Having THAT conversation yet again

I have been working like a mad woman to get some painting done in the house before my parents and in-laws come visit next week. As we were headed out to catch the bus, Hannah turns to me (as I am fully ensconced in my paint garb) and says:

"Um, Mom...aren't you going to be embarrassed going out like that?"

"No, why would I be embarrassed?"

"Because nobody pretty much wears clothes like that outside. Shouldn't you change?"

This from the girl who thinks this is appropriate for outside wear:

Fashion advice noted. And ignored.

Dum-dum does it again

In the guest bathroom in the basement, we have a little problem.

The previous owners thought it was just an awesome idea to screw a towel rack onto a piece of wood, and then screw that piece of wood into the sheetrock. Doesn't that just scream klassy decor? Don't you just want one for your own house? Well, in their decorating haste, they didn't use any drywall anchors and it fell off the wall every time anyone so much as touched the towel that hung from it. It was annoying, but on my seemingly endless list of rehab projects. I've already even bought the most adorable hooks to replace it.

(Shut up, Daniel. I know what you're thinking. And you're wrong. Hooks CAN be adorable).

Well, I went to prep that bathroom this week for painting. To my shock and horror, I was unable to pry that towel rack off the wall. I took all the screws out and it just would not budge. I yanked harder. I tried jimmying something behind it to pop it off. Nothing.

Well, it finally did come off. And this is what I found:

That big brown patch, my friends, is the sheetrock paper from the wall.

I immediately questioned The Husband as to WHY? WHY? WHY? he would glue that towel rack when he knew I'd be replacing it.

He didn't do it.

Well, then who did?

Our only thought is that our BRILLIANT contractor took it upon himself to glue the towel rack to the wall. He, who couldn't lift his hammer into the air without first increasing his already-padded invoice DECIDED TO DO SOMETHING ON HIS OWN. For free. I'm sure he sat in the basement and patted himself on his shirtless, sweaty back for doing such charitable service. Probably made him feel less guilty for over charging us on everything else he did.

So now we get the pleasure of re-mudding and patching a GIANT HOLE in the wall that should not be there. Would not be there. Were it not for the contractor I call Dum-Dum.

What's that you say? Call him up! Make him fix his mess! I would love to. But doing so would require that he step foot in my home (most likely hairy and shirtless) and I just can't bear the sight of that. EVER. AGAIN.

So pardon my cussing (still pining away for that R-rating). I'm so f#@% mad I could scream. But I can't. What with all the plaster dust I'm inhaling.

And I wouldn't recommend simultaneous cursing and inhaling. Makes for a very bad day, indeed.

Things I learned this week

• Before weeding the flower beds in your front yard, it is helpful to know which are flowers and which are weeds.
• Knowing this in advance will prevent the elderly woman next door from having a heart attack as she watches you cheerfully pluck flowers instead of weeds.
• When planning your son's 8th birthday, do not be naive enough to think you can simply take a few eight-year-old boys to the movies and call it a party.
• Before the week is through, you will somehow have morphed that brilliant idea into a full-fledged Army-themed party.
• At your house.
• And 13 boys will be coming.
• After spending a year in Sunny So Cal, do not be surprised when your children have no warm-weather gear that fits.
• Sending your son to the bus stop in YOUR jacket will make you feel just a little bit embarrassed because he doesn't have one himself.
• He, however, will be perfectly thrilled with the new jacket arrangement.
• Promptly running out to buy a new jacket for said son will guarantee 85-degree weather for at least the next three weeks.
• Getting that letter in the mail from GWB will be the highlight of a little boy's week.
• Watching this defeat happen in person will be the lowlight of The Husband's week.
• Your favorite thing this week: NOT having to watch that defeat and getting some girl time with the Hannah.

Darn, I was hoping for worse

I might have to break out some potty or swear words. That rating seems WAY too tame for a girl like me.

Life in Hannah's World

Hannah spends a good deal of time living in a fantasy land (as all children rightfully should). I find her regularly planted in front of her dollhouse, calling the shots for her dream life. Thought I'd give you a little tour.

First, when Aunt Lavender comes to visit, it is a big deal. A big enough deal to plant her on a chair in the kitchen with her wild hair and leave her there. For three days.

Sisters get to wear ballgowns and tu-tus. And take naps anytime they want. (Now this is starting to sound like my kind of life...)

Babysitters come to the house dressed like hoochie-mamas (definitely NOT acceptable in any sort of life):

Babies potty-train themselves (now WHY, WHY, WHY didn't I think of that?)

Brothers get time-outs for all sorts of terrible behavior. Like breaking sister's toys. Or for simply existing.

But what makes this dream life most appealing is that this is actually happening:

While the Mom does this:

Heaven help the man that marries my girl.

Where were you six years ago today?

I had just dropped my oldest son off at pre-school and thought I'd hit the mall to shop for a few hours. I had my two-year-old with me, and had just found out I was pregnant with my third baby. What seemed like such an ordinary day would become the most extraordinary of days.

I was in a store, and they had pulled out a television. Everyone in the store was huddled around the small t.v. We really didn't know much in those first few minutes. We all thought a plane had simply crashed.

Until the second plane hit the towers.

More information started coming out. It was not a crash; but terrorism. How many more planes did they have? We didn't know. One thing was certain - two of the planes HAD flown out of Boston's Logan Airport. As had my husband that morning.

I immediately tried calling him. No answer. I tried calling his office to see if anyone had heard from him. His secretary said that, no, Josh hadn't called in yet. She told me that the car service the firm uses had taken someone to the airport that was on one of the planes.

"Debbie," I said, my heart pounding, "JOSH TOOK THE CAR SERVICE THIS MORNING."

I remember sitting in the car, in the mall parking lot, looking at the pristine, blue sky. I have never felt so small. The tears starting flowing. I started praying. Praying that my husband was not on one of those planes. Praying for the husbands that were. Praying for all of us.

It was a good six hours before I heard from Josh. He did fly on American Airlines that morning, on a flight about 20 minutes ahead of the hijacked planes. Same flight path. Same terminal even. He probably walked right past the terrorists and all the people on those flights. I've often wondered since then how many times we cross paths with sheer terror and never even know it.

The whole world changed on that crisp September morning. Nothing has been the same since. I will forever be grateful that my husband got on the plane that he did, instead of the ones that left a few minutes later. And my heart will always go out to those whose husbands were not so lucky.

God bless America.

I was inspired by Gabi's post today. Where were you?