MAGIC HOUSE

I live in a Magic House.  The term was first coined when I was explaining the benefits of a wireless router to a a semi-interested party.  I am not the best person to be leading a technical discussion, but I can make up some good analogies on the fly.  In my explanation of the Magic House I was coming up with pretty good arguments in favor of having wi-fi in one's house.  In fact, as I was convincing the rest of the family, I was getting kind of jealous that they were all going to be so modern and high-tech.  It was about five months later when I brought an iPad home and realized that indeed, my house was magic.  I had wi-fi and did not even know it.  That is what a tekkie I am.

The term Magic House has a broader meaning for me these days.  You, Devoted Reader, know how I am lacking in the housework department.  There is something deeply satisfactory about programming my dishwasher to turn on in the middle of the night.  I go to bed with dirty dishes and wake up with clean dishes.  I do not have to listen to the gurgle of the dishwasher, nor do I have to vie for the hot water.  I do not even have to wash the dishes!  It is Pure Magic. 

Equally magical is the ability to program the oven to come on at a certain time and at a particular temperature.  Girl8 was thrilled to come home to a baked potato on several soccer game nights.  I was delighted to have prepared a spud without officially being at home.  It is akin to dumping bits and bobs in the crock pot and coming home to a full meal deal.

The crock pot cannot be ignored in this salute to modern technology.  Chopping a few onions and peppers in the morning and dumping in some frozen chicken and salsa pays off in spades when a person comes home to the wonderful aroma of dinner.  Not any dinner, but a spread comparable to having a cook from a foreign land working all day in the kitchen.

Coming home to a dark house is no treat.  Coming home to a house with lit candles in the window is nothing less than, well, homey.  It is as if a little butler scurried around the house in preparation for my arrival.  In these modern times, there are battery operated, fake candles that will come on automatically.  They are made of wax and they are even scented. Amazing!  Additionally, my house will be lit up like a church the next time the power goes out.  Magic!

Now, if the woodbox could fill itself, that would be Ultimate Magic.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

I used to be the person who raced to work in the morning, trying to be one of the first ones to get to school.  I stayed at work well after my work day was done, helping students and staff until dinner time.  That was before I had a life.  Or a Girl.  One of my favorite memories is when the Sophomore class made personalized Valentine cookies in the school kitchen.  I learned how to use the giant mixer, which was a delight to me.  We were there late in the evening, mixing dough, rolling out cookies, cutting them with a giant cookie cutter, and decorating them with the custom messages.  It was loads of fun.  I still look at that mixer with nostalgic feelings.  Anyway, back in the day, I was overly devoted to my job.

Now that I have GirlNearly9, things are entirely different.  Her schedule has always determined my schedule.  My arrival to work has been dictated by the babysitter's arrival in the early years, and later by the time that the daycare opened in the morning.  My departure from work was dependent on what time the babysitter wanted to leave, and then by the time that Girl5-6-7-8 got out of school.  I freely admit that my arrival and departure times occasionally do not meet my high standards of being on time.  In fact, there have been many days when I grumpily announced, "We're late!", and stomped out the back door.

There is a wide variety of factors that influence our morning departure.  One day, unbeknownst to me, Girl7 didn't finish her milk.  She put the cup in the refrigerator, trying her hand at being responsible.  On the way out the door, I opened the fridge to get my lunch.  The cup of milk, which had been precariously perched inside, tipped out and spilled all over the kitchen floor.  There were a few days when Girl8 realized that she hadn't done her homework the day before, so she decided to utilize all of her morning time, forgoing eating, getting dressed, or brushing her hair.  Hairdos play a large part of the morning routine, and there have been several days when the right hairdo did not present itself in a timely fashion.  There were a couple of third grade meltdowns which took some time to diffuse with hugs and quiet talk.  I shocked myself a number of times when I heard myself shouting, "Stop reading!  We have to go!!"  Do not be quick to blame, Accusatory Reader, for it isn't always GirlNearly9's fault.  There have been days when I had to turn around, as we were en route to school, because I forgot to take my pill.  There have been days when I hit snooze three too many times, and I jumped out of bed because I realized that we were supposed to be leaving in fifteen minutes.

Today's morning was not unusual because it had its typical drama, but it was a first in our house.  GirlNearly9 slumped out of the bathroom, holding a flower for her hair and wiping a tear off of her cheek.  She explained that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to put the flower in her hair.  Then she tried to employ a small barrette.  The clip slipped out of her hand and fell down the sink drain (I have pulled the drain plugs out because they are ugly.  A foolish decision, in hindsight.).  She was crying because a) she couldn't fix her hair, and b) she had lost the barrette down the drain.  I wanted to cry because a) I am scared to death of plumbing and the bad results if I screw up, and b) we were going to be late because of this new drama.  I shined the flashlight down the drain and could see the glint of the barrette.  Reassuring GirlNearly9 that I could fix this (I had my fingers crossed behind my back), I told her not to run any water in the sink until I remedied the situation when we got home.

All day I thought about how I could get that barrette out of the drain without tearing apart the pipes.  I kept coming back to a tool that my dad used to have, called "Long Finger" which was a long, skinny tool with retractable grabbers.  I wished I had one of those, but magnetic.  I thought I had used one when I dropped the oil cap down into the engine of my car when I was pregnant (another day that I was late to work, actually, and I cried - not because I was late but because I was not going to get to go to IKEA later if my car were out of commission), but I couldn't find it.  I finally hit on the solution in one of GirlNearly9's toys:  a set of magnets from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona.  They are marvelously strong, skinny cylindrical magnets that connect end-to-end.  I hooked about five together, then dangled them down the drain.  They immediately snapped up the hair clip, and I emerged from the bathroom, triumphantly singing my theme song, "Takin' Care of Business".

I am feeling pretty confident about being on time for the next few weeks.  Not because I have solved every problem known to man, but because we are on VACATION, BABY! (virtual high-five)

STYLIN'

Being the loyal reader that you are, you have closely studied all of that Sparkly Butt Jeans drama that I have written about (the famous SB Challenge, the hazards of SB jeans, my near failure at the challenge, and finally, thankfully, the last installment.  Or so you thought.).  You were rightfully relieved when I had worn out my nibs writing about sparkly butts.  You never wanted me to pen about pompis ever again, no more writing about rears, addressing asses or drafting derrieres.  However, Alert Reader, you know that the date of The Event is approaching.

The Event where it all began.  The first challenge was issued after attending the Event, and since then, another gauntlet has been flung in my direction.  I remind you of the Boots Bet.  Just when I thought I was All That, and then I looked around the room and realized I needed boots to be All That.  I already know, sadly, that this year when I wear my SB jeans and some tricked out black boots from Holland, that I will not be All That.  It is a new year, people, and style doesn't wait around for me to borrow boots from my mom.

I have been nervously checking the fashion magazines in the grocery store checkout lines.  What will the new fashion be?  I have been closely monitoring my young friends on Facebook to see what it is they spend their mad money on, and I have stalked them on Pinterest to find out what it is that they covet.  For a long time, I thought that Tom's were a brand of jeans.  Thankfully I did not have the opportunity to make a fool of myself before discovering that they are really those shoes everyone wore in Spain in the '80's.  I was not impressed with espadrilles twenty five years ago, either.

I fear that the Spring's poor weather is stifling the natural development of mode.  I do not believe that true fashion includes fleece lined slippers, ballet flats or yoga pants (please hold your comments about my yoga pants - that was my TRAVEL attire, Snarky Reader).  I have been waiting in limbo, waiting for nice weather to prime the pump of style and vogue.  Sunshine has not accompanied the arrival of Spring.  Besides turning the heaters up another notch, I am vacillating between down jackets and light sweaters, corduroy pants and pastel capris, all the time knowing that none of these has a place in the current trend.  The only things I am sure of is that my jeans are still sparkly and I lost the bet.