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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….

It all started innocently enough.

“Mom?”
“Yes, love?”
“Can I use your bathtub for my bath and put the jets on?”
(Chuckling) “Sure. Just remember I want you to be IN BED by 8:00pm, and try not to get so much water on the floor, ok?”
“Thanks!” (I hear water running.)

A full hour passes. I hear giggling. I hear laughing. I hear a concerning amount of splashing.

“Hey Mom! You gotta see this!”
“Wait a minute honey. I’m just checking my blog to see if anyone is at all interested in my blatherings.”
“But Mom! You’ve got to come NOW! Its important!”

(Hmmm. THAT can’t be good.)

And this is what I walked into:

Actually, it was much higher than this.

Now, SOME people might get angry. There was, after all, a considerable amount of water and bubbles on the floor. There was hardly any of my Pomegranite-Incredibly-Expensive-Guaranteed-to-Make-You-Look-and-Smell-Better-Than-You-Do-Naturally Soap left. The cat was wet. Not entirely, but enough to show he’d narrowly missed a bath himself. And, it was past 8:00…the IN BED deadline.

But to those people, I say…. STOP. Look at this picture again:

Do you remember at all what it felt like to be 8? I sure as hell don’t.

And I sure as hell wish I could.