Does Thriftiness Pay?

Our Pilot now sports a hitch. My only question is whether saving $60 and attaching it ourselves was worth it. Why? you ask. I will tell you the story and let you decide. . .or Rob, since he was the one to pay.

After purchasing the hitch and bringing it home in the back of the Pilot, us girls left Rob to unload and went inside. A short time later Rob came it pale and limping. He claimed he had been lying on the garage floor in the fetal position for the last several minutes whimpering . . .because he dropped the VERY HEAVY hitch on his foot--his bare foot!

Before long it had swollen up nicely and turned many interesting colors--blue, purple, black, a little yellow and green. And it did this neat trick, it made grinding and popping sounds when walked upon. But being the stubborn male that he is, he refused to go get it checked. So for over a week he lived with it, stuffing it into work shoes and prying it out again. I was just waiting for the pain to wear him down. I must say I rarely detected a limp and on occasion forgot he had crushed it. But I realized it bothered him more than he let on.

A couple nights ago he was surfing the net trying to find symptoms of a broken foot. I am going to go out on a limb here and guess: swelling, discoloration, and a strange grinding and popping when one walks. . .oh, and PAIN. You would think a man in the medical field would behave more rationally. But I guess that’s the way it goes right. What do they say about plumbers and carpenters?—They are the last to benefit from their talent, right? But over the weekend he managed to attach the hitch, with a little help from me--I had to lay under the car and hold the very heavy hitch above my head while he put the screws in. I made sure my head was not below the thing.

His foot does seem to be improving. Maybe Rob was right. In the contest of pain vs. will he seems to be winning. I just wish I had remembered to take a picture of his foot.

Who are you and where did my baby go?

Today we had one of those pivotal moments in life when you suddenly realize your little girl is growing up. We took the girls to McDonald's for dinner because we had worked all day in the yard and didn't have the energy or inclination to cook. I started ordering for everyone, like usual. But when I got to the girls and said, "We'll take two happy meals. . ." I was quickly interrupted by Hannah with a decisive, "No, I will have number six." I stopped and looked at her, but could find to reason to object. It was a chicken sandwich anyway, so no worse than nuggets. Better really, because it was grilled. Clearly the happy meal toy had lost its appeal. So I said, "Okay." And left it at that.

Then to further establish this new maturity Hannah calmly stated she was too old for the playground. To make her point she walked over and stood next to the "you must be shorter than this line" sign next to the playground. It was marked at four feet, and sure enough, she was a good four inches taller than the cut off line. More amazing was that she really did not seem to care.

She resumed her seat and quietly polished off her meal, concluding with, "Next time I think I will try the Chicken Ranch combo meal. Should I remind her that she is only eight? Even as I wonder that I can't help but think, "Good heavens, I have an eight year old." But stressing over it seems futile, because by the time I come to terms with it, she will be nine, or ten, or sixteen anyway. I think I will just enjoy these moments as they come and try not to blink.

You call it rash, I call it spontaneity. . . . .

The following story actually happened the first week in April, and I wrote it in my Book Smart photo journal book, but I thought it was funny so I am posting it here now:

I now have proof that Rob can act impulsively. . . with a mad rush of research involved, of course. While driving back from Seattle earlier this week, Rob noticed a boat for sale in Battle Ground. As soon as he got home he insisted we all load up and go look at it. It was not in good shape, but it was cheap, and it was a boat--apparently a life long desired possession for Rob. Luckily his good sense made him check to see what else was for sale out there and he realized he could get a functioning boat for not much more.

Now he had a bee in his bonnet. The Pearson's must break with family tradition and buy a boat. So, next thing I know we are packed up again, going to see another boat that Rob found on Craigslist.com. Immediately thereafter, unbeknownst to me, Rob made an offer on the boat. Two days later, a boat is sitting in our garage--courtesy of the seller because neither of our vehicles can boast a towing hitch.

I'm thrilled that such a capricious act was performed by Rob, who has made five trips to the mall to buy a $40 shirt and is yet empty handed, but part of me-a large part--wishes the money had gone toward my kitchen remodel, which is still on hold. But, apparently lovely kitchens don't make lovely memories like a boat can--or so I have been told.

What Is Green?

Since moving to Washington green has taken on a whole new meaning, several meanings actually. I quickly learned that when people talk about our green state, which they often do, they are not referring to the fauna. Rob refers to Washington, and Oregon more particularly, as hippy territory.

Here green means environmentally friendly and everyone is doing it. You can even join a green bank, which uses recycled paper, of course. Or buy a green house (not the color green or even the kind of glass house for growing plants, but a house that is efficient and uses environmentally friendly products). You can buy a purse made out of recycled rubber or reusable shopping totes to reduce the use of plastic. And everyone recycles. Leaving a small "carbon footprint" is of vital importance to those proud to call themselves northwesterners.

But when I say "I love this green state I live in," you can be sure I am referring to the scenery. To begin with, the rain is worth enduring when you get to enjoy all this green around you. I cannot tell you how much I am in love with this place I call home. Things actually grow and bloom all year long.

I got excited recently about taking pictures of things in my yard. It started when I decided to decorate my guest room in springy green and white. I wanted to frame some photos of ferns or moss, anything green, and put it on the wall as art. I was so excited, I took
pictures of plants and ferns and moss. . .moss on the tree, moss on the rocks, moss on the fence, moss on the roof, moss in the grass--you see where this is going.
It is really amazing how many variations of green and how many textures there can be found in moss.

I have even been planning a little garden in my side yard. I asked my neighbor Leah for some tips--she is always busy working in her yard. She went into a list of the things she had been doing to spruce up her yard and garden for spring, one of which was to put down moss killer.
My first response was, "They make moss killer? Why would you kill the moss? It is so pretty." I even planted moss in my Utah yard and worked hard to maintain it. But Leah assured me that the moss is a parasite and it will kill your grass. I now have evidence of that truth.

So during my last trip to Costco I picked up a bag of moss killer. But even while I defend my grass I still appreciated the beauty of the enemy I am vanquishing. And the moss in the grass is not nearly as pretty as the moss on the fence, or the trunk, or the rocks. . .Those I am keeping.
But even without the moss my yard is a green haven which I intend to thoroughly enjoy. . .once the rain stops.

Life Lessons . . . .

I probably write about my Siggy Girl too much, but she is still in that fun age where they say such funny things. But I have to tell a story of Signe's defiant side. It never used to show much, but it has been coming out more often lately and I can even find humor in her naughtiness--well, at least in her reaction afterwards. Let me start at the beginning.

Hannah had a friend over and his little brother called and wanted to come over. So I sent the two around the corner to walk him over. Several minutes later, Sig comes down and realizes they have gone. Of course she wants to go too, but they are probably there already so I tell her to wait, because they will be right back.

Signe was having none of that and ran out the front door. I head out after her, in my socks. And Charly escapes in the process. I grab him--he can't be trusted outside, he tends to run around like a crazy person and is likely to get himself killed. All the while I am negotiating with Signe with phrases like, "You need to stay here or you will lose your DS for a day." And, "You are making a naughty choice and making mommy angry." And, of course, "If you don't come back you will have to sit on the time out chair, or worse yet lay on you bed for half an hour." All to no avail. She is not listening to reason--by this time I have followed her halfway to the corner, taking off my socks en route, and still carrying Charly.

I pick up my pace to catch up with her and she bolts. My main thought as I chase my daughter down the street is, "I wonder what the neighbors are thinking?" Because, I admit, it was probably entertaining to watch. So, I finally catch up with her and pick her up kicking and screaming and head home. And let me tell you, trying to carry a dog in one arm and a squirming child in the other is not easy.

Not to mention, what with the screaming and fighting, it is highly likely any onlookers would assume I was kidnapping this child, though any fast get away would surely be hindered by the bare feet and armful of dog.

Halfway back home she stops struggling and promises to walk on her own if I would put her down because my hold is hurting her ribs--I am sure it has nothing to do with the flailing.
So she walks--grumpily--home. And apart from a moment of reconsidering in the driveway where she almost bolts, I manage to get her inside.

Once there, I sit her on the time out chair and set the timer for five minutes while I talk to her about choices and the consequences of said choices. As a parent I believe children need to understand that punishment is not about mean parents, it is about making poor choices. And same goes for rewards and good choices. So then I leave her to think about her choice while sitting on the time out chair. This may seem like a mild punishment, but believe me, a few minutes of confinement on that chair in the corner of the living room is an eternity in her four year old mind.

From the kitchen I can hear her quietly crying when suddenly she breaks out with, "I shouldn't have made that choice! Why did I make that choice?"

Needless to say when the timer buzzed she assured me that next time she would listen when I told her not to do something. And I am sure she meant it. . . until next time.

Spring is here, bring out the. . . . snow boots?

Here we are mid April and this is the most snow we have had all year. I actually had to dig out the snow boots for the first time since we moved here last October. I have a distant memory of last Saturday . . . .sunshine, 80 degree weather, sunscreen, Siggy in a swimsuit in the front yard while we washed cars. Was that real? Or was it all a sunny dream. . . . .

Signe was thrilled to see a carshmallow though. What is a carshmallow? you ask. It is a car covered in snow. The effect is really more convincing in Utah, where she coined the phrase last winter.

Short & Sweet . . .

. . .is really not my forte! I just wanted to say sorry for the book I wrote--it is likely to be a persistent problem.

It's Good to be Loved . . .

On Tuesday night a door to door salesman came by offering a window inspection. I kindly told him I had great windows. He went through his spiel on why it was good to have them checked and that they really wanted to make sure we kept them in mind for the future when we might need windows. "So what time tomorrow works best for you?" he asks. "I can't do it tomorrow, and I'm not really interested." I tell him.

Here is the point when I should have shut the door, or said the following (Which Rob so kindly pointed out later) "We have a really high end security system wired into our windows and so we couldn't easily replace them if we wanted to." Which technically is true anyway. But of course I was just trying not to be rude, so I said, "Why don't you leave your card and I can call you if I change my mind." To which, of course, he replied, "I don't have one and we are only doing this neighborhood this week. It is a free service that would normally cost $150 (yeah right) and we are going to give you a $25 gas card just for letting us inspect your windows. It should only take 90 minutes." 90 minutes! Really not worth my time. But clearly I must have shown signs of weakness because he suggested a later day in the week. He then informed me it must be a time when both me and my husband are present in case either of us has questions.

Here I thought I was clever and quickly said, "Oh, well, my husband is out of town for the rest of the week." After which I promptly cursed myself as the biggest idiot. I might as well have said, "Come on over later and do what you will, as I will be alone, all alone." I had this split second out of body experience when you see your life like a horror movie where the young girl, alone at home--after dark, hears a sound and goes outside to investigate. . .You all know what happens next.

I am sure my reaction was unreasonable, and the guy was probably totally legitimate, but too often they are not and I had just set myself up in a really stupid way. I hate door to door solicitors. I probably would have let it go--well, maybe not, except Rob really was going out of town for the week and the very next day (before he left) a car with a man in it sat outside my house until after I finally fell asleep after 11:00.

So today after he left I called my mom (7 hours away) and asked if she wanted to come visit me. . .NOW. She laughed and asked why. I told her my story. She jokingly said she'd ask my dad. Rob told me "just lock the doors." A little while later my mom called back and said they would be on their way in an hour! Can you believe that?! My parents are the greatest. I am sure I am freaking out over nothing. But even still it will be fun having my parents here. So any bad guys out there with ill intentions be warned--my mommy and daddy are here to protect me!

Going Public . . .

At the request of my husband and a few friends and family I am starting a blog. It may not be so much a desire to hear more info as a desire to hear it at their prerogative! You see, I have been writing in a photo journal in the program booksmart that uploads to Blurb.com where you can publish your book. My intent is to publish it once a year in book form. It is my version of scrapbooking. But I tend to get excited about what I am entering in my book, so I call people and subject them to readings of my book. Well now I can post them on this blog and anyone who so desires can read my entries when and if they chose. Plus, I don't have to spend all that time calling everyone and reading what I wrote! Be warned I tend to be obsessed with whatever I am doing now, so I have no idea how consistent I will be but I am optimistic.