Break The Block (A Minecraft Parody)

I stay up too late.
Got minin' on my brain.
That's what my mom says.
That's what my mom says.

I go into many caves. Creeps won't let me stay,
Zombies in my way.
Zombies in my way.

But I keep building,
Can't stop, won't stop building.
It's like I got this feelin'
In my mind that there's
Diamonds in this cave.

Cuz the creeper's gonna creep, creep, creep, creep, creep.
The sheep is gonna bleet,
Bleet, bleet, bleet, bleet.

I'm just gonna break, break, break, break.
Break the block, break the block.

Zombie's gonna moan, moan, moan, moan, moan.
Then I build with stone, stone, stone, stone, stone.

I'm just gonna break, break, break, break.
Break the block, break the block.

Sometimes I just create.
Survive another day,
Scout for villages my way.
Villages my way.

But in survival,
The hearts drop, don't drop.
Fill up the hearts by eating piggy, cow or chick.
Now I can make more bricks!

Cuz the creeper's gonna creep, creep, creep, creep, creep.
The sheep is gonna bleet,
Bleet, bleet, bleet, bleet.

I'm just gonna break, break, break, break.
Break the block, break the block.

Zombie's gonna moan, moan, moan, moan, moan.
Then I build with stone, stone, stone, stone, stone.

I'm just gonna break, break, break, break.
Break the block, break the block.

Pumpkin Starts With Pee

Don't tell me how to live, just sit and putter.
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter.
Don't wet the bed and try to pee on my parade...  

I awoke this morning with a skip in my step, a song in my throat, and pee in my bed.

Groaning at the cold grossness of it all, I got up and decided that I'd most definitely need a shower this morning. Then I tried to decipher which of the children had peed in the bed, since I assumed Husband wasn't the culprit, and I knew I was guilt-free.

I contemplated having a skill-testing question at our bedroom door installed. If you get the answer wrong, you don't get entrance.  Then, I thought of the many nights I'd inevitably spend locked out of our bedroom for not knowing the order of operations.

Maybe just a retinal scan, instead.

I was already conditioning ye olde scalp before I remembered that nothing could make me sad today.

For today is (da-dada-da-da-da-da!) Field Trip Day!  Specifically, today is Pumpkin Patch and Corn Maze day, which is possibly the best day of the year.  You get to be outside for one of the last cool-hot-cool days of the school year, tromping in mud and muck, while children frolic and choose pumpkins and all that.

This is the field trip I, as a parent, almost always volunteered to attend because 1) it's usually the first one of the school year, and I can quickly demonstrate what a good parent I am   meet all the kiddos our kiddo is suddenly talking about.  2) This one is pretty sweet-- no boring information-dense trips about Mesozoic era flora and fauna, just skipping and pumpkin picking.  3) The kids bring home a pumpkin for free (!) and there isn't usually a gift store they want to buy shit at. BUT, most importantly, 4) this is the first one, so if  I volunteer for this (sweet) trip, I can be all "Well, I've already chaperoned-- let Jimmy's dad do it." for the others, which will inevitably be outdoors, in the dead of winter. Baahaahaahaaaaaaa.

As the teacher this time, though, the real reason the The Pumpkin Patch Field Trip is the breeziest of trips (and why I'm humming "Walkin' On Sunshine" while I dry my hair) is with an adult-to-kid ratio of like, 1:2, it's the fodder of ministry of education pamphlets.

AND, as if all that isn't enough, you get to wear JEANS and a HOODIE at the same time, and not be frowned upon.  Get frowned upon? Have frowns upon?  Frick. There are no frowns raining down upon me like a bad Adventure Time graphic, for wearing a hoodie and jeans.

Oh, glorious Field Trip day, you're like Santa without the Visa bill.

I sang all the way to school while the children played Minecraft on the iPads.  As we parked, I glanced back and said, "Kiddo number 2, where are your glasses?"

Kiddo #2:  On my face.
Me: Nope. Try again.
Kiddo #2: (fumbling on face) Oh. Huh. Are they in my pocket?
Me: I don't know. Are they?
Kiddo #2: Let's check.
Me: Uh, like, did you put them there?
Kiddo #2: No. But let's check.
Me: (Captain Picard facepalm)  Let's go get them.

I dropped Kiddo #1 off and took Kiddo #2 back to the house.  I searched to no avail (he'd put them in his camoflauged case, which I clearly wasn't able to see) and sent him back in to find them.

I pulled out of the driveway, now technically late for work, but kinda ok, because it's Field Trip day and I had also shouted to the visible adults that I had to go back for Kiddo #2's glasses.  I get about halfway to work when I get call from another teacher: "BTW, bring a lunch for Kiddo #1. Your class is staying until 2."

And I reply:  What the Frick. How did I, her teacher, not know that?!

And I Tokyo Drift into the Tim Horton's drive-thru just in time to order a couple of bagels for she and me. Kiddo #2's class was coming home before lunch, but apparently my class gets to have some "older kid" perks.  Sweet.

But, even the thought of having a bagel for lunch didn't deter my mood. I'm hap-hap-happy.

We get everyone else on board the bus, get my class into the cars and head out to the local Pumpkin Patch and Corn Maze.  Now there are three kids in the backseat playing on iPads.  My mood is even better. LIFE IS FANTASTIC.

Just as we disembark, some grey clouds start to roll on over, but that doesn't deter our kids.  They run around the various things to do, including slides, Mount Saint Tractor Tires, and the pièce de résistance, a gigantic, enormous (NOT ginormous, because that's some bastard hybrid of those first two words and isn't actually a word at all and makes you look like a gigantic, enormous idiot when you say it)...

Sorry. I had to tell you. Someone had to, and I'm strong enough for you to hate me and then love me again when you look it up and see that I saved you from looking like a buffoon in front of your boss.

... gigantic, enormous bouncy like, thing. It's not a bouncy castle, because there are no sides or top. but it's like, someone poured a giant mix of trampoline batter into a shallow pan, and baked it, and flipped it upside down.

It's bouncy as shit, dangerous as shit, and holy shit, it's AWESOME! I actually kinda wish I was getting married again, just so I could drive my entire wedding party out to the bouncy thing, and get some amazing bouncing pictures of everyone.

"It's so much easier to do that jumping picture from a gigantic, enormous bouncy cake!"

In fact, I can't get that image out of my head the entire time we're walking the gigantic, enormous corn maze with Col. Chris Hadfield's image in it.  I'm lousy at mazes anyway, so I might as well be thinking about huge bouncy wedding party pictures.

The kids and I (and the other teacher and the kids she has) finished the Chris Hadfield maze in like, 15 minutes. It was pretty cool, really. I'm getting more excited with every step closer to the bouncy cake because for SURE I'm bouncing on that shit.

Only, frick! Everyone's now HUNGRY!  GAH! I want to get to the bouncy cake! Why are we even bothering to EAT!?!   Then I decide possibly my rage was due to blood sugar issues and had my bagel.  Instantly, I wasn't mad at the children anymore.  Huh. Maybe we DID need to eat.

Only, now it's misty-raining and they've closed the frickin' bouncy cake. I know this is the best day of my life, but if I don't get to bounce on that damn cake thing, I'm seriously gonna be pissy. Grrr.

Student: Ms. Elizabeth, are you gonna jump on the bouncy thing with us?
Me: Uh, heck yes!

Then, as if by magic, or by sheer determination, I think I made the rain go away and a nice, hot sun appeared and dried up all the rain.  The itsy, bitsy Sunnen will dance on the bouncy cake!

Then I realized my pants felt wet from where I'd been sitting on a picnic table.  I turned to the students and said, "Does it look like I peed my pants?"

But is it noticeable?
I mean, does it look like I pooped my pants? Or no?

Student:  Uhhhh.  No.
Me: Why did you said Uhhh?
Other Teacher:  Uhhh, because it looks like you... uhhhh, had a different accident.
Kiddo #1:  Mom, I can take a picture of it with your phone if you wanna see...
Me: Oh lordy. Does it look like I pooped my pants?

And, of course, because of my poop accident, some "faster" school got to the bouncy cake first. Siiiiiiigh!

So, we decided to do the "Kiddie Maze"which, ironically, took us close to 45 minutes.  When we finally were done the maze, we all ran like maniacs toward the bouncy cake.  It would be our turn next, mark my words.

I watched the last five minutes of the other school bouncing, chatting with other parents and teachers while the other school's kids jumped with glee.  I could feel the excitement in my heart at the thought of jumping the SHIT outta that bouncy cake.  Holy Frick.  This was gonna be AWESOME! At first I couldn't figure out WHY other adults weren't bouncing, but there were enough kids that adults would probably hulk smash them.

I felt bad for the other moms who weren't bouncing. I could tell they really, really wanted to, but their school brought too many kids to give an adult a safe amount of room to properly jump. Poor dears. I was gonna live the dream in T-minus 3 minutes.

I secretly vowed to jump at least 7 extra jumps, one for each parent or teacher I saw gazing with yearning at the bouncy cake.

FINALLY the other kids FINALLY got off and FINALLY made way for  me and the other teacher (and our students, or whatever) to jump to our hearts' contentment.

I took off my very muddy shoes, tittered to myself about how awesome I am that I get to bounce on a bouncy cake, and slowly walked up the bouncy cake to the centre of the bouncy cakeness.  I gingerly rocked the platform up and down, slowly, while the children clambered up. We all got an arms length away from each other (per the rules of the bouncy cake) and a few kids fell and giggled.

Then, the best part of my whole life happened.

I bounced and bounced and bounced.  Yes. I bounced three times in terrified glee.  It was the most fantastical, amazing three jumps in the entire history of mankind.

Then, at the fourth bounce, I thought to myself, "Holy shit. I just pissed my pants."  and then I tried to slow down with my fifth bounce, and I pissed my pants again.  And this time I thought to myself, "I didn't even know I had to pee?" and then my legs were bouncing and bouncing against my will and I couldn't get them to fricking stop and I was trying to nonchalantly make my shit over to the side of the stupid, wretched, fucking bouncy cake, with my damned pissed pants and every kid that was on the damn cake was all "Ms. Sunnen! Check out my giant bounce that will make you bounce, too!"  and with every bounce that I really wanted to do, but didn't want to do, I pissed my pants again, and again, and again.  And again.

Cheese and RICE! What the frick is this bullshit!?! I didn't EVEN HAVE TO PEE!

Frick. FRIIIIIIIICK!

I finally, nonchalantly, get off the damn bouncy cake, and the old lady running it looks at me with a raised eyebrow.  She knows. Sweet Cheese.

I go to the Porta-Potty mostly just to get away from everyone and I hope that the picture that the other teacher took while we were all jumping will ONLY show my fake poop accident, and not my real pee accident.

Fricking Frick. Stupid "having kids" bullshit. Stupid why didn't I bring an adult diaper with me? And why isn't there a line on the Bouncy Cake Rules board that says "Hey, we sell Depends in the canteen if you've had a kid and are dying DYING to jump on our bouncy cake."

Mother of CUFF. Now I'm stuck in a frickin' Porta-Potty because I've pissed my pants AND I'm 36 and what the shit? And it smells like the perfume of 1000 pine trees AND the bowels of some heinous beasty on the 7th ring of Hell.  And I can't just text the other teacher because she's having a gay old time on the bastard bouncy cake because she MUST be wearing an adult diaper and why didn't she tell me? Oh, it's probably because I was so excited, that fricking clearly I was wearing a stupid diaper.  Because there's a hilarious joke about how women pee when they sneeze or jog or laugh too much, but I've never had that problem and here I am soaked and FRICK!

I contemplate buying a bottle of water and pulling a Jack Tripper and fumbling it all over my crotch in some lame Three's Company style mishap, only there's no stupid couch for me to trip over and fall behind.  Stupid Hollywood lies.

Now I've been in the Porta-Potty long enough that the casual observer is gonna think I just pooped! GAH!

GAAAAAAH!

I decide to be like, an adult, even if it's an adult who has peed her pants, and exit the porta-potty with my hoodie pulled waaaaay down over my mud-butt and wet-front.  Totes discrete.

I'm sure nobody noticed.

I Do Not Like It, Sam I Am

"I like my martinis NEAT and TIDY. And at 8am."

I'm walking down an aisle in the grocery store when I get it into my head that I really want to make lemon poppy seed bread. I'm sure, it being September, that most of the world is excited to be eating all things pumpkin, but right now I have a hankering for lemon.

I plunk two boxes of lemon poppy seed mix into the cart and continue on our way.

Don't judge me because I didn't run and get lemons and poppies to make the bread. I retired "Mary Poppins" version of me when I went back to work, and now we're left with a more-sober-than-Mary-yet-non-smoking "Peg Bundy" me in the house.  Kiss it.

Non-smoking, yet giddy. This must be TV.

So, here I am, weeks later, thinking about making some lemon poppy seed bread.  I still want lemony goodness, but also, because my kiddos have hot lunch at school (!!) I haven't grocery shopped since that day, and frankly, there isn't much left in the house.  

Lemon poppy seed bread it is.

I put the whatever it calls for in, stir it up, and put it in to cook.  Meanwhile, I head over to Kiddo #2's play date to pick him up. 

When we get home, the bread is done. I pull it out of the oven to cool and Kiddo #2 runs in.  

Kiddo #2: Mom! Is that banana bread?

Me: No. It's lemon poppy seed bread.

Kiddo #2: I don't like lemon poppy seed bread. (whining sounds)

Me: Ok.

He leaves, gets his scooter and begins scooting through the house.  I probably shouldn't allow that, but Peggy Bundy Me is just glad he's not underfoot, so it's allowed.

I slice up some of the bread.  Kiddo #2 reappears.  

Kiddo #2: Mom! Is that the bread with bananas in it?

Me: Nope. Still lemon poppy seed. Would you like some?

Kiddo #2: Awww! Why isn't it banana bread?

Me: I guess because I didn't make banana bread.

Kiddo #2: Why not?!

He leaves on his scooter and scoots another three laps.  I put on a pot of water to make corn on the cob.  And Kiddo #2 reappears.  

Kiddo #2: Mom. Are we having corn for supper?

Me: Yes.

Kiddo #2:  I would like some corn.

Me: Good. Because it's about to start cooking.

Kiddo #2:  Can I have a snack?

Me: Sure. Would you like some lemon poppy seed bread?

Kiddo #2:  No. Unless it's banana bread? Is it banana bread?

Me: Nuh-uh. Sorry kiddo.

He scoots to the living room and begins playing with his Lego.  I'm not sure what's he's building, but he's also singing "King of the Brothers." That, by the way, is a song he invented that sorta sounds like "The Story of My Life" by One Direction, but it's not quite, and it's all "ooh-wah" and never starts or ends. Like a circle, but cuter, and frankly, it makes my heart happy.

So he's singing "King of the Brothers" and assembling Lego when he stops and reappears in the kitchen.

Kiddo #2:  Mom. I'm hungry.  Could we pretend that it's banana bread?

Me: Uh. Ok?

Kiddo #2:  Ok then. I'd like some banana bread, please.

Me:  Ok.

Kiddo #2: Thanks, Mom.

Sure. Ok. It's cool to be four years-old.

I watched him munch his bread, carefully taking reasonable bites, chewing slowly and swallowing.  He took his time to really assess whether this "banana bread" was worth faking it for or not. 

Kiddo #2:  Hey. This doesn't taste like bananas.

Me: Uh? That's cuz it's lemon poppy seed bread.

Kiddo #2:  Really? Because it's pretty good.

Me:  Oh! That's good.

Kiddo #2: What's this stuff again?

Me: Lemon poppy seed bread.

Kiddo #2: Wow! You should make this all the time.

It's like living with Dr. Seuss.

Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet and Watch

Ding, ding.

I'm in a meeting with a parent, my iPad is dinging. I look over, and it's a Facetime call request from Kiddo #1's best friend. I, embarrassed, click "not now" and the friend texts her.

Ding, Ding-ding.

Friend's text arrives.

I continue to try and have a conversation with a student's parents.

Ding, ding. 

I look over.  Now it's a Facetime request from Grandma.  I, embarrassed, click "not now" and go back to my meeting.

Ding, ding.

I look over.  It's Grandma, who has decided that if someone can answer the call request to say "call later" then they must be able to chat, regardless.

I, embarrassed that I've interrupted a 15 minute parent-teacher interview three times in about a minute, click "not now" and go back to the meeting.

Ding, ding.

It's another friend of my daughter's. I click "not now" and power down my iPad and vow to never sync our two devices again.  Ever.

And that, my friends, is the story as to how my daughter came to have her own email address and iTunes account, despite being 6 years old.

Flash forward a year and life is good.  She is 7, she is loving life as an iPad owner/operator and there's nothing standing in her way (except that only I know her passwords, so she can't just buy the world). But there's something up.

It all started on a quiet day.  I got an alert that there was a text message waiting for me on my phone.  My daughter texted me the following:

Kiddo #1:  I love you Mom.  You are the best!

So I replied, "I love you too, daughter.  You are the best!

And she replied, "When are you coming home? I'm staving."

And I waited a sec and then the little conversation thingy bounced up "starving" instead, because we're not from Boston.

But let's get back to the whole "you're the best" thing. I mean, really, isn't that the REAL reason we have kids? The unconditional love is what makes the sleepless nights, the puke in your bra, the astounding, overwhelming lack of any money leftover at the end of the month, totally worthwhile.

Kiddo #1 in her new specs

Ahh.  You are the best.  Somedays, the idea that this version of my best happens to also be the pinnacle of awesomeness is exactly perfect. Ahh. Like a warm bath.  But still, I had an uneasy feeling.  Something was still up though... something... but I couldn't quite put my finger on it...

So, as August reared its ugly head, I realized that both kiddos needed to see the optometrist.  Kiddo #1 had been complaining of headaches and Kiddo #2 was about to start school, so he needed that obligatory eye test.

I got Kiddo #1 in, got her eyes tested and, yep, she needs glasses for reading. Not all the time, but man, she looks cute enough in the frames she chose that she could wear them all the time and no one would care. Cute, and now able to minimize headaches, ta-da! Instant vision.

Last week I got Kiddo #2 in for his little "meet the Dr" visit.  Kiddo #2 sat down in the chair, the Dr asked me if I had any concerns (which I didn't btw- no lazy eye, no crazy eye, no bumping into stuff).  Then he asked why my son wasn't wearing his Calgary Flames jersey and everyone laughed.

But what number do YOU see?

My son (and my side of the family) love the Flames. My husband and his side of the family, all love the Detroit Red Wings. The Dr happens to be friends with my in-laws, and constantly sees us out together.  It never fails, of course, that Kiddo #2 is in his Flames jersey, despite pleas and protests from my husband.

Colour test book, passed.
Farm test book, passed.

Then the Dr put up the alphabet thing on the wall.  And then my guy, Mr. Cool, Kiddo #2 said, "I don't know" when the Dr asked him what letters he saw.

I interrupted and snorted, "Kiddo #2, you need to tell the Dr what letters you see."

Dr then put up other letters and had Kiddo #2 cover one eye.  "I don't know" was his reply again. I said, "Now, Kiddo #2, don't trick the Dr. You know your letters. Tell him what you see."

And the Dr looked at me like I just announced classified information about Santa.

And I looked at the Dr like, "Huh?" and then I looked at the Dr like, "Oooooh."

And at the end of the appointment we were off to find Kiddo #2, who is turning 4 in a week, some glasses to wear all the time. Every day.  As I told my son, if they're not on your face, they're in their case.

So much for being "the best."  How did I fail to notice my second child has crap for vision?

Yes, he sits close to the TV, but that's because he's intense.  And yes, he bumps into stuff, but he's frickin' THOR. Most of the time, the stuff he falls into turns to rubble and ashes upon impact.  And yes, he misses the ball a lot in soccer, but lots of kiddos do.  ... ...

He picked out his frames while I pretended this wasn't a big parenting fail, and I took him to school.  Even his teachers were surprised that he'll be always wearing glasses, so that makes me feel less bad. I mean, if it takes a village to raise a child, and none of the villagers noticed, it can't ALL be my fault.

Mommy guilt. Suck it.

Anyway, we picked up the glasses today and holy CRAP is he ever cute in them.

But my favourite part was when he got into my car. He sat in his car seat and looked out the front window.

Kiddo #2 in his "Always Glasses"

Kiddo #2: Mom, why are there so many dots on the window?
Me: Oh! Honey it's just really dirty.  You couldn't see that before?
Kiddo #2:  Oh. Yeah. Sure I could.
Me: Oh. Oh honey.
Kiddo #2:  Wow. (looking down at the mats below his feet) Hey Mom, why are your mats so dirty?
Me: You couldn't see that either?
Kiddo #2: Well, I guess not.  You really should take better care of the car, Mom. Is Dad's car this messy, too?
Kiddo #1: No, Kiddo #2.  Dad's car is immaculate. That's a fancy word for super clean.
Kiddo #2:  Oh. Ok. Well at least my glasses won't change THAT.

Thank you, universe, for sending my Cleaning Fairy on the same day my hard-of-seeing son got his glasses.

I have a rep to protect.

Not Everything is a Pinterest Frickin' Project!

"Hey, wanna make a fun, easy project?"

I go on binges where I want to re-paint, spray paint, dig up, hack down... you get the picture.  I'm sure in the future my kids will use these spans of time as proof I should've been better/differently medicated, but for now, I call them Creative Uprisings.

So, when my friend Crystal texted me with pictures of American Girl doll furniture she'd found on Pinterest, I asked her how much glue would be involved (a must for any of my projects).  When she replied lots, I got in the car and met her at Home Depot.

Only... there's a reason I've never built anything with wood before. See, I've got the Dyscalculia, which is NOT that I'm a math vampire, although numbers do suck for me.  Dyscalculia is a fancy term for Math-dyslexic, so when I see numbers, they get wobbly, sometimes they switch spots, or disappear altogether, sometimes I write 91 when I mean 19 and I say 61.   There's more but that's all that matters for this particular moment in time.

Oh, it's a fun affliction with a capital F.

And, everything gets infinitely stupider when we add fluorescent lights into the equation.

Now, I want you to head to the furthest corner of the Home Depot and think about nothing but the fact that these dang fluorescent lights have destroyed my brain by the time I get there, and now there are itty bitty fractions (eighths? what the FRICK is an eighth?) and Crystal is standing there asking me how much wood do we need?  And I can't even see the numbers on the little price thing beyond the price and I say "The $2.50 one." and she says, "But it's not the right size." And I say, "I'm sure it's fine." and she says, "Well, what are your measurements?"

And I mumble something like "Eleventeen, Niner... fifteenths?" and blink my eyes like Madonna when she's nervous.  And everything is too bright and burn-y, and why are we here again? I don't remember needing to build a deck.  And Crystal is watching this patiently, apparently I either do this a lot OR she's used to me not making any sense and just waiting me out.  Frankly, either idea is possible. So she repeats, "Well, what ARE your measurements?"

Jaysus Aitch Christ, I'm rubbing my face now. Everything is blurry and I feel a white light on my face like a spotlight, only dizzier and swimmy-er, and Crystal says "Focus! Do you need 18 and three sixteenths?" and I don't really even know my name anymore.  And then I do the unthinkable.  Like a prisoner being tortured, I admitted the one thing I was working so hard not to say, I blurt out, "I dunno. I'm gonna eyeball it." and she nearly falls over laughing because apparently you shouldn't eyeball wood cutting or maybe my fly is down, or maybe I look crazy cuz I can't stop rubbing my face because I'm trying to get the blurr out of my eyes and it's not working.

I haven't had a full-blown math meltdown in probably 20 years. It, coincidentally, stopped with the end of my need to be in a math class.  This, in case you're checking facts was when I completed my OAC (AP) Finite math class, which I took out of spite to show Math that I could do it (which, btw, I couldn't, and needed the help of the cute nerd in that class, who happens to now be my cute husband).

But I digress.  Crystal, who, by the way, can recreate anything by looking at it hard enough, sat there with a pencil and paper and figured out what my measurements were gonna be, and how much wood I needed, while I rolled on the floor grunting like an ape and trying not to cry.

I wonder why none of the Orange Smocks came to help us out that day, in retrospect.  Although, maybe not.  A grown woman making animal sounds on the floor and rubbing her face might not be something Orange Smocks have been trained for.   Not. In. The. Handbook.

Anyway, Crystal got her wood, I, like Hodor, good for nothing but brute strength and the ability to say my name, carried it through the store and dutifully packed it in her car.  And once we were out in fresh air the setting sun, my brain stopped exploding quite as much and I was able to at least safely drive home, drink a gallon of wine and go to bed.

Meltdowns take a lot out of you; any toddler will tell you the same.

2 weeks later, Crystal finally screwed up the courage to ask me if I was ok enough to start the project.  Then she made sure to remind me to eat something before coming over.  Apparently I'm quite a disaster when I'm hangry, too.  Siiiigh.

Full tummy, glasses on, with caffeine in hand, I cautiously drove to Crystal's to begin the eyeballing process.

I think she thought I was kidding, but I got there and got out the bed that Crystal bought her daughter (oh how smug I was thinking MY bed was gonna cost $20 plus labour!) and began tracing it onto the wood.

Yes. I traced it.

Look at all those perfect right angles. 

Fuck you.
It's hard to measure stuff right. The ruler always moves and shit gets in the wrong spot and sometimes you start at the 1 and other times you start at the end, and then your numbers get all wrong.

Just shut it. Math makes me hostile.

So I traced the bed onto the wood while Crystal and her pretty ruler and measure-y thing drew out all her cuts.  And then she said, "Well how big is the bottom of the bed?" and I said, "Uh, it's that big?" (gesticulating wildly at the wood in no particular area)

Then she says, "Right, but the trundle goes underneath it, have you drawn the trundle yet? Cuz it's gonna have to be precise." and I said, "Listen, Sister. I've got this. You do it your way, and I'll do it mine. And your shit can be perfect and mine can be a lesson to all engineers."

Because sometimes you gotta embrace the truth.  It'll set you free, they say.

The next, next day, her dad came over to show us how to use the jigsaw and the table saw.  Her father, by the way, is just like Crystal, meaning he nearly peed his pants laughing at me when I told him I'd traced the bed to get mine.  Then he stuck around to see how the Bad News Bears were planning on making American Girl Doll shit.

The noise is making me want to 
Hulk Smash and Cry. 

First off, when the table saw started the high-pitched squeal, I started to cry. Apparently I don't like screamy noises.  I plugged both my ears and tried to figure out how I was gonna cut the wood with my hands in my ears, while it rested on my gut and my knee.  Then I realized I needed earplugs, only apparently I couldn't leave (I don't know why it didn't occur to me to drive and buy some earplugs, but I blame the noise that was piercing my brain for screwing that up) so I went inside and wrapped a hoodie around my head and over my ears.  Only that didn't really cut enough of the noise out, and plus it kept slipping down and I also decided to use the jigsaw because it's quieter.

Jaysus.  Then Crystal went inside and got me a HUGE winter toque to put over the hoodie that was tied around my head like a turban and the ear flaps helped a bit, but then they had these dangly bits that kept falling in front of the jigsaw blade.

I think, also, we should've recorded this whole thing for a Health and Safety video, since I was kneeling on the board I was cutting with a jigsaw, which was over the lip of the deck they have.  And wearing a turban, sunglasses and a mohawk-earflap-winter toque in July.  Nope, August.

Did I tell you the part where we jammed the nail gun and only got it to work one time, and that was the one time it was loaded with the too-big nails, which went through the wood sample and straight into Crystal's counter top? What about the time I cut my wood and then realized you can't just lay one piece on the other piece and jigsaw that shit to be the same size without a vice grip.

Fixing my shit for me, like wee elves.
I think I owe them each some felt shoes, now, right?

Roughly 8 hours later of pure cutting, re-cutting, shaping, sandpapering, gluing and nail gunning later, I wanted to run over the bastard thing with my car, except I was pretty sure there were 1000 nails in the stupid thing and I'd get a flat tire.

However, like all things, paint and silicone fix a lot of problems.  Just look at Anna Nicole. Or Cher.  Once I spray painted it, sanded it, touched it up and added the wee embellishments, the bed stopped looking like wooden dog shit, and started to really look right. Ok. So Crystal's carpenter father helped out a bit, but mostly I did the work, which was a big deal to me because I wanted to check "using a jigsaw poorly" off my bucket list.

Then Kiddo #1 and I went down to the sewing room and picked out some fabrics for the bedding. I sewed up some seams, she filled it with both polyfil (stuffing) and when that ran out, she filled it with scraps from my never-emptied sewing garbage bin.  I may have told her that scraps of cloth were used to fill old mattresses in the "olden" days, too, so it was practically educational.  And possibly a lie, but whatever. We were having a mother-daughter moment and I was almost done making the fucking bed. I'd tell any amount of lies to make that project end.

"This is as straight as Elton John."

So, here's the end. It's cute. It really is. I'm not gonna pretend I did it-- Crystal and her father kindly stopped laughing long enough to measure and re-cut the pieces for the trundle part.  And they didn't make fun of me, at least to my face. Much.

All I think about at night, though, is what if Kiddo #2 wants a damn trundle bed for his various stuffies now? Because this $20 bed cost about $550 in labour and sweat and tears.


Materials:

1 American Girl Trundle Bed
3 pencils (one to use, two to lose)
1 piece of board that is heavy. And rectangular.
a jigsaw
earplugs, or something to wear on your head
glue
nail gun/nails
paint
fabric scraps

Process:

1) trace the American Girl trundle bed (poorly) onto the board.
2) try to cut it out with a jigsaw and realize you didn't draw straight lines
3) curse and cry a little because the table saw (that your friend needs) is too loud
4) scream FUCK IT and call American Girl
5) Buy the bed and never speak of this again

8 Ideas and a Pie In The Face

So we're all reeling from the news that Robin Williams has died. And, moreso, that he was openly battling depression and addiction, and still managed to be the funniest guy on the planet.

And yet, he clearly wasn't happy.
He wasn't ok.
He wasn't comfortable with himself on some level.

Right? I mean it's that simple, right?

Ok. We all know Depression isn't that simple. And in the last few days following his death, everyone is coming out of the proverbial closet about Depression.  I don't know if you know this, or if you've guessed this, or if you've ever wondered, but I definitely battle Depression. The crippling, real, voices-tell-me-I'm-a-bag-of-shit-and-I-believe-them kind.  The self-harming, out-of-control, emotional roller coaster type that destroys lives, and relationships, and families.

And even funny people.

There have been months, whole months, whole seasons, whole half-years, where I have had to literally force myself to get out of bed in the morning.

I know there are some of you who don't believe this because I don't "look" like someone with Depression. I don't furrow my brow, or bitch incessantly or whatever you think Depression looks like.

Here's the thing, here's my two cents on why Robin Williams' death has affected us, as a global community, the way it has: we all will fake-it-til-you-make it sometimes, and we all wallow in self-pity sometimes, but we all figure that IF we were "_(insert that one un-achieved dream that lingers)_," things would be fine/better/magnificent.

Robin Williams is proof that there is no magic fix to Depression.

In fact, I'll go one further: there's no magical fix to the voices in the head that deem you unworthy. Meds calm them, quiet them and can fix misfiring neurons.  Talk therapy can keep you from going over the edge, and friends can (without knowing it, even) keep you alive til morning comes.  But ultimately, I think the person who decides to sink or swim is YOU.

And, that's no reason to give up hope.  :)

I don't know a LOT of things, but in 36... almost 37 years, I at least have figured out how to weather my depressive episodes.  I don't know if what I do will help or work at all for you, but I want to put it out there in case it leads you on a path of self-discovery that helps you survive until you can smile without faking it.

I mean, isn't that what pushed Robin Williams to do what he did for a living?  He worked tirelessly to give us a reason to smile, laugh, cry and feel real, true feelings.  Being authentic, being real, is the only way to get through Depression.  The rest of the stuff (meds, therapy, friends) all make the fog thinner so we can remember what it's like to be real again, non?

1) Learn Your Triggers/Alarm Bells.  

This is the hardest part of the job, I think.  Figuring out what can send you on a Depressive Episode is key to being more in control of it, though.  My triggers include, but aren't limited to: sad songs on the radio, The Notebook (specifically that dang rain kiss), The News.  My Alarm Bells start ringing when I do things like: start thinking about the butterflies I'd get when I dated some toxic guys in my early years, when I download or start listening to "suicide playlists" which usually include Sarah McLaughlin "Angel" and other songs that make you pull over on the highway from sobbing.

See, when I'm happy, and when I'm not depressed, I have no use for learning the minutiae in a child abuse case. But when I'm starting to slide down that road of thick tar, I get morbidly intrigued with how or why someone would do "that" to a kid, whatever 'that' is.

So, when I start to perseverate on things like that, I make a note on my calendar. I don't care much for data, but I love coincidences (ha), so I've noticed that I can usually have about 3 sad thoughts a week, without it being attached to the beginnings of a Depressive Episode.  But, when I'm having upwards of 3 "sad thoughts" a day, I know trouble is coming.

2) Force Yourself to Be Around People

When I see that a Depressive Episode is coming, I force myself to reach out to others.  I'm not a super social person to begin with-- I feel easy being around people, but it's quite exhausting at the same time.  But when I'm starting to slide, I make coffee dates and force myself to get out of my head for a while.  I've noticed that the more time I spend in my head, the deeper the depression goes.  (I've had 36 years to figure some of this shit out)  The more time I spend distracted from the mean, dark voices telling me I'm a bag of shit, the better.
Also, Depression waits for you to be alone before it attacks. It wants you to feel like you're the most worthless, the most pathetic, the dumbest (etc). So when I'm low, I really work hard to not be alone as much as possible.

3) Surround Yourself With Proof You Don't Suck

For me, this is the reason I spend my non-depressed time creating art, writing, sewing, and whatever else I do.  I have my art all over our home and it's really because when I'm laying in bed thinking about never maybe getting out again, and why would anyone care anyways because all I do is destroy everything I touch, I can look at my paintings or re-read a blog, or whatever and let my (rather quiet, underfed) rational brain pipe up with a meek, "Uh, well, uh, you do suck, I guess, but maybe this art wouldn't be as good if you also weren't like, sorta, sometimes awesome?"  And, as I get out and hang around with other people, and as I refrain from indulging my depression by turning off Adele and Alanis and The Notebook, my rational brain's voice gets sturdier, gets louder, gets clearer.


4) Exercise and Sleep 

Your brain can't run haywire if your body is too tired to be awake to listen.

This is so important I want you to re-read it another 8 times before going on to the next point.
Then go for a run. Don't worry, the blog will still be here.




5) When you're Happy/Not Depressed, Don't Quit Your Meds

Yeah, so turns out that I'm balanced BECAUSE of my meds, not in spite of them.  Nothing starts a downward spiral faster than the false-logic that my meds have cured me and I don't need them anymore.  For the love of all things holy, people with Diabetes don't stop taking insulin because they feel good. People on chemo don't stop taking them cuz, meh, I feel good today.

Don't stop the meds for mental health, no matter how good you feel. They ARE the reason you feel good.

6) What You Resist Persists

That old yoga saying is so true when I'm in an episode.  The more I pretend I'm not low, the more I bottle up what I'm feeling instead of expressing it for what it is, the bigger it grows.  The more out-of-control it becomes.  The more I want to do stupid stuff (harmful stuff, like booze or drugs or self-harm) to quiet the voices I just should've let out in the first place.  Honestly, some of my issue is that I'm ashamed of the petty bullshit that has me so upset.  And some of it is that I'm afraid to say it outloud and give it a voice or reality.  But truely, all that has ever happened by me voicing "I'm just not happy with my job." or "I feel like we should be able to go on a vacation."  is that I realize that a) it's not shameful and b) saying it outloud takes the shame out of it anyway.  Ironically, Depression is like stifling a laugh-- the more you try not to do it, the bigger, louder and more disruptive it becomes until it takes over your entire body and now you're making a scene, rolling on the floor, crying and howling at something that really isn't that funny.  Right?

Let the Depression flow over you, and through you, but don't hold on to it.
Let it go.  (Sorry. It's my jam.)

7) Everyone feels this way

It makes me sad when someone says "Oh, what do YOU know about this? I bet you're never down/depressed/sad."  Just because I choose to find the laughter in things doesn't mean I don't get down.  In fact, it's choosing to find the laughter in the most ridiculous situations that is one of my coping mechanisms.  The harder I look to find the humour, say, in the $600 I just spent on my car, the $150 I spent on the fridge and the $200 on groceries in the SAME DAY, the more I'm focusing on finding the good instead of the bad.  See that? I'm focusing on finding the good; what you look for you find.

And speaking of coping mechanisms, that's my final point.

8) Get Coping

Insist on seeing live comedy.  Go to a movie staring whoever makes you laugh.  Hide behind a door and surprise your partner with a pie in the face (but make sure there's one loaded for him/her to use on you when s/he catches you-- it's only fair).

I don't care what you do, but find it and make it accessible.  Today you might not want to sew/write/paint/dance/sing/do yoga/whatever.  But tomorrow if you do, and you don't have what you need, you'll just Eyeore-out and make it worse.



Anyway, like I already said, there are lots of things I don't know.  And if you're in danger, in crisis, get yourself to a professional who can listen and talk you out of whatever harm you're considering.  Please. The world is a better place with you in it.  Even if you might not agree right this second, it really is.

Plus, I'm waiting here with a pie with your name on it.

Cinder Blocks Are The New Black

I have collected quite a reputation for loving to glue shit to other shit. I'd be worried if it wasn't 100% true, 100% of the time.

"Hi. Yes, I have some shit to glue
to other shit. Uh, do you have time?"

It all came about after I saw the most adorable cinder block planter. It was at a local restaurant where GG and I were having lunch.  I ended up chatting with our waitress about how dang cute it is, when it was revealed that, in fact, our waitress had created it!  I asked her for the deets and ta-da! I knew I had to make one of my own.

The waitress' was a single cinder block "liberated" from an old barn. It has creamy paint that was chipping away to reveal the cinder block underneath.  The waitress saw that block and knew with a little glossy sealant (to make it resto-safe), she would have an amazing planter on her hands.  I wish I'd taken pictures, because it's super SUPER cute.

I couldn't go hunting on abandoned farms after lunch, though, because I was taking my son to his BFF's house for a play date. It was the first time Kiddo #2 had played at his BFF's house, so this was a big deal.  ... Only I couldn't stop obsessing about how cute the cinder block planter is.

Apparently my incessant talking about it got into BFF's mom's head, too, because I got a phone call 2 weeks later saying she (Kris) was ready to make the cinder block planter, so when can I bring my son back so the kids can play together?  Yes, I know you saw the truth there. It was a craft-date for the moms and a play-date for the kids.

Smarty pants. :) 

Only-- here's the best part-- where I was content with just creating a single cinder block planter, Kris' had completely run with the idea.  And MAN was it a great run she went on!

No kidding, I turned into her driveway, saw the structure below and squealed with joy.  I mean, really? It's gorgeous already, with no plants at all!

I love the Tetris look of her set up! Genius!

Materials

Several cinder blocks

Paint (optional but super cute)

Ziploc Bags (gallon)

Hot Glue Gun and sticks

Scissors

Stones

Potting Soil 

Plants

First, Kris painted the cinder blocks black.  I thought they'd be more porous than they were-- all these blocks took maybe 1/3 of a gallon of paint. She did it probably a week prior to the plant-a-palooza, but you could paint yours 24 hours in advance.  I keep wondering what a glossy turquoise would look like, or yellow? Hmmm... 

Then, she assembled them on top of a large wooden board in her front yard. The board is great for creating balance, but I'm sure you could put the blocks directly on the ground.

Ziploc baggie inside waiting
to be glued and trimmed.

Then we hot glued a Ziploc freezer bag (gallon size) inside the hanging blocks to create a bottom.  I tried to glue them so that even when they were full of soil, they wouldn't be visible from the front of the gorgeous structure.

I trimmed the top of the gallon bag off so it wasn't visible from the top of the structure, either.  

Ready for some plants!

I added 5 stones to the bag, and then filled the bag with soil. If you're new to planting stuff, you add the rocks to the bottom of any pot to avoid mould growth.

For Kris' set-up, I had to glue 3 bags to fill the three hanging sides.    

Oh, and for the taller/longer "tubes," Kris added some foam squares to those bottoms. It was a great trick, actually. I'm sure you could use the baggies, but the foam was quicker and faster for the other cinder blocks, since they all had a sorta-bottom created by the block beneath it.  I dunno any other way to explain it. Just make your own and you'll go, "Oooh."  when you get to this point. Again, the baggies would still be fine here. 

Anyway, after we got the holes filled with soil, we went for a walk around her property looking for appropriate perennials.  Oh, and it took my father saying "Perpetuity means forever, Perennials mean forever." for me to finally know the difference between Annuals and Perennials. Whatever.

Gorgeous, am I right?!

So we plucked up some Hens and Chicks (centre), Lambs Ear (right) and Cactus (left).

Oh, and yeah, be really super careful moving cacti, ok? Alternatively, you could have toothpaste-consistency baking soda and water in a cake pan ready to lay your hands in if you decide you're "tougher" than "a dumb plant."  But, since you probably won't be tougher than a cactus, I'd suggest just being careful and wearing gloves. 

Once we got the holes filled with plants that Kris won't have to maintain, I hit the road. Nap time was calling for our three-year-olds (hers seemed to be doing better than mine, but both were pretty sleepy-eyed and combative).  

Now, for the record, there's method to my madness: we chose perennials because they'll look great all year long, and will virtually take care of themselves.  But if you want to put Gerbera daisies or ... any other annual, brightly coloured flower, it would undoubtedly look amazing.  Oh! And ivy would be great, cascading down the blocks, too.  So.  Many.  Options!

From the top. 

The top holes will be filled with some grasses
that hadn't been purchased yet. 

It turned out super SUPER great-- and it only took about 2 hours to glue, hunt for plants, re-plant them in the structure and be done.  Totes doable, yes?

Then hop to it! 

Camping Sucks So Much

You smug bastard. 

It's 11:11.  My wish? That I didn't have to go outside and sleep in the 2-person tent that Santa left for our children this year.  Razza-frazzin' Santa leaves a tent for my camping obsessed kiddos, and no note about how HE's gonna come back and camp with them or something. Nope.  Now Mama has to do it.  Ain't it always the way-- Santa gets the credit, Mama does the work.

So it's 11:11.

Let me rewind a second to the months of January, February and March, where my kids asked me every day, "Can we go camping yet, Mom?"  and I (much to my delight) had to say "Oh darlings, this is the worst winter ever. No, we cannot go camping."  Smile, smile, smile.

Then April, May and June roll into town and I have to pretend I keep forgetting to camp, and that we can't because the ground is too hard, or too wet or too... you get the picture.  Plus there's school... So. Many. Helpful. Excuses.

See, because the thing that Santa didn't think about is that neither Husband nor I are campers.  My ideal camping adventure includes a terrible (campy) 60's Sci-Fi and a FABULOUS (campy) drag show.  It doesn't include bugs, dirt or nature.  Just crap special effects and men who look better in dresses and heels than I do.  Muah! Love it!

All along, however, Husband has been telling the kids he'll camp with them in the basement and then "forgetting" or making sure the kids get into enough trouble that they lose camping as a reward.  Really, we're a match made in heaven, Husband and Me.

But here we were in July, summer vacation for the kiddos and me and finally, finally I gave in and told the kids we could camp outside.

Of course, having spent 6 months fake-forgetting to camp, we actually forgot to get out there Saturday night. Handy for Husband, let me tell you, because I was gonna trade him all sorts of whatever he needs--yes, even that, so that I don't actually have to go out there and sleep on Saturday night.  Unhandy for me because now I can't trade him anything because it's Sunday night and we forgot last night, and now he works in the morning. And I don't.

So I set up the tent with Kiddo #1, giddy and giggly.  I couldn't put the tent on the soft grass, though, because we paid umpteen dollars to have the lawn replaced.  So I cleared a spot off our paving stone patio and set up camp.

Me: I put the tent together.
Husband: Are you gonna sleep out there?
Me: Yes. I told the kids I would.
Husband: Well, you can't just leave them out there.
Me: (irritated because he figured me out) I wasn't GOING to. SHEESH!

Back to the tent I went with a ladybug looking sleeping bag.
Back into the house I come.

Husband: Are you gonna sleep out there?
Me: Yes. I told the kids I would.
Husband: Well, you can't just leave them out there.
Me: (irritated because he figured me out) I wasn't GOING to. SHEESH!

Back to the tent I went with an alligator sleeping bag.
Back into the house I come.

Husband: Are you gonna sleep out there?
Me: Yes. I told the kids I would.
Husband: Well, you can't just leave them out there.
Me: (irritated because he figured me out) I wasn't GOING to. SHEESH!

Back to the tent I went with two pillows and a frustrated rage in my heart.  I really, really just didn't want to sleep outside in a stupid tent, on our stupid paving stones, and how come Husband won't bail me out of this one like he usually does? Grr.

So I put the kids to bed in the tent, kissed and hugged them, zipped them in, and went back into the house.

Husband: Are you gonna sleep out there?
Me: Yes. I told the kids I would.
Husband: Well, you can't just leave them out there.
Me: (irritated because he figured me out) I wasn't GOING to! I am ... geez! I am just gonna go out there when I'm sleepy. Sheesh!

Yes. Totes beginner friendly. 

So I put in a yoga tape and did a cray cray routine that I can only hope was "advanced" because if this is the "beginner" tape, I've been really fooling myself for a long time.  Also, it was a DVD, not a tape, but I'm too old to keep up with the random letters of new technology.  Suck it, digital names.

I gave Husband several legitimate chances to be awesome and go sleep outside but he kept saying "I've gotta work in the morning. You don't. You're on summer vacation."  UGGGGGGH!

So at 11:13, I got into my jammies and went outside.  I entered the tent cautiously because the two children inside were sleeping like starfish.  Luckily the outside light was on so I could see inside and avoid smooshing my kids.  My stupid-camping-loving kids.

I immediately noticed that the pavers were still quite warm through the tent floor.  That's an unexpected perk for the tootsies, although... oh yes. It was quite stuffy in the tent because of the extra heat. And Kiddo #2 had sweat through his jammies.  I rolled him over so I might lay on my side and he made a gross velcro-y sound because he was so damp.  Gag.

My hips don't lie. Each of these sequins represents a throbbing pain point.  

I laid down on my side and instantly, everything hurt.  Because of the warm bricks beneath me, the pain was more of a throbbing instead of stabbing, which was okay I guess. I'm actually not sure which one is worse, but just know that my hips were talking to me, and they were saying "Get me the hell into a bed or shit's gonna get real."

And just like the lagoon animals in The Little Mermaid, the bullfrogs of the creek behind our house were singing "Let's Get It On" by Barry White while a bunch of teenagers yelled and carried on in some undisclosed backyard.

The warmth of the solid brick patio stones aggravated my hips and lower back. And the bullfrogs grunted. While the teenagers screamed. And the green grass grew all around, all around, and the green grass grew all around.

So I lay there with a moist preschool leg and arm draped over my abdomen. Gag.

And I listened while a slithery creature slowly entered the pond and ate all my fish and squinted its evil eyes on our tent.  I couldn't SEE this per se, but I could surely hear it happening. And I did peer cautiously out the tent door/window to spy if there were glowing red eyes coming from the pond or not. I've learned from Scooby Doo that all evil has glowing red eyes.

And the wind blew creepy long-fingered shadows onto our tent.  I exhaled slowly and thought of pleasant things like Smurfs and Bambi and Beauty and the Beast.  Oh that frickin' terrifying Beast.

I will gnaw on your toes and skull for kicks.

And then I thought about raccoons and opossums and their razor-sharp teeth and how one might, like our cats of old,
come up to my toes, which were pushing on the end of the tent, and want to just chew on my toes or my head or HOLY SHIT THERE"S SOMETHING MOVING IN OUR TENT and I screamed and covered my mouth because FRICKDY FRICK FRICK GODDAMMIT CHARLIE!

And while scream-crying, I quickly turned on my video camera and made a video of me begging for ... well, it's just as good to watch the Blair Witch Project again.  Ain't a lick of difference between the shakey snot-and-saline video of Heather Donahue and mine.  ... Except that I may have told the monster that I had two tender, juicy kids to trade for my own life.

"Listen, these other two are young. Take 'em. I'm mostly just fat anyways."

Oh, shut up. If razor-toothed ninja zombies were attacking YOU in the middle of the night, you'd throw your damn kids at them, too. And if you wouldn't, then you haven't been puked IN and pissed ON yet.

It'll happen.
Just believe.

Then I deleted the video because I think in the eyes of the law, "willingness to sacrifice one's young in an attempt at self-preservation during a zombie-ninja attack" is frowned upon.

I grunted and groaned and tried to get myself off the bricks and out of the tent.  I threw a shoe out of the zippy door so that the Killers might eat it first and I could still flee to safety.  Nothing ate my shoe, so I put it on and walked the 4 steps to the backdoor. I stood in the kitchen pacing back and forth like a crack addict trying to come up with a way that I could sleep in my own bed while headlines of "Mother left Kids 7&3 Overnight for Zombies to Eat" scrolled through my head.

Awesome.

And then, our tiny, old Jack Russell Terrier clicked her way into the kitchen. Sure I'd been pacing for 15 minutes before she realized I was in the house, but she came!  I smiled a Grinchy grin and called her to follow me. I giggled like a maniac.

In a flash of fur and triumphant tears, Rizzo was zipped inside the tent with the children, and I was gleefully slipping into our bed.  Rizzo wouldn't let anything eat the children! Rizzo would bark like a maniac if a ninja zombie appeared!  Huzzah for Rizzo!

Husband snuggled into me then realized I was in the bed and where were the kids and I said, "Don't worry, I zipped the dog in the tent."

I swear, I heard him giggle in his sleep.
Like I said, a match made in heaven.

Air Plant Jellyfish

Good God, it's so hot outside I think my skin melted off, going from my air-conditioning in my house, to the air-conditioning in my car.

"Oh, not that I'm complaining, after the winter we had..." says everyone else in the world.  

And then I say "Oh, I'm complaining. I didn't say one bad thing this winter so that I could continue to complain about the blasted sun and the heat and humidity."  

If this is June, what the frick is July gonna look like? Gah.

The Hubster and I had my parents take the kidlets for the weekend so we could do a bunch of dumb yard work (again, I keep voting for us to put in xeriscaping, which is the fancy word for ROCKS EVERYWHERE instead of stupid, high-maintenance, water-loving, grass) but since it's too hot to be outside, I sat down in the kitchen and figured out a cute project I'd been dreaming about for a while.

Say it with me:  Air Plant Jellyfish. 

Yes.

It's about the easiest thing to do on the planet, and I almost don't want to tell you because it's the Rice Krispie Squares of crafting and once you see how easy it is, you're gonna be off making your own air plant jellyfish and they'll look fantastic.  

Oh hell, who doesn't love Rice Krispie squares anyways? 

Eye Pins, or as I call them, lowercase-letter-i-pins

Materials:

Polymer clay (sculpey clay)  

eye pins 

air plants 

hot glue gun and glue 

glossy spray (optional)

*ask for all the materials at your local craft store

*ask for all the plants at your local greenhouse

First: Choose some colours that work well for you. 

First 2.0:  Preheat the oven to the package directions.

Second:  Squeeze the colours until you make something like a pinch-pot, but try not to make a flat bottom. The rounder the better.  One package of sculpey (or no-name) clay will make ONE large jellyfish, 2 medium jellyfish OR several small ones.  

Third: Poke two wee holes in the top (or sides, if you want the jellyfish to appear to be swimming in all sorts of fun directions) with your eye pins and remove, just leaving the holes. 

Fourth: Put the 'pots' in the oven for the amount of time specified on the package.  (I think it's about 20 minutes, if I recall correctly.)

Fifth: Remove and let cool.  (if you're inclined to spray them with high-gloss spray, this is the time to do this and let it dry for an hour.  It looks neato, but is not necessary.) 

Once they're cool, heat up the ol'glue gun.  Put a dot of glue on the inside of the pots, over the eye pin holes.  Re-insert the eye pins so that the glue hardens around the eye pins.  

The purple one at the top has holes in the side, while the rest have holes in the top. 

Sixth:  Add a quarter-sized circle of glue to the inside of the pot. Wait 30 seconds for the glue to be less HOT and squoosh an airplant (or two!) inside.  

Seventh:  String them up with fishing line and hang!  

I went hunting for driftwood and got a HUGE piece from a friend of mine.  The jellyfish look UNBELIEVABLE under driftwood. It was too heavy to put up where I wanted it to go, so I ended up finding a cool thing at The Paper Pickle that I could hang them from.  It's super cute above my soaker tub!  It would make an awesome baby mobile, too.  

Air plants don't need to be watered (just mist them once every week or so), and don't need soil, which makes them ideal for whimsical projects like this one.  

Honestly, I think the whole thing took an hour and mostly because I bought some cheap-o stuff that was brutally hard to squeeze and mold into shape.  Lots of bang for your buck, and would make an awesome wee gift to brighten any day.

If you give this a try let me know!  Send me pics and deets!

Check out the finished product at my Instagram.  

Follow me for more random fun. 

bethmilen is my user name.  

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