Conversation with my youngest daughter yesterday:

Abby: “Mama…I’m old.”

Me: “You’re old?”

Abby: : “Yeah.”

Me: : “How old are you?”

Abby: : “Two.”

Me: : “You’re two? Is that old?”

Abby: : “Yeah…I’m two. I’m really old, mom.”

I must be ancient if two is the new old.

I don’t know about y’all…but something about 70 degree weather after months of rain makes me want to do one of two things – either work in my yard or clean the ever-livin’ daylights out of my house.

There’s something to be said about sunshine…it’s good for the body and spirit, yes. But it’s also good for bringing out into the open those graham cracker crumbs that have been breeding new life forms in the shadowy corner of your living room by the bookshelf for the last 5 months. So, today I opt for a little spring cleaning — declaring a war of sorts on anything that gets in my way..

My first mission is the kids room to de-clutter and rid it of the various and sundry devices that cause this mama to scream out in pain during the middle of the night as I’m tiptoeing in to take the toddler to the potty because she’s sitting up in bed, afraid to walk the minefield that has become her room. Why get out of bed when you can holler for mama and she’ll take the proverbial bullets for you? I have the war wounds to prove it, too. Just look at the bottoms of my feet and you’ll see any number of stone bruises I sport on a weekly basis as I’m doing Mom patrol.

Next, I simply MUST go through the homeschooling cabinet. How many papers with nothing but a bunch of toddler scribbling must you keep? Is there a rule that says? 10? 20? all of them? Rest assured, if my toddlers can tell me what the picture is of, I will keep it and write on the back what it is…however, that being said? There are more “drawings” (and I use that term loosely) than you can shake a stick at and my goal is to binder (is that a word if used in this context?) them all up into one easy to preview place. Then, in about 25 years, when they have kids? I’ll have the ammunition to shoot it straight with them about “art” and how it’s all in the eye of the beholder…it’s all about conceptualization, baby.

And finally? Those holey and stained t-shirts of my husband’s that are at the bottom of his drawer and THINK they are hiding out from me? I’m taking them captive…and there are no rules. I do NOT have to hold them for ransom – because there is no returning them to their homeland. Ever. Kiss ’em goodbye, amigos…’cause they’re on their way to a new and better place.

So watch out, dustbunnies…I’m kicking some cleaning bootie and not taking names today. Flee, flee little crumbs…or else I’ll suck you up into my highpowered Oreck vacuum cleaner. But seriously, now…I must get dressed for the battlefield and get the cleaning war on…tell my mama I loved her.

Until next time…

~~Your feet stick to the kitchen floor…..and you don’t care.
~~When the kids are fighting, you threaten to lock them in a room together and not let them out until someone’s bleeding.
~~You can’t find your cordless phone, so you ask a friend to call you, and you run around the house madly, following the sound until you locate the phone downstairs in the laundry basket.
~~You spend an entire week wearing sweats.
~~Your idea of a good day is making it through without a child leaking bodily fluids on you.
~~Popsicles become a food staple.
~~Your favorite television show is a cartoon.
~~Peanut butter and jelly is eaten at least in one meal a day.
~~You’re willing to kiss your child’s boo-boo, regardless of where it is.
~~Your baby’s pacifier falls on the floor and you give it back to her, after you suck the dirt off of it because you’re too busy to wash it off.
~~Your kids make jokes about farting, burping, pooping, etc. and you think it’s funny.
~~You’re so desperate for adult conversation that you spill your guts to the telemarketer that calls and HE hangs up on YOU!
~~Spit is your number one cleaning agent.
~~You’re up each night until 10 PM vacuuming, dusting, wiping, washing, drying, loading, unloading, shopping, cooking, driving, flushing, ironing, sweeping, picking up, changing sheets, changing diapers, bathing, helping with homework, paying bills, budgeting, clipping coupons, folding clothes, putting to bed, dragging out of bed, brushing, chasing, buckling, feeding (them, not you), PLUS swinging, playing baseball, bike riding, pushing trucks, cuddling dolls, roller balding, basketball, football, catch, bubbles, sprinklers, slides, nature walks, coloring, crafts, jumping rope, PLUS raking, trimming, planting, edging, mowing, gardening, painting, and walking the dog. You get up at 5:30 AM and you have no time to eat, sleep, drink or go to the bathroom, and yet…you still managed to gain 10 pounds.
~~In your bathroom there is toothpaste on the light fixtures, water all over the floor, a dog drinking out of the toilet and body hair forming a union to protest unsafe working conditions.
~~You buy cereal with marshmallows in it.
~~The closest you get to gourmet cooking is making rice crispies bars

Nothing new from me today. I bring you this delightfully humorous blog courtesy of DeeDee over at It Coulda Been Worse. It had me snorting my coffee…Enjoy!

With Valentines Day fast approaching, I think I’ve found the solution to every husband’s dilemma regarding what to get for the little woman. A Pocket Taser Stun Gun. It’s the perfect gift. In this day and age, we can never be too careful. So, girls, you might want to pass this tidbit along to your husbands. I know I will.

My friend Don, always looking for something special for his wife, gave me the idea, and even found the following testimonial for this most excellent gift idea.

Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Taser for their anniversary submitted this :

“Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety….
WAY TOO COOL!
Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I’d get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. Awesome!!!
Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Betty what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, right?!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a
second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.
Was I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.
All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, “no possible way!” What happened next is almost beyond description,but I’ll do my best…
I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, “don’t do it master,” reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!! I’m pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “do it again, do it again!”
Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative.
SON-OF-A-… that hurt like …..!!! A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still
twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom
lip weighed 88 lbs. I’m still looking for my testicles. I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return.”