I live my life in sheer amazement at the ability of my children to transform a clean area into complete wreckage in mere moments. My kids have super powers. As in Saturday-morning-cartoons-a-la-Captain-Planet-mega-powers. They simultaneously punch their little fists into the air and some random voice from the great beyond emits itself (sometimes with giant cartoon sound waves.) I don’t usually have a chance to listen, because I’m chasing them about the house attempting to subdue the chaos, but its some key phrase about letting their powers combine to destroy our home. Neatness=down to zero. These kids are little disaster inducing phenoms with individual tickers…waiting to go off on impact. 

Aiden embodies the characteristics of an octopus in a hurricane. We’ll call him Octorricane boy. A mammoth Octopus with a ridic plethora of arms combined with his intense speed and omnipresent ability to be everywhere at once. No room, surface, or area is considered safe. The noise. The speed. The intensity of it all...give him five seconds and anyone left in the wake of Octorricane boy’s path will rue the day.

Emerson is an exceptional force of nature. She possesses the lifelong ability to cause extreme amounts of sleep deprivation for her parents. When their guard is down, this uncanny strength is paired with violent Richter scale seismic quakes caused by extreme amounts of a not so delicate balance of whining and all out screams when denied any request. I’m quite surprised she hasn’t broken the glass in our home with her unreal achievements in octaves. Seizemo girl is quite the force to be reckoned with when she does not get her way. She can be quite exhausting.

A Tsunami with his special spittle powers and major horrid diapers a-la volcano of bodily fluids is Malone. He’s alternately known as Explosa-boy. You’re enjoying his presence like a nice pretty day on the beach, basking in his smile and his alluring, irresistible face when WHAMO! You’re totally sprayed with this sudden eruption of crap and regurgitated breast milk. The kid remains immobile yet maintains the ability to produce more laundry than Octorricane and Seizemo combined. The constant breastfeeding is a weapon of choice for Explosa boy, weakening his mother by yet another form of exhaustion, and furthering his cause for chaos. He has some mad projectile skills and sometimes intentionally aims for different areas of the room…exorcist style. His forcibly eliminated bodily fluids cannot be matched.

Our home has been declared a national disaster area. The coffee table is now a launching pad of Olympic high jump proportions. The piles of clutter and dust bunnies apparently mate at night, managing to multiply on their own even after they’ve been cleared for the fifth time in a row. The laundry is at its all time pinnacle of ridiculous proportions, growing daily. And yet here I am, once again, trying to keep my head above the diapers.

Hi. My name is Ashley. I quit. I am a reformed OCD clean freak, cured by time and the natural resources that are my own children. It’s a good day if I brush my teeth. I can’t seem to get my “act” together (whatever THAT’S supposed to be) I’m perpetually EXHAUSTED and for now, there are more important things in life than tending to laundry, repeatedly picking up toys and making the beds every SINGLE morning.

With a tag team super human triple threat on the loose, I just can’t beat them.

So, in celebratory surrender, I’m putting up my feet and joining their ranks with some stereotypical stay at home mom bon bons action, while I enjoy the forces of natural disaster with my latest DVR acquirement. All praises to mass chaos and Oprah.

I had just settled the kiddos down for their afternoon naps. Aiden went down for the third time (it takes him a while every afternoon-he gets back up about four times to inform me he only took a baby nap, he wants to color, or his toy is orange-you know…the important stuff) when there was an incessant ringing of the doorbell. Can I just say that people who ring doorbells in the middle of the day are a little thoughtless? Side tangent: I’m seriously considering making a cute PERMANENT little sign that ever so non intimidatingly states: DEAREST thoughtless RUDIES: Children are napping. Leave the package. I’ll find it later. No, I don’t want your Gideonite Bible, Religious pamphlet to be filed under “other” or useless-to-me lawn service. STOP trying to sell me your crap unless you are the Girl Scouts and you have Thin Mints. If it’s after one in the afternoon, babies are sleeping. I am currently finessing the art of coordinated naps. GO AWAY.

Anyway, back to the doorbell ringage... I was sitting on the couch feeding Malone. And…cue the Incessant ringing. At first I ignored it and scolded Chloe who had flown into torrential fits of snarl induced growls. I literally thought she was going to throw herself at the door. I was too busy with a hardcore scolding of miss Prozac to realize what was happening on my lawn.

“ROOM SERVICE!!! ROOOOOM SERVICE!!!” I thought that was what I heard, in garbled sentences through the front foyer, but then dismissed it. Is someone seriously yelling for me to answer the door? I thought to myself. Surely the man who’s voice was floating through my house was UPS. I was expecting a package, (I didn’t think I would have to sign for towels) but I set a non-too obliging, ravenous Malone down, rearranged my woman parts, and, irritatedly, went for the door. Without even thinking, I opened it. I had to shove my snarling fifty-pounder ball of nerves to the side, but I still opened it.

That was stupid.

There was a chopper in my driveway. I’m not a motorcycle kinda gal but I have to say, this one looked like a Harley. I was too far away to tell, but it definitely had the low riding high handles going on, and the fire down the sides kinda vibe. Pretty sweet. It’s owner, a man dressed in motorcycle paraphernalia (as well as a healthy dose of narcotics) who looked to be in his mid to late 40’s was pacing, standing a good distance back in my yard.

“Mrs, Iris? Is Mrs. Iris here?” He began, immediately. Apparently what I thought was being screamed as ROOM SERVICE but thought I had misunderstood for POSTAL service was actually “MRS. IRIS. Mrs. IRIS.” My bad. {Both made absolutely no sense.}

For a moment, it felt like I was on the phone with someone who reached the wrong number. I didn’t know you were allowed to repeatedly ring someone’s door in the middle of the day and then act all confused in person when they answered.

“Uhhh, No. Iris doesn’t live here,” I responded to a slightly irritated Harv (we’ll call him Harv) as I continued to push the snarling protector, Chloe, back. Harv definitely fit the part with his skinny jeans, white tee and leather vest. And he kind of gave me a funny feeling. Harv was a little off.

I had opened my door to him in the middle of the day.

At this point he continued to pace my yard, examining my home. “Are you sure Iris doesn’t live here?” He looked around and then down at his hand into what looked like a crumpled check. “You haven’t ever gotten a 1400 check slid under your door, have ya?”

“Uhhh, No.” I replied. Looking down at the tile in my entryway, baffled, as if I half expected a check to materialize from nowhere right beside Chloe’s eager feet. Don’t we all wish we found 1400 smacks under our doors?

“You sure?” his voice had an accusatory tone to it.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I replied, my own voice becoming a bit incredulous.

“Do you know where an elderly lady named Iris lives?”

“There’s an elderly lady who lives behind us, but I’m not sure if that’s her,” I responded politely, I was eager to bring the conversation to an end, my hand still perched on the door latch. I’ve seen way too many Oprah’s about following your instincts in the face of rapists and danger. (Even though MY womanly instincts regarding the sex of a baby and pregnancy aren’t exactly up to par as of late, they are regarding psychos in my life.) So I was finished talking. Either that, or sic Chloe on him.

{Pause: If you are a psycho stalker killer and you’re reading my blog, hoping to pounce, I have a big dog. A GIANT SNARLING WHOPPER of a DOG who will rip your guts out as you scream for mercy and I laugh maniacally watching you bleed a slow painful death for trying to take any of my children. I’ll just watch you suffer. What??? Okay I’ll call an ambulance and ask you to wait in the driveway since I won’t want you to ruin my house with your gross blood. But you’ll still be in lots of pain and subsequently, big trouble…}

And then Harv began to ramble. And pace. And ramble some more. And I think he was trying to look into my windows and over my fence. He thought I was hiding Iris. And to be honest, I’ve had my fill with the local psychos lately, so I mumbled something about “Sorry, I have no clue. Good luck” And shut the door.

I decided to call Jamin and laugh, and then I realized Harv was still in the local vicinity. Harv hadn’t left. The chopper was still in my driveway and I couldn’t see Harv anywhere.

I still felt a bit uneasy, so I went around and locked all my doors while I aptly described the rude doorbell ringer / naptime intruder. Jamin was headed home, (it made him nervous) but I told him not to worry about it. He obviously wasn’t here to take us anywhere because he showed up on a chopper. I didn’t see him strapping my kids on his back and riding off into the sunset after he left me bludgeoned on the floor.

He would probs just murder us all with his giant hunting knife I was sure he had hidden in his awesome motorcycle vest. The hit man Harv, Hired out by Kanye.  

Even though his chopper remained parked, blocking my entire driveway, I completely lost sight of Harv for a good ten minutes. When I looked out my window again later, I saw him perched on the curb across the street. That was after he paced nervously in the park. And had a loud convo on his cell with his mob boss regarding a disappearing Iris. Bazaar much?

So, instead of helping Harv the sketchmeister, I did what any normal person with too much apparent time on their hands would do. I ducked out in my window and took ample photos of Harv. In case he came back. And tried to off me. That, and since I couldn’t make this stuff up, you know…a bit of spytastic-I-have-absolutely-no-life-check-out-this-weirdo-on-my-blog-action was definitely in order.

After a while, Harv gave up, lit a ciggy, and puttered off into the sunset, while I praised a formerly scolded Chloe. In the meantime I’ll be searching for Iris, the elderly meth dealer. Maybe she needs a helper. I would love to have 1400 dollars under my door. Harv was certainly ready to get his hands on some goods…

We were beginning to feel like the odds were against us the night before our first ever Mills hizzy garage sale extravaganza.

We’d spent a few days clearing out, prepping and tagging. But our babysitters nearly fell through. There was a seventy percent chance of rain for Saturday. Because of those daunting stats, we decided to hold it in our garage. Only when we went to clear it and make a space for the sellapalooza, we found a rogue can of polyurethane had spilled all over the garage floor. I feared the simply unbearable stinch would drive away potential customers. {That, or make them all incoherently high so they would experience an unexplainable spending spree phenomenon…Could be a good thing.} As we desperately tried to air out the smell, in the grand tradition of our SFR home (Swiss Family Robinson) Jamin found, and then quickly massacred a snake, who had apparently decided to take up residence under a spare cardboard box. {yay.} Side note: I’m speaking too soon, and tempting fate, but I’m kind of wondering why a rabid deer hasn’t dove through our dining room window, or my children all been sprayed by a skunk. A bird pooped on Emmy’s face, and a psychotic wombat from Satan’s lair flitted through our living room, so I’m putting nothing past Mother Nature and her never ending plethora of a secret arsenal at the moment.

The next day, however, the garage sale gods smiled favorably upon us, and apparently sprinkled our home with some good juju selling vibes. The smell was bearable, the sun was shining, my parents were able to babysit, and the snakes were still beheaded.

It turned out to be well worth the trouble. I, at least, consider 350 smacks for something I no longer find useful that’s been sitting in our nooks and crannies taking up valuable real estate, well worth the trouble. People basically paid me to purge my home. I soon got over that fear of the whole public display, strip-me-down-and-circle-my–proverbial-home-cellulite/oh-my-gosh-I-can’t-believe-you-actually-owned-this-brass-duck mentality. I didn’t feel so odd once the cash started rolling in. Old wedding gifts, my unwanted jewelry and Jamin’s Indiana Jones hat sold like hotcakes. {Yes. Jamin had an Indiana Jones hat. Yes. It sold like a hotcake. If by singular hotcake I am referring to the elderly man who nearly beat everyone else down to carry home his new find. No. I didn’t want him to keep it even though I had a childhood crush on Harrison Ford…} Trash truly is treasure when it passes to the right hands.

Most of the people who visited the sale were totally normal. And then, of course, in the secondary Mills grand tradition of attracting the psychos like moths to a flame, magnets to a fridge and fatties to a donut shop…there were the total wierdos/borderline psychopaths who ever so graciously paid us a visit. I’ve decided someone out in the Monty area has placed an ad on Craigslist in the personals. Regarding my mug, the idea of stalking me, and the chance to make guest appearances on my blog. {It’s every freak’s dream, after all. I take great pride in my fabulous ability.}

It started with our first visitors. The sale began at seven, but we decided to welcome the early birds, including the strange woman driving up and down our street at 5:30 in the AM in a giant black beaten up van. Up our small hill and into our garage, the influx of shoppers began. And so did the haggling.

Pause: I get haggling. Really. That’s great if you can do it. You’re basically an idiot or completely loaded if you haven’t haggled for a better deal at some point in your shopping career. But I truly fail to understand the people who obsess over the difference of a dollar. Or fifty cents. It’s one thing if you simply can’t afford it. It’s quite another if you’re just. That. Cheap.

The first group of women to enter our setup, were the ones to break us in. They walked around our sale, molesting and disheveling my obsessively nicely piled goods for nearly fifteen minutes, having overtly and offensively loud conversations about how Janice would like this frame, and they should call Tish to see if she wanted that onesie. This was before placing said purchasable items back in their NON-original spots wrinkled, pulled apart, or nearly broken. They then approached us with their desired finds. The oldest woman, (we’ll call her Rhondalita) made a beeline for me with an armful and asked me to make her a deal on the pile she had in front of her. “How much?” Overeager Rhondalita kept asking edgily. She was swaying back and forth while simultaneously waving money in my face. The combination of the swaying and the molestation of my things made me nervous. Note to Rhondalita: It was six o clock in the morning. I hated to break it to her, but early birds aren’t going to get the good deals. Just the great finds. Simple math. I’m not desperate. DUH.

Rhondalita offered us eight dollars for her finds. Some of these things included brand new frames, a fake coach purse, and a gigantic shelf.

“That’s 25 dollars worth of stuff, “ Jamin said to Rhondalita, after he simply responded to her by going through and reading the PRICE TAGS, adding it all up.

“You won’t come down on any of this?” Rhondalita replied indignantly. She then waved her wadded cash in our faces again. “All I have is eight dollars. That’s all I have. Eight dollars. Let’s see…”

I won’t bore you with the details. Because at this point I think distraction was key for these women. By the time Rhondalita was done bargaining, I was ready to pay her eight dollars to get off my lawn. Leaving was something they couldn’t do soon enough. I came down on a few of my prices, and she returned to her car with her finds, after ever so sloppily replacing the ones she couldn’t “afford.” She then came back nearly a second later to purchase something else. Even though she “only” originally posessed eight dollars. She now had nearly three dollars and haggled us down only to pay us in pennies. PENNIES. Jamin cast me an all too familiar look of annoyance as he politely accepted her cash. He then assisted her in dismantling the two dollar shelf she’d just purchased. Sadly, the time it took to dismantle and load said shelf was not worth ten.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we thought they were ready to leave, when Rhondalita (ever so predictably) headed, for the third time, back up our hill. She wanted to purchase yet another two dollar frame, after she attempted to haggle us down AGAIN. This time, Overeager Rhondalita paid up with a twenty.

Jamin accepted her cash (ever so begrudgingly) and then promptly took his time as he counted her change back to her.

In her own pennies.

• I took another impromptu vacay last week. Again, with the whole, simplifying my life thing, it’s been kind of nice. Three chillins can be more than overwhelming at times. I’ve been busy with a few projs around the house, {more coming soon this week} and I’ve been organizing my site and make it easier to access. Too many people have been all, “What? That was on your blog?” So I’m now all, “Hello. Look at my big pictures. And links. Click on them. And read. Yay.”

As usual, there are more posts below. Have a fabo week!

blue prints and old letters

our innermost sanctum of innermost sanctums...

partay on the playmat

Tonight, I was on my way to Jamin’s office with all three children in tow. After struggling for a good thirty minutes with sippy cups, bottles, lovies, pacies, diapers, and other random items (read: the entire house) my children were sure to require in the small 2.5 hour window in which we planned to be out, I was {Finally} well on my way. {Ah. A day in the life – no one ever told me the hardest part (for now) with three small children is getting everyone ready and out on time…I feel that I’ve run a marathon every time I pull out of the driveway. And I’m supposed to have the energy to carry out whatever else I planned to do on said outing? So, humor me for a moment while I totally ride this tangent: when someone is chronically late with, say, a three year old, just know that really drives me crazy. I mean get your act together, people. You have one. And they’re basically self-sufficient. How very socially exceptional of you to show up at every birthday party one hour late with your one kid IF you decide to RSVP (which I didn’t know was an OPTION.) Alas. Digression.

We were headed down the interstate, and I was talking to my babes when I realized the windshield was dirty. The sun was bouncing off the inch thick layer of particles (read: bug guts, bird poop, smog and pollen) we collected on the front of our van from hauling it to Nashvegas this weekend. Being the good, responsible and MATURE driver that I am, I then proceeded to wipe off said windows. (I am putting great emphasis on the word MATURE, as we may need to reference that one later) Pause: Last I checked with the socially acceptable maneuvers police regarding all things allowed when driving along on the interstate, one is allotted the liberty of removing filth from said windshield by instigating the self cleaning fluid button thingy on the dash.

And that is what I did.

I glanced to my left and noticed a disgruntled looking driver approaching quickly from behind. We’ll call him the Kanye. As in West. Because he thought he was. In his souped-up bright teal Nissan/Impala hybrid mix of a car. You know the kind I’m talking about. I would be floored if said piece of crap did not don neon lights from beneath at night. The only thing that would have made this car better would be a giant not-cute spoiler soaring a good two stories above the car in all its glory. Anyway, back to Kanye and his mad driving skillz. I said I glanced. Mid convo with Aiden and his peeps. And I noticed Kanye was staring me down through his sunglasses. The kind of 360 stare, where the driver’s head stays fixed on it’s subject as it passes, so an exorcist-induced road rage rotation takes place as the two drivers make eye contact. Kanye had some windshield juice on his car. At first I thought nothing of it, and in a split second it dawned on me. This moron was actually angry because I splashed his mobile of awesomeness mid drive.

What he did next completely awed me. He swerved in front of Coral Quest, (Yes, I drive a mini. Yes I named her Coral. No she is not pink. Yes this still makes me cool.) and threw on his brakes. Whilst simultaneously splashing my car with HIS fluid.

“OH. NO. He. DID NOT!” I huffed in complete awe. Seriously? Kanye was mad because a splash from my windshield touched his crap car? He must’ve just washed it. {Brilliant to do that in this rain-every-five-minutes-as-if-we-currently-live-in-seattle type of weather we’re having.}

“What’s the matter, Mommy?” Aiden asked me from the back seat.

“Nothing sweetie. There’s just a psycho on the road,” I answered calmly.

And then the thought occurred to me that this dude was so ridiculous. I, at that moment, absolutely had to get the last laugh.

I, Ashley Mills, decided to seek retribution. Justice. Backlash.

Pause: Mom. If you’re reading, stop now. You won’t like this part at all. In fact, I may get in trouble. Yes, I will be thirty this year. But the kids were with me and I had a bout of road rage at this very moment. Not so much rage, as much as “hahaha. I’m going to splash your car because you splashed mine and you freaked out, so now im freaking out back because you’re an idiot and maybe I should stop there because that makes me an idiot…” But as my friend Beth said, I could have easily been on the six o’clock regarding a sawed off shotgun and hospitalized children.

So yes, what I did next was totally moronic.

I sped up.

{Mom, are you still reading? Seriously. Stop.}

And I got in front of him again. Ever. So. NOT casually.

I turned on my wipers for a good minute or so.

“Eat it, Kanye. Eat it.” I laughed, maniacally to myself, thoroughly enjoying my temporary rant of insanity while Aiden repeatedly asked me what a psycho was, what he was eating, and why his name was Kanye.

And then Kanye kind of freaked out.

I realized this guy was really mad. And reality hit that I had three children under 4.5 in my car, and I love them more than life and this guy could be a total serial killer and I should not. Have. Done. That. I’m not sixteen anymore. I want to be on Oprah one day, but that’s because I want to write a book or cure cancer. Not because I died. In a carwreck. Because of windshield juice.

And I saw Kanye freaking in my rearview. Swerving. Trying to pass me again. I half expected him to pull out his Glock and pop a cap. I was officially worried.

I was now in the left lane, approaching someone in the right, and he was behind that person. I slowed down so he couldn’t catch up with me, and stayed steady with the car on my right. I barely made it there on time, but I could feel Kanye’s eyes with his ever so cool off-brand of sunglasses and mixed breed-even-if-it-was-missing-it’s-crowning-touch-of-a-spoiler in his fabo bright teal (oh my gosh that was so nineties) car as he swerved into the far right and sped up again.

I think he wanted to try and squirt me again. Either that, or cause a ten car pile up on 85 north. Or give me the finger. The world may never know because I slowed down completely out of his range, and put a few cars between us. I was scared. Lesson learned. Crisis averted. And most importantly: I WON!

Kanye got off at my exit. And was sitting at my light going in my direction, as I approached. I would have to sit behind him. So I decided to go around him and pull a U-ey. As I passed, I decided to look. I gave him his own 360 exorcist-style-I-think-you’re-a-total-psycho-way-to-freak-out-glance, as I passed.

Vindication is so sweet.

But I will never do such a ridiculously immature stupidity ridden thing again.

more mousal movement:

stencils, fainting couches, and love.

mendocino

aiden, emmy, and the giant produce.

check back later today below for my giveaway winners!!!-(around 4 in the p.m.) I'll be listing them here.

Garage sale. Mills house. This saturday. Stay tuned or stop by...(invitation extended to non stalkers only)

Jamin and I have decided we need to have our movie rental cards voluntarily revoked. It’s pretty much running parallel to our history of fabulous birth control skills. Excited negligence = babies. And ominously outrageous fees via the Movie Gallery. We’re simply not responsible enough to hold the powers that be: reproductive skills and movie cards in our possession at the same time. Therefore, we are opting for a movie vasectomy, vowing never to return to the Gallery again. We received a bill in the mail yesterday from the big MG for a whopping eighteen dollars. Sheesh. That’s like 1/4 of those Anthropologie knobs I’ve been lusting over for Emmy’s future big gal dresser. It’s at least 1.5 family meals at the BK, and a cute shirt a-la Target. Or even worse, twenty bucks towards my children’s collegiate future. (right) Back off Movie Gallery. Way to freak out and ask us to hand over our first born all because we totally forgot to return “Taken.” My family won’t be able to eat tonight due to your overly severe vigilante punishments for our innocent absentmindedness, but you, oh great and powerful Movie Gallery will be vindicated.

Some will argue that we need to live up to the awesome responsibility that comes with holding such powers that be in my pocket. The privilege to borrow a movie, take it home, and remember to return it in a timely manner requires the ability to think competently. I believe such things should be determined through an interview process. We shouldn’t be allowed to rent because we own three children and a dog. Duh. Ultimately it’s the Movie G’s fault for not investigating our history of rental backgrounds. Whatever that would mean…it’s their responsibility. We just can’t seem to get our act together. Who has time to remember to return a movie when the kids are running amuck with peanut butter faces, Dorito hands, and poo butts? Not to mention I have my house torn to shreds because I decided to paint something new… I can barely remember to dress the little guys for school in the cruel post partum condition of my brain these days. So, we’ve decided to take the dishonest route and duck it out. If my Mom is reading this, I am sure I will receive a sweetly toned mention of disapproval. I should be a good law abiding citizen. But what will they do if we never return to that specific location…send the rental police? You know you’ve probably all done it before. I’m just the one person to live on the edge of real rebellion write about it. {What. A. Rush. I need to get out more.} Will they send a collection agency? Beat us down and take our eighteen dollars meant to spend on something grander than some made up overdue fee that I’m not sure I even believe is legit? Thanks Movie Gallery, but we’ll be taking the dishonest-denial-never-to-return-to-your-chain-again-because-we-conveniently-forgot-and-then-moved-route. When you do find us, you can dig the eighteen we owe you in the form of ones, out of each of our children’s poo diapers.

Happy confiscating, MG.

I also needed a reason to hold a giveaway. So there it is. Here’s two sets of bows for two separate winners, three fabulous hair accessories each. In celebration of my irresponsible negligence, complete lack of an operating memory, and newfound pooptastic lifestyle. {I suck, so you win!} You have until this time next week to enter the drawing. Happy fabulous hair display of fall!

More posts here:

zombies

a long awaited painting tutorial

more sunrooms