Open Season on Smoke Alarms

First of all, who develops the noise a smoke detector makes? Do scientists study the sounds that most make a human want to run out of the house at night? If so, they should bag the high-pitched beeping and make an alarm that sounds like a child throwing up. Try to sleep through that. Many a dad has pretended to, but we're on to you. So here is my PSA on smoke detector safety:

1. A smoke detector will still chirp even after you dismantle it and take out the battery.

I thought that was just a sitcom bit on Friends, but we lived that Phoebe moment last night. Try it if you don't believe me, but I suggest you choose an optimal time of day when you can give the situation proper attention.

2. Smoke detectors are much like newborns, they have no regard for time of night when they"
[checking them regularly in the light of day. You won't be able to sleep through it no matter how hard you try. But you will still try because the alternative is scrounging for a battery, and if you come up empty handed, you have to find the right drawer to muffle the sound of the chirp until the battery stores open in the morning.

Thankfully, we found a new 9V battery and were able to silence the thing. I am also proud to report that I did not fall off the stool I managed to climb in the middle of the night with my eyes still mostly closed.

The reason we just happened to have a battery on hand? A few weeks ago we had a chirper outside one of the kid's rooms right at bedtime, and we had to make a special trip to the store to silence it. Good thing I bought a two pack!

3. The annoying mechanism that signifies the low battery is separate from the actual alarm. This we also learned at 3:30 this morning when my honey hit the test button to be sure the battery was in correctly. It emitted a sound only audible to small rodents. So later this morning (after strong coffee and daylight) I tested all 6 of our smoke detectors and discovered that 3 of them beep at the level of a digital watch alarm. So now I get to replace them and spend a bit more time balanced precariously on a stool installing the new ones. And if we wake up to another chirper tonight, it may just be time to pack up and move.

Just because you don't go to Hell for wearing ugly shoes, it doesn't mean you should!

Last week my honey had to go to New York for business, so I tagged along. After all, I had to go to visit the great shoe Mecca. It’s part of my 2^nd religion. (the first being Christianity, and the second being staunch Shoeology) Which reminds me, I bought a decent looking pair of low heel sandals to wear walking in Manhattan because (per a previous blog entry) I read New Yorkers don’t wear flip flops or sneakers. Incidentally, either I never saw a real New Yorker-entirely possible-or they really do wear the same type of shoes as me! So back to the sandals, they’re slightly more functional than attractive, and after the sitter made fun of my granny shoes, they got left behind. After all, being a born-again Shoeologist, I couldn’t risk going to hell for wearing ugly shoes, could I?

Vanity has a price though, and I paid mine when I decided to wear lovely kitten heel strappy sandals to walk in Manhattan, my feet developed the largest blisters I’ve ever seen on about 6 places. At this point, I was already walked too far from the hotel to think about going back for my flip flops, so I admitted defeat in Macy’s and bought a 2^nd pair of slightly uncute, practical shoes. Then I hid behind a stack of comforters in the bedding section, plastered my injured feet in band-aids and donned granny shoes #2. The damage had been done, however, and I had to cover my feet in moleskin patches and wear good ole sock and tennies after that.

Warning: the adhesive on moleskin will roll, stick to your shoes, and rip the thin, delicate skin right off your blisters. Then the moisture from popped blister will seep, further removing the moleskin and subjecting blistered foot to full-on fiery pain.

It was in this pitiful state that I found myself (strategically placed myself to be more honest) in a situation where Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos were surrounding me, begging to be tried on. If you find yourself unfamiliar with either of these names, you are clearly not a Shoeologist, and if you haven’t lost interest in reading by now, you may as well Google them. I will save you the embarrassing details now, but refer to previous paragraph for a clear mental image of my feet.

I found a lovely, no, magnificent pair of heels that were dying to see Texas, and being the compassionate sole, I mean soul that I am, I affectionately made the purchase. Sadly, I was unable to force my injured feet into them when we went to a Broadway show, and I wound up wearing my little black dress with $10 Target Flippies. I attempted to wear some sexy red strappy heels (placed carefully over the bandages) at first, and toted the flip flops in my huge mama purse just in case, but I promptly made the switch when the pain became too much to bear. My evening clutch remained untouched in my suitcase along with the perfect shoes that Cinderella’s glass slipper couldn’t even touch! I soon as the swelling goes down though, I plan to live in my souvenir shoes...until I save enough money to buy them some strappy friends. It's not vanity if it's true love.

ps. I really love my Lord Jesus and my dear family more than lovely shoes for the record. But don't tell my shoes that.

how I spent my summer vacation

In the pool, in the car, and in planes. I guess technically that was only a fraction of my summer, but that’s it in a nutshell, and my beloved always asks me for the short version.

I spent today flying back from New York, and it wasn't one of my better plane trips. There were no crashes, and I didn't get sick, so it could have been much worse, but all I could think of while I was sitting in the flying day care- where there were babies as far as the eye can see. Actually, as far as the ear can hear- was how my beloved has gotten bumped to first class a number of times, and it has yet to happen to me. I left Manhattan extra early this morning to account for traffic and lines at the airport. There were neither lines nor traffic, so I had 2 hours to kill in the airport before boarding. We made up for my easy arrival on tarmac where we waited in line for 25 minutes for our turn on the runway. About 1 minute into the wait, the newborn in the seat next to me began wailing. When he finally gave it up about an hour later, the infant a few rows ahead picked up the slack. I want to know who handed out the sign up sheet for the babies to pick a time slot because it was constant crying in even rotations. I usually feel bad for the parents, but I also usually have headphones to minimize my discomfort, and this time I had accidentally packed them in my checked bag. I had also given up my isle seat to the couple beside me with the infant and long-legged father, and going to the bathroom now seemed an impossible feat. My full bladder made me less sympathetic to the wailers' parents.

Eventually, I did have to go to the bathroom, and it was like a 4-member Olympic team scrambling to beat the drink cart. We all had to hobble out of the row (baby too), hobble back in as the flight attendants brought the cart by, and play musical chairs in order to get back out again. When I came back to my seat, the mother was changing a diaper in it.

Then there was the child behind me who got airsick. Oh yes. The smell of vomit infected my nostrils at the exact moment the attendants began handing out microwaved cheeseburgers. I won't even describe that delectable treat. Finally we landed, and I sprinted through George Bush Intl in order to catch my connecting flight.

The second flight was less eventful, but there was a boy about 10 in front of me laying across 2 seats listening to his ipod without headphones. High pitched Indian music whined the same rhythm for an hour and a half. This kid also ordered coffee from the flight attendant with lots of sugar. Apparently the sugar/caffeine ratio made the kid deaf because the music continued to get louder as the flight progressed. I thought the guy next to me was going to beat the kid, and if we had landed 5 minutes later, I might have done it myself. I've never been so glad to run to my car full of my own screaming, smelly kids in all my life. It's good to be home.

How to get noticed in the big city

I just read a book about a family in LA in the film industry. It poked fun at mid-westerners in their LL Bean clothing and stick-up-the-butt protestant values. I didn't say it was a great book. While I'm not technically from the mid-west, and the only thing I own from LL Bean is a diaper bag, it made me feel self-conscious about how well I fit the stereotype of the housewife with 3 kids in the perpetual ponytail and tennis shoes. I don't know if I own any single piece in my wardrobe that cost over $75! I guess the only reason I didn't stick out in California is because everywhere we went was nothing but tourists. We looked fine to each other!

We have also been getting ready to go to New York again, and as it was 20 degrees the last time we were there, I am stressing what to pack. Some websites claim that only tourists wear colors other than black, sneakers, or flip flops. I have some black, but it's mostly winter wear. If you wear black in 100 deg Texas heat, your skin starts to boil under you clothes until it blisters and welds itself to the fabric. As for my footwear blending with the locals, aside from the vast collection of strappy heels (all totally inappropriate for walking all over midtown unless your name is Carrie Bradshaw), the only summer shoes I own are flip flops and sneakers. According to the internet, I can expect to be mugged as soon as I step out of La Guardia.

Fabulous. I might as well embrace the tourist look and buy a fanny pack! I'll even apply sunblock to my nose in the middle of the sidewalk and look at a map every 5 minutes. Yep, that ought to do it. If I don't end up on the news for being attacked, at least I will be in a fashion mag...on the Don't page with the black censor bar across my eyes.

All My Kids Are Going Back to School!!!

In 20 days, I will finally be able to go to the bathroom by myself! at least during the hours of 9 and 2:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This morning as two little heads peered in to see where I'd disappeared to and one waited to flush for me, I was seriously trying to figure out how I could avoid going altogether except on those precious 5 and 1/2 hours on Tues/Thurs. I know you're thinking, why don't you just lock the door? I do when I remember to use the only bathroom in this place that actually has a working lock. That's about a 15 second deterrent though because the oldest can pick the lock, the middle child is loud enough as she bangs on the door and screams that it's more peaceful to acquiesce, and the little guy pokes things under the door at my feet.

My husband asks me what I plan to do when the little one starts school since I've never had everyone out of the house at the same time. At first I was a little apprehensive that I might get bored, and it would be too quiet around here. I'm sure he was also concerned that I might blissfully fill my days with shopping and spending recklessly. It has occurred to me. I will definitely use the 10 hours a week of solitude to grocery shop and run errands. The store clerks will be appreciative of this, especially the poor guys in Discount Tire who see me coming with the snack bag, coloring books, and crayons. They take one look at my kids (some of whom are wallowing in the floor trying to get comfortable as they create their artwork and others who are rearranging the chairs in the waiting area), and they instantly move my car to the front of the queue. With two of them in school daily, I might actually get the laundry caught up and finish the honey-do list we never get around to. We need to touch up some paint on the walls, but paint should NEVER under any circumstances be purchased, used, or spoken of in the presence of young children. I have learned that the hard way on a number of occasions.

Another upside to the school starting is that the little 11 engraved deep in furrows of my brow might have a chance to relax and give me a look of restfulness again. That could really save money on future Botox needs. And I feel certain my gray hairs grow slower during the 9 months school is in session than they do in the three months we have off. The significance of both these factors add up to one very important life lesson that my friend Whitney reminds me: A HAPPY WIFE MAKES A HAPPY LIFE!