Hidden Camera

I like reality TV.  I have often thought that I should be on reality TV.  The "Amazing Race" is one show that really intrigues me.  And I've wondered how I would manage on "Wipeout" jumping on the big blue balls.  One of my peeps suggested making a reality TV show about our group of friends and our families.  (You know who you are and I still think it's a good idea).  Between all seven of us ladies in this group and our families, we were confident that there would be plenty of entertainment.  But then when I watch reality TV like "Supernanny" and Dr. Phil when he hides cameras in someone's house to analyze their marriage or parenting skills, I realize that I am not fit to have my life documented live.  Seriously think about it.  Next time you pick your nose, scratch your butt, let one rip, spank your kids, or have a dance party in the kitchen, be very very glad that there isn't a camera capturing your every move.  This thought popped into my head while I was running on the treadmill today.  I was getting bored and trying really hard to make it past mile one, so I started dancing.  I like to dance when I run.  It's especially fun on the treadmill and it reminds me of Phoebe on "Friends" when she runs like a moron through the park.  I played the air drums, the air guitar, did a couple of split leaps, and sang my little heart out.  It made my run much more fun.  But I got thinking, "what if someone was watching me?".  I would've been embarrassed for sure. 

Sometimes when I'm shopping, especially at a mall, I find myself dancing to the music that is playing in the stores.  I had never noticed this habit until a couple of years ago when I went on a girl's weekend to Vegas with my "cakies" (aka "girlfriends").  We were shopping in the Guess store and I was bopping along to the beat having a grand old time.  Ya know that saying, "marching to the beat of their own drum"?  That was me.  And one of my friends pointed it out.  I was a little embarrassed and tried not to do it anymore.  But I couldn't help it.  It was clearly a habit.  So I embraced it.  And I didn't care.  I guarantee whoever was monitoring the cameras for the store that day was not only entertained by my quirkiness but equally embarrassed.  Whatever.  (said with attitude of course)

So today I would like to express how grateful I am that I have my privacy.  I can dance when and how I please.  I can beat my kids till my heart's content.  I can cut the cheese freely, ignore my mountain of laundry without shame and eat whenever and whatever I want with or without manners.  Live it up today, boys and girls.  Nobody will ever know.  Not only are you not being followed by cameras, but even if you were, nobody cares what you're doing.  They're all busy watching "real" reality TV trying to figure out why in the he!! the Bachelor still has Vienna around.  (PS....I don't really beat my kids.)

My Special Shopping Cart

Am I the only one who tends to be cursed with the most disfunctional shopping cart everytime I go to the store?  I hate those carts.  They shouldn't be allowed to make the "line up".  I walked into Walmart today, grabbed the next cart in line (and I'm sure if it had a brain it was thinking, "Sucker!") and pushed my way into the most dreadfully necessary store on the planet.  Walmart is a necessary evil.  Anyway, after visiting Customer Service, which for the first time in the history of Walmart didn't have a line at all, I strutted my way to the appropriate departments to get my groceries.  As I was pushing my empty cart, I noticed that the front left wheel didn't even touch the ground and got stuck occasionally when taking corners.  But I took sympathy on the crippled shopping cart.  I trudged on.  But this trip to the store wasn't a quick simple one.  We were not only lacking food at our house, but bathroom supplies, cleaners and paper goods.  After nearly 2 hours of shopping I had a cart so packed and overflowing that it would've been a challenge for even my husband to handle.  And to make matters worse I was constantly reminded of the sympathy I had unfortunately taken on my handicap cart.  The weight of my groceries caused the cart to lean onto the broken wheel making it impossible to push at all.  I can't count how many times I turned a corner to enter a new aisle only to have the broken wheel dig into the floor causing the handle of the cart to jam violently into my abdomen.  There is a good possibility that I have an injured organ.  But I was a trooper, and I continued on.  The cart was getting so heavy and overloaded that it was no longer an option to push it so I tried to pull it.  That worked okay if I lifted up on the leaning corner as I pulled.  After some time of doing that I added a ruptured vertebrae to my list of injuries.  But miracles do happen and two happened at Walmart today.  The first miracle was the quick attention I was given at Customer Service.  The second was the open check-out line when I was finished shopping.  So despite my internal bleeding and aching back my trip to Walmart was somewhat of a success.  I got what I needed and then some.  But just a word to the wise from someone who knows what she's talking about.....don't take pity on the handicap shopping carts.  It's like if you were choosing a team for kickball.  You wouldn't choose the kid with the gimp leg.  Just sayin'.

Brain Freeze

I got up this morning and jumped in the shower.  Let me just emphasize how badly I needed a shower today.  I could smell myself.  But for some wonderful reason, my shower hates me.  I hopped in, rinsed off, shampooed my hair, and right in the middle of my lathering, the water went cold.  Not lukewarm.  It was "I feel like I'm rolling in snow naked" cold.  For 10 minutes I stood there shivering, butt cheeks clenched, teeth chattering, and so many goose bumps I could feel my leg hairs growing.  The water seemed to be getting colder.  Finally I mustered up the courage to go for it.  I showered faster than I thought humanly possible.  But it was so incredibly cold that while rinsing my hair I got an instant brain freeze.  I'm not talking "I drank my Slurpee too fast" brain freeze.  My scalp went numb and my head started pounding.  And while I should've been thinking about cures for freezer burn, I was thinking about the good old folks of Walnut Grove on Little House on the Prairie.  Those poor suckers.  They bathed in a cold metal tub or in a stream.  How did people survive back then?  Caroline Ingles...just when I thought I couldn't respect you more.....

My Country Music Stars

After having two beautiful little girls and then two handsome little boys, I learned first hand how different boys and girls truly are.  And the funny thing about my boys is that a lot of what they do and say is very similiar to what grown men do and say.  For instance, they often have their hands down their pants.  I will never understand this about males no matter what the age.  Another thing is the humor and joy they find in loud belches and stinky farts.  (I'll admit I find it humorous at times.)  My boys have lately started calling their "family jewels" funny nicknames like "my wilfer" or "I just got hit in the Willy Wonka".  I don't know where they come up with this stuff half the time, but I've met 30-year-olds that do the same thing so it must just be a guy thing.  A few nights ago my 3 1/2-year-old announced that he likes to play with his "peiner".  I'm assuming that "peiner" is a combination of weiner and penis.  Either way, I couldn't help but laugh. 

The other thing about my little monkeys is how they are born with this natural desire to tease & flirt with children of the opposite sex.  My boys (ages 5 & 3 1/2) both want to grow up to be country music stars.  They have a little blue acoustic guitar that they walk around strumming while adorned in their cowboy hats, chaps and boots.  They started out by mimicking Jason Aldean singing "Big Green Tractor".  Then they discovered Johnny Cash and Deirks Bentley.  And now they just write their own music.  The lyrics that they come up with are extremely hilarious.  Last night, my little 3 1/2-year-old sang us his latest masterpiece.  All I remember is, "I love a girl and kiss her on her lips".  What?  He's not even 4 years old yet and is writing country music about kissing girls on the lips?  Help!!!  Kissing girls and playing with "peiners".  I am in soooo much trouble.

Body Parts I Never Wanted

I am convinced that no matter how many sit-ups I do, I will always have a pooch.  Now, I'm not complaining about my weight.  I'm okay with that for the most part.  But when I was blessed with four beautiful children, I was also blessed with stretch marks, sagging and a poochy belly that won't go away.  Oh, wait a minute...did I mention that having kids has also introduced me to back fat?  Anyway, I know belly buttons are not suppose to look like this.  Anything that even slightly resembles a butthole (did I just say that out loud?) can't be pretty.  And after running 4 miles today and doing nearly 200 sit-ups I was still surprised that my poochy belly was still there.  I don't know why.  I guess there was a small part of me that hoped it would disappear immediately.  But although I'm frustrated, I'm not giving up.  Someday this muffin top will be rock hard abs.  Mmmm...muffins...that sounds good.

He/She

Anyone who has heard the comdedian Brian Reagan has most likely heard his skit on, "Excuse me, Sir.....ummm....I mean, Maam."  Well this morning, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and had a simliar experience.  Yup...that's right...when I looked in the mirror this morning, I looked like a man.  And not a handsome man.  I looked like a hung over 80's rock star.  I had greasy straight chin-length hair, bags under my eyes and acne.  It's not a mystery why my husband left for work before I got out of bed.  It was not a pretty sight.  If only I could play the guitar or drums my look this morning wouldn't have mattered.  And let's face it....it doesn't help that I'm as "chestless" as a man either.  But don't you worry.  I drank a Mt. Dew for breakfast and it made me feel a lot better.  All in all, it may have been ugly, but today was a good day.

Fun Dip

Whoever invented Fun Dip hates me.  They love children.  But they want to torture the parents of all children.  Fun Dip is one of the coolest candies out there.  It is the one that every child wants.  Why?  Because it's messy and you get a candy stick utensil.  And how do I know this?  Because I use to be a kid.  With Valentines Day right around the corner, Fun Dip has already graced our home with it's presence.  Yesterday the boys and I went and exchanged Valentine's with friends in the neighborhood.  Today my eldest son had a Valentines party at school and exchanged cards and goodies there.  Between the two parties we have been blessed with several packets of Fun Dip.  Yesterday, after our first party, the boys came home and went straight for the Fun Dip.  They dumped it into a small Tupperware for better access and started dipping.  The dipping got boring quickly, so they ate the small stick that comes with the powdery candy and started using their fingers.  Pretty soon they had another package open and were sharing it with each other and their sister.  I was trying to ignore them because as they say, "kids will be kids" and that comes with plenty of messes and sugar highs.  Ignoring them was both a blessing and a mistake.  Soon there was Fun Dip powder everywhere.  It was on the table.  It was on the floor.  It was on all the dining room chairs.  And there wasn't just one Tupperware bowl anymore but now there were three.  Sugar powder of various colors now decorated my dining room.  I hoped that was the extent of the mess, but I should've known better.  I heard the three little Fun Dip monkeys giggling in the bathroom so I went to see what was going on.  Their hands were green.  Their fingers were red.  Their teeth and tongues were stained blue.  And my favorite part was the mustache of bright Fun Dip colors that painted their little faces.  So once again, why do the makers of Fun Dip hate me so much?  They do know it stains don't they?  It's as if they took a look at Kool-Aid and tried to one up them.  Can you imagine if the Kool-Aid punch guy came out with just a packet of Kool-Aid powder and encouraged kids to eat it?  It would be a disaster.  No, wait a minute.....it would be Fun Dip!

Attention Everyone!!!

Yesterday I layed on the couch for hours trying to make the best of being nauseated.  And, yes, I did say "hours" which means my children were on their own.  Don't call DCFS yet.  They all survived and are probably better for it.  I like to consider it "tough love".  I had plenty of time to think yesterday.  Lots of time actually.  I should've been watching TV but I couldn't find the remote and was too lazy to exert enough energy to search for it.  I tried to bribe the kids with a quarter to find it for me, but they were also unsuccessful.  So I snuggled up on  the couch and listened to my kids talk.  They were sitting at the dinner table eating lunch (that they had prepared themselves) giggling and laughing, when out of the blue I hear my 3 1/2-year-old yell, "I gotta go poo!"  Off he ran towards the bathroom.  A few second later I hear another yell from the same little boy who had just announced his upcoming bowel movement.  He exclaimed, "I got diahrrea!"  And shortly after that, here he came bare naked running through the kitchen and into the living room.  He threw his clothes on top of me and said, "Mom, I went poo.  It's diahrrea.  Put my clothes on."  I'll be honest.  This isn't the first time this has happened.  It's actually a daily ritual of sorts.  But why is this story blog worthy?  Come on!  If we all only had the innocence and honestly of a child, can you imagine what our lives would be like?  Had we been sitting at a restaurant and a grown man sitting at the table next to us announced, "I've gotta poo!" what would we have thought?  I for one would've laughed for sure.  In fact I probably would've laughed so hard that I would've found Diet Coke shooting out my nose or I would've had to stand and announce, "I just peed my pants!"  Why do children declare in all their glory, "I just farted!", "I just burped!", or "My bum is sore!"?  I for one don't have an answer.  But I do love their honesty. 

Now it's one thing to announce what is about to occur no matter how inappropriate it may be, but why oh why must a 3-year-old strip completely naked to go "number 2"?  This has baffled me since I potty trained my first child nearly seven years ago.  Is it in their genes?  It definitely isn't a learned behavior in our home because I have certainly never done it.  And as far as I know my husband doesn't do it.  But first of all, if you strip completely naked to sit on the pot, you would be cold.  That's not comfortable.  And secondly, the million dollar question is, what article of clothing were you afraid would interfere with your bowel movement?  Socks?  Seriously?  Good thing you took those off!

What Is Squeaky-Poo?

I woke up with the flu this morning.  Between running to the bathroom and sleeping I have done absolutely nothing.  And I'm not sure if it was the first question that was posted on my blog, (thanks T) or the disgusting bodily functions that accompany the flu, but either way, between the two, here goes my next post.

What is squeaky-poo?  Sounds like a valid question.  And I've been hoping someone would ask.  It could mean literally, what is squeaky poo?  Or it could be code for something else.  Let's explore the first of the two.  Seriously?  What is squeaky-poo?  Is it poo that squeaks?  And how does that work?  Who has squeaky poo?  Who would admit it anyway?  What does that even sound like?  Wow!  So many questions branched off from one.  It reminds me of when I was little and my grandma would take us to the cheese factory or grocery store to get "squeaky cheese".  I don't know what others call it other than "cheese curds", but we called it "squeaky cheese".   They were basically little chunks of cheddar cheese that often squeaked when you bit into them.  So how does that compare to squeaky-poo?  I'm not sure I want to know.  So, let's just leave it at that before we all throw up.....again.

My eldest daughter is nicknamed "Paigie-Poo".  My second daughter is nicknamed "Squeaky".  I have always wanted to write a book series about my girls for elementary school aged children that would be dedicated to them both by naming the series "Squeaky-Poo".   Well, since that will most likely never happen, they were honored by my naming my blog after them.  Lucky girls.  Isn't that every girl's dream to have a blog named after them?  Especially with a name like that!  I should just be given the "Mother of the Year Award" right now. 

My Closet Is Broken

Have you ever washed and dried a favorite piece of laundry, or any piece of laundry for that matter, that comes out of the dryer considerably smaller than when it went in?  I have done this on more than one occasion.  In fact, it works out great for my 8-year-old daughter.  I can think of at least one sweater that fits her perfectly now due to my "malfunctioning" dryer.  Well, as if my dryer wasn't enough, my closet is obviously now broken.  And I can't figure it out.  I got up this morning, got the girls off to school, had breakfast, ran 3 miles on the treadmill and then got in the shower to clean up for the day.  When I got out of the shower, I went to my closet and set out a pair of jeans that I hadn't worn in a while, excited to revive them and make up for lost time, only to find out that they, much like my sweater, had shrunk.  I tugged and pulled at them.  I ran up and down the stairs a couple of times.  I squatted.  I stretched.  I turned and modeled in front of the mirror.  And strangely, after all my efforts, they were still very much sucking every crack and dimple on my buttocks and thighs.  I debated whether I should change or not.  I thought, "maybe they'll loosen up after a couple of hours," but what if they didn't?  I would be uncomfortable all day long and for what?  To prove that I could still squeeze my Mother of Four butt into these size nothing jeans?  I was kind of depressed, I won't lie.  Who wants to get off the treadmill, sore and out of breath, only to squeeze into a pair of jeans that have seen their last days on your body?  So, I concluded that I would say my good-byes and donate my old "skinny" jeans to the local thrift store.  I started patting down the pockets to make sure they were empty, and in the midst of my cussing and swearing and my damn broken closet that shrinks my clothes, I felt something.  Hidden in my jeans, begging for fogiveness, was a crisp $10 bill!  And as soon as I saw that green I didn't care so much about my pants being too tight.  I was already plotting on where I would go to lunch.  Goodbye jeans.  You're going away.  But "hello" Taco Time.  See ya for lunch!

To Change or Not to Change

I woke up this morning wearing the same clothes that I had worn all day yesterday.  Why?  Well, my husband went to a late basketball game so I thought I'd be a cute wife and wait up for him.  Unfortunately, I fell asleep on the couch, fully dressed, and when my husband got home late last night, he went to bed without waking me.  I'm not so much bothered that I spent the night on the couch.  It's my own fault.  But as I got up this morning and started going about my business around the house, I thought, "I'm already dressed.  Do I really have to change?"  After a quick sniff of the old armpits, I realized that I didn't smell bad.  I could probably get away with being grubby today and not shower.  I could just wash my face, pull my hair back, and call it good.  But if my husband came home from work tonight and I was still wearing the outfit that I had worn yesterday and all night last night, would he believe that I had accomplished anything today?  Nope.  He wouldn't.  And whether I actually have done anything useful today or not isn't the point.  The point is that my husband needs to think that I've done something productive today.  So do I change?  Or do I not? 

No matter what any of you think I should or should not do, my answer is as follows.  I decided to wash my dirty face, pull back the greasy hair, slip on some clean clothes, skip makup and accessories (because that would be too much effort considering my lazy day), and surprise my old man with his favorite dinner.  That way, he won't care what I did today.  What man would even notice a semi-dirty house with a semi-white trash wife if all he could smell was the delicious aroma of roast and homemade rolls?  

Chaffing

I am the 30-year-old mother of four who, in hopes of pushing myself out of my comfort zone, committed to running on a relay team.  I will be running 3 legs in this relay, each leg varying in distance between 3 and 8 miles.  In hopes that I won't kill over after mile 1, pee my pants, or have any other unforunate accidents, I started training early.  I run on my treadmill every other day until I've completed atleast 3 miles.  Now along with running, not only have I become more tired and physically sore, but I have experienced, for the first time in my life, a little something known as "chaffing".  That's right.  You heard me.  Chaffing.  Who knew that your thighs rubbing together for 45 minutes could be so uncomfortable?  Those of you who have experienced this know exactly what I'm talking about.  And even though I feel healthier for excercising regularly, the constant touching of my thighs reminds me that I must keep going.  If that's not encouragement, I don't know what is.  Let's just hope that all that friction doesn't start a fire.