Oh hai!

• Friday morning the Precious Daughters left for the state regional debate tournament. Precious Oldest went as a sponsor and to judge; Precious Youngest went to compete. We got he call this afternoon - Precious Youngest and and team took FIRST!
  
• The Christmas menus are planned. This is a relief.
  
• We got major gift wrapping done today. A little more baking and I'm almost ready for Christmas.
  
• Except for needing to clean my house and snap a few pics for Jen's Holiday Open House. Because I'm pretty sure no one needs to see rooms full of this:

I'm just sayin'.

Still Weary

Sometimes when I’m wallowing in my self pity and angst, I see the world though a very heavy fog. Nothing registers as I move though my days in a haze. Other times, I manage to step outside myself. My awareness is heightened. I become sensitive to the moods of others.

Last night Precious Youngest was stressed. I fixed her a late dinner when she came home from work. We visited about her day and considered her wardrobe options for this weekend’s debate tournament. I went to bed with thoughts of being as helpful to her in the morning as I could.

This morning I gave myself quite a paper cut on the cardboard flap of a box top when I was setting out her breakfast. Then I burned myself ironing a blouse for her to wear to the aforementioned debate tournament. I kissed her on her way out the door and wished her good luck at the tournament.

After she left for school and I was dressing for work and realized the sweater I planned to wear was missing. (Those of you who live with teen aged girls will understand the pain of living with thieving whores busy borrowers.) So I trotted upstairs to Precious Youngest’s room to try to locate the sweater.

BIG MISTAKE.

Seriously people. Maybe she’s stressed because she lives in a PIG STY. I’m just sayin’.

My ass is sore, part deux

Thank you all for your comments on my last post. And for those of you showoffs for whom "gentle reminders" work? I think I'd have to be holding a bat in one hand while I did the "reminding" for that to be effective. ;)

I have in recent years tried the "shut the door" approach. Hell, they live on another FLOOR. The entire upstairs is theirs, and I don't go up there very often any more. But here's the thing, every once in awhile I DO go up. To check in. To bring fresh rolls of toilet paper and boxes of Kleenex. Or after a Target run with shampoo, deodorant and sundry erm... female...erm...products. And what I see makes me nuts.

I don't get a lot of back up on this issue. The Saint grew up with a brother who, now in his late forties, still moves every four or five years when his place gets so deplorable even HE can't stand it. So the Saint's idea of squalor is a tad different than mine. I think this is where the ambivalence comes in. I am always the "nag". Raining on the collective parade with my "expectations". So I back off and try to ignore things. But the reality is I swallow the disappointment (turned irritation, turned anger) until so much pressure has built up that I explode.

So I think I'll accept the recommendations of Suburban Correspondent and Mary Alice; a "specific list" of must do's and "ride their ass like a monkey until new organized energetic clean synapses form in their brains". I feel better already!

My ass is sore from sitting on this fence

If you do not want to hear about the vagaries of raising teenagers, by all means please stop reading. But I'm going to go on a little rant, vent a bit, and get this out of my system before I hurt someone. And then I will ask for advice. I submit the following:

Exhibit A
For the Precious Daughters, school is their job. That is their main focus. We have decreed it so. As such, we do not expect very much from them around the house. A few daily chores, the dishes after dinner, a load or two of laundry every week (their own, God forbid we'd ask more) . And for the love of all that is holy KEEP THEIR ROOMS CLEAN. This is not a space mucked up by other people. They each have a room of their own. So why? WHY? is it that the beds are not made? The clothes not hung up? The laundry not put away? The trash cans over flowing? The closet doors gaping open?

Exhibit B
The Precious Daughters are academically excellent. They don't party. They have nice friends. They work their plans around our family dinners. Their extracurricular activities include, but are not limited to, debate, choir, robotics, recreational volleyball & basketball, and teaching CCD. They work part-time jobs and don't ask us for money beyond their monthly allowance. (Which ain't much folks!) They don't miss curfew. They tell us they love us at least once a day.

So tell me people; bring down the hammer or cut them some slack? Because seriously? My ass is killing me.

I Call Pots!

We have a time honored tradition in my family: He who cooks does NOT do the dishes. It began simply enough when The Saint and I were first married; just a way to divide up household chores. Over time however, a pattern was established that I cooked and he washed up. The Saint is many things but a cook is not one of them. I on the other hand, enjoy cooking. So for better or worse, I prepared the meals and he did the dishes.

I also inherited the grocery shopping. Not something I particularly enjoy, but when planning meals it tends to be the cook who needs to shop. In our case it HAS to be. The Saint is a terrible grocery shopper. I can send a list, but if I don’t give him original packaging to match? Useless.

[Here is just ONE example. You know the potato casserole recipe that is a heart attack waiting to happen, but is a great pot-luck dish? The one with hash browns, butter, cheese, sour cream and canned soup? OK, let’s just say there was a funeral at our church and my Altar and Rosary Circle was assigned potatoes. And let’s say the aforementioned casserole was what I decided to make. And let’s just say I was busy, oh I don’t know RAISING HIS CHILDREN and sent The Saint to the store for the one ingredient I didn’t have on hand – the hash browns.

Me: "I need you to go to the store for ONE thing so I can cook for this funeral."

Saint: "Sure, what for?"

Me: "Hash browns; they’re for a casserole. I need the cubed kind."

Saint: ………?

Me: "You know, little squares?"

Saint: "Where, by the milk?" (I shit you not)

Me: SIGH "No, in the freezer section, right across from the ice cream"

Saint: "Go it."

Fifteen minutes later…

Saint: (Eyes shinning, so pleased with himself) "Here you go."

Me: (opening grocery bag and finding hash brown PATTIES) WTF?

Saint: "What, they’re square?"]

Anywhoo, I digress. For the last ten or so years the girls have done the dishes. As they got older they got really good at it. The bone of contention however was always pots. Much jockeying for position as to whose turn it was. As in, “I call pots” whenever there was one or none. Actual physical harm occasionally resulted from disagreements over whose turn it was to do pots. (I was never harmed of course as this is the portion of the evening where I sit at the dinner table and pour another glass of wine.)

Now that Precious Youngest is Precious ONLY she has declared it onerous that she has to clear and clean for three all.by.her.self. WAAHH! She is developing ingenious methods for trying to get out of this chore. My personal favorite? Sliding out of her chair, flipping over on her back, scooting out of the kitchen into the dinning room and backstroking across the dinning room floor.

Funny? Hell yes. Working out for her? Not so much.