Bad Lady

That's it.  I've had it.  I clean and reorganize and put away, repeat, and repeat again, and still - every single day following quiet time - the room in its toy entirety has turned into some kind of a mishmash between a crazed Pre-K fire sale and a (toy) Woodstock.

And it doesn't get put back - none of it.  Forget being put back even a little bit similar to the way it was found - no, it doesn't get put back at all.  Not at all.  Okay, if I stand there and become a skirted drill sergeant, then some of the toys might get put away.  Sort of.  But there's always too much yelling.  And too many tears.  And - we're one step closer to the neighbors calling social services.  (Okay, I'm joking about that last part.  Sort of.)

So today I had it.

I picked up the toys myself. 

But instead of putting them carefully back in the closet, in an only-the-way-a-mommy-will organized manner, in a way easiest to be taken out by sweet small hands and happily played with, I wickedly put the toys away in MY room.  (At this time, I won't go into how there really is no room at all in MY room for any kind of extra anything.  Because I've had it.  So into my room they go.  Like a strange assortment of adorable refugees.)

At first, Siennalee is wearing a small, happy smile.  Mommy is cleaning for her!  She won't have to pick up her awful mess after all.  Victory.  Then the awful truth dawns on her - assisted by me pointing out the details to the obvious, of course - the toys are not going to be accessible to her.  Not for a long while.

Her little brow furrows and she continues - painstakingly, infinitesimally - with her own little chore of re-folding (I'm inserting an expressive cough here) and putting away the clothes she has yanked out of her drawers, tried on, and discarded in a messy piles around the room.

"Mommie," she finally says to me, heavily, "you shouldn't take away my toys like this.  It- it feels like you are a bad lady." 

A poignant and mother-daughter-dramatic moment hushes over us both.

Now, the "bad guy" and the "bad lady" really are key players in our little world right now.  Siennalee is beginning to understand that not everyone in the big world around us is loving and kind and keeps the best intentions at heart.  She has been very impacted by the mere idea of the bad guy.  Sometimes she opts out of watching a show that might give too much attention to the bad guy.  But me, Mommie?  A bad lady?  Well, yeah, I guess so.  The villains on her kiddo shows are always doing dastardly deeds like pilfering toys and pocketing fluffy puppies. 

And now, Mommy is doing the same thing.

So when her little brow furrows now, I can tell she's really feeling this, not just saying it as any kind of jab or to get a reaction. 

"A bad lady?" I prod.

"Yes, a bad lady.  And," she adds, now with more feeling, "it's not fair."

I look down at her.  She looks back up at me with the quizzical, contemplative look of a four-year-old really thinking life out.

Not only am I a Bad Lady.  But it's not fair.

I choke back the laugh elbowing its way out of my throat and I lean down to the same level as her little face - "It's not fair?"

"No.  It's not fair."

"Do you think, Sweetheart, that it's fair for a mommy to work very hard all day to take care of her sweetheart, to feed her and play with her sweetheart, then to have to spend the rest of the day again cleaning up all the toys that her sweetheart played with - not the mommy played with - that the sweetheart played with and junked?"

She became thoughtful, "No."  Then she added, "but you still shouldn't take away my toys."

So hello, era of "Not Fair."  I, the Bad Lady, will see your bet - and raise you a pile of unorganized toys.

Update: the toys and some books are still refugees in my room (aka, the Motherland), but they now have hope of returning to the homeland (aka, the Sweetheartland).  Siennalee is slowly "earning" the right to free a toy by doing small "clean-up" tasks through the day.  And just this morning, she cleaned up several puzzles - a daunting task - all by herself and thus earned back two toys to keep her company during today's quiet time.  As I type this, I have yet to again be referred to as a Bad Lady, but Siennalee did find my sketch above to be quite apropos.

Sans Camera

I’m a little sad. For many months I’ve been in a comfortable shared-custody arrangement with my sister-in-law Anne (of Anne Nunn Photographers). And now I’ve had to say goodbye. It’s sad. I should upgrade that to a very sad as I’m getting sadder and sadder about it.

But the little guy just had to go home. I guess it’s another part of our new living situation. The distance between Junction City and Klamath Falls is limiting. And although loved ones can still be kept in contact with, not everything can remain the same.



And so we come back to my current sadness. I hate saying goodbye. I miss the little guy more and more, especially when it comes to plotting out blog posts and wishing I could record cute or momentous family moments. With wedding season beginning for Anne and Paul and then the distance now between us, sadly shared custody can be no more. And I sent the lil guy home.

No, I’m not talking this lil guy:



My nephew Lincoln
(Image used with permission from Anne Nunn Photographers)

 I mean this one:

Canon 20D image from Wikimedia Commons

The Canon 20D is one of the back-up cameras for Anne, and it must be close by during wedding season. So of course he had to go home. But I do miss him so.



I found I’ve begun to think in blog posts with words AND images. I’m unused to having to peruse the internet for the perfect picture to accent my words and stories – while also making sure I’m staying safely within the “non-pirating” boundaries. ;)

I also find myself going through my day and stumbling upon a story in sequences of images unfolding in front of me: the neighborhood birds suddenly finding our pine cone bird feeders, the current Siennalee/Gunther drama, a sweet moment between Daddy and Daughter, a new picture collage on my wall. Sad.

Away on the horizon is a light – a small light, but a light nonetheless. Plans are settling into place that will allow me regain my Momtog joy. Sole custody of my own lil guy (albeit much smaller and with less bells and whistles than the one I’m used to) is in my future. 



So for now, dear readers, I must allow that my posts will likely be a bit different than before. But I hope you can enjoy them just as much, until my own little Canon can come home.

My Very First Collagen Implants

If you read my blog, or have talked to me much at all in the past month, you've probably already heard me whining about my most recent struggles with living above sea-level.

Yep.  It's been tough.




Finally, I was driven to do something semi-drastic. 

 Implants.

Not these.

    THESE:

Image from Google Images: Seibel Vision Surgery

Behold.  The Punctal Plug.

That bad boy is perched on the head of a matchstick (in case you can't tell from the thumbnail image I snatched from the 'net).

Not exactly the first thing to come to someone's mind when they hear the word "implant."

And it goes someplace most people would not aspire to or dream of having an implant.

Like here:

Image from Google Images: Seibel Vision Surgery

It's a bit hard to tell from the above image, but what you're seeing there is that itty bitty plug being pressed down inside the eye's punctum.  (The punctum is that minuscule dot on the inside edge of your lower eye lid.)  Go on and check it out in the mirror.  You know you want to.

And see if you can work the word punctum into at least one conversation this week.

So at this point, dear reader, you are wondering what on earth would possess one to allow such a thing to be jammed inside one's eye?

Behold.  My BFF.  The eye drops.

When I finally broke down and went into a local eye doc for help, he inquired how often I was using said eye drops.  "Frequently."  I told him.  "So, what's the frequency," he asked me, distractedly messing with my chart, "once, twice a day?"  "Um, about every 20 minutes," I told him.  His head jerked up with mouth dropped open and - ta da - we began the journey toward tear duct implants.

But dry eye, right?  Why clog up the tear ducts?  Sounds counterintuitive, I know.  The itty bitty collagen plug actually goes down inside the punctum (the eye's drainage port) and forces excess tears to remain in your eye, rather than being tossed out.  It's forcing my body to be sustainable.  Recycle those tears!  How smart.  And a bit sociably trendy, no?

Now getting anything - even something that fits comfortably on the head of a match stick - jammed into any part of your eye is no fun.  But desperation allows you to do all kinds of things you never, EVER thought you could do.   (Childbirth, for instance).

I won't say it was comfortable.  And I won't say it wasn't just a bit psychologically distressing to have someone coming at your eye with a needle a wee bit thinner - but just as long - as a knitting needle.  And I won't go into how I involuntarily scratched my fingernails against the cold, painted metal of the area you're supposed to rest your chin on while the doctor presses a knitting needle into the corner of your eye.  (Random: we watched Shutter Island the evening after the procedure, and it was uncanny the way that lobotomy tool resembled the plunctal plug insertion tool.  Pretty glad I saw the move afterward.)

But, I will say - all in all - I'm glad to have had the procedure done.  I'm now beginning to entertain high hopes of once again wearing contacts without one eye continually blurring, or me fishing for my BFF to give my eye another nip of the good stuff.

All in all, I hope that the results far outweigh the experience.  And I dearly hope that my next implant experience might just be, if not more rewarding, just a bit more fun. 

But probably not this.

My Strawberry-Scented Horror

 Okay, let's get this over with.  Long story short, I smell like strawberries.

 The Mommie is constantly sticking this thing in my face.  I'm just glad she didn't have enough presence of mind to document the Pink Humiliation in the bathtub.

She sure did yell though when she came in and found me all smeared with the Sweetheart's pink smelly shampoo.  I guess at that point she knew she had to finish the whole lurid experiment - otherwise I'd probably still be all pink and slick and farting strawberry-scented bubbles.





The Mommie did what she could, and the Sweetheart might've felt kinda bad about it all - but in the end I was the one still wet and cold and shaking like a freaking chihuahua. 

 I've been licking and licking and licking - and really must advise you that though I may SMELL like strawberries, I do not TASTE like strawberries.

Ahhh, the Mommie had a stroke of genius and got this strangely warm and fuzzy thing out for me.  Life is looking better.






Okay, okay, let's make up.  You're lucky you're so cuddly and warm and can make me purr, Sweetheart.

...But just so you know, I'm gonna kill one of your favorite plush toys when you're not looking

An Open Letter of Apology

Some Thoughts on Craigslist (And No, They're Not for Sale)

Society is pretty much divided up into two people groups: those who do Craigslist, and those who don’t.

Now, I have friends who buy, sell, and surf Craigslist as often as I check Facebook – which is far too often, but don’t tell my husband… he won’t approve… for whatever reason.

For too long I’ve flitted around the borders of Craigslist no-man’s land, never a poster nor a buyer, but not a true abstainer either.  Finally, my time came.

It was my duvet cover that did it.  I had bought it from Pottery Barn during the long months when Jason was stationed in Kuwait.  It was a great buy and what I’d hoped was a step toward something new, but unfortunately, it would be a step in the wrong direction.  The duvet cover is a blue background with flowers and paisleys (my brother Paul is a big paisley fan – ask him about it sometime) spread liberally across the foreground.  I enjoy flowers and tolerate paisleys, but the blue I’d envisioned (this was an online purchase) was more of a blue steel (more Martha, less Zoolander) and what arrived via UPS was a stubborn country blue circa late 1980's.  Okay, not that bad.  (If you're a fan of blue and looking for a king-size duvet cover - with four matching shams - call me!)  I was displeased, but remained confident it would look good on our new king-sized bed.  Maybe it would grow on me.  We could work it out.  Long story short, here we are, nearly three years later, and the blue has not grown on me.  We can't work it out.  In fact, it became one of those things where I would be busily doing something else, something innocent and non-duvet related, and I would find my eyes unwillingly, inexorably pulled back to my bed.  And to the blue.  Dear God, the blue.  Finally, three years later, unable, unwilling to take it any longer - I burst out in dramatic confessional fashion to Jason (or was it more of a sleepily whiny confession?), “I don’t like it!  I just don’t like it!”

So here we are.  Hello Craigslist.  I took some good pics, if I do say so myself, and wrote what I’d hoped would be an attention grabbing, witty little title and post for my duvet cover (and four pillow shams – yep, sorry guys, you’re out, too).  I posted it late Friday night after creating my VERY FIRST Craigslist account.  Actually, I think you only ever get to create one anyway, but I digress…

That night I was plagued with dreams of psychopathic Craigslist stalkers emailing inquiries on any duvet cover listings throughout the Corvallis/Albany area…

And the next morning – surprise! – an inquiry.  I was excited.  I was scared.  The emailer, with an odd name but nothing sounding Nigerian-email-scammer-ish, wanted to know if “it was still available?”  Odd, but whatever.  Not everybody sits and stares at the emails they’ve just taken 20 minutes to compose, recompose, and recompose again before they finally hit send.  After 20 minutes I sent her back a very brief, “yes, it’s still available.”

Later in the day, I checked my spam folder – I hadn’t heard back from her and thought, maybe, just in case… and there was her return email.  Odd.  I checked it.  And shuddered.

An “auto response” from her yahoo account (what the hey is that anyway?) didn’t even mention my duvet cover (and four matching shams) – I tried not to be hurt – but gave some very odd invitation to a “midnight meet-up” for those who were too shy to put in their own personal ads.

I read it once, read it again, and spammed her.  I might've even spammed her twice.  I don’t think she was ever even interested in buying my duvet cover (and four matching shams).

Alas, I’ve had no more inquiries.  Disappointment is setting in.

But I’m also encouraged for those out there – and apparently you are out there – who are too shy to put in a personals ad, but might be looking for love through a well-worded, witty household goods post on Craigslist: Avelina Cornett is on your side.

Post-It Note Tuesday!

Post-It Notes - brilliant!  Want to play along?  Do!

And Then Your House Springs a Leak.

Sometimes life feels overwhelming.  If I let my mind go back over the past year and a half of life’s events I can suddenly be immersed in tears: two miscarriages, father-in-law passing away, house on the market becoming house-on-the-market-for-almost-a-year, a household move imminent yet never arriving, husband and daddy away during the work weeks, and now suddenly my home being invaded by water due to faulty siding.

Yes, life can be weighty.  It can feel overwhelming to the point of little things like a random stain on the carpet sending you over the edge when in the world of sane thinking all it merits is a strong “dang it!” and a rush to get the carpet cleaner.

As I type, almost a third of my living room carpet is actually up on end, ripped up and off the damp floorboards which are (as of now) blessedly free of moving puddles seeping in from below the baseboards.  At this point, stains are the least of my worries, although I’m pretty willing to bet that, should I see one, I might break down into messy tears and unintelligible oaths.  Life can be weighty.

And I’ll admit, I have wondered if, with this seemingly unfortunate series of events, I’m not unwittingly starring in some dark comedy like Will Ferrell in Stranger than Fiction.  But since life is so far devoid of an English accented narrator dictating my fate, I’ve been able to rule that theory out.  

When I first felt the damp spots on the carpet and moved on to discover the insidious source, I stood for a moment in the living room considering my options.  The dizziness coming in waves told me I could very well break out into some sort of overload of nerves, complete with tears and snot.  The absurd straw-and-camel's-back-ness of the situation and previous life events definitely warranted some incredulous laughter, although I knew if I attempted that one at that very moment it might come out sounding a little scarier to my poor mother – who was nearby, watching me carefully and making sure her cell phone was close at hand.  Then there was what I knew should happen: I could figure out practical moves to save my home and do my very best to keep it together and try to praise God through it all.

See, I don’t think God made my house leak.  I think it was the result of sloppy, hurried work done by someone who just didn’t know or care enough to do a good job.  I do think, however, that God expects me to believe that He will care for me through this crisis – because He’s saved me before, so many times.  Sometimes saving came in little ways, like providing a new friend or a job just in time, sometimes it came in big ways, like protecting me and caring for me through a bus wreck when I was in high school, or in a tiny foreign plane skimming the trees of the Guatemalan jungle which housed armed guerillas and still landing safely and without incident.  Big event or small occurrence, I have enough evidence from my life alone which proves that, even in the face of a series of unfortunate events, God concerns Himself with me and will work actively on my behalf – even when it doesn’t feel like it.  Even with no evidence at the moment.  And the way that I handle the moment – to praise God for His faithfulness and eventual rescue and restoration – is the way that I will enter the next chapter of life.  In defeat or in victory.  In sadness or in rejoicing.  How I choose to handle these moments in the face of no evidence of care or concern is how I will enter the next season of life. 

Seasons do change - it's the nature of life.  Some seasons will be easier and happier, some harder and maybe sadder.  But they will end eventually, and the next one will begin.  What the storybooks fail to tell us is that Happily Ever After is a moving target.  Even when you finally get that to that one point you've really wanted: a marriage, a baby, a house, a new job - life keeps going.  It's how we choose to make it through as life keeps going that really matters.  It's what we choose to do when our house springs a leak.

A Valentine Confession

Confession:  I like Valentine’s Day,
I really like it.

Now, I realize this confession may really irritate those of my friends who are a little more hardcore than I, and I also realize this opens me up for some pretty antagonistic humor.  But I, being a lover of holidays, do embrace Valentine’s Day.

Don’t get me wrong, there are certain elements of the Happy Hearts Day which are, for lack of a better term, grating. 

A particular commercial comes to mind which (in all fairness, I should point out has been running since Christmas, but still) epitomizes the sappiness which the holiday hounds (card companies, jewelry hawkers, and yes, chocolatiers) force feed us every year:

Uncomfortably Sappy Jewelry Commercial

Seriously folks, it’s only natural to revolt against such drivel.  I mean, I get where Kay’s was heading, but sadly somehow they overshot romantic and landed solidly on creepy.  Honestly, when the lightning strikes and girl gives the expected female response – leaping into the nearest man-arms (c’mon girls, we’ve all been there; up in the caaabin, stormy niiight, potential aaaxe murderer outside with niiight vision goggles) – guy tells girl not to worry, reassures girl that he’s right there, then pulls back, smile fading, fixes girls with this stalker-sultry gaze and says, almost under his breath and to no one in particular, “And I always will be.”  Never mind that he’s pulling some kind of velvety box out of his sweater vest – any sane woman would be running, shrieking and arms flailing, down Restraining Order Road, axe murderer lurking outside in storm or no axe murderer lurking outside in storm.

And listen, I realize Valentine’s Days themselves can go awry; I’ve had my own share of bad ones.  The worst was when I spent the better part of a day carefully making homemade candy for a boyfriend (who really should have been let go months before) and he showed up with a lone red sucker in his pocket (in hindsight, it might have had some sort of Valentine’s Day emblem on it, so yeah, he should've gotten points for that) and shrugged that he hadn’t had time to shop.  (Ehh, I now chalk that experience up to learning; sometimes you have to know what stinks in order to not step in it again.)

But let’s bypass the unfortunate experiences of the past.  Let us ignore those vapid commercials for now.  And let’s do our best to block out the garish red and pink oozing from store aisles and looking like it just popped out of the belly of Christmas like the alien from Sigourney Weaver.

Let’s examine the fun parts of Valentine’s Day.  When I was single and in college, one of the best Valentine’s I had was spent with two friends at a local Shari’s (borderline decent Denny’s-like restaurant of the Pacific Northwest).  We talked, drank super cheap, barely drinkable coffee, made each other laugh til the coffee came out our noses and had a great time.  For Jason’s and my very first Valentine’s Day, he flew in from Stockton, CA (where he was living at the time) and I had dinner for him – I’d ordered a heart shaped pizza from Abby’s Pizza (great local pizzeria).  I found this terrifically funny, I mean, a heart-shaped pizza!  How corny can you get?  I could hardly stifle the giggles enough to place my order to the unimpressed Abby’s waitress.  (I guess when you spend an entire work day dealing with heart shaped pizzas, the novelty dies, right?)  Then for dessert I made him a homemade white chocolate banana cream pie.  Hey, I liked the guy, okay?  (By the way, he did manage to do better than a sucker; besides flying in to spend the holiday with me, he'd got me a whole mess of flowers and other fun surprises.)

Now that we’ve been married 6 years and change, my husband and I still enjoy Valentine’s Day.  We don’t really do much that would impress the Valentine's Day purists, although he will send me flowers (I confess, I do like that) and then we’ll try to go out to dinner and hit a movie (c’mon, like we aren’t going to use any and every excuse we can get to do dinner and a movie?).  Yesterday I got a new pink shirt at Costco (try to hold back the envy, ladies) and plan on wearing that out for the big Valentine’s Day date.  I may even wear those new brown pointy-toed shoes I scored from my sister-in-law Anne.  Since I’m writing so much about the Happy Hearts Day, I may even get a corny oooo-they’re-heading-out-on-a-date-gag-me-with-a-spoon Valentine’s Day picture of Jason and me to share with you (that way you can see my new pointy-toed brown shoes).

Bottom line: Valentine’s Day can be fun.  Whether you have somebody to smooch with or not, embrace the corny, get some friends together and indulge in too much coffee and laughter, buy a shirt at Costco, score some new shoes from your sis-in-law, indulge in some chocolate and avoid the overpriced roses - and be happy!  Life is good.

Facebook Savvy

I must admit, I'm a Facebook fan.  I'm a fan without being an addict (yes, it's possible) and I wouldn't even call myself an avid Facebooker.  I can go several days without even logging in (urban legend has it that there are some poor souls incapable of  doing this).  I don't do most of the applications available on FB (Farmville) and I don't believe I'm a fan of anything not directly related to a friend (i.e., although I do enjoy hugging, I'm not a fan of it on FB.  This includes breathing and not-getting-murdered-with-an-axe).

Facebook is fun and I do owe it many thanks for making it easier for me to keep in touch with friends far away and in worlds very different from my own (no alien jokes here, please.  It'd be too on the nose).

During a random visit to urbandictionary.com today, I was amused to see that they included a definition for something I'd just recently been discussing with my sis-in-law Anne.  (See Anne?  It IS a real thing!)  And I felt I absolutely must share it with you, my fellow and future fellow Facebookers:

Vaguebooking

An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.

Mary is: "wondering if it is all worth it"
Mark is: "thinking that was a bad idea"

Example:
"Have you talked to Mark? He's vaguebooking again. I wonder if he's back with Mary..."

Opposite:
Tammy is: "in line at the grocery store"

If you're not already a Facebooker, I suggest you join.  Remember, you CAN always stop whenever you want.

Meet Me at the Pole

It’s been one of those melancholy, slightly-off days.  Odd little things happened, which by themselves weren’t a big deal, but together they grew to kinda be a cloud in my sunny sky.  Days like today make me think about running.

I’m not a runner.  I never have been.  Three out of four years of high school found me going out for track (mostly for social reasons. Okay, purely for social reasons) and although I “specialized” in field (honestly, “specialized” is so wrong, it should’ve been I “sub-par’d”), I still had to run in practice.  And I was not a runner. 

My track coach was a monster.  A real live monster.  And a runner.  He was a running monster.  He’d run and run and run until we found him puking his guts out in the bushes alongside whatever country road he had dragged us out to to run.  He was not empathetic to my non-runner plight.

So I did what any good non-running girl would do in my position.  I cried.  I cried and cried and cried.  (Bonus fact:  he was also my Algebra teacher and I cried for every Algebra test he gave me.  What can I say; I preferred not to do numbers.  Or to run.)  But I still ran.  I ran and cried.  I got pretty good at it.  But still not good enough to place at any meet, of course.  Even if they had an event that incorporated running and crying, I’d still not have placed.  I’m just not a runner.  I do, however, seem to be an excellent crier.  

My track coach, aside from being a running monster, was a brilliant youth pastor (yes, he was all-purpose.  We went to a small school, okay?) and he used to incorporate life lessons into everything we did.  Ignoring my tears and choking sobs, he’d run alongside me and say, “See that telephone pole?  Just up there?  All you have to do is make it to that pole.”  Then the pole would come, and just before we reached it he’d say, “Now see that green mailbox?  Right there?  Now just make it to that green mailbox.”  He’d continue this until we reached our goal, which was usually like a block.  (He was no dummy; he knew what he was working with.) 

But he did succeed in part; he imparted to me an important life lesson.  A running life lesson which I’ve incorporated into many a season of life: if I can’t see the end, or I can’t see ever even making it to the end, or I can’t see what the end even is, I can at least make it to the next telephone pole.  Then the next green mailbox.

I used that running lesson to make it through the rest of high school.  I used that running lesson to make it after I quit college, broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and entered the workforce world.  I used that running lesson when Jason was activated with his Navy Reserve Unit and sent to Kuwait for the first year of our daughter’s life.  I picked a “telephone pole” – a holiday, an event, a visit, an appointment and told myself just to make it to that one.  Then, just before that one arrived, I’d find another landmark to reach. 

I’m incorporating that running life lesson now.  My next “telephone pole”: I’m big on holidays.  You can bet I know just what I’m going to make for Jason for Valentine’s Day.  Once I’m within shouting distance of the Happy Hearts Day, you can bet I’ll have picked another landmark to head toward.  I don’t know when this particular leg of the race I’m in will end, or how.  I just know that I’ll be making sure to have that next telephone pole in sight. 

And after that, the next green mailbox.  Some seasons of life are just a marathon.  I may not be a runner, but I know how to run.  Even if I have to cry a little along the way.

Back... and Blogger Than Ever

Well well well.  Looky what the cat dragged in.  Yes.  It is I.  Back from various and sundry dangers, toils and adventures; one of the worst involving a very stubborn case of Holiday Potty Training Regression which is still in the twitching stage of the Bugs Bunny death throes.  It's been quite a month-and-a-half, indeed.  But I won't bore you with the details.  If I'm very lucky - and by extension, YOU - I'll upload the pictures I took in two and a half cameras, unload the words still crammed constipation-like in my brain, and weave it all into interesting, entertaining, and hopefully mildly-inspirational-at-times blog posts.  And if not, well, we're no worse off than we were before.

A Clean Peace

And now - a tirade.

For several days now I have been attempting to clean our refigerator.  Noble cause, you say.  And I would agree.  Except for this fridge.

This fridge is a fridge like no other.  During our pre-child, apartment dwelling years, it was only a happy dream of which Jason and I hardly dared speak.  THE refrigerator - the one we would one day buy when we bought our first home.  Our hopes were high.

Then, we bought it.  THE one.  The shining, black beauty of a fridge with all the features that had danced like proverbial sugarplums in our heads.  We settled it carefully in our new home.  We were in love.

Things went well - until the drawers began to lose little slivers of white plastic.  Where were they coming from?  Could we glue them back on, somehow?  Then several small wheels appeared - apparently broken off from regions unknown.  Again, we could not find their home.  They were relegated to live, gypsy-like, in the back of the fridge; in the wilds behind the drawers.

I began to feel stirrings of concern.

Then, the fridge tried to kill us.

It was summertime; Jason was away at his two-weeks training with the Navy Reserves.  Siennalee and I had just gotten home from being out when - sniff sniff.  What was that disturbing odor?  I tracked it.  Unsettling memories were surfacing in me - memories from childhood when the spatula or random plastic cup would fall to the bottom of the dishwasher and melt on the heating element.  It was a burning stench that told one "something is very very wrong."  

I tracked the burning stench to the fridge.  Opened the doors.  HEAT resonated out!  STENCH of melting, burning plastic!  The fridge lights glared at me.  I closed the fridge doors quickly.  Opened them again.  GLARE!  STENCH!  Closed them again.  Ran back and forth in a frantic little line of panic.  Finally, I opened the doors again and now saw the light cover that was literallly dripping away from the burning lights.  The lights were not switching off.  

I ran to the garage and pulled the breaker, heart pounding in my ears.  Who would help?  Jason was away.  Sears!  They would know what to do. 

The Sears guy came out promptly.  "Good thing you came home," he threw over his shoulder as he looked over my fridge, "The whole thing coulda gone up in flames."  He stepped back, surveyed my fridge, scratched his head and said something in technician-speak.  What?  He repeated it.  

"You mean,"  I tried to interpret his words in easier-to-understand girl-language, "it's my fridge's motherboard?" 

What?
 
"My fridge doesn't know to turn off its lights?"  The motherboard.  Somehow, my fridge was not listening to its motherboard and the lights were not shutting off.  My fridge was in rebellion.  My fridge was a teenager.  Great.  This was not the happy dream I'd dreamt with Jason throughout our years of enduring apartment refrigerators.

"But we bought a Kenmore,"  I said, helplessly, "Kenmore and Whirlpool - those are your best brands."

The Sears guy, after somewhat trying to conceal a smirk at my precious naivety, explained that those brands had long ago been bought out by the cheaper brands.  They were all the same now, he confided.

I was dumbfounded.  

Whenever we'd done any household appliance shopping, I'd been adamant to Jason that we would only buy Kenmore, Sears' best brand - at least, it had been Sears' best brand back in the college days that I 'd worked part-time for a small appliance repair shop.

But now, apparently, things had changed.

So, almost $500 later, my one-year-old fridge had a brand new "motherboard" and a new plastic light cover and two spanking new light bulbs.  Our beautiful, wonderful fridge.  The fridge that had cost more than my first car.  I was brokenhearted.

"Could this happen again?"  I asked the Sears guy, fearfully.

"Might."  He shrugged.

"So... what brands should we look for the next time we buy?"  I asked the Sears guy, weakly. 

"Doesn't really matter," He told me, matter-of-factly.  Apparently now buying appliances was going to be a crap shoot.

All this my fridge and I reminisce of as I clean the drawers, ignoring the shedding plastic splinters and wipe the walls, hoping the lights go back off after I shut the doors.  At several points as I clean, the lights randomly shut off - which I take to be a good thing - the fridge is listening to and obeying its motherboard.  I close the doors and let the fridge re-cool, reasoning that if I'm kind to the fridge, perhaps it will continue to be kind to me and my family.  No more attempts on our lives.  I appreciate this.

So now, after several times of closing the doors, grabbing a book and letting the fridge re-cool, ignoring the random plastic pieces being shed - now my fridge is clean.  We live in an uneasy peace.  But it's a clean peace... for now.