Exhausted and Itching

Exhausted from moving. Itching to write. I've been bogged down in fixing, hanging, and doing my best Handy Manny impression around the homestead. Okay, I admit my handy work is really the Second Coming of the Man with Five Thumbs (great movie title). In the last week-and-a-half I've completed or attempted the following tasks:

Successes
Hanging blinds
Spraying Roundup on Crabgrass (tough one, huh)
Sweeping concrete free of leaves (obsessively)
Putting furniture together (my back!)
Killing Giant Mosquito-looking bugs (where did it go? There it is!)

Failures
Connecting ice maker filter to water line (slight flood in the kitchen)
Hanging curtains (they sag in the middle; Spackle, please)
Keeping wood floors clean (my feet are black)
Fixing toilet paper holder in master bathroom (More Spackle, please)
Killing Giant Mosquito-looking bugs (What are these things called? What is this, Florida?)

Other Issues
Dripping bathtub faucet
Toilet Stoppage
Dryer voltage mismatch
Sprinkler water pressure is enough to run a water park (nice to have substantial pressure, but not nice to pelt the house and fence with water)

Stay tuned for more Floods, Bugs & Spackle. I haven't even dug into the bomb shelter yet. I've been down there a few times and from what I've seen it's an arachnid graveyard with eight-legged ghosts haunting their kin in every corner. I'll be wearing a bee keeper suit for that one. Anyone have Neil Gaiman's number (he bee keeps). That looks strange, bee keeps? Rules? Who needs 'em?

No baby yet. Wife getting restless (and still doing too much).

Oh, and I have two weeks off for Spring Break. Being a teacher pays, just not in dollars.

Writing News:


Sid Fleischman past away recently. Long live The Whipping Boy, along with several other brilliant reads. I met him at the Sayer's Lecture at UCLA a few years ago. Before I handed him my copy of The Whipping Boy, I wrote him a note on a Post-It that read: Nice Socks. He was wearing red socks that night and they were more than apparent while he crossed his legs onstage. He read the note and said, "If I knew my socks were going to draw so much attention, I wouldn't have worn them." Good ole, Sid.

Rest in Peace Mr. Fleischman.

Sid Fleischman, Children’s Author, Dies at 90

Moving On

So it's over. The Move, that is. It's Done. And believe it or not, we're almost unpacked. In case you are wondering, moving with a pregnant wife (nine months) and three year-old daughter is difficult. But... my wife is a champ. (I hope she reads this). She unloads, folds, puts away, carries, cleans, lifts, and scoots. There are times when I have to say:

"Sit down."

"Relax."

"Take it easy."

"Stop lifting things."

"Your doctor's going to kill you."

And that's usually when Blondie (three year-old daughter) chimes in:

"Daddy, be quiet."

"Daddy, stop that."

"Daddy, leave Mommy alone."

"Daddy, your breath stinks."

And that's when I have no choice but to defend myself:

"My breath smells better than yours." (It never does)

"You're short." (internal dialogue: "But adorable")

"Mommy and I are talking." (technically it's not a conversation, so we're not really "talking", we're saying things out loud)

"I'm gonna get you." (and the chase ensues)

And that's when Blondie says:

"Do it again" (37 times in a row)

_____________________________________

Running: Not much lately (I blame The Move)
Reading: "
Writing: "

On an interesting note, our new house (first house) has a Bomb Shelter. A real subterranean, steel-reinforced, nuclear proof (we'll hopefully not be testing that one) Bomb Shelter. I'll be posting pictures of it soon. It's 200 square feet of underground, sound proof space with two entry/exit points. It was built in 1961 on the cusp of the Cuban Missile Crisis. My ideas for it are:

Writing Lair
Man Cave
Storage
Wine Cellar
-or-
All of those combined.

HGTV anyone?

Give Yo Mouth A Rest

This is my friend Ryan Bache's video. As you can tell, he is an animated fellow educator with varying personal qualities, mostly outstanding. He's sitting next to me right now and we're making sure the teachers aren't watching us.

Blogging Workshop

I'm blogging from a blogging workshop, which is weird on many levels. My throat hurts and I feel like the gum I stepped on in the parking lot. I'm going to ask a few questions now.

My favorite new expression:  Blog me.(instead of call or text me)