Something To Talk About

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Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” is: 

You have 24 hours to spend with an ancestor. What do you talk about?

It was submitted by: It was submitted by: http://kimberlyyavorski.com/whenigrowup/

I’ve been thinking about my Great-Grandmother quite a bit lately.  She passed away over 20 years ago.  I know her in the way a child knows a grandparent.  I wish I had known her as an adult.  I remember sitting on her front porch, shelling pecans or snapping beans, listening to her talk, telling stories.  I’d love another chance to do that again, even just for 24 hours.

I don’t know much about my ancestry, but even if I did, I can’t imagine wanting to spend time with anyone else.  Grandma Dowell left a huge impression on my young mind and heart.  Every morning, I’d wake up on our visits to find her reading her bible.  I can thank her for my love of bacon, the kind fried up in a skillet, steeped in grease and love.  Yum!  I can only really remember her being on the porch or in the kitchen.  She was always working, never stopping, those bent and gnarled arthritic hands constantly in action.  I loved going through her purses, she also kept gum or mints stashed in them.  She had a little apartment attached to her house, my sister and I would spend hours playing in there.  I sat, entranced, in front of her television, watching MTV.  You know, back when MTV played music videos.  Videos like Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” or “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.  Oh!  Another good one, “Hungry Like The Wolf” by Duran Duran.  I know I’m totally dating myself.  Remember “Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel?  “When The Doves Cry” by Prince makes me all nostalgic.  I would slip into a music video coma when “Take On Me” by a-ha would come on.  I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention “Like A Prayer” by Madonna or “Thriller” by Michael Jackson, which was also my first album by the way.  Ah, the memories.  Good times.

She loved me.  I don’t remember her being overly affectionate, verbally or otherwise, but I never doubted that she loved me.  She cooked all my favorite foods.  She spent time with me.  She listened to me.  She spoke to me as if I were an equal, as if my thoughts and feelings mattered, making me feel grown up and treasured.  She had such patience for my litany of questions, cautioning me once that “curiosity killed the cat.” I’d laugh and say but “satisfaction brought it back.” I miss her.  I’ve been thinking about her so much lately, even before I got this prompt.  I’m not sure why.

I wish my kids could have known her.  I wonder what she would think of me now.  All grown up.  Would she be proud?  She kept a box of letters and pictures.  She told me she was keeping them for me because she knew I would be a writer someday, and I’d want them.  I don’t know what happened to that box.  I wish I had it.  She believed in me before I even understand what to believe about myself.  I feel like I’ve let her down.  I let life get in the way.  I let my doubts and insecurities hold me back.  Would she lecture me?  Admonish me?  What words of wisdom would she have for me?  There is so much I want to tell her.  I need her advice, her wise counsel.  She’d probably tell me to get over myself.  She wasn’t shy about giving her opinions.  I loved that about her.

I remember her house dresses.  Someone should bring those back.  I’m a big fan of pajamas that are socially acceptable in public.  I also remember the first time she took her teeth out in front of me.  That was horrifying.  I didn’t know anything about dentures!  I wasn’t allowed to put my elbows on the table, but she could place her teeth on it!  That didn’t seem fair.  She just laughed and laughed.  Her toothless smile wide as she patted me on the head.

I remember sitting crouched in the hallway during a tornado warning.  It was so scary, a tornado literally touched down behind and in front of her house, just missing us.  At least that’s how I remember it.  During the whole ordeal, grandma was in the kitchen making popcorn.  The old-fashioned way, on the stove-top, completely unaffected by the chaos upending everything outside her four walls.  I remember waking up to finding a huge snake in her kitchen.  I don’t remember how she got the snake out or what happened to the snake, but I remember how calm she was in the midst of my hysteria and panic.  That’s the best way to describe her, she was a rock, a stable force in my childhood.

I would ask her to cram all of our shared memories into 24 hours so I could record them and keep them forever.  I’d want to hear more about her life and her marriage.  She was born around 1894, when I think about all the things she witnessed, the history she lived, things I’ve only read about, I’m filled with wonder and curiosity for what life must have really been like for her.  For my birthday every year, she’d send me $1 and a pair of pantyhose.  $1 was a lot of money to her and pantyhose a luxury item.  Things I didn’t appreciate as a child growing up in a generation of X’ers, the world of plenty.  Going to visit her was like going back in time, a slower pace, more thoughtful and deliberate.  Peaceful and serene.  I’m probably waxing poetic about my time spent there in a way that memory allows, I don’t know how reliable are my thoughts and memories, but it makes me feel good, this version I tell myself.  It feels magical and special, a time in my childhood to be cherished.

I’d spend our 24 hours on her front porch, soaking her up like a sponge.  My adult self recognizing how special she was and how luck I was to know her at all, if only a little bit.  She makes up such a small part of my overall history and life to this point, but she made such a huge impact. I’d tell her all these things.  I’d make her fix me bacon again.  I’d share my time with her with my husband and children. I’d love nothing more than to give them a chance to know her, and vice versa.

Everyone should have a Grandma Dowell in their life.  I’m blessed and grateful she was a part of mine. ❤

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts.  Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

Baking In A Tornado                        http://www.BakingInATornado.com

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy              http://dinoheromommy.com/

Spatulas on Parade                           http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver        http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html

The Lieber Family Blog                           http://thelieberfamily.com

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                              http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/

Simply Shannon                                      http://shannonbutler.org

The Bergham Chronicles                           http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com

Confessions of a part time working mom      http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/

Not That Sarah Michelle                         http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com

Southern Belle Charm                           http://www.southernbellecharm.com

The Angrivated  Mom                              http://www.angrivatedmom.wordpress.com

When I Grow Up                                     http://kimberlyyavorski.com/whenigrowup/

Climaxed                                           http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Luckiest Girl Alive

“Marriage is the highest state of friendship. If happy, it lessens our cares by dividing them, at the same time that it doubles our pleasures by mutual participation.” Samuel Richardson

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” is: 

What is the luckiest thing that has ever happened to you?

It was submitted by: http://thelieberfamily.com

When I received my prompt, I was so relieved.  Whew!  An easy one! The day I met my husband is definitely the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me.

All week, I’ve been writing this blog post in my head.  That’s how I do it.  I compose a general outline in my head before committing my ideas to paper.  It was going to be epic!

A beautiful tribute…

The love story to end all love stories!

Except today, I’m pissed at him. Like really angry. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so lucky. My feelings have been hurt. My brain is filled with all the things I find annoying and aggravating about him.

I tried prayer:

“Dear God,

I’m having a hard time loving my husband today. He’s a jerk. I mean really, don’t you see this, I mean you created him.  I’m not blaming you per se…but I mean… No, no I’m sorry God, this is not how I meant for this prayer to go. I’m struggling today. I need some divine wisdom, a calming touch, a deep breath.  Actually, you probably just need to hold me back from punching him in the face. ‘Cause THAT would feel good! I mean, it would feel terrible. Obviously, I don’t really mean that.  Except that you can see into my heart and you know that I actually do mean that exactly. I’m a terrible person.  An awful wife. Who thinks like this, I’m not a violent person. See what he does to me! I’m just really angry, and I need some help putting things into perspective.  Remind me why I love him? What?  You can’t think of anything either can you? Why so quiet?! Thank you for the beautiful weather today by the way. I opened the windows and usually that calms me, but today all I see is dog hair swirling around in the breezes. I should go vacuum. I don’t feel like this little talk is helping. No offense.  I’m sure you’re trying.  It’s me, not you. I want to be angry. It’s fueling my indignation.

We’ll try again later.  

Sorry.  

Amen.

P.S. You agree I’m right and he’s wrong though, right? Just checking…”

I went back through my workbook from a Bible Study on forgiveness I took, hoping and praying for inspiration. Everything I read just makes me more angry, because I quite strongly believe that I’m the injured party here.  My big offense was waking up this morning! Sorry my BREATHING angered you honey, tell me how I can make it up to you please?!?! Ugh!

Adam Levine never treated me like this when we were pretend married.

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Round and round I go. A vicious circle, never-ending. I tried meditation.  I took a long walk. Still angry. I indulged in a very Gone With The Wind moment, standing in my front lawn, shaking my fist at the sky. I felt very dignified, but I probably just looked deranged to any onlookers.

I wonder how many calories anger burns?

Oh goodness, he’s trying to call me right now.  I’m not going to answer, that’ll show him.  OMG he’s calling again. I’m ignoring you!  How does it feel?!?  Hmmmmm?

Now he’s texting me.  Sigh.

“Hello??” he says.

The nerve.

I remember when I first met my husband.  Our complicated history is not something I talk about very openly.

I had two concerns about dating him:

  1. he’s short
  2. he’s “churchboy” (my nickname for him)

I could probably best be described as agnostic when we met, which coincidentally happened to be at church.

I was a single mother. My divorce had been extremely difficult on me, both financially and emotionally.  I had 2 little girls and everything I’d ever dreamed or wanted for them (and for myself) had been shattered.  I was desperate for connection.  I was lonely. I didn’t have any family close by and any friends I kept from the divorce were single and interested in single-life pursuits, not changing diapers and wiping noses.

I remember giving my girls a bath and I just started crying.  It had been a rough day. An exceptionally rough day, and I just couldn’t pretend to be happy and cheerful in that one moment. I was watching them giggle and play and I just felt overwhelming sadness. This isn’t how my life was supposed to work out.  This was not the plan. In the blink of an eye, I found myself overcome with feelings of grief and guilt. I gazed upon their little blonde heads and felt with absolute certainty that I had ruined their lives forever. I should have done more, said more, been more…

My baby daughter looks up at me, with her big blue eyes, touches my arm and says: “It’s okay mommy, God loves you.”

The next Sunday, we got dressed up and went to church.

Where I met, “churchboy.”

I remember the first outing I attended with the church singles group was a family camping trip. We were all sitting down to dinner, and my future husband starts pulling out all of this tupperware, which he hands to the cutest little girl ever. I fell in love with her the minute I saw her. She was wearing overalls and sporting the most adorable braided pigtails adorned with girlie clips. She was 6 months older than my youngest and 2 years younger than my oldest. She looked so much like her daddy and boy did she adore him. In this tupperware, he had packed some chicken breast and asparagus tips…honestly, who packs asparagus tips to go camping! I suddenly felt the need to hide my bag of Cheetos and PB&J sandwiches.

He had a hole in his shirt though, which I found endearing.

Blending a family is no easy task. We experienced more than our fair share of challenges.

He was everything I never even knew I wanted or needed.

We dodged obstacle after obstacle, hurdle after hurdle. We somehow met each challenge, not always with dignity or grace. We each made terrible missteps, huge mistakes. We each carried pain from our previous relationships. We wore our grudges like armor, our fear like a mask. Our children needed to make adjustments. Sacrifices were necessary on all sides. On the outside looking in, we were a wildly successful blended family, hardly anyone even knew we’d both been married previously or that the girls weren’t all biological sisters.  The truth was ugly.  We were a hot mess. Battle lines were drawn daily.  His and hers. There were days I felt the rifts were as wide, if not wider, than the Grand Canyon, infinitely deep. Wounds barely had time to scab over before we were ripping them open again. We lashed out. We struggled. We fought. We questioned daily our decisions, our marriage, this idea that we thought we could ever make it all work.

Yet, we were both committed to doing exactly that, making it all work.  Somehow it did, it has. He’s my best friend. As mad at him as I am in this moment, I wouldn’t change a thing and I still believe with my whole heart that meeting him was the best and luckiest thing that has and will ever happen to me. We did struggle, but we also loved, laughed, hoped, dreamed and vowed to never give up.  We knew we had something special, something worth fighting for, no matter what.

Our faith journey has been rocky. We haven’t always stayed on the same page, I veered off the beaten track more than once. He remained steadfast and true in his belief, in his patience in the face of my doubts and fears. He never made me feel stupid or inadequate. My faith, or lack thereof, didn’t scare him. He loved me and he believed in me and he knew I would work it out and he’d made the decision to walk beside me as I navigated thru the twisty confusion my uncertainty and unbelief created in my heart and mind. He prayed for me. I envied his strength and convictions. I still do.

As it turns out, finding my faith was the easy part.  Living it out on a daily basis, now that’s hard. I wonder if God ever wants to punch me in the face? Probably. Sometimes I want to punch me in the face.

My feelings are still hurt, but now I’m also feeling nostalgic.  And dare I say it…loving.  Ugh!  It’s true, I’m thinking warm and gooey thoughts about the man whose head I wanted to rip off a moment ago. I mean, I’d still punch him, but maybe just on the shoulder…all affectionate-like. Ish.

He’s not perfect, but neither am I.

He is my best friend. He’s my person.

He changed my life. Meeting him, loving him, marrying him was the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me.

Thank you God. Thank you for bringing us together. Thank you for creating something beautiful out of the ruins of our mutual divorces and the inevitable fallout. Thank you for placing him into my life at the perfect moment. Thank you for blessing me, loving me, forgiving me. Thank you for opening my heart.

My cup indeed overflows.

Amen.

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“Marriage – a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.” Beverley Nichols

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts.  Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

http://www.BakingInATornado.com

http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/

http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/

http://dinoheromommy.com/

http://www.southernbellecharm.com

http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com

http://thelieberfamily.com

http://batteredhope.blogspot.com

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/

http://www.angrivatedmom.wordpress.com

http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Adam Levine Got Married

And I went into hiding.  Technically, I decided to take a break from blogging and social media before asshole cheater Adam got himself hitched.  Somehow a 3 month break turned into years, I blame Adam.  The point is…I’m baaaaaaaack!

Who cares you say?  Fair point.  I’m hoping my legion (4 is a legion, yes?) of fans missed me, at least a little.

UPDATES:

Me – I am currently unemployed.  I decided to quit my job in August after much deliberation and discussion.  The only thing I’ve ever wanted to be was a mom and a writer.  I’ve been moderately successful (hopefully) as a mom, but wandered aimlessly thru Writerdom, losing my way more often than not, doing what needed to be done to pay the bills but feeling unfulfilled and unhappy.  During my hiatus from the blogosphere, I packed on the pounds and struggled thru some personal issues which kept me mired in darkness and depression.  I was all about finding the funny in every situation but suddenly I lost that voice, lost myself and drifted aimlessly along feeling sad and sorry.  I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my meandering course derailed and I started to make my way back to myself and the land of the living, but here I am!  I’ve lost 65lbs, become an active participant in my life and I’m writing again.  

Family – my husband deserves a medal – for real.  He has always been my biggest supporter, but I really put him to the test the last couple of years.  To his credit, his support and patience almost never wavered, despite his understandable frustration and worry.  I admire and love him so much in ways I will never be able to fully express.  However, these sentiments don’t mean that I won’t blog about him and all the ways he drives me crazy 😛  

We have 3 kids currently in college.  Our oldest 2 daughters have flown the nest and live together in an apartment, their adventures giving me new material (they will be thrilled to know).  Our 2 youngest are still at home, enjoying the silence and space the other 2 left behind.  Man-child is the baby (and the only boy), almost 10!  I can’t believe it.  Our oldest turned 21 which is equally shocking, and somehow I’m still 30…  

Social MediaAdam Levine never did follow me on twitter.  Jerk.  Apparently, when you delete twitter in a fit of rage because Adam won’t follow you back and then try to reconnect it (years later), yeah… you can’t.  It’s gone.  Forever (sob).  Who knew? Probably everyone.  My Facebook page got deleted in a moment of stupidity I think.  I don’t even remember doing it, but I must have because it’s not there and my emails begging for its return went unanswered by the wizards behind the scenes (Mark Zuckerberg quit giving away all your money, playing with your baby and ANSWER ME!) So now I have to rebuild both platforms, which almost makes me want to cry and throw things.  I’d happily take pity likes and follows if you feel so inclined, just click on the links in my sidebar.  

Adam Levine if you want to see what marriage (NOT TO ME) has done to Adam, take a look…

http://www.eonline.com/news/705919/adam-levine-s-bald-head-causes-total-heartbreak-on-twitter-read-his-hilarious-response

Clearly, he’s heartbroken and missing me.  He literally tore his hair out in his grief.  I haven’t forgiven him.  I’m not saying it’s over…but…TBD.

My goal has always been to make people smile, even laugh.  I’d even take a smirk or half-smile.  I’ve never felt more keenly than I do now that the world could use a little cheer, and I’m determined to do my part.  I mostly blog about marriage, family and my mild obsession with all things Adam. If you’re looking for the perfect family or marriage, then you’ve come to the wrong place.  I’m more of a cautionary tale of what NOT to do.  Marriage is hard.  Raising kids is hard.  Life can be hard.  I don’t sugarcoat it or act like I have all the answers.  I don’t.  I’m down in the trenches learning as I go, making mistakes and blogging about it.  I don’t take myself too seriously and self-deprecation and sarcasm are my default languages.   

Join me as I search to find the funny in the things life continues to throw my way.

Queen Of The Flies

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Have you ever thought about what people might think if they saw what goes on behind-the-scenes at your house?  Do you ever wonder what it would be like to catch a glimpse of someone else’s daily life?  Well, Baking In A Tornado wondered what it would be like and it inspired her to create a collaborative blog posting idea!   

Today, 14 bloggers are inviting you into their homes to be a fly on the wall (links at the bottom).

Enter at your own risk… 

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Man-child’s teacher pulled my husband aside after school and brought up an “incident” that happened earlier in the day.  Apparently, when asking the children what they wanted to be when they grow up, the only thing my son could think of was “a villain.”  He followed that comment up with drawing a picture of a battle scene.  I hear this and think 7-year-old little boy.  Teacher’s hear this and think “future gunman.”  I could depart here on a major rant, but I will refrain and just tell you that we did talk to man-child in our attempt to glean a deeper understanding of his meaning and purpose, because EVERYONE knows that ALL kids grow up to be astronauts, fireman or pro-athletes; therefore, it is only logical that we dissuade man-child of any future villainess prospects. 

Me:  “I heard you talked about what you want to be when you grow up in school today?”

Man-child:  “Yeah.”  If you detect any enthusiasm in this response at all then I wrote it wrong.

Me:  “So, tell me!  What do you want to be?”

Man-child:  *sigh* “Dad already talked to me.”

Me:  “I know, but I want to talk about it.”

Man-child:  “I said I wanted to be a villain or a bad guy.”

Me:  “Why?”

Man-child:  “Because they wear cool clothes and fight and stuff.”

Me:  “Yeah, you are right, bad guys do have nice outfits.”

Man-child:  “Bad guys don’t wear “outfits” mom.  Only girls wear outfits.”

Me:  “Oh sorry, my bad.  You do understand though that Darth Vader, Batman, Spiderman are just fictional and fantasy characters.  They aren’t real.”

Man-child gives me a “duh” look and proceeds to give me the definitions for fiction versus non-fiction and fantasy versus reality.  I marvel silently at how smart I think he is, but then quickly refocus to the task at hand…averting future villainess deeds of mayhem.

Me:  “Do you understand that in real life bad guys hurt people, so when you tell someone you want to be a bad guy, even if you are just pretending, it sounds like maybe you think it’s fun to hurt people.  In real life, bad guys go to jail and a prison uniform isn’t such a cool costume.”

Man-child:  “Well…what I really meant to say was that I wanted to be a dentist, but I couldn’t think of it.”

(which I still think sounds like he wants to hurt people, but I hate the dentist, so I’m probably not being objective here)

Me:  “Oh, I see.  Well, a dentist.  That’s interesting.”

Man-child:  “I guess.  I know that you should treat others how  you want to be treated.  Be kind is another rule.  And don’t be a bully!  Be nice to everyone even if they are different from you.  I know lots of rules mommy.”

Me:  “I know you do sweetie.”

Man-child:  “Can I have a snack now?”

We talked a bit more later about the subject, but the bottom line is that my son has a very vivid imagination and he loves to be dramatic and playact.  He is also affectionate, loving and giving.  He cares about others, and he never displays his anger in violent outbursts.  He sulks and pouts, he puts himself in timeout, he might even cry and yell about how mean we are, but he’s quick with hugs, sorries and forgiveness.  We talked about the appropriate times to pretend and play, and how what we say and do reflect who people think we are and how they see us.  I don’t want him to grow up too soon, can’t he just be a little boy for a little while longer… 

————————————————————————————————————–

I walked into the bathroom while man-child was taking a shower.  I wasn’t trying to sneak up on him or be quiet.  I put my face up against the glass, and said “hi!”.  Man-child screamed and inadvertently pissed himself (at least he was in the shower).  He continued to kind of holler and scream, his brain clearly not connecting that it was only me standing there.  I kept trying to calm him down, but in his defense I probably looked a little maniacal standing at the glass with tears of laughter streaming down my face causing my mascara to run.  I felt so bad.  Poor baby. 

Man-child:  “You scared me!”

Me:  “I know, I’m so sorry!” (I’m still laughing hysterically, bending over trying to catch my breath, so this probably came out like more a wheeze than an actual sentence)

Man-child:  “I went pee.”

Me:  (laughing even harder) “I know!”

Man-child:  “How embarrassing!!!”

Me:  “I’m so sorry, I’ll leave.  But hurry up,  you’ve been in there awhile.”

Man-child:  “OK!”

——————————————————————————————————————

Man-child:  “Mom?”

Me:  “Yes?”

Man-child:  “I miss Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.”

Me:  “Oh?  Tell me more about this?”

Man-child:  “I mean, he was just trying to do good things and bring peace and then he was assassinated!”

Me:  (did he just say assassinated?)  “I know.  Assassinated?  That’s a big word, do you know what it means?”

Man-child:  (looks at me like I’m a few bricks shy of a load) “He was shot by James Earl Ray!”

Me:  “That’s right!  James Earl Ray was a bad guy.”  (I look at man-child pointedly)

Man-child:  *sigh*  “I know, I know!  I learned my lesson mom.” 

Me:  “ok, good!”

Man-child:  “Anyway, his birthday and my birthday are the same day!  And we don’t have school, so I’ll have to bring my cupcakes the next day, but isn’t that cool?!?!”

Me:  “Very cool sweetheart.”

———————————————————————————————-

Man-child:  “Mom, who do you like better Obama or Romney?”

Me:  “Well…I’d have to say _____ .” (as if I’m going to answer that here!)

Man-child:  “In Texas, everyone likes Romney but in the United States people like Obama because he won so now he lives in the White House.  Is the White House in the United States?”

Me:  “Yes, the White House is in Washington D.C. which is part of the United States.”

Man-child:  “10-2 = 8.”

Me:  “Is today random fact day?”

Man-child:  “huh?”

Me:  “Nevermind.”

——————————————————————————————————–

As I stepped out of the shower the other day, I looked down and noticed several slices of cheese sitting on the counter.

  1. I am home alone
  2. I did not slice myself some cheese

I immediately succumb to panic and crisis mode as I stand dripping on the cold tile floor scanning the bathroom, thinking of my options.  I race to the bathroom junk drawer, yank it open, and begin frantically searching for anything I can use as a weapon while my ears strain to pick up the sounds of my murderer.  EVERYONE knows that if you are going to be murdered it will be while you are home alone and in the shower.  Plus, I did hear the dogs barking earlier.  OMG they are probably dead!  I briefly entertain the idea of opening the 2nd floor bathroom window and jumping out, because what are a few broken bones, scrapes and public nudity when death is on the line.  My heart is racing.  I can literally hear the blood pumping through my veins.  As I’m scouring the drawer looking for anything, ANYTHING, I can use, there are several things that become immediately clear to me.

I am not wearing my glasses.  I won’t be able to find a weapon because I am blind without glasses or contacts.  Even if I do somehow manage to locate a weapon, I won’t be able to see my attacker until he is upon me with his murderous rage.

*puts on glasses*

The “slices of cheese” are actually cheez-its that I placed on the counter before I got into the shower.

In case you have any doubts, let me set the record straight.  I will be the crazy old lady in the retirement home, suffering from dementia and paranoia, that tries to kill people with splenda packets and hoards crackers.

I would be the first person to die in a horror movie.

I am the last person anyone should count on in a crisis.

Murderers probably don’t “rat trap” their victims.

I have issues.  Serious issues.

——————————————————————————-

My husband and I are in a standoff.

NO this isn’t about Adam Levine.  For once.

It’s about my side of the closet.

Weeks and weeks ago the lightbulb on my side of the closet went out.  I asked him to change it for me.  Several times I have asked.  He continues to ignore my demand request.  Could I change the light myself?  Of course.  That’s hardly the point.  I asked him to do it, he said he would and then he didn’t.  I feel like to change it now would be admitting defeat.  I’m not blinking first! 

Me:  “Remember when I asked you to change the bulb in my closet?  I say remember because it was a VERY LOOOOOONG time ago.  You might have forgotten it was soooooo LONG ago.”

Hubs:  “No, I remember.  I’m afraid to open the door, it’s scary in there.  Perhaps if you cleaned it out…”

Me:  “I’d clean it out, but I can’t see….because no light.  I’d probably hurt myself.  Wrench an ankle, throw my back out trying to navigate the dark and murky terrain without assistance because apparently my husband doesn’t care if I die in the closet and no one ever finds me.”

Hubs:  “You’re so ridiculous.”

The lightbulb still hasn’t been changed.

closet

The closet still hasn’t been cleaned.

I can live with no light longer than hubs can live with the mess.  I will WIN.

Honey, if you are reading this, I have a message for you from “The Mess in My Closet”:

“I will breed and multiply.  I will take continue to grow until eventually I take over the OCD orderliness of your side of the closet.  Only light could stop me now!  Mwhahahahahahaha!”

(I think we all know who wins this round)

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www.BakingInATornado.com

http://hypnoticbard.blogspot.com

http://stacysewsandschools.wordpress.com/

http://www.justalittlenutty.com

http://sanitywaitingtohappen.blogspot.com

http://menopausalmother.blogspot.com/

http://ibdaddyandme.blogspot.com

www.thecrowdybaker.com

http://sadderbutwiser.wordpress.com

http://whencrazymeetsexhaustion.wordpress.com

http://smn0409.blogspot.com/

http://DeBieHive.blogspot.com

http://specialedarmywife.blogspot.com

Bzzzzzzz…..SPLAT! Oops….

*No actual flies were hurt in the making of this blog post*

fly

Have you ever thought about what people might think if they saw what goes on behind-the-scenes at your home?  Do you ever wonder what it would be like to catch a glimpse of someone else’s daily life?  Here is your chance!  Today, 12 bloggers are inviting you into their homes (or their subconscious) to be a fly on the wall.  Buzz around, see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:

Baking in a Tornado

The Insomniac’s Dream

Stacy Sews and Schools

Raising Reagan

The Sadder But Wiser Girl

Moore Organized Mayhem

follow me home…

Just A Little Nutty

Esther Norine Designs

I’m Just Sayin’…(Damn!)

Chewylicious

Whew…it takes forever to put in those links, so the least you can do is click on each one!  AFTER…you buzz around my house for a while…

*CUE CREEPY MUSIC and EVIL LAUGH*

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Man-Child:  “I had so much fun hanging with daddy the other day.”

Me:  “That’s awesome!  It sounded like you had a BIG time.”

Man-Child:  “Yeah…you know what we should do?”

Me:  “What?”

Man-Child:  “We should have a day.  We can play the Wii and Candyland and go on hikes and make cookies and watch movies!”

Me:  “Yeah…”

Man-Child:  “So when do you want to do it?  Now?”

Me:  “Umm…how about Saturday?  It would be hard to schedule THAT much fun after work/school and on a weeknight.  We should save our “date” for when we have more time, like Saturday.”

Man-Child:  “Date?  Wha…?  Mom, I’m only 6.  I can’t date.”

Me:  “No, not THAT kind of date.  Just a mom/son date.  A special day.”

Man-Child:  “No.  I don’t think I should be dating.”

Me:  “I’m your mother, I think its okay.”

Man-Child:  (shakes head) “No, THAT just makes it weirder.  Just forget it.  I’m going to go play Star Wars on the Xbox.”

Me:  (stands there dumbstruck and bewildered) “Did you just shoot down your own mother?”

Man-Child:  “Yep.”

You can see that evil gleam right?  And he needs a haircut...

You can see that evil gleam right? And he needs a haircut…

————————————————————————————————————-

door

Just a door right?  Nothing scary about a door.  I mean it looks harmless enough.  Yet, this seemingly innocuous door unleashes feelings of angst and terror to anyone who dares to open it.  What is behind this door you might ask?  Look for yourself….  You’ve been warned.

linen

Dum-Dum-Dummmm…

Yes, I am aware it’s just linens.  A linen closet.  You are actually lucky, because I think there are some comforters missing.  My kids are all “waaa waaa, it’s freezing in this house”, so they may have braved the beast linen closet seeking additional warmth.  I think our sheets and pillowcases are breeding.  Every time I open this damn closet, it appears more overwhelming.  It’s on my list of things to organize…right up there with my spice rack, scrapbooking “area” and various other nooks and crannies that might be taking over my house one square foot at a time.  The hoarder network will be calling me any day now.  On a good day, it only takes 4 kids, grunting, a pulled groin muscle, and lumbar pain to shut this door once it’s been opened.  Instead of just buzzing around being all judgmental about my lack of organization, why don’t you pitch in and help!  I’m not ashamed to admit defeat.  I know when I’ve been beat.  If we ever move, I might just leave that for the next family.  It’s almost a rite of passage really.  It makes women out of girls and men out of boys.  I’d be doing a public service…when you think about it.  Think really hard.  See?  Am I right or am I right?  That’s what I thought.  Moving on…

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Man-child got some puzzles recently.  These puzzles were redonk.  Have you ever tried to piece together a 100 piece Lenticular 3-D image of Darth Maul?  If you want to go cross-eyed while nursing a migraine, you can find them at Target.  I work with the elderly, and one of the things you hear is that working puzzles, crosswords, brain teasers, etc…helps stave off the influences of dementia, keeps  your mind sharp…er.  The kids actually love working puzzles, even though we all wanted to mercy kill each other after working the Darth Maul puzzle of pain and anguish.  Seriously…laugh all you want, e-mail me and I’ll mail you one.  Then we shall see who is laughing! 

Darth Maul The warning label is actually for adults.  You might be tempted to choke yourself by eating the puzzle.  Don’t do it.  However, working the puzzle sort of became this family event, so the other day when I was out running errands, I bought another one.  Not 3-D.  A mere 750 piece puzzle of a cute little baby tiger playing near a stream.  Join me, while I eavesdrop on my two youngest daughters:

Linds:  “Hey, Em…wanna come help me work the puzzle?”

Em:  “Sure.”

Linds:  “What are you doing?”

Em:  “Uh…working the puzzle?”

Linds:  “No, not that like that.  See how I did the outline of the puzzle first, then I started in the upper right hand corner, picking all the similarly colored pieces and systematically began fitting them together.  You start down here on the other side, with the darker pieces.”

Em:  “Huh?”

Linds:  (sigh) “It’s a puzzle, you have to use logic.  Just start sorting out the darker pieces.”

Em:  “But I want to work on the baby tiger.  It’s cute.”

Linds:  “The baby tiger is in the middle.  You can’t start it yet.  That makes no sense.”

Em:  “Can I play Christmas music?”

Linds:  (sigh)

Now we hear only the dulcet sounds of Christmas cheer while they work together. 

Linds:  “That piece has fur.  Clearly doesn’t go there.  Quit trying to work the tiger.”

Em:  (sigh)

Em:  “Is dinner almost ready?”

Linds:  “Shhh.”

Em:  (sigh)

Linds:  (sigh)

30 minutes later…the girls are called to dinner.  I go in to see how much progress they’ve made.  Linds has almost the entire right hand side of the puzzle pieced together.  But Em…

Me:  (to Linds)  “Did you both end up working on that side?”

Linds:  “Pfft.  No.  I did all that.  Em did that piece.”

Me:  “That one piece?”

Linds:  “Yeah…”

Me:  “Em?  30  minutes and only one piece?”

Em:  “It’s haaaard.  And Linds has too many rules.”

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My husband and I were out together running Christmas errands, if you were a fly in the car, you’d hear the following conversations:

Husband:  “The should invent “Popo Powder”.  I mean if they have “Monkey Butt Powder”, then it stands to reason that “Popo Powder” should also exist.”

Me:  “No one calls it a Popo except you.  Call it a bald man in a boat, a bearded clam, beaver, cha cha, cooch, hoo-hoo, va ja ja,  vag, etc…but no one calls it a popo.”

Husband:  (in a singsong voice)  “Popo popo popo Powderrrrr!”

Me:  “You’re so stupid.”

Husband:  (laughs)

Me:  “Seriously, do you know how confused our girls were when they heard other kids use this phrase “the popo are behind us”?  They thought they were being chased by a va ja ja, instead of the police.”

Husband:  (laughs harder)

Me:  “There will not be enough therapy in the world…”

A few minutes later, this truck pulls out in front of us.  It’s one of those obnoxious hummer trucks with the personalized tags.

Husband:  “Who is John Galt?”

Me:  “Huh?”

Husband:  (points to obnoxious truck)

Me:  (reads the license plate frame) “Who is John Galt?”

Husband:  “I like this guy already.”

Me:  “This guy is a tool.”

Husband (in a condescending tone) “You do know who John Galt is don’t you?”

Me:  (rolls eyes while trying to convey an air of knowledge and superiority, plus I know he won’t be able to help himself and he will answer his own question before I have to admit that I don’t have a clue nor do I care.)

Husband:  “Ayn Rand. Atlas Shrugged.”

Me:  (sighs) “Yeah…I KNOW…and?”

Husband:  “Blah blah blah objectivism blah blah blah…”

Me:  “Oh, so you’re an objectivist now?” (thinking is that a thing?  Objectivist?  God, I hope so…or he will never stop tormenting me with his superior intellect)

Husband:  “See, we don’t talk anymore.”

Me:  (grunts)

Husband:  “I just want someone who I can converse with about the mysteries and origins of the universe and human existence.”

Me:  “You have Raven.”  (the dog)

Husband:  (sighs)

We decide we are going to drop off man-child’s Santa gift at his parents house because we have nowhere to store a bicycle without him finding it and ruining Christmas.  Hubs keeps trying to call and his dad doesn’t answer the phone.

Husband:  “I hope they aren’t out running errands.”

Me:  “If they were, he’d probably answer his cell phone.  I’m sure they are home, putzing around, getting ready for dinner.”

We turn down their street.

Husband:  “The Christmas lights are on, that’s a good sign.”

Me:  (sigh)

Husband:  “The front door is open (they have a screen door and every light in the house appears to be on, and oh look…there’s the dog), so that’s probably a good sign right?  I mean they probably are home?”

Me:  “Are you kidding me?  Yeah.  I’m pretty sure this all means they are home.  Oh look there they are?  Do you reckon John Galt is there too?”

Husband:  “Why can’t you be nice to me?”

Me:  (sigh)

————————————————————————————————————————

Speaking of Popo…

I found what I thought was a little travel sized bottle of my favorite perfume in my cabinet, so I get all excited and spritzed a little in those special places.  I noticed it felt kinda sticky…and my panties (I hate this word) seemed to be sticking to me a little…uncomfortably.  I look at the bottle.  Apparently, it’s perfumed “hairspray”.  Awesome.  I don’t have pics, but I did rock the faux-hawk on the va ja ja if I might brag for just a few…

———————————————————————————————————————–

Husband:  “So I got an e-mail from a co-worker suggesting I buy you an Adam Levine “fathead” for Christmas.”

Me:  “Yessssss!”

Husband:  “Haha…yeah, I would, we just have no place to put it.”

Me:  “The ceiling of our bedroom…?”

Husband:  “I’m starting to get a complex…”

Me:  “Does this mean I’m not getting it?”

Husband:  (sighs)

————————————————————————————————————————–

Me:  “Why did you take your shirt off?”

Man-child:  “I’ve decided to be shirtless for now on.  I’m shirtless boy.”

Me:  (sigh)

Man-child:  “I used to be pantsless boy.  Now I’m just shirtless…with pants.”

Me:  (bigger sigh)

Man-child:  “Do I have to wear a shirt to school?”

Me:  “Yes, you do.”

Man-child:  (sigh)  “How about pants?  Do I have to wear pants?”

Me:  “Seriously?  You know you have to wear pants.”

Man-child:  “You’re no fun.”

Me:  “I know.”

Man-child:  (bigger sigh)

——————————————————————————————————————————

Me:  “Did you wear those pants to school?”

Em:  “Yeah?”

Me:  “Em….ummm, they give you camel toe?”

Em:  “I know, I didn’t take my jacket off.”

Me:  “YOU KNOW?  And you wore them anyway?”

Em:  (shrugs)

Me:  “OMG.  Em?!?!?!”

Em:  “what?”

Me:  (SIGHS)

———————————————————————————————————————————–

If you were a fly on the wall of my subconscious, you would have seen the following interaction at Target yesterday:

I pull my cart in behind this lady checking out and her baby boy.  She’s almost done, which is good because I have to pee like a racehorse.  She’s asking the checker questions, but I’m not really paying attention.  Yet.  She pulls out this ginormous wallet crammed with everything but the kitchen sink…and I thought I was disorganized.  It’s like my linen closet and spice cabinet are fighting for space inside her wallet.  Jeez.  Stuff is flying out, she keeps talking.  He mumbles something back. 

He has now finished scanning all of her items, she’s still digging around in her wallet-purse, and she keeps looking at me.  I’m only starting to get irritated, and I have to pee, but I keep smiling because it’s Christmas.  She continues to dig around in the Bermuda Triangle of a wallet, and continues to look over at me.  I’m still smiling.  The baby is cute.  I’ll focus on the baby.  Why does she keep looking at me?  Why isn’t she paying?  She hasn’t loaded any of the bags in her cart yet either.  She looks at me again!  WTF?

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

OMG what is SHE DOING!

Focus on the baby.  Cute baby.  Baby is smiling.  Peek-a-boo baby your mommy is insane!  Yes, such a cute boy…can’t you cry or crap or something so she has to leave…what is she doing!

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

She then says loudly “Well, I guess I’ll just have to use a credit card.” OMFG.  “I could have sworn my debit card was right here?”  She then proceeds to pull out a wad of paper, “Oh right, I have some coupons, can you scan these?”

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

Yay!  She’s finally paying! 

Ok.

Ok.

Why does she keep looking at me? 

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

She’s not moving.  Why isn’t she moving.  He’s scanning my items and she’s still standing there.  OMG QUIT LOOKING AT ME!

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

She finally loads up her cart. 

She is still standing there.  I can’t move forward.  I swear to God lady, I will PEE RIGHT HERE!

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

She finally moves.  I sigh in relief.  Finally, an end is in sight.  I can do this.  I can make it home.

She keeps looking around.  She is walking so slowly.  He’s done scanning my items.  I pay.  I don’t want to have to pass her or walk with her, what is she doing?

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

Sure enough, she is waiting for me.

“Can you believe this place?  Worst customer service ever!”

I didn’t even make eye contact, why is she talking to me!  I give her my most bland smile, mutter consolingly and keep walking.  She walks with me!

justkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmasjustkeepsmilingitisChristmas

“I’m just so angry.  I’m going to call and complain as soon as I get home.  I mean he didn’t even bag my groceries, and you don’t leave a woman with a baby and a cart full of groceries, you help! Can you believe this place?  Look, there is no one around to help me to my car.  What am I supposed to do?”

I can’t help it.  I’m pretty sure I looked at her like she had lost her friggin’ mind.  Had she NEVER been to Target? 

“I usually only shop at Market Street, and now I will never cheat on my store again.  This place is horrid.  Imagine not helping women with babies! I’m shaking I’m so mad.”

O

M

G

I mutter something about my daughter working at Market Street.

She keeps whining.

WHERE IS MY DAMN CAR. 

Finally, freedom!

“Have a nice day, I hope it gets better!”  I cheerily wave as I race to  my car. 

What is wrong with people?

————————————————————————————————————————-

This question is rhetorical.  In case you were worried, that  you’d have to explain.

Now scroll all the way back up, and click on the other links.  Sneak a peek into their homes and lives.  Go ahead.  Do it.  You know you want too. 

xoxo

I Almost Burned The House Down….How Was Your Thanksgiving?

I decided to take a week or so off from blogging, tweeting, reading…basically the fun things I do just for me, and focus on other crap…like family time and cooking, because it was Thanksgiving and seemed the thing to do.  I hate cooking.  The family time was good though, except I decided that my husband and I shouldn’t take car rides together.  Anymore.  Ever.

I filed these little tidbits away for your reading pleasure.  I think you will agree with me (it’s my blog, so it’s kinda my rule), hubs and I shouldn’t be allowed to travel together, even to the store.  You can agree with that statement without actually taking sides…I’m good like that, always thinking of others.  But if you agree with me, then obviously you are always right…like me.

By unspoken agreement, I usually drive when hubs and I travel together, whether short or long distances, it’s just better for all parties involved.  Our kids can vouch for this, and anyone else who has suffered the misfortune of being trapped in a vehicle with us.  He’s a terrible driver.  Let’s just get THAT out-of-the-way.  I think it’s best to always trot the elephant right out into the middle of the room.  Don’t worry, I have a list of reasons why this is a true statement.

1.  He’s a “tailgate” braker.  He doesn’t hit the brakes until he is literally up inside the trunk of the car in front of him.  I have seatbelt bruises.

2.  Wherever he looks is where he steers.  For example, if he points to a restaurant on the left-hand side of the road that he wants to try, our car veers to the left.  His line of sight is directly tied to his steering hand.  It’s terrifying.  I usually end up screaming something like “It’s not a drive-thru restaurant honey!!! Eyes on the road!!!”

3.  He suffers from an extreme case of road rage.  He earned the nickname “Flare” in his younger days, because when he’s angry his nostrils flare out alarmingly and sort of pulse to the vein throbbing in his forehead.  It’s a sight to behold.  Someday, I’ll videotape him and post it.  You won’t know whether to laugh, cry or hide.

4.  He doesn’t slow down in school zones.  I mean he does…EVENTUALLY.  If it’s 8:14 and the school zone ends at 8:15, he figures it’s close enough (EVEN IF THE SCHOOL ZONE LIGHTS ARE STILL FLASHING!)    Or he will START to slow down once he passes the white line, even though I’ve explained DOZENS of times that the school zone begins as soon as his front bumper grazes the white line, not when his back bumper crosses the white line by a FOOT!  And dear, I know you are sitting there right now yelling at your computer screen as you read this, but WE BOTH KNOW I’M RIGHT!  Sorry, I might have some latent hostility issues when it comes to all things driving…and my husband.

5.  He doesn’t wear his seatbelt.  I mean, he does…EVENTUALLY.  You know that annoying beep cars make to remind you to put your seatbelt on?  Yeah, imagine listening to that for MILES.  And he wonders why I always have a headache…

So, that’s just a few reasons why I usually take the wheel.  I didn’t even list ALL the reasons why he’s the WORST driver EVER.  Imagine my fury when he backseat drives ME!  My favorite is when I reverse out of a parking space and he nearly gets whiplash looking furiously behind us to make sure I don’t hit anything.

Me:  “Seriously?”

Husband:  “What?”

Me:  “You don’t think I looked before I started backing up?  OMG…look at that invisible couple I almost nailed or that invisible car I crushed underneath the my wheels!  OMG, I’m pretty sure I just hit an invisible granny!  Oh the humanity!”

Husband:  “It’s just a habit, get over it.”

Me:  “Get over it?  No, you get over it, it’s annoying.  Like I’m not capable of driving by myself!  How many accidents have I been in versus you?  Oh, yeah…that’s right, bringing out the big guns.”

Husband:  “No wonder Adam Levine doesn’t like you.”

Me:  “GASP”

Husband:  *evil laugh*  “Wait, why are we stopping here?”

Me:  “I feel the need to be comforted.  With bundt cake.”

Husband:  “We are not getting a bundt cake!”

Me:  “OMG YES WE ARE!  YOU WOUND MY HEART BY SAYING MEAN THINGS ABOUT ADAM, YOU ARE DAMN WELL GONNA BUY BE A BUNDT CAKE, NOW SHUT IT!”

Husband:  “OMG, you’re ridiculous!”

Me:  “Yeah, well I’ll be ridiculous while I eat my Red Velvet Bundt Cake!”

(Just for the record, he ate most of my bundt cake!)

Me:  “I’m too upset to go into the store now.  You’ll have to go get our free turkey by yourself.”

Husband:  “No, I don’t want to go in by myself!”

Me:  “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you told me Adam hates me.”

Husband:  “Come on!  I hate using coupons!”

Me:  “Wow, you should pick up some cheese with that whine.  Maybe next time you’ll be nicer to me.  Don’t give me that look, I’m not going in and you can’t make me.”

Husband:  *sighs and stomps out of car, slamming door*

Me:  *giggles*

Husband tried to use our coupon on a turkey that weighs 14.2 pounds even though the coupon clearly states 12-14 pounds.  He had to go back to the counter twice.  Karma is a bitch my friend.  Adam says hi.

Thanksgiving night, I was bloated and slightly drunk, but mostly bloated, so he had to drive us home from his parent’s house.

Me:  “That car in front of us doesn’t have their car lights turned on.  What the heck…???”

Husband:  “Huh.”

Me:  “Flash the lights at them, that’s so dangerous.”

Husband:  “I’m not flashing our lights at them.”

Me:  “What?  Why, just flash your lights.  They are going to cause an accident.  Just do it, what’s your problem?”

Husband:  “I’m not flashing my lights!”

Me:  “FLASH THE LIGHTS!  Ok, fine…I’ll do it.”

Husband:  “OMG, no stay on your side of the car, I’ll do it!  There, HAPPY?”

Me:  “OMG what was that?  Like a micro-flash?  You barely did anything.  FLASH AND HONK!”

Husband:  “I’m not honking or flashing!”

Me:  “DO IT!  They are a driving hazard!  Seriously, they are going to cause an accident and some family could lose their lives and on Thanksgiving!  Do you want that on your conscience!”

Husband:  “OK fine!  There I flashed my lights!”

Me:  “OMG they still aren’t turning on the their lights.  OMG they are getting on the highway! Pull up next to them!  I’m going to yell at whoever it is!”

Me:  “Either flash your lights again, or pull up next to them!”

Husband:  “Look, that car is flashing their lights at them and they still haven’t turned them on!”

Me:  “Pull up next to them!  Wait, nevermind, don’t do that.  Stay as far away from them as possible, but keep flashing your lights too!  Maybe if we all do it, they will turn on their lights.”

Husband:  “If they haven’t turned them on by now, they probably have no plans to turn them on at all!  Maybe they don’t work?”

Me:  “Don’t work???? It’s a brand new Lexus.  What’s wrong with you.”

Husband:  “Well, obviously they know by now that their lights aren’t on!”

Me:  “I’m taking down their license plate and calling 911.”

Husband:  “Do it.  Call 911.”

Me:  “I can’t see the license plate.  No, don’t get closer.”

Husband:  “There now we can see it.”

Me:  “I’m not calling 911.  It’s not an emergency.  I’ll end up on Dateline under the headline “stupid people who call 911”.

Me:  “Omg, they are taking our exit.  We’re all gonna die.”

Husband:  “You’re so dramatic.”

Me:  *death stare*

Me:  “Just focus on not getting into an accident with crazy no-light driver m’kay.”

The driver finally turns the car lights on.  As we pass, it’s a teenage girl, and she’s texting.  SIGH.

On top of everything else, I’m awake before the ass crack of dawn to begin the laborious task of making my very first Thanksgiving dinner all by myself.  I broke out the fully leaded eggnog before 6am.  There is no shame in my game.  I forgot to buy one of those turkey bag things.  I forgot to buy one of those deep aluminum disposable cooking pans.  Never fear, I was armed with google, aluminum foil, a baking sheet and a 14lb turkey.  I’ve so got this.  More eggnog please.

In the middle of trying to remember where I pinned my Thanksgiving recipes (I really need to get my Pinterest organized one of these days!), my husband saunters into the room after his hour-long run and 20 minutes on the crapper (and they say romance is dead).

Husband:  “I thought I’d take Raven to the dog park.”

Me (wiping sweat off my brow with stuffing encrusted, gravy coated fingers):  “What?”

Husband:  “Yeah, there’s a park right up the street.”

Me:  “Just take her around the block, there isn’t time to go visit a dog park.”

Husband:  “It’s right up the street!”

Me (stares incredulously):  “This is all supposed to be ready in about an hour.  Just walk her around the block!”

Husband:  “It will take the same amount of time to go to the dog park!  Besides, she seems to be driving you crazy.”

Then he actually leaves for THE DOG PARK.  I LOVE how he cloaks what he wants to do into a favor for me.  And I LOVE how his favors for me don’t actually HELP me.  At this point, I open the oven and smoke begins billowing out by the bucket loads.  I’ve got every kid in the house opening windows, turning on fans, opening doors.  I’m pretty sure all neighbors in the immediate vicinity heard me screaming and barking orders.  Thanksgiving…bringing families together since the Mayflower…or not.  My google inspired foil boat holding my turkey sprung a leak, and the entirety of my Pinterested brown sugar glaze began flowing like lava all over the bottom of my oven.  The next kid that walked into the room and said “What’s mom burning now?” was going to be looking for a new home.  I somehow manage not to burn the house down, when husband arrives back home and proceeds to complain about his trials at the dog friggin’ park.  Are you frickin’ kidding me.  Seriously.  Kill.  Him.  Now.  His next words better be “How can I help you?”

Anyone wanna guess what his next words to me actually were?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Husband:  “What the $@%& is your problem?”

Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

In other Thanksgiving related news:

1.  No one in my family other than me likes corn chowder.

2.  I forgot vegetables of any kind and no one seemed to miss them.

3.  Adam Levine still isn’t following me.

4.  I’m afraid to weigh myself.  My muffin tops have muffin tops.

5.  My husband is alive and well.

6.  My kids are alive and well.

7.  We took the kids to the movie theater to see “Rise of the Guardians” where I learned to appreciate them more because they are quiet and well-behaved unlike everyone else’s children.

8.  We rented the movie  “The Campaign”.  Raunchy and funny, but mostly raunchy.  I dislike the word raunchy, it sounds like something someone old and staunchy would say.

9.   Rumchata is my new favorite beverage.

10. I missed the blogosphere and twittersphere.  Let us not part so long again my friends.

HAPPY BELATED THANKSGIVING TO YOU ALL!

I’m thankful for each and every one of you that take the time to read my little blog 🙂 

Where Is My Fly Swatter?

Have you ever thought about what people might think if they saw what goes on behind-the-scenes at your house? Do you ever wonder what it would be like to catch a glimpse of someone else’s daily life? Here’s your chance. Today 13 bloggers are inviting you into their homes to be a fly on the wall.

This post is yet another brilliant idea from my friend Baking in a Tornado.  If I can just get her to come up with 2-3 ideas per week, I’d never have to think again and wouldn’t that be just lovely.  So, I’ve amassed brief snippets into my life over the last few weeks, and somehow managed to condense these voyeuristic glimpses into a manageable post.  Pull up a chair, get a beverage and some popcorn or your snack of choice and enjoy the show.  You don’t even need binoculars or a telescope.  I promise, you won’t be able to look away.  Could be horror.  Could be laughter.  Could be shock.  Could be boredom.  Whatever it may be for you, happy reading (hopefully).  Oh, and watch out for that fly swatter…

If you were a fly on the wall, you would have witnessed this conversation between my husband and I:

Husband:  “So, man-child’s teacher pulled me aside after school today.”

Me:  “Ruh-roh, why?”

Husband:  “Apparently, there is no money in his lunch account, but she wanted to reassure me that he would get fed at lunchtime.  Apparently, they have special lunches for kids who for various reason can’t buy or bring a lunch every day.”

Me:  “Oh…ummm yeah, I may have forgotten to do reload his account.  Ooops…”

Husband:  “Ya think?”

Man-child:  “Yeah, thanks a lot mom.  It was weird jelly on the sandwich.”

I promised to load his account before Monday.  Monday afternoon, I get a text from husband:

Husband:  *Did you remember to put money into man-child’s account?*

Me:  *Umm…yeah…*  I race furiously back to my office and do it real quick.  Damn, it takes 2 days to post.  Craptastic.

Me: (texting husband) *Yes, I did it…just now.*

Husband:  *sigh*

Husband:  *He’s gonna be so mad at you.*

So naturally like any good mother, I race up to target to buy appeasement/guilt surprises for man-child.  Because we can totally afford a new Xbox game, just not a school lunch. Priorities.

I remember when he informed me he wanted to start buying his lunch at school:

Man-child:  “Mom, I want to be a buyer.”

Me:  “what?”  I’m thinking a buyer?  Like, for department stores?  This is his life goal in the 1st grade?  Why not astronaut or firefighter?  No, I get the kid who wants to shop so other people can shop.  This is weird right?  It’s not just me?

Man-child:  “I wanna be a buyer.  You get cool stuff.  Like spaghetti and nuggets and tacos!  Oh and chocolate milk.  I love my chocolate milk mom.”

Me (the light dawns):  “Oh, you mean you want to buy your lunch at school?”

Man-child:  “yeah..duh, what else?”

Me:  “Sure.  Ok.”  I feel like I dodged a bullet there.

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The other day, I walk into man-child’s room and he’s packing a bag.  He’s filling it with his favorite toys and books.  Curious.  Hmmm.  Very curious.  I can’t wait to hear this.

Me:  “Are you going somewhere?”

Man-child:  “Yeah.”

Me:  “Oh?  Where are you going?”

Man-child: “To visit my stepdad.” 

Me:  “Oh.  Ok…well, let’s not tell your dad ok?”

Man-child:  “Ok.  It’s not like he was invited.”

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  Man-child loves Adam Levine as much as I do!  Best. Day. Ever.  But, I probably should tone down the Adam Levine talk for a while…at least in front of man-child.  I can just see what my husband would do with this nugget of awesomeness.

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Man-child:  “Mom, is Willy Wonka real?”

18-year-old daughter (with extreme sarcasm):  “Just like ‘Santa’ is real.”

Me (death stare to daughter):  “Why do you ask?”

Man-child:  “Cause on my box of nerds it says Willy Wonka.  So that means he’s real and he made my candy?”

Me:  “Sure.  Oh and guess what!  Your sister wrote a letter to Santa and she has agreed to let all the presents she would have gotten from him come to you!  Isn’t this awesome!”  

I then turn to daughter and cock an eyebrow as if to say “what now, biatch?”

Daughter: “Whatever.  You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Me:  “Yeah…speaking of that, how are those college essay’s going?”

Daughter suddenly remembers something she has to do upstairs.

Mom wins this round!

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I see a tweet from middle daughter, *HAHAHA no.  #byenow*.  She rarely tweets, so I asked her about it.  Man-child was sitting next to me watching Spongebob.

Daughter:  “Oh yeah, I tweeted that after my teacher threw a fit AND a chair!”

Me (alarmed):  “Your teacher THREW A CHAIR?”

Daughter:  “yeah, crazy bitch…I mean…”  She then looks wild-eyed at her little brother and then back at me.  I give her the death stare.

Daughter:  “Sorry….”

Man-child:  “I know, I know…it’s one of those words I can hear but not say.  Don’t worry mom. I know.  Ironman and Spiderman use bad words all the time.  It’s not a big deal.”  He then pats me on the leg.

Awesome.  Parent of the year.  Right here.  I don’t even remember if she finished telling me about the chair story.  I need to follow up…probably.  Later.  Tomorrow.

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I think I’ve mentioned before that I refuse to use the bathroom in public places, this includes work.  I work with Seniors.  I’ve seen bathrooms smeared with feces and/or vomit or pee puddles or used depends left next to the toilet.  Yeah…I can hold it thank you very much.  The first thing I do when I get home is head for the poopcan.  I’m peacefully trying to drop some buddies off at the lake, when I hear my oldest daughter yell my name.  My husband is in the bedroom folding laundry.  That little bastard rats me out, and tells her I’m taking a dump, so he totally deserves what happens next:

Daughter:  “Mom!”

Me (with a sigh of resignation):  “Yes?”

Daughter:  “I’m pretty sure I have a yeast infection!  Itchy.  Discharge.  Yeah.”

Husband:  “Really?!?!!?!?  You had to announce that right here.  Now!”

Daughter:  “What?  It’s not my fault you’re in here.”

Husband:  “It’s MY BEDROOM!”

Daughter:  “It’s mom’s bedroom too!”

OMG why can’t I ever just crap in peace!  They know I get performance anxiety.  Now, I’ll be constipated for the next day or two.

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My middle daughter joined the land of the gainfully employed recently.  She’s quickly adapted to the thrill of having her own money to spend.  Every year on her Christmas list, she puts down a Juicy Couture Jacket (or as I call it Juicy Cout”whore”).  I feel it’s redonkulous to pay over $150 bucks for a velour track jacket or sweatpants with the word “Juicy” bejeweled across the butt.  To each their own.  I find Juicy to be the female equivalent of Ed Hardy, and don’t even get me started on Ed.  I get it’s a thing and lots of people like it.  It’s just not my thing.  I told her to save her money and buy it herself.  So she did.  Ugh.  UPS delivered it the other day while she was working.  I sent her this pic and text:

“Your brother lost his jacket at school today.  He said thanks for ordering him a new one!!  It fits perfectly!!  You’re the best sister ever!”

We get this response.

“THAT BETTER BE SAFE AND SOUND IN MY ROOM OR I’M TAKING HIS TOOTH FAIRY MONEY TO BUY ANOTHER ONE!”

Wow.  Someone takes their Juicy seriously…  That’s ok, I have this pic of her which will be paraded out at a time of my choosing…

Yes, those are drinking straw glasses….

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Yeah, I love my job.  It’s a mantra I repeat to myself several times a day…or minute.  I’ll preface this work moment by saying that if there is a hell, I’ve probably got a penthouse suite reserved.  Bless the hearts of my senior citizens, they mean well…most of the time.  I used to help a sweet lady with her taxes, and she we would thank me by bringing me cookies from our deli that she frosted with icing circa 1948.  Needless to say, I’m a little weary of seniors bearing gifts, especially of the food variety.  One such gift arrived in my office the other day.  A resident, we shall call her “Jill”, knocked on my office door.  She came in and asked me if I knew where to find the woman who had eye surgery.  I tell her I’m not aware of anyone who had eye surgery, but she might ask the nurse station.  She comes back a minute later, and announces that it was me she was looking for after all!  I don’t remember having an eye surgery, but maybe I should go home….rest.  In her hands, she is holding a cake.  Apparently, it’s her birthday today!  I wish her a happy birthday, and she informs me she wants me to have a piece of her birthday cake as a thank you for all the hard work I do.  This is a very sweet gesture, and I’m touched really and truly.  But I’m not eating that cake.  She proceeds to cut it using a wooden spoon and then scoops it up with her bare hands and plops it on a napkin.  Yeah.  So not eating this cake. 

Of course, I thank her profusely for her generosity.  It was a very sweet gesture.  I am truly thankful she didn’t wait around to watch me eat it, because that would have been horrifying.  Unfortunately, I had to throw it away, and I never waste cake.  Or dessert.  Ever.  It broke my heart.  I promise.

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Man-child finally got a hair cut!  He no longer looks like a Bieber wannabe. 

The hand signal is a high school football thing.  It’s often accompanied with the shout “Can I get a Wolfpack!”  It represents a wolf.  It’s our local version of “Hook Em Horns”, I guess you could say.  His sisters (Middle and Youngest Girls) attend rival high schools (don’t ask…a district cluster f@*$).  Like it wasn’t bad enough when we had the Woodwind versus Brass intrument rivalry.  Man-child likes to pester one sister or another by cheering for the opposite high school.  He really doesn’t have a dog in this fight right now, but eventually, he will be attending the same high school as my youngest daughter, unless we move, so I’m down with the Wolfpack.

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Last but not least, if you were a fly on the wall in my house, you’d see me wearing this all day, every day…

You’d also see me caressing his face all the time, which is placed strategically over my boobs (if I’m wearing a bra).  You might want to fly away now little fly…things could get awkward.

Check out the other participants, I know I can’t wait to see what they did!  It’s like going through someone’s medicine cabinet without the fear of getting caught.  Not that I’ve done that.  Ever. 

Baking In A Tornado

The Mommy Chronicles

The Insomniac’s Dream

Stacy Sews and Schools

DeBie Hive

Raising Reagan

follow me home…

Sorry kid, your mom doesn’t play well with others

Simply Chic For You

Just A Little Nutty

Life on the SONny Side

Frikken Duckie