I’m stymied and stuck. I have sugar cookies to cut out and decorate, floors that need sweeping and mopping, shirts that need to be ironed and presents that need to be wrapped. Unfortunately I’m tired from all the baking, cleaning, laundering and wrapping I’ve already done. I’m out of motivation and I’m thinking WWSD, or What Would Santa Do?

I think that’s a good way to get through the holidays. Perhaps I’ll sell bracelets to crazed last minute shoppers. It’s at least a good stocking stuffer.

If Santa was behind on his baking he’d call Mrs. Claus (who doesn’t ever get a first name which is very discriminatory if you ask me) and ask her for a hand. If his floors needed cleaning he’d call Mrs. Claus to pull out the broom and get to work. A wrinkled red suit would be immediately care for by his loving wife. Wrapping presents shouldn’t be a problem for the jolly old elf with all those little elves at his disposal, but should he find them slacking he could always enlist the Mrs. for an extra set of hands.

I guess the answer to what Santa would do is that he’d dump it all on his long-suffering wife. So where do I get one of those? Is it to late to add to my Christmas list?

Laundry and I have not been getting along lately.  Everytime I think I’m finished with Laundry I find it has somehow reproduced itself.  Laundry is worse than bunnies.  Laundry is the houseguest that never leaves.  Laundry is more dogged than a telemarketer.  The things in life that are certain should be death, taxes and Laundry.  Unless you’re a nudist.

In a house of five people and one dog I do at least two loads of laundry daily.  At least.  If all or some or even just one of us has gone out of town for the weekend, or just a sleepover at a friend’s house, that easily doubles.  Sometimes when I’m feeling super industrious I get the idea that I will get all the Laundry done in one day so I won’t have to deal with it cluttering up my floor.  On days like that I end up doing five and sometimes six loads.  That’s a lot of Laundry.  Once that last load has been scooped up and tossed into the washer there is that feeling of relief and accomplishment.  I feel super and even superior because I have conquered the Laundry.  Then someone takes off their socks.

The only cure for Laundry is nudity.  What isn’t worn doesn’t need to be washed.  Except curtains on occasion.  Bedsheets and blankets too but weekly is fine for those.  And towels. FRICK!!!

Okay, the cure for Laundry is nudity, vertical blinds, beds of straw and drip drying.  Like I said: death, taxes and Laundry.

I was making dinner. Real dinner, the kind that needs to be cooked and doesn’t involve peanut butter. I got off work early due to the impending holiday and we were home in time for me to thaw some pork chops, marinate them and toss them on the grill all while the sun still shone high above the neighboring houses. As I prepared the other white meat for the grill the girls were happily alternating between arguing, pestering and reading in the living room so I was able to move freely through the kitchen. Then I opened the balcony door.

See, I have this great townhouse that I really love. It has three floors. On the basement floor is the garage which leads out into the driveway that I share with 11 of my neighbors. Above the garage is the eat-in kitchen with the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony on which my grill lounges. When I first bought the grill I considered leaving it in the garage where there was more room and it could be brought inside out of the elements but then I thought about having to carry raw meat through my living room, down the stairs, through the family room and out to the grill and then a return trip. In the meantime if I was cooking anything in the kitchen at the same time I’d have to keep running back and forth. Just thinking of it exhausted me so the grill lives on the balcony.

When I opened the balcony door to toss the chops on the grill SB came running and tried to come outside with me but I slid the screen closed in her face. She makes me nervous on the balcony due to her insistence on attempting to dangle herself over the railing. I like to keep her inside. (To that end I recently installed an extra lock on the balcony door. It’s basically a spring-mechanism pin thing that attaches to the door. You drill a hole in the top of the frame and the pin slides into it effectively locking the door. And SB can’t reach it.) So I put the meat on the grill and went back inside. When I went out to flip it SB followed me again and was denied exit again. She seemed frustrated but I felt safer that way. To make it up to her I put on a cd and we danced in the kitchen while waiting for everything to cook.

Then it was time to take the chops off the grill. I grabbed my plate and my tongs and went outside one last time. For the third time SB attempted to come out with me and for the third time she was shot down. Apparently this frustrated her because she tried opening the screen even after being told to leave it alone. In my annoyance I snapped, “Leave the door closed!” after which she slid the screen shut. Satisfied I turned back to the grill and as I opened the lid I heard the sound of the glass door sliding on its track. I spun around and saw her sliding it shut and started yipping, “no, no, no NO” and clawing at the screen to try and stop her but as everyone knows there is no stopping SB once she gets going. The door was shut. And locked. At the top. Where SB can’t reach.

You probably remember that PK was also home at the time and you’re thinking that I’m now going to tell you that she came and rescued me and all was well. Of course if you remember that PK was home maybe you’ll also recall the cd that I turned on in the kitchen. Loudly. And the door has really well insulated double paned glass. It really keeps the driveway sounds out very nicely. I was stuck.

I pleaded with SB to go get her sister. She said “Mommy, open the door.” The she giggled. I begged her to go get PK. She chuckled. I pounded on the glass. She snorted.

Glancing over my shoulder I saw my neighbor working in his garage and hoped he didn’t notice my predicament. I also sent up a little prayer of gratitude because I knew that even though it would be horribly embarassing that Carl is a good guy who would come rescue me if necessary. Then I went back to cajoling a stubborn as sin 3 year-old into getting her sister to let mommy back into the house. It didn’t work.

One last time, “Please go get PK?”

She looked at me with that glint in her eye and stuck out her tongue. Not at me though, at the window. Then she licked the glass. My face must have contorted in all kinds of disgust and revoltion because her face immediately lit up and she did it again. And again. And again.

I got down on my knees on the balcony and focused my sternest cut-the-crap-before-mommy-goes-postal-on-your-tiny-butt look and yelled “PeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeKaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”.

PK came running into the kitchen only to skid to a stop laughing when she saw what happened. She finally grabbed a chair to stand on and was unlocking the door when Carl stepped into the middle of the driveway and called “Everything okay?” I’d forgotten wanting to avoid making a spectacle of myself when I hollered.

“Yeah, everything is fine now,” I said as I stepped through the now open door clutching my plate of pork chops. And everything was fine after SB’s time out for about 10 minutes. Then she got up in the middle of dinner to lick the door again.

Pete Townshend – The Best Of Pete Townshend: Coolwalkingsmoothtalkingstraightsmokingfirestoking

Due to the type of insulation used in the construction of this building I have been experiencing consistent signal interruptions to my clairvoyance so I ask that you leave a detailed message and explain what you mean since without my extrasensory perception I can only do exactly what you say.

It’s been a long week. I sleepy tired. Go ni-night now.

The printer and the evil that lived within were determined to shake the faith of the good employees of the small marketing type company until they cried out for mercy. It jammed. It smeared. It used toner faster than an H2 guzzles through a gallon of gas. It flashed obscure error messages. If you listened closely to the whirring mechanisms within it could be heard to say “John is dead.” The printer was bad right down to the belts.

After compassionate care had worn down even the most optimisic of our office drone heroes the moment of truth arrived. The printer had to die. And it did.

And so, between them, the tireless coworkers beat back the opressive print device until it could no longer remember its IP address. The hard fought battle between man and machine concluded and all the reminders of the dictatorial reign were destroyed. Flames licked every page of the manual as the installation disks smoldered and melted away. Okay, maybe that part is an exaggeration, but they did throw them all out. In the end, wearing victorious grins, the champions returned to the cube farm they called work knowing in their hearts that they had, for once, served the cause of the greatest good.

DOWN WITH HP! LONG LIVE WORKING OFFICE EQUIPMENT!

It’s Friday. Friday is pizza and a movie night in this estrogen overloaded house. A nice cheese slice to go with our cheesey “family” oriented flick and we’re a bunch of happy chicks. Tonight is an abberation though. Tonight we have a boy in the hizz-ouse. Yup. Male. Testosterone. I should have known there would be havoc but he’s such a nice well-mannered little boy (he is for me at least) that I really thought we’d be fine.

The movie was fine, so was the pizza and the ice cream. We were doing great until I mentioned showers. No kid likes to take a shower, especially when playing with a friend is an alternative. Still, it needed to be done so I argued Ellie into the bathroom, put Risa to bed and sat down to play video games with Casey (I told you I was addicted). I heard the water turn on and the baby fussed as she settled in. At the start of the third race I heard a high-pitched scream from the back of the house. I dropped my controller and raced for the bedroom thinking Risa had managed to get to something she shouldn’t have but she was simply standing in her crib letting loose with some glass shattering wails. Scooping her up I turned and saw that Ellie’s towel was on the floor. Knowing she would need it momentarily I grabbed it and took it into the bathroom. Opening the door and walking into the bathroom I noted that my bedroom light was on and that I needed to turn it off even though I couldn’t recall turning it on and I also realized that the carpet was damp under my feet. As I hung her towel on the rack for her I asked her why everything was wet but she ignored me. I pulled back the curtain to ask her again and to my amazement there was no one in the shower. I flipped off the water and spun around to scream for my missing child but instead paused and stormed into my bedroom. There I found my errant daughter dripping wet on my floor while trying to struggle into a flannel nightgown. I was annoyed.

After ordering her to dry herself off with the towel I flung in her direction I returned to the living room where I unceremoniously dumped Risa and plopped down in front of the computer to whine about my children to anyone who would listen. Ellie came out fully clothed and mostly dry so I let the kids play a couple rounds of Mario Karts before shuffling Casey off for a shower.

Princess Know-It-All gave him the grand tour of the bathroom. She showed him where the towels were and the shampoo then proceded to give him a tutorial on the art of taking a shower which included instructions on exactly how much shampoo was required as well as a step-by-step discourse on how to apply said shampoo. Still sitting at the computer wailing to the world in true Drama Queen fashion I finally butted in when Risa toddled in to join them and they all started yelling.

Storming back towards the bathroom I yelled, “Ellie get out! Risa come here! Casey take a shower!” Snatching Risa from the floor where she was attempting to completely unroll and entire roll of toilet paper I nudged Ellie out the door and told Casey to go ahead and hop in. With the door closed I heard the water turn on and ordered Ellie to the living room where she was to plant her butt on the couch and not speak. Rocking Risa a bit I eased into the dark bedroom to lay her down. Again. She immediately stood back up and shrieked at me and as I was trying to give her that fake hug that’s really a smokescreen for laying her down again I heard a thump from the bathroom and a small yelp. Listening closely all I could hear was the blubbering from the over-tired baby and Princess Know-It-All shouting to find out what was happening.

Abandoning Risa I went back to the bathroom door and knocked while asking, “Case, you okay?” Hearing no response I slowly cracked the door open and started to ask again when I noticed that I couldn’t see the shower curtain that should have been reflected in the mirror. Opening the door a little wider I was able to locate the missing shower curtain where it was laying half in and half out of the shower, which, just in case you were wondering, was still running. Rushing in I slammed the faucet shut, grabbed a towel and wrapped the soggy boy up before asking if he was hurt. Two seconds later Princess came running in to find out what was going on and I had to kick her out. I checked his head quickly for cuts, bruises and bumps and fortunately didn’t find any. Princess poked her head around the corner again. I fought the urge to throttle her and again ordered her back to the couch. One more time I asked if the curtain rod had hit him and when he indicated that it had caught him on the chest I looked but found more nothing. Relieved that no damage was done I calmed him and told him that he could call it quits with the shower and just get ready for bed.

I scooted the curtain out of his way and left the bathroom, closing the door behind me, ignoring the whimpers emanating from the bedroom and shooshing Princess (whose curiousity is apparently insatiable) toward the living room. Casey arrived in his pj’s and I began settling them down for sleep. While they discussed who would sleep on the couch and who would sleep on the floor (interesting side note: Casey was granted rights to the couch but both kids ended up sleeping on the floor anyway) I asked what Risa was doing in the bathroom before I came back there.

Three guesses. Yes folks, my baby is a spy. I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again. She’s got mischief in her blood and deviance on her mind. And now she’s apparently targeting guests in our home. Watch out for her booby traps if you come to visit. That so subtly misplaced toy in the middle of the floor is probably about as innocent as my little secret agent.

1) I’m hot
2) Men suck
3) My kids are the bomb
4) My girlfriends RAWK
5) Dishwasher soap

What? I forgot the soap when I was at the store yesterday. Deal.

Ridiculocity is the new measure of ludicrosity. It will replace the old system of ranking on scales of 1-10 and is much more accurate than the antiquated method of tracing the speaker’s genealogy back to the point at which his/her ancestors evolved from the duck-billed platypus (which is arguably the most ridiculous animal ever created). This new gauge is the most scientifically precise formula yet devised to separate the dumb from the just plain stupid.

Examples:

Tom says, “If the earth was flat it would be a lot easier to dig through to China.”
Dick is listening and is astounded by this statement.
Harry calculates that it took Tom 5 seconds to declare his theory, then times Dick’s silence at another 5 seconds before he shakes his head three times and walks away.
This leaves us with a ridiculocity rating of 3.

Now, assume that what Tom said was so preposterously over the top that it took him 5 minutes to share with Dick. Dick spends the next 15 minutes trying to fully understand what the hell Tom is talking about. After finally getting to the root of the insanity Dick shakes his head 4 times, blinks 10 times then adds another 4 shakes. Harry clocks Tom at a ridiculosity rate of 54, gives him a sticker that says “I’m Proud to be a Dumbass” and heads to the bar with Dick to try and drink the whole conversation into oblivion.

So you get the idea. The higher your rating the more imbecilic you sound to your peers. If your ridiculosity level is consistently below 1 you’re doing pretty damn well. This also makes for a great game to see how high you can raise your ridiculosity. Of course the unknowing participants in your game will think you’re a flaming idiot, but that might be half the fun.