How To Make Me Proud

My Hero
By Mackenzie

A hero is someone you admire or look up to. There are many people in this world I might consider my hero. Out of all those people I chose my older brother Dillon because he is really cool, a good roll model, and very nice.

My brother is really cool because he doesn't ignore me. Also because once when I was little, these two boys that were older than me were pushing me around. Then my brother helped me out. He is also really cool because he never tries to hurt me... well besides the occasional punch or hit in the head.

Dillon is a good roll model because he always gets on the honor roll. Also because this one time he had a friend that had an encounter with the police and was always getting into trouble. Then he met Dillon. Dillon got him to stop getting in to trouble. Most of all, my brother is a good roll model for me because he isn't afraid to show what he likes, his style, or his real personality.

My brother is really nice to me. He helps me with homework all the time. Dillon is also nice because he intentionally buys two player video games so I can play with him. Lastly, my brother is very nice because he lets me hang out with him and his friends when they're over.

Ok, so I know since we're siblings we’re supposed to fight and hate each other. I also know I can be annoying and a pain in the neck, but what makes him a good hero is that he's really cool, a good roll model, and very nice. What makes him a great hero and an awesome brother is that he loves me.

The End

In the Nutshell

Roll back to last Tuesday:

Eleven hours with 3 others (yes, they are the 3 others whom I love most in this world, but Damn!) in the cab of the truck. Sit for one hour in the parking lot of Cabela's in Wheeling waiting for Tater and Dillon. Sleet in the mountains.

Wednesday, Thursday (9 degrees at home, by the way), Friday, Saturday, Sunday:

Cook, do dishes, eat, do more dishes, congratulate Dillon for killing his first deer. figure out why the 4-year-old niece is pissed, visit friends at neighborhood bar, break up a sister-fight, eat, shop, drink Starbucks, congratulate Tater for killing another deer, eat, figure out why the 8-year-old niece is pissed, shop, eat, be extorted by the 5-year-old niece, make jewelry, watch Elf, eat, shop, pack.

Monday:

Eleven hours in the cab of the truck with same 3 others. Fog in the mountains, rain after. Unpack. Go to Costco to buy a refrigerator to store all the murdered deer flesh.

Moral of the story:

Before you spend 24 hours in the cab of a truck with your entire family, be Very ,Very sure that your marriage is Very, Very strong.

The end.

Didn't We JUST Do This?

And again with the packing...

We're headed back to DC tomorrow. We leave at O-dark-30 for the 12-ish hour ride home.

In the truck.

Yay.

PS - Dillon shot a deer.

This Is Me, Not Packing...

It got cold here last week and day after day, I watched these 2 roses stop their slow march toward bloom:




So I rescued them:

Grrr....

Getting ready to go home to Indiana tomorrow.

I hate packing.

Otherwise Known As Mini-Me

On our way home from running errands tonight, I asked Mackenzie if she wanted me to drive through McDonald's and pick her up a milkshake to soothe her sore throat.

"No, thanks. I just want to go home."

"Ok. Do you want me to stop at Giant and I'll buy some ice cream and make you a milkshake at home?"

"No," she said. Then after a pause, "But I'll take a Margarita!"

Karma, Baby!

So.

After he left for a Saturday night trip to Home Depot, I ran upstairs to carry out my nefarious plan...

I stripped the apple green, freezing cold, high-thread-count, cotton sheets off my bed and grabbed my white, super-heavy, super-cozy, Lands End flannel sheets out of the linen closet. I draped one corner of the fitted sheets around the first corner...and then the second...and then the..........

WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!

It wasn't wide enough to make it to the third corner! How can this be? I checked the tag..."Twin"!

In a panic, I ran back to the linen closet. Red queen-size sheets, pink twins, purple twins, white twins... What happened?

I sat like a dunderhead for a couple of minutes trying to figure it all out. And then I remembered:

After warmer weather became the norm last spring, I took my flannels off for the last time and Threw. Them. Away! I remember now! They were starting to yellow, as white sheets will tend to do, and the cozy brushy feeling was wearing off them so I threw them out, knowing that I would remember to buy some in the fall. Well, guess what? It's fall. I forgot.

So as I type, my icy-cold cotton sheets are in the washing machine and I'll have to return them to my bed until I can order some flannels.

Joke's on me.

I Always. Win In the End.

We've been in our house almost year. The previous owners didn't leave the instruction manual to the electronic thermostat and while I do consider us a shade brighter than your average bear, neither one of us has cracked the code on re-programming it. Part of the trouble is that we're a little afraid to really try. What if we get it stuck in the 97-degree-range all winter and then we have to go adjust it every time sweat starts popping out on our foreheads?

So, we've chosen the alternative, which is to just live with their settings and adjust as we get too cold or too hot. The problem here is that they seem to be a family of polar bears, with the temperature set at 66 degrees be it summer or winter. So I go up and hit "Hold" - "70" (that's one day that's almost warm enough for me) and then I get all toasty and forget that in a mere 24 hours, we're going to have icicles hanging off our noses again and then I'm out, or we're asleep, or something happens to distract me*, and of course, by the time I figure it all out, it's back down to 66 degrees again and everyone** is bitching that their toes/nose/ears are cold. (Except Dillon. Because he has a lizard in his room and the heat lamp keeps his room at a toasty 80 degrees year round.)

*Which doesn't take much. I was going to name this journal "Easily Distracted" until I Googled it and saw how many of us flakes there really are out there.

**Mostly me.

So that is what happened last night. We were all freezing, no one willing to do anything about it until we all converged on the stairway headed to bed, complaining, "My toes are freezing! I need an electric blanket!" and I actually looked and saw it said "66". Brr. I knocked it up to 70 and by the time I was finished brushing my teeth and washing my face, my bedroom was warm, my sheets still a frozen wasteland.

But it's ok because Tater was in bed already so I just scooted WAAAY over to his side and smooshed myself right up next to him, super cozy and comfy. Nice.

And then he said, "You have to turn out your lamp."

"No."

"Yes."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I can't. Because if I move, then you'll move and then I won't get as comfy again as I am now."

And then he tickled me.

So I turned out my light. And when I got back to his side of the bed, he was lying on his back, his ribs jutting into my spine, his biceps a miserable lump under my ear, and I said, "SEE! You moved!"

And he just laughed. So I tried to wriggle my way into another comfy position to best steal his body heat but it never happened again and I ended up SO uncomfortable that the only option was to go back to my side where it was FREEZING which I did and today I'm going to put on the flannel sheets. Which he hates. :)

I win.

Friday Dog Blogging

Because on Fridays I clearly have nothing to say except, "WOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! HAPPY FRIDAY!!!!!!! Pass the MARGARITA!!!", I decided to conform to Blogging Norms and join in Pet Blogging Friday. Not as scintillating as my Wednesday chatter, but better than nothing...?!?!?!

This is Taiko. He is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. He is a cat-dog.

Exhibit A:



Exhibit 2:



Exhibit C:




The animals in the photo below are technically not pets (if you INSIST on being 100% PC), but I found it while searching my photos for more Cat-Dog Evidence. These are my kids with Japan-Indiana jetlag during Summer 2003:

Nevermind Me Trying To Class Up the Joint

Paige to Noodle: "What else should we have for Thanksgiving dinner? I have Deviled Eggs, Turkey & Gravy, Spinach Persimmon Salad, Sweet Potatoes, Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Corn, Tuscan Stuffing, Cranberry-Orange Sauce, Parker House Rolls, Toasted-Pecan Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Cherry Pie".

"What about that red stuff in the can with the lines?"

"Canned Cranberry Sauce?"

"Yeah....." With a big ole smile.

He's A Keeper

He brought me flowers yesterday after I had such a crappy day Monday.







...And they are Orange. :)

The Rambling One About the Cold

Winter is here. It arrived sometime between 3 and 3:30 this afternoon.

Before 3, and for the past few days, the weather has been fabulous. Hovering between 65 and 72, and mild even in the evenings, it was perfect weather for taking the dog for a walk, talking to neighbors in the yard, and sleeping with the windows open. When I left work at 3 today, my car said it was 67 degrees out.

After 3 it all came to an end.

It was raining by 3:15; the sky had darkened, rain was falling, and within 30 minutes it was a nippy 53 degrees with a brutal, biting wind.

Tomorrow the high is supposed to be 45 and if the scuttlebutt is to be believed, we could expect some mixed snow/rain this weekend.

I can feel my mood plummeting with the mercury. I don't believe it's about the lack of daylight, as in the SAD disorder, it's definitely about the cold. The cold makes me even less social than I am in the first place. It makes me want to whip up some hot cocoa, wrap myself in fleece and flannel, light a cinnamon candle and hibernate with a book until the tulips appear in the spring.

In winter, I frequently have a sore back. It's from shivering. Stopping the shivering has become a life-long battle for me. Turtlenecks, Uggs, my long hair, electric blankets are all weapons in my war, but it's never enough to prevail. Every morning I have to drag myself back out of my cozy bed and start another frigid day. I despise it. For a time, the magic of Christmas holds my loathing at bay, but in a blink it's over and I'm faced with January, February, and March to bide my time until the days start getting longer, the buds start appearing on the trees, and slowly, the warm days begin to outnumber the cold.

And I remember that I am thankful I don't live in Alaska.

Oh, the Rants. They Do Excite Me.

I've had a headache since I woke up last Wednesday.

Some days are worse than others. Friday morning it was a sharp, blinding pain emanating from the top of my spinal column across the back of my skull and over the top of my head. I couldn't turn my head. And yet, I went to work. I "had" to. I took one of Dillon's Zomigs because I'm out of Imitrex and by afternoon the icepick in my brain had faded to a dull ache. (I get the same effect with Rum, but Zomig is more socially acceptable at 0930.)

I'm trying to temper my use of Dillon's Zomig, because after all, it's Dillon's Zomig. And what if he needs some after I've swooped in and ingested his whole stash? So I've been supplementing with Bayer periodically. I have Motrin 800's too (lovingly known as Vitamin M), but in the case of a migrane, Motrin is as helpful as Mike-n-Ikes. (I also have one single, solitary, Tylenol 3 left from my surgery last summer but I've been rationing those very strictly. One each month on the first or second day of my period. So as I can stand up straight and carry on a coherent conversation. Fair warning: Avoid me on the 9th or 10th of January... )

Anyway, at first I thought it was a migrane. I tend to get them during my ever-so-inconvenient monthly hormonal fluctuations. But since I went off The Pill a couple of years ago, the instances of migranes has dropped dramatically. I can't even remember the last time I had a headache that lasted more than 3 days. But now it's been 6 days and I can feel it ramping back up even now. I am starting to wonder if this is less of a "migrane" and more of a "what-the-hell-am-I-doing-in-customer-service-if-my-biggest-pet-peeve-is-whining-headache". Seriously. I had homeowners call me to complain that there were leaves in their yards today and then ask me if I would be staying. You know it's never a good sign when you start meeting people in your new job and they very cheerfully say, "Well, Paige, it's nice to meet you. I hope we can keep you. We seem to have trouble keeping people here."

Did it ever occur to you people that it's because you're CRAZY? And you need to get a grip and realize Ethnic Cleansing qualifies as a catastrophe, but leaves on your lawn only qualifies as AUTUMN! And that just because YOU think that a tree needs trimmed doesn't necessarily mean that it will be trimmed if our professional arborist doesn't agree with you! And guess what?! If you are scheduled to have your house painted next summer but you think that your rake board* needs painted now...no one gives a crap! You will wait 6 more months with the other 150 homeowners or pay yourself to have it done! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the Board of Directors chooses to enforce SOME of the By-Laws (ie: there can be no chairs/benches/decorative flags in the common areas) but ignore others (ie: leaving your trailer-trash Little Tykes playhouse in the common areas where everyone has to look at them is not a problem)

(So if I buy a Little Tykes bench is it OK?).

And don't walk into my office and treat me like shit because you think that I'm an ignorant, couldn't-get-a-real-job, phone-answering, paper-pusher from the wrong side of the tracks. I am a fast-talking, fast-moving Yankee, who has lived abroad, raised 2 of the best-behaved, most intelligent kids I've ever met, earned two degrees from Purdue University and without-a-doubt paid more for my house, in YOUR neighborhood, last year than you did 2, 5, 15, or 35 years ago.

*Can I tell you how much I hate it that I even know what a rake board is?

Well...that didn't help my headache. But I think we all have a better picture of what the real trouble might be.....

I'm getting a Tylenol PM and going to bed.

PS - I really love my boss and would have probably already called Uncle if I didn't have her watching my back (and buying me lunch when she sees me going under).

On The Fast Track To Therapy

So. In the continuing saga titled "Why Mackenzie Gets a College Fund AND a Therapy Fund"...

At dinner tonight, Tater was celebrating the fact that in 6 years Mac will be 16 and going out on dates therefore freeing up the 14 inches directly next to me on the sofa for him to sit there and enjoy a movie (while occasionally feeling me up).

She replies, "Fine. Maybe I'll just go stay with Dillon then."

Tater and Paige high-five.

Then Paige realizes that in 6 years Dillon will be 22. Presumably with 22-year-old friends. We decide that's not such a good idea, at which point D realizes what's going on and gets totally grossed out thinking about trying to keep his friends away from his 16-year-old sister. Things go downhill from there.

Tater thinks about this for a minute and then says, "In college you two need to find girls that are psychology majors. It should reduce your therapy bills."

Then I look at him.

He looks at me.

And he points at Mackenzie and says, "You should find a guy."

And then we all consider the alternative and crack up while she curls up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor.

Send your contributions to WeFuckedUpOurDaughter.com

Sorry, Stanley!

Allow me to clarify:

I accidentally named the lizard Stanley. Dillon was holding off, trying to think of the coolest, cleverest, dragon-ey name (Vlad, as in The Impaler, was at the top of the list). But he took too long and in the interim I started calling him Stanley.

And it stuck.

Which makes me so thankful that we went into childbirth with a clear plan. Can you see me open the back door and holler, "Vivian!! Fabio!!! Time for dinner!!!"???

Yikes.

The Pets, They Fear Me

I don't think I ever recorded it, but right after we moved here last spring, several innocent animals gave up their lives for my amusement.

We already had the dog. We acquired him in Japan and must be a strong little ball of fluff as he is still living and breathing, though I frequently forget to feed and water him until he scratches and sneezes at his food bowls in a canine attempt to communicate that, "Hey, Stupid! I know you don't like to cook all the time, but I don't have a drivers license and can't go through the Mickey D's drive-through so I'm completely dependent upon your lazy ass to keep me alive!"

And then I tell Mackenzie to feed him.

I think the death-toll is somewhere around 8 fish and 2 aquatic crabs.

Anyway, Dillon wanted a snake. We said, "No way in Hell." He counter-offered with a ferret (refer back to answer #1), and then came up with the lizard idea. So we went and looked at them. He came home with a Chinese Water Dragon and all the required accessories (including a container of live crickets which must be refilled on a weekly basis - ewww). His name is Stanley, and though I was in charge of his well-being all summer long, he is still with us.



My problem seems to lie in the aquatic realm.

Mackenzie wanted an aquarium. We bought her a 5-gallon freshwater with 5 or 6 fish. None of the original fish are still living, though that's not entirely my fault. We brought home a fish with "Ick", who infected all of the others, who then, one by one, slowly kicked the bucket despite my best efforts at marine veterinary science and a product called "Ick-Away". We also bought a couple of teeny-tiny brown crabs. We had to put them in a decorative shallow glass bowl because they kept scaling the filter and climbing out the back. And then I'd have to chase them down. And sometimes I'd have to wait stealthily outside Mac's bookcase until they came peeking back out, thinking all was safe, and then I'd whomp a tupperware over the top of them. So finally, they ended up in the glass bowl on the coffee table where everyone could enjoy them and the sides were too slippery to perform a Birdman of Alcatraz. Until one died and the other molted. And I wanted to get a peek at the renewed crab and lifted up a corner of the rock it was hiding under, at which point it (obviously) scooted further under the rock, and then the rock slipped out of my hands. And I squished it.

And then I made Tiny-Little-Crabcakes.

We also bought a Betta for the kitchen. He lasted about 2 weeks. Until I washed out his bowl with Palmolive (which I totally know you're not supposed to do but did it anyway) and he died.

Then we bought a pop-eyed goldfish for the same bowl. I rinsed the bowl out sufficiently, but apparently forgot about the rocks. He was dead by dinner.

I still haven't lived down the murderous rampage and my family is still teasing me about the carnage. In spite of all this, Mac has asked if we can get some more crabs and another Betta but I'm not sure in good conscience I can deliberately go to the store and select any more creatures to be my next involuntary victims.

You Make Grilled Cheese For Dinner, Right?

"Elaine" stayed for dinner tonight.

When I got home from work, I looked in the freezer and all I had was venison (nah), pork chops (all pork-chopped out, thankyouverymuch), and 3 tupperwares of frozen chicken noodle soup. As I didn't have any aspirations towards cooking tonight At All*, I decided it would be Soup and Sandwich Night at La Casa. So I whipped up some grilled cheese sandwiches while heating up the soup (and a left-over pork chop from 2 nights ago for Dillon, who eats more than your average human) and called the troops down. As I was cooking the last sandwich, I heard Elaine telling Dillon (in the most innocent and super-sweet 15-year-old way) that "her mom never cooks like this and always has like 5 things to eat. She never makes grilled cheese for Dinner".

I've always had grilled cheese for dinner. It's like a Family Tradition. Tuna, Grilled Cheese, Fried Egg Sandwich... all acceptable dinner fare in The House of Mounce. But now it occurs to me: are not all families like that? Do some people actually have a Real, Well-Rounded, All-Food-Groups-Represented, Dinner Every Single Night?

*Come to think of it, I didn't feel like cooking last night either and we had Tuna Sandwiches. Hmmm...

As Dillon took her home, I got to wondering... I've always known that we Parent differently than most people, and I've always attributed it mostly to our being younger than our parent-peers, but now, as I approach 40, I am realizing that in fact, we (mostly me) Are different. I don't think in a bad way; I hope in a Fun, Open, non-therapy-inducing way, but it's interesting to see how the teenagers react to us. As opposed to little kids, who are pretty much accepting of everyone.

I asked him, when he got home, "Are we weird?"

"Yes."

"Bad Weird?"

He got a smile on his face. "Actually, as we were walking down the steps, she said, 'I like them.'"

And I am relieved. "Weird" is ok. "Embarrassing" is not.

Bethesda Rocks!

No Military-Medicine-induced-frustrations today...

We were in at 1:00, out at 1:15... (had to wait about half an hour for the meds, but...) we were home by 2:30, even after stopping for a Starbucks.

I am still amazed. We lucked out at the pharmacy. I forgot to use Tara's trick and pick up my pharmacy number on the way in, so the first number we got was about 40 customers off and had a wait of an hour and fifteen minutes. But as we were walking away from the counter we saw an abandoned number only 10 away from the number being served! We scored! Dillon snagged it while I was deciding whether or not to claim it as mine with a look that said, "Jeez, Mom! Did you just fall off the Turnip Truck?"

Within 30 minutes he had the Accutane in his grubby little hands and FINALLY (!) we are on the way to clear and acne-free skin.

Ironically, Mackenzie's face has been breaking out for the last week or so. The Teen Misery Demons are not done with La Casa de Pooh yet...

"It's Got Bows."

She opened the box and said, "It's got bows." She didn't know what "it" was yet, but she knew it had fuzzy bows.

I said, "It's a dress coat for you. From Wago (my mom)."

(Blank Stare.)

"You'll be really glad to have this when we go to the Christmas Concert at the Kennedy Center."

"Do I have to wear a dress?"

If she wasn't such a shit, she'd say "thank you, Wago", but as she is (a shit), I'll have to say it for her until she has to get dressed up and then feels like a princess getting off the Metro, in the City, wearing her new jacket.

Thank You, Mama! I love you!

The B

Maybe you don't know Mackenzie. If you do, then you know that she sets very high standards for herself and others, and expects them to be met. She has very little patience for idiocy.

I just returned from her Parent-Teacher Conference. Her teacher started out by asking if I had any concerns or if there was anything I'd like her to know.

As a matter of fact.....

"You need to know that Tara drives Mackenzie insane. She can't stand to be around her. Tara does and says things that Mackenzie can't understand and it makes her completely freaked out. So last week, when Tara sat at Mackenzie's desk during Math (while Mac was in another classroom) and rearranged it, and wrote on it, and used her scissors to cut up a piece of paper and leave it scattered about her floor, she completely lost it. Could you please not have Tara sit at her desk anymore?"

About halfway through this tirade/request, she started grimacing and nodding and looking terribly sympathetic. She said that the 5th grade team has issues with Tara and no one knows what to do with her (I've got a few ideas, but I'll just keep them to myself) and understands how Mac feels. She will maybe have to turn around the desk when Tara is visiting.

And then she told me how another 5th grade teacher gave Mac a "B". In reading. And yup, there it was, right in the middle of all those A's lined up like soldiers on her report card.

"Oh, no, you didn't give her a B in reading."

"Well, Miss Blah-Blah did, but it means that her comprehension is good, she's just not making inferences from what she reads. She's still at grade level."

At which point I looked at this (very nice, just out of diapers, still has callouses from where she sucked her thumb) teacher like she had 2 heads.

"She's always read several grades above her level. Reading is her favorite subject. She is going to Freak Out. I'm not going to tell her."

"Well, you can call Ms. Blah-Blah if you want."

And I gave her the look that says, "And say what to her? You change my baby's grade to an A right this very instant young lady! Or else!"?

I just cannot fathom how in kindergarten, and in first grade, and in second grade, and in third grade, and in fourth grade, she has ALWAYS gotten A's in reading, but all of a sudden, in 5th grade, she's not performing. She's read around 25 books this year. All above her "grade level". I could understand if "something" were going on and all of her grades went down. Maybe she is stressed, or the Virginia school system is too hard* (snicker-snicker) but that is Clearly Not The Case.

So, my plan is to be "That Mom" who thinks that the reading teacher is Wrong, and just ignore the fact that she got a B. (I could just lie and tell her she got all A's...) I will not call the teacher. How foolish would that be? ( "Mac is real smart...please give her an A so you don't hurt her feelin's.") No, the plan is to not say anything and maybe she'll never find out. Even if I did tell her, I'd have to include how Stupid her reading teacher obviously is and how it's not her fault that her teacher is so Stupid and obviously Wrong and even in my alternative parenting style I try not to criticize her teachers too often.

Much better to lie to her about her grade. Excellent plan!

*These folks here in Fairfax County, they sure are proud of their schoolin'. They all told me how my chillins, coming from Californy and Japan and Inni-ana, would prob'ly have a rough time of it round these parts, them Virginians bein' so smarts and alls! Why it be's hard for us countryfied corn-fed Military types to understand all this culture and shit they got here! Good thing we gots the Discovery Channel and the History Channel, so when my lil tots be done with all the homework from their's AP and Honor's classes and makin' A's and shit in math and science, they can get caught up on theirs learnin'!

(Late Parental Edit 6.30.06 - This was the only "B" on her report card.)

Overheard During Dinner

Paige: "I think I want a new camera for Christmas."

Tater: "Why?"

"Because you won't let me use yours."

"Yes I will."

"Not to take it anywhere. Like to Indiana for my reunion, for example."

(Point for Paige.)

"What kind?"

"Something better than what I've got (a Sony Cyber-Shot). How about that Canon Rebel?"

"You don't want that."

"Why not?"

"It's an SLR."

"So."

"So it's heavy and shit. You don't like carrying heavy stuff."

(Keeping this one within my inner monologue... "Well, concerning TV's and luggage, that's true, but I think I could handle a camera...")

Paige: "I could get a bag."

"Where would you put your wallet?"

"In the bag."

"There won't be room."

"Think of all the shit you put in your bag!"

"Yeah, and it's really heavy."

(Getting frustrated.)

"You'd need lenses."

"Yes."

"That's a lot of money."

(Inner monologue: "Which is why I'm asking for it for Christmas.")

Tater: "It would be stupid to have two different systems with parts that aren't interchangeable. (He has a fancy Nikon.)"

(Inner monologue again: "But I'm not allowed to use your camera anyway...")

Paige: "I've grown out of my point-and-shoot."

"I agree with that, but....blah blah blah..." ...lots of stuff that sounded like I wouldn't be capable of operating all those buttons and switches and talk that just lead to me being pissed off.

Which only makes me want it more.

Rain, Rain, Go Outside

Remember THIS? When my house was leaking from the third floor onto the second?

This week it's leaking from the second floor onto the first.

Seriously.

About a week ago Mac noticed that there were "funny lines" around the can light in the basement. The dad investigated and found that it was water. Water. In the light. Sooooo not ok.

So he unscrewed the lightbulb and let it be. (He was busy.)

Then a few days later, it started raining from another nearby light. After I did the dishes on the 2nd floor. And then again after Dillon flushed the toilet on the 3rd floor.

So the dad cut a hole in the ceiling, exposing a teeny-tiny copper pipe with a drip hanging precariously off the bottom of it.

And put a bucket under the drip.


For a couple days.

But now he has a clamp on it...


...and it seems to be working. But for how long is anyone's guess and regardless, I still have a big-ole nasty hole in my ceiling:


Again.