Dingy mist lurks about the hood today and it puts a serious droop in my brain wave. I can feel my mind flat-lining. Maybe that makes sense, because that lame end-of-the-world apocalypse is four weeks behind us and yet I remain so I might actually be a zombie. But who cares? Jeremy Renner is still among us, so he must be a zombie too. I never knew a zombie could be such a studmuffin.
Are you singing that Cranberries song now...in your head?
I need to work on taxes, correct math papers, file my receipts, rear the offspring, bag up donatables, be the wife, pretend some dinner, contribute to society, clean the fridge (stupid leprechaun ought to be doing that, he has been living there after all and he's likely the slob who spilt the salsa), box up Christmas, remember my vitamins, save the planet, scrub the toilets, pay a bill, mop the floors, reduce my carbon, eat all organic, and do something with those planters that are vacant now because dehydrated houseplants do not come back if you just add water. Thus it is imperative that I devise a plan to stop the gray matter hanging in the air from affecting the gray matter in my head so I can focus.
If I possessed enough mental power right now to be able to experience emotion, I'd be feeling happy with myself over the fact that I didn't waste brain cells making New Year's resolutions this year, because today I wouldn't have the piece of mind to keep any. Maybe that's why I have the peace of mind to park here and blog while my workload has babies all around me.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Run, Impala, Run
I was mildly unnerved when smack dab in the middle of the George Sellar http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Senator_George_Sellar_Bridge over the Columbia River at 5:11 pm my Impala stalled. I had the sense to hit the hazards, kick the car into neutral, and escape the road.
After maneuvering into a safe spot I lit the Hunneypunkin Signal, and for once I got the superhero experience myself. This was odd. Generally I'm home being both parents and my own spouse while Hunneypunkin's out saving the world.
Hunneypunkin got me and the car home, but after hours and then weeks the solution eluded even his mechanicalousness. The Impala would run like...well, an impala, and then without warning it would die, and it didn't give a monkey's butt whether I was in traffic or sandwiched between loaded semis.
I resorted to my motto. I do what I can. (Mechanics isn't it.) I Googled. (No, not Jeremy Renner pictures. Stay on topic, people.) Drivers all over the world wide web seemed to have had similar troubles with their early-2000's Impalas, and of all the fixes these poor suckers tried, the only one that seemed to work was replacing the throttle positioning sensor. I had no idea what that meant, but I practiced pronouncing that term for six and a half hours so I could repeat it to Hunneypunkin without sounding like a girl.
I'm here to tell you that ADD isn't all bad, because Hunneypunkin's kicked in so he forgot all about the rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls can't know car stuff. He picked up a little gadget from a wrecking yard which had my throttley sensorous positionish deally and two other important Impala pieces in it, for a fraction of the cost of a brand new sensory deally without any other Impala pieces, and behold! the part I'd suggested didn't fix the car, but the mass air flow sensor (one of the two other important Impala pieces) did fix the car.
That was a few years ago, Hunneypunkin and I have since traded careers (he goes to work and I hold the fort), and the Impala, still running (sort of), now carries him to work and back instead of me. There are several million light years on the odometer and the transmission has low self-esteem. The gas gauge keeps time with the speedometer, so the faster you go the more fuel you think you have. But the engine is good and the dome light still works. We keep discussing a new(er) car, but until we expand our penny collection...please, Impala, keep running.
After maneuvering into a safe spot I lit the Hunneypunkin Signal, and for once I got the superhero experience myself. This was odd. Generally I'm home being both parents and my own spouse while Hunneypunkin's out saving the world.
Hunneypunkin got me and the car home, but after hours and then weeks the solution eluded even his mechanicalousness. The Impala would run like...well, an impala, and then without warning it would die, and it didn't give a monkey's butt whether I was in traffic or sandwiched between loaded semis.
I resorted to my motto. I do what I can. (Mechanics isn't it.) I Googled. (No, not Jeremy Renner pictures. Stay on topic, people.) Drivers all over the world wide web seemed to have had similar troubles with their early-2000's Impalas, and of all the fixes these poor suckers tried, the only one that seemed to work was replacing the throttle positioning sensor. I had no idea what that meant, but I practiced pronouncing that term for six and a half hours so I could repeat it to Hunneypunkin without sounding like a girl.
I'm here to tell you that ADD isn't all bad, because Hunneypunkin's kicked in so he forgot all about the rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls can't know car stuff. He picked up a little gadget from a wrecking yard which had my throttley sensorous positionish deally and two other important Impala pieces in it, for a fraction of the cost of a brand new sensory deally without any other Impala pieces, and behold! the part I'd suggested didn't fix the car, but the mass air flow sensor (one of the two other important Impala pieces) did fix the car.
That was a few years ago, Hunneypunkin and I have since traded careers (he goes to work and I hold the fort), and the Impala, still running (sort of), now carries him to work and back instead of me. There are several million light years on the odometer and the transmission has low self-esteem. The gas gauge keeps time with the speedometer, so the faster you go the more fuel you think you have. But the engine is good and the dome light still works. We keep discussing a new(er) car, but until we expand our penny collection...please, Impala, keep running.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Only Thing That Works is Me
As I cruised into my garage after dropping off minimum payments on the latest repair bills in town because I was out of postage stamps and calendar spaces, the car collapsed into nine pieces. Nice. Now Hunneypunkin gets to use his superpowers to magic the car back together, and I get to decide which kidney to sell to cover the cost.
On my way to the front door I noticed a steady drip of water on the sidewalk. From under the eaves. Indicating a leak in the roof. Well, I can't fix that, but I can print out the papers for my class tonight.
After forty-five minutes of diplomatic negotiations between the printer and my laptop I had the two speaking to each other and at that point my laptop overheated and went comatose.
While the laptop cooled down I washed the dishes. In dishpans, which I emptied outside because the drain...did not. I also laundered a load of darks and hauled buckets of washer water outside because the drain, of course, did not.
It seemed wise to cease water related activites in order to maintain my carefully protected facade of sanity, so I mixed up a sugary batch of New Year's Irresolutions. Unfortunately the oven believed itself to be overheating and kept turning itself off, while the leprechaun in the fridge woke up and proceeded to mock me with repetitious knocking. Once the oven was convinced it was safe to operate at 350° for thirty minutes, I tried to run the vacuum cleaner over the living room carpet, but it blew the breaker.
It seemed wise to temporarily leave the house in order to maintain my faltering facade of sanity, so I stepped into my waterproof boots and headfirst into the back door because I keep forgetting that in colder weather the doorknob sticks. Once outside, I sloshed through the slush and tossed a bowlful of stale leftovers to the dogs, then turned back toward the house with my socks drenched.
Is it too much to ask that the things I own work as hard as I do?
Hunneypunkin's little sledgehammer smiled up at me from the welcome mat where it wasn't supposed to be. This is the Jeremy Renner of Hunneypunkin's expansive arsenal of tools. It's tough, cool, hardworking, versatile, and fun to look at. It took every molecule of self restraint I barely had to refrain from picking it up and using it on everything I own.
On my way to the front door I noticed a steady drip of water on the sidewalk. From under the eaves. Indicating a leak in the roof. Well, I can't fix that, but I can print out the papers for my class tonight.
After forty-five minutes of diplomatic negotiations between the printer and my laptop I had the two speaking to each other and at that point my laptop overheated and went comatose.
While the laptop cooled down I washed the dishes. In dishpans, which I emptied outside because the drain...did not. I also laundered a load of darks and hauled buckets of washer water outside because the drain, of course, did not.
It seemed wise to cease water related activites in order to maintain my carefully protected facade of sanity, so I mixed up a sugary batch of New Year's Irresolutions. Unfortunately the oven believed itself to be overheating and kept turning itself off, while the leprechaun in the fridge woke up and proceeded to mock me with repetitious knocking. Once the oven was convinced it was safe to operate at 350° for thirty minutes, I tried to run the vacuum cleaner over the living room carpet, but it blew the breaker.
It seemed wise to temporarily leave the house in order to maintain my faltering facade of sanity, so I stepped into my waterproof boots and headfirst into the back door because I keep forgetting that in colder weather the doorknob sticks. Once outside, I sloshed through the slush and tossed a bowlful of stale leftovers to the dogs, then turned back toward the house with my socks drenched.
Is it too much to ask that the things I own work as hard as I do?
Hunneypunkin's little sledgehammer smiled up at me from the welcome mat where it wasn't supposed to be. This is the Jeremy Renner of Hunneypunkin's expansive arsenal of tools. It's tough, cool, hardworking, versatile, and fun to look at. It took every molecule of self restraint I barely had to refrain from picking it up and using it on everything I own.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Sheepdoggers
If you have a big brother, literally or figuratively, you probably know what it's like to be sheepdogged. My brother James (it always made me happy when my mom pronounced it Jammies) was the ultimate sheepdogger. Growing up I was unfortunately his favorite sheep. Even though we're both like halfway to dead now, he'd still try to sheepdog me given the chance. It's devilish irritating to have every real or imagined flaw in your character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance pointed out and corrected by an asineinstein self-appointed godparent.
Is there an inherent urge in a firstborn to herd its younger siblings? Even within the depths of all the respectful, hardworking, polite, compassionate, intelligent responsibleness of The Precious lies an irrepressible compulsion to sheepdog his brother and sisters.
I was employed under the supervision of a sheepdogger for several years. I should be awarded the Zen Garden Award for Infinite Patience for that. He's still alive, and I should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for that.
Hunneypunkin is the nicest man in the world, but even he tried to sheepdog me for a time. I went all Jeremy Renner on him and he learned. I'm not a fighter, but I can defend when necessary because I'm practical and logical like that. Make note of this, ladies: Hunneypunkin learned. Don't let anybody fool you. The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys claims men can't be taught, but that is not so.
My annoying proclivity to look for the positive has led to the observation that being sheepdogged can have the effect of sharpening one's character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance. Of course, being sheepdogged can also have the effect of sharpening one's appreciation for irony. There's some fun to be had in sheepdogging a sheepdog.
Is there an inherent urge in a firstborn to herd its younger siblings? Even within the depths of all the respectful, hardworking, polite, compassionate, intelligent responsibleness of The Precious lies an irrepressible compulsion to sheepdog his brother and sisters.
I was employed under the supervision of a sheepdogger for several years. I should be awarded the Zen Garden Award for Infinite Patience for that. He's still alive, and I should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for that.
Hunneypunkin is the nicest man in the world, but even he tried to sheepdog me for a time. I went all Jeremy Renner on him and he learned. I'm not a fighter, but I can defend when necessary because I'm practical and logical like that. Make note of this, ladies: Hunneypunkin learned. Don't let anybody fool you. The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys claims men can't be taught, but that is not so.
My annoying proclivity to look for the positive has led to the observation that being sheepdogged can have the effect of sharpening one's character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance. Of course, being sheepdogged can also have the effect of sharpening one's appreciation for irony. There's some fun to be had in sheepdogging a sheepdog.
Answer v. Reply
Hunneypunkin is a master of non-feedback. In twenty years of bledded wiss I have yet to wring a straight answer from him.
"What time do you want to leave tonight?"
"I don't know when I'll get off work."
I voiced the necessary question and he spoke in return so I feel as if we've completed a conversation, till seven hours later when I realize he didn't give me an actual answer so I don't know how to plan.
One year, New Year's Day showed up before we had concluded what we were going to do for New Year's Eve. I'm not making this up.
There was a long period of time where I never had a single night out with Hunneypunkin because you can't tell a babysitter that you're going to need her from sometime between 4 and 8 pm till sometime between 9 and midnight depending on how things go at work. After that thirteen years, the offspring were old enough to supervise themselves so Daddy and Mama could dig some change out of the couch to go grab a romantic value burger and stay awake long enough to split it in the car while we tried to think up a conversational topic.
Now understand, this is not entirely a result of the "Do Not Commit" chapter in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys. It's more a side effect of being a superhero. You just never know when the neighbor lady will get trapped in her car and the Jaws of Life can't get there in time so you have to miss yet another in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party because it will take you a couple of hours to get her out with your Leatherman tool, again. And if you've already told the in-laws you'd be at the in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party, they're not going to understand, they're just going to add that to your Failures to Appear list. And everybody knows that whoever has the longest Failures to Appear list goes straight to the top of the Characters to Assassinate list. So, it's best to be vague.
Nevertheless, Hunneypunkin and I need to hone our communication skills sooner than later or it's going to be insane trying to coordinate his superhero duties with my Renner/Wilson 2016 U.S. Presidential campaign.
"What time do you want to leave tonight?"
"I don't know when I'll get off work."
I voiced the necessary question and he spoke in return so I feel as if we've completed a conversation, till seven hours later when I realize he didn't give me an actual answer so I don't know how to plan.
One year, New Year's Day showed up before we had concluded what we were going to do for New Year's Eve. I'm not making this up.
There was a long period of time where I never had a single night out with Hunneypunkin because you can't tell a babysitter that you're going to need her from sometime between 4 and 8 pm till sometime between 9 and midnight depending on how things go at work. After that thirteen years, the offspring were old enough to supervise themselves so Daddy and Mama could dig some change out of the couch to go grab a romantic value burger and stay awake long enough to split it in the car while we tried to think up a conversational topic.
Now understand, this is not entirely a result of the "Do Not Commit" chapter in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys. It's more a side effect of being a superhero. You just never know when the neighbor lady will get trapped in her car and the Jaws of Life can't get there in time so you have to miss yet another in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party because it will take you a couple of hours to get her out with your Leatherman tool, again. And if you've already told the in-laws you'd be at the in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party, they're not going to understand, they're just going to add that to your Failures to Appear list. And everybody knows that whoever has the longest Failures to Appear list goes straight to the top of the Characters to Assassinate list. So, it's best to be vague.
Nevertheless, Hunneypunkin and I need to hone our communication skills sooner than later or it's going to be insane trying to coordinate his superhero duties with my Renner/Wilson 2016 U.S. Presidential campaign.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Trauma Response Team
Once upon a time, Pixie required a major surgery involving a week's stay far from home to correct a fast-progressing scoliosis. I feared I had myself caused the incorrect curvature of her spine when I caught her as she turned from a dewdrop into a tiny baby pixie (an act which stunts the normal sprouting of a pixie's wings). http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/dewdrop-in-september.html My burning guilt and shame over the possibility of having caused such torment to my very own mythological creature, however, were drowned out by the swift action of our local Trauma Response Team.
Santa Claussen sold a limb to buy fuel for our GasGuzzler to make the trip.
My sister-in-law Lovesme built a hospital wing for the occasion, including an ice cream parlor for patients' family members.
My sister-in-law Hatesme published an op-ed piece detailing my failures as a parent of mythologics.
My uncle sent a lifetime supply of movies for Pixie to watch during convalescence along with a bag of trinkets from Grandad, and two months of weekly sixteen-ounce caramel mochas for me.
Great Grampa and Great Gramma sent Pixie a stuffie Burden Bear with its own little quilt and a poem to keep Pixie company whilst she recovered. They even mailed her a card by United States Postal Service. So did Pixie's Gramps.
Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave Pixie books and posters with pigmentous articles with which to color them, watched over Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious while I didn't sleep at the hospital. They cooked dinner for the family, and delivered us brand new major appliances.
The Besties outfitted Pixie with fuzzy jams and softy socks, balloons and bears, puzzles and toys, Erin Hunter books, Lego loads, and a two-day in-hospital visit from Pixie's Pal.
Our Nice Church Ladies sent us dinner the night we returned home, along with a gift and a card, and Sweet Church Girl made an ornament for Pixie in Pixie's favorite color.
The Neighborlies deposited a hospital bed in our living room for the six-month rehabilitation.
The on-call surgeon helped me by phone at midnight on Christmas when Pixie allergically reacted.
Friends cooked pasta in my kitchen and sat around the hospital bed to play cards with Pixie while I measured prescription medications. My mom took over as medication measurer when I had to go to work.
Hunneypunkin's Huntingbuddy offered to compare his heart surgery scars with Pixie's back surgery scars. (Pixie declined.)
Jeremy Renner showed up at the theater in The Bourne Legacy so I'd have something to take my mind off Pixie's plight.
A year later, you couldn't tell at a glance that Pixie has been surgicalled, and I still haven't caught up on the sleeping I didn't during the hospital week and the recovery month and a half. If you ever find yourself in such a sitch, I hope your local Trauma Response Team rocks like ours.
Santa Claussen sold a limb to buy fuel for our GasGuzzler to make the trip.
My sister-in-law Lovesme built a hospital wing for the occasion, including an ice cream parlor for patients' family members.
My sister-in-law Hatesme published an op-ed piece detailing my failures as a parent of mythologics.
My uncle sent a lifetime supply of movies for Pixie to watch during convalescence along with a bag of trinkets from Grandad, and two months of weekly sixteen-ounce caramel mochas for me.
Great Grampa and Great Gramma sent Pixie a stuffie Burden Bear with its own little quilt and a poem to keep Pixie company whilst she recovered. They even mailed her a card by United States Postal Service. So did Pixie's Gramps.
Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave Pixie books and posters with pigmentous articles with which to color them, watched over Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious while I didn't sleep at the hospital. They cooked dinner for the family, and delivered us brand new major appliances.
The Besties outfitted Pixie with fuzzy jams and softy socks, balloons and bears, puzzles and toys, Erin Hunter books, Lego loads, and a two-day in-hospital visit from Pixie's Pal.
Our Nice Church Ladies sent us dinner the night we returned home, along with a gift and a card, and Sweet Church Girl made an ornament for Pixie in Pixie's favorite color.
The Neighborlies deposited a hospital bed in our living room for the six-month rehabilitation.
The on-call surgeon helped me by phone at midnight on Christmas when Pixie allergically reacted.
Friends cooked pasta in my kitchen and sat around the hospital bed to play cards with Pixie while I measured prescription medications. My mom took over as medication measurer when I had to go to work.
Hunneypunkin's Huntingbuddy offered to compare his heart surgery scars with Pixie's back surgery scars. (Pixie declined.)
Jeremy Renner showed up at the theater in The Bourne Legacy so I'd have something to take my mind off Pixie's plight.
A year later, you couldn't tell at a glance that Pixie has been surgicalled, and I still haven't caught up on the sleeping I didn't during the hospital week and the recovery month and a half. If you ever find yourself in such a sitch, I hope your local Trauma Response Team rocks like ours.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Thespian Empress
Lil Chev wasn't new, but I kept it clean on the outside, tidy on the inside, full of gas, and insured. My good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, however, was unimpressed. She never openly dissed my car, but she often complimented it, and me, in her trademark backhanded fashion. "It's so nice that you're able to save money by driving...that. But let's drive mmiinne. Be careful, it's full of automatic gadgets you're probably not used to." One of Dromiquine's fascinating characteristics is her ability to add syllables to first-person pronouns.
When Hunneypunkin traded Lil Chev in on a car manufactured in the same millennium we lived in, Dromiquine spilled a tear. "III'm happy for you. It's so hard to see someone else get a new car when III'm not getting one." Another of Dromiquine's unique idiosyncrasies is her amazing power to designate herself the focus of any conversation.
Dromiquine was deeply wounded after I'd gone out for sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with a mutual friend. "Without mmee?!" When I assured her we simply thought she'd be uninterested after the many times she'd tossed her hair and proclaimed, "III don't drink those things," Dromiquine said it must be our mutual friend who excluded her. Then she called our mutual friend and told her I'd blamed Mutual Friend for excluding Dromiquine. Blink blink. Fortunately, Mutual Friend is familiar with Dromiquine's exquisite talent for fact-morphage.
Fact-morphage might explain how Dromiquine's diversity of life experiences rival those of Nancy Drew. And you almost believe her lively anecdotes because her thespian capabilities rival those of Jeremy Renner.
As it turns out, Dromiquine gets around. Everyone I meet seems to be good friends (or whatever) with her. My sister-in-law Lovesme was excommunicated from Dromiquine's life for the audacity of getting married while Dromiquine was still single. My sister-in-law Hatesme had a visit from the sheriff when Dromiquine turned her in for animal cruelty because Dromiquine heard her dog bark once. My BFFs are all stronger people for their association with Dromiquine. Even Pixie has run into her at the park. Angel Doll met her at camp.
I imagine you know Dromiquine too, so you're acquainted with her one-of-a-kind perspective and peculiarities. Variety truly is the spice of life, is it not? Testify!
When Hunneypunkin traded Lil Chev in on a car manufactured in the same millennium we lived in, Dromiquine spilled a tear. "III'm happy for you. It's so hard to see someone else get a new car when III'm not getting one." Another of Dromiquine's unique idiosyncrasies is her amazing power to designate herself the focus of any conversation.
Dromiquine was deeply wounded after I'd gone out for sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with a mutual friend. "Without mmee?!" When I assured her we simply thought she'd be uninterested after the many times she'd tossed her hair and proclaimed, "III don't drink those things," Dromiquine said it must be our mutual friend who excluded her. Then she called our mutual friend and told her I'd blamed Mutual Friend for excluding Dromiquine. Blink blink. Fortunately, Mutual Friend is familiar with Dromiquine's exquisite talent for fact-morphage.
Fact-morphage might explain how Dromiquine's diversity of life experiences rival those of Nancy Drew. And you almost believe her lively anecdotes because her thespian capabilities rival those of Jeremy Renner.
As it turns out, Dromiquine gets around. Everyone I meet seems to be good friends (or whatever) with her. My sister-in-law Lovesme was excommunicated from Dromiquine's life for the audacity of getting married while Dromiquine was still single. My sister-in-law Hatesme had a visit from the sheriff when Dromiquine turned her in for animal cruelty because Dromiquine heard her dog bark once. My BFFs are all stronger people for their association with Dromiquine. Even Pixie has run into her at the park. Angel Doll met her at camp.
I imagine you know Dromiquine too, so you're acquainted with her one-of-a-kind perspective and peculiarities. Variety truly is the spice of life, is it not? Testify!
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