Déjà vu. Again.

Thankfully, there isn't a squirrel in my house, but something else is happening.

I just finished a project, and the feeling I had while I was working on it was overwhelming. It was as if I had done the exact same thing before. I even stopped working on it twice, but each time I started again, the sensation returned. Even now that it's finished, I can't look at it without seeing it twice--once in the now, and once in some parallel memory. Don't get me wrong, I've had déjà vu before, but this time it is something more powerful. Has that ever happened to you?

There is one tiny part of my brain that is waiting for someone to come along and tell me that I have done the exact same project before--duh!--and that is why it's so familiar. You'll have to tell me in ten days when we rendezvous again!

Earthquake!

I must say, that was an interesting way to wake up this morning. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one awakened. Nothing like having an eight year old keeping you company that early in the morning!

R.I.P. Cherries

The results are in. No mistake. No hope for recourse.

I am violently, fatally allergic to cherries. I have been eating cherries my whole life, and until a few weeks ago, I was fine. And then it all came apart. I ate some and got so violently ill, I thought I might die. It turns out I almost did. I was politely informed by the allergist today that if I ever eat cherries again, I may not have enough time to use my epi-pen. Scary, huh?

I can never have a cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. I can no longer eat cherry pie. I can no longer (sniff, sniff) eat dad's wonderful cherry coffee cake. No more cherry cheesecake. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I'm sad.

P.S. No more Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Cherry Garcia Ice Cream, either.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

There is no doubt in my mind that the MacStewart Sisters are the good guys. When it comes to EVERYTHING. That's how we were raised. I can't even count how many times on this earth--in this lifetime!--I have bitten my tongue because mom taught us that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

Well, I've had it. I've had it with the bad guys (A.K.A. the Mayhems). And there is not a doubt in my mind that there is only one way to deal with the bad guys: getting ugly.

So, if there are any sneaky Mayhems out there who think that they can get away their usual badness, you are on notice. I've already sent the ugly to deal with you.

The End.

If He Wasn't Already A Saint, I'd Nominate Him

Not only did he help when the baby was sick, a rosary bead that has been missing for close to four years has suddenly appeared.

Thank you, dear friend.

Most loving protector, St. Anthony, what gift can I give you in exchange to show my heartfelt gratitude? With your continued help I will show appreciation to you by being more faithful to God, more constant in prayer, and readier to do good to those nearest me. I praise you for the esteem in which your name is held throughout the world, for the miracles and wonders with which you have filled the Church and the world, and for the many benefits men keep receiving through your gracious help.

May these intentions convey my great thanks to the triune God--Father, Son and Holy Spirit--and to our blessed Lady, Queen of Heaven and Earth.

If Ever...

I wrote this post and shortly after, I started reading a new book from the library. So far, it's kind of existential/creepy/battle between good and evil, but there was a quote that just about flew off the page at me last night.

"If ever there was a miracle on this earth, why not for you?"

If ever there was a miracle...and I believe in miracles...then why not for you? And why not for me? Maybe I need to quit asking why and start thinking about when.

Taxed to Death

At what point do we get to toss a boatload of tea--or the modern equivalent--into the lake? The county taxes that were recently raised have me paying between 9.25% and 12.25% on the goods I purchase.

Elected officials, I hope you have a back-up employment plan.

1% Infestation

If I never, ever, not even in a million years or for all eternity have to smell sour milk again, that’s fine with me.

I got home Monday night with my little one, and in a moment when I thought my bladder was going to burst, I told her to go in the living room while I ran to the bathroom and changed clothes. When I came down about three minutes later, I could hear her gagging and there was a terrible odor in the air. I was sure she was vomiting, so I ran into the living room where she was making a terrible face and saying, “This doesn’t taste good.” I skidded to a stop when I realized she was not vomiting. She was holding a cup of milk. That I didn't pour for her.

Crap.

Dear old darling daddy had let her have milk in the living room that morning. At 7am. And he forgot to dump the leftover milk. And it had been sitting in the living room all day. It was now 5:35pm. And my daughter just took a hearty swallow of the milk that had been sitting out all day. Nastiness. Eeeeewwwww.

I hurried to dump it and was gagging myself as I dumped it down the drain. For a few moments, I thought about strangling my spouse and wondered if prison time would be worth it. (Kidding, kidding. I’d never do that.) When he got home later, giant daggers jumped from my eyes and bored holes into his skull. He at least had enough sense to look sheepish and to apologize.

He felt worse later in the evening when the sour milk took a toll on our daughter’s tummy and she erupted with truly foul-smelling ick that leaked out of her night-time pull-up. Fortunately, she got it all out at once.

After she was finally asleep, I was sitting on the living room floor grading some papers. I was feeling sort of nauseous, thinking I had a bad case of “memory nose”…you know when you smell something bad, but you can’t seem to get the smell out of your nose? Anyway, it kept getting worse and worse. And that was when I realized the horror of the situation…

After my daughter gagged on the milk, she had spilled some on the carpet. I didn’t notice it earlier in the evening, but as I was walking around the living room trying to figure out where the smell was coming from, I stepped in a large, wet spot. And the odor drifted up from there.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I made my husband shampoo the carpet right away and we thought it might be okay. Wrong. Oh so wrong. He didn’t get the whole spot, so the next morning when I came downstairs, it smelled ten times worse. It’s like when you’re taking a Greyhound or a Coach bus somewhere out of town and someone takes a huge dump in the bathroom and sprays flowery air freshener. Then it just smells like poop and flowers. My living room smelled like sour milk and carpet cleaner.

I made my hubby shampoo the carpet again before he left for work that morning, yelling at him all the while. I thought this time it would be okay. Wrong again.

When I got home from work that night (keeping in mind the house had been closed up all day long) I walked in and barely made it to the bathroom to vomit. The smell was that bad. I made my daughter sit in the garage while I opened all the windows and doors to air it out. When my hubby got home, I yelled at him again. At least he felt bad about it. But I still huffed about it, telling him it would have taken all of four seconds for him to have picked up the damn cup and put it in the sink the morning before. Of course, I got the usual, “I forgot.” (That’s another thing…if I never have to hear “I forgot” or “I don’t remember” ever again, I’m good with that.)

So, Tuesday night, I dumped a whole box of baking soda over the entire stinky area. I let it sit for a half hour, then took some rough rags and a bucket of hot water and scrubbed the daylights out of it. Every time I ran the rags over the area, more stench wafted up from the carpet fibers and carpet pad. I worked the baking soda deep, hoping it might pull out the smell from the floorboards, too. Then I proceeded to super-steam the area. The hubby then shampooed it two more times.

The smell was still not completely gone. I yelled at him again and told him that if we have to rip up the carpet and padding and sand down the floorboards to get rid of the smell, I’m going to kick him in the nuts. I mean it.

We left the downstairs windows open overnight, which seemed to help. Who knows what it will be like tonight.

My purpose in sharing all of this? HE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME WHEN I WANTED TO PUT IN HARD FLOORING THROUGHOUT THE MAIN LEVEL. If there had been hard flooring, the rotten, nasty milk could have been mopped up, lickety-split. But nnnooooo. Mr. I-Want-Blue-Carpet. Mr. It’s-Just-Milk-It’s-No-Big-Deal.

Bah humbug. I love him to pieces, but if that smell is not gone when I get home tonight, he better hope he’s wearing a cup over his manly parts…