And the Radio Just Keeps on Playin' all those Songs about Rain

Nothing is ever cut and dry with me. It's usually grab the scissors, they're too dull, get a knife, the blade breaks, find a utility knife and there's no blade so I saw at it for an hour with a very dull saw blade that is hanging around on the basement floor and get it apart just in time for a huge flood to come and get whatever is supposed to be dried sopping wet. Okay, so I don't really know what the whole, "cut and dry," thing means, but I'm assuming it's something that's simple and straight forward. In any case, nothing is ever easy.

Almost the entire last week sets the example that cut and dry and I are not compatible. I see you there rolling your eyes and thinking I'm being a bit dramatic. I suppose I could be. I've been known to tip the drama scale from time to time, but in this instance I believe it's warranted.

Sunday was Easter. It rained. A lot. I'm not talking this nice little spring rain that brings forth nice little flowers and birdies are still singing happy tunes throughout as you frolic happily through dandelions that have gone to seed, (that's probably not a good idea anyway...it seems they would stick to you in any amount of moisture) I'm talking heavens to Betsy killed a cat, yo (if you have ever conversed with me face to face and something is beyond belief, that's the phrase I use) raining. A torrential downpour that would make Noah sit up and take notice. It was the beginning of numerous ark jokes, countless rain song posts and days and days worth of rain. When this much rain falls in such a short time, there is runoff. And where did this runoff decide to land? All up in my basement.

Some may have been overjoyed at the thought of an indoor pool at the bottom of their basement steps. Why wouldn't they be? A chance to do those laps you've been putting off, or float around on a mat while sipping tropical drinks from a coconut with a little umbrella, but not me! I'm the pessimistic type sometimes. Indoor pools are cool and all, but frankly, I prefer to have hot water and no fear of it reaching the fuse box. I was secretly terrified that the water would rise to the fuse box. I'm not sure what kind of havoc that would wreak, but yo, I did not want to find out. The 14 inch deep water was still several feet from reaching that point, but little miss worst case scenario likes to rear her ugly head from time to time.

Monday morning rolled around and the water had not receded in the least. Not a single solitary drop had dissipated. We discussed it (one of us in tears that nearly matched the strength of the afore mentioned downpour) and decided buying a pump would be the best course of action. Tractor Supply was awesome!! We bought a little pump, some water hose and an extension cord. Oh, how my spirits lifted! This was going to work, I just knew it! We'd have a nice dry basement by the day's end and all would be well. After getting this nifty new pump home, put the hose on it, ran it out the basement window and got everything ready to plug it in. The moment of truth! This was going to work! This is awesome! Happiness and woots filled my mind in crazy tendrils while grabbing the plugs to get it started. Let's do this!! I smiled as I plugged it in, certain that this was the answer! Nothing happened. Nothing at all. All was silent. What the dog poop in the mornin' (another one of my rather insane exclamations)! Okay...so the extension cord is leeching power. Let's plug it up directly. We repositioned, plugged it in and nothing. Well poop. This isn't helping us any. Reading the instructions told us nothing that we didn't already know. An exchange was in order. Adam went back to Tractor Supply and exchanged it. This one worked. We watched for a few minutes as water blasted from the hose. Woot!! The water is going to go down in no time now! An hour went by and I measured the water. It had gone down 3/4 of an inch. This was going to take forever!!

Just then my dad swooped in to save the day! He showed up with this massive piece of machinery that had to weigh every bit of 100 pounds and looked as if it had been tripped over by dinosaurs. I was skeptical. After all, this day was full of roller coaster likeness and I was almost sure this was going to be a big ol' freefall downward. It was....at first. After about 45 minutes of fiddling with it, priming it, priming it again, is there enough gas, what the heck does this do, which is in and which is out, we got it running. And boy, oh boy did it run! Gallons and gallons of water lurched through the hose and down the back yard. Oh, happy day! Happy dances and more woots! Water was disappearing from the basement in leaps and bounds! Awesomeness!

Then........it rained. Oh, did it rain! It rained like pouring water out of a boot. And when it rains there is runoff. And where did this runoff go? All up in my basement. I'm not sure where my dad's patience came from. Everything that had been pumped out was back in. He may have just been holding back because his oldest daughter was crying like a 2 year old who lost her favorite dolly. Either way, he held fast. It was pretty amazing really. Until about 6 that night we pumped water out of the basement with that old pump then we used what we have since called, "LittlePump." The next morning, the water was gone!! One fight down...how many more to go? Ah, that remained to be seen!

I'm a huge fan of major appliances. Next to [most] people and my cat, they're the best things ever. They cook, they wash dishes, they keep things cool or frozen. What's not to like----when they work. That morning, I remained cautiously optimistic that the appliances in the basement hadn't been destroyed beyond compare. First the washer. Saying a small prayer, I turned the knob and pulled it forward. Nothing. My heart sank. We had just bought this washer mere days before the flood and I had been able to use it for very nearly 48 hours. Why, oh why wouldn't it bring forth the beautiful spray of water that had immensely impressed me so recently? Maybe it was stopped up. I pressed the button and turned it to the spin cycle. Silence greeted me and fear gripped my heart. Okay...so the washer was dead. One small failure, we can get past this. On to the dryer. Atop the dryer, placed under the detergent was a black cord. I studied it for a second and then laughed to myself as I plugged the washer's cord into the socket. The washer then began to do the absolutely amazing job that it was meant to do! Success!

The dryer, on the other hand, didn't work. I made sure it was plugged in, set the timer and pressed the button. I was only greeted with a quiet hum. I opened the door, turned the drum, (drum? barrel? spinny thing?) and tried again. This time, not only did it hum, but it emitted some sort of funky burning smell. I decided to leave it as it was. Maybe it just needed to dry out. Maybe it was dead. Maybe space aliens had landed sometime during the night and implanted some sort of not working device all up in it's innards. At worst, the dryer had gone to that big junk heap in the sky. At best, it was on hiatus. Moving along to the water heater.

I hate lighting pilot lights. It's not that I'm afraid of gas or the whole crouching down thing to get it lit, it's just that I completely stink at it. I can light a pilot light one out of about 64 tries. I wish this was an exaggeration. I wasn't too surprised when I couldn't get it to light. Adam could try again later.

I am hard pressed to let things just go as they are. If there was any way on God's beautiful (albeit muddy at the moment) green earth that I could get the dryer to work, I was going to. Wednesday morning I set my sights on Google and didn't come up for air for at least half an hour. Through site after site after dreadful, not-so-helpful site I combed, searching for an answer. Finally, I found it! Aha! I will take it apart and see what I can see. The schematics studied, screwdriver in hand, I made my way to the basement. According to my research it could be the motor, the blower wheel, the timer thingy wiring or the bushings (?) needed oiled. First, I needed to get the top screws off and see what I could see. The first two screws went remarkably well. I knew they needed a Phillips head, so I was pretty much set there. After I unscrewed those, the little side parts were pretty much supposed to pop off, or that's how I understood it anyway. Remember the cut and dry thing? Yeah, that decided to play a role in the disassembling of the dryer. Nothing came off anywhere. Okay...so...that didn't quite work out so well, let's just go ahead and check on the timer wiring. Grabbing a pair of pliers (these were bolt-like and I wasn't sure I had the correct size, so I thought pliers would work best) walked to the back of the dryer. That's about the moment I decided that no one should ever buy used appliances and not check out the boltage before hand. Yeah, I'm not sure if boltage is a word, but it fits here, so I'm using it. There was every type of bolt and screw known to civilized man holding the back plates on. Screws, both Phillips and flathead, screws that took hex keys, and one screw that wasn't much more than a nail. Also, two bolts, one of which I could use a flathead screwdriver on. Ahhh, but you see, I wasn't in possession of a flathead screwdriver. I had several wrenches, the pliers, and various other tools that were absolutely useless in this case, but no flathead screwdriver. Three trips upstairs and a broken butter knife later, I had something that worked. It was something called a Miss Army knife. It's equipped with perfume vial, a mirror, a corkscrew, a hair pin, a small light an ink pen and much to my delight, a flathead screwdriver! Way too much time later I'm looking at a bunch of stuff that I have no idea what is. The wiring looked fine. There was a bit of dirt that had been left behind from the flood on the floor of the dryer, but other than that, I could see nothing wrong. Back to the front. I studied for a few moments wondering how the heck to remove the bottom panel. The screws were out, but the sides wouldn't pop off like they were supposed to. I suppose I could have gone back to Google, but at this point it just seemed a hassle. I hadn't bookmarked the only useful link anyway and I thought it would just take up more time. I tried to lift the top. It came up, but only slightly. Hmm, that's not going to work. I crouched down and felt around the front bottom panel. I pulled gently and low and behold! It just came off in my hands. No screws were required to remove it. I sighed and wondered who the heck came up with that dang schematic and for the first time since I had began this little project, realized that that may have just been the wrong schematic. It did look like my dryer though, but I guess a lot of dryers look about the same. Regardless, I could see the motor. I ran my finger along the floor of the dryer. Dust, with only a minute amount of moisture rested there. I shone a flashlight to the motor. Well, poop. The motor seriously looked like crap. Junk kinda dangled from it and I was pretty sure the color was a bit off. I decided letting it dry out would be the best idea.

That was about 3 days ago. The pilot light has since been lit, the washer works like a dream and there still isn't water in the basement. Unfortunately the dryer is probably a loss. After letting it dry it still doesn't start.

I suppose I could be sad about the dryer. I could mope and pout and just generally be emo about it, but I'm not. Sometimes we have to admit our defeats and just celebrate the victories. After all, the washer works, we have hot water and the basement is dry (for the most part, that is a story for another time). If the only loss we took is the dryer, well, I'm okay with that. After all, 3 out of 4 ain't bad. Nope, it ain't bad at all.

Now Time for the Weather. Tiffany?

Today I decided to mix things up a bit. Instead of depending on Facebook to give me my daily news I ventured out of my element and actually read the real world news on MSN. Don't get me wrong, I can totally get by on what Pete had for breakfast or how much work sucks for Larry, (usually misspelled nearly beyond comprehension or written in some sort of new school chat/teeny/text speak that urban dictionary hasn't even heard of yet) but there are days when you just wonder what's going on beyond the wonderful circle you have going on on Facebook. ...or maybe I was just bored.

I don't watch Dancing with the Stars. It's not that I make a point not to, I just don't. I watched the first season, but really didn't see what all the fuss was about. I can't dance. These people probably shouldn't either. This season seems to be all about Bristol Palin (does her name sound like a over-the-counter pain medication to anyone else?). No one likes her, yet she remains. Normally there are overly passionate people on both sides of things like this, (*cough*Twilight*cough*) but in this case the only people who seems to be rooting for her is her mother and that weird dude who always thinks the underdog should come out on top...and he's waffling. So what do we do when we're overly unhappy about something? We make it political! I actually found myself doing the same thing the other day. I cut myself on a plastic wrap box while opening a loaf of bread (true story) and then instantly proclaimed it was Obama's fault because he doesn't like tea parties and I was just thinking about the tiny blue tea set that I have sitting on a shelf in the kitchen. Who says we can't blame the president for everything? Pssht. Ahem...but I digress. Anyway, people are convinced it has to do with politics and her mom. I think it's just cause she's hot. ;)

On a related note, mommy dearest is thinking of running for president in 2012. Dang good thing the world is set to end before she's sworn in. Shew....and you thought Bush was bad? I can not see a chick running the country who runs the risk of making a decision while having PMS. Maybe she's too old for PMS. Oh no! Hormones! Yeah, thanks guys who decided to end the world with a really old calendar. You rock! *fist bump*

So this Kate chick who is marrying prince William is everywhere. The good, the bad, the ugly....anything you ever wanted to know about the girl who wears enough carats to feed a small third world country is on the internet. I'm sure she thought she totally lucked out when he asked, but yo, personally there are a few skeletons in my closet no amount of begging by a prince could make me divulge. Keep your carats, I'll just have this cake and take a nap.

In other news I'm way excited that I was able to use the word digress! Next up, I'll remember touche somewhere. I do however, refuse to talk in text speak unless I'm under the impression that I may bleed to death or maybe when I'm having a particularly lazy day.

"Now time for the weather. Tiffany?"

Painthology

Every few months I have a few days when I'm convinced I should be locked in a padded room. I'm not sure if it's the moon or equilibrium problems or what, but I seem to be accident prone for a few days. Could it be the blonde that peeks out at me when I need to color or little distractions that cause me to unwittingly injure myself? I'm just not sure. It started a couple of days ago doing laundry. I literally brushed my knee against the dryer door. It wasn't a bang, or a boom and it didn't even hurt that badly, but I have one heck of a bruise on my right knee. There's also a scratch that accompanies it. This makes no sense considering the smoothness of the door itself. I suppose my fair complexion contributes to the darkness of the bruise. This, I can do nothing about. I'm also going to continue to wear shorts regardless of the pretty purple affliction on my knee. It's been hotter than the surface of the sun lately (ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration and I would just like to point that out in case you, dear reader, thought the surface of the sun was around 100 degrees. It is, in fact, much hotter) and I will risk damage to my beautiful porcelain skin (this is called sarcasm, children, and is used in this instance because of the ginormous amount of freckles that seem to be multiplying on my previously mentioned epidermus) to be about 3 degrees cooler. After all, three degrees is three degrees.

While making casserole Monday I burned my finger. Much to my changrin a blister didn't immediately appear. You see, without a blister or other assorted marks, there was no attestation to the pain I had encountered. There was simply my word. And boy, oh boy, was my word colorful! I complained about it for nearly 10 minutes (with other gripes here and there throughout the night) and needed proof to confirm that I wasn't simply being a drama queen (a few weeks ago a metal grate of a deal fell on a bone on my wrist. While recovering from that I somehow managed to let a window fall on my hand. These experiences happened within 2 minutes of one another so pain dances were performed and words were uttered that made Nathan look at me like I had come from the ninth circle of hell. Only a tiny purpley tint emerged to affirm that I had been injured. It was a miniscule mark to show tiny slivers of death that went all the way to my elbow. I was disappointed) and that I had ample reason to put off finishing the casserole another 15 minutes or so. The next morning a beautful blister adorned my middle finger! I paraded it around as if it were my second born child. Dear, sweet justificaton!! Of course, I'm sure they believed all along that it hurt like a bitch, but I wanted to give them something concrete. Thank you little blister for presenting yourself. You make me happy...kinda.

Tonight I was bored. Nathan and I were having our "talk time" on the couch and he was using it to work on his comic book of "Spike and Cy" while ignoring me. I tried fruitlessly to attain and keep his attention. I walked dinosaurs across the couch singing "doopy doopy dooo" and pretended to fry up a spider silly band. Both of these attempts were met with a "What the heck?!" and a giggle after which he returned to the land of the cyclops and spiky dude, drawing clouds in each panel. Then I saw them. It should have been a harmless venture really...I was simply going to pick them up, look at them and set them back down. I had spotted needle nosed pliers on Adam's desk. After examining them I noticed they were the type that have the wire cutters at the base near the handles. Uh oh. This would not end well. Of course I didn't think that at the time and started to return them to their previous home when I spotted a paper clip. It wasn't one of those tiny little paper clips either. It was one that would hold about 100 sheets of paper with no problem and had a thick layer of plastic coating. So, I do what any red blooded American would do...I cut the paper clip with the wire cutters. This took quite a bit of umph being that it was a thick paper clip and the cutters weren't very sharp. Yup...you've probably guessed it by now. When the clip finally gave and went flying I realized my hand was in the area where the springy part was. For this little brain blocked moment, I have proof already. Two tiny blood blisters. Moral of that story? Don't give Steph sharp objects when she's bored. Just don't.

But despite all my clumsiness, with a dash of luck and a sprinkle of divine intervention, I remain in one piece. For this, we can be grateful.

Leaving Home

I don't normally put things like this on here, but this is absolutely amazing. Nathan had to write a poem about an immigrant coming to the New World so long ago. He said he put himself in the person's position. I absolutely love it. This is the first stanza. I'll post the rest when he's finished.

Leaving Home

I step on the boat to depart

Sobbing, my mother waves, goodbye

Silently, I pray that I am not making a mistake

Suddenly I fall, sobbing for hope

Wondering if I'll make it

Wishing I could stay, I float out to sea

Shaking, scared, alone

I go away forever, hoping, dreaming.

-Nathan Haycraft

Undefeated She Remains

This morning I witnessed two cellar spiders performing some sort of bizarre mating ritual. Or...at least I think that's what it was. Their bodies were just a bit different which led me to believe one was in fact male, the other female. I suppressed the urge to smoosh them into oblivion as I watched. Cellar spiders are no threat. It reminded me of an argument. Their legs would entwine, then separate hastily as if the male had accused the female of stealing the blanket and leaving him in the cold. She readily disagreed and retorted with a sort of curling her legs motion and pretty much told him if he didn't like it, he should get his own cover. She was finished with him and the whole bedclothes junk. I think she was just annoyed because her suggestion would mean she would have more laundry. Next time she'll think before she speaks. He casually mentioned that he had been awake half the night trying to get the said blanket, but she would have no more of it. She told him it was about time he was the one lying awake. He snores.

He was stubborn. He would have the last word, but she had other things in mind. He put all eight of his tiny feet together in a huff and waited for a moment. She would relent. He was sure of it. How on Earth could he think such a thing? This was not her argument, he had started it! She furiously started tying his feet together with her web. He saw her trick and quickly dropped about three inches below her on his own silken line.

He must have came to his senses and apologized then because there was a flurry of graceful spins throughout the web they had created together. They weren't near one another...neither touched, but a certain calmness had overtaken them. Cautiously he approached her. She retreated only a small amount, but let him pass her as he ventured up the wall. I had apparently missed something because he then disappeared. She remained motionless, no doubt triumphant in knowing she had drawn an apology from him.

There she still sits. I haven't the heart to kill her. I'll let her bask in the knowledge that in the near future she will be a mommy. Maybe I should throw her a shower...hmmm...

A Woman's Wish List

A cup that only runneth over.

A whole yard full of four leafed clover.

Indian givers who don’t take back.

A gallon of water in a paper sack.

The ability to fly without a wing.

A hamper full of only clean things.

A smile that fades only at night.

A window that lets in only the light.

A car that runs on love alone.

Ice cream that doesn’t melt on the cone.

A self mopping floor, a self wiping table.

A guy who’ll give us completely free cable.

A computer that doesn’t lock up on a whim.

A flower that doesn’t wilt on the stem.

No expiration dates, no expired milk.

A self made bed completely of silk.

They think they have us figured out.

That they can please us, they have no doubt.

Oh honey, why do you look so sad?

This list isn't really all that bad.

Aww, babe don’t cry, it’ll be all right,

You’ll have to sleep there only one night.

The couch can be lumpy, and it’s no fun,

But that’s only because we need a new one.

Radiant Red Locks

It's that time again, folks. I blame vanity for this chore. I'm not sure why I wasn't born with lovely red locks to accompany my pale complexion. I personally think hair color companies mixed up genes somewhere just to take my money in some sort of crazy hair brained conspiracy, but that's just me.

I refuse to get my hair colored in a salon and pay three times as much as I could by doing it myself, although it might be a bit easier. It's quite the process, but in the end I'm usually happy with the result.

Normally I open the box and only remove the instructions to retrieve the gloves. I've done this so many times I could recite the steps while dancing the hula and balancing a ball one one foot. Of course, the only thing I would succeed at of those things would be reciting said steps, but one out of three isn't horrible. For only a moment I think about rereading the timing step just to be sure, but usually dismiss it while assuming it's the same as it has been for years. If it ever changes I may be writing a completely different blog about wig shopping or getting my hair stripped.

After mixing the two primary ingredients comes the fun part: application. Our bathroom is about the size of a refrigerator box (slight exaggeration, but not much). If ever a member of our family gains too much weight he or she will have to be buttered up to slip past the sink to make it to the toilet. The application in it's self is, of course, the most difficult. With gloved hands I meticulously cover my head with deep red goo careful not to miss any. In my younger days an overlooked spot here or a missed spot there wouldn't be a big deal. I would simply write it off as if I were expressing my individuality. These days, however, I prefer full coverage.

Before today I had enough hair to cover the heads of 15 newborns or 20 preemies, so this was no small feat. Bumping elbows on the walls and trying not to completely cover everything, I work section by section, unwittingly staining ears, forearms and quite possibly the back of my neck. After all of the solution is on my head I search the mirror one last time for missed spots. I seriously look like I have been in a horrible accident from the forehead up and fully expect my brain to fall out at any given second. I set a timer and survey the bathroom. I'm not sure how it happens, I'm usually very careful, but the bathroom always looks like a small animal has come to a very violent untimely death. I have even unintentionally dyed a spot on a Pomeranian about the size of a quarter. He didn't seem to mind.

After cleaning up the mess, changing my socks and rinsing the goo out of my hair I'm normally pleasantly surprised I didn't completely screw it up. Tonight I will follow these steps to have radiant red locks once more. Stupid vanity.