Confession

I have to out myself. I think I may be THE laziest person who has ever lived. Not in an all-encompassing way, but in a very specialized "things that involve reaching" kind of way.

Allow me to explain: in the last 24 hours, I have managed to find the energy to do a spin class, work out for 45 minutes on an elliptical, fertilize my lawn, call a plumber, do 7 loads of laundry (in my stupid "never say die" Kenmore washing machine), and keep all 3 kids alive for another day in paradise. What I did NOT manage to do, however, was wipe up a sticky spot on my kitchen floor.

"Oh Nicole" you say, "neglecting a spilled apple juice spot doesn't make you lazy!" And you would be right, except that you are SO wrong.

Today as I was purposely walking around that sticky spot on the kitchen floor that I noticed, oh, probably 2 days ago, the magnitude of my selective laziness struck me. Heaven forbid I should wet a paper towel and wipe the dumb thing up -- no no no -- that would require bending down and working for all of 7 seconds. Nope, I'd much rather memorize it's exact location (4 inches southwest of the front right corner of the trash can) and walk around the spot 27 times a day for 2 stinking days to avoid a simple task. I even walked back to my room and into my closet to get a pair of flip-flops so I wouldn't have to worry about forgetting my "AJSC's" (apple juice spill coordinates) and getting my foot sticky. Do you know how much mental energy that requires?! Way more than I have to spare after producing 3 children (they suck out your brain cells -- all you moms know what I'm talking about -- but that's another post)

And this is not some isolated incident -- today's (or Monday's, really) dried apple juice spot is just the latest example of my overwhelming (but selective!) laziness. There was a piece of black lint from one of Boone's dress socks on the carpet right outside my bedroom door for about 5 days last week. I'm not kidding. The simple fact that I remember a piece of black lint is evidence that I left it there WAY too long. I looked at this piece of fuzz a gazillion times a day and thought, "there's Boone's sock lint... again...still...I hate that piece of fuzz...I'm so sick of seeing it there by my door...am I the only one who sees the sock fuzz?...Branik eats everything off the floor, but I doubt he's even tasted that yet...ACK! Is that a spider? Oh phew, it's just Boone's sock lint again..." Still, I couldn't be bothered to pick it up.

I find myself adding totally ridiculous things like that to the to-do list in my head (titled : "Things that shouldn't need to-do lists to get done"), along with more grueling tasks like showering and making Keaton take off his pull-up from overnight sometime before Boone comes home.

This isn't just an issue for me within the four walls of my house, either. For years, Boone has laughed at me sitting in the front seat of the car with my purse, diaper bag, groceries, pot-luck dinner items, Case Logic, etc. squarely in my lap and occupying so much space that I can't move. "Why don't you put that junk on the floor behind you so you have room?", he would ask. My reply? "Because I don't want to have to reach for anything if I need it." Seriously? WHAT IS MY PROBLEM?!? Why the aversion to extending my arms?

Want more proof? This is how out of control my reach-loathing has become:

• I've left clothes in the dryer for multiple cycles not because I don't want to fold them, but because I don't want to reach into the back of the drum to get them out.

• Right this second I can see a foil wrapper from a chocolate Easter egg on the floor and I am hoping one of my cats sees it tonight and bats it around until it gets stuck under the TV armoire. That way I don't have to look at it for the next 11 days before my in-laws arrive, which will force my hand (to pick up the wrapper).

• I regularly pass by coins on the ground -- and not just pennies. I'll deny myself dimes and quarters not because I am worried about honesty or germs, but because I would have to reach down to grab it. Boone, on the other hand, will pick up anything remotely resembling a coin (probably because he's trying to offset Target expenses).
  

• Today while I was fertilizing the lawn the top strap of my flip flop came out so that every time I took a step it swung around my big toe like a stripper on a pole (these are the juice avoiding flip-flops, by the way). I left it that way, taking huge steps with one foot to get the shoe back in place with momentum rather than bending over to shove the strap back in place. I'm sure my neighbors thought I was having a seizure.
  

Admit it -- it's a problem. Maybe for my birthday this year someone can get me one of those grabby things on a pole that the elderly and trash collectors use to pick things up. That would work until the day I accidentally drop it and just like that I'd be back to square one.

I guess the plus side of all of this is that I have become incredibly adept at grabbing things with my toes (this does not bother me as I can remain upright the whole time). I can easily get a blankie off the floor and into the arms of a tantruming boy with a skillful flick of my ankle.

And some days, my dear friends, that's worth it's weight in sock lint.

Happy Easter!

Happy Easter, from our sugar-infused family to yours!

I realize that Rylan looks sort of...well...drugged in this picture (I'm telling you it's the sugar!), but Keaton looked too cute so I had to post it. Sorry Rylan, you look better in the last picture...

RIP "LG" : 3/19/08 - 3/20/08

Nearly 8 years ago, Boone and I moved to Cleveland for dental school and found ourselves desperately poor but still needing to wash our unmentionables (well, really our "mentionables" too) on a somewhat regular basis. So we found an appliance repairman who sold us a used washer and dryer for $250. The dryer died about 3 years later, but the dang washer has been going strong (thanks a lot, Kenmore). We originally planned to replace it when dental school was over, but Boone graduated and it still worked, so we kept it when we went to Texas. We thought it would die there for sure (after a traumatic move and all) but nope, it kept washing stuff every time I asked it to. So here we are in Georgia, WAY past when we thought we would replace the old beast, and even with 15 loads of laundry a week it has been functional enough that we can't in good conscience get rid of it. It's ugly as sin, but functional.


The only real problem we have had with it is that it gets unbalanced from time to time and you have to redistribute the clothes to keep it from walking out of the laundry room. Since we have a billion things to pay for and less than a billion dollars, we just keep using it and hoping that one day it will pick up and leave the house completely so we can feel justified in buying a new machine. And this is not my dream alone -- oh no -- even Boone (THE most practical person in the world) has started saying "I can't wait for this thing to die so we can replace it with something younger than me".

Anyway this has been going on for a few years now, and late last week we thought our prayers had finally been answered. The washer had become so unbalanced that we were having to rearrange the clothes 6-10 times per load and it was making a horrendous rattling noise through the spin cycle. We glanced at each other with this fake "Oh no, that's not good" look, but really we were stifling unsurpassed joy. Still, we had literally paid off our Lowe's card 4 days earlier and the thought of putting something back on it immediately was discouraging, so Boone did what any dentist would do -- he said, "I better take a look at it to see if it just needs a bolt or something."

(Note to self...write blog entry about how all dentists think they are MacGyver...)

So I try to act all casual like, "Yeah, you better check it out" and then I sneak over to the laptop to start over-researching my new washer. It didn't take me long. I found a front loading LG that got great reviews and was even on sale, and I made sure to push the "it's better for the environment" thing to my tree-hugging hubby.

After 20 minutes of investigating and finding nothing obviously wrong, Dr. Terry called it -- time of death: 9:30 pm. HURRAH!!!

"You better order the LG," he tells me. (Sighing and still acting casual) "Alright," I say, "I'll do it in the morning."

So yesterday when I got up there was a Post-it note from Boone saying "buy the washer!", and being the subservient wife that I am, I obeyed him and ordered my beautiful new washing machine. I told my friends. I told my family. I fantasized about 7 different cycles and twice the capacity. Life was good!

And then, Branik threw up.

Last night at 11:30 Branik woke up screaming and vomited everything he had eaten since lunchtime all over himself, every blanket, and every stuffed animal in his crib. Branik is obsessed with his two blankies and WILL NOT sleep without them, so while I grabbed the boy to throw him in the bath, Boone grabbed the bedding for a true laundry emergency. This was bound to be big trouble, since the worst thing you can ask an unbalanced washer to do is manage a load of blankets, sheets, a mattress pad, 6 stuffed animals, and a nasty set of PJ's. Boone stood by to supervise the load and braced himself for the first of two rough spin cycles. That's when it happened.

He was using his body to stabilize the washer, and was surprised at how easily the washer handled the load when he leaned against it. He let go. The washer freaked out. He leaned against it again. Stable. "Hey Colie!" he calls, "look at this!" (Oh no, dread, dread, dread, bad news, I see my LG flashing before my eyes, I may vomit myself...) I approach the laundry room with a sopping wet, wide awake 23 month old in my arms and witness the death of my dream: Boone had "fixed" the beast by placing a wad of paper towels under the front right leg. That was it. The stupid thing needed to have a leg adjusted, and now it's running better than when we bought it. Boone looked at me, triumphant in his MacGyvering skills, and said, "cancel the LG order!"

And so, like the subservient wife that I am, I called this morning (a mere 24 hours later) and terminated the order for my LG WM0642H. Sob.

And then I went to Target. Seriously. I really did.

Target

I have Target on the brain (more than usual) lately because there are rumors that we may be getting one in good old Grovetown! Don't you worry, I have two within about 8 miles of my house, but when it comes to Target, closer is better. I think Boone will have a tough time deciding if this is a blessing or a curse...

You see, since we are trying desperately to pay down our dental school debt, my trips to the spa have evaporated. Not that I used to go with any real regularity, but for awhile we just figured we were in it so deep that a massage or facial just really didn't make a difference. What's $75 when you owe $539,547? OK, we don't owe that much, but you get the idea. So now that we are actually making a little bit of progress in the debt department I have been really good about cutting the fat out of our budget -- including spa trips of any kind. This explains my hair, my heels, and my pores. But it's free to look like this!

Unfortunately, this timing has coincided with an increase in my stress level (2 boys under age 4) which means that at the time in my life where I probably need the pampering more than ever, I don't have the funds to do it. What's a girl to do? The solution is closer than you think...


I don't know what it is about this place, but Boone's theory is that they must be pumping pheromones or something through the ventilation system to calm women down. This explains why every Target smells exactly the same and every woman that I know loves to go.

Let me be really clear about something -- I like variety in most aspects of my life, but in the Target-aroma- department I love the sameness! When I move to a new place, the first thing I do is get to the closest Target ASAP so I can ground myself. And the minute I walk through those doors I am overwhelmed by eau de Target. I can feel my blood pressure drop, and the birds start singing (over at the mood music station by the cards), and suddenly I have this clarity where I "remember" all these things that I'm sure I need to buy. The blood pressure, the mood music, the clarity...it's just like getting a massage! So since I come back from Target all euphoric and nice, Boone sometimes sends me there after a really bad day to unwind. In "theory" it's a free spa.

Usually by the time I have been alone in the car for 20 minutes to get to the nearest Target, I have calmed myself sufficiently (or vented at stupid drivers enough) to cut down on the need for all things Target. I might pick up a fancy Vitamin water or some exotic flavor of gum , but we stay relatively on budget. However, if we really get our own store in my zip code, I think I may be joining the ranks of women who swear there is a $50 "cover charge" at Target (meaning they never leave without spending at least that much). And that, my friends, would be trouble. I'm sure I could invent all sorts of reasons to go to Target 3 or 4 times a week, and at $50 a pop, Boone may be longing for the days that a $75 massage was all it took to keep me sane!

On the other hand, after months and months of constant shopping, my house is bound to pick up the trademark Target smell, and then I could start charging my girlfriends $50 to come through my front door...

One year later...

So about a year ago I "started" this blog, but because of technical difficulties (Keaton breaking 2 LCD screens in a matter of 6 weeks), I never actually posted anything. Since I spend about a third of my life online, I figured maybe I should stop being simply a blog consumer and start saying something. If you've known me for more than 5 minutes you know that it is nothing short of a miracle that I have been content to "listen" for this long, but no more! I plan to blog about important things and totally irrelevant things and say pretty much whatever I want to (like in real life, but without the uncomfortable silences after I put my foot in my mouth:)

I guess I'll start by doing a brief "catch-up" on what our family is up to these days. My husband Boone and I have been married for almost 10 years (can you believe it?). We've lived all over the country -- from Utah (undergrad) to Seattle (slacker year) to Cleveland (dental school) to Texas (residency) to Georgia (Army payback for dental education). We have 2 more years here in GA and then we think we'll be back to Boise for good, but who knows!

Our daughter Rylan (6) is the nicest, smartest kid on the planet.



She is also a *tad* on the dramatic side which makes no sense, since nobody in my family is dramatic. She loves kindergarten, art projects, dancing, and playing "Ballerina's Big Show". Trust me, that is a blog entry all by itself. She just won her school's kindergarten writing contest and will undoubtedly be winning a Pulitzer for The Boy and the Flower any day now...





Keaton is coming up on the big "04" and is just totally crazy all the time. He has no fears whatsoever and thinks everyone is his best friend. He has a smile that will turn you to mush and he uses it to save his little behind on a daily basis. That's him writing the word "monkey" the other day on his Magna Doodle (which he sleeps with, by the way).


He gets very focused on random things -- currently school buses and Harold the Helicopter (from Thomas) -- and begs me to search YouTube for videos of his obsession-du-jour (or du-week, du-month, etc.) We have been though generic helicopters, tornadoes, swordfish, volcanoes, the number "7", the letter "Y"...you get the idea. I'll try to do a post in the future of Keaton's greatest hits, but for now I'll just try to summarize by saying that he is teaching me how to be patient. Also, selectively deaf and blind (to facilitate the patience).




Branik is fast approaching his second birthday but we still just love him to bits. Honestly, after two kids and countless conversations with other moms, I think I can officially declare age 3 to be worse than the notorious 2. A two-year old is still young enough that most of their mistakes are really made out of curiosity and their tantrums stem from a lack of communication skills. But a three year old really wants to be defiant and could just as easily tell you what they want with words, but chooses to convey their message with screams, stomps, tears, and/or markers on the wall. But back to Branik. He's a cutie pie who is finally starting to talk and climbs like no kid I have ever seen. It's a miracle he is in one piece.




That kid can scramble onto a windowsill in the time it takes me to check my email for the 27th time since breakfast ("Hello? Real world? Are you there? Can anybody hear me???")





So that's us in a nutshell. I'll elaborate more than you want me to in later posts, but for now, welcome to my crazy life!