(Indecent) Anatomy of a Sponsored Post

(This post is a work of hyperbole and wild exaggeration. Any resemblance to actual sponsored posts, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed in the making of this post, but one living room sofa was, kind of.)

Step One: You get an email asking if you'd like your site included on a proposal for a sponsored campaign. Please to respond by EOD. 

(Or more accurately, you FIND an email asking if you'd like your site included on a proposal for a sponsored campaign...usually a few hours after the EOD deadline, dammit.)

At this point the campaign is usually very far off ("timeframe is late Septemboctovemberish.") and the topic is impossibly vague and squishy-sounding, like: WRITE A POST ABOUT BEING A MOM. HEALTHY KIDS. RECYCLING. CLEANING PRODUCTS. SKRILLEX. 

Step Two: You of course reply in the affirmative. Yes! I absolutely have something to say about cheese/identity theft/breakfast cereal/dry-erase markers!

Even if you actually don't, it's best to just say yes because 1) 99% of these things go absolutely nowhere and you'll never hear about them again, and 2) Whatever! You totally have until late Septemboctovemberish to think of something anyway. 

Step Three: Forget about it completely. Be in the midst of some major naturally-occurring life storyline on your blog, the kind that will make the sudden appearance of sponsored content feel completely jarring and annoy the maximum number of readers.

Step Four: OH HEY IT'S TIME TO WRITE ABOUT THAT THING YOU AGREED TO SIX MONTHS AGO, WHICH HAS NOW CHANGED THE TOPIC ON YOU FOURTEEN TIMES AND SENT OUT FOUR DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF TRACKING LINKS AND LOGOS — please use the SECOND version we sent, not the most recent, thnx — AND NOW THE CLIENT WANTS PRE-APPROVAL ON YOUR COPY, WHICH THEY WILL NATURALLY HATE, AND COULD YOU PUBLISH IT ON SUNDAY AT 10:43 PM SO THEY CAN GET MAD AT YOU FOR FAILING TO LIVE UP TO TRAFFIC EXPECTATIONS? 

Step Five: Profit! Well, after sales commissions, taxes, and the fact that you were desperate enough for content that you went out and like, bought props, and paid a babysitter to take your children to the pool while you stared at your laptop for hours in writer's-block-related terror because you have nothing interesting to say about cat litter.

***

Point is, sometimes sponsored posts can be a lot more work than you anticipate. (NOTE: This is not a sponsored post, though I guess it is technically brought to you by First World Problems.) Sometimes your first draft or idea ends up being completely unusable, because the scope of the campaign or desires of the client change, or because you end up with a giant penis-shaped stain on your sofa.

SAY WHAT.

So last week I had that handy-household-tip campaign from Pine-Sol, right? (NOTE: That campaign was not at all an example of the off-the-rails campaign detailed above, for the record. Nothing but love for the Pine-Sol people. This clusterfuck was ALL ME.) It was originally going to run before we left for the beach, and I decided to write about my couch. For Ezra had scribbled all over the arm with a ballpoint pen:

(A ballpoint pen that my husband BOUGHT for him. Because it was in the shape of an ICE CREAM CONE. Because the man has learned NOTHING and should probably read more MOMMYBLOGS for AUTHENTIC, REAL-WORLD ADVICE, brought to you by the letter NO and the number HEADDESK.)

So I always use hairspray on pen stains. Plain, cheap-as-possible hairspray, preferably. But then the campaign date got bumped back a week, and in the craziness of packing for the beach, I completely forgot to buy some. The only stuff I had was some Paul Mitchell "extra-body volumizing finishing spray," which is LIKE hairspray but...not. I don't know? What is "finishing spray," really? What am I even spraying on my head? I honestly can't tell you, but it seemed like maybe a bad thing to spray all over a prominently visible part of my couch. 

And then I packed it before remembering that I at least wanted to do a test patch, like on the underside of a cushion. (Where there are probably also pen stains. And red wine. Possibly curry. Our sofa has a wonderfully aged patina of TOTAL FILTH.) 

So on Sunday morning, Jason packed up the car and I desperately looked around for an alternate Stain Solution that I could quickly take before-and-after pictures of. Just so I could get the post written and scheduled without depriving my children a minute of all the fun we were surely going to have, since this was before the week devolved into wanton property damage and ridiculous vet bills. 

A quick Google search suggested that rubbing alcohol was excellent at removing ink stains from microfiber furniture. Ah! Yes! I knew that. I have that! LET'S DO THIS THING.

In my haste, I had neglected to really think a few things through. 1) I didn't do a test spot, but instead went immediately whole-hog with the alcohol all over the arm, 2) There was NO WAY the couch was going to fully dry before we left, so I probably wasn't going to get a good "after" photo, especially since my hair dryer was buried in the bottom of a suitcase that was already out in the car, and 3) DUDE YOU FUCKING DREW A PENIS AND NUTSACK ON YOUR COUCH. 

Well. THAT'S not very brand-friendly. 

I frantically tried to soak up the alcohol, while dabbing more in other places in an attempt to camouflage my accidental artwork. Then I paced around in circles, hoping that it would dry AND that the pen stains would vanish along with it, because I COULD STILL SEE THE STUPID PEN. 

The good news: 1) The alcohol really did get rid of the pen stains, and 2) dried in time for me to take one final "after" picture.

The bad news:

Hello! Welcome to my home. Please have a seat next to the Sell-Out Penis Outline of Fail. 

(ANY FURNITURE COMPANIES LOOKING FOR COUCH-RELATED SPONSORED POST OPPORTUNITIES PLEASE INQUIRE WITHIN. I WRITE REAL GOOD FOR YOU CHEAP-LIKE PROMISE OKAY?)

Home Improvementish

Operation DIY Backsplash: DONE. Donedone!

(Well, we still need to caulk. And put the switchplates up. And paint. And replace a couple cabinet doors. And swap out the door handles. And replace the stove and microwave. So. Not even close to being done. BUT ALLOW ME THIS MOMENT.)

I'm happy to report that nobody died and nothing got set on fire. The kids watched an obscene amount of TV, though, and I do still have some grout on the bottom of my foot. 

This project was made possible by a few dozen YouTube demos and my husband's degree in engineering. 

Also possibly magic. I went to Target on Saturday morning and came back to BAM. TILE. That is how you do home improvement, ladies. 

To be fair, I was buying very important things at Target, like ALL OF THE STEEL WOOL, which I then stuffed into every conceivable mouse-entry wall-hole I could find. 

(Personally, I think the pan of old scrambled egg residue sitting on the stove is what really ties it all together.)

A few lessons in DUH MORONS I feel compelled to pass along, in case anyone else is planning a similar project:

1) The fact that this mosaic was a RANDOM and NON-REPEATING pattern pretty much saved our sanity. We originally chose one that would have required a ton more planning and arranging and like, honors-level algebra or something. Then we came to our senses and went with a much more forgiving just-slap-that-shit-on-the-wall-all-willy-nilly style. 

2) Scrape excess thinset out of the grout lines BEFORE it dries completely and you have to spend a couple hours digging it out with a scraper fucking goddamn cocksucking popsicle tampon.

3) After you cut the power to the wall outlets prior to grouting, double check that you flipped the correct breaker before you accidentally knock the garbage disposal on while you are sponging off grout and dripping water all over exposed live electrical circuitry holy shit. 

4) Check the soles of your feet after grouting. Wash them off, idiot.

Oh, and 5).

"Let's paint the walls a nice gray" is a stupid, terrible idea because there are easily 200 shades of gray (MUST RESIST OBVIOUS JOKE RESIST RESIST) to chose from, and you will spend hours debating which gray is too blue and which gray is too beige and that's too dark but that's too light and wait, this one was my favorite last night but now this morning it looks purple, what the hell, I give up, let's just open one of those wine bottles and stare at the backsplash while pretending the rest of the kitchen doesn't exist. 

Worst. Designblog. Ever.

If I have learned anything from my hours (and hours) (zomg) of watching home improvement television shows, it's that pretty much everyone in America hates their kitchen. We're all living in the wrong kitchens, I guess, since SOMEBODY chose our cabinets and countertops and presumably liked them well enough at some point. Then we move in and are like, what were they thinking? That linoleum is an ABOMINATION TO GOD. 

(Meanwhile, I like to imagine the previous owners of our house, with their penchant for modern laminate EVERYTHING, moved on to some house with a hugely elaborate dark-wood kitchen trimmed with brick-a-brack and grape-cluster corbels and shit.) 

We'd lived in our house for all of five minutes before we, too, started hating the kitchen. The layout was okay, but mostly because the super-cheap remodel had the shelf life of a bag of chips. The cabinet doors started to peel and chip and hang off their hinges, the countertop started to shed its outer layer of laminate and pull away from the wall, the sink leaked and the appliances were crap and THEN THE OVEN CAUGHT ON FIRE. 

Point is: I got new countertops yesterday. Yaaaaaayyyyyyy.

Yes, THAT FACE EXACTLY.

Those are still the old counters, by the way. And the reason there's so much crud all over the floor is because we took a crowbar to the backsplash. And by "we" I mean the guy who came to take the final measurements on Tuesday TOTALLY LET ME HAVE A TURN YAAAYYYY TIMES INFINITY.

I ALSO HAVE NO LOVE FOR YOU, YELLOW PAINT.

The new hotness. Which is really hard to photograph. It's a black/green/brown granite. Also, HI COFFEE. I love you too.

I love how we've had new countertops for all of 12 hours and have managed to cover 75% of them up with extraneous crap already. 

And when I say "12 hours," I mean that almost literally, even though the install started at 2 pm yesterday. One section was cut incorrectly, but wasn't discovered until after 6 pm, when the workshop had already closed. But our install team was like, NOT ON OUR WATCH and sent one guy back to possibly pick the locks and cut us a new piece. Which kind of took a long time. We gave up on getting our kitchen back in time for dinner, so we ordered pizza and ate it directly out of the box, upstairs, on our bed, while the boys watched Cars 2 (UGH) and dripped pizza sauce all over the comforter. 

We ordered pizza for the installers too. They seemed very grateful, since I'm not sure sanding granite edges until 10 at night was exactly on their Top 10 List Of Awesome either. 

NOTE: Yes, I made my children eat their breakfasts on placemats. I know, I know. Let me harbor my illusions.

Speaking of illusions, we're installing a tile backsplash ourselves this weekend. Because that sort of thing always works out super well for us. On Monday you can expect an "Amalah Curled Up Weeping In The Fetal Position" photo essay.

The backsplash will hopefully look nice behind our new sink and faucet and OH LOOK, remember that one summer we kept getting mice in our kitchen? (I would go back and link, except shudder.) We haven't had any problems since, which is somewhat miraculous now that we uncovered the GIANT HOLE IN THE WALL where the mice were coming in behind the old backsplash, crawling under the countertop and apparently partying on top of the dishwasher.

("Apparently" = a new nice way to talk about poop. You're welcome.)

So...patching that up right proper today. Homeownership is the best! 

Also on the DIY docket are some new cabinet doors and handles. And painting the walls. And replacing this shifty sonofabitch:

The fire-happy stove, not the cat. The cat can stay. I mean, a little heads-up that mice were apparently apparently-ing underneath our kitchen counters would have been nice, but whatever. He's awful pretty. 

In Which Ikea Ruins Young Lives & Mother's Day In One Fell HOLY SHIT GAAAHHHH

Happy Mother's Day! I got you the gift of HOLY SHITBALLS IKEATASTROPHE:

A few weeks ago, we impulse-bought a wall cabinet at Ikea, brought it home, and promptly procrastinated the hell out of actually assembling it. 

The box sat propped in a corner until yesterday, when Jason decided to finally tackle the project, because he knows how much I love moving Things from One Thing into Another Thing. In this case, sorting and moving all our serving platters and entertaining-type dishes from the sideboard in the dining room into this new, awesome cabinet, AND THEN moving the sideboard into the living room as new-and-improved toy storage, AND THEN moving the bookshelves out and OH MY GOD, POINT IS, SO MUCH DEPENDED ON THIS CABINET. 

I spent a few happy hours sorting dishes and vases and whatnot into keep-donate-maybe piles, then began stacking them neatly into the new cabinet while Jason reorganized some other cabinets. No longer would I need to climb up on a stepstool to get a baking dish from that annoying cabinet over the fridge! No more digging for oversized bowls from the depths of the sideboard! Everything we actually use and need will now live in this great big new cabinet, although the door isn't really opening as easily as it did at the store and you kinda have to pull on it a little harder than I remembered OH DEAR GOD OH SHIT GAAAHHHHHHHH.

I was standing right in front of it when it started to come down, and LUCKILY figured out that my instinct to "CATCH IT! STOP IT!" was not going to help anything, so I backed away helplessly while it fell with several tremendous, graduated crashes, shattering just about everything inside. 

Including all of my grandmother's depression glass. 

(Don't look, Mom! That photo is a lie and everything is fine! Ponies! Rainbows!)

Luckily Ezra and Ike were trapped playing in the baby jail conversation pit when it happened, and Noah was in the kitchen but seated far away. He promptly burst into tears because his whole house was falling apart and is now officially terrified of cabinets, at a volcano-like level. They are now ALL horrific death traps, ready to burst free from their inadequate anchors and kill you. THANKS IKEA. 

After we cleaned up I had to break even more bad news to Ezra: The cabinet had fallen on his beloved play kitchen and broken that, too. Smashed top, cracked doors, broken-off legs, you get the idea. He was understandably devastated and I have nothing funny to say about it except THANKS IKEA. 

We promised him we'd get him a new kitchen as soon as possible, mentally adding THAT nice little expense on top of the cabinet's price and the cost of repairing and repainting the wall and gee, it's a good thing we snapped that cabinet right up once we saw it was $20 off, amirite? $20 off! It's a bargain! Deal of a lifetime! You're not gonna get this kind of nonstop death and destruction at Home Depot, I'll tell you that right now. 

(THANKS IKEA.)

Home Sweet Hazmat

(What up, people. This is a sponsored post. Big thanks to Oreck and the AirInstinct Air Purifier. As usual, there's an awesome giveaway at the end and lots of me making an idiot out of myself in the meantime. Enjoy!) 

One of the weekend prompts for the March Photo a Day challenge on Instragram was "a corner of my home." A lot of people chose nice, neat, book-filled corners. As I do not own one those corners, nor did I have the energy to clean and organize and stage a fake one, I posted this instead:

I admit that even before I had all these children (and all their related sold-separately accessories), housekeeping was not really my forte. I have a very high tolerance for clutter and a natural knack for procrastination. (Both of which I am clearly passing on to the next generation, since that photo above was at least taken after we told the kids to "clean up.")

Now there's a cat and a dog and three boy-children -- two of which have officially started to Smell Like Boys on a regular basis, and I have not nommed on their little footsies in a very long time because STANK, DUDES -- I just...I don't know. It's overwhelming. It's...disgusting. 

SEVEN DISGUSTING CORNERS OF MY HOME, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THEM:

1) Shoe rack in front foyer, filled with shoes that emanate the aforementioned radioactive foot stank.

2) Kitchen sink/disposal/trashcan area, filled with various unspeakable things that attract various wildlife.

3) Basement, better known as the place the dog likes to spite-poop on the floor whenever it rains outside. Also, one time Jason saw a snake and I will never, ever, ever, never stop being freaked out about that. 

4) Cloth diaper pail, at top of the stairs, outside the nursery. Everything is all well and good when it's just sitting there closed, but when the lid comes off...well, let's just say things get very, very REAL up in this bizzatch.

5) Noah and Ezra's closet. This one I will never understand. I wash their clothes. I do. I wash their clothes on an extremely regular basis and use perfectly nice-smelling detergent. Then I fold and hang up clean, perfectly nice-smelling clothes. Yet that closet smells exactly like feet and sweaty hair, mixed with a vague hint of maple syrup.

6) Noah and Ezra's bathroom. Holy God.

7) The closet in my office. There's a litter box in there. Now that poor old Max is really and truly aged, it's unfair to hide his litter far away from his favorite place to be (my lap). So FINE. Nearby closet it is.

So you'll never guess which corner of my home got the super-sweet air purifier, right? 

(AWKWARD SEGUE IS AWKWARD.)

Anywayyeah. Oreck sent me a (freeeeee!) AirInstinct Air Purifier just in time, and while I gave them my whole "I'm not a review blogger but will be happy to find an appropriate, conversational topic that fits with your brand blah dee blah blah" pitch, it would be unfair of me to not include the relevant fact that I LOVE THIS THING TO ABSOLUTE DEATH. Hot ham, it's fabulous, and if you ask me about it in person I will make overly-dramatic faces about it. 

Hello! I am EVE from WALL-E crossed with an iPhone! I am your silent soldier in the war on disgustingness! Do you smell anything coming from that closet over there? Do you sense any litter dust in the air? No, you do not. FACE. I also offer mood lighting! 

Am I easily impressed? Maybe. But maybe not. I like to think I'm pretty grounded and measured about a lot of th-OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I JUST FOUND A DOLLAR. IT WAS UNDERNEATH THIS GROSS PILE OF SOCKS AND GRANOLA BAR WRAPPERS THE WHOLE TIME!

***

Would you like an EVE of your very own? Aw yeah you do. 

1) Visit Oreck.com. Then come back here and comment, including one thing you learned about the AirInstinct. 

2) Um. That's it. 

3) Well, you can also enter three additional times, if you're feeling frisky:

    3a) Follow @oreck on Twitter. (Then leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

    3b) Like Oreck on Facebook. (Then leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

    3c) Tweet about the giveaway, mentioning me (@amalah) and Oreck and the link to this post. (Then -- wait for it -- leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

4) Comments will close in seven days, and then I will select a comment using Random.org and email the winner. 

5) Okay, that's REALLY it. Other than the fine print stuff I have to copy and paste now.

The giveaway winner must be a resident of the U.S. 48 contiguous states. Oreck Corporation provided the prize for the sweepstakes but is not the sponsor of the sweepstakes.

Nook

I bought a desk this weekend. I have not sat at a desk since 2006. April-ish, if I recall correctly.

I bought a desk at Ikea and a fake potted plant, came home and sorted through a good four years of clutter, pushed an (Ikea) dresser down the hall into the boys' room, which I traded them for an (Ikea) bookshelf that I pushed back into my room, my office. 

The blinds should be replaced and the walls desperately need painted; the stuff I hung up is stragetically cover up the worst of the scuff marks in the meantime. Everything else is just whatever I could find lying around the house, like a former remote-control organizer basket now holds envelopes, thank-you cards, my memory card reader and a bottle of fenugreek capsules. I'm storing pens in a candleholder because it seemed nicer-looking than a plastic Thomas the Tank Engine cup. I dunno. Maybe not.

It's nothing you'll ever see on some creamy yummy aspirational design blog. There's a litter box in the closet. 

Naturally, I love it beyond all sense and reason.

Official Post-Valentine's Day Recap ExtravaganzSQUIRREL!

I had a really nice Valentine's Day, thank you for not asking, but allowing me to pretend that you did. We're all organic and conversational up in this bitch!

For the first time in years, I was thoroughly pleased with my own gift-and-card-related offerings for Jason: 

Geeky Han-and-Leia bracelets from Spiffing Jewelry.

Super-highly-mature card from Wit and Whistle.

Usually I get completely out-gifted by my thoughtful, creative husband while I'm like: Here's a sweater? It's red? I bought you some chocolates but I ated them? 

Not that Jason did too shabbily himself, or anything. But he's an established pro at Valentine's Day -- gifts! flowers! candy! pampering! home-cooked gourmet meals and champagne! -- so I'm usually just happy to not suck too badly at it. 

Since the babysitter works on Tuesdays, we played hooky had a lunch date together at a restaurant nearby, a place we've gone several times with ALL OF THE CHILDREN in tow, and the hostess gave us a suspicious side-eye when she sat us, like "aren't you the ones wot show up with all them kids usually? where's your baby? oh dear God, did you leave him in the car?"

Then we both went to the Valentine's Day party at Noah's school, which thrilled him to no end, because NOW I CAN SHOW YOU OUR MEALWORM FARM, MOMMY. 

OH WOW, BUDDY, THAT'S SO COOL.

(Shudders.)

After that, we came home and basically counted the hours until bedtime, so we could enjoy a fancy grown-up dinner in peace. (And you know, rrrrroooomance.) We were almost home free by 7:30, because everyone was already acting so tired, so I corralled the boys upstairs and oh yeah, that's when the giant fucking squirrel got inside the house and holed up in the living room for awhile.

WAIT WHAT. 

I was rocking Ike to sleep when I heard Jason yelling -- and I mean YELLING -- a string of oh my Gods! and Ceiba! Ceiba! Ceeeeeeiiiiiiiibas!

I could tell he was trying really hard not to let a string of f-bombs loose too (FUHcrap! WHATTHEFUHHHreak!), what with the children still being awake and busy brushing their teeth, and I tried to figure out what in the hell he caught Ceiba doing that would warrant such an outburst -- actively taking a crap on the couch? Climbing in the fridge and helping herself to our creme brulee? Sneaking a cigarette? Doing DRUGS? WHAT?

I was completely stuck in that I Must Remain Hushed And Zen Despite All Hell Apparently Breaking Loose Downstairs spot, since Ike was alllllmost asleep and if I dared raise my voice to find out what was going on, I knew he'd jerk fully awake and be all, "Welp, that took the edge off! Let's party!" for the next five hours. So I kept my mouth shut and assumed that whatever it was, it had to be something Jason could handle. Plus, I still feel like he owes me a little bit for daring to be on a business trip right at the exact moment the oven decided to catch on goddamn fire. 

Jason appeared at the nursery door about 15 minutes later. He looked like he could use a drink or seven.

"We are never," he said quietly, so not to startle the baby, "EVER. Leaving trash out on the back deck again."

My mind flashed back to the morning of the shredded, scattered trash bag. Really? All that was over the dog getting into the trash? There couldn't possibly have been anything grosser in it than all the Disgusting Paper Towels of Horkgate Grossness that I had to clean up, unless, oh God, did Ceiba eat something dangerous? Is she...wait, no.

"I put the trash inside the recycling bin," I protested. It was a small bin, without a lid, but still too high for Ceiba to get into. "How did she get..."

"Not Ceiba," he said. "I picked up the bag and brought it inside so I could take it out front to the curb. And...a squirrel jumped out of it."

Not just any squirrel, apparently, but the biggest, fattest squirrel Jason had ever seen -- easily as big as our dumb little dog -- who had decided to take up permanent residence inside our trash bag. It took a flying leap out of a hole in the bag somewhere in the kitchen and took off into the house, eventually settling behind a bookcase in the living room. Ceiba (being dumb, little) ran after it, even though the thing could have probably bitten her head off, honey-badger style.

While I stayed upstairs, obliviously rocking Ike to dreamland, an epic struggle of Man, Squirrel, Pursedog and Broom had been going on without me. 

"I locked Ceiba in the bathroom and eventually chased it out the door with a broom," he informed me. "So it's gone now."

"Did you take a picture of it?" I asked, while shaking with silent, gasping laughter, as I am both 1) experienced when it comes to harmless yet spastic wildlife trapped in the house, and 2) an asshole.

No, he did not. I know! I'm disappointed too. That would have made it officially the best Valentine's Day ever. But I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it was at least a pretty close second. 

Merry Geekmas

(Sorry, Star Trek! Mama's bringing things back to her fandom this Christmas.)

(Even though she's usually about as crafty as your average garden slug.)

(So please don't look too closely at R2D2. He was tragically maimed in a freak gasoline fight accident.)

(Though Boba Fett turned out pretty badass, I think.)

(Printable DIY Star Wars snowflake diagrams are here, though I'm serious: the R2D2 one will make you want to punch kittens in the vagina.)

(I still need to make Yoda and C3PO, but decided a little break was in order after I started seeing the face of Darth Vader on my parchment paper while baking Christmas cookies.)

(RIGHT?)

(Totally.)

(Thanks to Jackie for the snowflake link! It's not I had anything productive to do during all those hours.)

(PARENTHESES!)

ANGRY BIRD

As of this morning, we were all just about fully recovered from Thursday night's excitement, AKA The Night I Panicked, Ran Into a Wall, Landed Butt-First In Dog Food, Narrowly Avoided Burning the House Down But Thoroughly Traumatized My Children Anyway. Jason and I replaced the fried oven coil over the weekend and scrubbed and re-scrubbed fire extinguisher residue off a truly mind-blowing number of surfaces and kitchen items. 

The one thing we HADN'T done, however, was actually turn the oven on. That was like, Advanced Placement PTSD level shit there, and every time I thought about it I decided that I could totally cook healthy meals for my family in the microwave. Or by shoving pizza slices into the toaster. 

I finally caved this morning and turned the oven on so I could bake a loaf of bread. (Because apparently I now BAKE BREAD. This just happened, you guys. I've even gone and acquired an attitude about bread machines, preferring to bake bread the frustrating, old-fashioned way. What the fuck kind of prairie-ass nonsense is this, I ask you?)

Anyway! I preheated the oven and everything seemed to be pretty okay in there, at least in the "Is There A Pyrotechnic Display Currently Happening Inside Your Stove Y/N" department, so I stuck the bread in and turned my attention back to making coffee. 

"HEY LOOK FIRE!" Ezra observed casually, like the old seasoned pro he now apparently is.

Indeed, the oven was smoking. There was a terrible smell. And I discovered that for all our cleaning and scrubbing, there still seemed to be some extinguisher residue on the oven door. I removed our now-probably-50%-toxic loaf of sandwich bread and took immediate action, as I am now truly a mature, capable woman with excellent life skills. 

(Translation: I called Jason and asked him what in the what fuck I was supposed to do now.)

It turned out Jason hadn't run the self-clean cycle on the oven, as we were instructed to do on some random, badly-written eHow article about What To Do When You've Gone And Probably Unecessarily Shot A Fire Extinguisher Into Your Fucking Oven. I thought he had, but apparently HIS Oven Fire PTSD had made him too afraid to try it unless he had four-and-a-half hours of free time he could spend staring directly at the oven. 

Bitch, please. I gots four-and-a-half hours. I hit the self-clean button and opened the doors and windows to let the chemical-y smelling smoke out. 

It turns out, though, that staring directly at an oven is kind of boring. So after the kids went to school I eventually wandered off to take a shower.

When I came back into the kitchen for a coffee refill, I was confronted with this:

Ceiba had apparently hurled her fool self at the back screen door and knocked it wide open. And a bird flew in. And...yes. There was now a bird in my house.

My first instinct was -- yes, okay -- to run for the camera to take pictures because otherwise who would BELIEVE THIS SHIT? I certainly wouldn't believe this shit. Hell, I was standing there slack-jawed and frozen a few feet away from the bird and still couldn't believe this shit. My luck is a small flappy bird, your argument is invalid.  

I snapped a couple pictures and then we stared at each other for a minute or two. Then it decided to flip the fuck out and take off for the living room. I shrieked and ducked, even though it was flying in the opposite direction of where I was standing. 

Indeed, Internet. NOW WHAT.

Cecily told me to get a broom and guide it out an open door, and several other people recommended various traps involving towels and hampers and board game lids. 

I went with the broom option and approached the bird with confidence.

The dumb thing took off again, through the dining room where it flew facefirst into a mirror, then fluttered around making an incredible amount of racket and I shrieked and ducked again and GAH STUPID AWFUL NATURE. 

Finally I went around opening all the windows and doors, attracting the attention of a landscaping crew right outside the front of the house, who all paused to watch the crazy woman in boxer shorts and a Les Miserables shirt from 1994 opening windows and screens while occasionally ducking and yelping for no apparent reason. 

Then I went upstairs and closed the door. The bird was officially on its own to figure its own stupid shit out. 

(Post-production re-enactment of presumed single glitter tear shed by bird in my absence.)

Every 15 minutes or so, I crept downstairs to check on the situation. I did wonder what I would do if the bird seemed to be gone, but without actually witnessing it making it out a door or window, would I feel okay closing everything up? What if it was just hiding? Or down in the basement, partying with the hypothetical snake? GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, WILDLIFE. I HATE YOU SO HARD RIGHT NOW.

I needn't have worried, because every time I made it downstairs I immediately spotted the bird, usually:

1) hanging out on the pot rack, directly next to a wide-open window

2) perched on a lamp, directly next to the wide-open back door

3) back on the stupid curtain rod which was LITERALLY FOUR INCHES FROM FREEDOM.

I basically spent over half of my morning being held hostage in my bedroom by the world's most mentally-challenged bird. 

After an hour or more of this nonsense, I got fed up and marched downstairs, picked up the broom and stared down the bird directly. It was back on the pot rack. I lifted the broom to shoo it away but couldn't stop visualizing it taking off in a panic and dive-bombing directly at my head. 

I don't know how long I stood there, trying to talk myself out of my irrational fear of this small, frightened creature, only to get a good look at its claws -- its horrible scaly chicken-claws -- and a new shudder of terror would rack through my system and I'd freeze up again. 

It moved first. Downward, onto an Ikea island...

where I had put my plastic-wrapped loaf of still-uncooked, toiled-over bread...

that the bird was now landing directly on...

OH HELL NO YOU DIDN'T YOU GODDAMN FEATHERED VERMIN GET OFF MAH BREAD

This was apparently my breaking point. YOU MESS WITH THE BREAD, YOU GET THE BROOM. I shouted at the bird and charged at it with the broom. It instantly took off and flew to the other side of the kitchen and out the back door. It collided with the open screen on the way, but then it was gone. 

I dropped the broom like a mic and slammed the door shut. This was my house. MY HOUSE. I was in charge. I was capable. I was a motherfucking ADULT. 

EPILOGUE #1: And then the pediatrician's office called to find out why Noah and I hadn't shown up for his 6-year physical this morning. 

EPILOGUE #2: And then I gave up and ate some cookies.

This Mortal Coil

I dropped my mom off at the train station yesterday, and she fretted over leaving so soon. Jason wasn't going to get home until the wee hours of the morning, so was I sure I would be okay without her that night? All on my own? 

I laughed. Come on, Mom. I can handle one measly night alone with my own children. I've done it before, you know. 

That's the conversation that kept running through my head a few hours later, when the oven caught on fire.

I'd just finished heating up some fish sticks for the boys -- the nerdy homemade kind, full of vegetables and healthy crap that always disappoint Noah because what happened to the rectangle kind, Mom? From the bo-o-ox? -- and was starting to steam some broccoli for my dinner. (Broccoli that I was planning to utterly drench in cheese sauce, however, lest you think I'm some kind of healthy wizard, or something.)

I heard a loud pop, like a blown light bulb, and saw a bright white flash from the general direction of the stove, like metal in the microwave. 

Something had sparked in the oven. Something was still sparking and hissing and glowing red. Something else was burning, with actual fiery flames. 

Um, fuck?

I opened the door (DUMBASS) to see what was happening and...okay, the heating coil was sparking and freaking out and then random bits of filthiness and crap from the bottom of the oven that we hardly ever clean (DOUBLE DUMBASS) were catching on fire as the coil snapped and fizzed. 

I slammed the door shut and turned the oven off. When this failed to solve All The Problems I went for the fire extinguisher. 

It occurred to me that I have never actually used a fire extinguisher in my life. This occurred to me right as I noticed the words "STAND BACK SIX FEET" printed on the instructions. I noticed these words right after I blasted the thing at the oven, which I was standing directly next to. 

While I was choking and gagging on the cloud of...whatever it is that comes out of a fire extinguisher and frantically opening doors and windows, Noah cheerfully asked for some milk. 

NOT NOW OKAY MOMMY'S BUSY.

The fire extinguisher succeeded in killing the extraneous filth fires, but the coil continued to glow and crackle and shoot off sparks and smoke. And it was...moving, from the back of the oven towards the front, like that scene in The Money Pit right before the entire kitchen blows the fuck up.

I stood there and debated my next move. I settled on chewing on the inside of my cheeks and wondering when a grown-up would arrive to help me.

When this also failed to solve Any Of The Problems I wondered if I should call 911. Get the kids out of the house, sit outside and wait for the fire department to come fight a fire that wasn't really a fire, but just, uh, I don't know. A VERY ANGRY OVEN. 

No, I decided. I was not going to be the mother -- the person -- who got all spooked out over a malfunctioning oven coil and called 911 because she had no problem solving skills. Fuck you, oven. I was going to DEAL WITH THIS.

Free Business Idea For Google: Make a version streamlined for emergencies, that senses if someone is frantically trying to look up things like "OVEN FIRE" and "ELECTRICAL COIL THINGIE BURNING" and "HOLY SHIT NOW WHAT," you send them directly to a result that tells them what to do.

Instead, I got a page full of forum topics and OH THE IRONY, multiple complaints about defective heating elements catching fire in MY OVEN MODEL THANKS GE SPECTRA. The first link I clicked was a message board where someone described my exact predicament and said that the fire didn't stop until he unplugged the oven. And then the first response was from an "electrician" who claimed that what the OP was describing never happened and wasn't possible and it was probably just a grease fire and HOLY HELL I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR "PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN" ARGUMENT.

I spent all of about 15 seconds speed-reading through Google results and content farm garbage before gathering that I needed to unplug the oven. Okay! That's easy enough.

Um.

Hmm.

Where...does the oven plug in? Right behind it? In one of the cabinets? WHY DON'T I KNOW THESE THINGS SOMEBODY REVOKE MY IN-CHARGE-OF-OTHER-PEOPLE PRIVILEGES.

I opened several cabinets and yanked out the contents to see if there was an outlet visible in the back. No luck. I stepped back and stared at the oven and took a deep breath. Okay. IT'S ON MOTHERFUCKER.

I grabbed it by the sides and started pulling it away from the wall. Noah repeated his request for milk and pointed out that Baby Ike was crying in his swing on the other side of the room.

I KNOW SWEETIE BUT MOMMY IS STILL BUSY DEMONSTRATING SUPER-HUMAN STRENGTH TO SAVE YOUR LIVES OVER HERE OKAY

I managed to get the oven a few feet away from the wall, enough space for me to scramble over the countertop and reach behind for the cord and see that it...went directly into the floor, through a hole cut into the hardwood floors, and then disappeared to God-knows-where. 

ARE YOU KIDDING ME COME ON

Okay, fine. FINE. Circuit breaker time. I ran downstairs to the basement and was immediately faced with some challenges:

1) The fusebox and circuit breakers are in the far, far back corner.

    1a) In front of which we have been thoughtlessly hoarding an incredible pile of miscellaneous and randomly hurled junk.

    1b) The only lightbulb in the vicinity of that corner has burned out, because who cares? LOOK AT ALL THAT JUNK.

    1c) The labels for all the circuits were written very small, in pencil, several years ago by an electrician with terrible spelling and handwriting.

    1d) Oh, did I mention that Jason is pretty sure he saw a snake down there a couple weeks ago? 

    1e) And we put down traps but haven't caught anything yet? 

    1f) BUT THE OVEN WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.

So I did what any mother who just left her three defenseless children alone upstairs in the general vicinity of a volatile appliance (though to be fair, I did scream "ANYBODY WHO GETS OUT OF THEIR SEAT IS GOING TO BED" before I ran downstairs): I barreled through and up the pile of junk with bare feet and no flashlight, only to discover that I could not make out ANY of the labels and had no idea which circuit to turn off. 

So I threw the main breaker and killed the power to the entire house. 

And then. Dilemma. I was sitting in the far corner of a pitch-black basement, on top of a rickety pile of boxes and baby exersaucers and broken Ikea furniture. I could assume that cutting the power solved the oven problem and just turn everything back on, OR I could stumble back upstairs to check on the situation and try to make my way back here, hopefully with a flashlight. 

I inadvertently solved that dilemma by accidentally falling ass over teakettle OFF the pile of crap, knocking over a bulk-sized bag of dog food in the process. 

At this point I realized my children were screaming. 

Oh no. Oh no no no MOMMY'S COMING WHAT'S WRO--

--THUD. I miscalculated the path out of the basement and ran facefirst into the wall. 

The boys were crying because they were scared. Really, really scared. 

And yet they'd both run into the foyer to huddle around Baby Ike, who was also crying. 

The oven was dark. It worked. I dropped to the floor and tried to give everyone hugs and reassurances and not to worry about oh my God, alllllll the doors and windows are open and the neighbors are probably able to hear all this screaming, which was seriously at home-invasion-murder-van volume levels. 

"It's okay! It's okay! Mommy had to turn the lights off but everything is fine and I'll get a flashlight and have everything turned back on in five minutes, okay?"

...

Hey, anybody remember that scene in the first Jurassic Park when they shut off the power to reboot the system? And then they have to go flip some circuit breakers "just at the other end of the compound" to turn it back on and Samuel L. Jackson's all, "No biggie, I'll do it, I'm  Samuel L. Fucking Jackson," and THEN HE GETS EATEN BY RAPTORS?

Yeah, me neither.

I dug around our kitchen junk drawer for a flashlight. I kept thinking I'd found one but kept picking up the same goddamn screwdriver over and over. Finally I remembered we'd stuck a bunch of them in the coat closet in preparation for Hurricane Irene. I found two of them...

...neither of which had batteries.

WHAT THE WHO DOES THAT COME ON

Back to the junk drawer. All three children are still screaming at the top of their lungs. I manage to get batteries in one of the flashlights, guessing with my fingers as to which direction they're supposed to go, but it still doesn't work. Noah is convinced that we are all going to die and is yelling for "somebody" to come help us. I ignore this vote of confidence and try putting the batteries in the other direction, but still no luck. The flashlight is broken. I hurl it out the open back door just fucking because and start fumbling with the next one, realizing a moment too late that it requires the same size batteries as the one I just threw into the backyard. 

At this point I'd probably been fighting with the damn flashlights for longer than the oven even burned, but I didn't dare try to navigate the basement without one. (SNAKE.) Finally, I get one working and the boys threw themselves at it like terrified little moths. I want them to STAY PUT while I head downstairs but they will have none of it, determined to stay as close to me and the light -- the glorious, holy light -- as possible. 

So that's why Noah fell down the basement stairs, right around this point. 

OH MY GOD COME ON

I stopped to make sure he was okay but instead of his usual theatrics he all but screamed at me to leave him behind and get the lights back on. DAMMIT WOMAN I'LL JUST SLOW YOU DOWN.

I scale the pile of junk and spilled dog food one last time and throw the switch. Everything comes back on. The boys rejoice. Ike continues to howl, because uh, lights are great and all, but I am mostly interested in some boob.

But we were all okay, the oven fire was out, and everybody got all the hugs they wanted. Including me.

 

EPILOGUE #1: Nobody ate their fish sticks, but I gave them chocolate milk anyway. I ate potato chips while watching Project Runway, because my broccoli got ruined and I was in no mood for any cheese sauce that did not come out of a can. 

EPILOGUE #2: I was also in no mood to scrub fire extinguisher chemicals from the inside of our oven and several nearby surfaces until after midnight, but I did that too.

EPILOGUE #3: Jason got home around 2 am and said I mumbled something in my sleep about clocking out and it being "his turn," but I wouldn't say for what.

EPILOGUE #4: Replacement coil will be here tomorrow. Currently keeping situation under control through the Power of the Stinkeye, also eating out.