s Day.

This morning, I took my first sip of coffee, and then said, “wow Sam. Two spoonfuls of sugar in your coffee?! What were you thinking!?” It seems I felt as though I needed something a little extra sweet on this day.

Yesterday, my boss said, “tomorrow’s a busy day. There’s a lot going on.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Time cards.”

“And??”

I drew a blank. “I don’t know–what’s tomorrow?”

“Valentine’s Day!” Oh yeah. That one.

My boss took his wife to the National Farm Machinery Show, although the truth of it is that he was taking his buddy (aka, his very adorable almost 4-year-old grandson), And she was the lady with the snacks. But in all honesty, as a man who can’t even give me a straight answer when asked, “how many tractors do you have,” being married to a woman willing to take the day off so he can admire large farm machinery, is hitting the wife jackpot.

Justin is 7,000 miles away. Also, we’ve never really done anything for Valentine’s Day. I would certainly not expect him to ever be the frantic, panicking fool at 7pm in February 13th!

He did treat me to new jewelry–it was just a matter of finding a location for it. I had industrial dreams, but alas, space is limited. I might have gone a little piercing crazy in my teens (and no, the purple lines are not permanent).

Obviously, a new piercing or two is not everyone’s idea of a Valentine’s Day dream come true. I guess this is my version of the Farm Machinery Convention. Maybe next year I can finally convince him to get matching tattoos.

Just kidding–we are not doing that.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Embrace the awkward.