tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76301325541965973322024-02-06T22:22:38.763-08:00Ruth, the MomYour Daily Dose of HumorRuthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.comBlogger433125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-77965661095921277492011-03-31T16:13:00.000-07:002011-03-31T16:15:36.838-07:00Announcing my new "baby"While I'll be keeping this blog active, I've kind of run out of steam for it, so I decided to start a new blog, <a href="http://www.insightfulish.com/">insightful(ish)</a>.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>You can find it at www.insightfulish.com or by clicking the link above.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Ruth, the Mom will still be here, and I may even get inspired and post something new from time to time, but I'm not renewing my domain name so it will soon be back at its original address of www.ruththemom.blogspot.com.<br />
<br />
Hope to see you over at <a href="http://www.insightfulish.com/">insightful(ish)</a>! Thanks so much for reading!</div>Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-65994031942928029862010-12-26T12:35:00.000-08:002010-12-26T12:37:22.845-08:00Game timeOur family received six games for Christmas: Jenga, Lego Race 3000, Hedbanz, Square Up, Fowl Play, and Rat a Tat Cat. These all sound incredibly fun, but we didn't play a single one on Christmas day.<br />
<br />
That's because my kids were too busy making up their own games. Here are a few favorites: <br />
<br />
<b>Speed Greed</b><br />
Object: After all presents have been opened, be the first kid to look at a brochure that came with one of the toys and say, "I wish I had <i>that</i>."<br />
<br />
<b>Lego Challenge</b><br />
Object: Open the Lego Fire Boat package and dump all the contents out onto the floor in high-traffic areas. Put together ten pieces, then wander off to watch Wow Wow Wubbzy. See how long it takes Mom to assemble the Fire Boat with several vital pieces missing. Bonus: Hide the instructions under the couch.<br />
<br />
<b>What Floor?</b><br />
Object: Using wrapping paper, boxes, ribbons, product packaging, new clothing, toys, and Play-Doh, cover every square inch of the living room floor. Bonus: Drop the Fire Boat in the middle of it all and watch to see if Mom's head explodes.<br />
<br />
<b>Sibling Squabble</b><br />
Object: This one requires teamwork. Out of all the new toys spread out on the floor, participants must agree on one single item that all of you must have <i>right this instant,</i> and fight over it.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-23589627255696946242010-12-06T10:02:00.000-08:002010-12-06T10:24:39.669-08:00Gingerbread House HuntersNewlyweds Fred and Ginger have been living in the Gingerbread Village neighborhood of Gingerbread City for almost a year. While they enjoy the big city life, they're TIRED of paying big city rent.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNEeCxe_fgTcx1GcPYXipyrLPDWRBfIP_bd1e0t8OQORl_6K9kr6MDNm3tUe6-VjudqRzr1dfcdCAmA0mqKoBccLCvr3Lumk2VQPUumGQfhhcdJcw_uQN9YpwxVxKvrQo0qHxWWqqjjRK/s1600/IMG_6363.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNEeCxe_fgTcx1GcPYXipyrLPDWRBfIP_bd1e0t8OQORl_6K9kr6MDNm3tUe6-VjudqRzr1dfcdCAmA0mqKoBccLCvr3Lumk2VQPUumGQfhhcdJcw_uQN9YpwxVxKvrQo0qHxWWqqjjRK/s640/IMG_6363.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
Today they're meeting with their real estate agent, Polly, to take a look at a few places and see if they can find a "sweet" deal on a new home. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX8RKC80wruSMj14nTpacYt3mwCSYmGnEfv9BTHrjWzYJ4OMhwrui9v5IhJssKY_NWKUx0CshMksHpu8iVJcw_lxwEuuE4slycP129lFJuloM6bHgCfllqsQRFmn6AAy5k2dmbELCQ6WE/s1600/IMG_6366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX8RKC80wruSMj14nTpacYt3mwCSYmGnEfv9BTHrjWzYJ4OMhwrui9v5IhJssKY_NWKUx0CshMksHpu8iVJcw_lxwEuuE4slycP129lFJuloM6bHgCfllqsQRFmn6AAy5k2dmbELCQ6WE/s640/IMG_6366.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"Shall we take my car?" Polly asks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjub5nr38kYxHPDhjevaI-lAw_x-ugjpjyWx8pTnV_4fguIgyPuKgdogzKfXICpLhEacXkOC11zdAqS-SmrUul64IoaHNnMrBNWIX1GyWtiP7fsX4YbgFCMgeHRBNBl-bqVQtHnAGcRDs77/s1600/IMG_6367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjub5nr38kYxHPDhjevaI-lAw_x-ugjpjyWx8pTnV_4fguIgyPuKgdogzKfXICpLhEacXkOC11zdAqS-SmrUul64IoaHNnMrBNWIX1GyWtiP7fsX4YbgFCMgeHRBNBl-bqVQtHnAGcRDs77/s640/IMG_6367.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"I don't know, might be a little tight," says Fred. "How about we take our gingerbread train instead?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuCYjZ7PB6Z7RX1j3I3_E96nQZGj-1AwJoJV_FocqCNAqJ63X4iSUd0qOjRJBku3BXXdp5R99WO1QsNsASI-m4ZqZRHbln66Nm4yr5MUNMd1J50X9NUJhkCczyaFk_phrkHubbodHF7H4/s1600/IMG_6374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5PdH3ij1bNgF6CjIdzwj-cuq6Y4MFXAUREKgullvgKxRncPxyVB0Bkkgu2pH7wA4oW1vvUU_52hb8ZKyAvt1W5ui_GmsT189cmyFcsFc6R5YStB8rqUx5Zkj-BlKhOhwZHebJfZ9POS0/s640/IMG_6372.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
As the train takes them past fields of candy-sprinkled snow, Ginger begins to look worried. "We're getting pretty far away from the city, aren't we?"<br />
<br />
"To find a house in your price range with the features you want, we'll have to look out in the suburbs," Polly explains. "Now, the first neighborhood I'm going to show you is a newer development called Gingerbread Acres. There are actually two houses for sale here, and I think you're going to like what you see."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuCYjZ7PB6Z7RX1j3I3_E96nQZGj-1AwJoJV_FocqCNAqJ63X4iSUd0qOjRJBku3BXXdp5R99WO1QsNsASI-m4ZqZRHbln66Nm4yr5MUNMd1J50X9NUJhkCczyaFk_phrkHubbodHF7H4/s1600/IMG_6374.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuCYjZ7PB6Z7RX1j3I3_E96nQZGj-1AwJoJV_FocqCNAqJ63X4iSUd0qOjRJBku3BXXdp5R99WO1QsNsASI-m4ZqZRHbln66Nm4yr5MUNMd1J50X9NUJhkCczyaFk_phrkHubbodHF7H4/s640/IMG_6374.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39jV_Q26uxjlFJon2j2t6RICXlr2ZzE8uRvs_hZQmP5wlWCHevB_8RJ-KS0OcmfLCCTHbHwpDWoCXjPeB5kXDpWs90Z18ZaWSGGUoMrACA6iZ8Ok3-4PrGURc3kMjtTQR7CSu2RkiTklE/s1600/IMG_6387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>"Well, here we are," Polly says. "Would you like to take a look inside?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCGh5QC0u6mGYa2EVUeZ17Ii149Odiqk6vc61_wX9YCjzgYBetclIZKZ01zJTQFuZgZ_SEgAUVsm3G63BSqCxyMTyV6RR6pH7PaKeOl0Mmd19DwASpKWaZThnx7ZKtOFdWHnoavFYcRoNn/s1600/IMG_6384.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCGh5QC0u6mGYa2EVUeZ17Ii149Odiqk6vc61_wX9YCjzgYBetclIZKZ01zJTQFuZgZ_SEgAUVsm3G63BSqCxyMTyV6RR6pH7PaKeOl0Mmd19DwASpKWaZThnx7ZKtOFdWHnoavFYcRoNn/s640/IMG_6384.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Fred points out the fallen gingerbread tree in the front yard of one of the homes. "These places don't look very well maintained to me."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ginger nods. "There are cracks in the walls, too. It's like whoever iced this place together didn't bother to do it properly."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJyW8NZjlsO38mR-BHxt75xx-fYS2Se8TierejSZwwPaaozH5DLYfusTb7tZVuUf7ejgYJs_XHXbBUeNWIfhgkFBta-yuwzhSDqvTQlg3Kmy5RNj5ybBUWdFYfofA6_WZKeyPZNsvXzOW/s1600/IMG_6389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJyW8NZjlsO38mR-BHxt75xx-fYS2Se8TierejSZwwPaaozH5DLYfusTb7tZVuUf7ejgYJs_XHXbBUeNWIfhgkFBta-yuwzhSDqvTQlg3Kmy5RNj5ybBUWdFYfofA6_WZKeyPZNsvXzOW/s640/IMG_6389.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"These flat roofs are like a disaster waiting to happen," adds Fred. "One big frosting snowstorm, and your roof gumdrops are on the living room floor. It just seems like poor design to me."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MfuzjzpGwmnlapd1cQgDsPOjReVoRGTBBIHv9mYlsNHx0rr9jdHmHFChL3R2ZYDGhrKqark6n6DHEUUt8YaH3tMPdtlTBbZeX3hWfvMyW2Pl74CSxGal_xcsntPl9Cb7KL6VX803ucVf/s1600/IMG_6393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJl81bRIcrZYab_16a0EdyI0RCWY30P8uSdlIAEmE4QRueTUp5GfT0YggVUch5gfqbkxMKXo55tySJNjqKTk-MQBcynwBInCNgsAcwx5bCgsMgzLQ8jQkLRiE9S0SMwBhctYriWOnoTaj-/s1600/IMG_6394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJl81bRIcrZYab_16a0EdyI0RCWY30P8uSdlIAEmE4QRueTUp5GfT0YggVUch5gfqbkxMKXo55tySJNjqKTk-MQBcynwBInCNgsAcwx5bCgsMgzLQ8jQkLRiE9S0SMwBhctYriWOnoTaj-/s640/IMG_6394.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"Thanks, Polly," says Fred. "But I think we'd like to see something else."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZwOWO7biB-Qb9U0mWlJ8tX9MLkxmuEWDSNHEHbd8vHvMNaCQWNr14THskCbagyeFOkfQ24yCMV8E88BKUo6MstR8_CG5sD9wV_tfVNByRUSHjBtAtW-UuGE4wswgmfGXVYuw9vt_gZ78/s1600/IMG_6413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZwOWO7biB-Qb9U0mWlJ8tX9MLkxmuEWDSNHEHbd8vHvMNaCQWNr14THskCbagyeFOkfQ24yCMV8E88BKUo6MstR8_CG5sD9wV_tfVNByRUSHjBtAtW-UuGE4wswgmfGXVYuw9vt_gZ78/s640/IMG_6413.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"Well, these places would definitely need a little TLC, but at this price either one would be a great value," Polly says. "But if you're wanting something a little more put together, I think you're going to love the next house."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHv98KjTCUnENDOiP3etZai2Melm7HTZsC-KV5zkp_R29a_atYlpypK58yIsIqqB24SDZk-pzmwX5DssCe0CrF2mVT9XJOJ_e1RijnCV5UL0fZNGT6SdvWISNfsF2xPsVZV_vJetDZh9fX/s1600/IMG_6416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHv98KjTCUnENDOiP3etZai2Melm7HTZsC-KV5zkp_R29a_atYlpypK58yIsIqqB24SDZk-pzmwX5DssCe0CrF2mVT9XJOJ_e1RijnCV5UL0fZNGT6SdvWISNfsF2xPsVZV_vJetDZh9fX/s640/IMG_6416.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"Now this one's a little farther away from the city, in Gingerbread Estates," Polly says when they are on the train again. "But it's nicely maintained, and it has the slanted roof you're looking for."<br />
<br />
"Sounds great," says Fred.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0g3OcXmIz9U4ZDOwOcx6DKy7rHU8AM3KeSDxp1kn010gk1aUXWxcu18epU_N4hlVl6aCO1vsxZmdtola6XJi08hyFvgqdcebPOPAE_-3n49nLy96kw3w0QSNrEB4r99z2S9h1rJm2in6/s1600/IMG_6420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0g3OcXmIz9U4ZDOwOcx6DKy7rHU8AM3KeSDxp1kn010gk1aUXWxcu18epU_N4hlVl6aCO1vsxZmdtola6XJi08hyFvgqdcebPOPAE_-3n49nLy96kw3w0QSNrEB4r99z2S9h1rJm2in6/s640/IMG_6420.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</a></div>"Here we are," Polly says. "What do you think?"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeahIg79HbjuGAqLUZmlNnuwezLvM7_TTP4NcldULgiTKkSrRyKygrUl_uIgjdogiM9RKFNGoozz7Igux3mlTT3FJtiUKYMxbHK_gVsR_QxOYK-3adANQFLIVOtEQj0V1TpU3bK3dtW5_/s1600/IMG_6421.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeahIg79HbjuGAqLUZmlNnuwezLvM7_TTP4NcldULgiTKkSrRyKygrUl_uIgjdogiM9RKFNGoozz7Igux3mlTT3FJtiUKYMxbHK_gVsR_QxOYK-3adANQFLIVOtEQj0V1TpU3bK3dtW5_/s640/IMG_6421.JPG" width="628" /></a><br />
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<br />
"Now this is more like it!" exclaims Fred.<br />
<br />
Ginger's eyes light up. "I love the Peppermint motif in front! It's perfect!"<br />
<br />
After touring the inside, they are convinced they've found their next home. "The bedrooms are a little small," says Ginger, "but I do like all the storage space."<br />
<br />
"Plenty of room for all of our candy and extra frosting," agrees Fred.<br />
<br />
"And peanut brittle counter tops," Ginger continues. "At this price, who can believe it!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6ipFToHFWn9vDUJx7xRY7WPq2L0dvX2dxLphwl_P8C-UY86g1xXiyBIa21ayMjc6j7W-nbgS3wQVcK2lX5o7JBv77MfvrMs50Erb4Co_PkDPvzb52s_jAjjvwMhtokiipiLi7AQEOorA/s1600/IMG_6424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6ipFToHFWn9vDUJx7xRY7WPq2L0dvX2dxLphwl_P8C-UY86g1xXiyBIa21ayMjc6j7W-nbgS3wQVcK2lX5o7JBv77MfvrMs50Erb4Co_PkDPvzb52s_jAjjvwMhtokiipiLi7AQEOorA/s640/IMG_6424.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"And, oh, look honey--it even has a YARD!" Ginger exclaims.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBruPDWbs0LN7TjWRQx7vSOwy7ifW74DAFwqu0OtRXKUy8nI5OLEszfMk3X4p32NenLGiWjRzxIBSAuCGk2iaS5lB5P-fDJmxFNYw3SpdMXdJt0cC2lNzB6-8U-rB20JYqOVrXw19IHyf/s1600/IMG_6428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvnSXmGCjKbAjpHBSbP03ihk5o9kaFJqf_euUEb6zN3CivrfAf7lJeB9_RnmIk29mfYSxnvRg25VPDdVkVCV6VieeTN_wz47Y4i43sJdN1bQ0Z6wX1wnIJOWS8tCHO0F1dP2rD5VQaI2Z/s1600/IMG_6433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvnSXmGCjKbAjpHBSbP03ihk5o9kaFJqf_euUEb6zN3CivrfAf7lJeB9_RnmIk29mfYSxnvRg25VPDdVkVCV6VieeTN_wz47Y4i43sJdN1bQ0Z6wX1wnIJOWS8tCHO0F1dP2rD5VQaI2Z/s640/IMG_6433.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"Yes, it's a lovely yard," Polly says. "Now, I should tell you, this house is a short sale."<br />
<br />
Fred frowns. "What does that mean exactly?"<br />
<br />
"Well..." Polly begins, but she is interrupted by Ginger's shriek. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUGBDpp1GxVCxvTl2SA903oz2xRiJXiCPxFBTJful7eBjK_ZnaL2ywYIQYV9nAc668PbplHI__P23V4f7Q5xIFlsHldLeVw_WG8OIGLvPGUgcJsilPhFYCmDrO1097o4cBnHhR2vSqY_x/s1600/IMG_6435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUGBDpp1GxVCxvTl2SA903oz2xRiJXiCPxFBTJful7eBjK_ZnaL2ywYIQYV9nAc668PbplHI__P23V4f7Q5xIFlsHldLeVw_WG8OIGLvPGUgcJsilPhFYCmDrO1097o4cBnHhR2vSqY_x/s640/IMG_6435.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyip89IFtNjUrU1KBiTnS1iLzwkw3rTuXJwc1jL82UDdMyG9O4KY3mnm4DNF2qOZmZK5h_9e6N0jc5jAQjpUkHewfk-Fj7eaPgJIi5QdtBhj3fVv6woQFY0YODvaYDcjof1RS7sosN0PM/s1600/IMG_6436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>"Hey guys!" she cries. "Look over there! In the yard! I think someone's hurt!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyip89IFtNjUrU1KBiTnS1iLzwkw3rTuXJwc1jL82UDdMyG9O4KY3mnm4DNF2qOZmZK5h_9e6N0jc5jAQjpUkHewfk-Fj7eaPgJIi5QdtBhj3fVv6woQFY0YODvaYDcjof1RS7sosN0PM/s1600/IMG_6436.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyip89IFtNjUrU1KBiTnS1iLzwkw3rTuXJwc1jL82UDdMyG9O4KY3mnm4DNF2qOZmZK5h_9e6N0jc5jAQjpUkHewfk-Fj7eaPgJIi5QdtBhj3fVv6woQFY0YODvaYDcjof1RS7sosN0PM/s640/IMG_6436.JPG" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesgF1SoqVJeCsmpZSG8DDHDkH1vdsXTAgR4QsYZsJdr0VlseKlpITfGygF3GTgFEHiRoGDPLS7htpgib2nBv4JDkwxWcJ9GpvvTeVXWX39JiHlY6b3miJ68FaSzKPParykMZI2jOhjdnj/s1600/IMG_6437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
<br />
"Oh, my!" says Polly. "Is it...could it be..."<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesgF1SoqVJeCsmpZSG8DDHDkH1vdsXTAgR4QsYZsJdr0VlseKlpITfGygF3GTgFEHiRoGDPLS7htpgib2nBv4JDkwxWcJ9GpvvTeVXWX39JiHlY6b3miJ68FaSzKPParykMZI2jOhjdnj/s1600/IMG_6437.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesgF1SoqVJeCsmpZSG8DDHDkH1vdsXTAgR4QsYZsJdr0VlseKlpITfGygF3GTgFEHiRoGDPLS7htpgib2nBv4JDkwxWcJ9GpvvTeVXWX39JiHlY6b3miJ68FaSzKPParykMZI2jOhjdnj/s640/IMG_6437.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
"Gingerbread Santa Claus!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuze7vC9pl6s3GEJAGDXyVluXHT8TkTAn4ULzIIjsDWfT-noYDHP-uf26zNpX48sdtLpePRrL8OsLFX-Ss4U2KwqR1me_H_NjrPhP2OfIZz6LZE2HIWGqq0XmJ1Spfap3D-Yq9xCybY4B/s1600/IMG_6445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuze7vC9pl6s3GEJAGDXyVluXHT8TkTAn4ULzIIjsDWfT-noYDHP-uf26zNpX48sdtLpePRrL8OsLFX-Ss4U2KwqR1me_H_NjrPhP2OfIZz6LZE2HIWGqq0XmJ1Spfap3D-Yq9xCybY4B/s640/IMG_6445.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"Oh my goodness!" Ginger says. "He must have slipped and fallen off the slanted roof!" <br />
<br />
"Santa, are you okay?" Fred asks, leaning over to check for a pulse. "Can you hear me? Santa!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFEUG7GtsLTUNwbBhe6MYIlUR729OyEmwpoSCfo_YRPV12eOknQWQBo-AikeFWWBUmAA_WJTsEqq_CFhyphenhyphenNBXjuOxz1d9SHJjBtgovZ3m_SAk2UtWucqJd3gS8_xh0YXU7fwt-DaTuODJu/s1600/IMG_6464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFEUG7GtsLTUNwbBhe6MYIlUR729OyEmwpoSCfo_YRPV12eOknQWQBo-AikeFWWBUmAA_WJTsEqq_CFhyphenhyphenNBXjuOxz1d9SHJjBtgovZ3m_SAk2UtWucqJd3gS8_xh0YXU7fwt-DaTuODJu/s640/IMG_6464.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"I'm calling 9-1-1!" says Polly, whipping out her cell phone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hKPMM43rI7r_Mr2aWjH5GPKOkHi7JI65pcsm03wpl0huMdtY_l0BwlGM_GptY3YC4VxQ3fSVNwJa5gsvQhvCbxVgfjS04RCBDRJc_s2hAibs12SS-NmpZ9omMizPtY0k9trtRO5jlqeV/s1600/IMG_6478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hKPMM43rI7r_Mr2aWjH5GPKOkHi7JI65pcsm03wpl0huMdtY_l0BwlGM_GptY3YC4VxQ3fSVNwJa5gsvQhvCbxVgfjS04RCBDRJc_s2hAibs12SS-NmpZ9omMizPtY0k9trtRO5jlqeV/s640/IMG_6478.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
"There's no time," Fred says. "We've got to get him to a hospital, NOW."<br />
<br />
Together they load Santa onto the gingerbread train.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROYPB7I8Etr7JV047PXkwlh535Svn26XEAXaOrYgrYKPF8NhV48z0beShf7b6B0S0oMxgyZmMjAjm-AVem5Nb200lbLYNhnAogrd8iGogU9d6850X-QFlGY8_aelZ4W58UMxyaupkS8wa/s1600/IMG_6480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROYPB7I8Etr7JV047PXkwlh535Svn26XEAXaOrYgrYKPF8NhV48z0beShf7b6B0S0oMxgyZmMjAjm-AVem5Nb200lbLYNhnAogrd8iGogU9d6850X-QFlGY8_aelZ4W58UMxyaupkS8wa/s640/IMG_6480.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"Thank goodness we came when we did," Polly says, as the train begins chugging away.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sIRWOJTsfk8R5xipbEEXMEnWWLt-O45hcmDBOJ0p6cepe7ijDMZVkP5rupVPqCug_8oPCajE6rY5iShWwiySclHr7ZCVuxkRgfgx2mHsEJhfvWu9Zko8Jx3BZ3qNxqHzEF-K4YRgYLRZ/s1600/IMG_6484.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sIRWOJTsfk8R5xipbEEXMEnWWLt-O45hcmDBOJ0p6cepe7ijDMZVkP5rupVPqCug_8oPCajE6rY5iShWwiySclHr7ZCVuxkRgfgx2mHsEJhfvWu9Zko8Jx3BZ3qNxqHzEF-K4YRgYLRZ/s640/IMG_6484.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
Ginger nods. "Now, explain this short sale thing to me..."Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-41829405697056015702010-11-28T12:51:00.000-08:002010-11-28T12:51:50.519-08:00Holiday decorating by the numbers<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>1 </b><span style="font-size: small;">tree</span><b> </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>7</b></span> strings of lights<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>1</b></span> string of lights that worked<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>3</b></span> children helping decorate the tree<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>3</b></span> ornaments broken<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>4,000,000</b></span> tiny shards of glass on the floorRuthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-82454312766426749692010-11-07T20:41:00.000-08:002010-11-07T20:49:09.793-08:00What time is it? Don't ask me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFS6nVyk56Aw-Hbf7P3xFegjHTMZ4mxNko0EukOHHTWppBR-aEtZoRyNxhJz1ND03KLhWJgv0Vg6Cz4M-6hEY821lNGLLj_m_m3__ocIQzgx5yvvaOqhmtcU0RklSycy86vc3TM1bRrfL8/s1600/dali-melting-clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFS6nVyk56Aw-Hbf7P3xFegjHTMZ4mxNko0EukOHHTWppBR-aEtZoRyNxhJz1ND03KLhWJgv0Vg6Cz4M-6hEY821lNGLLj_m_m3__ocIQzgx5yvvaOqhmtcU0RklSycy86vc3TM1bRrfL8/s1600/dali-melting-clock.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">If you think about it, time is arbitrary. We all agree to synchronize our clocks and decide that this particular time will be noon in the Central Time Zone, or whatever. Just so that we can all be on time to appointments. Or rather, so that everyone else can be on time and I can be five to ten minutes late.</div><br />
With that in mind, I've decided that our house will remain on Daylight Savings Time. I'm sick of just blindly following along someone elses' rules. I mean, just because some master clock decrees that it is only 8:15 p.m. right now, doesn't mean I have to agree. It sure doesn't <i>feel</i> like 8:15. I'm starting to get a little sleepy, I just got my oldest son off to bed, remarking at how very <i>late</i> he got to stay up tonight, and it's been dark for at least three hours. Sure feels like 9:15 to me. So, 9:15 it is.<br />
<br />
This whole mind bending exercise began last night, because Mr. Busy had to get up this morning for a 6:00 a.m. flight. I told him not to forget to change the clocks, and he told me he didn't want to change the clocks because he didn't want to get up at 3:45 a.m. and leave the house at 4:00 a.m. and catch a 6:00 a.m. flight. He said he would much rather get up at 4:45 a.m. and leave the house at 5:00 a.m. and catch a 7:00 flight, so that's what he was going to do. He had a point. Sure, 4:45 a.m. is early, but it's somehow more palatable than 3:45. All he had to do was leave the clocks the same and pretend his flight was at seven.<br />
<br />
When one of the kids got up at 5:45 (according to the bedside clock) that clinched it for me. If my children are going to continue to insist on waking up around 6:00 a.m., there's no way I'm going to start calling it 5:00 a.m. That is way too depressing. <br />
<br />
Things might get a little tricky somewhere down the road, like when my 8-year-old clues in that the time on the computer and television and everywhere else we go is different than the time on our stove. And I'll need to make a note of the "Ruth Standard Time" for all of our appointments. (I'm already patting myself on the back that next Saturday's 9:00 a.m. soccer game just became a 10:00 RST game.) Evening yoga will now be from 6:30 to 7:30 p.m. RST, which is pretty late for the kiddos, but hey, maybe I can make it to morning yoga, now that it won't be quite so early: 10:00 RST rather than the usual 9:00 a.m.<br />
<br />
Now, if at some point my kids start sleeping in a little, then hey, I'm willing to make the shift. But until then I'm sticking with my plan. Speaking of which, boy, I sure am getting sleepy. I don't know what time it is wherever you are, but in this house it's 9:40, which means it's getting awfully close to my bedtime. Good night.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-43868618472817249742010-11-03T10:00:00.000-07:002010-11-03T10:03:24.818-07:00The Worst Day of the Year, and the Best Idea EverOkay, so maybe it wasn't the Worst Day of the Year.<br />
<br />
Nope. I'm pretty sure it was.<br />
<br />
The day after Halloween.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I like Halloween. As a holiday it cracks me up. Name one other day of the year when you would instruct your children to go up to strangers' doors and demand a treat. And those candy manufacturers have quite the racket going. We all go out and buy bags full of the stuff, then try to pawn it off on our neighbors just to get it out of our own house. Those of us with kids have to buy or make costumes, decorate jack-o-lanterns, and purchase candy to pass out. Meanwhile we're walking around with our own kids, collecting everyone else's candy. It's goofy.<br />
<br />
The day <i>after</i> Halloween, I don't like so much. Halloween night there's the candy, the excitement, the staying up late. The next morning there's more candy. This year the combination added up to some very wild kids. I mean they were WILD. My kids are normally...eh...shall we say...energetic, and I'm used to a higher-than-average degree of rowdiness. But that day, I might as well have given them each a Red Bull. They were bouncing off the walls. They wouldn't listen, wouldn't calm down, and wouldn't stop fighting with each other. All day.<br />
<br />
A few years ago I tried an experiment I'd heard about somewhere. I told my boys they could eat all the candy they wanted the night of Halloween, then I was getting rid of all the rest. I guess some kids can't eat that much candy before they start to feel sick. Mine, it turned out, could put away quite a lot of candy in one sitting.<br />
<br />
So, that was a bad idea.<br />
<br />
But you know what's a really good idea? Possibly the Best Idea Ever?<br />
<br />
A candy buyback sponsored by our local pediatric dentist. The kids happily gave up most of their candy in exchange for some cash, I got the junk out of my house, and the candy goes to the troops.<br />
<br />
Although I wonder if we are doing the troops any favors, loading them up with sugar. Probably we should send our soldiers some whole grains, and ship the Reese's Cups and Sweet Tarts to our enemies.<br />
<br />
But, whatever. All I know is, it's out of my house. (Except for the Twizzlers hidden on top shelf of my closet. Shhhhhhhh.)Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-3690079495125560282010-10-31T18:22:00.000-07:002010-10-31T18:24:17.553-07:00I'm gonna finish me a second draft<b>"I don't wait for moods. You accomplish nothing if you do that. Your mind must know it has got to get down to work."</b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pearl_S._Buck"><i><b>-Pearl S. Buck, writer (1892-1973)</b></i></a></div><br />
It's been a year now since I first started writing a novel.<br />
<br />
I don't know if it's this milestone, or if it's the quote above that caught my eye recently, or if it's the crisp fall air, or maybe it's just the excessive caffeine I consumed today at Starbucks (what the heck do they put in their Pike Place Roast? I feel like my eyes are bugging out of my head). Anyway, <i>something</i> has certainly lit a fire under me. It's time to wrap this thing up.<br />
<br />
I have a goal. I have a plan. And if all goes well, I will be finishing my second draft by mid-February. That might seem like a long time, but if you've ever attempted to write a novel, you know that one sentence can easily take a week or more.<br />
<br />
Right now my manuscript is full of brackets. Inside the brackets are things like this: [improve this convo]; [take out some of this dialogue]; [describe his actions]; [make this better]; [transition]<br />
<br />
Now, it is easy enough to to write [describe his actions], but it is much, much more difficult to actually <i>describe his actions</i>. But I'm at that point now. I need to sit down, start punching keys, and not get up until I have described his actions, or taken out some of the dialogue, or made it better (whatever that means).<br />
<br />
My story has 33 chapters, and I'm almost at the end of the third chapter now. If I can finish chapter 3 by tonight, then I'll have ten chapters to complete per month, November through January, with part of February left for final editing. Then it's off to some new readers for feedback.<br />
<br />
This means I'm going to have to write every day, at least a little bit. I'll have to focus. I'll have to tell my mind that it has got to get down to work. Wish me luck. My mind prefers to play.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-9841759440573461952010-10-27T11:53:00.000-07:002010-10-27T11:53:06.290-07:00Math story problem<b>Question:</b><br />
<br />
Larry, Moe and Curly normally fall asleep somewhere between 7:30 and 8:30 p.m. and wake up between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m.<br />
<br />
One night they take a late flight home, and on the airplane they sleep for 20 minutes, 1 1/2 hours, and 2 hours, respectively. At the end of the flight they are awakened, then they shuffle dazedly through the airport while their parents carry all seven bags. On the 30 minute drive home Larry and Moe stay awake but Curly falls asleep. Back at home, they play for 20 minutes before going to bed at 11 p.m.<br />
<br />
At what time will they wake up the following morning?<br />
<br />
<b>Answer:</b><br />
<br />
5:15 a.m.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-58376374882485954482010-10-12T22:41:00.000-07:002010-10-12T22:41:42.224-07:00That funky smell......for those of you who might be interested, was a dish rag hidden under some dirty pots and pans in the kitchen sink.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-7299683026113289892010-10-08T16:15:00.000-07:002010-10-12T22:43:11.699-07:00Google this<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I've mentioned before how the internet is now my answer to everything. And it is truly helpful, when I want to know what a bat's ears look like (They look like this:)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgct8_VkNeZtjJLSHTWykQPqfR0ugKdjoN8voJRpezkxrJ246bGGjZ9pu6bzFp5K8PxMh6KaC09xWLCDcZIdaaVe1qf50eEOZET7EcHnvqvzG_hhhOYAbf_0iSwuqU-sCnLc11dvEQB7RJd/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgct8_VkNeZtjJLSHTWykQPqfR0ugKdjoN8voJRpezkxrJ246bGGjZ9pu6bzFp5K8PxMh6KaC09xWLCDcZIdaaVe1qf50eEOZET7EcHnvqvzG_hhhOYAbf_0iSwuqU-sCnLc11dvEQB7RJd/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Or when I need to look up the capital of Peru (It's Lima).<br />
<br />
The only trouble is, most the answers I really, truly need can't be found online.<br />
<br />
Or can they?<br />
<br />
I thought I would try. First I googled "<a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=what+is+that+funky+smell+in+my+house&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8">What is that funky smell in my house?</a>"<br />
<br />
The internet didn't tell me, but I did have a good laugh at some of the results, for instance the person who posted on Yahoo Answers this question: "<a href="http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20081110222612AAe1yGq">Are guys bedrooms suppose to smell funky?</a>" I find it hilarious that not only did someone ask, but also that <i>fourteen people</i> took the time to answer it.<br />
<br />
Next, I tried googling this mysterious puzzler: "<a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=what+happened+to+the+chocolate+bar+I+hid+in+the+cupboard&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8">What happened to to the chocolate bar I hid in the cupboard?</a>"<br />
<br />
Nothing helpful there.<br />
<br />
Finally I searched for the answer to this problem I've been pondering for months: "<a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=how+come+all+three+of+my+kids+are+never+happy+at+the+same+time&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8">How come all three of my kids are never happy at the same time?</a>"<br />
<br />
Again, nothing helpful, and--strangely, I thought--about half of the results were something about McDonald's Happy Meals.<br />
<br />
Could be my fault. I don't know, perhaps my searches have too many words.<br />
<br />
Or maybe, just maybe, the internet does <i>not</i> have all the answers. For some reason I am kind of comforted by this fact, knowing there still remains an element of mystery in the world.<br />
<br />
I would, however, love to know what that funky smell is.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-56746330047781043572010-09-23T16:08:00.000-07:002010-09-24T21:32:07.616-07:00Big day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X7g9WZlLC9kbiznVxF93xUm0-CEnB76ONaG5Kr8ylt8O8Eld3oc3b24sZaXy59RXN4UTalp9Q7glGQLGKVOEq7XFXEbOcXE6xla1kNQIvmja-K0AJO-ELsMTQfLPg_DYHCGK_bLac6rj/s1600/LEGO_7669_PIC_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X7g9WZlLC9kbiznVxF93xUm0-CEnB76ONaG5Kr8ylt8O8Eld3oc3b24sZaXy59RXN4UTalp9Q7glGQLGKVOEq7XFXEbOcXE6xla1kNQIvmja-K0AJO-ELsMTQfLPg_DYHCGK_bLac6rj/s200/LEGO_7669_PIC_3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>It's funny, what constitutes an exceptional, stupendous, out-of-this-world day around here.<br />
<br />
For instance, when we found Lego Anakin. Now that was the most exciting day we've had in a while at our house.<br />
<br />
Lego Anakin (that's Darth Vader, before he turned to the dark side, for those of you not up on your Star Wars trivia) was missing for months. Everybody had a story about when and where they last saw him. All clues led to the closet area of the office/workout/television/storage room. A lot of boxes come and go from the office/workout/television/storage room, which did not bode well for Anakin. Since we had looked and looked with no success, I figured he had fallen into an empty box and been shipped off to the recycling plant. Sorry, even the Force won't help you there, buddy.<br />
<br />
But a few days ago I was digging around in the cracks of the dining room chairs (one of my favorite activities, I assure you) and I found not one, but two Lego light saber blades. Now, why I do cruel things to myself like purchase Lego Star Wars characters with tiny Lego weapons is another subject altogether, but the fact is, the mood was like Christmas! It turns out, they've been looking for the green light saber blade forever! And could I find the purple one? Because that one has been missing forever, too. And, now that we're looking for Lego Star Wars toys, what do you suppose ever became of Anakin?<br />
<br />
Since I was kind of on a roll, I decided to go into the office/workout/television/storage room and try to get to the bottom of this mystery. That's when it hit me. The only unexplored terrain, the frontier, if you will, of this room: Inside the love seat.<br />
<br />
The love seat is black leather, with one side that reclines (which I've never understood and only promotes jealousy in the person stuck with the non-reclining side--why, IKEA, why?) and inside there, under the reclining side, is a vast wasteland of whatever has slipped through the cracks.<br />
<br />
Armed with only a flashlight and a small dust broom, I went where no man or woman had gone before, and here is what I found:<br />
<br />
4 Lego bricks<br />
2 forks<br />
1 Star Wars gun<br />
2 Pokemon cards<br />
8 game pieces<br />
3 puzzle pieces<br />
5 crayons<br />
4 marbles<br />
$1.26 in change<br />
Thousands of crumbs, Cheerios, scraps of paper, and various other trash<br />
<br />
and...<br />
<br />
Lego Anakin!<br />
<br />
and...<br />
<br />
the purple Lego light saber blade!<br />
<br />
We shouted. We hugged. We cheered. We jumped up and down. It was a major celebration.<br />
<br />
Stupendous.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-50428102608900147312010-09-18T20:53:00.000-07:002010-09-18T21:10:31.932-07:00...and speaking of soccer...So, the other day, after watching Moe's soccer practice and noticing that he never seemed to be necessarily paying a whole lot of attention to anything that was going on, I asked him if he knew what the goal of playing soccer is.<br /><br />He thought about it a moment and then responded: "Actually, no."<br /><br />(Side note--All of my kids say "actually" a lot, and it has been brought to my attention that I say it quite a bit myself. Actually, I never noticed before I had three mimics following me around all the time.)<br /><br />Larry--experienced soccer player that he is, was quick to chime in with: "It's to have fun!"<br /><br />My heart swelled with pride. But, I was looking for more of a textbook answer. "I mean, what is the object of the game. What are you trying to do when you play soccer?"<br /><br />"Um," Moe said, "kick the ball?"<br /><br />"Right," I replied. "And where are you supposed to kick the ball?"<br /><br />"To the goalie," he said.<br /><br />So close.<br /><br />He also called his shin guards "lifeguards" today. How adorable is that?<br /><br />I truly don't understand how some parents can be so intense. To me, watching a bunch of oblivious kindergarteners chasing the ball around a soccer field is one of the pure and fleeting joys of parenthood.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-48002967214898362942010-09-18T12:41:00.000-07:002010-09-18T13:02:06.509-07:00HustleToday has been a Hustle day.<br /><br />Most of our days contain a certain amount of Hustle. I think it's safe to say we don't Hustle as much as most families. But occasionally we have to Hustle somewhere.<br /><br />Today, however, has been chock full of Hustle.<br /><br />First it was Hustle to the 9:00 soccer game. Hustle hustle hustle Moe! No, the object is not to tackle the other players. You're thinking of that <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> kind of football. Oh, it's also not to wander aimlessly around the field doing that thing with your finger where you're pretending to shoot lasers. The ball's over there! Hustle!<br /><br />The moment that game ended we Hustled back to our car and across town to another soccer field for the 10:15 game. Hustle Larry! The game's about to start! Hustle hustle hustle! Hustle, Moe and Curly, so we can watch the game!<br /><br />Oh, did I mention Mr. Busy is in Vegas this weekend? And that we were in charge of bringing snacks for after the game?<br /><br />Now, finally, a break from the Hustle. We're back at home for a couple of Hustle-free hours.<br /><br />Then it's time to Hustle over to another park for team photos.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-75119627315927455252010-08-31T10:00:00.000-07:002010-08-31T10:58:21.534-07:00Mommy's little (driving) helpersI always hoped my children would be self-confident, but lately I've been thinking we may have instilled a little TOO much confidence in them.<br /><br />Because they are absolutely the WORST backseat drivers you've ever seen.<br /><br />I should take that back. My middle child, Moe, shows no interest in my driving whatsoever, although he does like to roll his window up and down if I don't keep the lock on.<br /><br />It's Larry and Curly who busy themselves telling me how to drive.*<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Larry:</span> [from the third-row seat] Mom! You're going over the speed limit.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> [checking speedometer and slowing down] No, I'm not. The speed limit is 45 here and I'm going 45.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Larry:</span> No, it's not. It's 35 here.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I drive on this road every day. It's 45.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Larry: </span>I don't think so. Anyway, you were going 50.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Nah. The speedometer just looks different from your angle.<br /><br />Then there is my 3-year-old daughter, who, if she retains even half of her current confidence, will someday rule the world. If you should happen to meet her, be sure to get on her good side. Before we go anywhere, Curly likes to draw a "map" on a piece of scrap paper, then she shouts out directions along the way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Curly: </span>[pointing to the left] Turn right!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I have to go straight.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Curly:</span> No! The map says we have to turn!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I think I know how to get to the grocery store, thanks.<br /><br />Besides directions, Curly is also in charge of driver safety.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Curly:</span> Mom, why aren't you holding on to the wheel with both hands?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I'm just reckless like that. I live on the edge.<br /><br />I have to admit, Curly has turned me into a more vigilant driver, because I've had to learn to concentrate and ignore her insistent directions. For instance:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Curly:</span> Go, Mom! The light's green! Go!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> [Resisting impulse to step on the gas] Thanks for your help, honey, but that green light is for the people going<span style="font-style: italic;"> the other way</span>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* For those of you just joining us, No, we did not really name our children Larry, Moe, and Curly. Those are just their blog names. Although, wouldn't that have been super cool? But I didn't know I was going to end up with three kids. People having triplets, take note.</span>Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-46315284031083698712010-08-28T22:28:00.001-07:002010-08-28T22:41:40.639-07:00The sound of silenceI'm spending the weekend at a hotel close to home, having a little personal writing retreat. It's pleasant, yet eerily quiet, to be alone in a hotel room.<br /><br />My pillows have all stayed on the bed instead of being used in an epic pillow fight. There are no crayons on the table or Cheez-It crumbs on the floor. This is all very nice, just a little hard to adjust to. But the <span style="font-style: italic;">quiet</span>...I have to play music during the day, and run the air conditioner fan at night, just to cover up the quiet.<br /><br />Luckily, the people in the rooms on either side of me have kids. So this morning while I was trying to sleep in, I awoke to the sound of children fighting. Ahhh...just like home. Only, I didn't have to deal with it. I just went back to sleep.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-58565280060166836442010-08-25T19:56:00.001-07:002010-08-25T19:59:46.784-07:00How hot is it?It's so hot, I'm considering opening up the fridge and freezer to help cool off the house.<br /><br />Got up to 108 today, and we're sitting at 85 inside. My neighbor's A/C unit is working, I can hear it humming. Ours continues to do nothing, although it did kick in last night once it got cool enough outside.<br /><br />Tomorrow morning I'm planning to crank that puppy down to 60 and get the house as cool as possible in preparation for the next A/C strike.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-52209473143482735162010-08-24T12:14:00.000-07:002010-08-24T12:34:39.807-07:00How hot was it?It was so hot, our air conditioner went on strike.<br /><br />I didn't even know our air conditioner was union until recently, when we had this little discussion:<br /><br />Me: Um, excuse me, A/C?<br /><br />A/C: [just sitting there] Yeah, what's up?<br /><br />Me: Well, I was just wondering...see, I set the thermostat at 73...but it says the temperature is 81...<br /><br />A/C: [shrugs] Oh really?<br /><br />Me: Yeah. And so...well, I was just curious...were you thinking about kicking in anytime soon?<br /><br />A/C: [gets riled up] Are you kidding me? It's like a hundred degrees out here! Do you have any idea how hard I've been working these last couple of days? Did you even <span style="font-style: italic;">read</span> my contract?<br /><br />Me: Contract?<br /><br />A/C: My next shift starts at 2 a.m.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-59582190783264226402010-08-19T09:57:00.000-07:002010-08-19T14:06:06.655-07:00It's our answer to everythingI was in the car with the kids, and we were talking about bats' ears. How we got on the subject of bats' ears is beyond me, but it probably started with something about Batman.<br /><br />Anyway, none of us could think exactly what bats' ears look like, or how big they were.<br /><br />Then my daughter, who is three, said, "We can just look it up on the Internet when we get home."Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-85708902649678210312010-08-13T12:20:00.000-07:002010-08-13T12:41:16.211-07:00My Manuscript: that place where my Brilliant Thoughts go to dieProbably anyone who has ever attempted to write more than a sentence has experienced this:<br /><br />You have these images in your head, accompanied by the exact perfect words to describe the scene. But the moment you pick up a pen or flip open your laptop, half of the words have suddenly disappeared, leaving you with incomplete thoughts, weak prose, and none of the magic you experienced in your brain just a few short minutes ago. And you <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> there was so much more, but you can't recover any of your former brilliance. It's gone.<br /><br />And this is probably why most of us have never completed a novel.<br /><br />My friend Cristina asked me the other day if I think I will ever be able to <span style="font-style: italic;">let</span> my book be Finished. Which is a valid question, because: a) I like working on it a lot, and b) It's never going to be perfect, which is disappointing, because I would like for it to be perfect.<br /><br />However, I do think there will come a time when I can let it go, say farewell, I'm done. Partly because I have lots of other things I want to work on. And also because, as much as I love my characters, to the point that they are almost real to me--The other day I actually thought to myself, "Hmm...I wonder how Jaime's holding up these days"-- sometimes I'm just a little bit sick of all their DRAMA. (They can't help it, of course, drama kind of comes with the territory of being in a novel.)<br /><br />Every day it's something new that surfaces. I'm just trying to do some writing here, turning those half thoughts into proper sentences, never mind brilliance. And then all of a sudden I realize, <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, he was always trying to earn his father's love and respect. Of course. </span><br /><br />And I'm like, I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">need</span> this right now. I have <span style="font-style: italic;">writing</span> to do.<br /><br />It's a long process.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-25851035620814793692010-08-02T15:54:00.000-07:002010-08-02T16:51:52.957-07:00An interesting dayIt was the x-ray technician who informed me that I was not pregnant, although only after I made a point to ask.<br /><br />I wouldn't have even gone to the doctor, but I think what pushed me over the edge was that I peed my pants.<br /><br />I contemplated having a fourth child, I stuck my bra in my laptop bag, and then I contemplated my own death.<br /><br />Like the title says, it's been an interesting day.<br /><br />When I dropped the kids off at the "drop-in day care" (a.k.a. "absolutely the most wonderful business idea EVER"), I wasn't planning to spend my "me" time at the Urgent Care clinic. I was going to write. Because that's what I do, I drop my kids off and then I go somewhere and write.<br /><br />But first, I sometimes have to run an errand or two. Today's errand was to check out my options for getting a new cell phone. I went to the AT&T store and put my name in and started browsing, but before long I started coughing. I've had this cough for about a week, and it's gotten worse, and kind of wheezy, and once I start I can't stop.<br /><br />I didn't want to have a big wheezy, mucous-y, obnoxious coughing fit right there in the AT&T store--and I doubt any of the other customers wanted that either--so I left, still coughing, and walked to my car, still coughing. It was on the walk to the car that I coughed so hard and so uncontrollably that I peed my pants.<br /><br />On my way home to change, I decided I should go to the doctor, because in a couple days my friend Cristina is flying out and we are going to drive down to Ventura and celebrate her birthday. And I don't want to be the dope that refused to go to the doctor and then ends up in the hospital right when they are supposed to be sitting on the beach.<br /><br />So I went to the Urgent Care, where the doctor listened to my breathing and decided to do a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia. Before doing an x-ray he asked if there was any chance I was pregnant. This should be a no-brainer, since my husband had a vasectomy a few years ago. But <span style="font-style: italic;">somebody</span> never went to get checked to be absolutely sure the vasectomy worked. Since so much time has passed, we feel pretty confident and I always tell him don't worry about it. But any time my body starts acting goofy I start to wonder...and for nearly a week I have been wondering... Anyway, long story short, I wasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">sure</span>.<br /><br />So I peed in a cup.<br /><br />Then the doctor came in and asked if I was wearing a bra. I nearly peed my pants again, at the thought of going out in public without wearing a bra. After having three kids, I mean, seriously.<br /><br />But the point was, if I was wearing an underwire bra (I was), I would need to take it off. Since we seemed to be moving forward with the x-rays, I figured I must not be pregnant. But on the other hand, he didn't specifically <span style="font-style: italic;">say</span> that. I was kind of thinking that as soon as they found out the results, a nurse should have come running down the hall and let me know right away. Anyway the doctor left, and I put my bra in my laptop bag, because I didn't want to leave it just lying around, you know?<br /><br />And then, I was sitting there alone in the examination room, hunched over, bra-less, wondering if it was for sure that I wasn't going to have to start all over with a new precious miracle of life that makes a lot of noise and needs you all the time and can't have a conversation. I pondered that for a moment. Luckily I had a good book with me, so then I read for a while.<br /><br />There was a knock on the door. It was the x-ray technician, and we walked down the x-ray room, me all kind of hunched over and awkward, and I said to him, "So, I guess this means I'm not pregnant, huh?" And he said, "Oh, were we checking for that?" And he looked at my chart and said, "Nope, you're not pregnant." And I said, "Good to know."<br /><br />Then he did the x-rays, and told me to have a seat while he developed them. The doctor came in and we waited in awkward silence and then the technician came out and put the x-rays on one of those lights and they both looked at them and didn't say anything. For quite a while. I don't know much about what chest x-rays are supposed to look like, but it seemed to me that my lungs were completely black. And it also seemed to me that neither of them said anything for a very long time. And then the x-ray tech said, "You have a history of smoking or asthma?" And I said, "No, but I have seasonal allergies." And he said, "Do you have wheezing with that?" And I said, "Not really."<br /><br />And then they looked at the x-rays some more. (This is the part where I contemplated my own demise.)<br /><br />But then he said, "These x-rays look fine. Everything looks fine."<br /><br />And then the doctor told me I have something called "the common cold."<br /><br />And then he left and I put my bra on and then I came to Starbucks and wrote this.<br /><br />Now I have to go pick up the kids and I still haven't been able to work on my novel. I'm not sure I would be very productive anyway; I kind of have a headache, due to sinus congestion associated with the common cold.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-18046732804555669192010-07-23T10:36:00.000-07:002010-07-23T10:50:32.044-07:00Well, of course it is taking forever......it's a <span style="font-style: italic;">novel</span>, for crying out loud.<br /><br />This is what I have to keep reminding myself as I plug, plug, plug away.<br /><br />Speaking of which, I can hardly believe I am still plugging away on something I started back in November.<br /><br />People who don't know me well say: "You must be so driven/focused/organized."<br /><br />People who know me well say: "Really? You're still working on your novel? The <span style="font-style: italic;">same</span> novel? The one you started back in November? <span style="font-style: italic;">Really</span>? Huh."<br /><br />The other day I stole a moment between dinner and bath time and I was sitting on the bed with my laptop, type-type-typing away, and my husband said, "You are such a hard worker." (Pretty sure it's the first time in about 15 years of knowing each other that he has ever had the occasion to say this.)<br /><br />Truth is, I wouldn't be working this hard, wouldn't pour this much time into it, except I'm still having a blast working on it, thinking about it, making changes, making connections, putting the puzzle together. Plus, how fun is it to drop the kids off for a few hours and go sit at Starbucks with my soy latte and play with my fictional world.<br /><br />More fun than cleaning the entire house only to have it--by the very next day--look exactly like when I started, I'll tell you that. (My hard-working-ness has never carried over to the housework. The futility of it is kind of depressing to me.)<br /><br />So, yeah, it's taking forever, but I'm feeling pretty darn good about it.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-19927113134767140282010-07-01T16:39:00.000-07:002010-07-05T22:09:23.027-07:00Thank you, son, for vomiting all over the couchNo, really, I mean it.<br /><br />Before I just gave up and burned the disgusting thing, I figured I might as well get an estimate for a professional cleaning. The first person I called came over within the hour and quoted me a very reasonable price.<br /><br />While he was here, I also had him take a look at some high traffic areas of our carpet (and by "high traffic" I mean "filthy.") We've been here two years, and the beige carpet has gotten pretty bad in that time, what with three kids, two adults, and two dogs, one of which has some passive aggressive behavior issues (and by "passive aggressive behavior issues" I mean "sometimes if we leave the house and forget to put her in the kennel she pees on the floor.")<br /><br />Never have I been so giddy about anything cleaning-related, but you have to understand that the sofa was REALLY, REALLY, REALLY bad. I mean, REALLY bad. The carpet was just a bonus, but when I saw how clean it was I got unreasonably excited about that, too.<br /><br />Who knew that someone puking on my furniture could make me so deliriously happy?Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-50077395996758310812010-07-01T11:09:00.000-07:002010-07-01T11:32:03.277-07:00Someday it will be MY turn to embarrass HERHere is a question that no one likes to be asked: "Are you a girl?"<br /><br />It's not something I ever thought about before, not until my 3-year-old daughter started asking, well, pretty much everyone.<br /><br />Women don't like it because, <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, isn't it obvious I'm a girl? What are you saying?</span><br /><br />Men don't like it because, <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, isn't it obvious I'm NOT a girl? What are you saying?</span><br /><br />What all of these innocent, insulted people don't understand, and what I try so feebly to explain ("Really, she asks <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span> that question...") is that my daughter still doesn't get what exactly a "girl" is. She only asks because she's trying to find out who's on her team. She knows I'm a girl and she's a girl and one of our dogs is a girl, while her brothers and dad and the other dog aren't girls. But other than that she can't seem to figure out who's who. So she simply asks.<br /><br />Innocence. It's so cute. Except when it's not.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-86235752337227532832010-06-29T20:17:00.000-07:002010-06-29T20:42:41.165-07:00Those with weak stomachs are advised not to read the following postThe kids and I were sick all winter long, and even well into spring, but was that enough to keep the viruses of the world happy? Noooooooooooooooooo.<br /><br />Now we are visited by the nastiest of nasty viruses, the stomach flu.<br /><br />Did you know the stomach flu is not even technically the flu? What we call the stomach flu is actually called gastroenteritis.<br /><br />But whatever you call it, my family has it, and, well, things are not pretty around here.<br /><br />With his usual impeccable timing, my husband is away on business this week. With no one to stay home with the kids, I can't even go to the store. Luckily, no one wants to eat very much right now, so our groceries are stretching a lot further than normal.<br /><br />Each kid had their day, from youngest to oldest. My daughter kept things nice and convenient by refusing to eat all morning before she started throwing up repeatedly, and she did a fine job of keeping it off the carpet and furniture. Well done, daughter. She was better and eating again before bed, and the whole next day everyone was fine, so I figured we'd seen the worst of it.<br /><br />Not so. The following day, my son ate a huge breakfast, then decided he didn't feel so good and he wanted to lie down on the couch. Next thing I knew his breakfast was all over the couch. I'll be honest, I still haven't completely cleaned that up, and I have no idea how I possibly could. Either I've got to burn that thing or I'm hiring a professional to clean it. But right now I don't have the energy to do either one, so we're just not using the couch.<br /><br />The next day everyone was a little weak, but fine overall. I was hoping it was just their young, less developed systems that couldn't handle the bug. But then it was my oldest son's turn. His stomach was not convenient about it at all, choosing midnight as the ideal time to rid itself of all that pesky food he had for dinner. He ended up in my bed, retching throughout the night, where he mostly managed to hit the trash can. His pukiness lasted most of the day today, but by evening he was ready for some saltines.<br /><br />I had a lot of plans for this week, all foregone. Instead I have kept busy cleaning, disinfecting, laundering, and lining trashcans with plastic bags.<br /><br />And now, apparently it is my turn. It may just be that days of dealing with vomit has finally gotten to me, both psychologically and because, let's face it, it's awfully hard to clean up puke for three days without being exposed to the germs yourself. Anyway, I have spent the afternoon and evening in a battle of wills with my body, trying to convince it that it does not want to throw up. (Look, I know this is gross, but honestly I could be a lot more descriptive if I wanted to. And, you were warned.)<br /><br />So far I am winning. But if my kids are any indication, I might be fighting a losing battle here. So that's my story about the stupid viruses. I have to stop now, because writing about all of this is making me even more queasy.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7630132554196597332.post-63833197131045141012010-06-27T10:40:00.000-07:002010-06-27T10:59:12.033-07:00One of those postsYou know those blog posts when the writer just talks about how she hasn't blogged in a while, and how she's really sorry, but she's just been busy with other things, and she's going to try harder to write more often, but sometimes she just isn't sure what to say, while other times she has about a dozen ideas but can't decide which one to write about so she doesn't write anything?<br /><br />Kind of pointless, really, right?<br /><br />So, I'm totally not going to write anything like that.Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012743668167432396noreply@blogger.com0