We’re at war with England!

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 30, 2010 . 7:51PM

During the summer months, there are some days where I have so few clients that AJ doesn’t have to attend his summer program and he is allowed to come hang out with me at the office. My friend Meggan is doing her practicum with us and he thinks Meggan hung the moon. He hangs out with Meggan or plays his Nintendo DS and I see clients while he avoids going to the summer program he claims is boring him and rotting his brains out. Hardly. The summer program does cool things like going to Jump Zone and swimming and playing games. But AJ is a momma’s boy and that little guy would rather be in close proximity to me than most anything in the whole world. When asked what he’d liked to do for vacation if he had one week, with the thought of Disney World being an option and anything else in the whole United States being the other option, he replied “Go to NeeNee’s because we PARTY.” He has no idea what he’s passing up and we love family time.

I’m veering off topic by a lot. I’m just going to say that my son is not worldly in the slightest and move on.

We were in the car on the way to my office when AJ asks, out of nowhere as per the norm, “Why do we celebrate 4th of July?” I’m not good with history, but I did my very best to explain our declaration of independence from England and why we chose to do so. He took this to mean that “we’re at war with England!” I explained that this was a long time ago and we are fine with England now. In fact, we’re pretty good friends. We like them. We do tea without tossing it over boats.

No. This is unacceptable. They were bad. They must pay. Grudges must be held.

I could feel the stewing going on in the back seat…and I chose to ignore it.

Until trivia night last night. There was a question regarding the back of the new quarters and the design on the back of one of them. The question had nothing to do with England, nor did it have to do with 4th of July or our war with England. But AJ chose to answer the question as “Florida. Because it has a direct line from England.”

I may not be strong in history. He’s not strong in geography. We’re both strong in grudge holding, but I think he’s got me beat. He mutters “England” in the same voice I utter “Derek Jeter.”

That’s my kid.

England, you better watch your back.

I hope not….

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . April 20, 2010 . 8:49PM

So, I went to the ladies room at school and this was posted in not one, but 2 places in the restroom the size of a small walk-in closet. Duly noted.

That is so trashy!

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . March 23, 2010 . 10:15AM

Houston, we have a problem.

AJ does chores. I know that the idea of this may strike some parents as odd. There really are parents out there that don’t force their kids to do chores of any kind and for those parents I have a great big smack in the pants. For as much as I adore my child, he does plenty in this house. He does have a cell phone, gets to do lots of leisure activities and has all kinds of neat toys. But he does chores.

One of those chores is that he has to empty the trash cans in the house. Now, most people would just upend the smaller trashcan into the larger trash bag, get it done and move on, correct? Not AJ. AJ likes knowing exactly what I’m throwing away.

I wish I were kidding.

He’s just that nosy.

So, he takes the trash out of the trashcan a couple pieces at a time and sticks it into the larger trashbag, looking at each piece to determine whether he might want to keep that piece of trash or not. What this amounts to is him pulling out old paperclips, broken rubberbands, broken cups and pens that have run out of ink. Each of these ends up back on my end table where I cleaned them off in the first place.

When I question him regarding why he does this, he looks at me and replies, “What? We might need that later.”

I’m living with a future television star for the show HOARDERS.

Even Stevens, do you hear me?

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . February 16, 2010 . 10:10PM

So, my karma has been on the evil side of bad lately.

Frankly, I knew it was coming. I’ve been a bad girl and I was due. When it came, it came and hit me horribly. Without going into all the details, life came crashing down and the effects are long-lasting and hard. Sickness and horror upon friends and acquaintances, hard times, school frustration, you name it. The business of life has been quite a lot to bear lately.

However, I’ve taken my licks like a woman and not a child and I think that I have just about had enough. Tonight, we’re in the black, karma. In. the. black.

I just went to take a shower. I was stank. Truly. My hair was greasy. I have been inside with the dogs all day due to snow and I just needed to feel clean. I leave tomorrow for a conference and if I don’t shower tonight, my long, thick, wavy hair will never dry in time for me to make my flight. It’s why I take my showers at night unless I want to have a bad 80s perm all day.

After making my way upstairs, I gathered my pajamas and went to the bathroom where I noticed that one of my two major sources of light was out. This wouldn’t be a problem but I needed to shave my legs. I know this is too much information, but bear with me. You have to know this part of the story. I’m 5’11″ and my body is all legs. I need that light to see and, quite frankly, I’d been waiting to shave until the night before the trip so I’d be silky smooth. Ladies, you know what I mean.

With a dubious look to the light, I started the water and figured I’d soldier on. How difficult could shaving be in the semi-dark? I could still see the legs, just not the hair.

This is the part where karma laughs at me loud and long.

We’re all good until the shaving part. I’ve put my conditioner in to set while I shave. With the first stroke, I know I’m in trouble. My blade is dull. It’s the last blade I have left before a trip I’m going on tomorrow and all I have is a dull blade, hairy legs and a dark bathroom. I make the unwise decision that if I shave MORE SLOWLY the blade will still do the work of a sharp blade.

I’m a smart person. This was not a smart moment.

I cannot see the leg, so I shave some areas and not others and then shave over some parts and make them sensitive and tender to touch. Nicks are everywhere.

This is when karma and I become even.

Someone in my house, either the 9-year-old or the 32-year-old, makes the unwitting decision that I need to be put in my place once and for all: They turn the water on. As I’m sliding the dull blade up my leg, yet again, the water goes from luke warm to scalding in about 2 seconds. I jump, the blade skips up my leg and…you can see where this is going.

I still have conditioner in my hair.

I’m hurt.

I’m angry.

And this is not funny.

Eventually the water turns lukewarm and I throw the razor across the bathroom and wash my hair out.

We are even, karma. Even Stevens. Do you hear me? It’s over.

Stairmaster, you elusive mistress

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . December 9, 2009 . 8:33PM

For a while now, I’ve been working on my fitness and thus far, it’s been a productive measure. I feel things toning and fat is burning and unpleasant things are happening to my body that I’ve been reassured are GREAT! Those unpleasant things mean that what I’m doing is working! Woot!

Last week, I was on the phone with my trainer and he scolded me. This is becoming commonplace. I need a little scolding now and then because, quite frankly, I’m bad. I have horns. Don’t be surprised when I do bad things. I’m not good. So, yes, sometimes I get scolded.

The reason for the scolding this time was that I’d become comfortable with the evil, wretched treadmill and the *heavens open up and light shines down* amazing, wonderful, beautiful elliptical machine. I was alternating them and frankly, my dear, it wasn’t enough. I needed variety. [insert scolding and I told you's here]

My response was “Yeah, yeah, yeah but stairs scare me! When I climb the stairs at school I end them in the fetal position and rocking.”

My trainer, Mike, was not impressed, yelled some more, and told me to get my butt on the stairmaster.

Whatever.

So I have thrown in it the mix.

It’s going to kill me yet.

When I’m on the stairmaster, I don’t get the nice feelings or the high that I get on the elliptical or the numbing, dulling zone out of the treadmill. I get the tired legs and the “you’re going to die mwahahahahah” of the stairmaster. I admit: I want to give up. Here’s how I don’t: I make up elaborate fantasies and schemes as to what will happen if I can complete my 25 minute stairmaster rotation.

“If I can just get through the next 10 minutes I can have that condo in downtown Nashville that I want! Floor to ceiling windows, baby. Decorate it any way I want it and my drive to both work and school is down to 10 minutes. Boo-yah!”

“If I can just get through the next 20 minutes, the minute I step off this stairmaster, a swarthy pirate named Hugh Jackman is going to come out the bathroom, growl, “MMM, I always liked ‘em chubby” and throw me over his shoulder while I meekly say, “Help. I’m being abducted.” Then he will buy me my condo in Nashville.”

Wait. What were we talking about? Oh, the stairmaster. See? That’s how I get through it. Man, I love me a pirate.

You haven’t conquered me yet, stairmaster. Hugh and I are going to get through this. We always do.