Unicorn Spotting

On our drive home today, I saw not one, but three, unicorns.

What were these mythical creatures doing? They appeared to be not only plowing the deep snow (which canceled all night classes at TMCC for the second time this semester) AND they were sanding. I was truly stupefied. 

On Tuesday, I complained about Reno's one snowplow and lack of sanding the roads. I now stand corrected. Snowplows and sanding in Reno are not a myth - I've seen it!

They LIED to Me

My MIL and hubby went on a five-year campaign to convince me to move to Reno. One of their top ploys was that it "really doesn't ever snow in Reno." Having lived in Utah and dealt with the 4-5' dumps of snow and the 9 month winters, getting away from driving in the snow was definitely top of my list of appeals. MIL actually said, "We don't even have a shovel. If we do have a rare snowstorm, we just get a broom out and brush the snow off our driveway."

Another campaign pitch was that Reno's schools were fantastic. Being a Mommy of (then) one (with ideally more in the future), a good school system was also high on my priority list. "With tourism and casinos and no state tax, our schools are filled with money. Class sizes are small and the kids get the very best," MIL stated. She seemed so knowledgeable and self assured. After all, her own son had gone completely through K-12 right in Reno, and he's practically brilliant. I figured it must be true.

MIL should have been a politician. She's an excellent debater. And I trust hubby, apparently too much. And I feel so stupid now - I really should have done my research and really looked into all this. Because, after 4-1/2 years in Reno, I've since learned - and trust me, continue to remind MIL and hubby *all* the time - that they LIED TO ME. It snows in Reno. And our education system sucks ass. Not just ass, but hairy-haven't-bathed-in-a-week ass. It's really that bad.

Some facts:
In the 2010-2011 school year alone, school has been on a delayed start (read, starting at 11:00 instead of 9:00) four times and closed entirely one time because of SNOW. Yep, this non-existent white stuff that for whatever reason falls down like clockwork here in Reno. Where I've worked has let us out early four times (which really is sort of nice, but not when you've got a room full of teachers and have to kick them out three hours early which means they don't get their education credits they need). We've used the snowblower we brought with us from Utah at least five times. I've shoveled twice that many times. And hubby and MIL's response has been, "Well, it's not as much snow as Utah." True. But saying it "really doesn't snow" and "it's not as much snow" is not synonymous. It snows here. Check out this pic from work on Monday, the day after the first day of spring. That fluffy white stuff is called snow.

And there's only one snowplow for the freaking county. And they don't salt or sand. And the majority of drivers have never driven in snow (being California transplants) and they freak out. They drive too slow. They drive too aggressively. And it's like accident haven.

As far as our educational system? Our high-school dropout rate is 24% higher than the national average, being only a 50% chance of graduation for the entire state. In a state with 440,000 kids, 220,000 aren't expected to graduate. Wall Street ranked Nevada 50th in Educational Quality and Funding. Oh, and 78% of the people in our jails don't have a high school diploma, yet we spend 15% more on incarceration than any other state. So where in the hell did MIL get the whole "we have top schools" thing from? Again, nothing but LIES.

All that said, I have learned some things about Reno on my own:
* It's extremely family friendly with tons for those with kiddos to do.
* Most people are transplants, like me, and are therefore much more friendly than I'd been accustomed to. It's like we're all not in THE club, so we decided to create our own. I've had a much easier time making new friends in Reno than I have anywhere else.
* You like outside stuff? Yeah, we've got it - in plenitudes. From swimming in Tahoe to high desert hikes to kayaking on the Truckee, you'll find something up your alley. We can even walk across our street to the mouth of a canyon and either hike or snowshoe without having to drive.
* Reno was voted one of the top 22 greenest cities by USA Today. As the Green Meanie, this is important to me; eco-consciousness is everywhere here. That, and, as Green Meanie, it means job security 'cause these people take this granola stuff seriously.
* I grew up very close to my grandparents and watching our kids to the same with MIL and FIL is heartwarming indeed. Even if MIL does make me consider taking Zoloft or Xanax or something just to get through a conversation with her.

So what's a girl to do? Well, I avoid driving in the snow and consider it a good excuse to stay home, make a snowman with the kiddos, and drink hot cocoa. No need to drive in that crap. I employ myself in the field of education and take homework time in our house very seriously. I work with over 85 schools throughout the state and I swear they are the biggest group of dedicated and passionate teachers I've ever encountered so I trust my kids will be in good hands several times throughout their school careers. I enjoy doing stuff with my family and love the help my in-laws provide (and we provide to them). After all, "home" truly is where your heart is, which makes Reno the best home I could have.

My Precious

I think I might start calling MIL Gollum. You can't take a picture of her without her eyes getting squinted up until they're nearly closed and her mouth twists in this painful grin. She's truly a beautiful person but she's the least photogenic person I know.

The real reason I want to call her Gollum is because of the blatant favoritism she gives to her son (might I add, only child?).

HOW SHE TREATS ME:
MIL: I'll be in the neighborhood. Would you like me to pick up Baby#1 from school at 3:00?
Me: That would be great. I'll let you know if Baby#2 wakes up in time. I'd hate to wake her up from her nap, so if she's not up, I'll give you a call by 2:45.
MIL: OK, I'll keep my cell phone on - just call if you need me. I'll be in the neighborhood, so it's no problem.

~ at 2:45, Baby #2 is storing. Deeply. I don't have the heart to wake her.
Me: Hey, Mom, can you go get Baby#1? Baby#2 is still sleeping.
MIL: I can't. I'm in Costco on the other side of town.
Me: Oh, I thought you'd be in the neighborhood?
MIL: No, I left. You'd better hurry, or you'll be late!
~ Wake up Baby#2 and run like hell to school.

HOW SHE TREATS HUBBY:
MIL: Honey, since your wife has to work late tonight, would you like to come over for dinner?
Hubby: Yes.
MIL: Should I make a nice steak for you?
Hubby: Yes.
MIL: I can bathe the kids for you, too, and have them in their jammies. Would that help?
Hubby: Yes.
MIL: All you'd have to do is get them to bed. Unless you want me to come over and tuck them in, too? It's really no problem. I can come over and get them in bed for you. I know how tired you are.
Hubby: OK.
MIL: My Precious...

To BMW or Not to BMW - that is the question

I bet you thought I meant BMW, as in German, gorgeous, and waaaaaay out of my price range. Well, you'd be wrong. I'm from Utah. Land of big families. Big, predominantly Morman families. I have nothing against Mormons, having many in my family and friend circle. I did, however, grow up calling any type of minivan a Big Mormon Wagon. Hence, BMW.

So, here I am with two kiddos of my very own and am contimplating getting a minivan. Husby's been a proponent of the minivan for a while now. They get good gas mileage. They are cheaper than an SUV. They insure for less. They have all-wheel-drive which is awesome for our "non-existent snow" (that's too long for this post, more later). When I still couldn't be swayed, Husby even tried the Swagger Wagon appeal by showing me this ad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4  Although funny, it didn't convince me.

What has finally convinced me to possibly moving to a BMW? Lack of space. In my sedan, the kids are just too close for comfort. I don't mean to each other. I mean to me. I can hear them all too clearly - baby babbles are cute, but the entire Star Wars theme song sung as a cat (Meow, meow, meow, meow meow meow meow meow) then as a dog, cow, and pig gets a bit trying after 15 minutes solid. Our seven-year-old belching his ABCs gets annoying and is even worse when you can smell what he ate for lunch after the song's conclusion. I can turn around and smack one of them singlehandedly (good for me, bad for them and is possibly not the safest driving strategy).  And when they vomit (yep, happened on Valentines Day on the way to swim lessons - yeah for a romantic evening!), I can even get sprayed with chunks of red-infused gellatenous gunk. Oh yeah.

So until we can afford a limo (or hey, even a taxi cab) that has one of those slide-up glass partitions, I guess a BMW will have to do.

Cow Hickers

On the way to work today, we were nearly hit by a guy veering into our lane. He had on a dirty baseball cap (yes, we were close enough I could tell the cleanliness of his attire), was driving a Ford pickup, and was paying more attention to his donut than the road.

Me: Damn cow hicker.

Husby: What?

Me: Cow hicker. Heh…I was trying to say shit kicker, cowboy, and hick all at the same time.

Me: I hate cow hickers.

Husby: Why?

Me: In high-school, the cow hickers tried to lasso me with rope.

Husby: What?!

Me: Serious. And they were always standing around chewing their cud.

Husby: I think you mean chewing tobacco.

Me: Same difference.

Cow hicker. Heh.

The Green Meanie

Apparently I’ve become sort of a recycling Nazi. A few days ago, I found an empty conditioner bottle in our bathroom garbage. I brought it downstairs, simply said “Hello?! Recyclable!” to Husby, and put it in the recycling bin. Yesterday, I found a glass bottle of pasta sauce in the kitchen garbage. I merely growled with a pointed look at Husby again, then took it out to the recycling bin in the garage. Today at lunch in the work cafeteria, I watched Husby throw away his yogurt cup when – gasp! – the plastic recycling bin was right around the corner.  This time I hissed at him, not wanting to draw too much attention to him and embarrass myself (yes, I’m married to HIM, ye-old-thrower-awayer-of-recyclable-materials).

Husby approached our table and told me I was a new kind of super hero. The Green Meanie. Heh. Wonder if they could change my business cards?

And other Big Red Gems...

The dating years…

BR: You can’t put green olives on your sandwich. Use a pickle instead.

Me: I really don’t like pickles.

BR: But you can’t use a green olive! It just isn’t done.

Me: Who said?

BR: (Huff!)

The engagement period…

BR: Have you given any thought for what you’d like to do for your honeymoon?

Me: We want to go on a cruise.

BR: A cruise! That’s terrible. You don’t want to do that. Dad and I went on a cruise once, and it was a miserable time. That’s not what you want to do.

(Asked Husby later… apparently they went on a FERRY BOAT across some European ocean and had a shitty time. Ferry boats do not equal cruises. We went on the cruise, had a great time, sang our praises, and now BR and father-in-law have been on three. Hah!)

The first grandchild…

BR: That’s too much detergent in your dishwasher.

Baby: Wahhhhh!

Me: It’s fine.

BR: You’ll scratch all your dishes. Don’t use so much.

Me: It’s not a big deal.

BR: You need to treat your belongings well so you have them around for a while. I never just throw money around and act like things are disposable.

Me: Wahhhhh!

Me: I’ve been doing dishes for 20+ years, I’ve been using as much as I like, and our dishes are just fine! (Note, this is unlike me… it’s called “lack of sleep and being a new parent” – guess it brings out the kahoonas in me!)

During my second pregnancy…

BR: How have you been feeling?

Me: Pretty good. My back has been sore, though.

BR: It’s probably because you were overweight before you got pregnant.

Me: (WTF?!)

In the hospital after Baby#2 was born…

BR: Baby#2 has a lovely color – almost orange.

Me: She has a mild case of jaundice.

BR: No, it’s probably because you drank too much juice when you were pregnant. Did you drink a lot of juice?

Me: No. It’s because she has a mild case of jaundice.

BR: Or maybe you ate a lot of carrots?

Me: No. It’s because she has a mild case of jaundice. Her doctor said that’s what it was.

BR: Those doctors are always over explaining things.

The day we brought Baby#2 home from the hospital.
I’m nursing BB and Husby is napping in a nearby chair. BR just brought Baby#1 home.

BR: Well, I’m off. Can you lock me out?

Me: No. I’m nursing. Husby can.

BR: Can Baby#1 do it?

Me: No, he has a hard time turning the lock. Husby can do it.

BR: No! Don’t wake him up. He’s exhausted. Let the poor guy sleep, he’s been through so much.

Me: (WTF?!! I was in labor for 15 hours! I just gave birth! I haven’t slept more than one hour in three days! My boobs hurt! My vagina feels like it had a rendezvous with a lawn mower! And your precious son needs to sleep?!! Screw you!!).

Me: HUSBY! WAKE UP! LET YOUR MOM OUT!

BR: (Huff!)

The Downy Ball Wars

In 2007, Husby and I decided to shake up our life and move to a different state. We decided to move back to Husby’s hometown. He’d been in my home state long enough to get a Bachelor's, Master's, an absolutely wonderful and perfect wife (me), and helped in the general creation of our son. I welcomed the chance to explore a new city... so after our decision to move, we lined up a job, put the house up for sale, and made the jump (all within 2 months).

Part of the reason for moving was to have a chance to save some money and get ahead in life. This was to be accomplished by living with my husband's parents for a short while (read: six long miserable months): a red-headed, hot-headed, fireball German full of love (my mother-in-law, Big Red), and a gentle, work-a-holic, conflict-avoiding Irish dovey (my father-in-law). And so began The Downy Ball Wars.

My mother-in-law is perhaps the most generous person in the world when it comes to her family. My husband is an only child - and our son was at that time an only grandchild. Needless to say, a lot of thought and devotion go into our family. My mother-in-law would give any of us her right leg if we needed one... but, she would tell us exactly what color of thread to use and just how to sew it on.

I haven't known that many Germans - but this immigrant of 35+ years retains what I believe to be the national German motto: "My way is the supremely right way. If you don't do it my way... well, there must be something wrong with you."

One of my first lessons from BR involved the Downy Ball. For those of you who do not know, Downy is a fabric softener to be poured into your laundry during the rinse cycle. The Downy ball is a device that holds Downy and automatically releases it during said rinse cycle - saving you time from having to listen for the rinse cycle to begin.

Apparently, despite nearly 10 years of using a Downy Ball, these do not work. At least according to BR.

While sharing a washing machine and dryer, we often did one another's laundry. I showed BR the Downy Ball, explained how it worked, started a tub of wash (with the Downy Ball inside) and proceeded to go about my chores. That night, as I folded laundry, I noticed how strong our laundry smelled... I later discovered BR had also inserted yet more Downy during the Extra Rinse cycle - so we'd had a double dose. No big deal. I talked to BR about it - again explained the Downy Ball function and assured her it really did work and that she did *not* need to add more Downy. She nodded her agreement and I thought that was that.

On Halloween, as my husband was carving our pumpkin, BR approached him. "Son", she said. "Your wife isn't do laundry properly." "Really?" my husband said. "How so?" BR then told him that I wasn't truly taking care of our family because I was missing the all-critical-phase of the rinse cycle. My husband, ignorant of ways-of-wash and unaware of the Downy Ball War that was now ensuing, urged BR to discuss this with me.

Later that week, in a brief, yet strangely heated discussion, BR again asserted to me that the Downy Ball couldn't possibly be working. I had her smell our clothes - they permeated with the magical Downy fragrance. She agreed that they did indeed smell nice. I suggested to BR that when she does laundry she do it her way... and when I did laundry, I'd do it mine. She agreed, and again, I thought that was that.

One day after pulling fresh laundry from the dryer, I found a new thing mixed in with the socks and underwear: Downy Dryer Sheets. BR had silently stuck some in - confident that the Downy Ball was not working and she would be damned if her only son and grandson did not have the softest, Downiest clothing out there.

Vent aVay

My mother-in-law (Big Red) has a very thick German accent. As such, her w’s sound like v’s, and vica versa (or is it wica wersa?) She’s also very proper, classy, and thinks words like “fart” are absolutely profane.

In their guest bathroom upstairs is a very special toilet. This toilet possesses a special button that when pushed promptly whisks foul odors from the toilet bowl (I’m not sure where they end up, but it’s definitely not in her house, neighborhood, or general vicinity). This toilet is called a “Vent-Away”.

Upon one of my first visits to their home, Big Red (BR) ensured it was just the two of us in the room, and gave me some simple rules of bathroom etiquette (OK, seriously, how many of you have as an adult been given bathroom etiquette rules when visiting someone’s house? Anyway…).

BR: If you happen to be menstruating [told you she was proper], please do not flush your tampons down the toilet. Our systems clog easily.

Me: Okay.

BR: And if you use sanitary napkins [see!], there is a garbage can next to the toilet for them.

Me: Okay. No problem.

BR: And if you should have a bowel movement, make sure you use the Vent a Vay.

Me: The what?

BR: The Vent a Vay. The button is right there on the side.

Me: Okay…

It was easier to just reply in the affirmative than ask what she was talking about. Husby later gave me a quick tour of the handy-dandy “my shit don’t stink” button. Pretty nifty.

One of my favorite definitions for vent is: “a means of exit or escape; an outlet, as from confinement.” Like BR’s special toilet, I have the means necessary to release things that have been trapped or, ahem, constipating my person. Hence the Vent a Vay blog!