Archive for July, 2006
-image-Pathetic
No, not Mr. Squirrel’s gift giving. He done good. Well, so far. Some of his gifts have not arrived yet. ahem. But, I’ll link to what he got me tomorrow. I should really go to bed now before I do something stupid.
Because do you know what’s pathetic (my blog? Yes, I know. Shut it.)? My alcohol tolerance. I ordered a mojito with dinner. And mind you, it was sta-RONG. I had to ask for more of the sweet stuff to be added in order to take sip #2, and I realize in some towns, that could get me kicked out of the bar, but my LORD woman bartender. Nasty. I should have asked for more mint and lime while I was at it. I worked on it though and by the time I got 1/4 of the way through, I was utterly buzzed…loud talking, inappropriate thinking (I’m going to go tell that jackass to get off his cellphone!), etc. I held it together though. I mean, I am 29 now. lol.
To all of you who sent me birthday well-wishes, THANK YOU so much. You helped make this a fantastic birthday. And to those of you who sent me gifts. Well, yeah. I heart you long time.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
9:31 pm |
-image-in case you missed
my subtle hints from yesterweeks, today is
MY BIRTHDAY!
Also known as: The Day That Jojo Decides That Morning Naps Are For Standing And Screaming.
And also: The Day When The Dishwasher Of Death Departs And Is Replaced By The Lovely And Demure Silver Goddess:
Out with the evil…
Gaping Hole of Promise
Welcome my sweet, sweet love.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
9:07 am |
-image-The H. Squirrel Short Stories of July 2006
Ok ok I feel as though some of you may feel mislead by my statement of yesterday that I would present all of the topics in one day. SORRY! No. Obviously that did not happen. Instead, I took a shower, ran errands like a crazylady hopped up on too much iced tea, and then had to pick up Jojo from…
DayCare: Gulp
Yeah. Jojo started daycare yesterday. After the initial disasterous results looking for daycare, I found an in-home (but state licensed) family daycare a few miles away, run by a man and his mother. M, the owner, loves the kids, and they love him. I feel ok about it. There are usually 4-5 toddlers, Jojo, and a 5 month old. That limits the amount of germs he comes into contact with, eases him into larger social settings and (can you tell I may have made a few pros/cons lists over the past few weeks) and is a lot less expensive than the large school-type settings.
After three days of dropping by the daycare to acclimate the Jo to it, yesterday, I abandoned left him there for 7 hours. That’s the longest I’ve been away from Jojo EVER. It was weird. Bad. Good. Weird. Once I finally left and started up my car, I noticed that I had been chanting “he’ll be ok he’ll be ok” over and over. That awakened me from my guilt-induced sad coma, and I snapped back to multi-tasking squirrel and mentally began listing off all the errands I had the opportunity to complete without having to load that ridiculously heavy “convenient” carseat in and out of the car whilst knocking my head on the Corolla. And run I did. Well, power walk. I was power walking alll over the area, ordering a cake for my friend’s baby shower, eating at Panera, returning the nipples that hate made (Jojo…not a fan of the Evenflo nipples.), and buying new running shoes (yet still only power walking in them). But lest you get the wrong image of me, please do not think of me like Harry and Jess in When Harry Met Sally when they’re all power-walking through the park, encased in spandex. I’m just saying I was fast. Like lightning.
Ok, back to my day when I abandoned poor little Jojo with strangers and another LOUD little boy. Not yelling boy. But well, he’s BOSSYBOY. And he’ll only be there to torment me on Thursdays. Yes, me, because he knows my name and put me to work building a foam highway. He told me if I didn’t do it right, he was going to fire me. Unfortunately, I do good work.
But back to MY son. My sweet, yummy baby.
It’s ok, mommy. I’ll be fine.
After my day of running errands was over, I headed back to the daycare to sit in on the rest of Jojo’s day. I was there a good 2 hours before the next parent. Oops. Whatever. Apparently he only cried before his naps and a little bit after I left. But not as hard as when we got there in the morning, and he was in M’s arms, and his face scrunched up and he reached for me. ME! Yay. It was sad yet glorious. He loves me. He really really loves me. And today I dropped him off again for more errand-running and house-cleaning (as we have MORE guests this weekend! Sweets and Poodle! Yay! All the way from the Twin Cities! And tonight– we’re seeing the Dixie Chicks! More exclamation points?!!!!).
I know this is a rather shallow and brief post for all that is daycare. I’m still sorting through my feelings. I’m second-guessing the daycare, my part-time position (not that it has started yet, mind you, but I had to start him so we could both get used to the change), and well, everything. The kids at the daycare are happy. They love the providers. They’re nice kids with nice parents. But when M and Jojo shut the front door today, and I looked back from the front stoop through the glass at Jojo, in M’s arms, I wanted to rip the door of its hinges, grab Jojo and run. Which is why I turned around, breathed, and headed to the car (chanting yet again “he’ll be ok he’ll be ok…). And I’ll be ok, too. Right?
New Story: Dishwasher of Death
Meet my dishwasher.
I hate this fucking thing. You probably figured that out from the picture though. As you may also be able to ascertain from its appearance, it is old. I dug out the manual today (provided by the estate of the man who died in our house previous to us moving in. I’m not sure of those details, which is probably a good thing). The manual provides two important points about said machine: it’s circa 1981, and it was, at that time, a high-end machine. I guess that is evident if it still “works” 25 years later. But still. What’s the fun if I can’t bitch and moan a little about a machine which tried to kill me. Twice.
Fairly soon after we moved in, the dishwasher stopped working. Although I’d lived for seven years post college without a dishwasher, when this one crashed, so did I. “Well, Mr. Squirrel, time to get a new dishwasher. Back to Home Depot we go!” Mr. Squirrel, with a face full of hope and determination declared, “oh we don’t need a new dishwasher. I’m going to fix it!” I said, “ahhh crap. Let’s just buy a new one.” But, as I’ve learned, I don’t win arguments with Mr. Squirrel because he’s cute and smart, and I get lost…in his eyes… a la Deborah Gibson. So, after tinkering with the innards of the old beast, Mr. Squirrel declared it “good as new. You just have to blah blah blah….” to start the damn thing. Check THIS out. When people see me do this, they think I’m joking. Do I LOOK like I’m laughing?
First, grab a Philips head screwdriver. And you might as well mix up a screwdriver cocktail while you’re at it. Place it in the screw (duh) under the latch thingy and unscrew. Set aside carefully, so the screw doesn’t fall onto the floor and roll away, making you venture downstairs to the spider-infested basement where you must search for a random screw on your husband’s workbench, which apparently, was in the path of Hurricane Katrina. 
Next, remove the (effin’) face plate thingy, exposing all sorts of stuff that makes the dishwasher work. Be careful not to touch anything that Mr. Squirrel hasn’t explicity explained.
This is one of the areas that Mr. Squirrel “fixed” using electrical tape. Please note the blackened (burn) marks on the metal doohickey. That’s from burning. Of some sort. I’m pretty sure that’s not good.
OK, so this ugly off-white thingy below? On the left? You have to push that over to the right to reset the silver buttons. Make sure you ONLY touch that… and not any random wires because you will receive a lovely jolt of electricity (we’ve both been jolted. Attempt on our lives, numero uno).
Then you have to remount (mount. heehee.) the faceplate thingy, screw the lever back on, and go.
Or So I Thought.
BECAUSE very early Sunday morning, while my innocent parents slept, I wandered downstairs at the loud request of my sweet baby Jojo to warm up a bottle. While it warmed, I noticed the dishwasher hadn’t run, so I went through the MacGyvering necessary to get semi-clean dishes. That’s when Mr. Squirrel loudly whispered down the stairs that Jojo had fallen back asleep, so the bottle was not necessary. I cleaned all that up, and headed back upstairs.
Fastforward 10 minutes, when I miraculously had fallen back asleep, but a certain 18.8 pound stinkeroo had awakened yet again. This time, Mr. Squirrel said he’d go downstairs to get the bottle. He then came back into the bedroom fairly soon after to report “the dishwasher is on fire.”
Dudes. All I can say is that I FLEW from the bed into the hallway, alert and ready to save Jojo. Mr. Squirrel, still bleary despite the “fire,” calmly said “you take care of Jojo, I’ll take care of the fire.” The fire, as it turns out, was smoke. But hello? Isn’t THAT what kills most people in typical fires? Apparently, I hadn’t closed the door all the way on the dishwasher, so the water just poured onto our floor (charming!) and the coils heated up nothing and started smoking from overheating. My husband claims this could not have started a “real” fire, but I don’t see what the next step could have otherwise been. I was LIVID. I know it was kind of my fault, but if we’d just gotten rid of this ancient piece of crapola years ago instead of risking our lives to prolong the half-assed cleaning power of this thing…well, actually, I’ve never been so angry in my life. All the adrenaline and fear kind of … exploded in an ugly mama bear of swearing, blaming (yes, I played the blame game. Not so much fun, that blame game), and I even threw a towel. At my husband. Poor Mr. Squirrel. But, being a human, I couldn’t really claw off his scalp.
But…my parents. Jojo. Us. Didn’t he realize that we seriously could have been hurt had Jojo (savior) not woke up for that bottle?
The NEW dishwasher is being delivered and installed on my birthday.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
7:54 am |
-image-And you want to be my latex salesman
Thanks to the gorgeous s&bd for suggesting this story first. I will follow with “Daycare. Gulp.” and “Dishwasher of Death…” unless I get distracted and forget (me? never!).
A few weeks ago, Mr. Squirrel and I got into an argument about how much I suck at chemistry. He claims I would excel at chemistry if I had the right teacher. What? Are you saying my 10th grade chemistry teacher, who infused every single lesson with fishing stories, thus forcing me to spend those 50 minutes catching up on my correspondence (”Heather. Oh my God, did you see what M is wearing today? So gross. I hate band. Why didn’t I quit? Mr. A is so mean. I think he’s just bitter he’s so hairy. He needs to shave that pelt. See ya after school. WBS. SSS.”), wasn’t the “right” teacher? And, since Mr. Squirrel is a chemist (and actually very good at explaining complex things in understandable terms), I dared him to teach me chemistry. His immediate response: “I should really teach you Dutch.”
Oh shit.
See, Mr. Squirrel is Dutch, and one Christmas past, my husband, with all good intentions, bought me an expensive “Learn Dutch!” computer kit. And so I tried, last summer, while I was pregnant and unemployed. It should have been called “Yeah right! Like you have time to learn this complex language when you’re old and bitter and can’t even remember to put on your underwear plus look: internet shopping! baby websites! celebrity gossip!” It didn’t go so well. But Mr. Squirrel is persistent, and he thinks he can teach me several key phrases before we head overseas to see his ginormous extended family in two months. Naturally, every family member with the exception of his two youngest cousins (who are 5) speak perfect English. So if I do manage to garble their native language and spit out something resembling Dutch, it’s met with a gorgeously fluent English response. And then I stutter back a now garbled and incoherent English response. It’s ugly, people. My husband looked so hopeful, though, I acquiesed, and tonight is our first lesson (if he remembers. Which, hello, I’m sure the Mets are playing, so maybe next week).
In the meantime… while my parents were here, my husband posted some long overdue photos of Jojo on our family website and in doing so, realized that he had ill-informed me of how to spell I LOVE JOJO on this tshirt. So I have a misspelled tshirt. That I’m proudly wearing all around town. Like an IDIOT. So, Mr. Squirrel sheepishly admitted his mistake, which is evident in his posted picture, where he PhotoShopped the offending “w” off of my chest. And this clown wants to teach ME Dutch? Seriously. Anyone wanna guess what one of my birthday gifts will should be?
BONUS OUT-O-ORDER STORY: Wanted: Screenplays
Lo siento, Julie, this story is not about the screendoor (which I’m planning on shopping for TODAY!). No, no no. This story segues nicely from the Dutch relatives mention above. So yes, we’re heading over to Holland in a couple of months for Mr. Squirrel’s grandmother’s 85th birthday. It’s a big ass family reunion on his father’s side, and it’s the perfect opportunity to introduce Jojo to everyone/scar him for life. Plus, his mom’s side of the family all lives in Amsterdam, so we’re also going to see all of them. And stay in his aunt’s amazing canal house. Yay. And booooooo.
What am I booing? Oh the fucking SKIT we have to put on for Oma’s birthday extravaganza. What? Have I fallen through some time warp and landed back at summer camp? I don’t “do” skits. I’m not a “skitter.” I don’t like to have to stand up in front of people and “skit” or “act” or “pretend.” I like to sit in the back and eat cake.
At least Mr. Squirrel informed me of this plan a couple months ahead of the event, so I can, in theory, plan my escape. Because come on now. Really? No thanks. But it’s a big thing in his family… on BOTH SIDES of his family. So maybe it’s just a Dutch thing? They had skits and songs at his parents’ wedding reception, and his mom had wanted skits and songs at our rehearsal dinner. They wisely settled on a slideshow complete with hideous pictures of yours truly from yesteryear (thanks mom for the *awesome* job picking out which mortifyingly ugly photos for them to use). Because in addition to not enjoying participating in such events, I don’t like to see other people put their skit on.
And I would THINK Mr. Squirrel would be behind me on this. I mean, we have to watch Jojo! He may fall in a canal if we’re not paying attention. But he’s serious. So. What are we to do? He suggested we could just take a song and rework the lyrics to be something about Oma and her birthday? But wouldn’t we need a song that is popular in Europe? Or one that Oma might know? Should I start researching Hasselhoff songs? I’m at a loss. This isn’t my thang. That’s why I need YOU, creative internet friends, to help. I’m sending out an SOS here. Screenplays, interpretive dance and mime choreography now being accepted. This has public humiliation written allll over it.
And because this is the same Oma who sent the WTF shirt from yesterday’s post… does that mean Jojo has to wear it? again?
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
8:45 am |
-image-Where Do I Start?
Woes withdrawal. You have been missed, my friends. I hope you are some day able to forgive me for the abandonment. But you must understand– my parents were in town.
Therefore, most of our days went a little something like this: play with Jojo, feed Jojo, change Jojo, take Jojo for a walk, watch golf (Dad) or the Mets (Mr. Squirrel), clean/organize/throw away our things when we’re not looking/suggest other things to clean/organize/throw away/do this despite daughter’s lackluster enthusiasm attempting to be a subtle “no”/suggest we go to Home Depot and get that new screen door/wonder aloud why daughter hasn’t picked out a screen door yet (Mom) and then rinse repeat on all activities Jojo-related. Me, what did I do? Ignore you, of course. And try to hide the fact that I have a blog, despite my father coming into the office and peering over my shoulder whenever I stole away for more than 1 minute to check my email/possibly post a short entry. It was a tad irritating. But overall, their visit went really well, and I was only an asshole one or two times. That, my friends, is success.
I don’t know WHERE to begin with all that went on, so I’m leaving it up to you, TxMom style. I’ll give you a list of topics, and you let me know the order you want to hear them in the Comments section:
a. Birthday Extravaganza (official date, less than a week away!), but unofficial startdate of July 19!
b. Daycare. Gulp.
c. Dishwasher of Death
d. The Teflon Teenager
e. Wanted: Screenplays
f. And you want to be my latex salesman…
g. Healthcare — a tale of irony. And mold.
In the meantime, I’ll start with two stories.
Story Numero Uno: Jojo’s New Shirt (alternative title: What the F, Oma?)
Mr. Squirrel’s grandma (Oma) sent Jojo this shirt. It’s a tad too big for him, and although there’s a hint of a smile on his cute little face, he loathed it. He tried to rip it off a la those sexy Chippendale dancers. It looks normal (albeit HUGE) from the front, right?
WELL not so much from the back. Because, ya see, Oma lives in Europe, so of course they have to take a perfectly fine oxford shirt and silkscreen some nonsensical english on the back of it.
Here’s what it says:
KEEP AWAY FROM THE BIG STAR.
COMING SOON THE BIG STAR.
FOREVER FAMOUS.
WATCH OUT! THIS IS THE CREW
Who is the crew? And why no punctuation? You’ve already used the iron-on and embroidery in four different colors…can’t you spring for the exclamation point? What big star? If he/she is coming and will be famous yet we are warned to stay away from said star, then shouldn’t it say “forever infamous?” Or is the star smelly, and that’s why we should stay away, like those rumors of Brad Pitt’s body odor? I don’t know. I don’t get it. All I know is that after Jojo smeared gummy biter biscuits all over it, my mom washed AND IRONED the shirt.
Story #2 was going to be about my head injury incurred on THIS toy (see the photo? No? YEAH thanks Blogger, you assclown.). I’ll have to save it for another day, because I don’t feel like surfing the net to find a link. BAH. If I don’t wake up from sleep tonight, well, it was nice knowing you. Don’t you feel bad, those of you who never comment? No? damn.
Instead, let me finish by saying, “PROJECT RUNWAY PEOPLE IN LIKE ONE HOUR AND 2O MINUTES YEEEEHAW.” And if you want, vote on which exciting story you want to hear next at hollowsquirrel.com!
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
9:14 am |
-image-Just So You Know
I haven’t been able to watch Project Runway yet, so I can’t read your comments from yesterday for fear of ruining the sweet surprise. My parents are in the house, and my dad has completely (and rudely) commandeered the remote for the British (effing) Open. And let me tell ya, coverage for that bitch runs alll dayyyy longgg. I see a window now, however, since he’s passed on the couch (from the sheer excitement of round 1 play).
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
2:12 pm |
-image-Wednesday, Glorious Wednesday
Or, in my house, it’s also known as New Episode of Project Runway Night.
I can hardly wait. What a long week it has been. What a pathetic existence I lead.
It’s also the day my parents get into town for another visit. Which really means… why the hell am I sitting next to the piping hot computer, typing out a stupid post when I SHOULD be ferociously cleaning the house? But. But. I know. I’m going.
But first, let me just query… is anyone else playing the Project Runway Fashion Face-off? I totally sucked at this last season, but I’m giving it another try in the spirit of “totally obsessed fan.” I’ve switched who I think is going to win and lose tonight three times already. Three times. But, after reading Tim’s blog I had to switch some things up, so blame Tim Gunn and his insightful blog.
Who do you think is going home/winning this week (for those of you new to… well, conversing… that’s my way of saying, “if you watch the show, then leave a COMMENT below so we can have a modern little conversation about this topic”)? Yes, I’m asking you this BEFORE the show starts. Like, take a stab.
And I swear, Bravo had better not tip us off to who is in the bottom 3 again, like they did last week. Did you catch that spoiler?? I believe it was after the runway, but before the judges discussed, there was a Bravo survey, where you could text who you thought would be auf’d, and they actually showed the soon-t0-be-announced bottom 3. At first, I scoffed at the three they chose, thinking that another designer (I can’t remember now, sadly) would be in the mix; but then I realized that they just told us ahead of time who would be in the pits this week. I wasn’t very happy. Kind of like my husband, who was TiVoing the Mets game last night, and when I switched back to TiVo from tv and the game was 30 odd minutes ahead, Mr. Squirrel squeezed his eyes shut and in a high-pitched LOUD voice said “DON’T TELL ME THE SCORE DON’T TELL ME THE SCORE. SET IT BACK TO THE BEGINNING. DON’T TELL ME THE SCORE!”
Total freakwad. I mean, I totally get you, sweetie.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
12:00 pm |
-image-The Day I Felt Bad for a Clown
My BBF (best blogging friend), Isabel (LYLASAAW, WBS, SSS!), posted on the phenomenon known as ComeCheckOutUnderageChildrenAndJerkOff MySpace. I can see the appeal for teenagers, who want to express themselves, meet new people, and be creative. Heck, look at me. I blog. And post pictures. And meet new people. And even attempt creativity through craft projects. And I’m no where near teenagerdom. As we all know because my birthday is RIGHT AROUND THE PROVERBIAL CORNER (ahem, last day of the month). But back to MySpace.
I thought I’d check it out and see who from my high school (and within my age range) has a MySpace page. Several months ago I checked for people from my college graduating class, and the one person I would have bet on to have a page did (KeMo, for those of you from K. Am I right? Did you know it would be him?). Anyway, onto the high school crowd, which is a tad more colorful and prone to post inappropriate pictures.
The very first person my search brought up was a girl who graduated the year after me and shows her… I don’t know how to say this… crotch-mounting (I’m copywriting this, so step off) a certain fast food clown’s face. And I’m not naming names because I don’t need a little kid writing a report on said clown, googling him and getting my post, reading it, then asking their parents what “crotch-mounting” is. Hopefully though, by then, “crotch-mounting” will be sweeping the nation! Now now, I should point out that this fine product of my high school is fully clothed in her fast food manager’s uniform. Seriously.
And she captioned her photo: “I’m lovin’ it.”
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
8:57 am |
-image-Have you ever
loved someone SO MUCH that you seriously could spend the entire day kissing them from the flyaway hair which stands out a good three inches from their sweet head to the very bottom of their pudgy feet? You want to kiss them inside and out, hold them tightly and have them smile and coo and love you right back? Your heart actually bursts into butterflies and sweet rays of sunshine when they smile, and you ache to kiss their tiny teeth. Those two little teeth that you haven’t managed to kiss yet and which you’re finally over cursing for the pain they caused the one you adore AND, on a personal level, have stopped trying to saw through your nipple. But seriously. Those teeth? I must kiss them. And that chin? And those cheeks?
Sigh.
And did that someone you loved with a white-hot passion not want you to kiss them all day long?
Stop it, mom. You’re embarrassing me. GOD.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
4:11 pm |
