Disaster Flambe Currently Under Negotiation

I will be taking my blog down while negotiating with Tate Publishing to publish this book. More updates later...
Leigh

How To Sell $1.25 for $30 Or More

Since we are so tight on money lately, my hubby got the great idea to sell... money! Weird? He's been a coin collector for a long time. Here's our Ebay auction - Item Number 320161994210. I wrote it... can you tell?

Up for auction - $1.25 + Box + extra piece of paper that says “Certificate of Authenticity.”

So right now my husband and I are looking for ways to stay on our feet after having a baby who spent 16 weeks in the hospital. As much as I love working outside the home, it’s just not possible right now (darn!) You see, our little one is a bit special and requires the care of a nurse in my absence… something most daycares don’t seem to have on hand these days. How much does a nurse cost? $27 and hour! Unfortunately, that’s like, twice what I would make if I went back to work. Essentially, I would be paying someone so I could go enjoy slaving away for some boss who never seems satisfied with anything I do. Angels could fly out my butt and this guy would probably call me in and tell me to hang fly strips to clean up the mess I’d made. Not gonna happen.

We’ve been brainstorming for new and different ways to make some extra cash to help pay all the bills. We’re making an attempt to sell our nice, 4 bedroom house so we can trade Texas suburbia in for a singlewide trailer out in tornado ally. I’m really looking forward to some nice circa 1962 orange and green shag carpet and those nice polyester window treatments! Maybe we can even get an Elvis TV tray! yippee.

OK – so last night we were thinking of some more ways to drum up a little extra money when I saw a little light-bulb turn on over my husband’s head.
“Turn off the light... we’re trying to conserve electricity!” I yelled at our 4-year-old.
After we were sitting in the dark again husband exclaimed, “I know! We can sell some of my coin collection!”
“Your COIN collection? You want to sell money for money?” Huh – what a novel idea.

My husband dug out his coin collection which he keeps stored in a bucket, and started going through it. I admit that the whole time I couldn’t help thinking ‘here we are living on peanut butter and eggs, our children are wearing clothes I find at garage sales for $.25 and my husband has a bucket of money hidden in the closet! And this makes sense… how?’

This actually isn’t quite just a bucket of loose change or anything. It has these things called “Proof Sets” and stuff in it that this man has been collecting his whole life. My husband tells me that a “Proof Set” is a nicely packaged set of coins that have all been pressed twice, put in a cheepo plastic case and have never been touched by human hands. I am assuming the government employs monkeys to package these for us. I see this little case holding five shiny quarters and I see “$1.25.” Evidently my husband believes we can sell $1.25 on Ebay for more than $1.25.

This particular “Proof Set” is a 2001-S set of 5 quarters. It has New York with a picture of Lady Liberty (did you know she’s a French immigrant?). The Vermont quarter has a picture of some tree vampire sucking the maple out of a couple poor, defenseless trees. There is a North Carolina quarter with a picture of the Wright Brothers trying not to crash an airplane. The Rhode Island quarter has a nice little boat on it (how is it that a state that is smaller than Dallas and Fort Worth together gets its own quarter? Shouldn’t Alaska, Texas and California get two quarters each then?). Finally there is a Kentucky quarter with a mansion and a pretty horse on it. Have you ever noticed that the board fence on this quarter is four boards high, but it barely even comes up to this horse’s chest? Now either that’s a TALL horse, or someone needs to get their money back for that crappy fence work!

These quarters are all very shiny and look pretty against the blue background. (Hey – I’m female… we’re kind of like crows. If it’s sparkly, we’ll probably be attracted to it.) There are no scratches on the case from the monkeys and no discoloration of the coins. The cardboard box has a pissed off looking Eagle on it and shows some wear across the place that says 2001. My husband says we got it that way. (I guess it’s no use asking for our “money” back?)

Now, as these quarters are from 2001, I would consider this NEW money. We all know that new money has a reputation for buying Ferraris and wearing fur just to show off. From what I have seen, new money often ends up in rehab, so if you buy this money, keep an eye on it! We take no responsibility for the actions of this money after it leaves our bucket.

I know my husband has some OLD money in his bucket too. I’m not as worried about keeping that stuff around. Chances are it will spend its time hanging out in the Hamptons or doing lunch with Buffy and Biff. Whatever. I also found a few old paper dollars in the bucket. Does this make my husband a bill collector, too? And I thought I knew the guy! Sob, sob.

Now then, if you want to buy $1.25 worth of quarters that have only been handled by monkeys, please bid on this item. I looked out at some other sales on Ebay and it seems there are plenty of folks out there who want to buy five quarters for, like, $35 or something. And you think I’m funny?

PAYMENT OPTIONS: Hey – you’re buying MONEY. Pay us MONEY for this money. *** We prefer PayPal *** However, Money Orders, Cashiers Checks or Cash are accepted. If you have anything else sparkly, I might consider it.

PAYMENTS: All winning bidders are expected to complete the purchase through PayPal, Cashier’s Check, Cash or Money Order within 7 days of auction close. Any Non-Paying winning bidder will be left negative feedback and/or Non-Paying Bidder Status with Ebay after 10 days of non-payment, and we won’t send the pretty quarters.

RETURNS & REFUNDS: Product is being sold in as-is condition. The box is a tiny bit dog-eared, but the quarters inside the plastic have never been touched by HUMAN hands. No returns will be accepted or refunds made – even if you find monkey prints on the money. Please look at pictures prior to purchase. E-mail for more pictures.

SHIPPING: Buyer pays Shipping Costs. We ship Priority USPS when possible. I do my best to ship same or next day of payment.

FEEDBACK POLICY: Please take a moment to leave us positive feedback and we will do the same for you!

Any customer that leaves negative/neutral feedback without giving us the opportunity to resolve a problem will receive negative feedback. We promise that we will do our best to resolve any problem. Please give us the opportunity to help you.

Observations Of Uranus

I find it rather humorous that a number of years back, certain science experts decided to change the pronunciation of Uranus. Its name has been pronounced “Your Anus” since its discovery in 1770. In fact, the heavy, radioactive metal “Uranium” was named after Uranus when it was discovered only 8 years later by a German chemist. What a compliment to Uranus to have something hazardous associated and named for it!

Recently we have been told that the new and improved pronunciation of this planet is “urine-us.” Evidently the constant giggling over the original pronunciation was upsetting to the university professors and scientists.

Personally I fail to see why “urine-us” is any better than “your-anus.” Do we now have to pronounce Uranium as “urine-‘em?” Perhaps that would balance things out, for if we are to urine us we might as well urine ‘em while we’re at it. Or should it be "urine-yum?"

The original pronunciation of “your anus” just seems to fit in better with universal movement. Think of the other cosmic terms out there. Nebulae (cosmic gas), irregular galaxy, black holes, cosmic blasts, asteroid… Freud would have a hay-day with these terms.

And what about Asteroids? Nobody seems to have a problem with the pronunciation of these cosmic objects. I Googled “Uranus” and “Asteroids” together and found the following information:
“An Uranus-crosser asteroid is an asteroid whose orbit crosses that of Uranus. Most if not all are classified as ‘Centaurs’.”

What is a Centaur? A Centaur is a creature bearing the upper torso and head of a man, and the great-big buttocks of a horse. See? Universal compatibility!

I'd also love to know, if we send the Navy in a starship to explore the planets of our solar system, does that mean there could someday be seamen on Uranus? And if minerals are found there, will we be drilling into Uranus? Perhaps Uranus will be a great source of natural gas at some point in the distant future?

Only time will tell. In the mean time, how ever we choose to pronounce “Uranus” in the end, don’t let the scientists switch things about too much. I'd think it would be better to have a hemisphere full of asteroids or an atmosphere full of hemorrhoids.

Welcome to Holland… And New York City… And Iraq…

My Own Twist To The Famous Essay By Emily Perl Kingsley as seen at:
http://www.our-kids.org/Archives/Holland.html

I have been asked what it is like to have a child with special needs. Huh? Which one of my three are you talking about?

Let me explain it like this: It’s kind of like planning a trip to Nebraska, over and over again. You have friends who have been to all kinds of places, and you decide that Nebraska sounds the most “normal.” You don’t really want to have to deal with the smell of New Jersey, and California seems a little nutty. Texas seems like a whole ‘nother country and Oklahoma doesn’t really stand out. So Nebraska it is.

When the airplane lands, no one will tell you where you are or what you are supposed to do there. All you know is that it does not look like Nebraska. Soon you start to notice that you have come to a very busy and fast-paced place! You love being there, but sometimes you feel you simply can’t keep up. That is when you start to realize that instead of Nebraska, you have landed in New York City – the city that never sleeps and even the most minor of shows turn into huge productions.

Loving New York City, but still longing to visit Nebraska, you plan another trip. You are beside yourself with excitement as you board your plane, only to become horribly airsick the moment the plane takes off. Shortly into the flight you hit turbulence and must keep your seatbelt securely fastened at all times. When the wild ride finally ends, you happily disembark the aircraft only to find yourself in Iraq.

Iraq is unique and very different from New York City. You find that you love Iraq just as much as New York City, though in Iraq sirens seem to go off for hours on end. Others may wonder how it is that you can enjoy Iraq so much, but it is not something that can be easily explained. The stress level is high in Iraq, and the terrorist activities increase the longer you stay. Even so, Iraq is beautiful and the heat takes the bite out of the cold New York City winters.

Having found homes in two such interesting and different lands, you decide that you have traveled enough. To your consternation, you find yourself unwittingly launched through the air again on yet another aircraft. Unfortunately as you are rocketing through the clouds on this unplanned adventure, you notice that one of the engines has caught fire. When the other engine blows up rather unexpectedly, the aircraft is forced to make a rough emergency landing.

When you wake up in the hospital a few days later, you are informed that you now have a new home in Holland. Holland? After spending so much time in New York City and Iraq, how ever will you survive Holland? Not only have you inadvertently found yourself in Holland, but it seems one of the sea walls has sprung a leak and the land may be quickly reclaimed by the sea.

Suddenly you realize that you would do anything in the world to save Holland. Holland has won your heart just as New York City and Iraq had. Holland is totally different, but more beautiful than you ever imagined. For sixteen weeks you travel between New York City, Iraq and Holland while Holland recovers. When you are finally able to have a summit with the heads of the three areas, you find the most extraordinary thing!

Amazingly, New York City has slowed down just a touch to smell the beautiful Tulips and enjoy the windmills. Iraq, though it continues its terrorist activities toward your home-land, has become a protectorate of Holland and has threatened to annihilate those who would endanger the welfare of this quiet land.

Slowly you realize that the saying is true: All things happen for a reason. These three very different lands have somehow worked to reinstate a balance in your universe. I have also been told that “The Lord never gives you more than you can handle.” Sheesh! The Lord sure must think highly of me!

New York City, with its ADHD ways, now seems more special for its pace and creativity. Holland makes you smile each and every day and helps you to notice the beauty in all the small things. Iraq is still oppositional, defiant, disorderly and intent on taking over the world someday, but with the influence of Holland, perhaps it will rule with a kinder and gentler hand. (One can only hope!)

Is it difficult to live in Holland? Are you kidding? Compared to Iraq, Holland is like heaven! Did we ever make it to Nebraska?

Nebraska? Where’s that?

Sugar and Spice

Mother Goose once told us that young females are comprised of “sugar, spice and everything nice” but I beg to differ. At age four, I was fairly certain that my daughter K.C. was made up of “screeches and pouts and ferocious, mad shouts” instead. She went from an infant who was colicky for her first six months to a whiney, defiant young waif who ruthlessly nagged me for hours on end.

I know what you are thinking – If she were YOUR kid you’d put a quick end to THAT behavior. Yes, I used to look at other misbehaving children in the supermarket and think the same thing. Jacob was so easy-going and well-behaved and prior to K.C.’s arrival I was certain I must be quite the successful mother. All kids go through the “terrible two’s” or even the “terrible threes” in one way or another, but with Jacob I was always able to redirect poor behavior by starting a game of “who can find the Cheerio’s” or threatening to take a favorite toy away.

I once applauded my parental prowess and patted my own back on more than one occasion for never allowing whining, temper tantrums or the like in my home or in my presence. I now know that what I thought was good parenting was simply a good combination of personalities in a child/parent relationship. K.C. swiftly and methodically showed me what a great parent I was not.

I have never allowed whining or responded to requests in that voice that hits the eardrums like fingernails on a chalk board. That’s the number one rule, right? I used to believe that if a parent did not respond to or reward whining, the child would stop. Jacob probably tried whining twice, and when he realized it did not work, he stopped and hasn’t tried it since.

I also was under the incorrect assumption that children learn to speak from their parents and will imitate parental tone and inflection. For whatever reason, the tones emitting from my middle child resembled more of a squeaky door hinge than a human voice. Where had I gone wrong, and why did she continue to use this “voice” though every time she was made to repeat her requests in a “nice” voice?

I believe this particular whine comes from the cellars of Nature vs. Nurture. In this case, Nature is the main influence. I did not whine as a child, nor did my siblings. I do not tolerate whining as an adult, yet my daughter proved to me time and again that she is not me. She did not think the same way I do nor did she respond to threats the way I might have responded at age four.

I was always quite a tomboy. I loved stuffed animals and Hot Wheels cars, but had little use for dolls or makeup. In fact I was given a Barbie doll on my fifth birthday. I did find some use for her… I took her legs off and used them as tent poles for GI Joe’s campsite. Barbie legs also make good obstacles for toy horses to navigate in imaginary horse shows.

K.C. seems to be much more of a “girlie-girl” than I ever was or will be. I do wear makeup to work and for social occasions, but never if I am just hanging about the house. K.C. has seen me put on my makeup and at age two started asking for a drop of lip gloss every now and again. By her fourth birthday she had more makeup than I do, yet she was still far more interested in MY makeup than her own.

Having received two sets of makeup for her fourth birthday, we had already had a number of minor mishaps. A large hot-pink stain appeared on the carpet in her bedroom, and her psycho-gene was already showing up in obscure lipstick messages on the bathroom mirror. As a result, I decided to put her makeup in a “time out” for a few days.

One Saturday afternoon, it occurred to me that it had been quite some while since I’d had my four-year-old hanging about my ankles. As it was not her nature to entertain herself for more than a few minutes, I set off to find what she had gotten into. As I peeked into my own bedroom, I heard some quiet noises from the master bathroom.

I knew if I made my presence known, I would be met only with a wildly guilty look and I might never know whose toothbrush she had been scrubbing the toilet with. Instead, I snuck quietly to the bathroom door and peeked through. There was my little pumpkin and our white bulldog, Brandy Ann, sitting facing each other. You must understand that Brandy Ann is about the most patient, sweet-natured creatures on this earth. Indeed, she was sitting patiently as K.C. was giving her a makeover that would have made Tammy Faye Baker look clean-scrubbed.

As I pushed the door open and exclaimed “K.C.!” in a loud voice, Brandy Ann raised her blue shadowed eyebrows and nervously licked her strawberry-glossed lips in surprise.
“I didn’t do it!” K.C. screeched as she sped past me, making for the security of the small space under the bed in her room.
Brandy Ann stood up nervously, knowing she’d been caught as an accomplice in this indescribable crime of fashion. Her small bulldog tail nub was pressed against her backside and her innocent eyes ringed in green eyeliner followed me as I turned and left the bathroom. The lines between the guilty and the innocent were a bit fuzzy in this particular case.

I’d love to tell you that I marched myself straight back to K.C.’s bedroom to exact a punishment proportionate to the crime, but that would be a lie. I was laughing too hard to do much of anything other than turn back to the bathroom and start picking white dog hairs off the collection of open makeup scattered about the floor. I needed a little time to gather my composure enough to face the small, remorseless make-up-artist under the bed.

Later that day I moved the mangled remains of my own make-up collection to a higher shelf, away from artistic little hands. I did, however, allow Brandy Ann to trot proudly about the house for the rest of the day made up like a two-dollar whore.

I finally broke down and went to a child specialist for help. To my consternation, we left the office with a prescription for Zoloft which is an anti-depressant. My dear K.C. was diagnosed with Oppositional Defiance Disorder (or ODD). This “disorder” is caused by low serotonin levels in the brain. A child will repeat bad behaviors because each time she does something naughty or gets punished, she will get a “rush.” How interesting that my daughter is getting high from misbehaving. We always thought she was a bit... odd.

She comes by her serotonin issues honestly, I suppose. My paternal grandmother was a bit nuts, my brother was completely whacked, my sister once had a habit of washing her hands about 68 thousand times a day and my dad and I were always a bit too anxious about nothing in general. So perhaps it was my fault… in a way.

We never mentioned to K.C. that she was going to be getting medication at all. We simply put it in a cup of milk with enough Strawberry Quick to send any other healthy person into a diabetic coma. Within a week of putting K.C. on Zoloft at the ripe old age of four, there were changes. BIG changes. She no longer spent 8 hours a day in time out, she still had toys left in her room and she became… happy. After the first week on her medication she came to me, looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and said, “I don’t cry anymore, mommy! I’m happy now!” Though I once may have cringed at the notion of putting a child on medication, my new, improved and happier version of K.C. 4.0 made it all worth while. Would Tom Cruise agree? Well if not, I will happily loan him my middle child and allow him to taste that unaltered vintage of whine for himself.

Cheers!

Doctors and Patience

Yesterday I had the pleasant adventure of taking my youngest daughter to the doctor. Since Danika has Down Syndrome, she has about 43 doctors, so I will further specify that I took her to the Endocrinologist. It was found when Danika was in the NICU that she had boarder-line hypothyroidism. This is a common issue among people with DS and can cause people to become over-weight... because people with Down Syndrome need a few extra challenges, right?

There are not very many Endocrinologists out there currently, and I called no less than ALL of the ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth areas to try to find one that both took our insurance AND had an opening before 2009.

After hours on the phone, I succeeded in finding a doctor at Children’s Medical Center in Dallas (not to be confused with Medical City Children’s or Medical City Dallas Children’s). They had an opening for June 20,2007. At the time I placed the call, it was January something, 2007, so I gladly took the appointment and wrote it into my 10 lb. 2007 – 2009 calendar.

The big day finally arrived yesterday. My middle child, who is a very precocious four-year-old, was going to have to come too as I can’t afford someone to watch her. (I’m afraid K.C. requires hazard pay to entice would-be babysitters to take such a risk.) I was quite proud I had everyone up, dressed, fed and ready to go out the door by 11:30 AM to get to our 12:45 appointment down-town.

Along the way I decided to stop at a fast-food place to pick up some lunch. I dutifully asked my four-year-old what she would like and was quite surprised when she stated “Nothing! I’m full!”

“But this is MacDonald’s! Are you SURE you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure, mommy.”
“OK…”

I placed my order and pulled around to the window to pay.
“I want a chocolate milkshake!” a small voice whined from the back.

Thankfully the lady at the window was able to tack on this last minute health-food item as I paid.

After sitting in stop and go traffic for an hour, we arrived at CMCD (the hospital) only 5 minutes late. Hooray. I pulled into the incorrect parking lot, stopped to stare at the map I’d been sent by the doctor’s clinic, determined that the names of the streets on the map were not actually POSTED anywhere, turned the minivan around, made a U-turn at the next light and made an illegal left turn into the correct parking lot.

Jogging with a Graco Stroller and a whiny four-year-old is not as easy as it looks. It didn’t help that the outside temperature was 94 degrees. Another four degrees and I’d have been jogging through a rock group. After narrowly missing being hit by the Valet in a Hummer, we made it safely into the lobby.

We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor with my four-year-old crying the whole way because I’d forgotten to let her push the floor button. We disembarked from our elevator and found the check-in desk whereupon my four-year-old (henceforth known by her name of K.C.) announced she had to go potty. I checked in at light speed and we made it to the public bathroom just in the nick of time.

After leaving the restroom with wet hands and some soap dribbling down the side of the stroller, we located the doctor’s suite and were handed a mountain of paperwork to fill out. The nurse was already calling us to go back, so I would just have to fill out the paperwork on the run. The cup-holder trays on Graco strollers make for a great mobile desks in a pinch.

Danika was weighed, measured and her blood pressure was taking. I’m happy to announce her blood pressure was FAR better than mine was at that moment. We were then escorted to an exam room and sat down to wait for the doctor.

The doctor opened the door just in time to witness the existential ballet production by K.C. who was sailing across the room superman style atop the doctor’s stool. Pick your battles, moms – it’s this or whining.

The doctor read over Danika’s records, asked two questions and sent us down to the Lab for blood work. I’ll admit I was somewhat let down with this 4 minute visit after all my efforts. We packed up the stroller and made our way back out to the lobby where I handed the desk nurse my sloppily filled out paperwork.

After riding the elevator in which K.C. got to press the floor button, we stepped off back on the ground floor and wandered over to the Lab. In the empty lobby I was handed a paper with the number 27 on it. 27 out of what? We waited amongst the 26 invisible patients until the technician returned from a snack break and called our number.

No veins were readily noticeable in Danika’s plump baby arm, so the nurse chose to stick her finger instead. Had the finger belonged to my four-year-old, the crying would have been heard through the hospital. As it was Danika’s finger, she looked a bit surprised and then sat quietly as her tiny finger was milked for the next 20 minutes. In the mean time, K.C. was checking out all the stickers and pencils on the counter. She decided that Danika wanted the bubbles in the green bottle, and happily liberated those and a few stickers from the large glass jar in which they were neatly contained.

Then back to the car. Opening a car door on a 94 degree day is much like sticking one’s head in the oven. I felt much like the witch from Hansel & Gretel placing each of my beautiful children into the sweltering, metallic vessel and strapping them into their child “safety” seats. How safe will my children be if they are cooked before anyone has a chance to sideswipe us?

Taking a chance, I started the ignition and set the A/C on full blast, then walked back to the stroller and began collapsing it. I could just see the news reports of the car jacking in Dallas. One child would be found minutes later by the side of the road (nobody but mom can stand her whining for much longer than that) and the quiet one missing until someone realized she was still in the van when they were dismantling it. No doubt they would be met with a wide, toothless smile and two chubby hands beckoning to be picked up and hugged.

When I finally arrived home in the evening, I wondered how it was that one four minute doctor’s appointment could take up so much of my life. I estimate the total time of calling, waiting, driving, traffic, and labs to be about 6 months, 14 days, 6 hours… oh… and four minutes!

The Competition of EST

As a mom I know that there are a number of great taboos in parenting. One mustn't label one's children, one mustn't beat one's children, one mustn't belittle one's children and one must never, ever compare one's children to his/her siblings or to one's friend's children! I have found that through the years, peer pressure as well as the innate human competitive nature can sway even the most resolved mother.

Often enough, this competition of "est" starts even before our children are born. Examples of this include, "Mine took the longEST to conceive." Mine was the smallEST at the first ultrasound." Mine was the busiEST while in-utero."

From there it seems we are constantly judged by our peers on our child's performance. What age a child learns to sit, crawl, walk, self feed, speak, use a toilet and dress him or herself are all fodder for playground conversation and comparison. I once ran into an acquaintance in a grocery store who noticed the diapers in my cart and asked why my 3 year old wasn't potty trained yet. I told her it was because I am an inept parent and because we have no working toilets in the house. OK, so I didn't really say that, but I really wanted to! Of course her daughter was using a toilet by the time she was 22 months of age blah, blah, blah...

Well, if the actions of a child make someone feel superior to another parent, so be it. Do we feel so badly about ourselves that we must base our own value on the accomplishments of our child? Do our own achievements at work or in social settings pale in comparison to our child's success in the battle over thumb sucking?

I was given a different perspective on this issue upon the birth of my third child. She was my smallEST at 2 lbs. 7 oz. She was my earliEST, born at 30 weeks gestation. She also has Down Syndrome. Suddenly reaching the smallest of goals became monumental. The simple act of reaching for a toy brought a new sense of joy and pride to me, and it didn't matter what anybody else's mom thought! When my daughter first rolled over, I did a happy-dance in the family room and called every family member to brag about my daughter's achievement.

Suddenly it no longer mattered to me if my most special of children walked at age 2 or 4. Just the fact that she will someday learn to walk will be paramount. If she is using the potty consistently by age 6, I'll bust with pride. If she's reading Dr. Seuss at 10, I'll sing to the world about my daughter's talent and ability!

This newfound perception will only serve to help my two older children. As a parent who would NEVER label her children, I can tell you that my ADHD son and very high maintenance middle child will walk a path less scrutinized when missteps occur. We are, none of us, perfect. Each of us is an individual, as created by the good Lord. If we were not, the world would be a very boring place. In every facet of life it is too easy to look at the actions of others and judge. As far as my life is concerned, I am looking forward to the day that my youngest daughter will eat through her mouth for the first time. No biggie to you, but to us... AMAZING!!