Life On The Planet

Y, Indeed?!?

I think this goes under the heading, "You know you're a homeschooling mom when...!"

I really need to do a better job checking pockets.

Works For Me Wednesday: Drawer Organizer

If you are one of my six faithful readers, you know of my constant struggle with organization. It keeps me awake every third night.

First there was the messy desk. Then the heavens parted, the light shone down and it was clean. Next, there was the messy drawer. After seven hours (not really) of exhaustive research, I found a neat (ha! a pun!) office drawer organizer at Target. It comes in five pieces so, unlike one piece divided organizers, you can switch it around to suit you...

 

Or you could divide the pieces amonst your various junk drawers...

 

Or you could dance around the dining room with one on your head - but that's another post.

Finally, the drawer is clean!

 

Isn't it lovely? Now, if only the coat closet off of the living room were as tidy!

Maybe next week...

For more tidy drawers and organized closets, check out Rocks In My Dryer.

Drawer Dilemma

You may remember my desk. It's still relatively clean. (Really! Ask Aussie Kim!) At least, the top of the desk is clean. The drawer, however...

Stop yer naggin'. I'm getting to it.

Now, I found a drawer organizer I like, but before I spend $12.79 of The C.F.O.'s hard earned money, I'd love to hear your ideas.

Help. Please.

Now that that's out of the way...

I can clean the rest of the house?

While I'm at it, go and find yourself an online homeschool group.

You could see what the passage of time looks like. (Hat tip to Throwing Marshmallows for this one. It's really neat.)

Or maybe you just want to get right to the Heart of the Matter.

I'd better just get right to cleaning!

Festival Finale

This is the end of my Questionable Housekeeping Festival.  I hope you enjoyed reading about it more than I enjoyed the cleaning!

There have been a lot of times when cleaning has lead to some unusual situations.  None have been more unusual than, well, you really need the WHOLE story.

It is my habit to box up unwanted items and store them in the back of our mini-van until I have enough to warrant a trip to the local Goodwill.  On one occasion, when the van was about half full of junk, er...donations, the cat died.  The exterminator came, and within twenty-four hours she was dead.  Poisoned according to the vet.  The vet's office asked if we wanted them to take care of the body or if we wanted to bury her ourselves.  Having three small children in need of closure, I opted for home burial.

At that time The C.F.O. worked for the Boy Scouts of America and was often camping on the weekends. As the day of the cat's demise was on a Friday and we lived in town with a postage stamp for a yard, I asked The C.F.O. to bury the cat at camp.  We had a small memorial service...,"Remember the time Flash coughed up a hairball in Mom's shoe? Good times," and sent Flash off to be buried.

A few weeks later we had enough stuff and went to drop it off at Goodwill. When we got to the bottom of the pile, The C.F.O. held up a taped box and asked, "What's in this?"

"Oh, my goodness," I said. "It's the cat!"

"NO," he said.

"YEEESSSSS," I replied. "What did you bury at camp?"

"The cat, I thought."

"Where," I asked him, thinking we might retrieve the substitute.

"Pretty far out"

"Great," I told him. "Some Scout you are.  What a time capsule. Old Spider Man underwear and used socks.  We've got to get rid of this cat!"

For years my children thought that the cat was buried at camp but she was actually buried behind a friend's barn.  I hope I haven't caused permanent damage to their young psyches by carrying out this small deceit.

Now you might ask how I could drive around in the heat of Louisiana for weeks with a dead cat in the back of my van and not, well, SMELL something.  First of all, it was April, warm but not hot.  Second, the cat had been bagged, boxed and sealed. Finally, you must remember that I had three children under the age of six.  Someone always smelled.

At any rate, there are a plethora of lessons to be had from this experience.  Watch your exterminator like a hawk.  Live in a house with a big yard.  Let the vet get rid of the body.  I could go on but I think the most important lesson to be learned is, undoubtedly, don't clean out the closets after the cat dies.  Better yet, play it safe and leave the closets alone altogether.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, housework is a dirty and dangerous business. 

Little Green Man

When the Butterfly was four she broke her leg sliding.  That, as they say, is a whole other story.  It is only relevant to this story in that you understand I was a little distracted in those days.  The Tiger was only two, and he was one wild-and-crazy guy.  They kept me hopping.

I tried to get maximum work done when Tiger went down for his nap.  One particular afternoon, Tiger was sleeping, and Butterfly was watching a video, leg propped up on pillows.  A-HA! I thought.  The perfect chance to scour the bathtub.  Naturally, the Butterfly's tape ran out in the middle of my scrubbing.  Darn that purple dinosaur.  So I set down the Comet and dashed to bribe entertain her with another tape.  I stepped back into the bathroom (which was right next door to her room) and walked into a green cloud of Comet.  Tiger was up early from his nap and was flinging Comet EVERYWHERE with an expression of utter joy on his face. He was covered head to toe in a fine green powder. The child looked like a Martian.

I am relatively certain that the operator on call that day at the Louisiana Poison Control hot line has stopped laughing by now.Maybe.

Housekeeping Fashion 101: Wear Denim

Labor Day before last, after dragging the children out of bed to take Christmas pictures (yeah, I know I need help), I issued a decree.  "The cleaning of the house will now commence.  Strip those beds!  Mooooove it."  Beds were stripped.  Floors were vacuumed, shelves were dusted and all creatures great and small were bathed and given flea treatments. It was Mama Nirvana.

Then came the remaking of the beds.  The Tiger's bed, however cute with it's Grandma made Spider Man quilt, goes under the heading of above and beyond.  Here's what happened.  I asked The C.F.O. to help The Tiger make his bed.  He has the top bunk in the boy's room and let me assure you, it's a pain in the wahzoo to make.

"He can do it himself," said himself.  "Let him try."  As if I don't make this bed on a regular basis and know that if I can barely make it, a seven year old doesn't have a shot.  So I steamed about it for an hour or so, which I must say showed great forbearance on my part, and then I stomped in to make the bed.

I hauled my carcass up and got the bottom sheet tucked in and the top sheet spread.  Fantastic.  So far, so good.  I scootched down to the end of the bed, smoothing sheets as I went.  One leg over the end.  Left hand on the rail.  Right hand braced against the ceiling.  Right leg swung over and my right hand slipped and my denim clad rear end smashed through the boy's bedroom window.

Thanks to Levi Strauss, my bum was saved the embarrassment of 27 stitches.

Needless to say, the C.F.O. (and everyone else) came running. 

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I told you...,"I began.

"Are you cut?"

"...that I needed...," I continued.

"Is anything broken?"

"...for-you-to-make-the-bed." I finished through clenched teeth.

He picked me up out of the shattered glass and carried me to safety.

"I'll take care of it," he said and retreated to higher ground.

Half an hour later, the glass was gone and the room was spotless.  The bed was made to military regulations.

And all I had to do was break a window.

Now, how do I get them to put their clothes in the hamper?

Upon the Sweeping of My House...

Anne Bradstreet, I'm not.  That being said, I have to ask, is there a better way to express our inner most thoughts on laundry, dusting, cleaning toilets, etc. than with poetry?

When I informed the Principal that we would be writing haiku about housekeeping, she said that haiku are supposed to be about nature.  I pointed out to her that the dirt, dog hair and cheerios under my kitchen table were all organic materials.  She couldn't argue with that.

Every experience can be a learning experience.  Even cleaning the house.  Here are our humble offerings.

My room is a mess.

Tiger needs to pick up toys

And put clothes away.

by Salamander

My favorite chore

is taking out the trash cans.

My teddy bear helps.

by Tiger

I have to take out

the cat box and I really

don't like to do it.

by Butterfly

The black dog sheds on

the cream colored carpet and

I know it is fall.

by Activities Coordinator

I Don't See No Stinking Slug

There are few things at which I am truly great.  I have many small talents.  I can French braid.  I can tie knots.  (On purpose knots, like for scouting.  Not just tennis shoe knots!)  I can make a mean batch of Disappearing Marshmallow Brownies.  Those are my little talents.  Tiny gifts, if you will. 

My one true great gift is that I am an inept housekeeper (in odd and slightly dangerous ways). It's not that I don't try to be a good housekeeper.  Generally speaking, my house is clean. Funny things just happen when I clean.  Don't believe me?

Stick around this week for my Festival (FES-TEE-VAL as we say back home) of Questionable Housekeeping.  I will dazzle you with my incompetence, amaze you with my clumsiness and stupefy you with my, well, plain, old bad luck. 

As I am typing this, the following conversation ensues...

Tiger:  "There's a dead slug on the floor."

    Me: "You've got a father."

He can handle that tiny gift.  Stay tuned.