Liz Learns Sarcasm. . . Hooray!

There are certain milestones that a parent looks for their child to accomplish at certain ages. Walking, for example, should be achieved between 12 and 18 months of age. By age two your child should have a vocabulary of 50-300 words. Between 3 and 4 years of age, toilet training should be mastered.

Apparently, sarcasm gets learned right around 7 1/2 years.

So I'm cooking dinner this evening, the television is blaring football (because Chris's beloved basement television has died and he now feels the need to watch all sporting events on the kitchen TV), Chris and his friend Justin are yelling at the television (because this apparently affects the player's performance and therefore the outcome of the game), Liz and Sam are having a very loud Robo-Dinosaur vs. Robo-Man battle right under my feet, a dog is barking, and did I mention I have a pounding headache due to the delightful cold I have acquired from one or more of the outbreak monkeys who sprang forth from my womb and became instantly unable to walk past my drink without stopping to backwash into it.

So I (very sweetly and with marked patience) say to Liz and Sam, "Is there a reason you can't play with those toys downstairs in your playroom?"

And my lovely little second grader says, "Uh, because if we were downstairs, then it would be quiet in here and you would be able to concentrate on making dinner."

And Chris looks at me and says, "Oh great, Liz has learned sarcasm!"

Girls Night Out

I was invited for a girls night out with a new friend I met through my kids school. As I don't get out very often and rarely get to have grown-up girl conversations (the most intellectual conversation I had this week was with my four year old and was about whether the light saber or blaster gun is the better weapon of choice when fighting bad guys in space), I was very excited about the prospect of a night out cutting loose with the girls.
Now, this particular group of women calls themselves JUGs (standing for Just Us Girls). Personally, I think it is an adorable name for a girls group. The smart ass Husband responded with this email:

"FYI, my friend Jim and I are the founding members of SCHolastic Litany Of Nice Guys and we have a group outing tomorrow. Hope that's not a problem."

Once he informed me that I could not in fact become a member of SCHLONG, I shot back this response:

"Well, if I can't join SCHLONG then I'm starting my own group. And you and Jim can't be members of the Knowledgeable New Order of Cute Kissable Exceptional Representatives of Sexiness. So there."

IT'S FINISHED!!!

So here is the finished room--minus some prints of comic book art we're going to hang. Still on the fence as to whether to add Spiderman and Ironman on one of the other walls. . .

Why Are There Only SIX Guys On My Wall?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!!??!
Now, I know it's hard to see, because it's just a pencil sketch at this point and you have no frame of reference to judge size, but trust me when I say this thing covers about 25 square feet of wall space. And he wants to know why there's only 6 guys. What do you have to do to impress kids these days???

Hamsters and Heat--I Don't Recommend It

We used to have a hamster.
Well at least now you know where this is headed so take a moment to prepare yourself emotionally.
Her name was Penny and in the beginning she was a lovely little pet. Didn't bite, stayed in her cage (unlike other creatures that reside in my home), only smelled when her cage needed cleaning.
Then she got fat.
For some reason, gaining enough weight to cause a hamster to get stuck inside their crawling tubes also makes them incredibly grumpy. Who knew??!! So then Penny started to bite and the kids lost interest in her. Go figure--who wants to play with something that is going to draw blood??
So one day a few months ago and I put her inside her exercise ball to roll around on the kitchen floor while I was cleaning the cage. Liz comes and, sees her and wants to take her outside. No,not a good idea--it's pretty warm out. Please, please, please, pleeeease, you get the point. My nerves are shot--Fine, take her, just make sure you keep her in the shade. ("Famous last words" sort of applies here)
So I finish cleaning the cage and go outside to tell the kids to bring her inside, and the kids are nowhere to be found, but poor Penny is sitting in the direct sunlight in the yard. She's not looking so good.

Now would probably be a good time to mention that my thermometer read 98 at the time.

I take Penny in and dump her out--she's not moving and she's pretty hot to the touch, so I start dousing her with cool water and after a few minutes she starts convulsing--at least she's moving, right?? She stops seizing and I take a medicine dropper and start giving her drops of water which she eagerly drinks. Then she flips over onto her paws on my hand, sits there for a moment, looks at me, then tries to bite me!! You have GOT to be kidding me!! I just nursed this hamster back from grip of death and she has the nerve to bite me! Unbelievable!

So here I am thinking "disaster averted--lesson learned--PHEW!" but alas, it was not to be. . .
When Chris was putting the kids to bed that night he checked on her and apparently the stress of heat stroke was just too much for the little thing.

Then we had to tell the kids.

It didn't go well. Sam, in his four year old wisdom kept trying to say, "Why did the girls have to take Penny outside??!!" I kept casually clutching him to my chest to muffle his words.
Then the inevitable happened--Emma asks, "Did Penny die because we took her outside??"
(Yes, of course she did.) Chris and I hesitate for half a second and then reply (emphatically and simultaneously I may add)--"NO ABSOLUTELY NOT! IT DID NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT!" Nothing really obvious there or anything. . .
So I'm sure somewhere in Liz's summer writing journal there's an entry about how her hamster coincidentally died on the very same day she took her outside to dry roast, uhh, I mean play in the summer sun. . . .

Sam's Room--In Progress

Sam has been in the "baby room" in our house. Sam is 4. It was time for a change, and he requested a comic book superhero room (a decision I'm sure The Husband had nothing to do with). So with high hopes and a plan of work I set out to create the most awesome superhero room a four year old boy could hope for. And this is what it looks like so far:



So here are the answers to the questions I know are on your mind:

1. Yes, everything is hand painted.
2. Because we couldn't find superhero wallpaper border.
3. No, I DO NOT want the link to the site you found which sells superhero wallpaper border.
4. Estimating about 40 hours when all is said and done (I *hope*).
5. No, I would prefer not to come and do the same thing in a room in your home.
6. Yes, one of the dogs now has blue paint down the side of him.
7. Yes, I've had to retouch things a few times. Turns out saying, "Don't touch that--it's wet" means absolutely nothing to a four year old boy.
8. For those of you who were familiar with the old room-- 2 coats of primer (3 over the murals themselves) and two coats of paint.
9. Yes, we WILL be moving before the time comes to repaint this room.
10. Yes, I know I made a mistake.
11. No, I don't plan to fix it by repainting the entire wall, but thanks for the suggestion, Chris. Oh, and bonus points to anyone who noticed the mistake before reading this.

So I will post again as I get more done--I'm planning a mural with at least 6 characters, maybe more if someone buys me liquor or if Sam starts being really nice to me. . .
Oh--and if anyone out there likes to paint and has a steady hand, well you know what Bob Barker says. . .

Winners Never Quit, Quitters Never Win

And I'm OK with that. I quit. Give up. Throw in the towel. Accept defeat.
Mo: 1
Shannon: 0

Anybody want a dog??

I Don't Think These Things Happen to Normal People

You've heard stories about Mo, right? He's evil, pure and simple. Not only has he shredded, destroyed and eaten a very long (and interesting) list of items, but he has also managed to escape from the steel crate so frequently that we eventually gave up and just started locking him in the laundry room.
Recently, he has started destroying things IN the laundry room.

(There USED to be lovely blue curtains hanging here.)
So I bought him a new crate. Plastic this time with very few openings for him to manipulate.

He is EATING the plastic crate. I give him a few more sessions in this crate and he'll be out.
But do I give up? Hell, no. It's a personal vendetta now. I WILL win.
So currently, the dumb-ass dog is being double crated. Yes, that's right, he goes into one crate, and then I lock that crate into a second crate.

Let's see him get out of this one.

Oh No! The Puppies!

I made an appointment for Mo to get a haircut and bath. It was desperately needed. So I took him to a place recommended by our neighbors: www.bestfriendsfurever.com (they did a great job and were very reasonably priced). Mo looks (and smells) very handsome. Chris now calls him Mr. Fancy Pants.

It was icy in the morning I was supposed to drop him off and the kids were on 2 hour delay for school so they had to go with me. This place also offers doggy day care so there were lots of dogs there. The dogs are grouped by size and are in "playrooms" where they can frolic freely with other dogs their size as well as play with toys or rest on beds, etc. It's a very nice set up. (All except for Sherman--who was in the "time-out" room for failing to share toys nicely. Bad, Sherman!)

I'm standing at the counter filling out the paperwork for Mo when I hear Liz say, "Oh no! The puppies!" I turn around in time to see 2 dashunds, 1 beagle, 1 pekinese, 2 poodles, 1 maltese, and 2 little mutts scampering madly around the lobby of the place; one of the employees frantically trying to gather them up; and my daughters running around giggling hysterically. And standing next to the (now open) gate guiltily shoving his hands into his pants pockets and trying in vain to look really casual is my son Sam. If he knew how, he would have been whistling.
In an ironic twist (although not so ironic if you've spent any time at all with Sam), this was the shirt he was wearing.

It's Not Like They Were THAT Valuable

Chris has lost the family jewels.
Been neutered.
Had the slice 'n dice.
Been castrated (no, wait-- that's different)
Has been snipped and clipped.



That's right, the Husband finally caved and went for the vasectomy.

WHOOPPEEE!! Now we can have all the sex we want and we don't have to worry about another little Wagner keeping us up all night crying.
Of course, we are married with 3 small children so "all the sex we want" roughly equals. . . well, let's not go there. If you're already married with children, then you already know this and if you're not--well, I really don't want to be responsible for causing anyone's depression.

So if you want all the gory details, continue reading, if not, you may want to scroll down a bit.

So the first thing they do is ask Chris if he needs to urinate- a good idea, the doc probably already showered this morning. Then the nurse instructed him to remove his shoes, pants and underwear--he was allowed to leave his socks on. And he's instructed to sit in the chair and place the drape over his lap.

The next part I'm not totally clear on because the nurse said I had to wait in the waiting room during the procedure. (I was very bummed.) But I'm assuming she took his temperature, blood pressure, etc. Then she came back to get me because apparently the doctor had authorized my presence during the procedure (I tried not to look too excited when I walked in). Chris was sitting in what is basically a dentist chair, reclined with his head on pillows and a very bright light illuminating well you know where. Doc looks up and says (a little too enthusiastically I thought) "Hi! You're just in time for the shaving!" I should note, that Chris looks a little uncomfortable at this stage--not in pain mind you, but a little unhappy that there is someone that close to his genitalia with a razor.

These are all the tools available for use during the procedure. He didn't use everything.

So the shaving complete, they lay a sterile drape with a large hole in it over the area then pull the twig and berries up through the hole. I guess they want it to be a tight fit because he had a little trouble working everything through. Next, he doused the entire area with iodine (this is to kill any surface bacteria--I learned that in Microbiology last semester) and let that sit for a bit. Apparently that stuff really soaks in because it's been a week and Chris' hoo-diddly is still a little yellow.
Now it's time to begin the procedure.

Oh--for those of you wondering how Mr. One-Eye responds to all this "attention". . . (I myself was wondering if he would stand up to see what was going on). . . nope--he actually looks as if he trying to relocate to somewhere . . . well . . . closer to Chris's spine let's say.

So the doc pulls out this thing that looks like an Epi-Pen except it has these two wires at the top that mold away from one another then come together at a point. He presses the button on the thing and they light up red hot. And he begins to "cut" but is actually burning and cauterizing as he goes.
OH MY GOSH! I forgot the anesthesia!! I mean, I forgot to write about that part--the doctor didn't forget it. So FIRST he tells Chris that this is the worst part of the whole thing and he grabs a handful of the skin on the bag of jewels and pinches it (it makes the pinch of the needle hurt less) and injects lidocaine into the whole thing. After a minute he slaps it a few time to ensure that Chris can't feel anything and THEN starts cutting.
So he opens a hole about 1 1/2 cm long and starts feeling around to locate the vas deferens (this is the tube that delivers all the little swimmers into the seminal fluid.

I could be waaay more technical here and really show off my Anatomy and Physiology knowledge thus proving that the $1000 we spent on those 2 classes was well worth it, but I don't want to appear cocky. . . (no pun intended)

All right--so he locates the tube and proceeds to stick the needle of lidocaine directly into it and add a little more medicine. So the tube looks a lot like a spaghetti noodle, but is covered in a sheath of connective tissue which has to be cut a way to expose it so Doc sets to work on that. Once the tube is exposed, he uses this thing that looks like scissors to put 2 tiny clamps on the tube about an inch apart. Once those are clamped, he takes scissors and simply snips the middle section away, then pushes the cut and clamped ends back into the little hole.

Now at this point, I am SERIOUSLY questioning why we are paying all this money to have the doctor do this--I have yet to see anything I couldn't have done on my own. (I'm SURE I could have obtained all the things I needed via the internet)

He tells Chris we are halfway there, then begins the same thing on the other side. Everything continues in exactly the same manner until he gets to the point where he has clamped the tube in the two places. At this point Doc looks up at me, winks, and hands me the scissors! I'm thinking this is absolutely the best day of my entire life. I look at Chris who is laying there with his arms thrown over his head and I think, "I'll just be really quiet about it--he'll never have to know." So I snipped the tube section out after which the Doc says, "I'm no longer responsible if this isn't successful." Funny. Very funny.
Then the stitching up. 2 stitches to close followed by a layer of liquid skin which he then dries with a hair dryer. Highly technical stuff I tell you. (It was a Conair 110 for any interested parties--you can see it in the picture of Chris in the chair)
Then it's all done and they sit Chris up and ask him how he feels. He says he's a little queasy and sweaty. That's an understatement--the sweat is pouring off the guy--he looks like he's just run a marathon. Doc says, "Your color is a little off--just sit tight for a minute. Does he look pale to you?" he asks me. Pale? Again--understatement of the year--Chris is (no lie) a putrid shade of avocado green. So they bring him some Coke and a few crackers, take his blood pressure, then decide to lay him back down for a bit. Now I should mention that at this point we discover that Chris took a pain pill before we left the house-as instructed- but failed to eat anything with said narcotic. Hmmm hydrocodone on an empty stomach--I'd feel a little queasy too. So after he drank some Coke he felt better and off we went with our instructions and our little sample cup.

So Chris is supposed to keep ice on the area for 24 hours (which he did) wear tight underwear for a week (which he did) and chill out for the weekend (which he didn't do) he did all the laundry stubborn ass that he is. He was cleared to resume sexual activity in 3 to 4 days. I'll have to call his mistress to see if that happened. As for side effects of the procedure--he said that the feeling was the same as the nauseous feeling in the pit of your stomach that follows being kicked in the nuts. That feeling lasted about 6 days but in no way affected his daily activities. Now, not having nuts myself, I can only assume that it feels similar to during pregnancy, when the baby opts to punch or kick you in the cervix. Having had this happen repeatedly over the duration of 3 pregnancies as well as pulling my groin muscle during 2 of my pregnancies and having Emma set up permanent camp on my sciatic nerve for 4 of the 9 months of her gestational period, not to mention the fact that breastfeeding for a total of 34 months of my life has done things to my boobs that only cosmetic surgery can correct, AND the fact that my feet are now GI-NORMOUS. And don't even get me started on the stretch marks. So basically, there's not a whole lot of sympathy coming from me. That's why he has male friends.

Now for the truly funny part--they tell you to return to the lab in 6 weeks with your sample cup filled so they can check to make sure the procedure was successful. OK, no problem. But if you read the fine print--it says that it takes 18-20 "shots" to clear out the chambers. 18-20 in 6 weeks??!!? I say again: Married. 3 kids. 18-20 in 6 weeks is something like 3.3 times per week. Yeah right, I'm so sure THAT'S going to happen. We're going to have to pay the mistress overtime.

So all in all it went better than I thought--I really thought he would milk it a lot more than he did. Truth be told--I was proud of him, I thought he did quite well, although he is a little sad and misses his little swimmers terribly. . .

You can almost hear the sad Snoopy music playing as he walks about the house. . .