NEW HOME FOR OLDIES!

As social media conquers the world and trends move forward I don't want all my old memories to get lost in the mix. Myspace and I broke up, so before my account gets disabled for inactivity I wanted to move some of my old favorites on over to a more permanent location.

Enjoy!

The Great Paint Debacle! 3-9-07

Oh payback for my youth times seven! Category: Life If anyone ever tells you that being a mom is easy, call B.S. right then, right there. When they say, enjoy the time you have when they are little: it's true time flies, but they're also remembering it all from a distance...Everything's a little easier with time passing. I love my kid. I do, I truly do! But sometimes I want to pull all of my hair out, flop down on the floor and pound my fists on the floor until someone else takes over the parent role for me. Though I guess it's not all that practical. It all starts with the little things: discovery of capabilities. Did you know that opening and closing drawers is a laughable event? Kaleb loves opening and shutting anything he can get his hands on, he also is enchanted with anything that can serve as a container for another object. Hide and seek is a current favorite, for him, not so much with me! So far I've found: rotten sippy cups in the oven mitt drawer, trash in the laundry bin and laundry in the trash can, bath toys in the toilet, and numerous utensils in every crack and crevice that exists in my furniture. All of these little things I can handle, but it's the genuinely unintentional things that really get me, because how can I get mad over an accident? Well, apparently I can get upset fairly easily--but then I feel really bad, so I guess it evens out somewhat. But, picture this, then honestly think what would you do? I am busy typing away on the laptop when I hear a thunk behind me and see both dogs go running, never a good sign. So I close the laptop and turn to pick up whatever it was that was just knocked over...only I just hear this horrendous shocked scream, it's my own. I can't help it. The scream starts a previously startled Kaleb into an all out bawlfest. There on the floor lay an open paint canister once full of glossy white acrylic latex paint. Never before been opened, no screwdriver prying up the next to impossible lid--apparently all it takes is a drop on the floor and all hell breaks loose! So I immediately upright the can of paint and see that the puddle has already spread onto both linoleum and carpet, as well as dazzling streaks on my microfiber couch. I flip out. Knowing that the little streaks are going to dry quickly I run to the nearest hand towel in the kitchen. I literally run back in to see that Kaleb has walked into the puddle of paint, picked up the lid and is now running away from me, so I won't take the lid away from him. He panics and drops the lid, paint side down on the rug. Now I have to deal with a paint covered crying one year old who's fear reflex involves chewing on his fingers which are now glossy white and look as if he was morphing into Elmer's glue. I scoop him up and haul him to the bathroom to wash his hands and feet and strip off the paint covered clothing. Kaleb is still unsure of what's going on, and why paint tastes so horrible! I get him cleaned up enough for the moment so that I can get back to cleaning up the paint spewed about the living room. I find paw prints all over the tile. I'm running back and forth between the living room, kitchen and bathroom gathering whatever towels I can grab. By the time I get to towel #4 I'm in hysterics. I am crying, which makes Kaleb cry, which only makes me cry harder. Repeat ad naseaum. It was so bad that I honestly thought about asking my psychotic mullet sporting neighbor for some assistance, but alas I had neglected getting dressed yet that day. So realizing that I was completely on my own I go for the mop. I'm going nuts with towels and mops and trying to keep my overly curious dogs and son away from the disaster. Then Kaleb picks up the bucket of mucky paint mop water out all over the floor. So I go absolutely insane and am cussing like a sailor and yelling at dogs, paint, and John's job for not having him be accessible to where he could come and assist in an "emergency" like this one. I'm down on my hands and knees again and trying to dry the floor when Kaleb slips on the wet floor and falls and konks his head. Of course! I give up and take the once again paint covered kid into the bathroom. I know that the situation isn't getting much better or much worse in the other room so I run a bath for the both of us. I scrub off as much paint from my skin and Kaleb's poor little body. I return to the scene of the crime only to find more paw prints. I banish the dogs to their kennels outside on the back porch, I'm so furious that I march outside in my towel to lock them up. Two and a half hours of scrubbing in all, did it help? Not a whole lot. Eventually I decided to wave the white flag and surrender to the disaster and call my mom. Not that she would be able to remedy anything from another state, but sometimes a girl just needs to talk to her mommy when there's nothing left to do. Finally the whole scene calms down and Kaleb literally curls up on my lap and falls asleep. I find myself looking down on him and admiring what a sweet, precious, adorable little boy he is...Does motherhood come with selective amnesia?! I'm literally leaning on a newly splatter-painted couch pillow, so I couldn't have completely forgotten, but gosh darn he's a cute kid when he's asleep!!!

Quirks and Assorted nonsense about ME: 3/25/07

Loni bits: facts and opinions.

I embrace my quirks, and my curves...except the lumpy ones. Those can go.

When I was little and on a shopping trip with my entire family, a man once tried to play connect the dots on my face with a ballpoint pen. It left an indentation on my nose, and my grandfather who was up until that point a hero of mine, stood by and laughed. I didn't let that one go for years.

I love writing, but hate punctuation.

I think that moths are like butterflies from hell, I think it's ridiculously creepy that if you touch their wings they leave this coat of death dust on your fingers.

Don't touch my ears. Don't make buzzing noises by my ears. I will hurt you.

I check myself out in any reflective surface.

I actually WANT to be on What Not To Wear. Public humiliation, yes. But, hey free clothes. I watch the show regularly and I have literally seen clothing items that I own on more than one occasion. Yet, I still can't let them go. Plus remember "out there" Loni...yeah she's been old navified. I find myself boring now, because I feel the obligation to dress more uh neutrally. I don't even know what section to shop in anymore. My heart cries Juniors, but Stacy and Clinton say no...what's a girl to do? Not a whole lot.

I have flinstone feet. I hate them, but find them useful for various things like standing and walking.

I cut my own hair mostly because I'm cheap, partially because I can. It's mine.

There were tropical fish etched into the ceiling tiles in the labor and delivery room where Kaleb was born. I thought it was a nice touch.

If you go into labor and your husband's co-workers have the night off, but are still trying to keep the night shift schedule, I think it's ok for them to come in and hang out in the delivery room. The more the merrier, until naked time comes. No better way to pass the time until the epidural than with good company. I think in general there'd be less screaming and dramatics in the labor and delivery area if more women in labor had a few night owl visitors to chat with.

Why is it easier to housebreak a pet than to potty train a child? Honestly?

I think that Rosie O'Donnell has been brainwashed. Remember when she was fun and not sucked into every conspiracy theory that existed. Maybe it's the haunting sweat pant paparazzi shots that ruined her.

I have no use for Paris, Nicole, Lindsey, Britney or any other of the overly-entitled underly-talented _______-a-holics. Why, why, why are they on the NEWS? I thought that was the purpose of tabloids and entertainment/show biz gossip shows. Naughty bits should not be newsworthy unless they belong to someone with some sort of authority and power over something beyond their daddy's credit limit.

On the teeny bopper note: No Dad should talk about his daughters boobs to the media, you're creepy Joe Simpson. Hillary Duff, eat a donut. You look like Skeletor. Paula Abdul, everyone knows you're not really little miss sunshine--maybe letting loose little miss moonshine a little more often will make you more honest and entertaining. "I Love New York"--Really? REALLY? Why does this show exist? I'm voting you all off the island.

I hate spending money.

I have to look if there's a clearance rack. It doesn't matter if it is a rack full of gerbil pelts I will browse on through just to make sure there isn't anything good that I'm missing.

Trips to Big Lots, Ross and the dollar store can take days...I hem and haw over practically every purchase.

I don't sleep well. When I do, my dreams are beyond absurd. Think pygmies and plane crashes. They range from the bizarre to the overly realistic until something unconventional and unrelated pops in and reminds me that I'm actually in bed. Typically, my arm is probably asleep when I try to wake myself up. Usually when things get freaky it's because of a numb appendage.

That is all. For now.

Nostalgic blog throwdown: 4/3/07

I remember everything. When I say that people say, uh huh sure, and roll their eyes. Ok, so it's not like I have a photographic memory, but I remember tiny little insignificant events in my life that everyone else has looked over, or chosen to forget. I can remember who I had crushes on in every different school year, and why. I remember the moments which made me sick inside which I wished for all the world that I could have changed, but I also remember all my little personal victories.

Let's see, starting at Kindergarten. I remember I had a crush on a boy named Matt Winn. He had a mole on his chin, all the girls made fun of him for it, I thought it was cute. I'd get up from my table and walk all the way across the room to sharpen my pencil just so that I could get his attention. He was a bad boy. We knew it in kindergarten, and he never changed. I've always been attracted to the bad boys; I guess I never changed either.

First grade I didn't know where I fit in. I tried to make friends with the cool kids, but they didn't like the fact that my clothes never matched and that my hair was always a mess. I overheard one girl talking about wanting to learn sign language, so I pretended like I had mastered the art. They all wanted to know how to say their names with their hands, so I made up some elaborate gestures and convinced them that was how it was done.

Second grade, we had read-a-thon days once a month. It was a big day for us; it was almost as good as not having school. We brought pillows, candy and books to class. Throughout the day we'd take breaks from our reading to play games. That day we had a spelling bee. I loved to spell, and was one of the best in my class. It was down to four people and the word "remember" came up. Two kids got it wrong before me. My turn, I was going to show them! "R-e-m-B-e-r." I got out. Brooke Adams spelled it right. I was furious.

Third grade I sat at a table next to a boy named Eddie Richards. He was a bad kid, he had a Mohawk and so did his dad. Everyone stayed away from him, because they didn't want to get him mad. He was really nice to me though, and I didn't really care that the other kids gave me dirty looks when I laughed at his jokes. One day he told me that I was a "Great dame." I took serious offense because I thought he was calling me a dog. He explained the difference to me…I couldn't stop blushing.

Fourth grade was an off year, I got chunky. When this new girl, LeOra moved in I was more than happy to make friends with her. She was tall and skinny. Her eyes were bulgy and always bloodshot. I remember wondering if she was a crack addict. She didn't mind that people assumed things like that about her, she liked being mysterious.

In fifth grade Trevor Cottam sat behind me. He was a punk, he had an earring. He teased me about being the teacher's pet because I always got the answers right in class. Mr. Olson yelled at him for poking me one day. He was causing a class disruption. Trevor responded with some smart mouth comment and Mr. Olson picked him up out of his chair by the place where your neck meets your head. I felt like it was my fault.

Sixth grade was when we ruled the school. I was the best artist in the whole grade, therefore probably the whole school. I drew a picture of Jasmine, from Aladdin on my Valentines Day folder. Everyone wanted me to draw pictures for them; it was like I was a celebrity. I came to class on Valentines' Day and my folder was missing. Someone had ripped it in two and thrown it in the garbage can.

Seventh grade we moved to the junior high. It was so big in comparison to my elementary school. I went to my locker on the first day of school before class ever started. I tried to open it, but I couldn't. I tried again and failed. I walked outside, sat on a bench and tried not to cry. All I wanted was to go home.

Eight grade I got my first boyfriend, my first real boyfriend. Once before that I made up an imaginary boyfriend that I told a girl in one of my classes about. She was rather easy and anxious to share details, I felt left out so I pretended to know what she was talking about. The fake boyfriend was much better than the real one.

In ninth I got invited to a party by some of the popular guys from high school, my friend and I went. We had to sneak in through a basement window, because the boy's parents were out of town and he wasn't allowed to have girls over. This really cute guy whom I had a slight crush on kept asking me if I wanted to make out. I watched him play Nintendo for an hour before he stopped asking and stuck his tongue down my throat.

Tenth grade I thought about killing myself one night. All my friends were at a dance, which I wasn't allowed to go to. I felt like I didn't have a friend in the world that night. I knew I could never really do it, but I cried for hours, because I was terrified that I'd allowed myself to consider it. I was so messed up over not being able to date and that my friends would leave me behind that I thought it was the end of the world. I had no idea that even when I could date I wouldn't necessarily date often. That's somewhere in the fine print. I don't know why such petty things had control over me, but it was a dark place.

My junior year, Prom was the big deal. I wanted to go, but not with the guy who asked me. He told me stories all night which he was blatantly making up as he went along; everything he did was trying to impress me. I felt like I was with a complete stranger who was far worse than the real kid himself. We danced a total of one and a half songs. I cried when I got home. I knew I was being selfish, but it was my night to feel special, and I didn't.

At the end of my senior year I had a boyfriend who was in college. He was sweet, he was cute, and everything I wanted. He told me that he loved me, and could see himself marrying me. He knocked up his ex-girlfriend and was married by the end of summer.

The first week after moving into my first college apartment I went out with the neighbor girl, Kynsie, to visit some guys that her sister hung out with the years before. We went to a decrepit old house called Mag. 3 and stayed over talking until three a.m. A girl that I knew from elementary school passed through and wandered upstairs with one of the roommates. I remember thinking that she might tell my mom. That was when I realized the freedom that I had. When I got back to the apt. I found Haylee my long time friend turned roommate waiting up for me worried sick.

My second year of college was the year of sleepovers. The roommates would pull the mattresses off our beds and drag them into the living room and line them up into one big tumbling mat. Sure some were co-ed, but these were good wholesome hang outs, not all that scandalous. One or two might have turned out a little sketchy, kissing the roommate that was not the crush, or the time that I honestly thought there was a ghost outside. Creepy old house, ironically Mag. 3 again, making out with a fairly random kid whose brother had been flirting with me via instant message at length. One brother puts in the time and effort, the other reaps the reward of being there when the mood struck. In the end turns out the 'ghost' was really my jackass friend with a camcorder and a sidekick egging him on. So pissed.

Third year of college almost didn't happen. I sold knives the summer before. Turns out I didn't really care if people bought my knives or not. So I almost just took the money I'd managed to save to buy a ticket for NYC so that I could see Joey Fatone in Rent. If he'd been cast as Roger I would have been, but Mark, eh, not so much. I get to Cedar, ready to move in show up at "my" house to find it full of Polynesian dudes who were just fine with having me as a roommate. My parents however, were not. I managed to find a place to live with less than two days before school started. The only reason I even stayed was when I was walking back to my car, completely given up on the idea of going to SUU I heard someone say, "Loni!" from an open apt. door. It was Katie a girl I had gone to Snow with, she was visiting friends. I moved into their apt. That was my "sign."

My last year of college I didn't think I'd make it. My course load was rough, my social drama was worse. I had absolutely had enough of men, or rather, boys. I vowed that I wouldn't date anymore because it was just too much of a distraction. I'd already sworn off military men the summer before. So what happens? I slip and fall into love with an Airman who proposed to me under a blanket fort watching Finding Nemo with Hot Pockets and Dr. Pepper on Friday the 13^th in Hawaii. It doesn't get more memorable than that. Love had to sneak up on me through forbidden paths; I had finally let my guard down because he didn't stand a chance of being the one because of how many "rules" he broke. Shows how much I knew. Want school to go by fast? Plan a wedding!

These are just blips on my memory radar. I've got so many thoughts and flashes and scenes that resurface it's no wonder I can't remember important things like birthdates and appointments. I hope that you enjoyed my jaunt down memory lane. It was fun to conjur up thoughts from each year and see what popped up first! Trivial and childish, maybe. Look who's writing.

Kaleb Classic: 1/14/08 The Nudist

*Let me preface this by saying, I know where my hubby is and I'm proud of him for serving our country and I love and respect him for doing his duty willingly. I miss him greatly, but know that he's doing what he signed on for when he joined the military and we'll be fine until we're able to be together as a family again.*

HOWEVER there are times in a little boys life when his mama just isn't going to cut it--and I'm anxiously awaiting passing Kaleb and his little discoveries on to daddy when he gets home!

Kaleb wants to be a big boy. He wants to go potty. He gets the whole, go to the bathroom shut the door, sit down and wipe business. It's just the in-between...the actual going that he hasn't mastered. Well, okay, that's completely untrue. He is truly a master OF going, just not in the right place. Kaleb now feels a little tinkle in his diaper and strips first, gets to the bathroom second. Not exactly the best order for a little guy. So I'm certainly getting tired of scrubbing wet spots, and if he pees on my pant leg again I might cry. I view this whole sector as 'daddy's job' because Kaleb needs a mentor with the proper equipment. My example just confuses him and makes him curious enough to make me uncomfortable...

BUT the positive that I'm supposed to focus on, according to the books, is that he's recognizing the need and/or desire to go potty.

great.

So then comes the next phase. Kaleb's been able to take his own shoes, socks and pants off for a while now. He finally figured out how to take off his own shirt. Okay, simple, we've all done it for years, doesn't seem to challenging. Have you seen the size of this kid's noggin? Now compare that to the lil' head hole in those adorable little t-shirts. It's an obstacle course, but he somehow mastered it. Now my kid is a native. He CAN be naked, so now he WANTS to be naked. At all times. I'm raising a stripper.--Again...daddy, this one's going to you too. I've tried. I've failed, our kid may be a nudist for life if they don't send my hubby home soon!

And finally the last straw. Today I'm chasing Kaleb's diaper-clad butt around the house with his discarded shirt and pants in hand, attempting to resolve his little wardrobe malfunction. He climbs up onto the bed and scurries to the corner just out of reach and turns back and grins his devious little grin. He grabs the tabs of his diaper and in one smooth tear away action disrobes and yells, "PEEKABOO!"

I about died. Literally. The problem would be that it was absolutely hysterical, yet if I laugh--I give value. Suddenly his little joke becomes one encore performance after another. So there I am trying to stifle my laughter and get the kid clothed again, and I think to myself...He better pull this crap when Daddy comes home, because by dang it sure would be a lot funnier if it wasn't my kid--but it'll suffice to be able to pass the buck to daddy!

Mommy blogging classics: 4/18/04 The Lockout

What started as simple game of hide and seek managed to turn itself into a call to duty for "Ninja Mommy." How does an innocent child's game end up in panic and drama? The key player is one precocious, independent and highly rebellious two year old. Kaleb is a handful, no actually Kaleb is an armful. No, no, wrong again, Kaleb is a truck full. That seems about right.

Kaleb and I switch off being the chaser and the chased. Only Kaleb forgot when he was supposed to be finding me, and decided to do his own Houdini act. So I held my ground hiding under the comforter ready to pop out and holler 'peekaboo!' until I heard the bathroom door shut.

The bathroom is a place of curiosity for Kaleb. It holds many of his favorite things, his singing potty, the bathtub and MY toothbrush. Oh and the built-in theme of acceptable nudity is a particular favorite for him. This kid loves to be naked.

I jump to the chase to go retrieve him before he wreaks too much havoc, since he shouldn't have been able to enter in the first place. On the ground I spot the two halves of the safety lock for the door. If you can't figure out how to make it work just take it off, I suppose. I knock on the door and he giggles.

I turn the knob, but it doesn't move. No. No. This isn't happening. How does a two year old lock a door!?

"Kaleb, honey, move it back."

Giggles.

"Kaleb, mommy can't get you if you don't open the door."

More giggles.

"Kaleb. Open the door. It's not funny."

He tries to turn the knob.

"Mama!"

It's not fun anymore. He wants me to open the door. But I'm on the wrong side to be in control of that situation. I'm cooing calming things to him as he pounds on the door and begins to cry.

I run to the bedroom and grab a wire hanger. I straighten the end and jam it into the little hole praying for some divine inspiration as to what exactly I'm supposed to be doing with this wire. Wiggle it this way, that way, twisting, turning. I haven't a clue. Obviously that wasn't happening. I thought about grabbing a screw driver and trying to dismantle the doorknob, but figured that would take some time and my son was panicking—and making a mess. I tried to identify objects by the sound of their thuds and splashes.

I decided it was time to pull out my inner acrobat and climb through the window to save the day, after all I watch "To Catch A Thief" on the Discovery Channel. I'm practically a burglar myself from my couch-bound osmosis. I run to the back porch and grab a chair from the dining table which is awaiting a new home and has outgrown its use inside. I stumble across the rocks and through the pokey grass wishing that I had a) put on shoes, and b) just carried the chair through the house. I finally get into position. The chair is literally sitting on a bush—again with the pokeys. I get the screen down with a little more adieu than anticipated, apparently the one room worth securing is the bathroom. I pull the window open as wide as I can get it and pray that my wideness doesn't trump the windowsill.

I try to pull myself up. Yeah, so I can't do a pull up. Apparently I can't do much. I get a little over halfway several times before I realize that I need the extra inches of height that the porch offers. I move the chair over and up. It's going to be a stretch but I think I can handle it.

At this point the fear factor in Kaleb has disappeared. He's now amused by his mommy's attempted side show act and is trying to get away with doing as many things he's not supposed to be doing before I reach him, which includes trying to run his own bath. And in true Kaleb form, he had stripped down to nothing and happily announced the presence of his 'pee pee!'

I get the bulk of myself within window range and get one knee up ready to slide through to the other side, but I somehow manage to knock the chair into the bush. I'm straddling the windowsill and realizing that what goes up must come down, and from this position it could be a painful descent. I scan the neighborhood and notice that there's more people out and about than I'd care to have see me in this particular position.

I finally take the plunge and skid my inner thighs on everything potentially painful along the way. I step into my thankfully full hamper in hopes to nail a graceful gymnastics dismount. As the hamper tips and I gain momentum and embrace gravity I realize there will be no perfect scores on this one.

Kaleb claps and yells "Bravo," his favorite term of approval. At least he's a receptive audience. At that point it was either laugh or cry, and looking up from my floorbound position I find his artwork throughout the bathroom. Without making a decision I do both. I laugh as the tears stream down. I tell Kaleb to give mommy hugs, because quite frankly I needed one more than he did at that point.

I fish the bath toys out of the toilet. I try to make an educated guess as to what else in the bathroom had joined the toys for a swim and wipe up the toothpaste and deodorant masterpieces from the cupboard, floor and door. And try to wash Kaleb and myself up, too exhausted to give him a real bath at the moment. Finally I turn the lock back to the unlock position and we make our exit.

It may not have been elegantly performed and was definitely better suited for a slapstick low brow comedy than an action-adventure flick. But I saved the day and was the hero. Even if I have to walk bowlegged for a day or two.

The icing on the cake came about ten minutes later when things had calmed down, and Kaleb had been clothed and was still clinging to me for fear of abandonment when I got a knock on my door. Base security wanted to check things out because someone had tipped them off that something might be wrong. I'm sure the chair and screen in the bush were quite the clue. I explained what happened, and was told that I should call security in instances like that so that no one assumes something is wrong. I asked if either of the men were fathers, one was. I asked if he'd sit around and wait in my situation. He told me the point was taken and offered to put my screen back in for me. I thanked him and asked if that was all. Indeed it was. So now I get to wait to see if any paperwork is filed, and if so deal with mocking that will go along with being ninja-mommy when the information gets passed down my hubby's chain of command!

All I can say is, what a freaking day.

(Strawberry syrup all over my house, Vaseline from head to toe--which wouldn't even shampoo out after four attempts, an entire box of baking soda leaving a trail where Kaleb wandered, permanent markers on my walls and doors, two full bottles of seasoning on the floor of my kitchen, and all of my clothes out of the dryer so that Kaleb could have a clubhouse—all in the past two weeks. Now this. Does anyone know how early is too early to put in for retirement?!)