Leave a key? No way, José !

We carers had to attend a business meeting last week, mainly to meet our new boss... but they also passed along a few new "rules and regulations" while we were there.

1. We need to keep a mobile phone (cell phone) on us at all times, when we're out.
Which does make sense, but it's something I've always done in any case.

2. We MUST hide a key in the front yard, as well as the back yard... just in case we step outside and one of the little day care darlings locks us out.
Now this one? No way, José!

Did you know that if you hide a key outside, leave a window open, or even forget to turn on your burglar alarm, chances are your insurance will be invalid?
They will NOT honor your claim.

Now, I don't know about you, but if something bad were to happen and I came home to find that I had been burgled and my insurance wouldn't cover me for the loss because I had left a key outside... well, I wouldn't be very happy.
In fact, I wouldn't be happy at all. But at least it's only "stuff".
It's replaceable for the most part... even though it may be heartbreaking.

But what IF....

What if I were asleep in my bed, or in the shower... and some "happy that I left a key outside bad guy" used my very own 'hidden key' to come in and do worse than steal my stuff?
I'm thinkin' rape... or murder?

Who would be liable then?

The office, who insisted I leave a key outside in the first place?
I don't think so.

There was a news report here just last week, about a woman here in Sydney Australia, who woke to find a naked intruder - with a knife - standing by her bed.
And I seriously, seriously doubt that this guy was just running around the neighborhood naked and carrying a knife at 5am... because he was just looking for someone to cook him a steak
Know what I mean?

Read the article HERE.

Nope... thank you very much, but when I'm working, I'll just stick to my "key on a lanyard around my neck"... like I always have.
But NOT the lanyard with my work ID - as well as my full name - on it.
For crying out loud, I might as well carry a neon sign saying :

Lookee here!! Kate's not at home right now, so feel free to go steal her stuff"

Supposedly, we're to wear it any time that we're out in public, because not only is it good "advertising" for the council... but it also encourages the general public to call the office and praise us.

Which makes me feel like one of those big trucks with the sticker on the back..

How am I driving? Call 555-5555

Hey, you can call me crazy, but but as far as I'm concerned, "safety" is something that happens between your ears... not something you hold in your hands.

And I'm gonna stay safe, no matter what they say.

Who's sorry now?

Okay, I was having a lazy Sunday afternoon yesterday... and I decided it was time to tidy up my blog roll a bit.
I mean, there are blogs listed on there that I like, but I'm pretty darn sure that some of the owners have no idea what-so-ever that I even exist.
Or if they do, they couldn't care less.

And then there are others who know that I exist -to a greater or lesser extent perhaps - because I tend to comment on them semi-religiously, (okay, maybe I'm takin' some poetic licence here, but I do comment every now and again.) but they don't give a rats' ass patootie about me one way or another either.
No tit for tat... so to speak.

And that's okay.

But I decided to go in there and delete each and every blog and blog person who has never ever responded to me in any way, or who has never acknowledged - even once - that I'm alive.
(if you have at any time in the past, you're right as rain... so don't worry, okay?)

And as well... I went in and deleted a few that haven't posted one single solitary word on their own blogs, in 6 long months or more.

Well mostly.
Because I found that some blogs ... well, I just couldn't delete.
Softy, that I am.

Either I couldn't make myself delete them because I've gotten so emotionally involved in their blogs and their sagas' and I like their style... or I simply love their recipes. (like Pioneer Woman)

One or two bloggers have even disappeared completely into the bloggy ether... never to be heard from again... but I have high hopes that someday they'll return to blogging again, and I want to be ready for 'em, when that happens.
(Barb, are you listening to me?)

So... for you 3 people who didn't even know that I exist, or who didn't give enough of a rats' ass patootie to even say "boo" to me now and again ...

This one's for you...


I'll bet you're feeling really sorry now... eh?

Hello?
Hellooooo?

Necessity, the mother of invention

What do you do, when you want one of these...

But you don't have any.

And the only place you can find them, is the local Mocha Shoppe...
And the guy who owns "The Mocha Shoppe" seriously needs to be turned into the police, because he's commiting robbery by charging $3.50 apiece for them?

Well, I do have a recipe, but it was one of those moments where I wanted a peanut butter cup right NOW, and I didn't want to spend a single minute making them.
Besides, I was fresh out of chocolate.
Well, the right kind of chocolate anyway.

I did however, have some stuff in the cupboard, so necessity being the mother of invention, I came up with my own recipe.

You take 2 of these:



Some of this:



Slap some of the peanut butter on one of the squares of chocolate, slap the other square on top, and then do this:


Good... but not really what I was looking for.

Too much chocolate for one thing.

Or is that heresy?

Out, out damn'd spot!

Or should that be: A pox be on you! ?

Well ... something Shakespearean anyway. Or maybe I should just call it Macbethean.

Because good old William Shakespeare sure had a way with words, and could sum up some pretty nasty-ass stuff in just a few words.
Isn't that right?

And "out, damn'd spot" and "a pox be on you" are pretty damn'd apt right about now.
Because I have them.

Spots and the pox that is.

Better known as chicken pox.

And here I thought I was just getting a case of the sniffles.
Something I never do.
Because see, I don't get colds.
It has something to do with working with kids day in and day out, and dealing with their crummy little germs all the time... so I'm immune to just about everything now.

And I sure as heck don't get pimples, either.

But last night when I was brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror, I thought "holy sh**, Batman!!!" look at those 5 pimples on my forehead!

And I was shocked, because I just. Do.Not.GET. pimples.
Period.

I never ever did as a teenager, and I only got the occasional single, solitary "spot" every few years when I was in my 20's.
And my "20's" came and went decades ago.
More decades than I care to count... to tell you the truth.

So... my poor little mind went into overtime, thinking that maybe I had forgotten to wash my face after the business meeting last Monday ( I tend to go 'all out' and slap on some make-up and lippy when I go to those things, so that I look half-way attractive)
But no... I distinctly remember having a shower before bed that night, and doing the usual face-cleansing routine.

Maybe it was something I had eaten?
Hmmm... nooo... nothing out of the ordinary there either.

So when I got ready to get in the shower this morning, (because I had had a pretty sleepless, tossing-and-turning, sweaty night last night and I felt pretty icky and sticky) I checked my face...
And yep... the pimples were still there.
Bigger and badder than the day before.

And then I got undressed.
And got the shock of my life.

I have pimples on my chest.
I have them on my belly.
I have them on my arms.

And then I remembered.

This is all thanks to some dear, sweet, little un-nameable kid who had had chicken pox the week that he was off on holidays.

Mom had called and told me that he had just had them, but the spots were all gone by the end of the week...and she just wanted to know what the exclusion protocol for Family Day Care was.
So just to be on the safe side and protect the babies, we had decided to keep him out of care for a further 2 days.
And by Monday, there were no more visible spots, the scabs were all gone, he had no cough or runny nose, and he was back to acting 100%...
So he came back into care on Wednesday.

But... I suppose from the look of things, keeping him home for those 2 days was a complete and utter waste.of.time.

Because I had obviously been exposed to them, before he left... and the little booger had undoubtedly been incubating them the week before he went on holidays!

I actually don't feel too bad right now.
I feel pretty normal, other than the sniffles and sneezing and looking like a geek with prom-night pimples.

But I have Chicken Pox.

If this affects my going away, in just 2 weeks time - in ANY way - I'm gonna be so damn'd pissed off frustrated!

Out, out damn'd spot!

A pox be on you!!

~~~~~~

Good news!

I called the chemist (pharmacist) first thing this morning, and he told me to pop right on in for some meds, but he would only give me the initial dose... since I had to see the quack for a proper diagnosis, and a complete script.

So I did that... then managed to see the quack within about 15 minutes.

I most definitely DO have chickenpox... but the meds should knock it on it's proverial ass butt, within just a day or so.

Because... I got the drugs, JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME!

I might not even have to miss any work.

Bummer that part though.

Ya know... I think I really have to start calling that dear, lovely, oh so sweet, doctor of mine "doctor"... instead of "quack".

Chicken Pox Treatment - AcyclovirAcyclovir (Zovirax) is an anti-viral drug that may be used to treat chicken pox. In uncomplicated cases acyclovir taken 5 times a day has been shown to cause shorter periods of new lesion formation, fewer lesions, and more rapid healing but only if started within 24 to 48 hours of the onset of the rash.

Houston, I have a problem...

And I know what it is. It just hit me square between the eyes.

I'm nice.
I'm too nice.
I just don't know how to say no... until later, that is.

Today's Monday, right? And Monday means that it's my day off.
I don't work on Mondays even though I actually need the money... because I figure that as hard as I work, I need at least one day a week that's completely and totally mine.
Me time... as it were.
Time to schedule appointments. Time to go grocery shopping without having to deal with the weekend crowds. Time to just sit and vegetate, to play on the computer, read books and even take Nana naps if I want to.

So... what led me to this eye opening epiphany, and my realizing that I'm just too bloody nice, is that a parent called me on Saturday (it was my working weekend) and asked me if I could have her little one on this coming Monday and Friday - starting at some ridiculous hour in the morning.
I told her Friday was fine, but I hemmed and hawed on working on Monday... and then I eventually capitulated and said 'yes'.
And then I rang her back 30 minutes later and said "no".

The problem is, is that I got her voice mail, and I left her a message saying "no".
And she never got back to me.

So here it is Monday morning... and here I sit, half nekkid and wondering what in the hell I was thinking.
Did she get the message?
Why did I say yes, in the first place?
Is she going to show up with the little one and ruin my plans for the day?
Do I finish getting dressed in my good pants, or do I get dressed in my kid pants?
(see? there's the explanation for the half nekkid-ness)
Why do I do stuff like this?
Am I seeking approval from virtual strangers, because I want people to like me... and because I'm such a spineless, weak-kneed loser, I don't know how to say no?

What's my problem? Did something happen in my childhood that ended up making me this way? Was I in some sort of competition with my not-so-nice little sister... and in order to stand out and one-up her, I opted to be the "nice" sister?
Is this why I allowed Valerie Firstenburger to spend years torturing me, by calling me back when I was halfway up the block, telling me she had something important to say... and then just yanking my ponytail?
And then me falling for it again the next day?
Is this why I kissed Steve Somebody-or-other when I was 17, even though he didn't have any front teeth and he had the personality of a dead rat... but he did have a really cool car?

Because I just don't know how to say N.O. .. no?

Ahhh... piss on it. fiddlesticks.
I'll just put on my kid pants, and change into my good pants if the mother doesn't show up.

And then I'll spend the day psychoanalyzing myself some more.

Update: The mum showed at 7am; I told her that I had left her two messages on Saturday, saying I was unable to care for the little guy on Monday... so now I get to put my good pants on !

Our get-together next month...

I'm still thinking about our little family and friends and bloggy friends get-together in Murphys next month, (don't forget... it's April 24th!) and man... all the thinking is doin' my head in!
I'm all a dither, and vacillating back and forth as to what to do and where to hold the BBQ...

I was/am planning on doing it at the little Murphys Park, mostly for convenience sake. Simply because the park is pretty well "centrally located", just in case anyone wants to have a little wander around town and check out the sights while we're there.

Need more chips or soda pop?
Just pop over to the grocery store.

Want to dip your tired ol' feet in the creek?
Hey, just walk 20 feet and you're there.

The kids want to play?
Let 'em roam, but you can keep them in sight from just about anywhere.

But then I talked to my son, and told him what I was planning.

And he said: "Mom, (that's what he calls me) why not do it right here at the house? We have plenty of room, plenty of picnic tables and a barbecue... and the kids can all play right here. And Bec and I would love for you to have your friends here."
And ya know... that sounds great to me too.
Plus, he has a bathroom right there... and at my age, my bladder is just about as old as I am, so having a bathroom handy, pretty much gives that a big tick of approval as far as I'm concerned.

But that's probably because I'm comfortable at home, and I know the place like the back of my hand... and I know my son.
I know him like the back of my hand too, after all these years.
But just because I don't have any worries, doesn't mean that you wouldn't have any worries about going to a strange/unknown place.
Seeing as how some of you don't know either my son or myself at all (or my friend and the Old Guy either, for that matter)... and all that stuff.

Now do me a favor, and check this out:


For a map of Murphys, click HERE... and then scroll to the left until you find Frankie Mine Road (off French Gulch).
It's closer than it looks on the map, and it's just a few minutes from the middle of town.

Or better yet, you can also go to Google Earth if ya have it.
Simply type in "Murphys CA" and go to "street view".

When the map comes up, there will be blue boxes (click the boxes for pics) with points of interest. (Murphys Swimming Hole is in Murphys Park, and the one to the right of it is the park itself. The two pics are pretty much one and the same - only they were taken about 20 feet apart. So at least you can see how small the town is anyway.)

Then, if you look straight to the left of town, you'll see a faint road (French Gulch) leaving town. The 3rd camera over will be 1550 French Gulch, which is just about where my son lives.
Not exactly where he is, but it's in the same general-just-outside-of-town area.

So what to do... what to do... ???

Josh's place... or in town?
You decide.

No, wait!

What about meeting at the park... spending some time there, and then heading home for a proper barbecue later in the day?
By then, you'll realize that I'm not an ax murderer or anything... and after a few hours, I'll know that you aren't either!

Hopefully, anyway.

Now ... hands up again, on who's coming!?!

What about me?

What about me? It isn't fair.

And yes, that's said in a whiny voice.
Lord knows, I hear a lot of whiny voices, so I'm pretty darn sure I have the inflection and tonal quality down pat.
And that's not just the the kids I deal with on a daily basis either - though they're great little role models.
It's also the voices in my head. They whine a lot too.

Well, not that I really have voices in my head ... since I actually prefer to call it "internal dialog"... And I find it extremely therapeutic to delude myself in this way.
So please, just don't tell my psychiatrist, okay?

And what's got me in this mood?
Okay, I'll tell you...
Just to keep you happy.

Y'all have heard the news that Ree Drummond, aka "Pioneer Woman", is now gonna have a movie made about her life.
Haven't you?
Well, it seems they're in "talks" anyway, but knowing this woman and the phenomenal success she's had with her blog, her cookbook, and with her now writing a book, I just reckon that there's no doubt that we're gonna be lining up to see the movie - starring Reese Witherspoon - sometime in the not-too-distant future. (see the article HERE, or go here to hear Ree tell the story herself)

Now see, what got me into this whole blogging thing in the first place, was a parent who had come for an initial interview... and when she heard my American accent, she started rattling off about this other American woman who has a blog called The Pioneer Woman... and how the fantastic recipes in it had literally saved her marriage... and how the blog itself had brought her endless hours of entertainment, not to mention saving her sanity.

Well, "sanity saving" is pretty big in my book, so as soon as she left, I jumped right into googling anything I could find about "The Pioneer Woman."
Which led me to the PW blog...
Which led me to other blogs... including yours.
Which led me to the belief that I too, could join the ranks of women with something to say.

Unfortunately, most of you say it better than I do, so I'll just fall back on my original story of using blogging as "somewhat therapeutic" and a pretty pitiful legacy for my grandsons.

So maybe my story and my blog aren't exactly book-worthy (okay, now who am I kidding?) and I know that I'll never make it to the big screen, let alone the little screen... but hey, it's a great little stress-reliever.
For me anyway.
I don't know about you.

So anyway, the whole idea of Reese Witherspoon playing the part of Ree Drummond, got me thinking about who could play my part... if a movie was ever made about me, that is.
(See? Told you I was mildly delusional.)

And the best I could come up with is Bea Arthur.
Unfortunately, Bea has now passed away.
So there go my dreams... shot to hell.

Remember my room?

The one that looks vaguely like this?

Well... except that my room has four walls... and it's minus the seagulls and flies of course.

And there's no actual "garbage" in there, but there's plenty of piled-high, run-of-the-mill, I'm too lazy to tidy up the crap stuff in there?

Yep, that one.

My bedroom.

The junk room with a bed in it, room.

Well... I have a friend who is a complete and utter idiot sweetheart, and she's offered to clean/ tidy it for me.

Probably for money, and copious amounts of it to boot... but to tell you the truth, who cares?

Just so long as it's done.

See the thing is, this is the friend who's going to America with me.

And the night before we have to be at the airport, she's staying here for the night since we have to get up way before it's daylight, just to catch the shuttle bus to the airport.

So we've decided to stay up all night, and hopefully, we'll have the bonus of being so damn knackered the next day, that we'll sleep through most of the 14 hour flight.

That's the plan anyway.

And we decided that since we're gonna be staying up all night, we're gonna play the same Nintendo game - Super Mario Brothers, or some such - that we played years and years ago, when her now "big girl" was just a baby.

Now, she had to do some serious searching of her own, to find that old game and console and a couple of controllers that were hidden in the murky depths of her kids rooms.

So she must be getting pretty good at this sorting through crap stuff thing.

(lucky me, eh?)

Anyway, yesterday she showed up with everything we'll need for the "big night", tied up in a plastic bag.

And she says : "I'll just put this in your room, so we'll know where to find it, okay?"

My response?

A resounding "NOOOOOO! We'll never find it again, if you put it in there!!"

Which is when she said, "Don't worry, I'll come around next week and clean your room for you."

Yeah... right.

"No, really. I'll clean the room up for you. I promise."

So we'll just see what we see, eh?

Now contrary to popular opinion, it was actually David Hannum - and not P.T. Barnum who said: "There's a sucker born every minute."

But I just wonder which one of us is the sucker?

Time will tell, I guess...

I'll post pics... I promise.

Things I have learned...

Millipedes bite. (Or are they centipedes? Never mind, since I'm not counting their bloody legs anyway. All I care about, is that they bite.)

If I go grocery shopping without a list, I get heaps of things I didn't mean to buy.. and then come home without the stuff I actually needed.

If the Old Guy says he will be here at 9, so don't worry... don't believe him.

Children have a different idea of "tidy" than I do.

Men have a different idea of "messy" than I do.

Life is always better if you have sprinkles.

Don't lay on the couch with a child, while they're watching The Wiggles, and then fall alseep.

Raisins really do fit up your nostrils.

Even if you've been fishing for 3 hours and haven't caught anything except a cold, you're still better off than the worm.

If they're gonna draw on the wall, they'll always do it behind the couch.

Stomping on millipedes and then walking on the carpet before wiping your shoes, is not a good idea.

Dishes that the Old Guy washes, need to be washed again.

It doesn't matter who started it.

If the Old Guy swears he'll cook dinner tonight, don't trust him.

Some people consider toast dinner.

Friends who won't listen to your words of wisdom, will listen to your other friends words of wisdom... when you're the one who told the 2nd friend those same little words of wisdom in the first place.

Screwing up a paper towel, and then setting it alight to burn up millipedes doesn't work.

Fire extinguishers are handy things to have.

The smell of burned nose hairs can make you gag.

The smell of burned millipedes will make you gag too.

If the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, your neighbor is probably watering illegally.

Unless the butter is doing a tap dance in the fridge, your partner will never see it.

Desitin is lousy as a toothpaste.

A watched pot really does boil. But you miss out on about 15 minutes of your life while you're watching the pot to see if it does.

Sweeping the kitchen floor is an unnecessary waste of time, since babies can make an entire meal out of the crumbs beneath the table.

and finally...

You can't ask to start over, just because you're losing the game.

Am I normal??

Okay, well for those of you who know me, you can quit reading now.
And you can keep your mouths shut, please.
I have an image to maintain here, you know.

See, what got me thinking about whether I'm 'normal' or not, was the fact that I was industriously sweeping and cleaning my patio area yesterday, and a friend asked me why I was doing that.

I said that it's because we're heading off on holidays shortly, and I wanted the area to be tidy. Because I have a house sitter coming to stay while we're gone... and she'll be in that area a lot, since she'll be feeding the cats, watering the plants and all that.
Maybe she'll even be taking advantage of the barbecue, and sitting at the outdoor setting watching the sunset.
As people are wont to do.
And I want her to think that I'm a tidy person.

Which is when my friend looked at me and smirked.
She actually smirked.
And said : "Has she ever seen your bedroom?"

So here's the confession.
I'm a tidy person.
Mostly.
With a houseful of kids running amok on a daily basis, I like to keep things as clean and tidy as possible, and I think I do a pretty damn good job.

But my bedroom (which is off-limits to the kids) is another matter entirely.
I don't even think that it's permissible to call it a bedroom, because of all the odds and ends and bits and bobs that seem to end up in there. Odd socks, laundry to be put away, the collected works of anyone who has ever written a book selected writers, work papers that I have yet to sort through and put in the appropriate folders, toys that were in my pocket when I took my clothes off, a spare laptop or two and a bunch of other stuff.
A bunch of stuff.

Actually, it's more of a catch-all room.
That has a bed in it.

So there I was busily cleaning the patio ... and my friend says this house sitter is gonna see my bedroom, so that should be my priority.
And I said, but she would have no reason to open the door and look in there, so why bother?
(well yes, I know that it's worth bothering about, but I will get to it eventually. I swear.)

And then my friend says, "Well you know that people have a peek at your stuff now and again when they know they can get away with it, so it's perfectly reasonable to think that this house sitter will be peeking in your bathroom cupboard and linen closet and cabinets and any rooms that she's not actually using - particularly your bedroom.
And she will judge you."

And I said "Nooooo!!! People don't do that. Do they?"

Because see, I never have... and I've always been so reticent about even opening someone else's bathroom cupboard - even when the toilet paper roll is empty - that I'll either call out and ask permission, or I'll look in the garbage bin for a piece of used tissue or something.

Because IMO, peoples stuff is peoples stuff.
And I feel a titch uncomfortable looking at stuff that I haven't received permission to look at.

And that's when my friend said I'm not normal.

This is not... and I repeat, This is NOT my bedroom.
I don't have bunk beds, for one thing.

Excuse me, but I need to go call a locksmith now.

I don't think my friend meant that I wasn't normal just because my bedroom is messy. I think she said it because I tend to have so much (too much?) faith in people, and I trust them to do the right thing. Like not have a poke around when no one is looking. I guess I just always assume that other people will naturally do the same thing that "I" would do under the same circumstances.

You can just call me Pollyanna from now on, okay?