Parisian Do’s and Don’ts

By Sue · 23 Folders and Gabbers · November 1st, 2012

Je suis revenue!

I have returned!

What a fabulous ten days it was, friends. I want to tell you about it.

How to do it within the confines of a single post?

That’s like asking The Small One to pick his top five Legos, and, forsaking all the rest, only play with those five for an afternoon.

But I’ll try. So please indulge me as I present you with a somewhat tongue-in-cheek list of:

Parisian Do’s and Don’ts

*****

Do consider renting an apartment.

If you plan to stay for more than a couple of days? It’s a very economical choice that beats the pantalons off of selling your firstborn off in order to pay for nightly hotel room fees. Throw in on-site laundry and cooking facilities? And you’ve got yourself one suite deal.

Through a little detective work, we learned that our apartment was owned by world-renowned wine expert Jeannie Lee. Tres chic, indeed.

*****

Ladies, don’t bring your high heels.

Or your bling. Or your revealing clothing. Or your loud voices. Or your push-up bras. To say that French women are understated is…well…an understatement. My group knew about this before our departure and did our darndest to blend in with les femmes locales.

Why, yes, we did walk around like this for ten days. Did I not mention that everyone in Paris does?

Our flat-heeled walking boots, stud earrings and black-on-black ensembles served us well, but our raucus laughter screamed America, time and time again. We might as well have been wearing star-spangled top hats singing Yankee Doodle. C’est la vie.

*****

Do prepare to be wowed by Exceptionally Obedient Parisian Dogs and Children.

No leashes, harnesses, muzzles or sedatives required. For the dogs or the children. If I have any more of either in the future? I’m totally shipping them off to Paris for boot camp.

*****

Do partake in delicacies like fois gras and pate’. But don’t snob off to the Nutella crepes and French fries.

This guy loved me and begged to have his picture taken.

For a city renowned for its fine dining, Paris is up to its proverbial eyeballs in Nutella. I’m not complaining…I personally love the stuff. But to my mind, it’s comical that I can purchase fois gras and Nutella crepes within a stones throw of one another. And the French fries? They’re fab. Despite the fact that French fries are not French, people consume them 24/7. They call them les pommes frites and eat them with everything from eggs in the morning to garden salads at dinnertime. Also? They prefer them with mayonnaise. Tres highbrow.

*****

Don’t be taken in by Parisian street scammers.

They abound in the city of lights, friends. If you don’t keep your eyes wide open and one hand on your billfold, you’ll be robbed blind before you can say Champs-Elysees. While on a walking tour, my friends and I asked our guide about the times that we felt that attempts had been made to swindle us:

Friend 1: ”I was stopped by this lady who was walking toward me. She knelt down and picked up a gold ring off of the sidewalk. What was that about?”

Tour Guide: ”Ahh…she was a gypsy. That is a scam. They tell you that you dropped the ring. When you say it is not yours, they insist that you keep it anyway. If you do, then they bother you for money as a show of your appreciation. Do not fall for it. Just keep walking.”

Friend 2: ”Okay…how about the all of the people hanging around the train station who want me to sign their petitions?”

Tour Guide: ”Another scam. You stop to sign, and while you’re concentrating on that, their friends swarm around you and pick your pockets. Never agree to sign anything. Ignore them as you would the ring gypsies.”

Me: *And what’s with that group on the bridge over the Seine holding signs saying, ‘Free Hugs’?”

Click image for source

Tour Guide: ”Those are the people who are offering the free hugs.”

Have you been to Paris, friends? What do’s and dont’s would you add?

23 Folders and Gabbers

Guest Post from Because my Life is Fascinating

By Sue · 21 Folders and Gabbers · October 25th, 2012

Bonjour, mes amis!

Yes. I’m still away. At this very moment, I could be weeping at Jim Morrison’s grave or purchasing baguettes at the Champs-Elysees.

In any case, I’m thrilled to introduce you to my friend Hillary, who makes her virtual home at Because my Life is Fascinating.

And she is…fascinating, I mean. She has a gift for taking those mundane little moments in life and exploding them into pieces of writing that make you laugh.

Or nod your head in agreement.

Or think.

Or shed a tear.

She’s someone to watch. You heard it here first, friends.

***************************************************************

Greetings, Spin Cycle Readers. I can’t tell you how tickled I am to be able to guest post for Sue! I’m gonna go ahead and try though.

When it comes to bloggers, Sue is top-shelf. So when she asked me to entertain ya’ll while she gallivants around Paris, I did a little happy dance.

Then I panicked cause she’s such a fantastic writer, and how would I ever match her brilliance? Yeeeeks.

Then I got depressed because I’ve never been to Paris.

And finally, I drank a glass of Merlot and dealt with both the anxiety and the depression. I have no idea why I’m paying my doctors so much money. This stuff fixes everything!

Except Paris. C’est la vie.

Enough whining. She didn’t ask me here to do that. Allow me to introduce to you the top five awkward moments according to me.

Top Five Awkward Moments

1. Are they waving at me?

We’ve all been there. You think someone is waving at you so you wave back, and then you realize they weren’t really waving at you.

I’ll never forget the time a professor (who I had met maybe twice) waved at me from across campus. I waved back, commending myself for making such an impression. He was walking toward me, beaming a great big smile. “Where’s that beautiful smile?” he called out. Confused, but nevertheless flattered, I beamed back a Colgate-worthy response. That’s when the girl scooted past me and greeted him. I was mortified.

2. I forgot your name.

You know who they are, maybe you know a lot about them. But you don’t freaking remember their name! Smooth as you play it, this fact sells you out.

3. Whose turn is it at the intersection?

Car or pedestrian? Pedestrian or car? My car or your car?

I absolutely hate this silent, back and forth conversation that seems to last for an eternity:

“After you.”

“No, after you.”

“Oh, but I insist, you go.”

“No, I just couldn’t. Please, you must go.”

“Well, then. I don’t want to be rude.”

“Ok, why not?”

{And then in unison} “Oh, I thought I was going now…”

Repeat.

4. How long has THAT been in there?!

Ten minutes after having the most animated conversation of your life—the kind where you show all your molars and even the scars from your wisdom teeth by laughing so hard—you go to the bathroom.

That’s when you see it: the biggest, honking piece of food lodged between your two front teeth. You’re the last one to know about it.

The only thing that trumps this brand of awkward is a flyaway booger. The kind that you cannot feel, but others surely see.

5. How do I join this conversation?

This is probably the one I am most guilty of. I am not really shy, but sometimes I have bad timing. I’ll be at a party or some larger social scene, see a group of friends or worse, acquaintances, and try to join the circle. Everyone’s talking and engaged in conversation, except for me.

Five minutes later, still no one’s acknowledged me. Seriously, I think a garden gnome could do better than I at fitting into the group. The only thing left to do is walk away. But how? Backwards, with head slightly ducked seems to be the appropriate way.

And so, like a shunned buzzard, I inch away from the group I cannot join and wonder if somehow I slipped into Harry’s invisibility cloak without knowing it. Yes, that’s what must have happened.

Welp, those are mine, now it’s your turn!

21 Folders and Gabbers

Guest Post from Absolutely Narcissism: They Hate Me!

By Sue · 36 Folders and Gabbers · October 18th, 2012

Friends?

I am not here. I’m on a little excursion with unidentified individuals to a top-secret location, for an undisclosed amount of time.

Which may or may not be ten days in Paris with girlfriends.

Squeeeeee!

Ahem.

Anyway. I have enlisted the help of two friends to look after The Spin Cycle while I am away. Today I’d like to introduce you to Sandra of Absolutely Narcissism.

Sandra, to me, is like that cool chick that you saw down the hall in high school but were too scared to talk to because she was so stinkin’ fabulous.

She is smart.

And funny.

And popular.

And wildly irreverent.

And she makes no apologies for it.

She is Canadian, so she says exotic things like “favourite” and “realise.”

And did I mention that she is drop-dead gorgeous?

But then you do work up the nerve to talk to her…and you come to know that she is just an all-around good egg with a heart of gold.

Please meet Sandra. And then go visit her at her home in the blogosphere. But whatever you do? Don’t be haters until you’ve gotten to know her.

********************************************************************************

They Hate Me!

I’m that parent that teachers talk about. Oh yes, they do.

I know they gather round the table in the break room, and while tearing into their granola bars, the conversation is abuzz with gossip about that annoying mom; that mom who clearly doesn’t give a crap about her kid, you know which one I’m talking about, right? She has that cute little boy in the 4^th grade who can’t read very well.

She never signs the agenda so we never know if she’s actually bothered to check if her kid even has any homework…That poor little kid probably has to pack his own lunch.

By now, the rest of the teachers are starting to connect the parent (me) to the stories of the poor little kid, who by the way, does NOT have to pack his own lunch. But he doesn’t like to eat anything. What’s a mother to do? So I send what I know he will eat: processed crackers and cheese. Sure it’s not super healthy, but there must be some nutritional value in that, like calcium…and maybe, plastic?

And he can too read! It’s just that he doesn’t like it. Am I supposed to beat him over the head with the 4^th grade storybooks, which by the way are stupid and boring? Give the kid some books with the word “poop” in them, and guess what, he won’t be jerking my chain at story time anymore.

The teachers will continue their rants: She’s the woman whose kid doesn’t dress for the weather, the teachers are saying. He comes back from recess with red, chapped hands because his mother didn’t send him any mittens. What kind of a mother doesn’t send mittens, they’ll add.

But I do tell him to take his mittens! I lay them out on the table next to his breakfast. I even watch him leave the house with them. But between my driveway and the school, I have no idea where those mittens disappear to. He claims he doesn’t know either. He’ll tell me, “I think I might have dropped them somewhere when I took them off because my hands were so hot.”

What should I do, teachers? Should I sew the mittens onto his hands? Would that be better?

Sure, I could have followed my 9 year old to school, like a perfect parent. But I didn’t. Because my mom never followed me around, and guess what? I still have hands, and I know how to read AND write. And back then, there was no such thing as a book in which my mother signed her name to show that she was aware I had homework to do.

So how do I even know the teachers hate me?

Well, I don’t for sure.

Except I did get a note in the homework book last year, in which the teacher specifically told me: “Could you please send your son proper winter clothing for recess. And could you also send him a more nutritious lunch; one with fruits and vegetables. I know your son is a very smart boy because his teachers from his previous years have told me so. But they also mentioned that you don’t sign the agenda, and as a result of this, he falls behind in his homework.”

Unfortunately, I didn’t get this message until near the end of the school year …

…Because I kept forgetting to sign the homework book.

36 Folders and Gabbers

A Race of Our Own

By Sue · 31 Folders and Gabbers · October 11th, 2012

Source: dandaugherty.wordpress.com

I took my place near the front of the throng of runners, ahead of the recreational crowd but decidedly behind those who high-kneed it back and forth across the breadth of the start line. No sense in getting trampled within the first ten seconds as the crazies in front jostled for first place. Fifteen years of competitive running had taught me to steer clear of that first clump who could be easily identified by their high-waisted shorts, visors, and by the way they fussed over their running watches.

I looked more closely at the crazies and noted that there was a smattering of hopeful young boys among them. I saw a familiar blond head and realized that it was my own Twin B.

Oh, for crying out loud. The child had signed up for this 5K on a whim and had absolutely no business up there. Sure, he was a good athlete. Wiry and strong. An avid swimmer and soccer player. But most definitely not a competitive runner. Did he think he was going to clock three consecutive six-minute miles and win the whole thing?

At the start signal, the crowd lurched forward, and Twin B disappeared from sight. Good Heavens, I thought as I settled into a comfortably brisk stride. Has the boy already been claimed as a stampede victim? My mind’s eye fixated on a morbid, picture book-inspired image image of him - Flat Twin B – until the crowd thinned and I spotted him about thirty yards ahead.

He looked good.

Solid.

Well-paced.

A contender.

So the kid can run, I thought proudly. Good for him. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.

Be that as it might, it quickly became clear to me that I was gaining ground.

Not that it was all about winning. Because it ~~mostly~~ wasn’t.

At the one mile mark, I approached on his right. Red-cheeked, he cast me a sideways glance. ”Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, man…Just run your pace, ok? There’s two more miles to go.” I overtook him, made sure I was a respectable fifteen feet in front so as not to cut him off, and then worked my way back to the left to hug the curb a I rounded a bend in the road.

My mind began to wander as it often does when I’m out on a run. At about two and a half miles, I was mentally going over the contents of my pantry and thinking about Crock-Potting it for dinner when I heard heavy breathing on my right. A quick look over my shoulder told me that Twin B was on my heels.

This was getting interesting.

I let him pass. I’ve never been the type to alter my own pace to hold a spot midway through a race. ”Hey, man.”

“Hey, Mom…catch you later.” And with that, the boy cut sharply to the left and directly in front of me. No fifteen foot grace space. With a smirk over his left shoulder, he shot off, leaping to grab a leaf off of a low-hanging tree.

Interesting.

Catch you later?

No grace space?

Leaping and grabbing?

Very interesting, indeed.

I trailed my son until the final two tenths of a mile, at which point I turned on the reserves, pushed past him a final time, and crossed the finish line twenty seconds ahead of him.

He threw me a champion’s grin when I high-fived him at the end. And I was as proud of him as I’ve ever been.

Because children need to know that they can’t always win.

Just as I know that I won’t the next time I race with Twin B.

31 Folders and Gabbers

Epic Failure

By Sue · 26 Folders and Gabbers · October 4th, 2012

Happy fall, friends! As I am feeling ~~lazy~~ nostalgic at the moment, please enjoy a post I wrote nearly two years ago to the day. And then tell me in a comment: How do you do October Exterior Home Decor?

I am an epic failure.

Just ask my children. They’ll tell you, with heavy sighs all around and a far-off longing in their eyes.

Sit yourselves down and make yourselves comfortable, friends, and I’ll explain.

As the temperature dips outside and autumn leaves flutter to the ground, The Cherubs’ attentions naturally turn to Halloween, arguably the most exciting night in the life of a child aside from Christmas Eve.

So how do I fail?

In the October Exterior Home Decor Department.

You see, when my children reached elementary school age, they developed themselves a serious case of Keeping Up with the Joneses. They began to cast wistful glances across the street and comment upon how impressive our neighbor’s house looked in the weeks leading up to Halloween.

For The Joneses, October Exterior Home Decor is all about the scary.

The creepy.

The macabre.

The I’ll-Run-Into-That-Yard-If-I’m-Triple-Dog-Dared-And-Then-Get-The-Heck-Out-Of-Dodge-Before-I-Soil-Myself brand of October Exterior Home Decor.

They have lights that flash.

And things that scream.

And inanimate creatures so lifelike that you’re certain they’ll seize you and bare-handedly pull your rapidly beating heart right out of your chest if you linger too long on their property.

Yo. They gots their gruesome goin’ ON. They be rockin’ the horror thang. Big time.

As for me, I truly have no qualms with Halloween. It’s fun. Sure, I prefer not to glorify the origins of this day, but my beliefs do not prevent me from enjoying trick-or-treating, bobbing for apples, or dressing my poor aging dog in a strap-on felt witch’s hat.

And I have no qualms with The Joneses. As a matter of fact, I am fantastically fond of The Joneses. Our children play together. We parents have enjoyed many a happy hour together. We have a very amicable relationship, and I don’t think I could find better neighbors if I tried.

But when it comes to October Exterior Home Decor, I simply cannot keep up with these Joneses.

Fall-like?

Sure…I can do fall-like.

Festive?

Now we’re talking.

Autumnal?

I am the undisputed Queen of Autumnal.

But I just can’t do scary.

You know…like The Joneses do it.

S to the C to the A to the R to the Y…SCARY.

Believe me when I say: It’s not them. It’s me.

And each fall it becomes more and more abundantly clear how epically I fail in Scary 101.

The Joneses hang up this:

And I hang up this:

They drive this on a stake into their flower beds:

And I insert this into my flower beds:

“Mom.” Twin B sighed just the other day as he trudged up our festive driveway after shooting hoops with The Jones Boys in their spooky driveway. “You’re embarrassing us. Can’t you be a little scarier? You know, like-”

“Like The Joneses do it?” I finished for him wearily. “Let me think. Um…no.”

“Please.” my oldest son took my hand in his. “Try. One scary thing. Just get one scary thing for our yard, and I won’t ask for anything else. I promise.”

I looked at him, sized up the ‘tween angst on his face and folded like a cheap suit. “All right…I have to run some errands tomorrow morning while you’re at school…I’ll see what I can scare up. Ha, ha! Get it? Scare up?”

My stab at humor was ignored, but Twin B’s spirits were visibly lifted at the prospect of keeping up with The Joneses in some small way.

So while errand running the next day, I made a purchase at a nearby discount store, brought it home, and displayed it in front of the big Bartlett pear tree in our front yard.

And I stationed myself at the front window when The Cherubs were due to return home from school.

Right on time, the bus stopped, its door opened, and a handful of children burst forth from within, running full-tilt toward my house, Twin B in the lead.

As my son reached our front yard, he stopped short and stared, slack-jawed, at the newest addition to our October Exterior Home Decor:

No one uttered the words, but the expression on Twin B’s face as well as on the rest of the children’s faces said it all.

Failure. Of epic proportions.

And by the way, don’t even get me started on the topic of Halloween costumes.

That, my friends, is another post entirely.

26 Folders and Gabbers

Goodbyes

By Sue · 56 Folders and Gabbers · September 27th, 2012

First: A bit of business…

The winner of the Tomy Chuggington Stack Track Giveaway is:

1) Danielle M: dgood————

Congratulations, Danielle. I’ve emailed you to obtain shipping address information. I hope you enjoy your Stack Tracks as much as we have.

And now…Back to our regularly scheduled post:

*************************************************************************************************************************

”What’s a liver?” The Small One asked, tears in his eyes.

I walked over to my youngest son and rubbed his back as I spoke. ”It’s one of your internal organs. It does lots of things. One of its jobs is to move waste through your body. I think. Biology has never been my specialty, hon.”

“Oh, it’s biology?” He brightened, scraped back his chair, and scampered away from the kitchen table. ”Hang on! I’ll be riiiight baaaaack!” His voice trailed off as he ascended the stairs to his room.

That left The Twins and me to blink at one another through our own watery eyes as we ate our cereal under an almost tangible cloud of despair.

“Will it hurt?” Twin B whispered. The three of us looked at Macy the Geriatric Weimaraner together.

She was reclined on her side, head resting upon the carpet. We knew that she could not hear…hadn’t been able to in months…but we spoke in hushed tones nonetheless.

I shook my head. ”It’s a very peaceful procedure.”

“Okay.” The Small One panted, settling down at the table once again, his cartoon illustrated biology book in his hands. ”Let’s see.” He consulted the contents, thumbed through the pages, located the one featuring an irregularly shaped blob with a smiling face, feet, and hands. A white vacuum cleaner was grasped in one of the hands. He began to read aloud. ”The liver is a wobbly workaholic who cleans up after the rest of the body. This hothouse of activity generates heat for the body. It just beats the brain as the body’s heaviest organ.”

He furrowed his brow, shrugged, and flipped feverishly through the rest of the book. His sorrow was temporarily and mercifully eclipsed by his fascination with all things scientific. ”Guys! Checkitout! Everything in your body’s in here. Everything: Heart…brain…nose…ear…stomach…”

The Twins and I slipped away from the table, laid down on the floor, and began to pet Macy, tracing our hands over the bony landscape of her 12 and a half year old body, which had dropped ten pounds in the last several weeks. Our tears flowed freely now and matted the fur around her neck as we nuzzled her.

She slept on.

“Touch…hormones…” The Small One continued, clearly on a roll now. ”…egg…sperm…baby in wahmb…”

I swiveled my head around sharply and craned my neck to see what he was reading. Baby in womb. Fabulous. Yet another dicey conversation on the horizon.

The Twins sniggered, rolled their puffy, bloodshot eyes, and looked at me knowingly.

Thankful for the levity of the moment, I grabbed a tissue, blew my nose, shooed The Small One upstairs to get dressed, and told The Twins that they needed to say their goodbyes before catching the bus to middle school.

And they did.

As they backed away, Twin A held out her phone and snapped a picture.

Then they walked out the door and toward the bus stop, shoulder to shoulder, blond heads bowed together. It took me a moment to realize that they were hunched over Twin A’s phone. The sneaky girl had smuggled it out the door with her, which was against protocol on school mornings.

And I was too drained to care.

An hour later, The Small One was gone as well.

Two hours later, so was Macy. As my groom and I walked out of the veterenarian’s office, holding her empty harness and leash between us, our phones pinged simultaneously.

We looked at each other, and then at our identical text messages:

C U in Heaven

Linking with Things I Can’t Say

56 Folders and Gabbers

Tomy’s Chuggington Stack Track: Review and Giveaway

By Sue · 102 Folders and Gabbers · September 20th, 2012

When the folks at Tomy approached me about reviewing their newest die-cast line of tracks, I was somewhat hesitant.

For although my youngest son, The Small One, is a tremendous train fan, the Tomy line presented a bit of a conflict of interest.

You see, my family and I have always collected wooden train sets.

And now…

Die-cast tracks?

Not our bag, baby.

But we were willing to give it a go, for the sake of ~~free toys~~ research.

So Tomy sent us Brewster’s Big City Adventure, Koko’s Icy Escapade, and the Icy Escapade Expansion Pack.

The Small One was so mesmerized that his hair actually stood on end, friends.

I kid…I kid. The child sports the best bedhead west of the Alleghenies.

But he was impressed.

Stack Your Track! The packaging read. Build Higher!

I had my doubts. Every parent of a train fanatic knows that what goes up must come crashing down, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth on the part of said fanatic.

But we had to give them a fair shake. So after a quick change of clothing and taking a ~~backhoe~~ comb to The Small One’s hair, we got down to business.

The first thing that struck me was the fact that The Small One wanted no assistance with his project.

Whatsoever.

“I’ve got this, Mom,” he chirped.

And indeed he did. He decided to follow the building directions to start with. They were very user-friendly…all sequential diagrams that could easily be followed by children younger than my son. He put together Brewster’s Big City Adventure in about 15 minutes.

Turns out that the die-cast design of tightly interlocking pieces is the key to taking track layouts to a whole new level.

Literally.

And that was just the beginning, friends. With Brewster’s Adventure completed, The Small One pounced upon the Koko’s Icy Escapade set. After following the instructions and setting it up next to the Brewster set…

…He got creative and hooked the two together.

It was a snap. Again…literally. He actually dragged one completed set over to the other when he was ready to attach them.

I had never, in all my years of wooden track elitism, seen a set so sturdy and durable.

And neither had Twin B, who wanted in on the action. After working together to modify the layout a third time, the boys decided to make the set really, really high.

And for those of you with an extra sense of adventure, I highly recommend…

…the Whoopie Cushion Landing Pad (not included).

It pains me to think that I had been practicing Wooden Track Snobbery. For no good reason whatsoever.

I’m so ashamed.

And I will tell anyone who will listen that I am now a believer in Tomy’s Chuggington Stack Track.

And what about you, friends?

Would you be interested in giving Stack Track a whirl?

Well, fortunately, Tomy is offering yet another set, Wilson’s Wild Ride, to give away to one of my readers.

Wilson’s Wild Ride

Giveaway Rules:

Each comment left on this post, from now until Thursday, September 27th, will be considered an entry. The winner will be chosen by random electronic drawing and announced in a post on that date. Multiple entries (up to five) per person are encouraged. To enter, do one or more of the following. Verify each action with a separate comment here.

1. Follow my blog and leave a comment telling me what appeals to you about Tomy’s Chuggington Stack Track line. Their entire line may be viewed here.

2. ”Like” The Spin Cycle on Facebook.

3. ”Like” Tomy on Facebook and share this giveaway on your wall.

4. Follow The Spin Cycle on Twitter and tweet this giveaway.

5. Follow Tomy on Twitter.

Good luck, friends!

Disclosure Statement:

I was provided with Tomy’s Chuggington Stack Track in order to complete this post. All opinions are my own. Only residents of the United States and Canada are eligible for entry.

102 Folders and Gabbers

The Giving that Keeps on Giving

By Sue · 22 Folders and Gabbers · September 13th, 2012

It was one of those mornings where everything was going exactly as it should.

Don’t you just love those?

The Cherubs had arisen all by themselves, ate their breakfasts with little fuss and boarded their respective school busses, right on schedule.

I had the kitchen tidied up from the morning tornado in practically no time and changed from my pajamas into my workout wear in a flash.

I locked up Macy the Geriatric Weimaraner in her private suite, where she could do minimal harm, save for the occasional Leaky Bladder Syndrome Episode, at which I am exceptionally adept with dealing.

I even remembered to put the twelve bags full of clothing and two boxes of books on the front porch for the donation truck to pick up. Of this, I was exceptionally proud. I had, on more than one occasion, forgotten to do so, necessitating their return to the garage for another week and raising the ire of my groom.

But not today.

Today, I carefully placed all of the sorted and labeled bags and boxes on the porch. Perfectionist that I am, I fussed with them a bit so that they would be symmetrically arranged between my decorative hurricane candle holders and the white rocking chairs which were permanent fixtures at the entryway.

What? Charitable giving is not a haphazard affair, in my book.

Anyway. Satisfied that the donations were as symmetrical as they’d ever be, I hopped into the Jeep and drove off to my Friday Pilates Reformer class, congratulating myself on what a tight ship I was running.

And an hour and a half later, I returned, my high self-image only slightly tarnished by the physical torture that I had endured. My spirits brightened as I rounded the bend and caught sight of my porch, which had evidently been visited by the donation truck.

I parked the Jeep in the garage, took a moment to marvel at the space within that was now free of the bags and boxes that it had held for more than a month, and meandered back out to the porch for one last look-see.

Twelve bags? Gone.

Two boxes? Gone.

Hurricane candle holders and white rocking chairs? Gone and gone.

Uhhhhh…come again?

I did an immediate double-take and stared at my porch, my eyes narrowed to slits.

What the?

I had been completely cleaned out.

Unbelievable.

I blinked and reflected on the manner in which I had left the donations. In my mind, the bagging and boxing left little to the imagination as to what should be taken and what should be left.

I mean, my potted plants were still on the front steps leading up to the porch. Was I supposed to be thankful that they were not swept up with the rest?

Was I expected to sing the Hallelujah Chorus at the fact that the windows overlooking the front porch were still nestled in their panes?

Thank goodness it was not a Saturday and The Cherubs had not been lolling about in the rockers as they are so fond of doing. I shudder to think of the scene that might have ensued if they had been.

So now, friends, I am engaged in a seemingly endless game of phone tag with the donation pickup service in what appears to be a hopeless quest to reclaim my goods.

Will they be returned? Only time will tell. I await a phone call this afternoon that should definitively tell me what the freakin’ frack has happened to my stuff.

Wish me well, won’t you?

*******UPDATE********

For the dramatic conclusion to this story, visit my Facebook page.

22 Folders and Gabbers

Let’s Talk Glamping

By Sue · 28 Folders and Gabbers · September 6th, 2012

We spent the majority of Labor Day weekend without Twin B, who went on a camping trip with five of his best buds. They were chaperoned by one of the other boys’ parents, who ~~clearly must have been sniffing glue when they~~ generously offered to take the motley crew and see to their safety and happiness for three days.

He had a fabulous time.

And I’m so glad.

Because I don’t plan to take the boy camping if I can get away with it and still keep my Good Mom Card.

It’s not so much that I have something against camping, per se…

It’s just that I really, really enjoy not camping.

Turning on a faucet. Snapping open my Mac Book at will. Laying my head down to sleep at night without giving so much as a thought to what other kinds of critters, seen or unseen, may or may not be laying their varmint-y heads down mere inches from mine.

The topic came up while my groom and I were out to dinner with some friends last Friday night. We were engaged in a lively debate about the pros and cons associated with ~~playing hobo~~ the great outdoors, and one friend chimed in with: ”Well, a coworker of mine just went glamping…have you ever thought about doing that?”

I admitted that I had not, the main reason being that I had never heard of such a thing.

Have you?

To my ears, it sounded like an affliction: ”Oy…I’ve had this awful glamping that just won’t clear up no matter how long I soak in the tub or how much of that cream I use.”

But it is not an affliction, friends.

My friend went on to tell me that it’s like camping, but with modern conveniences. Glamorous + Camping = Glamping. Supposedly, it’s all the rage in hoity-toity-circles.

I was intrigued.

Who doesn’t want to be hoity-toity?

A fact-finding mission was most definitely in order.

So the next day, I Googled glamping. And this is what I found.

*cue Barry White soundtrack*

Why had this concept never crossed my radar in the past?

The interwebs are chock-full of glamping opportunities galore.

Color me enlightened. And totally Jonesing for a little glamping action.

In fact, it started me to thinking that just about any concept – no matter how commonplace or unexotic it may be – could probably be glammed up with a little creativity…

And, of course, a strategically placed gl-.

Let’s try it, shall we?

*Again with the Barry White*

I present for your consideration:

Glambo

Glungers

Glammother

Glimpanzee

Ummm…okay…so maybe it doesn’t work in every scenario.

But in when it comes to glamping?

You don’t have to ask me twice.

Am I the only person on the planet who had never heard of glamping? Have you? And what do you think of it? Does glamping still qualify as camping?

28 Folders and Gabbers

In Which I Knock Moms Who Yell

By Sue · 63 Folders and Gabbers · August 30th, 2012

I was done.

Stick-a-fork-in-me-done.

Done asking The Cherubs to switch off the Wii in the basement and come upstairs for bedtime.

I had calmly beckoned to them. Twice. I had also flashed the lights off and on as a warning. A warning that had gone unheeded.

But I was NOT going to yell.

Nosirree. I’ve made plenty of mistakes on this trippy trip of parenthood, but if there’s one thing in which I take pride, it’s the fact that I seldom – practically never – raise my voice.

I’m better than that, friends. *crosses legs; pats at hair*

So? Instead of screaming down the stairs like my inner demon wanted to?

I began to knock on the wall, as if I were knocking on someone’s front door.

Gently. Politely. With the utmost of control.

And the knocking was ignored.

So my rapping on the wall grew in its intensity. Something that sounded like a woodpecker’s insistent tapping upon a tree trunk. And as I rapped, a recited a smug little mantra to myself in cadence the rhythm my knuckles tapped out upon the wall.

I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er. I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er. I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er.

And – wonder of wonders – The Cherubs continued to hoot and holler in front of the Wii, paying no attention to my rhythmic summoning.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to keep my desire to scream in check. And all of my suppressed screams were redirected into my fist, which now pounded on the basement wall with a force that The Cherubs would not be able to ignore, no matter how loud the Wii was turned up.

I! (bam)

AM! (bam)

NOT! (bam)

A! (bam)

YELL-ERRRRRRRRR! (bambambambambamCRUNCH).