So, the time out was useful

I called my dad and he said “that’s what you get for using that fucked up carpet.”

He means this stuff.  We put in Legato tiles before the kids moved in for two reasons – I’m allergic to carpet padding and this stuff is really really nice.  We did both kids rooms for less than $500 and it’s PLUSH.  Also, if it stains, you just jerk it up and put down a new tile.  With 3 large dogs, 3 kids, and 2 cats – this is very useful.  Poop and barf are daily events in our house.  (This is also why all our furniture is leather and the rest of the house is done in laminate wood flooring.)

However, it also means that it only took me 10 minutes to repair the entire room – all by myself.  Once Dad calmed me down, I talked to the girl child about money.  If she’s going to tear stuff up, I’m not going to have any money to buy her pretty clothes or cool toys.  I let her know that if she keeps tearing up the house, I will take her existing toys down to the kids’ only second-hand store and sell them until I had enough to pay for repairs.  On one income, we don’t have enough to cover her tantrums.

She seemed sobered up by that, so we went out to do our errands.  We were going to take Dad to lunch but he was covered up at work and this migraine was already starting.  It’s one of those “everything touching my skin hurts” kinds so I’m not laying down for now.  Once the pain meds kick in, I may be able to.

We did, however, stop and see Dad at his shop.  Even with his hands covered in grease he saw what I had and snatched it up.  I made him a clock out of an obsolete Bigfoot hard drive and a hammered metal picture frame.  As I’m yelling “don’t scratch the drive!” he’s showing his buddies at work.  I told the kids to stay put (they don’t know shop etiquette yet) and caught up to him as he’s telling the other mechanics “look what Cyndi made – it’s a hard drive!”  I didn’t even get to get a picture of it before he ran off with it!

We hugged and he informed me that he would start taking apart his old hard drives for me to make stuff out of.  Two weeks ago, I had to practically STEAL the hard drives from him to make this batch of clocks.  We had the “if it’s got less memory than a flash stick, is it considered ‘good’” conversation.  He even gave me two nice torque drivers to take apart the ones from last time.  He apparently approves of their new functionality.

Bigfoot drives come in two discs, so the other one is on Shaun’s workbench.  I accidentally scratched it while adding some detailing, so I’m going to have to figure out what to do with it.  I’m thinking I’ll lightly sand all of it in a swirl pattern to give it a brushed metal look, then coat it with acrylic sealant.  I really hope it works because the metal detailing on it is beautiful. If need be, though, I’ll paint it.  The shape is nice enough to keep, even if I ruined the face.

The AC guy should be here soon.  If the central air did die, we’re just going to put in a couple of window units until our next tax return.  Dad has one he said he’d give me and we can afford another window unit.  The main part of our house is only 1100 square feet, so that should keep us from melting until we have a more secure income.

There was a conversation on Etsy about a week ago that is sticking with me.  It was about whether to give stuff to family or to make them go through the business.  I was on the 100% free for family side but it shocked me how many people said “if I were a retail store, I wouldn’t give them anything.  Why should I now?”  I just think that’s sad.  I know a lot of families aren’t as close as my immediate clan is, and I can understand that some people’s families are little more than genetically bonded.  I just know that if I didn’t have my family, I would be up shit creek without a paddle.  We support each other and if any single one of us is doing without, the rest of us are there chipping in.  It’s like a commune except for the whole living under one roof part – we have 4 roofs in a 15 mile radius.  We did only have two, but then Mom’s family decided to leave paradise to join the commune.  We do huge family gatherings every other Sunday and two days from now, even Dad’s mom is coming.  My family is the reason that me and my sister can stay at home with our kids.  It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.  To me, if Mom and Dad asked for everything I’ve ever made, I’d give it to them and call it a fair trade.

Family isn’t about whose blood you have.  It’s about who you care about.  ~ South Park

hot hot heat

How is it 80 degrees in the house but only 74 degrees outside?  This is not good!

I’m going to feed the kids popsicles for lunch.  It’s too hot for anything else.  I feel the worst for Cali, our collie mix.  She’s got on a thick fur coat and is just stretched out panting.

4th of July aka if this neighborhood kid doesn’t stop with that firecracker…

When I was a little, little kid we lived in Pensacola between the Air Force base and the Navy base.  I’m from a mixed marriage:  Mom was active Navy and Dad was active Air Force.  They met in school while training to be meteorologists for their prospective fields of duty and married over Christmas leave 6 weeks after they met.  So Pensacola is a good a place as any because the bases are only about 70 miles apart and we lived in the middle in a little apartment complex.

Northern Florida is much like southern Georgia: it’s populated by a whole lot of stupid white people.  The whole upper half of GA is metro Atlanta but there’s a line right around the Macon area where you enter the twilight zone of the South.  We’re not just talking gun-toting conservative Christian racists – we’re talking about flatland and swamp folks whose general education level is around the 4th grade.  Around cities or military bases, it’s better, but still – there’s a reason we drive straight through the night when we go to FL (southeastern part.)  That reason is that people from the interstate are only good for two things:  buying pecans and advertising the greased pig festival so that you can sell em more pecans.

I know a lot of people who love south GA and northern FL, but hey, I’m a mountain girl.  I don’t trust flat places and if you’ve got to drive more than 30 minutes to reach the closest Wal-Mart, you’re too far out in the sticks.

Back on topic:  we lived in Pensacola and while base towns are normally more diverse, you still have asshole rednecks with guns and too much liquor.  You get those folks everywhere, they’re just called different things.  At this point, I’m about 3 years old and my brother was a baby and Mom had just sat us all down for dinner on the 4th of July.  Next thing you know, a bullet comes down through the ceiling and lands in the middle of the kitchen table.  Turned out one of our hell-raising neighbors decided to shoot off his .22 pistol in celebration of being free for another year.  This is not a good idea!

I have no idea what happens next.  This is the part of the story where my mom’s voice trails off and you get the idea that my Dad probably returned that bullet to its owner by shoving it straight up his ass.

Every July right about this time of year, we heard this story and as a kid, you start to duck when you hear firecrackers.  This is doubly true when you realize that until 2 years ago, any sort of firework or firecracker was illegal in the state of GA.  People would drive out of state to buy em, but still, it was a precious commodity and you only set em off after dark on the 4th when every one else was too.  Otherwise, setting off a firecracker was about the quickest way to have a handful of cops on your front porch and a whole lot of pissed off neighbors.

Firecrackers still startle me, but now that we live on the edge of some private hunting land, it’s not as bad.  We normally hear a couple of rifle shots a day during hunting season and during the summer, we hear the race cars down at Road Atlanta and Lanier Raceway.  Imports at Road ATL during the day, hot rods at Lanier Raceway at night.  In the spring, you hear the cows making their mating calls from a few properties away.  The mountains have a way of amplifying sounds, so we get it all, and it all becomes background noise.

We moved here exactly 9 years ago over the 4th of July weekend.  It’s a nice little starter-home community where you have an actual piece of land located in between two major interstates but it’s still out in the country enough to not be right on top of people.  It was a quiet little place in the very back of a quiet neighborhood with quiet neighbors who liked quiet things.  Now, there’s a school right across the street and a whole lot of development in every direction.  That means a whole lot of people who moved in around the same time we did either moved out of county or moved into one of the hundred McMansion subdivisions where you could reach out your window and touch your neighbor’s house.   Our direct neighbors are nice enough, but a few houses down some people with teenage boys moved in.

Teenage boys have two paths in life:  they either have something to do or they terrorize the neighborhood.  Apparently, these folks couldn’t find their kids something to do, so we have been terrorized.  Our house and cars have been egged, they’ve thrown stuff at our dogs (after coming onto OUR property where our dogs are fenced in), they ride up and down the streets at all hours on a 4 wheeler, and generally act like little ass-hats.

And now fireworks are legal in GA.

These boys are about to have a Come to Jesus moment if they don’t stop with the firecrackers.  It started about a week ago and they scare the shit out of our oldest dog.  Abbie, our German Shepherd/Lab mix was abused as a puppy with cigarettes so anything that smells like smoke scares the living shit out of her.  Shaun couldn’t even get in the bed last night because she crawled in the bed on his side and glued herself to me and just shook all night, even after she got her puppy chill pills.  Cali and Nola don’t like the firecrackers either, but they’d rather bark at the little shithead than hide behind me.

Last year, they shot off one of those little bottle rocket things and it hit one of our trees during a motherfucking drought!  At least ammo is so scarce these days, none of our local crazies decided to shoot off their guns last night.  The crazies are probably the only ones with ammo since they’re stocking up for the apocalypse, forming a militia, and are ready to defend their homeland from terrorists.

Someone forgot to tell them that their two little teenage twits are the only terrorists I’ve met in our little corner of suburbia.  I ought to just put the dogs on a leash and walk down there to remind them that their good, quiet neighbors would appreciate them not spooking the cattle.

If I get really pissed off, I’ll let the dogs poop in their yard.  What do you think?  It may just be better to invite them over for beer and then throw the cats at em when they least expect it.

How not to use Jedi mind tricks

I’ve only been pulled over once in my driving career.

That’s not to say, I haven’t been carefully prepared on how to react when being pulled over or that I have a symbiotic relationship with the local police.  Neither is true.  I just am not blessed with the ability to have normal things happen to me. It must be genetic, because neither my brother nor sister can get in trouble for normal things either.

I had taken my sister to the hospital for complications with her pregnancy.  She was going into labor way too soon – like months too soon – and was in a ton of pain.  So my dad watched my nephew and I took Shaun’s car to escort Sister to the hospital.

This was soon after we had gotten my two youngest who were 2 and 3 at the time (they were born in the same year) and traded in my Grand Am for my gas-guzzling American SUV, which could hold two car seats.  Yeah – you try to put two car seats in a Grand Am.

Now, you have to remember that Shaun and I were not planning on adopting toddlers.  The agency had their ages wrong in the file, so we had to trick out some of our old gear to compensate.  This includes one of my bookbags that has this print on it:  Gun, c.1982 Print by Andy Warhol This bag is the perfect diaper bag – plenty of pockets, easy to carry, has a very sturdy quick release clasp on it, is lined with waterproof material, and the entire front velcroes down so the crap doesn’t fall out if you drop it. It just has pictures of .38 pistols all over it.

My sister calls, I head out and pick up my bag, which I kept my ID and keys in because there’s no reason to carry two bags especially when you have TWO toddlers.  I didn’t even think about it.  I tossed it in the back of Shaun’s car – a black Honda Accord that looks like every single black Honda Accord in the world – and went to get Sister.

We did the hospital thing, where they did what they could and got her out of pain, and then we walked (she waddled) out to the car.  Toss the bag in the back, while listening to her bitch about needing nicotine and food, and get the car on the road.

As we leave the hospital parking lot, we picked up a tail.  It was an all black city cruiser.  It’s ok, I tell myself, they’re everywhere. This is kind of a rough part of town.  I’ll just drive extra safe.  A mile down the road, we pulled in to the Taco Bell and the cruiser pulled into a hotel parking lot across the street.

This is when Sister says “something’s going on.  I’ll bet you a dollar they’re calling in the plates right now while we’re getting drive through.”  My sister is much more experienced in police matters than I am, but I took the bet anyways.  We got our food and took a left out of the Taco Bell and pulled into the left turning lane to get on the road that takes us back to the interstate. I even used my turn signals.

Sure as hell, the cruiser pulled into the lane behind us and as soon as we made the left turn, the blue lights came on.  Sister says “you didn’t do anything wrong, they’re looking for something or someone.  I hope my Taco Bell doesn’t get cold.”

I roll down the window, place my hands on the steering wheel, and look straight ahead until the officer arrives.  (See, I’ve been trained for this.)  Sister sits calmly, hands in plain sight on top of her tummy.

There are several rules when you get pulled over.  Always keep your hands in sight.  Always call the officer sir or ma’am.  Don’t talk his ear off or offer excuses.  Don’t say that you know or are related to so-and-so who works at so-and-so city office.  Don’t get out of the car unless he tells you to.  Don’t move for the console, the dashboard, under the seat or for a bag without asking for permission.  Tell the truth (lies are too easy to uncover and by this point the cop already knows.)  Got it?  Got it.

The officer walked up like you see in the movies, one hand on his holster with his gun side facing away from the car so that he’s standing kinda sideways, the other holding a flash light, and stops right next to the B column of the car.  Tall, skinny dude about my age.  He looked a little stressed out, from what I could tell with the light in my face and only being able to see him from my driver’s side mirror.  He shone the light around in the car and asked me for my license and the registration on the car.

I said “my license is in the bag in the seat behind me, and I’m not sure where the registration is – this isn’t my car.  Do you mind if we look?”

“Do you have any weapons in the vehicle, ma’am?”

“No, sir.”  At this point my sister reaches into the back seat, picks up my bag, and sets it in my lap.  There is a point in high stress situations where shit just gets ridiculous, and here it was.  I have a so-called diaper bag covered with an Andy Warhol print of .38 pistols (which is the only gun I have registered in my name) in my lap, a nervous cop, a pregnant lady in the car, no idea where the registration this damn clone of a car is, and cooling tacos in the center console.

I ripped open the velcro on the bag, pulled out my wallet, and handed the license to the cop.  Then I sent a silent “thank you” to God that I had on a hoodie and my freshly-inked arson tattoo was covered.  He shone his light on my license and said “is this your valid address?”

“Yes sir.”

“Ms. Dollins, have you ever been in trouble before?”

“No sir, this is actually the first time I’ve EVER been pulled over.”

This is when my sister pipes up.  “Sir, what’s going on?  As you can see, I’m pregnant and I went into labor too soon so my sister took my to the hospital.”  My sister looks a lot more innocent than she is. I look a lot less innocent than I am.

He shone the light in on her, who is sitting with the paperwork for the car – service records, owner’s manual, receipts for the brake job my dad did a few weeks before – and said “we’ve received a report that a black Honda Accord was stolen from the hospital parking lot.  Did you locate the registration?”

I look at her for confirmation and tell him, that no – we have no idea where the registration is.  Sister held up the receipt for the brake job and said “we have this.  It shows that her husband paid for service on this car not too long ago.”

He asked who the car belonged to and I told him that it belonged to my husband and confirmed that he has the same last name and lives at the same address that I do.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes, ladies.  Please stay in the car.”

As soon as we see he’s gotten back in the cruiser we both bust out laughing and Sister demanded her dollar.  I told her that I wasn’t taking her pregnant ass anywhere else, if this was the kind of shit she gets into.  In just a few hours, I’ve transformed from a cute yet non-traditional foster parent of two into a gun-toting, tattoo wielding, car thief!

He came back and handed me back my license and said “you two stay out of trouble tonight, you hear me?”  We laughed and said yessir, we were going straight home.  He laughed and told us we were free to go.  I cranked the car and we left, Sister digging into the Taco Bell bag.

Half-way through that taco, we pulled up to a road-block manned by 8 cruisers and a couple of the fancy-schmancy police SUVs with the light bars in the grills.  There are cops all over the road, and since I’ve already got my wallet in my lap, I have my ID ready. Sister has tossed the gun-diaper-bag in the back seat.

It’s our turn to get searched and the cop – a shorter, bearded man – shines the flashlight through the car and spots my sister chowing down on her taco (seriously, cops don’t phase my sister) and cracks up laughing.  I said…

No, seriously, I didn’t even think before I said it.  I am just THIS geeky.

“This is not the black Honda Accord you are looking for.”

My sister choked on her taco and the cop looked at me kinda funny.  I explained that we’d already been pulled over about the stolen car and asked if he’d like to see my ID.  He told me it was ok, then shined the light on my damn diaper bag in the back seat.  “With a bag like that, it’s no wonder you don’t get pulled over more often.”  By this time a couple of other cops had come up to join in the laughter and they all agreed and waved us through. My sister was already on the phone telling everyone we knew that her sister was an armed car theif who used Jedi mind-tricks on the police.

Thankfully, we made it home without being stopped again, where my sister gleefully told my dad that for once SHE was the good child.  Now, with her help, this story has become a regular in the list of “shit Cyndi did” that gets told to every new person who encounters the family right along the time in school that I unintentionally beat up a fat kid.  Thanks, Sister.

Playing outside

… remember folks, always wear your sunscreen.

We had a nice weekend, I’d have to say.  Shaun went out and cut the grass and I chilled in the hammock with a beer, watching the kids play and reading the new Catherine Coulter book Knock Out.

I could only stay out about an hour before I felt myself roasting through the SPF 60 sunscreen.  With my skin, I’m one of three colors:  goth white, lobster red, or speckled brown.  I’m hoping this year I may get to a tan color somewhat resembling my mom’s.

The kids think my skin is so weird.  Seriously, A&E are the whitest kids ever.  EVAR.  Well, blonde children may be lighter but some of them are at least tannable.  They have like three freckles and two moles between them.  LJ has a pretty (ok, handsome) tan all over.  I’m thinking he’s either half-hispanic or half-Asian with his black hair, brown eyes, and skin tone.  No one really knows.  That just means he’ll look like MY side of the family.  Whose racial heritage no one… really knows.  (I mean, seriously people, how wide can you spread your genetic pool?  Sooner or later you have to run out of people to make babies with.) They’ll all fit right in!

Check out how cool and coordinated I am!  I mean, even my earbuds match my hat and bikini.  The iPod is silver though, so it kinda throws off the whole groove.  At first, I was all the way in the shade, but then the sun moved on me!  It’s a good thing that the whole geeks dissolving in sunlight thing is only a myth.

It's hard to smile when you're being roasted!

Busy Bird Day

Pete and Cami, my two diamond doves, woke me up this morning chattering like crazy.  Diamond doves are normally very calm, chilled out little birds.  They don’t really play with toys and they don’t really chatter the way finches do.  They just relax.

Diamond doves are TINY.  I have the world’s smallest hands, and one barely fills up my palm.  When my husband has to catch one after it escapes (normally Cami – Pete is a wuss) his two cupped hands give the bird more than enough room to move around.

They were excited this morning.  I went over to open the curtain to the window their cage is in front of, and they started spinning in circles on their perches, cooing at the top of their teeny tiny lungs.  I looked out the window and the full sized mourning dove who lives in the tree out front was sitting there waiting.  Apparently, this is a very special appearance and my two little innocent doves turned into squawking teenagers going nuts over a heart throb.

He stayed for a bit and they talked.  Well, he would coo like a big dove and they would flip shit.  Then the two chipping sparrows came to visit.  They pranced and pecked for a bit before they were joined by a grosbeak, a couple of red finches, and a grackle.  The grackle and the dove are the largest birds the two little ones will tolerate.  They attack the window whenever a robin or cardinal shows up so we see mostly finches and the little sparrows.

Here are some of our regulars.  Shaun gets the good pictures because I’d need a stool to shoot pics out of the window without a screen.