Don't Look Behind the Dryer

Luke and I sometimes feel like we live in the Money Pit house, except instead of being a big, glorious estate, it is a small, kinda crappy townhouse. You wouldn't think we would have that many problems, seeing as it was only build like 10 years ago. I am pretty sure I have t-shirts older than that (all of which have required far less maintenance), and I know in terms of buildings, that's really not that old.
Which is why anytime anything goes wrong, I throw an unholy fit, complete with foot stomping, hair pulling and smoke streaming out of my ears. It's just how I roll.
My husband is a firm believer in the philosophy of "throw money at it until it goes away," whereas I prescribe to the school of thought of "no way dude, that takes money out of the shoe fund." So we are do-it-yourselfers. Sort of. Usually we are "do-the-best-you-can-until-you-screw-up-and-then-call-Dad"ers.
So when the dryer stopped, um, drying, I immediately go into panic mode while Luke starts flipping through sales ads.
"This one is nice. And it's red."
"OH MY GOD I HAVE WET CLOTHES! I NEED DRY CLOTHES! RRRAAAAAGGHHH!"
Upon realizing how much washer/dryer combos actually cost, Luke quickly changes his tune.
Which is how I got stuck behind the dryer.
Not stuck like, "oh, this is slightly uncomfortable. I don't care for it."
Stuck like, "Call the reinforcements. And order pizza. We are going to be here for a while." I felt like a Chilean miner back there, all covered in lint and dog hair and for some strange reason, Monopoly money.
But I came out of it $1.26 richer ($152.26 richer, if you count the Monopoly money). I guess that is a win.

Are You Sure You Don't Mean Noah's Arcade?

Whoever said there is no such thing as a stupid question has obviously never worked in a library. From time to time, I get such fabulous little gems that I can't help but share. Enjoy.

Not too long ago, a mom came in with her third-grade son. They were looking for books about Noah's Ark, and since it is such a popular topic for picture book illustrators, I showed her every children's book I had featuring the Biblical Boat. But nothing seemed to work for her. She just kept shaking her head and saying, "this isn't it, this can't be the all of them." After working her way through the stack of books, she comes back up to the desk and pleads with me to share my uber-knowledge.
"I know you have it here," she whispers. "You have the list."
I have lots of lists. I tell her as much. I have lists of books for schools, lists of award winners, lists of things I need to do, but none of those is what she is looking for.
"I need the complete list of the animals Noah had on the Ark."
"Excuse me?" I asked, puzzled as to why a grown, seemingly functional adult is asking me for a complete list of EVERY. ANIMAL. ON. THE. ARK.
"We need it for school," she explains. "He has to do a report, and I need a whole list."

What should I do? Do I point out that, in accordance to Christian theology, the premise that Noah took two of every animal on the ark would mean the list would be taller than the building we stood in? Do I make something up?At this point, I have to stop and search for my best customer service voice.
"Well, I don't think I have the *exact* list," I say, cheerfully. "One could assume it would be two of every animal that isn't seafaring."
"But he needs something to cite for his paper," she said.
"How about the Bible?"
"But that doesn't have a list in it. Isn't there something that you can give me?"
Finally, after exhausting my patience and my collection, I just hand her an illustrated book of Bible stories from a few years ago.
"I think this is as close as we are going to get," I tell her, hoping that she will just take the book and leave. She heaves a pretty big sigh, then takes it back to a table. She's thumbing through it pretty diligently when I hear her exclaim with relief:
"Look, Tommy, God saved the seals!"
Do with that what you may.

But You Forgot the Magic Word

I need, need, need to stop uttering the phrase "how hard could it be?".

This go-getter attitude has go-gotten me seeking medical attention on more than one occassion (hello, Great Batting Cage Incident of 2009), as well as cost me buttloads of money fixing my attempts at easy home repair (and also got me quite intimately acquainted with the backside of my washer and dryer ... saving that little gem for a later post). It led to a very Marshall Erickson, cool-guy tips freakout in the bathroom in March when I decided if the high-school dropouts at Great Clips can cut blunt bangs, so can I.

But this week, I hit a new low.

Bathing suit season is upon us, and certain, um, preparations need to be made before hitting the pool. Instead of seeking the council of my fair Lady Schick, or paying a professional douse me in hot wax, I simply though, "well, how hard could it be?" and purchased an at-home kit for such personal grooming situations.

Sparing the most intimate of details, let's just say the wax is not sticky enough to be effective, however, wouldn't come off despite fervent, Lady Macbeth-esque scrubbings. Not only did I waste money on the kit, I sacrificed two razor blades, one of the few decent washcloths we have left, half a roll of paper towels and one scrubby kitchen sponge and was still looking like I belonged in Madame Tussaud's.

Lesson learned? Probably not.