Our internet is suffering a slow and painful (for me anyway) death. When we moved into our house, we had a delay of several weeks before we were “online”. Some of the wiring outside the house had started to decay, and made it virtually impossible to use. I never questioned what had been done about the wiring once the problem was resolved. I was too elated from the novelty of being able to Google again.
But then a few months ago, we noticed our connection getting slower and slower. It got to the point where the connection would cut out completely. I kept threatening my DSL modem that I was going to start shopping for a new internet provider, and in retaliation the DSL modem would start flashing red. Leaving me Google-less.
Finally after hours (literally) of sitting in front of the DSL modem, and waiting for four magical lights to change green long enough for me to hack into my AT&T account, I got the information I needed for tech support. After doing whatever it is they do, to check my connection they promised to send a tech out. Our tech had bad news for us. The wiring outside had given up. It was dead. Completely dead. He switched over to a secondary line to await the permanent fix, and warned us that the secondary line was only in slightly better connection than the first.
So, here we are. Waiting for the red tape to get taken care of, so that AT&T can tunnel across the street from our abode to replace the wiring. Our modem senses our desperation and toys with our hearts. We’ll have four solid green lines while the computer is off, and as soon as it’s booted up they switch to flashing red.
At the risk of sounding like a junkie, I’ll confess that I miss the internet. I’m at a loss without the world wide web delivering my “hippy” products directly to my door.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Three easy steps to becoming "crunchy"
Step one:
Take your shoes off whenever possible. Embrace being barefooted. If shoes are required, choose the least amount of shoe that is still appropriate for the environment. In other words, for grocery shopping choose flip-flops over sneakers.
Step two:
Adopt a cause. Here the choices abound. You can choose the classic “boycott a large corporation/conglomerate” or a public education crusade or even challenge the way society views something as “normal”. Whatever you choose, your cause should be something that is dear to your heart, something that you can share with others.
Step three:
Occasionally eat some raw produce. It doesn’t necessarily have to be organic or even local. The simple act of eating raw produce gives you “street cred”.
Once you’ve mastered these three easy steps you can progress on to contemplating chemicals in food, cosmetics, clothing, and toys. Not all at once of course, but slowly, and one at a time.
Take your shoes off whenever possible. Embrace being barefooted. If shoes are required, choose the least amount of shoe that is still appropriate for the environment. In other words, for grocery shopping choose flip-flops over sneakers.
Step two:
Adopt a cause. Here the choices abound. You can choose the classic “boycott a large corporation/conglomerate” or a public education crusade or even challenge the way society views something as “normal”. Whatever you choose, your cause should be something that is dear to your heart, something that you can share with others.
Step three:
Occasionally eat some raw produce. It doesn’t necessarily have to be organic or even local. The simple act of eating raw produce gives you “street cred”.
Once you’ve mastered these three easy steps you can progress on to contemplating chemicals in food, cosmetics, clothing, and toys. Not all at once of course, but slowly, and one at a time.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Alex
Someday, when Alex is old enough to drive, he will stumble across my blog and pray that he’s just having a bad dream.
Six years ago, I was sitting on a couch stroking my growing belly and contemplating motherhood. Today I’m surrounded by laundry, and in my hands is a pair of true big boy underwear.
Alex has been out of diapers for a few years, but his underwear has proudly proclaimed his preschool status. Underwear that sports the Mickey Mouse clubhouse characters does not boast “these belong to a mature young man”. It’s been easy to overlook how quickly Alex is changing and growing up. Folding Mickey Mouse underwear had lured me into a false sense of security. A sense of security, which came crashing down the day sweet husband and Alex went on an underwear run. It wasn’t until I was tossing their newly acquired purchases into the washing machine that I discovered the new underwear.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized the implication of what I had found. There were no characters on this underwear. The funky halfway hole (is it really necessary?) had potential to actually be functional. Fabric aside, the very cut of these undergarments erase any pretense that they could belong to a preschooler.
In one shopping trip, my little boy has gone from sweet little baby boy to a young man.
No one ever told me that after I became a mother, underwear would have the power to reduce me to tears.
Six years ago, I was sitting on a couch stroking my growing belly and contemplating motherhood. Today I’m surrounded by laundry, and in my hands is a pair of true big boy underwear.
Alex has been out of diapers for a few years, but his underwear has proudly proclaimed his preschool status. Underwear that sports the Mickey Mouse clubhouse characters does not boast “these belong to a mature young man”. It’s been easy to overlook how quickly Alex is changing and growing up. Folding Mickey Mouse underwear had lured me into a false sense of security. A sense of security, which came crashing down the day sweet husband and Alex went on an underwear run. It wasn’t until I was tossing their newly acquired purchases into the washing machine that I discovered the new underwear.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized the implication of what I had found. There were no characters on this underwear. The funky halfway hole (is it really necessary?) had potential to actually be functional. Fabric aside, the very cut of these undergarments erase any pretense that they could belong to a preschooler.
In one shopping trip, my little boy has gone from sweet little baby boy to a young man.
No one ever told me that after I became a mother, underwear would have the power to reduce me to tears.
Public Humiliation
Alright people. Things are about to get real.
Statistics show that with the increase of our household, there are 3.497 non-morning people abiding together in our home.
Generally we’ve learned to adapt to this fact of life and work around the malady. Unfortunately for Sundays, we don’t have our act completely polished yet. As, our entire congregation had witness a few weeks ago.
We had woken up late, yet somehow managed to arrive at church TWO WHOLE MINUTES before Sunday school. I fleetingly wondered how we had managed to shave off so much time, as we hustled to our seats.
We got all the way through Sunday school, and through the song service, when my stomach became an angry bi-polar storm. My eyes flew open in horror as I realized the secret to our punctuality- We hadn’t eaten breakfast. On cue Alex poked me. “I’m hungry” he pantomimed. I passed Spain off to the sweet husband and started riffling through the diaper bag while praying Please let there be snacks in here! . A single serve tube of peanuts sparkled at me from the bottom of the diaper bag. It was beautiful. Normally I would have made him wait until after the service, but I FORGOT to feed the poor child. I wasn’t going to make him wait it out.
I ripped a corner off the bag and handed the peanuts to Alex, and settled back in my seat thanking the Lord for that divine bag of legumes. At this point I have to interject and really set the scene here. We decided to sit in the balcony this particular Sunday. Unlike the rest of the sanctuary, our balcony is uncarpeted. And a there is slight echo for every sound made.
My revelry was interrupted by the crashing sound of legumes exploding over the balcony. Alex had tried to widen the hole in the bag, and the entire tube split in half, sending peanuts shooting out from between his hands like confetti. Have you ever heard a bag of marbles being dropped on a floor? Fun Fact #19: peanuts scattered along wooden floors and benches, in an echo-friendly area, sounds quite similar.
Of course the balcony had a large crowd that week. Six heads simultaneously turned to Alex, who sat in his seat with an impish grin on his face, holding the incriminating, tattered remains of the peanut tube. All I have to say is: THANK YOU GOD peanuts are easy to clean off of a wood floor.
From now on we may be late to church, but Alex will be feasting on three-course breakfasts.
Statistics show that with the increase of our household, there are 3.497 non-morning people abiding together in our home.
Generally we’ve learned to adapt to this fact of life and work around the malady. Unfortunately for Sundays, we don’t have our act completely polished yet. As, our entire congregation had witness a few weeks ago.
We had woken up late, yet somehow managed to arrive at church TWO WHOLE MINUTES before Sunday school. I fleetingly wondered how we had managed to shave off so much time, as we hustled to our seats.
We got all the way through Sunday school, and through the song service, when my stomach became an angry bi-polar storm. My eyes flew open in horror as I realized the secret to our punctuality- We hadn’t eaten breakfast. On cue Alex poked me. “I’m hungry” he pantomimed. I passed Spain off to the sweet husband and started riffling through the diaper bag while praying Please let there be snacks in here! . A single serve tube of peanuts sparkled at me from the bottom of the diaper bag. It was beautiful. Normally I would have made him wait until after the service, but I FORGOT to feed the poor child. I wasn’t going to make him wait it out.
I ripped a corner off the bag and handed the peanuts to Alex, and settled back in my seat thanking the Lord for that divine bag of legumes. At this point I have to interject and really set the scene here. We decided to sit in the balcony this particular Sunday. Unlike the rest of the sanctuary, our balcony is uncarpeted. And a there is slight echo for every sound made.
My revelry was interrupted by the crashing sound of legumes exploding over the balcony. Alex had tried to widen the hole in the bag, and the entire tube split in half, sending peanuts shooting out from between his hands like confetti. Have you ever heard a bag of marbles being dropped on a floor? Fun Fact #19: peanuts scattered along wooden floors and benches, in an echo-friendly area, sounds quite similar.
Of course the balcony had a large crowd that week. Six heads simultaneously turned to Alex, who sat in his seat with an impish grin on his face, holding the incriminating, tattered remains of the peanut tube. All I have to say is: THANK YOU GOD peanuts are easy to clean off of a wood floor.
From now on we may be late to church, but Alex will be feasting on three-course breakfasts.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Naturally living or living naturally
I'm trying to eviromentally friendly and health conscience. I want to instill in my family a respect for our planet and a taste for healthy, living foods.
But it can be overwhelming.
It's so much easier to remain blissfully unaware about what we're really putting in and on our bodies. There's so much out there, and when it feels like EVERYTHING has some type of poisen, what's the use? I get so overwhelmed sometimes. The active ingredient in Sweet Husband's shampoo is linked with reproductive cancer. My facial moisturizer has a endocrine disruptor in it. The baby sunscreen that I've stalked our house with has worse side effects than an actual sunburn! You get the idea. It seems almost impossible to find safe products in an actual store.
Sometimes I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.
In a world where instant gratification reigns supreme, it's hard to watch slow changes take place.
My goal is to have a safe home for my children. Maybe it won't ever be completely free of toxins and ickyness. But I'm also setting an example for my children. I'm teaching them how to make decisions for themselves, and not blindly follow the crowd. To weigh the individual pros and cons for every nature vs. technology choice they will run into. I may not be able to attain a toxin-free house, but if I teach my children how to make informed decisions I will be able to rest easy.
For now I'll focus on baby steps. Limited processed food. Lots of produce. A moisturizer that's a little less frightening and a sunscreen I can put on my children without guilt. Those are my building blocks.
But it can be overwhelming.
It's so much easier to remain blissfully unaware about what we're really putting in and on our bodies. There's so much out there, and when it feels like EVERYTHING has some type of poisen, what's the use? I get so overwhelmed sometimes. The active ingredient in Sweet Husband's shampoo is linked with reproductive cancer. My facial moisturizer has a endocrine disruptor in it. The baby sunscreen that I've stalked our house with has worse side effects than an actual sunburn! You get the idea. It seems almost impossible to find safe products in an actual store.
Sometimes I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.
In a world where instant gratification reigns supreme, it's hard to watch slow changes take place.
My goal is to have a safe home for my children. Maybe it won't ever be completely free of toxins and ickyness. But I'm also setting an example for my children. I'm teaching them how to make decisions for themselves, and not blindly follow the crowd. To weigh the individual pros and cons for every nature vs. technology choice they will run into. I may not be able to attain a toxin-free house, but if I teach my children how to make informed decisions I will be able to rest easy.
For now I'll focus on baby steps. Limited processed food. Lots of produce. A moisturizer that's a little less frightening and a sunscreen I can put on my children without guilt. Those are my building blocks.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Shipping smiles
In a sudden *whoosh* of reality, I realized that it's been far too long since I catalouged life's events online. It's not that I forgot about blogging. Someone in as desperate need as I am of a 12-step program, cannot simply "forget" to blog. In fact several times a week something happened that I would mentally note to blog about it. Inevitably once I got the computer to myself to write, my mind would be wiped as clean as a forgotten chalkboard. Meaning, there's residue lift, but not enough to formulate any words.
Someone somewhere decided that life was to dull, and to spice it up they would change all the house numbers on our street. Unfortunately this wasn't a teenage prank. As such I now have two house numbers and no mail.
Oh sure, the junk mail finds me. I'm pretty sure I could immigrate to Antartica, leave no forwarding address and I would still recieve AMAZING pre-approved credit card offers from companies I have never done business with. In some strange twist, they also manage to consistantly spell my name correctly. It's unnatural.
Of course things that I've actually requested and paid for never show up to the house. To pour salt in the wound the delivery confirmation cheerily informs me that my package has been "delivered", but my post office has no record of it ever coming to them. To say that it made me livid, would be to understate the emotions I felt. What I felt, was white hot ire and cruel bitter betrayal. During deployments and involuntary separations I have contemplated having our paycheck sent directly to the USPS. I mean, it makes sense to cut out the middle man. Let's not even bring up the amount of craft stuff I purchase online and have shipped through USPS.
Our local post office insists that it's not their fault. They haven't seen the packaged cross their facility. It's the sorting office's fault.
I muttered under my breath for days about our postal system. I thought of the exact wording of my response when they told me my packages were never in their facility. I must admit, I'm not proud of my thoughts, or the rants that I railed to my very patient husband as I wrestled with laundry. Finally I broke down and sent my husband to the post office. He came home with the expected answer and the address for the sorting facility.
The next morning I was trying to work on too many things at once when the doorbell rang. I answered the door to find the FedEx man in my porch holding this box.
I imagine the my expression looked something along these lines;
The FedEx guy looked at me nervously while I squealed in excitement. "I'm sorry." I babbled "I've been waiting for this for a few weeks. I was afraid the post office lost it!". He smiled a shakey smile that clearly indicating he thought I was losing my mind. He set the box on my living room floor and sprinted back to his truck as if we had the plague.
Granted if I had gotten that reaction while delivering a breast pump I may have had the same reaction.
I was still on my high about the breast pump arriving, and profusely thanking God that Ameda had sent the package via FedEx, when the door bell rang again. A mail carrier stood there sheepishly holding a bundle of my mail. As he handed me the bundle of packages he said "I guess these got lost with your hold. Sorry about that.".
I could have hugged him on the spot. I would have hugged him, but I didn't want to cross any boundaries and I really want to keep recieving my mail.I settled for repeating "Thank you! Thank you!" over and over like a four year old hyped up on birthday cake.
Although, in my defense, what's not to love about craft supplies and fluffy mail.
Someone somewhere decided that life was to dull, and to spice it up they would change all the house numbers on our street. Unfortunately this wasn't a teenage prank. As such I now have two house numbers and no mail.
Oh sure, the junk mail finds me. I'm pretty sure I could immigrate to Antartica, leave no forwarding address and I would still recieve AMAZING pre-approved credit card offers from companies I have never done business with. In some strange twist, they also manage to consistantly spell my name correctly. It's unnatural.
Of course things that I've actually requested and paid for never show up to the house. To pour salt in the wound the delivery confirmation cheerily informs me that my package has been "delivered", but my post office has no record of it ever coming to them. To say that it made me livid, would be to understate the emotions I felt. What I felt, was white hot ire and cruel bitter betrayal. During deployments and involuntary separations I have contemplated having our paycheck sent directly to the USPS. I mean, it makes sense to cut out the middle man. Let's not even bring up the amount of craft stuff I purchase online and have shipped through USPS.
Our local post office insists that it's not their fault. They haven't seen the packaged cross their facility. It's the sorting office's fault.
I muttered under my breath for days about our postal system. I thought of the exact wording of my response when they told me my packages were never in their facility. I must admit, I'm not proud of my thoughts, or the rants that I railed to my very patient husband as I wrestled with laundry. Finally I broke down and sent my husband to the post office. He came home with the expected answer and the address for the sorting facility.
The next morning I was trying to work on too many things at once when the doorbell rang. I answered the door to find the FedEx man in my porch holding this box.
I imagine the my expression looked something along these lines;
The FedEx guy looked at me nervously while I squealed in excitement. "I'm sorry." I babbled "I've been waiting for this for a few weeks. I was afraid the post office lost it!". He smiled a shakey smile that clearly indicating he thought I was losing my mind. He set the box on my living room floor and sprinted back to his truck as if we had the plague.
Granted if I had gotten that reaction while delivering a breast pump I may have had the same reaction.
I was still on my high about the breast pump arriving, and profusely thanking God that Ameda had sent the package via FedEx, when the door bell rang again. A mail carrier stood there sheepishly holding a bundle of my mail. As he handed me the bundle of packages he said "I guess these got lost with your hold. Sorry about that.".
I could have hugged him on the spot. I would have hugged him, but I didn't want to cross any boundaries and I really want to keep recieving my mail.I settled for repeating "Thank you! Thank you!" over and over like a four year old hyped up on birthday cake.
Although, in my defense, what's not to love about craft supplies and fluffy mail.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Driving skills...
"I need to wear a helmet in the car. Then I can be safe when you drive mama."
Cute, kid.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Just one of those days
Today I ran around the city searching for a plain white t-shirt for Alex to wear. It's his costume for his recital tomorrow. We found white tanks, colored t-shirts, and white t-shirts in every size except Alex's.
Finally, my nerves got to me. Alex was trying to channel his inner shopping cart daredevil and send me into early heart failure. Spain needed a diaper change and couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to eat. Our choices were the tshirts that showed Alex's belly button or the shirts that covered his knees. I grabbed the shirt that went to knees, threw it in the cart and sped to the checkout lane as fast as I could.
When we were back at home, I tenatively started dinner. I was waiting for the sweet husband to call when he needed to be picked up from the office "camping trip".
Guess what's flammable-
Garlic bread.
Yup.
I stuck it under the broiler and set the timer. My brother called, and the next thing I know the garlic bread was on fire. It was like a huge vampire hating candle.
How long have I been cooking?
Finally, my nerves got to me. Alex was trying to channel his inner shopping cart daredevil and send me into early heart failure. Spain needed a diaper change and couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to eat. Our choices were the tshirts that showed Alex's belly button or the shirts that covered his knees. I grabbed the shirt that went to knees, threw it in the cart and sped to the checkout lane as fast as I could.
When we were back at home, I tenatively started dinner. I was waiting for the sweet husband to call when he needed to be picked up from the office "camping trip".
Guess what's flammable-
Garlic bread.
Yup.
I stuck it under the broiler and set the timer. My brother called, and the next thing I know the garlic bread was on fire. It was like a huge vampire hating candle.
How long have I been cooking?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Climbing Mt Morelaundry
I've been doing laundry for the last two days.
Wash. Dry. Sun. Fold. Hang. Put away. Sort. And repeat.
I have socks stuffed into random cervices. The carseat box that I haven't taken to the basement, has become a perfect place to hide socks. Same for the changing table, and my yarn basket. Oh and the basket that holds the phone chargers...
In case you can't tell, matching socks is not my favorite activity. In fact, I liken it to putting a incomplete puzzle together. It's just not satisfying because you can never finish it.
*deep sigh*
Doing laundry is like washing dishes. You are never really finished.
Wash. Dry. Sun. Fold. Hang. Put away. Sort. And repeat.
I have socks stuffed into random cervices. The carseat box that I haven't taken to the basement, has become a perfect place to hide socks. Same for the changing table, and my yarn basket. Oh and the basket that holds the phone chargers...
In case you can't tell, matching socks is not my favorite activity. In fact, I liken it to putting a incomplete puzzle together. It's just not satisfying because you can never finish it.
*deep sigh*
Doing laundry is like washing dishes. You are never really finished.
Note to self
Always always always check the oven before you begin heating it. For future reference, a bag of chips will melt, when allowed to stay in a hot oven. And the smell may turn you off of nachos for a while.