Stupid Ice

Scene: The kitchen.  I'm at the sink doing the dishes.  Lil G is behind me making noise from across the room.  The kids are all doing their chores and stomping through the house.  The pestering started at sunrise and I'm on edge waiting for the next argument to break out.  Typical summer morning at our home.

Lil G: (angrily) Get in there stupid a--!

Me: (wide eyed and turning quickly....here we go!...)

Lil G: (shoving ice into her water bottle with frustration) 

Me: (Oh...."stupid ice"!!!  My bad!)

Option 1 or Option 2

Have you ever been in public or around other conscious humans when your bodily functions got the best of you unexpectedly?  Yeah.  It's pretty embarrassing.  (Refer to my other stellar ladylike moments here.) 

I haven't exactly figured out the physical need for certain things like runny noses, lugis, dandruff, body odor, excessive ear wax, female whiskers, or involuntary flatulence.  As far as I'm concerned they exist solely to demand individual humility to all who they haunt, which again, would apply to any and every breathing human being.  It's how our bodies were made.  It's how they function.  We may not like it or understand it or even be able to control it, but it is what it is.

I had an embarrassing moment this week.  I was coaching the Yankees t-ball team.  (Totally rad, eh?  And, yes, our team is not only adorable but pretty amazing.  We specialize in running the bases.)  The weather that day was a little chilly.  The brisk air triggered an avalanche of a runny nose, which frustrates me but doesn't surprise me.  In fact, I am always prepared for a runny nose, either mine or my child's, almost to a flaw.  It drives my husband crazy.  I stuff Kleenex up the sleeve of my shirt or in my sock.  The pockets of all my sweaters and jackets are always stocked.  On a regular basis a forgotten Kleenex shreds it's way through the laundry.  It's horribly wonderful.  But let me ask you, how do you have time or even enough appendages to get a Kleenex out and wipe your nose while pitching a baseball and shuffling 14 darling 5-year-olds from place to place?  You don't.  So I resorted to the sniff.  Sniff..sniff.....sniff.sniff...  Annoying yet effective in most scenarios.  But not that day.  

I was standing 4 feet from home base.  My Yankee was in position to hit, bat in hand & helmet on.  The coach of the opposing team was behind home base.  I bent over to pick up a ball and then and there it happened.  Unexpected nasal extraction.  I felt like a rodeo bull.  And when I realized what had just happened and that not only were two people (1 adult & 1 child) directly in front of me, but also a slew of family watching from the sidelines as well as my base coaches behind me, I knew I needed to make a quick and critical decision.  

Option 1: Draw more attention to myself by making a joke out of it.

Option 2: Pretend it never happened and pitch the dang ball.

Let's just say that Option 2 prevailed.  Until now.

Run Forest Run

I ran too far away from home yesterday and couldn't make it back. 

The morning started lovely.  I was surprisingly spry for 6:30 a.m.  The weather was perfect.  Not too hot.  Not too cold.  My Ipod was charged.  Earphones snug.  And off I went into the unknown. 

About 6.5 miles later I was tired.  Not just a little tired.  Really tired.  Dizzy tired.  I couldn't figure it out.  I had been running pretty regularly for several weeks and had done more than 6.5 miles only a week ago.  Buck up, soldier, I said.  So I put on a strong face and continued.  But that only lasted until the next telephone pole arrived and at that point I stopped.  Shakey.  Sore.  Fatigued.  Pissed off.  How do I get home now?  I don't want to run.  My right hip feels like it's out of socket.  My butt is sore and reeling from rigorous bouncing.  I can feel my 2nd toenail holding on for dear life.  Why?  Why do I even try to run?  I don't enjoy it.  In fact I nearly hate it.  Despise it almost.  Since when does my body not react like it did when I was 15?  It's so sad because I feel and act like I'm 15.  Why can't my mind and my body get on the same page already?  Dang you mind and body!  But I'm not getting home standing still.  So I started walking.  I walked, and I walked, and I walked.  Just like the pioneers only wearing better shoes.  I could see my house across the river.  If I cut straight through it was only a mile.  But the road wouldn't conform.  It had to wind and twist making my journey farther and more painful.  My cell phone was in my pocket.  I could easily call Handsome.  He was surely home getting ready for work & would come to the rescue.  But, no.  He would laugh at me.  I would be "the girl who ran too far away from home and couldn't make it back".  Ha-ha.  Funny joke.  Nope.  Definitely not calling.  I still had my pride at that point.  But then I realized what time it was.  The bus would be coming to pick the kids up for school in 30 minutes.  Crap!  So I took one for the team and started running.  I guess you can call it that.  It was maybe more of a quickened shuffle.  Before long a string of road bikes came flying by.  Suckers.  They think they're so fast with their wheels & pedals & spandex.  I wish I had wheels right now.  About a mile from my house a familiar truck pulled up.  Handsome!  He was on his way to work and came looking for me since I hadn't come home.  As much as I wanted to beg for a ride home my ego wouldn't let me do it.  He asked if I was okay.  I said, yes.  Then he started to turn around.  What were you thinking?!  Moron!  Ask him for a ride already!  Who runs too far from home and then passes up a ride?  Nope.  I won't do it.  I will make it home.  I'm not that girl.  Then Handsome rolled down his window and asked if I wanted a ride home.  YES!!!  I almost cried I was so relieved.  Pride shmride.  Who needs it?  I slowly pulled myself up into the truck and was home within seconds.  Seconds!  Wow!  And to think it would've taken me much longer to achieve that distance.  Hallelujah!  Thank you, Handsome! 

And yes, I am that girl.

Sweet Revenge

We took our family to our first baseball game of the season last Saturday.  It was cold outside and the wind was blowing miserably.  Huddled out in right field, Handsome and I were layered in hoodies and wrapped in quilts while the kids were off playing on the playground in shorts and t-shirts.  Whatevs.  We're good parents.

As the two of us sat there shivering and watching the game, a couple came and sat diagonally in front of us to our right, not to mention upwind.  Before long the couple started  to smoke.  Yes, we were enjoying face fulls of cigarette smoke.  Mmmmmm.  And so the cycle continued.  The wind blew.  They smoked.  We shivered.  We choked.  Wind.  Smoke.  Cough.  Repeat.  No worries.  Who needs manners and consideration?  Not me.  This solves the dilemma of my gas induced stomachache.  Next game I'll be sure to sit upwind from them and see how they like it.  It's the perfect combination of relieving my gut ache and getting revenge.  I wonder if they're aware of the deadly combination of a concession stand hot dog & a Mt. Dew.  ?  (maniacal laughter....hahahaha) 

Until next time, Mr. and Mrs. Smokey Smokerton.  Two can play at this game.

Crow Sandwich with a Side Dish of Crow

There are some things that I never thought I would shop for, buy, or ever do in all my life.  In fact, I may or may not have sworn publicly to some of those things I would never do.  For one I swore I would never let myself go after having children.  Oops.  I also promised that I would never wear mom jeans or embarrass my monkies.  But when mowing the lawn or on laundry days....ya know....and sometimes the embarrassing just comes so naturally.  I'm pretty sure I vowed to never hide Kleenex in my sleeve, sock, or bra.  Now I never leave the house without a couple stashed somewhere.  I know I never intended to drive a mini van.  But they're so practical.  I just can't say enough about those door buttons!  I remember making a secret pact that when I was a parent I would never yell demands and orders and then reply after being asked "why?" with a stern, hands on hips "because I said so, that's why".  Wow.  I swore that my children would never have snot running down their faces, messy hair, mismatched clothes, and they would never pick their nose and never ever eat it.  Yup.  You go naive super mom!  In what world does that happen?  I was confident when I saw a screaming child rolling on the floor at the grocery store that, "my child will never act like that".  But then again, after all that "cross my heart and hope to die" crap and then the loads of crow that I've eaten since, it shouldn't have shocked me when I found myself at Pet Smart on aisle 5 eating a super sized helping of delicious crow while pondering the pros and cons of different doggy diapers. 

It's just so unnatural.

But, mmmmmm, this crow is so tastey.  It tastes a lot like the crow I ate when I swore we wouldn't get another dog and then when we did I refused to take care of it.

Mmmmmm...another helping please.  Soooo good.

And I will never say never again.

(Wait a minute....)

Note to Self

Dear Self,

Applause on a wonderful run this morning!  Well done!  (clap, clap)  You really rocked that 2-mile stretch.  And, yes, I realize that when you exercise you feel better about yourself.  Thinner.  Better looking.  More tone.  Healthier.  Those are wonderful feelings that are encouraged and should be felt by women everywhere.  But as you walked past the mirror in those fitted blue work-out capris, I made an observation that you should be aware of.  Remember when you wore those same capris for the 8 hour ride home from Denver last year?  And remember those guys who were awfully friendly with you and C at the restaurant in Fort Collins?  Well, I'm pretty sure they weren't looking for a panty line.  They were most likely counting the dimples in your butt cheeks.  So, from one sista to another, whether you're feeling more in shape and toned after a nice morning run, you're not.  All that Easter candy ain't doing you any favors either.  Say ba-bye to the tight workout pants until further notice.  And shoot for 3 miles next time and continue with lunges.

Sincerely,

Me

What's Up G?

Lil G has taken over the menu board in the kitchen.  As you can see our Sunday dinner was both fancy and delicious.

This morning the menu board read:

Pancakes

Eggs

Milk

Root Beer

To clarify my excellence as a parental guardian, the kids did choose and make their own Sunday dinner.  And there was, in fact, root beer at the breakfast table this morning.  It wasn't my doing.  But I didn't argue. 

My Lil G is a sassy spunky lil thing.  I think I like her being in charge of the Menu board.  And even though there is a Lil G induced headache at least weekly, she tells it how it is and makes us all laugh.  While she and Hall Monitor were cleaning their room, Hall Monitor brought a school journal to my attention that I had never seen before.  The cover had Lil G's name written on it.  I thought, how cute to have this sweet illustrated journal of my 2nd grader.  Love it!  (said like Wheezy on Dragon Tales)  Then I read what she had been writing to her teacher.

Yep!  That's my girl!  She has perfectly illustrated herself sitting on our red couch holding a book, but not reading it.  And, yes, I'm pretty sure the words, "stop reading" have come out of my mouth before on more than one occasion. 

So to lift the spirits of all you other women that feel like you're failing in the dark and dreary world of motherhood, I am an "anti-reading make your own dinner have root beer for breakfast" kind of gal.

You're welcome.

April Fools!!!

April Fools Day.  Such a random holiday.  Before today I had never really thought about where it came from or why we even bother putting it on the calendar.  For my husband, the first day of April is a day to tease, joke, and prank more than usual.  Yes, I love his zany humor and obnoxious antics.  But to dedicate a whole day to them?  Hmmmmm....That's borderline insanity.

I found one of many explanations as to where April Fools originated from.  I have no idea how valid or truthful this story is.  I found it on the internet though so it must be true.  Right?  (wink, wink)  It is said that this practice of "Fools Day" began during the reign of Constantine, when a group of court jesters and fools told the Roman emperor that they could do a better job of running the empire. (cough, cough...Why do I feel like this applies to our current government?)  Constantine, amused, allowed a jester named Kugel to be king for one day. Kugel passed an edict calling for absurdity on that day, and the custom became an annual event. 

The professor who gave the above explanation said, "In a way, it was a very serious day. In those times fools were really wise men. It was the role of jesters to put things in perspective with humor."

I like the idea of jesters ruling the country.  Honestly I like the idea of jesters in general.  We could use a little more humor.  And we could really use some "wise men....ruling the empire". 

So in lieu of April Fools Day, do something fun.  Serve M&Ms for dinner.  Put red food coloring in the milk.  Wear your underwear on the outside of your clothing.  Laugh!  Today is a happy day!  And enjoy the following quotes.  I know I did.

Don’t give cherries to pigs or advice to fools. ~Irish Proverb   Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. ~ Chinese Proverb Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not succeed. ~ Mark Twain      If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings. ~ Welsh Proverb  He who is born a fool is never cured. ~ Proverb  We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance. ~ Japanese Proverb  You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time. ~Abraham Lincoln   Even the gods love jokes. ~Plato   It is better to weep with wise men than to laugh with fools. ~Spanish Proverb   I have great faith in fools – self-confidence, my friends call it. ~Edgar Allan Poe   Real friends are those who, when you feel you’ve made a fool of yourself, don’t feel you’ve done a permanent job. ~Author Unknown

Olga Nordstrom

Once upon a time I broke my leg.  Right leg to be exact.  I was in 4th grade.  And at that point I became a cripple. 

Okay.  I'm exaggerating.  Due to the break of both my tibia and fibula through the growth plate I was told that it was possible that my right leg may grow faster or slower than the left.  I might end up with one leg longer than the other.  If I remember right I put on a brave face and hid my nightmarish dreams from my parents.  Heaven forbid they know that I was anticipating the following.

Olga Nordstrom.  For any of you that love Little House on the Prairie like I do you would be fully aware of the episode about Olga.  She is the local cripple girl who has one leg longer than the other.  She limps when she walks and can't run.  But don't you worry.  Charles Ingles saves the day with his brilliant carpentry and fashions her a shoe with a thick wooden sole making her short leg the appropriate length.  And then the unthinkable happens.

Yep.  Olga finally gets invited to play baseball.  And she can even run the bases!  It's a Little House miracle!

I know.  I sound crazy.  And crazy I might actually be.  But as a 10-year-old growing into a teenager and playing competitive soccer, these were the things I use to worry about.  Would my legs be uneven like Olga's?  Would I be able to run?  And with one short leg would running result in running in circles?  (Think about it!!!) 

Years later in my adult life I found a group of friends unlike any I had ever had.  I call them my Cakies.  They knew the good, bad and ugly about me, including my own 1989 Olga story.  When I found out that I would be moving 6 hours away from my Cakies they surprised me with a Going Away party where they showered me with gifts.  One of those gifts was a pair of navy blue boots with a 2x4 screwed to the bottom of the right shoe.  I would never limp again!  I would never run in circles!  I had finally found my modern day Charles Ingles! 

Truth be told I had three surgeries following the initial break of my right ankle to fix the cripple potential.  And I'm happy to say that although today my ankle is scarred and somewhat crooked, it is not distinctively shorter or longer than the other.  Little House miracles still happen today. 

Thanks to my Cakies for making me laugh at myself, and thanks to Olga for putting on a brave face and wearing a wooden shoe.  I'm pretty sure she's to thank for the idea of a wedge heel.  And for that I am also grateful.

(This post is dedicated specifically to my one and only AF.  Why you, you ask?  You know why.)

My Girls

This week has been a monumental one for me.  It marked the 10th birthday of my little Hall Monitor and also the 10th anniversary to my being inducted into parenthood.  Wow!  I don't know what is more shocking, the fact that I was entrusted with children to watch over, teach, care for, and mold into adults, or that all four of my children have actually survived this long with no broken bones.  I guess the lack of broken bones seems irrelevant with the years of therapy my babies will need in the future.

When I found out I was expecting our first child I was 20 years old and Mr. Handsome and I had only been married for about 6 months.  I came home from work to tell Handsome to which he replied, "Oh Shi..!"  Yup.  That was it.  Not the Hollywood tears and laughter and jumping around.  Not Charles Ingles spinning Caroline in his arms.  Just the big S.  I laughed and said, "Well, you'd better hurry and say something else so I can write something in the baby book."  I didn't want page 3 of baby's journal to say, Dad's first reaction when he heard the news of me was "Oh Shi..!".  To be truthful, I was thinking what Handsome so painlessly exclaimed, so I couldn't be too hard on him.  Six months into our marriage we were more worried about college and the broken dishwasher in our scummy apartment.  Children were a part of our 5 year plan not our 12 month plan.
About 9 months after the birth of our beautiful Hall Monitor we found out we were expecting another baby.  Surprise!  I know.  Don't judge.  And yes, I'm very aware of birth control.  Baby #2 was also a little girl, but with a much different personality than Ms. Hall Monitor.  Let the following illustrations explain.

On the left is how I would best describe my eldest daughter, hence the name Hall Monitor.  She is studious, organized, always carrying a bag, artistic, smart, structured, responsible, in charge, and donning a tiara whenever possible.  To the right is an illustration describing my second daugher, Lil G.  She is sassy, spunky, easy going, funny, edgy, free spirited, carefree, clever, argumentative, stubborn, and always walking the line.  Could my girls be any different? 

I can't say that every minute of everyday with these two little women is easy or drama free or even fun.  But I can honestly say that I love these little people so much and I would be lost without them.  Hall Monitor keeps me organized and on time.  Lil G keeps me on my toes and always laughing.  I love my little ladies and cherish our girl's days shopping together.  They don't happen often, but our "girl time" makes up for all the drama & hormones we endure year round and is definitely not something my boys would appreciate.  Yup.  I love my girls. 

As I've walked down memory lane this week and made my decade mark in the world of parenthood, it's safe to say that the past 10 years have been the best of my life.  Simply terrifyingly frustratingly amazing!  It's the next 10 that really scare me, and "Oh Shi.." doesn't even begin to express my feelings about teenagers.  Yes, Mom and Dad, it is payback.

How To Get Fat Faster

Mmmmmmmm.....crisp wafers....chocolate....1-2-3-4....King Size....5-6-7-8....break me off a piece of that little piece of heaven.  Or break me off 8 pieces.  Whatevs.  Four just doesn't cut it for a hormonal chocolate driven woman.  Just sayin'.  And look what I discovered when I went to open my Kit-to-the-Kat crispy wafers.

TO OPEN

Lift Flap and Tear at End

What the?  Instructions as to how I can get into my chocolate treat even faster?  Genius!

Or is it?

The way I initially took this message was, "Look, morons who are without a brain, this is how civilized people open their candy bars."  I was dumbfounded.  Really?  Do we need instructions to open our food?  I mean, true, a bag of chips can often be a little sketchy.  Do you pop it like a balloon, rip the end, or pull the two sides?  Same for the inner bag of a box of cereal.  Those suckers are compressed and glued to keep out varmints and people alike.  I usually end up reaching for scissors and cutting the bag open.  But really?  Are we that dumb that we can't at least be creative and resourceful if we can't seem to break through the Kit Kat fortress?  The way I look at it is it's a natural instinct to rip from the end.  Duh!  Thanks for stating the obvious.  And if that doesn't work, try prying the sides apart.  What?  Still no success?  Well then, use your teeth.  And if still, you find yourself hungry and without chocolate exposed, try a knife, scissors, toothpick, nail file, shark, chainsaw, hand grenade, or perhaps your brain!!! 

Because I love Kit Kat I will admit that the thoughtful instructions do contribute to a fast and flawless attack of getting fatter as quickly as possible.  There is absolutely no wasting time getting those 420 calories from the store shelf and into my thighs when I know how to do the job right.

Thank you Kit Kat.  I will never wonder or hesitate while infiltrating your beautiful red wrapper again.  You have enlightened me. 

Mr. Mousekawitz

Dear Mr. Mousekawitz,

I'm a reasonable woman.  I don't run screaming onto chairs and tables when I see you running across the floor.  I don't attack my curtains with a broom when I know you're hiding behind them.  Instead I give you a name and anticipate your next visit.  Mr. Mousekawitz.  Charming, eh?  Sometimes I know your routine so perfectly that I turn to wait your arrival during the 10 o'clock news and then giggle as you scurry under the table and behind the drapes plotting your attack on the kitchen.  I've been more than fair and understanding.  After all, I do live in the country.  That equals uninvited company such as yourself, and most days, I'm oddly okay with it.

Many late nights have been spent laying in my bed staring at the ceiling.  Why?  Cuz I can't sleep?  No.  Because you and your posse have waken me from my sleep with the pitter patter of little feet above my head.  How much do you weigh anyway?  For being such a small rodent your movements are nothing short of deafening and terrifying at 2 AM.  For hours I lay there tracking your movements back and forth, up and down, here and there, waiting for the day that a ceiling tile falls and we find each other face to face on my pillow.  It's not a happy premonition.  In fact, it's one that often requires a Tylenol PM to calm me enough to doze off til morning.  By then I've usually forgotten our mid-night escapade until I open the linen drawer for a fresh towel and tiny mouse terdlets fly across the room.  And that, my friend, is where I draw the line.

I've set traps over and over around the house for months now.  I check them regularly to see if you have met your fate.  But no.  The traps are empty.  Empty!  You have either been impressively trained or have invented the precise art of cleaning a loaded mouse trap without getting caught.  You are a veteran thief with skills I can not comprehend.  Do you wear black leather gloves while looting my traps and cupboards?  (clap, clap, clap)  I've gotta give you props, Mr. Mousekawitz.  You have been a fine opponent and have successfully outsmarted me. 

I was hesitant to set mousetraps.  I thought it was mean.  And when I finally resorted to breaking your little neck, the kindness in my heart inspired me to still show some compassion.  Peanut butter and chocolate!  Delicious!  So I chose to bait the traps with peanut butter and chocolate.  The exterminator suggested it and I found it a very humane and kindly gesture on my part.  If I'm going to kill you I might as well provide a proper last meal.  There are plenty of humans who would risk their life for much less than peanut butter and chocolate, so once again, I've been nothing short of merciful.  Until now.

No more peanut butter.  No more chocolate.  No cheese.  No Cocoa Puffs.  No more powdered sugar and brown sugar.  We're through.  Welcome to the world of De Con and possibly cats.  My kids have been begging for a cat for years.  Because I loathe cats, I have refrained from becoming a cat owner.  But, my dear Mr. Mousekawitz, unfortunately for you, I loathe you more.  Good luck, my nemesis.  May we both rest in peace.

Be Careful

My Thought Bubble: I wish the kids would bring their dirty clothes downstairs so I could wash them!  Lalala....

My Next Thought Bubble: Doh!  Seriously?!  Be careful what you wish for, Moron!!!

Heart Day

What I've Learned Thanks to Mr. Valentine

1. Valentine's Day when you're in elementary school is as tragic today as it was when I was that age.  My 9-year-old daughter literally gets sick by the constant attempts of making the boys and girls mingle at school.  Dancing with a boy when you're 9 is yucky.  Valentine's Day is dreaded by many little people for that reason alone.  Kids just want Valentine cards and candy.  Not lessons on etiquette.  When I was a child our school did a Valentine's Tea.  The boy had to literally escort you to the library and pull out your chair to seat you for the tea.  It was mortifying.  I still remember who my first dates were.  Justin Gereau and Tyler Hunter.

2. Flowers are overrated.  I'll take the Jimmy John's #12 for lunch over flowers any day especially when it's "freaky fast".  It was my kind of romantical when Mr. Handsome walked through the door yesterday afternoon with lunch in tow saving me from choking down another bite of yogurt.  My new motto...."food over flowers". 

3. It makes me smile to hear about young love, especially when my children giggle about Sally and Tom sneaking out to the "snow pile" and kissing "lip to lip".  Nothing more needs to be said.  Everyone at school knows exactly where "the snow pile" is.  No need for directions.  And "lip to lip"?  Wow!  Too cute.

(Of course I made up the names Sally and Tom.  We are after all in 2011 not 1975.)

4. I rocked the classroom back in the day with a Valentine's box made out of a shoe box and aluminum foil.  Yep.  It was shiny and spectacular.  Only problem that year was a little somebody named Bond.  James Bond.  No joke.  He was in my class.  He was smelly and dirty and kind of creepy.  Looking back he was probably a nice enough kid.  He just gave me the willies.  I thought he had a crush on me.  When we exchanged Valentine's that year I made certain that the card that I gave him had no hint of attraction or affection on it at all.   Funny thing is that each year at this time I remember Mr. Bond.  I either secretly had a crush on him or he scarred me for life.  I'll go with the latter of the two.

5. Conversation hearts may or may not come printed with the letters "DNA" on them.  Okay, so they don't.  I found this out the hard way.  I decided to make my husband a funny Valentine card out of conversation hearts.  I found this curious purple heart candy that said what I thought was DNA.  I thought it was odd that a candy would say DNA on it, but then again, conversation hearts get weirder and weirder by the year.  I mean, who says "Fax Me"?  So I put on my clever thinking cap and came up with a funny Valentine card full of conversation hearts and even managed to fit in the DNA heart.  Unfortunately when Mr. Handsome read the card he read all the candy hearts as they were intended to be read.  Apparently DNA was really DIVA.  I'm still cussing Necco for putting the I and the V too close together.

6. Lil G got a Valentine from a boy that said, "You are smashing!"  She is still on Cloud 9.  I'm confident that the boy who gave it to her had no idea what "smashing" meant.  But she took it literally.  Mars and Venus. 

7. Five dollars of decorations from Dollar Tree, a 2-liter bottle of sparkling soda, and fancy goblets make a heart-shaped pizza dinner magical. 

8. Valentines Day in junior high and high school is awkward and just a reminder what a loser you are.  Selling roses and sending them to people in class reaffirms that.  I mean, who wants to be sitting in class when the class presidency comes in to hand out flowers and a) you're the only one who doesn't get one or b) your friends and parents teamed up to send you one so you wouldn't be left out.  Awkward and more awkward.

9. What do you give a guy for Valentines Day?  Okay.  Besides that.  Back in '95 it was a Lucky t-shirt or some Preferred Stock cologne.  But after all these years there is still not a clear cut answer to this timeless question.  Most of the time I come to the conclusion that no gift is better than a lame gift.  Am I wrong?

10.  Fun Dip and Pixy Stix are of the devil.

Sorry Hank

There's a neighbor dog, Hank, that likes to visit us frequently and make nice with our two dogs.  The three of them are all the best of friends I'm sure.  So it's not unusual for me to walk outside and see Hank in my yard.  I'm okay with it.  But recently I walked outside and caught Hank dropping a load on my front lawn.  Not cool.  So I told him to leave.  He hesitantly started to stagger away.  But, no.  He didn't stop what he was doing before he began his exit.  He half squatting, half pooping, half running made his way awkwardly out of my yard.  It was so uncomfortable to watch that I felt kind of guilty for not waiting til after he was done with his business to shoo him.  Hank, I'm sorry that you pooped in my yard.  But Hank, I'm even more sorry that you had to run away and poop at the same time.  I can't begin to imagine how embarrassing and unpleasant that would be for any mammal.  Let's be friends.

Mommy Prom Dresses

Example B

Are you a mommy and in need of formal attire?  Yea, me neither.  But I have a friend who needs a fancy ensemble to wear to her husband's work party.  As she was telling me about this and how the last time she had shopped for a formal dress was for her wedding, I wondered what in the world I would wear if I was attending a fancy party.  Where do you even start?  I have no idea.  But then as she and I shopped at a couple of stores I was even more dumbfounded than before.  Finding an appropriate and cute mommy formal is ridiculous.  As far as I can tell, formal wear is broken down into two categories.  "Mother of the Bride" and "Look at my Boobs".  It's a lose lose situation fo sho!  So let me explain before you think I'm both crazy and a complete prude.



Example A



Example A (AKA "Look at my Boobs") : This may be fashionable for the younger generation of which I am no longer a member of, however, as a parent, there is no way my daughter would leave my house in a dress like this.  I know teenage boys all too well.  As for us 30-something-year-old mothers, this dress is fashion and social suidcide.  Let's be honest ladies.  After pregnancy and years of fighting Father Time, our body parts aren't everything or everywhere they use to be.  First of all I wouldn't be able to fill the breast cups of this dress, not today and not 15 years ago.  And secondly even if I could, the skirt screams, "Please don't drop ANYTHING!"  Why?  Well, duh!  Who wants to see Mommy of Four trying to pick something up off the floor in that tu-tu?  Ummmm....nobody with eyes and half a brain, that's who.  Trust me.  Not pretty.

Example B (AKA "Mother of the Bride) : If you own or have ever owned a dress that would be classified as "Mother of the Bride" don't be offended.  It's a beautiful classy looking dress.  My mother rocked this style at my very own wedding back in '99.  But that's the point.  She was my mother and I was getting married, hence, she was literally the mother of the bride.  And obviously she was older than 30 and had adult children.  It worked.  It was appropriate.  But I, like most 30-something's, do not have adult children, and by wearing a dress of this style I would be stamping an extra 20 years onto my already fragile appearance.  Why would I do that?  I'll be there someday.  Why rush the inevitable?

So what do you wear?    What should my cute very trendy 30-something-year-old friend wear?  It's quite a pickle the fashion industry has put us young mothers in.  I'm beginning to wonder if going through my high school formals isn't a half bad idea.  Cuz even if I had to starve myself for a week and pull out the Spanx, atleast I know my boobs would still fit.  At least one of my problems would be taken care of.       







Back in '94

Once upon a time, back in '94, I saved my brother from a falling trampoline and it landed on my head.

The End.

PS--So, in all honesty it was only the leg of the trampoline that fell on my head.  Not the whole blasted trampoline.  However, the trampoline was turned on it's side and the leg fell from the top.  What is that?  16 feet?  Either way, bet you don't know anyone else that had a trampoline fall on their head.

PPS--Lara, is that you in the background?  (wink, wink)

Why Every Woman Needs a BFF

Everyone needs a best friend.  And not just a a really good friend but a real BFF.  In this case, for those of us who are married, we could argue that our husbands are our best friends.  Good.  Whatever.  They should be.  But what about a real BFF that does things a husband can't and never would?  Now that's what I'm talking about.  I'm lucky and pretty popular so I have lots of best friends.  It doesn't mean I'm not popular just because I was born with 3 best friends (my mom and two sisters) and through marriage was blessed with 4 more (sister-in-laws and a MIL).  I still like to attribute it to my charming personality and zany sense of humor.  But blood lines and marriage aside, I do have some incredible best friends.  No relation.  No genetic connection.  No common biological thread.  Just girlfriends. 

The relationship of best friends goes beyond hours of talking, venting and listening, beyond painfully side splitting laugher, and beyond deep conversations and tears.  A best friend will tell you if you have food in your teeth.  A best friend will motion that the booger in your nose is uncomfortably noticeable.   A best friend will warn you that "the toothbrush" story or "the burrito" dance is not appropriate for certain occasions.  You're not offended by the advice of a best friend but rather you respect it and listen knowing that they have your best intentions in mind. 

I have a best friend.  She's amazing.  I can trust her.  With that in mind, I made her swear to an agreement years ago, that should I ever become paralyzed or incapacitated in a way that I can not take care of my personal daily grooming, she will come and pluck and shave my facial hair.  That's it.  I don't ask much.  And just because I'm paralyzed or severely handicapped, I know she'll still love me and and want me to look my best.  I guarantee that you are wondering why I didn't ask her to watch out for my kids or take care of my family should something ever happen to me.  Well, I know that there is a line of people who love my husband and monkies beyond measure and that my family will be generously taken care of.  But my whiskers!  I don't want whiskers.  And my husband would never think to shave or pluck my facial hair.  He would be repulsed by them, but he wouldn't dare touch them.  That is precisely why I have a best friend. 

So here's to best friends.  Here's to girlfriends.  Because really, ladies, what would we do without them?  I love you, Best Friend.  And I still hold you to our agreement.  Know that if needed I will happily return the favor.  No judgements.  No questions asked.  Because that's what best friends are for.  And bottom line....no woman wants whiskers.

The Mini Van

The Mini Van

(dum-dum-dum)

Practical.  Convenient.  Genius.

A sign of aging.

"You're no longer cool".

And proof that you're all grown up.

(sometimes the last one stings the most)

I am a mini van mom.  There's no denying it.  And although some hate to admit it, it is by far the easiest way to transport little people....hands down!  And what is my fav part about my practical and not so stylish transportation?  The automatic sliding doors.  Much like the above picture, minus the Knight Rider theme, my van has magical doors.  Truly magical. 

CJ and I went to lunch the other day.  We parallel parked on Main Street.  Yup.  Parallel.  I've still got it after all these years.  Mr. Thompson would be proud.  It was lunchtime so of course traffic was bustling, so much, in fact, that I considered avoiding the fearsome parallel.  But I braved on.  Ticked off drivers waited patiently for my signal, then my parallel preparation, then backing, then turning, then straightening, (blah, blah, blah) and before long, CJ and I were on our way.

After leaving the restaurant, CJ and I made a quick stop at the music store.  The second floor of the music store has an incredible toy loft.  We couldn't not stop to be dazzled by that.  So upstairs we went.  We inspected the Thomas the Train pieces, took note of the Caldecott book display, and played with a handful of  giant plastic lizards.  But this fun must soon end, so downstairs we went and back onto the street. Our trip to town was nearing an end.  As we walked toward our van I noticed something was awry.  Hmmmmm....what's wrong with this picture?  Why is the door wide open?  And how long  has it been like that?  Am I a victim of crime?  My husband is gonna freak out.  But this is gonna make a really good blog post.

Rewind.

Because we had parked on Main Street, I told CJ to exit the car on the sidewalk side.  He pushed the magical button to open the door as I got out of the van on the opposite side.  I pushed my "lock" button and down the sidewalk we skipped to our lunch date.  And that is where we went wrong.  The door was left open.  (I'm having flashbacks of Monsters Inc.)  The automatic door button was pushed once, but not twice. 

A couple of positives that we can glean from this experience are:

1- I didn't leave my purse in the car.

2- It wasn't snowing or raining that day.  Bonus.

3- We live where we live.

My husband just learned of this experience last night.  Let me enforce that he was less than impressed with my parenting/grown-up skills.  In fact, he said something to the effect of, "it's amazing that you and your sisters have survived as long as you have".  I don't know why he's gotta drag my sisters into this, but, whatever.  I'm just happy to report that the automatic sliding doors, despite my recent oversight, are still, and will forever be, the best part of a mini van.

Now, back to the idea of combining Knight Rider and the mini van.  I think I'm onto something.

De-Christma-tizing My Way

I have finally de-Christma-tized!  (clap, clap, clap)  Yes, the applause is necessary.  And, yes, it is the end of January.  Don't judge.  For those of you who took your tree down and had a clean house by January 2nd, whatev's.  By the time I realized it was January 12th and my house was still splattered with Ho-Ho-Ho and a giant artificial tree, I seriously considered leaving the tree up and competing with Grandma for the best Valentine's Day tree.  But, no.  Maybe next year.  Anywho, here are a few of my un-decorating highlights.

#1 - Wrapping your artificial tree and storing it in one piece is by far the biggest bonus to having a fake tree.  85 circles around the tree with a roll of plastic wrap and snap!  Done.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

#2 - My BFF Costco provided me with this 007 plastic wrap with which to wrap my artificial tree.  This single roll has wrapped my tree with love and warmth for 3 years and it is still going strong.  Check out that roll compared to a standard grocery store roll.  It's huge!  (he-he)  Thank you Costco.  Thank you for tasty samples, smashing prices, amazing bulk, delicious pretzels and incredible plastic wrap.  I salute you.

#3 - Oh, Hoover, how would I survive de-Christma-tizing without you?  Caroline Ingles has no idea what she's missing.  Your vacuum bag holds enough cold cereal to feed my family for a week.  And I'm certain you are holding enough pine needles internally to create a mini of our mama Christmas tree.  Yes, I did in fact take a photo of a small portion of my dirty carpet.  I'm not proud of it, but I'm not too proud to admit it.  

#4 - One box of Christmas joy will no longer grace our home next holiday season.  To those items cut from the team, the D.I. will love you.  Here's to a job well done. (standing ovation)

#5 - Dust spray is magical.  It's mind boggling how dirty and dusty an old white t-shirt can get in one post-holiday cleaning.  (Yes, you heard me correctly.  I do dust with old clothing.  Questions?  Comments?)  And to think that not only is my wood furniture sparkling when I'm done polishing, but, why, with a lemon fresh scent, how can you go wrong?

#6 - Last, but certainly not least, Wendy, how I heart our emotional relationship.  After lifting and cleaning and sweating and swearing and twirling and wrapping a 9-foot tree, you quenched my thirst in ways that words can not describe.  And to think that a sandwich, fries and a drink are only $2.99!  Unheard of!  And may I say that your new sea salt seasoned fries are quite heavenly.

And that's how it's done, ladies.  Mission De-Christma-tizing complete.  Until next year.

Beach Day

It was Beach Day at school yesterday.  Uhhhhhh...probably the most miserable day at the beach imaginable if you ask me.  Good thing they're kids and easy to please.  I would've been turned off by the 6 degree weather, ice, snow, and 5 layers of clothing.  Well, I take back the last one.  Some people should wear 5 layers of clothing to beach day.  Just sayin'.

And, yes, I had to beg for smiles.  They're teeth were chattering and even the buttons on my camera were slightly frozen.  No lie.  But how can you not smile with a side pony and rad shades?  Those things just make the world a better place.

Healthy Eating = Frequent Peeing

I've been participating in this healthy eating competition with some family and friends.  It's called the "Game On Diet".  You basically eat 5 small meals a day, drink TONS of water, exercise 20 minutes a day, cut out sugars and soda, and talk trash between teams.  Yes, we're on teams.  So if one person messes up, it effects the whole team.  Especially with the holidays just passing, it's nice to eat healthy and be more aware of what I'm shoving in my face.  I feel better when I eat right and eating every 2-4 hours makes sure I'm never really hungry.  But the water......Ahhhhhh!  Dreadful!

Whoever recommended that the human body should intake 2-3 liters of water on a daily basis was surely connected to a catheter.  Either that or he would have apologetically recanted.  I wake up.  I pee.  I eat breakfast.  I pee.  I sneeze.  I pee.  I do dishes.  I pee.  I blink.  I pee. 

Let me introduce you to something I heard about years ago on TV.  It's called the Stadium Pal.

This catheter was invented for hysterical sports fans.  The Stadium Pal straps to the lower leg, the tubing then fishing up the pant leg, remaining hidden from onlookers but creating instant bladder relief.  In turn, sports fans can drink all the beverages they please while watching their game of choice and never leave their seat to take a leak.  True story.  And yes, they really exist and one can be yours for the reasonable price of $29.95.  And, ladies, hold on to your seats.  They have a Stadium Gal as well.  I'm certain it would solve all of your post-birthing needs. 

I'm not gonna lie.  Drinking 3 liters of water is not my walk in the park.  I don't typically like water.  I don't normally drink that much water.  I like to mix it up with a little Diet Coke or Mt. Dew here, some Kool-aid there, a glass of milk, and maybe some water if I'm feeling especially parched.  But no, water is not my beverage of choice.  So for health reasons the Game On has been really good for me to help me break my bad drinking habits.  However, if you choose to increase your water intake whether for something such as the Game On Diet or because you're an obsessively over indulgent lazy sports fan, I would strongly recommend either staying close to a bathroom at all times, or researching the Stadium Pal.