Monthly Archives: January 2012

My father was Scottish-Italian. He loved to tell people that meant we were cheap lovers. He thought that never got old. I told him it was never young. I used to hate it when he told people that…and he would tell anyone who would listen. Lord he used to embarrass me with that line.

And now I use it regularly. Especially when my kids are with me.

The Scottish blood in me rages when it comes to money. I’ll say it proudly …I’m cheap. Cheapity Cheap Cheap Cheap. Cheapers. You bet I love a bargain. I’m so cheap I could squeeze the hide out of a Buffalo Nickel. And I’m shameless about it. I once haggled with a pan-handler. True story. But damn if I didn’t save 50 cents.

I don’t know why I brought that up. It’s rather embarrassing. Forget I said it.

So you’d think I could spot a bogus deal a mile away. Nuh huh. Sadly, there is one store thats hooked me firmly on its line. The Dollar Store.

My Captain calls it The Hundred Dollar Store. I rarely get out of there for less than a hundred bucks. I really can’t say if the allure of it is that they have knock offs of everything (including pregnancy tests!) or if it is just the concept of “It’s only a buck!”.   Doesn’t matter if I need or even want it, “It’s only a buck!”.  I’ll take ten, please.

Today I went in with a list of five things. FIVE THINGS. So I should have left $5.00 lighter in the wallet, and THATS IT.

1) Dental Floss
2) Hair Brush
3) Head Bands
4) Sandwich Baggies
5) Caffeine Shot

My bill was around $46.00. And to add insult to injury, I was charged 10 cents for two bags because we have a new bag tax and I never remember to bring one of the 15 canvas tote bags I have in my car (which, by the way, I bought at The Dollar Store).

I have no idea what I bought.

WHY?! Why does this store sucker me in like this every stinkin time? They don’t play the mesmerizing, hypnotic music. It sure as heck isn’t the decor. You KNOW its not the smell. And, while entertaining, it REALLY isn’t the ilk of the patrons.

Oh good lord! That’s me! I’m one of their patrons. I’m in that ilk!  And I am not even sure I know what an ilk is, despite the fact that I am throwing the word around like a…like a….like something that is thrown around a lot.  (Metaphors are hard sometimes.)

I need to sit down.

Please, friends, if you ever see me walking around in spandex and mismatched socks and I’m anywhere near a Dollar Store, put me out of my misery. Make it quick and painless, I beg you.

This blogging thing is now in its fourth day, and I’m beginning to feel like Gollum. You know Gollum, from The Hobbit? And its not so much because I am pale, bug-eyed, hairless and hate light, as much as I have become consumed by the ring….this new love of writing to everyone and no one in particular.

For the most part I have only written at night when the kids are in bed, and the house is put to sleep for the night. But the killer for me has been the stats. The numbers of views on this page. What time they happen. When the rushes are, when the lulls are. I can’t look away! I find myself checking it often throughout the day.

Isn’t that the beginning of co-dependence? I shouldn’t care how many people are reading this drivel. I shouldn’t give a rat’s petootie who likes this. I shouldn’t pander to the audience.

But it keeps calling to me.

I have jokingly begun calling it “My Precious!” as Gollum did the Ring…but maybe its not a joke!!!

Is it me or is that sun a little too bright today?

What do you get when you mix ADD, a craftsy person, a fix-it-yourself person, and two broken-toy-hoarding kids?

A bad case of the piles.

Unfortunately, there’s no ointment for this baby. And, left untreated, it can grow to epic proportions. But on the plus side, there is no burning or swelling associated with it…..much.

We’ve got a pile (or three) for bills, a pile for recipe ideas, a pile for school projects, a pile for upcoming holiday/birthday gifts, a pile for the wrapping paper for those upcoming holiday/birthday gifts, a pile of clean clothes, a pile of dirty clothes, a pile of things to give away, a pile of camping gear (from last summer…), a pile of sports equipment, and a pile of the largest assortment of broken toys and toy pieces/parts this side of the Mississippi. Man oh man, do we have a case of the piles.

I sound like I’m bragging, but I’m honestly ashamed of our lack of discipline. Yet, every time we look to take apart a pile, it seems so daunting that we find something….anything…else to do. I’d rather floss the cat’s teeth than attack that toy pile, believe me. And I’m fairly sure I’d find my lost virginity in the camping gear pile. And I bet we’d find Elvis in the give-away pile.

But I just don’t have it in me to take it on alone.

When people come over, do they see the piles? Heck no! I’m a master at Pile Camouflage. A firm believer in table clothes, closets, and tall bed frames am I!

It’s a good thing we’re finishing the basement…that way we’ll have a really nice room for some of these dagnab piles.

We live in an old Sear’s Craftsman Kit Cottage. It’s cute as a button. It’s quaint and simple. It’s modest.

And by modest, I mean small as crap.

This wouldn’t be a problem for me…I believe small is good. But whoever designed these cottages did not consider an active, growing Varmint and a hyperactive Critter. We have no place for them to spread out in the house. No place to actively play in the house. No place to get the heck away from me (and vice-versa…oh believe me, Vice-Versa).

So Troy, my beloved, promised me he would finish the basement. And by finish he meant transform it from a 1950’s dungeon-esque, spider-webbed, nook-and-cranny-filled-with-creepy-crawlies cement-block space reminicent of a Vincent Price production, to a Pergo-Lined, panelled, TV and game room, complete with a vintage Skee-Ball machine my brother Graham and his family helped us buy.  An ambitious plan that I have no doubt he could carry out beautifully.

Then came the ‘Might as wells“.

Never heard of the Might as Wells? Oh, they are a dangerous thing. Might as Wells start small and grow insidiously into enormous ventures.  And by the way, you have to say it right.

Put a southern drawl on it: ‘miiite-ez-well’.

“We’re going to finish the basement.”
“Hmm. That wall has a bit of a water issue. Might as Well take out that wall and dig out the surrounding area so it doesn’t ruin the new floor.”
“Hmm. Well, if you’re going to do that, we Might as Well put in a sunken patio, some french doors, and a walled garden.”
“Hmmm. Well, if we’re going to do that, we Might as Well build some steps down to it from the rear yard.”
“Eyup.  Might as Well.”

And you have to watch out for good-intentioned Might as Wellers. They’re the worst, because they not only grow your project, but they make you feel guilty if you don’t take their advice. Troy’s dad, Jay, is a Master Might as Weller. The guy’s got a ton of great, expensive and time consuming ideas. Sure, they are awesome, inarguable ideas. But he’s not allowed to suggest anything else about this particular project or we won’t be done until we’ve retired and are ready to move to Montana – or Troy and I kill eachother, whichever comes first.

At this stage in the project, the entire section of dirt on the north side of the cottage is spread around in various yards in Dickerson. Who knew people loved free dirt? I sure as heck didn’t. Bunch of Dirt-Beggars we have here!  Yessiree.

And wait a minute….its January in Maryland, so that means we have had rain and snow. Hmmm…..Rain + Maryland Clay = Hellacious Mess.  And that Hellacious Mess does not limit itself to the yard, if you know what I mean.

Welp. Might as Well get used to it for the next several months….