Bunkbed Sheets Are Evil

This weekend we’re all doing the weekly house-cleaning rounds. It’s an entire family effort because, well… we have an entire family. A household of six does not lend itself to maintaining cleanliness on a daily basis, even though we’re all gone for the better part of every day. So when the weekend rolls around, this is what we do–floor vacumming, bathroom scrubbing, laundry sorting, dust busting, dish washing, room cleaning, sheet changing duty.

There are some chores that I don’t mind doing. Some are even relaxing and don’t really merit the title of “chore”. Others I dread as much I ever dreaded taking four kids between the ages of 2 and 6 to Wal-Mart right after payday. I can feel the hives coming just thinking about it. The chore I dread the absolute most, the chore of putting fresh sheets on not one, but two, bunkbeds is enough to drive me to drink… heavily.

Who came up with the idea of putting sheets on a bunkbed–a bed that is pushed up against a wall and is within three feet of the ceiling? Why not the throwaway mattress? Why not the paper they roll out on the exam table at the doctor’s office? Why not anything other than a fitted and a flat sheet on a bed that reminds me why I’m afraid of heights? Have you actually performed this fantastic feat of flexibility, patience, and defiance of the laws of gravity?

The bottom bunk is not as bad as the top, although most bunkbeds are placed up against the wall (yes, our bunkbeds are like “most” bunkbeds) so stretching the sheet to the wall and getting it tucked in appropriately entails flinging my entire body across the bed at the same exact time that I’m pulling the sheet in that direction, avoiding the bad fortune of having the entire sheet bunched up under my body.

Once it has actually reached its fully-stretched-to-the-wall potential, I have to pull the corner of the mattress up far enough to get the sheet underneath it, despite the fact that the entirety of my body weight (not what it once was) is pushing against it. Should I actually accomplish this feat, I have to stretch the sheet down far enough to fit around the underside of the corner, all the while praying that it has not bunched anywhere, will indeed stretch far enough, and I won’t have to do the flying-leap-sheet-stretching exercise again.

As if this humiliation is not enough, two separate corners require this maneuver. Then comes the flat sheet. That’s even more of a nightmare than the fitted sheet. Not only do I have to do the flying-leap-sheet-stretching move, but I have to tuck it in, all the way along the wall, and under the end of the mattress (recall the body weight issue). By the time I’m finished with the bottom bunk, I’m sweating like I’ve been on the treadmill for thirty minutes, my hair is doing the static-cling-after-being-rubbed-with-a-balloon-thing to the bottom of the top bunk, my shirt is bunched up underneath my armpits and I’m trying to figure out a way to save space in this blasted room without the bunkbed.

On to the top bunk. Climbing up the ladder in my bare feet, I remember that this particular ladder really requires that my feet be protected by shoes, and by the time I reach the top I’m ready to scream in agony. I’m sure that I climbed many a ladder and tree as a youngster without this issue. I’m not sure why my feet are so tender now, but the narrow, metal rungs of the ladder hurt… bad!

Once I finally reach the top, I have to do the flying-leap-sheet-stretching maneuver, without the benefit of using the floor as a launchpad. This means four corners require this special attention, not just two. Usually the wadded-up sheet is not conducive to the flying-leap-sheet-stretching thing, and it takes fifteen passes to get it all the way to the end of the bed, under the sea of five thousand stuffed animals. If I’m lucky enough to actually get it down there, I have to stretch my whole body out on the mattress again, reach my arms underneath the aforementioned stuffed animals, take a deep breath and plunge my face into the sea of furriness, pull the mattress corner up against my body weight again, and pray that I’ve blindly been able to get the sheet under said corner far enough that it won’t come out and snap me in the face when I tuck in corner #2.

Back to the flat sheet–fly, stretch and repeat. Up and down the ladder fifteen times to get the comforter, retrieve the fallen stuffed animals, get everything tucked in completely, pluck stuffed animal fuzz from my mouth, and I’m finally finished. I want to throw my hands up in the air like the cowboys at the rodeo who’ve just roped and tied a calf. I’ve now gotten my workout in for the entire week, my hair has gone from static to flat, stringy and damp, I feel the need for a shower, and my last nerve has long since gone, although there is a small sense of relief in knowing that another week will go by before I have to do this again.

As I head down the stairs, wiping the sweat from my face and mumbling a few last ugly words under my breath, I determine that we’re taking a trip, as soon as possible, to the nearest furniture store for beds that sit on the floor. We’ll find a floor plan that works so that no beds have to be up against the wall, and I can retire the flying-leap-sheet-stretching maneuver. I calculate the cost in my head of all new beds and grumble a little more. I feel the hives coming on again.

Maybe I’ll just teach the owners of these beds how to make them on their own.

Gloria, Are You Kidding?

I was watching “the news” this morning and was quite fascinated to see a heated discussion over a hotel in Michigan that is offering an entire floor for women only. Gloria Allred, feminist extraordinaire and not one of my favorite people, stated that it was an illegal practice and that racially segregated floors would follow next. I stopped what I was doing and stared in disbelief. She actually had a little bit of a smile on her face as she was driving home this “serious point,” so I had a hard time determining if she was kidding or not.Kidding or otherwise, this whole discussion has evidently sparked a larger, national debate on the legality of such a practice. Folks are viewing it as a slippery slope to something more sinister, a step backwards in time for women. Whatever! How is it really any different from the other things in life that are tailored to women only? How about the workout chain, Curves? How about the section of Sears with the big sign hanging over it that says “Women”? Women’s vitamins? Women’s bicycles? Women’s shoes? Women’s retreats? Women’s magazines? Should all of these things go? Are they all discriminatory just because they cater to women and not to men?

Have we forgotten that women ARE different than men? Should we just start wearing the same clothing, buying the same shoes, reading the same magazines (how about those car mags, ladies?), taking the same vitamins (even though our metabolisms function differently and we absorb vitamins and minerals differently), riding the same bikes?

One of the arguments I heard was that men would be discriminated against if they were turned away for non-availability, even if there were rooms available on the “Women Only” floor. Seriously? I wonder how many thousands of hotels would still be available in the greater metro area. I wonder if men would have that same feeling if the last General Practitioner in the city was booked and the OB/GYN refused to see them. I think not.

Keep in mind that this hotel thing is not a “have to”. No one is forcing women to stay on this “Women Only” floor. In fact, women pay a premium for it, just like they pay a premium to go to Curves instead of any other workout place that caters to both men and women. It’s a service offering, people, not a mandate. I can’t even believe that Gloria Allred has her feathers ruffled over this. I can’t believe that the feminists are on the bandwagon with it. Surely I’m not the only person out there shaking my head over the sheer stupidity of the argument. Surely I’m not the only one thinking that Gloria and Co. will just be wasting so much of the court’s time and everyone’s money to even put this issue on the table. What has happened to us as a nation that this kind of thing becomes so blown out of proportion?

I can definitely hold my own in the workplace and I know that I can do the job every bit as well as anyone else, male or female. I am also a firm believer that part of the beauty of a strong woman is her recognition of and celebration of her womanhood. I am not offended when a man holds a door open for me. I don’t believe that he’s doing it because I’m weaker, or incapable of getting the door myself. I do believe most men do it out of respect and I’m quite alright with respect. I am also not offended by a hotel that wants to offer me a service based on the fact that I’m a woman. After traveling for many years, I would be grateful for something like that.

I like my women’s bicycle, my women’s clothing, my women’s vitamins, and Curves. I like the fact that my husband respects me enough to open the door for me. I like the idea of staying on a Women Only floor should I have to travel again soon.

You, Gloria, are the one that is going to set us back, not the women who choose to remember that they are, in fact, women. For now, please sit down and shut up. In my opinion, you’re doing nothing but making a mockery of women as a whole and you’re certainly not contributing anything of any value. If you don’t want to stay on a “Women Only” floor, then by all means, please don’t spend your hard-earned pennies there. Go somewhere else. Boycott the whole State of Michigan if it makes you feel better. But don’t go on national television and pretend that you represent all women across this great nation with your idiotic ideas on this issue.

You absolutely, unequivocally, without question or hesitation, do NOT represent me.

Attitude of Gratitude

When I lose my perspective in court battles and financial woes, these are the kind of folks I look to–they remind me what perspective is about.

Get a tissue…

Scars

Some years ago, on a hot summer day in south Florida, a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole that was behind his house. In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.

He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.In the house, his mother was looking out the window. She saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could.

Hearing her voice, the little boy became alarmed, and made a U-turn to swim to his mother. It was too late. Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him. From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms, just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began a very incredible tug-of-war between the two.

The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was much too passionate to let go.

A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim, and shot the alligator.

Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal. On his arms, there were deep scratches where his mother’s fingernails dug into his flesh; in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.

The newspaper reporter, who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked the boy if he would show him his scars.

The boy lifted his pant legs. Then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, “But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Mom wouldn’t let go.”

You and I can identify with that little boy.

We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly, and have caused us deep regret.

But, some wounds, my friend, are because God has refused to let go. In the midst of your struggle, He’s been right there, holding on to you.

The Scripture teaches that God loves you.

You are a child of God. He wants to protect you, and provide for you in every way.

But, sometimes, we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That is when the tug-of-war begins.

If you have the scars of His love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He will not ever let you go.

Author Unknown

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Brain Rotting - Family Style

Hubby decided yesterday that it would be a fantastic idea to buy a Wii. I was not privy to this decision, so the first knowledge I had of this purchase was after it was already hooked up and functional.  I was not happy.

I’m not a big fan of current video games. There are a number of reasons for this: one, I think kids should play outside and not rot in front of the television set; two, most of the games I see are either designed for three-year-olds or are so filled with blood, guts, gore and language that I don’t want them in my home; and three, I’m sooooo not coordinated enough to pull the triggers, press down six different buttons, and stand on my head at the same time, which are the requirements for most of the games I’ve seen. I grew up in the Atari generation. We had one joystick with one button to push. My one thumb got really tired, but I didn’t get full-blown carpal tunnel from utilizing all 10 fingers at once for a solid 30 minutes.

Beyond not being a video game fan, we already have an X-Box. Granted, the X-Box was purchased two years ago and is the “old” X-Box, not the 360, but we have finally reached the point where playing the beast is not the pinnacle of afternoon excitement, we have enough controllers that everyone can play at once which significantly reduces the arguing, and we have enough games (read: more than one) that we don’t have to stop at the X-Box display case every time we go to Target anymore. The novelty has finally worn off. Even so, we still have to set the timer because all of our kiddos are limited to 30 minutes per day and would play for 24 hours straight if we’d let them.

I was not happy about adding another brain-rotting device to our household. I was not happy about the pricetag either. I would probably have been downright angry if my dear hubby hadn’t had the “little kid at Christmas” look on his face when he showed it to me.

“Just give it a chance,” he told me. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

I did the patented eye-roll so that he knew I was not happy about this turn of events. I reluctantly took the controller as he hooked us both up for a game of bowling. Know that I was fully prepared to dislike this silly system, just as much as I dislike the X-Box. I did not want to bowl, or fish, or play tennis, or box. I did not want to press six buttons simultaneously, while squeezing the trigger. I have plenty of other complicated things in my life and I did NOT need another. I sighed and told him, “One game. That’s it. No more.”

He smiled.

We bowled.

I was hooked.

We played two games, stopped for dinner, and played two more. We fished, we played three games of baseball, got the kids into bed, and played two more. We fought sixteen rounds in boxing. We golfed, we rode cows (what?) through a billion scarecrows on this bizarre track, played tennis, played another round of baseball, and then went back to boxing. By the time the kids were in bed, I was sweating. It’s a good workout, let me tell you. By the time we got to the final round of boxing, I felt like I’d been beaten with a stick. It was 11pm and way past my bedtime.

“So what did you think?” Hubby asked after we shut it down and headed for bed.

“It was ok,” I said. “It’s definitely a good stress reliever.”

“You loved it!” he said, a grin on his face.

“It wasn’t half bad.”

He rolled his eyes to show me that he knew I really did love it.

I did. What can I say?

We’re going to box some more after the kids choir concert tonight. You should come by. It’s a great stress reliever…

Phraseology

Have you seen The Princess Bride? I love that movie on so many levels but one particular line really does it for me. There is a particular scene in which Vizzini keeps repeating the word “inconceivable” and Inigo Montoya says, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

I LOVE that little exchange. It fits so well when someone completely butchers some piece of the English language.

I worked with a fantastic young English butcher in Tennessee (Robyn, you know this one). She had so many different butchered phrases that I could not possibly have kept track of them all. My favorite was her description of a friend that had recently had a cyst removed. The friend, she said, went on to have the cyst autopsied. Wow! I didn’t know they had to determine cause of death for things like cysts. I wonder if there’s a full report out there somewhere…

Her close friend and fellow English-language butcher told me one day that she felt “like such a shoe.” I wonder what that feels like. Kind of tough and leathery? More of an idiot than just the heel might be?

A co-worker of mine recently told her boss that she “hated waiting until the ninth hour.” Is that a little further from the deadline than the eleventh hour? Two hours further? Does that mean that one has more time? Or is it just an issue with the fact that it’s the ninth? Perhaps it’s a nine-phobia or something.

Here’s a list of some others that drive me to distraction:

Irregardless. What exactly does that mean? Irrespective or regardless I get… not irregardless.

Supposably/supposively. It’s supposedly folks, plain and simple.

The substitution of “of” for “have”. “I should of” instead of “I should have”?

She peaked my curiousity. “Peak” is a pointed extremity or a tapering, projecting point. I don’t think that works here. How about “She piqued my curiousity” instead?

“Cut the mustard” instead of “cut the muster”.

“Tough road to hoe.” This little gem was started because one might hoe a ROW of crops, not an entire road. God help me if I have to hoe an entire road. That would be tough!

“Neck in neck.” This really is about horse racing and the fact that two horses might be “neck AND neck” at the finish line, not that one horse’s neck might be inside the neck of another.

“Tow the line.” This one has nothing to do with anyone towing a line anywhere. Instead it’s all about standing behind the line until the race starts–keeping toes, in particular, behind said line. Although it sounds the same as “tow”, it’s really “Toe the line.”

By far my biggest pet peeve is “It’s a mute point.” The definition of mute is silent, incapable of speech, or dumb. Does that mean that the point is silent? The point has no sound of any kind? The point is dumb? (Could be, but not in that way.) I think not. It’s actually a MOOT point, meaning that the point is debatable, doubtful, or of little to no practical value.

It’s not really about the speech itself for me. It’s about sounding like an intelligent, educated person. Some phraseology has morphed over time and really has  become something different from the original. Most of those examples listed above, though, are a result of lack of focus on our language by teachers, individuals and society. I would like to see us focus again. I would like to hear people speak our mother language with pride once again. I would like to walk the halls at my place of employment without cringing.

Just today I heard someone say “It’s coming down the pipe.”

I do not think that means what you think it means.