Roadkill Bingo

To be honest, I haven't been exactly "unemployed" since December, more like "underemployed" or "multi-ployed." I've been working at several part-time jobs and projects to try and make some money. (This being one of them. If you like my little stories, recommend them to friends!) One of my jobs is at a non-profit breastfeeding center here in Lincoln, MilkWorks-a fantastic resource for families who want the healthiest options for their children.

So I have a teenager babysit my kids for the few hours I'm at my part-time job. She lives out in the country which is one of my favorite things about living in Lincoln, NE. You can drive a half hour in any direction, and you're in the country. Good Nebraska country. I love it! No plastic cows to "milk" like the Science and Industry Museum in Chicago. Real, honest to goodness farms with animals and their various smells. (As Sally Ganem, the Governor's wife once told me at a real working dairy farm in Firth, NE, "That, my dear, is the smell of money!")

This morning I drove out to pick my babysitter up with all three kids in the back of the minivan, and we see it. A dead critter in the middle of the road. The six-year old noticed it first. "Mom, you just passed some roadkill." I usually get the heebeejeebees when I pass road kill, but I thought that maybe I could turn this into a learning opportunity.

"Roadkill?" I say.

"Yeah, some animal is dead in the middle of the road," says my adorable 5-year old daughter.

"Well, what do you think it was?"

The six-year old pipes up, "A squirrel!" The five-year old guesses, "A moose!"

The wizened eight-year old, not even looking up from his Nintendo DS says in the cool even tone of an old west sharpshooter, "Nope. That critter was a skunk."

We pick up the babysitter and decide that this could be the most fun contest that we've ever had: Roadkill Bingo. She was guessing that it might be a raccoon and I suggested possum. We drove slowly past. Speed limit was 55 miles an hour, but we were crawling in order to correctly identify the carcass of a wild (although not so wild now) animal. Bets were placed. It was all on the line. And the winner was.......

Dead skunk. And then we caught a whiff. No mistaking that smell.

That, my dear, is the smell of money.

Lost Shoes

There is something evil a-foot at my house. And I'm not exaggerating when I say "a-foot." My shoes keep disappearing.

At first it was my cute black strappy sandals that were always a little too sexy to wear to work (when I had a job). Then it was my neutral strappy heels that were fine to wear to work. And then some. They were summer shoes, so I just started thinking that maybe I had put them in a box and then....I have no idea. I've searched my closet. I've searched the coat closet and I've searched the garage. (Which is scary. It's organized, but there is so much stuff in there!) I cannot find either pair of shoes anywhere.

And then it was my ultra-hot black suede platform peeptoes. Or peeptoe. Only one of those is missing. I know that I would never leave one in the box where it is supposed to be and leave the other one in the back of the minivan. These are MY shoes. I love them and take care of them. This particular pair of shoes was extremely special to me (and expensive). They were the first indulgence that I bought with my Mary Kay money ($100) before I lost the radio job, when I had some "extra" money. Something completely frivilous. Something completely for me. And now, I only have one.

Now, it's my silver peeptoe wedges. These I got from Payless. (Much more responsible). But again, only one is missing. The other is sitting there mocking me, "Go find my partner. I'll just sit here on the shoe shelf waiting for you to wear me. No that's okay, I'll wait. (sigh)"

Now these shoes are important for several reasons. Number 1: My Mary Kay convention is next week and I wanted to look cute, professional and impressive and that's hard to do in flip flops. Number 2: Because of a woman's Universal Love of Shoes.

Now all women don't love high heels. Some prefer adorable flats or comfy Bierks. Some like penny loafers, espadrilles, wedges, platforms, running shoes, aerobic shoes, Converse All-Stars....you get the idea. And I didn't even mention boots! The reason that women love shoes is because no matter how big our thighs get, how much weight we gain over the holidays, how many beers and nachos we may consume during our "unemployed phase," we know our shoes will always fit. Every once in a while post pregnancy, our dear "soul" mates let us down, but that's only every once in a while (unless you're that family on cable that named all of their 19 children with a "J" name). Shoes are our standard. A tool in our fashion arsenal that we always know we can rely on when we need to feel a certain way. Powerful. Sexy. Strong. Successful. Comfortable. Shoes are directly linked to our psyche.

So you can imagine how anxious I feel not knowing where my shoes are. I feel like I've lost a little of my self. Somewhere I have two pairs of shoes and two solo shoes waiting for my feet to wear them again. And I have no idea where to look. I've looked in my closet. Under my bed. In my daughter's room (of course, the first place I looked). Searching, searching, searching. And the anxiety of the unfulfilled quest is making me cranky. I've almost bitten my children's heads' off when they have asked me a question whilst I was on hands and knees searching with a flashlight in the dark, dusty corner of the coat closet. I am looking for my shoes.

When you are looking for something, searching, it can be consuming. You forget who you are. You forget the people around you. It feels as if the world will not be "right" until you find what you have lost. Because you know in your heart, you never should have lost it in the first place. If you would have tried a little harder to keep track of it. If you could have been a little more organized. If you would have just been able to focus and give it your attention, instead of just taking it for granted that it would always be there. It's lost and it's all your fault. You've looked everywhere for it, so now what can you do?

The anxiety of looking for something can be overwhelming. Looking for shoes, looking for love, looking for a job, looking for salvation. The good news is, is that there are always people to help. All you have to do is figure out the right people and ask. You might not always luck out, and it might take a ridiculously long time to find your "something", but at least you're looking.

I've thought about paying the kids a few bucks to be my Shoe Bounty Hunters and try to track the missing footwear. But I guess if I really needed to, I could always go and buy more (well, at least the Payless Shoes-unless you are in need of some lipstick....).

The Smell of Truth

There has been a smell in my house. A bad smell. A foul smell. And I don't know where its coming from.

A lot of times when people have a smell in their house, its usually because there's something in the drain that may have gone bad. Maybe the garbage hasn't been taken out enough. Maybe even a dog brought a critter into the house as a little "Thank You, Master" present. That was not this smell.

This smell was definitely human. More specifically, this smell was old pee. Being a mother of three children, I have often smelled the smell of a forgotten, misplaced diaper. Sometimes under a bed or crib. Sometimes stashed in the far corner of a closet. Sometimes hidden in a toy box. Sometimes hidden behind the bedroom door for days. (Honestly who can say that they ever check behind a door? The last place anyone ever cleans, behind a door). I am an "old pee smell" expert and that was what the smell was.

I am also the mother of boys. I don't know why, but boys have a tendency to want to "mark." Is it their inner boy-wolves coming out to play? Is it a matter of distance, the whole 10 feet to the toilet? Or is it a matter of "Hey guys! Watch what I can do!"?

Nevertheless, I had to find the source of the smell. For if I could kill the host, I could stop it's spread. And it was spreading. Everytime I walked into my house, it would get worse. Up the stairs? Worse. In the boys' room? The mothership. While I couldn't tell if the smell was originating from the closet or the bookshelf, the source definitely came from the room of the small male children.

I knew I could spend all day trying to find the origin. I could tear apart their entire closet (which by the way I did about a month ago. Now it is jam-packed with toys that I swore that I threw away. I swear!) I could get one of the dogs to try and do the old bloodhound thing. Or I could just ask.

Now my kids have gotten pretty good at dancing around the truth. They know that if they blame someone else, someone else will get in trouble. That if they point enough fingers, mom will get so confused by all of the fingers that she will just give up and get on Facebook to unwind. (I almost typed "un-wine." Freudian slip.) They have learned how to lie and how to lie well.

So I knew I couldn't just ask, "Which one of you peed in the boys' room?" I wouldn't get a straight answer, and I would never be able to find the source in order to kill the host smell. I had to promise freedom from persecution. Anonymity. I was making deals with little devils, but I had to find out where that smell was coming from. So I came up with, "I'm sure that none of you peed in the boys' room, but if one of you did, where would I find that pee?"

Answer: "In the air conditioning vent, Mom!" (......Are you kidding me???) How the heck do you clean that up? I do have to say that I found it strange that the smell got worse everytime the air conditioner kicked in. And it has been hot lately. So the problem really had trickled over the entire house. Still working on figuring out how to clean this one.

I have been lied to. A lot lately. Or at least I think I have, but you just really never know. Thats the thing about lying and liars. If they are good at it, you never will know. And even if they are not good at it, you might not want to think that they are capable of doing that. Of lying to you. We can never really know the difference between what is the truth and what is just what someone wants you to think is the truth. Sucks really. As much as we would like to believe someone, to trust them, you never really can. But, to clean up a mess, maybe you don't need to trust them. Maybe you don't even need the truth. A lie will work too, as long as you can figure out where the smell is coming from and figure out the best way to clean it up.