Aaron (doing his spelling): "Mom, what is a four-letter word that begins with Sh?"
Me: "Shit"
Aaron: "Can I really write that down?"
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Missing: One Frumpy Dumpy Mom
This morning I woke up earlier than usual. I was able to not only shower, but I dried my hair... with an actual hair dryer. I was able to pick out an outfit to wear... and not the usual jeans and sweatshirt. I was able to put make up on... more than just a wave or seven of mascara. I was able to curl my hair... which took so long that now I know why I stopped and I was even able to brush my teeth before lunch!
My son walked down and saw me in the kitchen making omelets and looking all supermodel-ish and he said to me...
"Who are you pretending to be for Halloween mom?"
Your worst nightmare kid... your worst nightmare~!
My son walked down and saw me in the kitchen making omelets and looking all supermodel-ish and he said to me...
"Who are you pretending to be for Halloween mom?"
Your worst nightmare kid... your worst nightmare~!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Grocery List: Candy, Beer, Candy, and more Beer.
Halloween for my son is so much different than Halloween for my daughters.
The girls always want to be something sweet and fun like a cowgirl, a princess, a ballerina, or an exotic dancer from De Ja' Vu.
My son always wants to be something with blood and guts dripping off of him.
This year Emma is going as a cowgirl/Cinderella. She could not decide which she wanted to be more so we just morphed the two costumes together. Now she looks like the cowboy from the Village People. Hope was going to be a 1920's Flapper Girl, but decided to be a Bears Fan instead. She even went to the orthodontist and had the colors on her braces changed to blue and orange for this costume.
Aaron is going to be an executioner. He has the mask, the black robe (which incidentally was his Priest robe for the All Saint's Day party this past Sunday... talk about an oxymoron!) and he has a big plastic ax to carry around. He always needs an accessory.
I am going to be a drunken housewife. I love Halloween!
The girls always want to be something sweet and fun like a cowgirl, a princess, a ballerina, or an exotic dancer from De Ja' Vu.
My son always wants to be something with blood and guts dripping off of him.
This year Emma is going as a cowgirl/Cinderella. She could not decide which she wanted to be more so we just morphed the two costumes together. Now she looks like the cowboy from the Village People. Hope was going to be a 1920's Flapper Girl, but decided to be a Bears Fan instead. She even went to the orthodontist and had the colors on her braces changed to blue and orange for this costume.
Aaron is going to be an executioner. He has the mask, the black robe (which incidentally was his Priest robe for the All Saint's Day party this past Sunday... talk about an oxymoron!) and he has a big plastic ax to carry around. He always needs an accessory.
I am going to be a drunken housewife. I love Halloween!
Monday, October 29, 2007
Who Pee'd In Your Cheerios? Oh Wait... That Was Me.
My husband somehow ended up in a very bad mood Friday night. This mood may or may not have come about because of something that I may or may not have said/done. I would tell you what I did or did not do but this post is not about me... it is about my foul mooded husband.
Anyway, this bad mood followed my husband around all weekend long, so in turn, everyone in the house had to bow down to him and treat him like a King (a very unfair and unpopular King) in order to survive this bad mood of his.
When I am in a bad mood, no one cares. The kids don't go out of their way to make my mood happier and my husband usually just says "What in the world is wrong with you!" As if me being in a bad mood is somehow ruining his moment and therefore I am very selfish. How dare I.
By Saturday afternoon I let my husband know that I thought he had let this bad mood of his linger long enough and it was time for him to get over it and move on. I even insisted that he give me a kiss. My kisses usually will pop my husband out of his bad mood and put him into a horny one... which is not necessarily what I want, but having a horny husband is much better than having a bad mood husband, unless of course his horniness is rejected and then I run the risk of having a husband in a worse mood than what I started with. Men are such complicated creatures.
When my kisses did not work I knew I was in for a long weekend. A weekend of chores, cooking, watching Army movies, helping hold the hammer or screwdriver and eventually black lace. *Big Sigh*
The kids knew that this foul mood meant that they were in for a weekend full of "Clean your room!" "Rake the leaves!" "Why are you watching TV?" "Who's plate is this on the counter?" and the such...
At one point I walked into the family room and found both Aaron and Hope watching TV. I warned them that their father was on his way into the house and if he saw them sitting around and not doing something "constructive" that they would be in for "it." As the words were still lingering in the air, the door started to open. Aaron and Hope made a mad dash for the kitchen only to collide into each other and fall to the floor. Hope jumped up and went to help Aaron but he yelled "Save yourself! Just GO!" My husband walked into the family room and looked at Aaron and said, "Why are you lounging on the floor? Go chop wood until I tell you to stop!"
Aaron looked to me to help get him out of the situation but all I could think of was the time when I was a kid and we were going on vacation. My dad was always in a bad mood when we were going on vacation. I am not sure if it was the packing of the car or the constant license plate game that set him off, but he was always cranky. On this one vacation, we kids started to complain in the back seat. Things like "she is looking at me!" and "Why do I have to sit on the hump?" were heard. When my dad stopped for gas and got out of the car my mother turned around and said "Listen up! I am doing the best I can to make HIM happy, you, I don't care if you are happy or not!"
Having a husband in a bad mood is much like having a black bear living in your house. You can never tell if they are going to be calm and just sniff your campground, or if they are going to slash open your tent and rip your head off. The only difference between my husband and a black bear is that to get the bear under control you have to tranquilize it and helicopter it 100 miles away, with my husband, you don't need to put him in a helicopter.
Thank God for tranquilizer guns.
Anyway, this bad mood followed my husband around all weekend long, so in turn, everyone in the house had to bow down to him and treat him like a King (a very unfair and unpopular King) in order to survive this bad mood of his.
When I am in a bad mood, no one cares. The kids don't go out of their way to make my mood happier and my husband usually just says "What in the world is wrong with you!" As if me being in a bad mood is somehow ruining his moment and therefore I am very selfish. How dare I.
By Saturday afternoon I let my husband know that I thought he had let this bad mood of his linger long enough and it was time for him to get over it and move on. I even insisted that he give me a kiss. My kisses usually will pop my husband out of his bad mood and put him into a horny one... which is not necessarily what I want, but having a horny husband is much better than having a bad mood husband, unless of course his horniness is rejected and then I run the risk of having a husband in a worse mood than what I started with. Men are such complicated creatures.
When my kisses did not work I knew I was in for a long weekend. A weekend of chores, cooking, watching Army movies, helping hold the hammer or screwdriver and eventually black lace. *Big Sigh*
The kids knew that this foul mood meant that they were in for a weekend full of "Clean your room!" "Rake the leaves!" "Why are you watching TV?" "Who's plate is this on the counter?" and the such...
At one point I walked into the family room and found both Aaron and Hope watching TV. I warned them that their father was on his way into the house and if he saw them sitting around and not doing something "constructive" that they would be in for "it." As the words were still lingering in the air, the door started to open. Aaron and Hope made a mad dash for the kitchen only to collide into each other and fall to the floor. Hope jumped up and went to help Aaron but he yelled "Save yourself! Just GO!" My husband walked into the family room and looked at Aaron and said, "Why are you lounging on the floor? Go chop wood until I tell you to stop!"
Aaron looked to me to help get him out of the situation but all I could think of was the time when I was a kid and we were going on vacation. My dad was always in a bad mood when we were going on vacation. I am not sure if it was the packing of the car or the constant license plate game that set him off, but he was always cranky. On this one vacation, we kids started to complain in the back seat. Things like "she is looking at me!" and "Why do I have to sit on the hump?" were heard. When my dad stopped for gas and got out of the car my mother turned around and said "Listen up! I am doing the best I can to make HIM happy, you, I don't care if you are happy or not!"
Having a husband in a bad mood is much like having a black bear living in your house. You can never tell if they are going to be calm and just sniff your campground, or if they are going to slash open your tent and rip your head off. The only difference between my husband and a black bear is that to get the bear under control you have to tranquilize it and helicopter it 100 miles away, with my husband, you don't need to put him in a helicopter.
Thank God for tranquilizer guns.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Return Of The Punctuation Mark...
Ask any mother out there and she will tell you that one of the main reasons for breastfeeding is completely selfish. Sure it is healthy and stuff for the kid, but for the mother, it keeps a certain punctuation mark at a distance.
I have been happily nursing Mary Claire for that reason. Oh relax... I have been nursing her for the other reasons as well, like that it helps me get back in shape.
My sister will nurse her kids and her punctuation mark stays away indefinitely. If she nurses until the kid is 18 and going off to college, well she would not have a punctuation mark until she dropped that kid off at school and they started their first class.
Me on the other hand, I have been jipped! Robbed! Thwarted! Here I sit a measly 5 months after giving birth to Mary Claire and I am back to correcting grammatical errors!
I have to wonder if it is because of my recent interest in jogging and my recent suppression of carbs in my diet that has caused this unnatural phenomenon to happen to me, a nursing mother.
Back when I was lazy and eating everything in sight, I was punctuation free... now that I am getting my act together, WHAM!
I should look at the bright side, at least I can blame my cursing on PMS again...
I have been happily nursing Mary Claire for that reason. Oh relax... I have been nursing her for the other reasons as well, like that it helps me get back in shape.
My sister will nurse her kids and her punctuation mark stays away indefinitely. If she nurses until the kid is 18 and going off to college, well she would not have a punctuation mark until she dropped that kid off at school and they started their first class.
Me on the other hand, I have been jipped! Robbed! Thwarted! Here I sit a measly 5 months after giving birth to Mary Claire and I am back to correcting grammatical errors!
I have to wonder if it is because of my recent interest in jogging and my recent suppression of carbs in my diet that has caused this unnatural phenomenon to happen to me, a nursing mother.
Back when I was lazy and eating everything in sight, I was punctuation free... now that I am getting my act together, WHAM!
I should look at the bright side, at least I can blame my cursing on PMS again...
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Whoever Said "Clothes Make The Man." Did Not Know My Mother...
I have been attempting to do a dreaded chore for about 2 weeks now. I have been sorting through summer clothes and putting them in the Goodwill pile, the garage sale pile and the save-for-hand-me-downs pile. I have also been getting out the winter hand-me-down clothes and sorting them again... and most of them end up in the Goodwill pile as well.
This takes me so long because I have so many stinking kids who live in this house! Seriously, ever since #4 came along and homeschooling started back up I have only been able to accomplish two chores a day. Dishes (breakfast, lunch and dinner) and laundry. The rest of the house is in complete chaos. Now, you may be saying to yourself "But you have time to Blog you lazy woman!" This is true-I do have time to blog, I also have time to drink a beer or two and sing Broadway musical hits, but I don't criticize your daily schedules do I?
My mother never did the clothes sorting thing when I was a kid. She was not very good at laundry either. This may explain the fact that I wore shorts and a Holly Hobby halter top to school one day... in January. One thing my mom was very good at was child labor. She put us to work I tell you, and not the way I put my kids to work by asking them to vacuum or wipe down the bathroom sink with a Lysol wipe, no, my mother believed in severe child labor.
I would wake to a note on the table. Ahhh, the dreaded note! It was a to-do list. The typical list had things like "scrub the toilets," "rake the carpet" (we had shag), "brown the pork chops" "peel the potatoes" "paint the garage" "change the oil in the station wagon."
Every once in a while a representative from the Department of Labor would call our home and my mother would instantly pretend like she was from the Old Country and could not speak English and hang up. She is wanted in 4 states.
The problem with this "clothes sorting" chore that I have is that it requires the help of my children. I need them to try on winter clothes in order to see if they fit or not. Asking my son to try on clothes is like asking him to paint himself pink and to walk through the neighborhood. It takes sooo long because he has to go to the bathroom and lock the door to try things on. While in the bathroom he decided to go to the bathroom, check out his nose hairs, pick lint from between his toes and see how many good arm pit farts he can belt out. He has focus issues.
Asking my oldest daughter to try on clothes is like asking a supermodel to try on clothes. She has to pick out a complete outfit before she will put it on-one that matches and goes with her hair. She has to twirl 10 times in the mirror and try on a pair of shoes with each outfit to see if it all "comes together." she has vanity issues.
Asking the 4 year old to try on clothes is like asking a monkey to try on clothes. It takes 20 minutes just to coral her and then another 20 to convince her to just put on the sweatpants so Mommy can see if they fit,and no, she does not have to wear them today, and yes, they are pretty and any princess in the world would kill for a pair of sweatpants like these! She has princess issues.
I am starting to think that my mother had the right idea. Just leave all of the clothes from winter, summer, spring and fall in the drawers. It worked for me when I was a kid. So what if I had to wear my bathing suit top for a bra on more than one occasion... I turned out OK.
This takes me so long because I have so many stinking kids who live in this house! Seriously, ever since #4 came along and homeschooling started back up I have only been able to accomplish two chores a day. Dishes (breakfast, lunch and dinner) and laundry. The rest of the house is in complete chaos. Now, you may be saying to yourself "But you have time to Blog you lazy woman!" This is true-I do have time to blog, I also have time to drink a beer or two and sing Broadway musical hits, but I don't criticize your daily schedules do I?
My mother never did the clothes sorting thing when I was a kid. She was not very good at laundry either. This may explain the fact that I wore shorts and a Holly Hobby halter top to school one day... in January. One thing my mom was very good at was child labor. She put us to work I tell you, and not the way I put my kids to work by asking them to vacuum or wipe down the bathroom sink with a Lysol wipe, no, my mother believed in severe child labor.
I would wake to a note on the table. Ahhh, the dreaded note! It was a to-do list. The typical list had things like "scrub the toilets," "rake the carpet" (we had shag), "brown the pork chops" "peel the potatoes" "paint the garage" "change the oil in the station wagon."
Every once in a while a representative from the Department of Labor would call our home and my mother would instantly pretend like she was from the Old Country and could not speak English and hang up. She is wanted in 4 states.
The problem with this "clothes sorting" chore that I have is that it requires the help of my children. I need them to try on winter clothes in order to see if they fit or not. Asking my son to try on clothes is like asking him to paint himself pink and to walk through the neighborhood. It takes sooo long because he has to go to the bathroom and lock the door to try things on. While in the bathroom he decided to go to the bathroom, check out his nose hairs, pick lint from between his toes and see how many good arm pit farts he can belt out. He has focus issues.
Asking my oldest daughter to try on clothes is like asking a supermodel to try on clothes. She has to pick out a complete outfit before she will put it on-one that matches and goes with her hair. She has to twirl 10 times in the mirror and try on a pair of shoes with each outfit to see if it all "comes together." she has vanity issues.
Asking the 4 year old to try on clothes is like asking a monkey to try on clothes. It takes 20 minutes just to coral her and then another 20 to convince her to just put on the sweatpants so Mommy can see if they fit,and no, she does not have to wear them today, and yes, they are pretty and any princess in the world would kill for a pair of sweatpants like these! She has princess issues.
I am starting to think that my mother had the right idea. Just leave all of the clothes from winter, summer, spring and fall in the drawers. It worked for me when I was a kid. So what if I had to wear my bathing suit top for a bra on more than one occasion... I turned out OK.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Things My Kids Say...
When I was at Orin Scrivello's office yesterday, I was reading a magazine that had a brilliant idea in it! I do not recall the magazine, as I think it is out of print now considering the people were wearing neon sweatshirts that said "Relax" on them and had their stretch pants stuffed in their socks. It was pretty old...
Anyway, in this magazine it was giving ideas for journals. One was a travel journal (borrrrrring! I don't travel so I don't know what I would journal about. I used to be a world traveler, but now I just go to the grocery store and back.) Another was a design journal that had little swatches of fabric sticking out and little sketches of dresses, furniture and shoes. (This one would not work for me either as my designs consist of Old Navy, Target and Payless.)
But one journal idea was pretty cool. It is a quote journal. When you hear or read a quote that strikes you as mind-blowing, you head on over to your handy dandy notebook and jot down the moment of brilliance.
I have decided to put a spin on this idea and instead of journaling in a notebook with actual paper and a pen (or God-forbid a pencil!) I am going to START ANOTHER BLOG! (I will keep you posted on the kick-off party)
My first quote is from my son...
"How long do you think a person would survive on just a bottle of mustard?"
We are talking earth-shattering quotes here people!
Anyway, in this magazine it was giving ideas for journals. One was a travel journal (borrrrrring! I don't travel so I don't know what I would journal about. I used to be a world traveler, but now I just go to the grocery store and back.) Another was a design journal that had little swatches of fabric sticking out and little sketches of dresses, furniture and shoes. (This one would not work for me either as my designs consist of Old Navy, Target and Payless.)
But one journal idea was pretty cool. It is a quote journal. When you hear or read a quote that strikes you as mind-blowing, you head on over to your handy dandy notebook and jot down the moment of brilliance.
I have decided to put a spin on this idea and instead of journaling in a notebook with actual paper and a pen (or God-forbid a pencil!) I am going to START ANOTHER BLOG! (I will keep you posted on the kick-off party)
My first quote is from my son...
"How long do you think a person would survive on just a bottle of mustard?"
We are talking earth-shattering quotes here people!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
My Endodontist Is In Violation Of The Geneva Convention...
Yesterday I had to go back and finish the second half of my root canal. Yesterday I also came to a grave realization... my Endodontist is a sadist.
As soon as I get in the chair she numbs me up. I had been dreading this all day because she seems to enjoy her job a little too much and one of the shots has to go directly in the roof of my mouth-which if you have never experienced such pain, just lay your hand down casually on the kitchen table and then take your handy dandy nail gun and drive a nail into each finger. That is about what it feels like. Nice.
My friend Lori asked me why I did not request to laughing gas. I had thought of this in the past. When I was a kid I used to get the laughing gas, but as an adult I was never offered such a tantalizing drug. Believe me, if it were offered I would be the first to jump on it, and the 20 minutes in la-la land would be like a vacation for me.
Anyway, I was left to sit in the office by myself until my mouth was good and numb. I only had a August, 1983 issue of National Geographic to keep me occupied. After about 20 minutes I started to wonder if she had forgotten me. My Endodontist is like a fart in the wind, she breezes in and out and spends most of her time in her back office-with the door closed.
As I sat there I started to imagine just what she was doing in that back office. I figured she was A) reading blogs on-line, B) knitting a tooth shaped pillow, or C) rubbing her little hands together and cackling with her sinister laughter as she waited just long enough for my Novocain to wear off so that I would feel every inch of pain that she was about to inflict upon me.
At one point her assistant came in and whispered to me "Are you still numb?" Now, this made my adrenaline shoot through the roof, which in turn freaked me out even more because I could not calm my heartbeat down and I knew the harder my heart was pumping the faster the blood was traveling through my body and distributing the Novocain to other parts of my body than to the tooth where it belonged. I was in a real-life horror flick! I was about to be Drew Barrymore in Scream and be the first to be killed in 5 minutes! Oh the HORROR!
To make matters worse, the woman in the torture chamber next to me was a talker. When my Endodonst finally emerged from her think tank, she went to the woman next to me and I sat and listed to her go from one subject to the next. I heard about her husband who had cancer, a blister on his right foot and a mysterious rash on his lower back. She then talked about her two dogs who are rescue dogs and she just spent $2500 on one of them to get a leg operation because it had a tumor on his little leg. Then she talked about her daughter who was going through a "nasty" divorce from a man who she is glad to be rid of because the dog with the tumor used to be theirs and he did not want to operate, he wanted to just put the poor thing to sleep for $150! Can you believe the cruelty? And then she talked about her neighbor who was going to be checking in on her husband while she was at the dentist and she just knew her neighbor would eat all of the coffee cake she left sitting on the table for her husband.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I don't have to tell you, but I was no longer numb.... or not as numb as I would have liked to have been. I prefer to not feel a drill going into my head at rapid speeds-that is just me though.
FINALLY it was my turn. I was reclined to look like a corpse in a coffin and she went to work. I felt pain-I felt a lot of pain! She explained to me that she could give me another shot to numb me, or I could bully my way through this house of blood and horror and get the heck out of there ASAP!
I chose door number 2 because I did not want to get another shot in the head and wait another 45 minutes for it to wear off so that my Endodontist could satisfy her Quentin Terintino rituals. I am no masochist!
Would it surprise you to know that my Endodontist's name is Bates... Norma Bates? Or maybe you would believe she is Orin Scrivello's daughter?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Deep Thoughts With June Cleaver...
IF MAN EVOLVED FROM MONKEYS AND APES...
WHY DO WE STILL HAVE MONKEYS AND APES?
WHY DO WE STILL HAVE MONKEYS AND APES?
Saturday, October 20, 2007
I Shop At Tramps-R-Us...
I hate everything in my closet.
I have decided to get rid of all things that I hate in my closet... so now I will have to go to Church in a bathing suit.
Since I had Mary Claire 5 months ago, I have not been able to get back to the bulk of my wardrobe. I have gone to places like Target and Kohl's to buy inexpensive clothes to get me through these past months and I can't stand any of it anymore!
I have also come to the realization that before I had Mary Claire I was nice and skinny and I apparently dressed like a tramp because anything I try to put on from my "before Mary" days makes me look like I need to take my place at the corner of 5th and Broad and start saying things like "Do you need a date tonight handsome?"
I just lugged a big box up to my bedroom and I am just going to start pitching crap. That green tank top with the gold sequence-gone, those white Capri pants that require the use of no underwear-out the door, that black top with silver sparkles and no hope of covering the twins-rejected.
When I am done I am going to take all of this to Goodwill, because somewhere out there is a mom in denial who believes she needs a top that says "Blonds Have More Fun" and a pair of jeans that show her butt crack every time she bends over.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I Am Asking For A Friend... Not Me.
Uhmm, just curious...
A friend of mine wants to know,
Does running cause hemorrhoids?
She is just curious-not because she has hemorrhoids... but just in case she may happen to get them after she has just recently started jogging.
She would really like to know.
A friend of mine wants to know,
Does running cause hemorrhoids?
She is just curious-not because she has hemorrhoids... but just in case she may happen to get them after she has just recently started jogging.
She would really like to know.
Honesty In Blogshere...
I have been reading a lot lately about honesty issues in blogspere. It appears that some people are just not telling the truth about who they are or what they do. They are even going as far as to lie in order to make themselves look better.
After some deep thoughts, I have decided to be honest with you all once and for all...
That picture on my blog is not me. It is some image I found on the Internet when I did a search for "beautiful blond women."
I am really a brunette.
All of that complaining I do about my chubby butt...
I am really a size 2.
All of the crying I do about running and exercise...
I am actually an avid jogger and even will spend hours pounding the pavement with my new running shoes that I purchase every 100 miles.
I don't have 4 kids...
I have 4 cats.
I am not married to a military man....
I am married to an actor that has played a military man in an upcoming movie.
I don't drink alcohol...
I will only drink green tea.
Now I ask you... didn't you like me better when you thought I was chubby, funny, Republican, an alcoholic and blond?
I thought so. Honesty isn't all that it is cracked up to be.
After some deep thoughts, I have decided to be honest with you all once and for all...
That picture on my blog is not me. It is some image I found on the Internet when I did a search for "beautiful blond women."
I am really a brunette.
All of that complaining I do about my chubby butt...
I am really a size 2.
All of the crying I do about running and exercise...
I am actually an avid jogger and even will spend hours pounding the pavement with my new running shoes that I purchase every 100 miles.
I don't have 4 kids...
I have 4 cats.
I am not married to a military man....
I am married to an actor that has played a military man in an upcoming movie.
I don't drink alcohol...
I will only drink green tea.
Now I ask you... didn't you like me better when you thought I was chubby, funny, Republican, an alcoholic and blond?
I thought so. Honesty isn't all that it is cracked up to be.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
My Friends Should All Be In Prison...
I was thinking the other day... all of my friends have committed crimes against me! I can't believe I even keep these people around!
A few years ago, my friend Janet broke into my house while I was on vacation and slathered Vaseline all over my toilet seats. Yes, Janet is a college graduate and a mother of 4-she is extremely immature (a trait I look for in friends). When we arrived home after a long drive, my son had to use the toilet BAD... we rushed into the house and I plopped him on the toilet only to have him slide right into the frigid water in the bowl beneath his tush. I shouldn't have to tell you that this set our potty training back months, if not years.
Then there was the time that my friend Connie broke into my house and gathered up all of my bras and panties and stuffed them in my freezer. It was a good thing she did this on a Friday because Saturdays are "underwear optional" around the Cleaver household.
I also remember the time that my friend Lisa (with accomplice Janet) left a party that I was at and broke into my house and short-sheeted my bed. This did not go over as well as they had hoped because my husband and I were a little tipsy when we arrived home and did not even notice that the sheets only came half way up the mattress... no, we just scooted our little rumps down the mattress and had dreams about the Oompa Loompas.
My friend Sherry broke my brand new Christmas tree one year. She was dancing and having a cocktail (or 10) and somehow her snap-jump-twirl turned into a snap-fall-jump-scream. She fell directly into my Christmas tree and now I have to always make sure I put that darn tree in a corner so you cannot see the bent and broken branches that broke her fall. It was actually rather funny... have you ever seen the movie "Elf" when Will Farrell jumps up onto the Christmas tree to put the star on it and it falls over... that was exactly what it looked like with Sherry.
My couch cushions all have to be upside down on the couch because a friend (I think it was Sherry again) spilled an alcoholic beverage all over them. I have tried to clean it, but you just can't get 100 proof alcohol out of couch cushions. Heloise would even be stumped!
I spent one New Year's Day trying to get little bits of color stains out of my brand new hardwood kitchen floors. The party the night before had turned into a "fraternity" type of party complete with island diving (if you don't know what this is, well we could never be friends), spilled alcohol, music and confetti. The confetti landed in the spilled alcohol on the new floors and left little stains. Thank God for Goof-Off.
Our friend Mike (of the infamous LoriandMike) broke into our house while we were on vacation another time and put a life-sized cardboard cutout of Homer Simpson at the door when we opened it up. Again, there had been a long drive before we reached our home and my husband does not believe in stopping for potty breaks until HE has to go to the bathroom and that man is like a CAMEL! So I made a break for the house before the car had even come to a stop only to be greeted by a enormous Homer Simpson. I pee'd myself.
But the worst offense was the time that Lori and another friend of ours (who sadly is no longer our friend because she thought we were childish-whatever) semi-broke into my house and shrink-wrapped our mattress. Now, let me tell you, this was no armature job, this was the work or true criminals. They did not use your regular old kitchen saran wrap, no they used industrial strength saran wrap that only moving companies and gangsters use. The stuff was thick and they used the entire 1000 ft. roll! Carl had been out of town and was more than anxious to get home. I have never seen a person move as fast as he did to get all of that shrink wrap off. The next day Lori was disappointed we hadn't gone downstairs to fetch the 5 gallon jug of olive oil she had given me for my birthday. I mentioned this to Carl and his response was "You would have thought she would have left instructions with the shrink wrap!"
I don't know what it is about me that makes my friends want to treat me this way... I have never done anything at all to provoke such behavior!
A few years ago, my friend Janet broke into my house while I was on vacation and slathered Vaseline all over my toilet seats. Yes, Janet is a college graduate and a mother of 4-she is extremely immature (a trait I look for in friends). When we arrived home after a long drive, my son had to use the toilet BAD... we rushed into the house and I plopped him on the toilet only to have him slide right into the frigid water in the bowl beneath his tush. I shouldn't have to tell you that this set our potty training back months, if not years.
Then there was the time that my friend Connie broke into my house and gathered up all of my bras and panties and stuffed them in my freezer. It was a good thing she did this on a Friday because Saturdays are "underwear optional" around the Cleaver household.
I also remember the time that my friend Lisa (with accomplice Janet) left a party that I was at and broke into my house and short-sheeted my bed. This did not go over as well as they had hoped because my husband and I were a little tipsy when we arrived home and did not even notice that the sheets only came half way up the mattress... no, we just scooted our little rumps down the mattress and had dreams about the Oompa Loompas.
My friend Sherry broke my brand new Christmas tree one year. She was dancing and having a cocktail (or 10) and somehow her snap-jump-twirl turned into a snap-fall-jump-scream. She fell directly into my Christmas tree and now I have to always make sure I put that darn tree in a corner so you cannot see the bent and broken branches that broke her fall. It was actually rather funny... have you ever seen the movie "Elf" when Will Farrell jumps up onto the Christmas tree to put the star on it and it falls over... that was exactly what it looked like with Sherry.
My couch cushions all have to be upside down on the couch because a friend (I think it was Sherry again) spilled an alcoholic beverage all over them. I have tried to clean it, but you just can't get 100 proof alcohol out of couch cushions. Heloise would even be stumped!
I spent one New Year's Day trying to get little bits of color stains out of my brand new hardwood kitchen floors. The party the night before had turned into a "fraternity" type of party complete with island diving (if you don't know what this is, well we could never be friends), spilled alcohol, music and confetti. The confetti landed in the spilled alcohol on the new floors and left little stains. Thank God for Goof-Off.
Our friend Mike (of the infamous LoriandMike) broke into our house while we were on vacation another time and put a life-sized cardboard cutout of Homer Simpson at the door when we opened it up. Again, there had been a long drive before we reached our home and my husband does not believe in stopping for potty breaks until HE has to go to the bathroom and that man is like a CAMEL! So I made a break for the house before the car had even come to a stop only to be greeted by a enormous Homer Simpson. I pee'd myself.
But the worst offense was the time that Lori and another friend of ours (who sadly is no longer our friend because she thought we were childish-whatever) semi-broke into my house and shrink-wrapped our mattress. Now, let me tell you, this was no armature job, this was the work or true criminals. They did not use your regular old kitchen saran wrap, no they used industrial strength saran wrap that only moving companies and gangsters use. The stuff was thick and they used the entire 1000 ft. roll! Carl had been out of town and was more than anxious to get home. I have never seen a person move as fast as he did to get all of that shrink wrap off. The next day Lori was disappointed we hadn't gone downstairs to fetch the 5 gallon jug of olive oil she had given me for my birthday. I mentioned this to Carl and his response was "You would have thought she would have left instructions with the shrink wrap!"
I don't know what it is about me that makes my friends want to treat me this way... I have never done anything at all to provoke such behavior!
Monday, October 15, 2007
It's Not Like I Am Asking To Get Pregnant Again...
My sister called yesterday. It seems that her mother-in-law, also a close and trusted friend of my husband and me, has been diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis. Ouch!
They have a 10 month old German Sheppard named "Guinness" that now needs a new home-one that comes complete with little people to keep her occupied and a new jogger in the house to keep her exercised.
I instantly said "YES YES YES!!!"
I know we already have a dog who has staked her claim on this family, but I am sure she will be willing to share us... especially the little ones who pull her hair, dribble spit all over her and occasionally dress her up in doll clothes.
The only hurdle is my husband.
Now, usually I would go ahead and get this pooch while Carl is out of town or something... but I have turned over a new leaf and have decided to give him a second chance at saying yes (when I first mentioned it to him he said no, well actually, he said "Are you out of your mind?") He is just no fun.
I decided to hatch Plan B (as Plan A was simply telling him about the dog in hopes that he would agree and we would live happily ever after... but that one fell flat.) Plan B involves the children, pouting, whining, crying, begging and nagging... my kids are professionals.
If that does not work, I will hatch Plan C. Plan C involves nakedness and the lights on.
I am pulling out all of my resources here people!
They have a 10 month old German Sheppard named "Guinness" that now needs a new home-one that comes complete with little people to keep her occupied and a new jogger in the house to keep her exercised.
I instantly said "YES YES YES!!!"
I know we already have a dog who has staked her claim on this family, but I am sure she will be willing to share us... especially the little ones who pull her hair, dribble spit all over her and occasionally dress her up in doll clothes.
The only hurdle is my husband.
Now, usually I would go ahead and get this pooch while Carl is out of town or something... but I have turned over a new leaf and have decided to give him a second chance at saying yes (when I first mentioned it to him he said no, well actually, he said "Are you out of your mind?") He is just no fun.
I decided to hatch Plan B (as Plan A was simply telling him about the dog in hopes that he would agree and we would live happily ever after... but that one fell flat.) Plan B involves the children, pouting, whining, crying, begging and nagging... my kids are professionals.
If that does not work, I will hatch Plan C. Plan C involves nakedness and the lights on.
I am pulling out all of my resources here people!
Sunday, October 14, 2007
I May Have Suffered A Slight Heart Attack...
Before I tell you the main story of this post, I need to fill you in on two little stories that go along with the big story.
Keep up, all will be revealed.
The first story: When Carl and I were first dating, he decided to teach me how to drive his manual car. I had only had experience with automatic vehicles... baby blue 12 passenger van type of vehicles to be exact. After a few twists and turns on the 20 mph roads, he thought I was ready for the big leagues and directed me right on to an on-ramp. Before I knew what was happening I was driving on the highway and I started to scream, cry and stall. This story also reminds me a lot of my wedding night, but I digress... I freaked out, he yelled at me, and people were honking and gearing up to unleash their road rage upon me. Eventually I was able to get the car moving and get off of the highway. I think I may have even pee'd my pants a little that day. This is the day I started to make little mean faces at my husband when he was not looking. It is his own fault that sometimes I stick my tongue out at him and roll my eyes when he tells me something with his back toward me. I am not proud of this, but if he had not made me stall his car on the Dan Ryan and then yell at me, well I would be a much more well-balanced person.
The second story: When I was in labor with our first child I was hooked up to every machine in the hospital. I think I may have even been hooked up to the ATM, that may explain that nasty run in with a male nurse and his debit card, but again, I digress... One of the machines that I was hooked up to would track my contractions. It would tell me when I was calm and contraction free and it would tell me when I was having a semi-truck drive straight through my abdomen. Carl instantly fell in love with this machine. For the next three hours he would tell me when a contraction was about to happen. He would say "10 seconds now, 9, 8, 7, 6, you only have about 5 more seconds until a contraction, 4, 3, 2, oh, this one looks like it is going to really hurt, 1. You should be feeling a contraction right now." Eventually I ripped out his tongue and threw it across the room. The three births that I have had since that first one, Carl has not been allowed to talk during labor. He may try, but I will oh so delicately explain to him that the sound of his voice whilst I am in labor sounds like fingernails on a chalk board, and if he even wanted to be present at the birth of his children then he needed to sit quietly, making no comments... except maybe to tell me how amazing I am.
OK, now that you are caught up, I can tell you this story...
After the Mom posted a comment telling me I should start jogging because "After baby number 4, I quickly learned that a morning jog was 30 minutes ALONE in a place where the little people can't find me...the phone doesn't ring..nothing needs to be cleaned...there are no papers to grade... It's just me and the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Bliss!" I thought that a jog sounded like Heaven wrapped in a Dairy Queen cup. I couldn't get my running shoes out of the closet and dusted off fast enough!
I made the mistake of telling my husband that I wanted to start jogging. I even went so far as to ask him if he wanted to jog with me in the morning before he goes off to work. Now, if you know me personally, you may be saying to yourself "What in the mother loving world is she thinking? Cris does not jog, Cris does not sweat, Cris does not do anything that will cause heavy breathing whatsoever... except for that one thing-you know what I am talking about, and Cris does not do anything other than sleep in the morning... she doesn't even make her own children breakfast! She makes them eat cold pizza and leftover pot roast in the morning! She is out of her mind!"
Wait... I must tell you first that my husband loves me very much. He loves me when I am fat, and he loves me when I am a supermodel. He genuinely loves me for my mind. I also have ocean front property in Arizona that I would like to sell you... just send me your credit card and Mr. MasterCard will say OK! No, seriously, he loves me.
ANYWAY... I get a phone call from my husband today and he says "Put your running gear on, we are going jogging." I hang up and wonder what exactly IS running gear? I trudge upstairs and start going through my drawers. I found a sports bra with the elastic shot so I had to wear a second one over that one because I have some lovely lady humps that are full of manna from heaven-I needed to tie these puppies down. I put another tank top on for security reasons and then a t-shirt just in case. I pull on a pair of shorts and head downstairs to stretch-because that is what runners do, and starting today, I am a runner.
We start off fast... too fast for me and I am huffing and puffing and by the time we hit the corner my chest was burning and I may have dropped my bladder at the end of my neighbor's driveway.
I start walking. My husband yells at me to "KEEP RUNNING!" and so I follow behind him, making faces at the back of his head. Before I know what is happening he turns the corner out of our subdivision and is running along the busy highway-like road. Now let me tell you, there is nothing more embarrassing than running along traffic with your running shorts jammed up your butt crack and your left boob playing peek-a-boo with your tank top, not to mention the cellulite on the back of my legs jiggling and my butt bouncing up and down as if I were on a mechanical bull. It was at this moment that I started to understand my friend when she told me the story of when she was hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro with her husband and she just kept repeating in her head over and over "I hate my husband, I hate my husband." with each excruciating step up the mountain. Sure, she has the lack of oxygen to blame for her "psycho" chant... I just had years of relying on my hereditary thinness and the loss of blood flow to my head.
Eventually he turned off the "highway" from hell and slowed so that I could catch up. When we were side by side he kept talking. He talked about the bills, he took a mental tally of all of the clothes in his closet and what he was going to pack for his trip in November, he talked about Aaron's baseball team, Hope's softball techniques, Emma's coloring pages, Mary Claire's poo... he talked and talked and talked until I wanted to scream "STOP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"
You have to understand that I was in pain. I have not run in over 10, OK 20 years. My heart was about to burst out of my chest and my legs were about to crumble under me. I could not breath, my mouth was dry, I was coughing (I think I may have contracted asthma on this run) and my hair kept blowing in my eyes-I do not have a runners hairdo.
We ran for maybe a mile-not all at once... I am not the bionic woman people!
When we were finally home and I was standing in my cold shower I had some thoughts
#1 I would be kicked off of "The Biggest Loser" on the first day.
#2 Are you supposed to taste blood in your mouth when you run?
#3 I may have pulled something in my butt.
#4 I may very well have suffered a slight heart attack-or a stroke, yes, I may have had a stroke.
But my final thought was about my husband. Thank God I have him to help me along-to toss me onto a highway and talk to me until I want to vomit. If he can handle my complaining and cursing at him, I may be able to keep this torture up!
Keep up, all will be revealed.
The first story: When Carl and I were first dating, he decided to teach me how to drive his manual car. I had only had experience with automatic vehicles... baby blue 12 passenger van type of vehicles to be exact. After a few twists and turns on the 20 mph roads, he thought I was ready for the big leagues and directed me right on to an on-ramp. Before I knew what was happening I was driving on the highway and I started to scream, cry and stall. This story also reminds me a lot of my wedding night, but I digress... I freaked out, he yelled at me, and people were honking and gearing up to unleash their road rage upon me. Eventually I was able to get the car moving and get off of the highway. I think I may have even pee'd my pants a little that day. This is the day I started to make little mean faces at my husband when he was not looking. It is his own fault that sometimes I stick my tongue out at him and roll my eyes when he tells me something with his back toward me. I am not proud of this, but if he had not made me stall his car on the Dan Ryan and then yell at me, well I would be a much more well-balanced person.
The second story: When I was in labor with our first child I was hooked up to every machine in the hospital. I think I may have even been hooked up to the ATM, that may explain that nasty run in with a male nurse and his debit card, but again, I digress... One of the machines that I was hooked up to would track my contractions. It would tell me when I was calm and contraction free and it would tell me when I was having a semi-truck drive straight through my abdomen. Carl instantly fell in love with this machine. For the next three hours he would tell me when a contraction was about to happen. He would say "10 seconds now, 9, 8, 7, 6, you only have about 5 more seconds until a contraction, 4, 3, 2, oh, this one looks like it is going to really hurt, 1. You should be feeling a contraction right now." Eventually I ripped out his tongue and threw it across the room. The three births that I have had since that first one, Carl has not been allowed to talk during labor. He may try, but I will oh so delicately explain to him that the sound of his voice whilst I am in labor sounds like fingernails on a chalk board, and if he even wanted to be present at the birth of his children then he needed to sit quietly, making no comments... except maybe to tell me how amazing I am.
OK, now that you are caught up, I can tell you this story...
After the Mom posted a comment telling me I should start jogging because "After baby number 4, I quickly learned that a morning jog was 30 minutes ALONE in a place where the little people can't find me...the phone doesn't ring..nothing needs to be cleaned...there are no papers to grade... It's just me and the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Bliss!" I thought that a jog sounded like Heaven wrapped in a Dairy Queen cup. I couldn't get my running shoes out of the closet and dusted off fast enough!
I made the mistake of telling my husband that I wanted to start jogging. I even went so far as to ask him if he wanted to jog with me in the morning before he goes off to work. Now, if you know me personally, you may be saying to yourself "What in the mother loving world is she thinking? Cris does not jog, Cris does not sweat, Cris does not do anything that will cause heavy breathing whatsoever... except for that one thing-you know what I am talking about, and Cris does not do anything other than sleep in the morning... she doesn't even make her own children breakfast! She makes them eat cold pizza and leftover pot roast in the morning! She is out of her mind!"
Wait... I must tell you first that my husband loves me very much. He loves me when I am fat, and he loves me when I am a supermodel. He genuinely loves me for my mind. I also have ocean front property in Arizona that I would like to sell you... just send me your credit card and Mr. MasterCard will say OK! No, seriously, he loves me.
ANYWAY... I get a phone call from my husband today and he says "Put your running gear on, we are going jogging." I hang up and wonder what exactly IS running gear? I trudge upstairs and start going through my drawers. I found a sports bra with the elastic shot so I had to wear a second one over that one because I have some lovely lady humps that are full of manna from heaven-I needed to tie these puppies down. I put another tank top on for security reasons and then a t-shirt just in case. I pull on a pair of shorts and head downstairs to stretch-because that is what runners do, and starting today, I am a runner.
We start off fast... too fast for me and I am huffing and puffing and by the time we hit the corner my chest was burning and I may have dropped my bladder at the end of my neighbor's driveway.
I start walking. My husband yells at me to "KEEP RUNNING!" and so I follow behind him, making faces at the back of his head. Before I know what is happening he turns the corner out of our subdivision and is running along the busy highway-like road. Now let me tell you, there is nothing more embarrassing than running along traffic with your running shorts jammed up your butt crack and your left boob playing peek-a-boo with your tank top, not to mention the cellulite on the back of my legs jiggling and my butt bouncing up and down as if I were on a mechanical bull. It was at this moment that I started to understand my friend when she told me the story of when she was hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro with her husband and she just kept repeating in her head over and over "I hate my husband, I hate my husband." with each excruciating step up the mountain. Sure, she has the lack of oxygen to blame for her "psycho" chant... I just had years of relying on my hereditary thinness and the loss of blood flow to my head.
Eventually he turned off the "highway" from hell and slowed so that I could catch up. When we were side by side he kept talking. He talked about the bills, he took a mental tally of all of the clothes in his closet and what he was going to pack for his trip in November, he talked about Aaron's baseball team, Hope's softball techniques, Emma's coloring pages, Mary Claire's poo... he talked and talked and talked until I wanted to scream "STOP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"
You have to understand that I was in pain. I have not run in over 10, OK 20 years. My heart was about to burst out of my chest and my legs were about to crumble under me. I could not breath, my mouth was dry, I was coughing (I think I may have contracted asthma on this run) and my hair kept blowing in my eyes-I do not have a runners hairdo.
We ran for maybe a mile-not all at once... I am not the bionic woman people!
When we were finally home and I was standing in my cold shower I had some thoughts
#1 I would be kicked off of "The Biggest Loser" on the first day.
#2 Are you supposed to taste blood in your mouth when you run?
#3 I may have pulled something in my butt.
#4 I may very well have suffered a slight heart attack-or a stroke, yes, I may have had a stroke.
But my final thought was about my husband. Thank God I have him to help me along-to toss me onto a highway and talk to me until I want to vomit. If he can handle my complaining and cursing at him, I may be able to keep this torture up!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Muffin Tops, Not For Breakfast Anymore...
Today I pulled out all of my cool weather clothes. I was thrilled because it has been a long time since I wore these wonderful garments due to my pregnancy last winter. I hugged my comfy jeans and twirled around with my cozy sweaters. I know that I am not back to my pre-pregnancy weight yet... which is very confusing to me as I wake up every morning and hop on the scale and scratch my head in wonder. Why am I not back to my normal weight? Why am I not back to the weight I was when I got married? Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? These questions I have yet to answer and I challenge anyone else to answer them as well... if they dare.
Well, I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans. The ones that every woman has in her closet. The ones that fit you on your fat days and hang a little loose on your skinny days. The ones that make you butt look better, your tummy look smaller and your legs look longer. They are miracle workers I tell you!
I pulled them on and buttoned them up. I looked in the mirror and I screamed in horror~! Somehow my favorite jeans have turned on me! They have given me the biggest muffin top I have ever seen! If you do not know what a muffin top is, let me explain. Pretend you are putting on a great pair of jeans. They button and zip with little to no effort. You pull your top on and look in the mirror. Somehow your jeans have taken all of the excess fat from your waist area and shoved it above the jeans only to make you look like a size 6 from the waist down and a size 12 from the waist up. It is unattractive. It is embarrassing. It should be against the law.
I am in a bit of a pickle. My muffin top has made me rethink my aversion to jogging. But if I start jogging, what will all of the joggers in the area think when they know me as the woman who shouts obscenities at them as I drive by in my minivan? I just don't know if I can go over to the dark side-the heavy breathing and sweaty side.
Darn that Adam and Eve. If they had just left that stupid apple alone I would be walking around naked and never even know what a muffin top was! The best part is that everyone would be naked and none of us would realize it. It wouldn't be like a nudist camp where you have fat old men sunning themselves in the buff because it is "freeing." No, we would all be naked and happy-not caring if we needed to jog a few miles to get on our favorite pair of jeans.
It is apparent to me that muffin tops are the evil doing of the devil.
*The above picture IS NOT ME! I look worse.
Well, I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans. The ones that every woman has in her closet. The ones that fit you on your fat days and hang a little loose on your skinny days. The ones that make you butt look better, your tummy look smaller and your legs look longer. They are miracle workers I tell you!
I pulled them on and buttoned them up. I looked in the mirror and I screamed in horror~! Somehow my favorite jeans have turned on me! They have given me the biggest muffin top I have ever seen! If you do not know what a muffin top is, let me explain. Pretend you are putting on a great pair of jeans. They button and zip with little to no effort. You pull your top on and look in the mirror. Somehow your jeans have taken all of the excess fat from your waist area and shoved it above the jeans only to make you look like a size 6 from the waist down and a size 12 from the waist up. It is unattractive. It is embarrassing. It should be against the law.
I am in a bit of a pickle. My muffin top has made me rethink my aversion to jogging. But if I start jogging, what will all of the joggers in the area think when they know me as the woman who shouts obscenities at them as I drive by in my minivan? I just don't know if I can go over to the dark side-the heavy breathing and sweaty side.
Darn that Adam and Eve. If they had just left that stupid apple alone I would be walking around naked and never even know what a muffin top was! The best part is that everyone would be naked and none of us would realize it. It wouldn't be like a nudist camp where you have fat old men sunning themselves in the buff because it is "freeing." No, we would all be naked and happy-not caring if we needed to jog a few miles to get on our favorite pair of jeans.
It is apparent to me that muffin tops are the evil doing of the devil.
*The above picture IS NOT ME! I look worse.
Friday, October 12, 2007
MaMa, You Smell Like Dog Poo and Toe Jam All Rolled Up In One!
Emma has a blanket that has been with her since the beginning of time. She received it from her Aunt Shannon before she was even born and it is a part of her being. She loves this blanket. It used to be all soft and pink, now it is rough and a dingy grey. Emma likes to suck on two of her fingers on her left hand, leaving her right hand to do all of the things needed throughout the day like eat, pick her nose, scratch her butt, and hold my hand. When she is not doing those activities, she is holding her blanket and stuffing it up near her nose to smell it. Some days I walk into the room and see her sniffing her blanket with her eyes rolled back into her head and she whispers to herself, "mmmm, that smells good."
I do not know how Emma can love this blanket. It is ugly and stinky. I mean, the smell is foul, but obviously love it blind... and has no sense of smell.
Every couple of days or so I sneak the blanket away from her while she is not looking. I toss it in the washing machine and put an extra scoop of soap in the water in hopes that the blanket will actually smell April fresh.
After Emma realizes that I have taken her blanket, she will whine and cry and start ripping at her clothes and speaking in tongues because I am washing her blanket and she knows that the smell will be gone from it.
The worst part is when her blanket will finally emerge from the dryer she will smell it and then hand it to me and ask me to hug it real tight so that it gets its smell back.
Now I ask you... what in the world do I smell like?
I do not know how Emma can love this blanket. It is ugly and stinky. I mean, the smell is foul, but obviously love it blind... and has no sense of smell.
Every couple of days or so I sneak the blanket away from her while she is not looking. I toss it in the washing machine and put an extra scoop of soap in the water in hopes that the blanket will actually smell April fresh.
After Emma realizes that I have taken her blanket, she will whine and cry and start ripping at her clothes and speaking in tongues because I am washing her blanket and she knows that the smell will be gone from it.
The worst part is when her blanket will finally emerge from the dryer she will smell it and then hand it to me and ask me to hug it real tight so that it gets its smell back.
Now I ask you... what in the world do I smell like?
The Heavens Parted And Showed Me My Deoderant...
How much does a person really think about deodorant? I would think the normal person does not give it much thought at all except for the moment that they are slathering it on in the morning... and if you are from Europe, you may not even slather it on at all.
I ask this question because I am not a normal person. I think about deodorant a lot. I can't help it. I am obsessed.
For years I wore Secret Powder Fresh Solid. It did it's job and I was quite happy with it. I was living life thinking that ALL deodorants will leave that white mark on every bit of clothing you wear regardless. I came to terms with it and even figured out a way to put a shirt on without getting a big ol' white mark down my side... unless of course I was wearing something the was dry clean only, then Murphy's law would take affect and I would end up with white on my side, my back and my middle. Stupid deodorant.
I am also a deodorant whore. I have mentioned before that I have Deodorant OCD, I have sought out professional help and only put 8 swipes of deodorant on each pit instead of the ever popular 10 or 12 I used to.
Eventually I switched deodorants to Dove and I liked it at first until I was finding little white dots all over my bathroom floor from my pit rubbing together and flaking off the excess deodorant. Sometime I would get freaked out because I would be happily brushing my teeth only to jump in fright at the little tap I would get on my foot only to realize that it was a deodorant ball falling from my upper torso. I scare easily. I realize that there was probably these little white dots around because I put too much deodorant on to begin with, but I just can't break that habit over night... Rome was not built in a day people.
I decided to switch back to my secret and live with white marks for the rest of my life. When I went to the grocery they did not have my usual solid (it is the military commissary, some times I find meat... other times I am not so lucky). But they did have Secret Platinum Clear Gel. Hmmmm... I figured I would try it.
Well I am proud to announce that I am stink free, white mark free, and deodorant ball free! It is a miracle. The best part is that I have also been cured of my deodorant OCD as the gel only needs about two swipes to do the job. Who would have thought!
So, I have decided to buy a Hummer with all of the extra money I will have in my checkbook since my deodorant is now lasting longer and I am not buying so much each and every time I go to the store.
I highly recommend this deodorant to all of my female readers... oh what the heck, I recommend it to all of my male readers as well. Go ahead, live on the edge.
I ask this question because I am not a normal person. I think about deodorant a lot. I can't help it. I am obsessed.
For years I wore Secret Powder Fresh Solid. It did it's job and I was quite happy with it. I was living life thinking that ALL deodorants will leave that white mark on every bit of clothing you wear regardless. I came to terms with it and even figured out a way to put a shirt on without getting a big ol' white mark down my side... unless of course I was wearing something the was dry clean only, then Murphy's law would take affect and I would end up with white on my side, my back and my middle. Stupid deodorant.
I am also a deodorant whore. I have mentioned before that I have Deodorant OCD, I have sought out professional help and only put 8 swipes of deodorant on each pit instead of the ever popular 10 or 12 I used to.
Eventually I switched deodorants to Dove and I liked it at first until I was finding little white dots all over my bathroom floor from my pit rubbing together and flaking off the excess deodorant. Sometime I would get freaked out because I would be happily brushing my teeth only to jump in fright at the little tap I would get on my foot only to realize that it was a deodorant ball falling from my upper torso. I scare easily. I realize that there was probably these little white dots around because I put too much deodorant on to begin with, but I just can't break that habit over night... Rome was not built in a day people.
I decided to switch back to my secret and live with white marks for the rest of my life. When I went to the grocery they did not have my usual solid (it is the military commissary, some times I find meat... other times I am not so lucky). But they did have Secret Platinum Clear Gel. Hmmmm... I figured I would try it.
Well I am proud to announce that I am stink free, white mark free, and deodorant ball free! It is a miracle. The best part is that I have also been cured of my deodorant OCD as the gel only needs about two swipes to do the job. Who would have thought!
So, I have decided to buy a Hummer with all of the extra money I will have in my checkbook since my deodorant is now lasting longer and I am not buying so much each and every time I go to the store.
I highly recommend this deodorant to all of my female readers... oh what the heck, I recommend it to all of my male readers as well. Go ahead, live on the edge.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
I Need To Post A Sign On My Door... "Beware of Mother"
When I was a kid, I remember my parents had a sign posted in the window of our door that read "No Solicitors." I always thought this was weird as we never had door-to-door salesmen. I thought it would be neat to have a man in a three piece suit and a hat come knocking at our door selling vacuums and then make a mess on our living room carpet only to show my mother what an amazing vacuum he was selling... but since we had that stinkin' sign on our door, I never came face to face with a door-to-door salesman. The closest thing I ever came to an encounter with such a person was when I read the book "Death Of A Salesman" and it freaked me out about door-to-door salesmen being all depressed and crap.
Anyway, it seems in today's day and age door-to-door salesmen are making a comeback, only they are not selling vacuums, they are selling magazine subscriptions, or biodegradable cleaners in order to make a better life for themselves out of the ghetto.
At least once a week I open my door to find a rough looking fellow with a wife-beater tank top on and pants that look like his old Grandpa Max used to wear before he went on a diet and lost 175 lbs.
He gives me a heartfelt testimony about how he was in prison for killing his ex-girlfriend but it was not his fault since he was high on crack and so the judge gave him a second chance and ordered him to go door-to-door in my neighborhood and sell me magazine subscriptions. Oh, and my neighbor just down the street bought 4 subscriptions because she believes in the process of giving a person a second chance and helping them make something of themselves, so won't I consider helping him out and getting a subscription to Shape Magazine or Cosmopolitan?
I HATE this!
Well today my doorbell rang. I had to run as fast as I could to beat my children to the door because although I have warned them about opening the door to strangers, there is nothing more appealing than seeing who is on the other side of our front door... and it gets them away from their schoolwork for a minute or two. So, after I beat my kids to the door I opened it to see yet another down and out sort of fellow trying to sell me some AMAZING cleaner that "Sarah" down the street just bought from him. He asked "You know Sarah don't you?" to which I replied "No... I don't have a neighbor named Sarah, try another name and let's see how you do."
He looked at me and said, "Are you friendly?"
I replied, "No, are you?"
He said, "Yes I am friendly."
I reiterated, "I am not. I don't want to buy your cleaner. Good luck with the whole "making yourself better" thing you have going here." and closed the door.
You would think the others would have warned him about me.
Anyway, it seems in today's day and age door-to-door salesmen are making a comeback, only they are not selling vacuums, they are selling magazine subscriptions, or biodegradable cleaners in order to make a better life for themselves out of the ghetto.
At least once a week I open my door to find a rough looking fellow with a wife-beater tank top on and pants that look like his old Grandpa Max used to wear before he went on a diet and lost 175 lbs.
He gives me a heartfelt testimony about how he was in prison for killing his ex-girlfriend but it was not his fault since he was high on crack and so the judge gave him a second chance and ordered him to go door-to-door in my neighborhood and sell me magazine subscriptions. Oh, and my neighbor just down the street bought 4 subscriptions because she believes in the process of giving a person a second chance and helping them make something of themselves, so won't I consider helping him out and getting a subscription to Shape Magazine or Cosmopolitan?
I HATE this!
Well today my doorbell rang. I had to run as fast as I could to beat my children to the door because although I have warned them about opening the door to strangers, there is nothing more appealing than seeing who is on the other side of our front door... and it gets them away from their schoolwork for a minute or two. So, after I beat my kids to the door I opened it to see yet another down and out sort of fellow trying to sell me some AMAZING cleaner that "Sarah" down the street just bought from him. He asked "You know Sarah don't you?" to which I replied "No... I don't have a neighbor named Sarah, try another name and let's see how you do."
He looked at me and said, "Are you friendly?"
I replied, "No, are you?"
He said, "Yes I am friendly."
I reiterated, "I am not. I don't want to buy your cleaner. Good luck with the whole "making yourself better" thing you have going here." and closed the door.
You would think the others would have warned him about me.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
I'll Write Your Blog For A Song...
Aaron: "Mom, can I write your blog today for my birthday?"
ME: "First you would have to sign a contract stating that you will not talk bad about me and all monies you receive from writing the blog will go toward me."
Aaron: "You get money to write your blog?"
Me: "millions..."
Aaron: "I won't talk bad about you."
Me: "Then you don't have to sign a contract. What do you want to write about?"
Aaron: "I don't know"
Me: "Congratulations, you are now a blogger. Why don't you talk about Lori-she reads my blog. Tell her you love her."
Aaron: "Why would I tell Lori that I love her?"
Me: "Because Lori loves you."
Aaron: "Gross. Does Cameron and Colin's mom read your blog?"
Me: "I think it is in her contract with our friendship that she has to."
Aaron: "Tell her to tell Cameron and Colin I said hi."
Me: "You could talk about your home run!"
Aaron: "You never got a home run! HaHa I have!"
Me: "I could have gotten a home run if I wanted, I was too busy checking out the boys in the bleachers."
Aaron: "You are weird mom."
Me: "You could talk about how much you love your sisters."
Aaron: "No Thanks..."
Me: "You could talk about your girlfriends."
Aaron: scowling "MOM!"
Me: "Oh, don't act like you don't have girlfriends... I hear the rumors."
Aaron: "What? You are strange."
Me:
Aaron: "I could talk about my smashed fingers."
Me: "Yeah, that is what people like to read about-smashed fingers and blood."
Aaron: "I don't want to think about it."
Me: "Why don't you talk about how much you like school."
Aaron: "What? Where do you get your information woman?"
Me: "Oh, I was thinking of someone else, sorry."
Aaron: "I could talk about my computer game American Conquest Divided Nation. It is about the Civil War, the Texas War for Independence and the War of 1812. It has every battle of the civil war... blah blah blah blah blah"
Me: "ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz"
Aaron: "MOM!"
Me: "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep!"
Aaron: "You are mean."
Me: "No I'm not! If I were mean I wouldn't give you your gift!"
Aaron: "What is it?"
Me: "I don't know, I haven't bought it yet."
Aaron: "But today is my birthday!"
Me: "I am waiting for that big sale."
Aaron: "Whatever. You are weird."
Me: "How about you just pick the music for the blog today."
Aaron: "OK. Can it be rap?"
Me: "Good Lord Above NO!"
So here it is folks... Aaron's choice for music today. It is from High School Musical. He wanted American Rejects "Dirty Little Secret" but I don't think he understands what that means, and I would like to keep it that way.
ME: "First you would have to sign a contract stating that you will not talk bad about me and all monies you receive from writing the blog will go toward me."
Aaron: "You get money to write your blog?"
Me: "millions..."
Aaron: "I won't talk bad about you."
Me: "Then you don't have to sign a contract. What do you want to write about?"
Aaron: "I don't know"
Me: "Congratulations, you are now a blogger. Why don't you talk about Lori-she reads my blog. Tell her you love her."
Aaron: "Why would I tell Lori that I love her?"
Me: "Because Lori loves you."
Aaron: "Gross. Does Cameron and Colin's mom read your blog?"
Me: "I think it is in her contract with our friendship that she has to."
Aaron: "Tell her to tell Cameron and Colin I said hi."
Me: "You could talk about your home run!"
Aaron: "You never got a home run! HaHa I have!"
Me: "I could have gotten a home run if I wanted, I was too busy checking out the boys in the bleachers."
Aaron: "You are weird mom."
Me: "You could talk about how much you love your sisters."
Aaron: "No Thanks..."
Me: "You could talk about your girlfriends."
Aaron: scowling "MOM!"
Me: "Oh, don't act like you don't have girlfriends... I hear the rumors."
Aaron: "What? You are strange."
Me:
Aaron: "I could talk about my smashed fingers."
Me: "Yeah, that is what people like to read about-smashed fingers and blood."
Aaron: "I don't want to think about it."
Me: "Why don't you talk about how much you like school."
Aaron: "What? Where do you get your information woman?"
Me: "Oh, I was thinking of someone else, sorry."
Aaron: "I could talk about my computer game American Conquest Divided Nation. It is about the Civil War, the Texas War for Independence and the War of 1812. It has every battle of the civil war... blah blah blah blah blah"
Me: "ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz"
Aaron: "MOM!"
Me: "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep!"
Aaron: "You are mean."
Me: "No I'm not! If I were mean I wouldn't give you your gift!"
Aaron: "What is it?"
Me: "I don't know, I haven't bought it yet."
Aaron: "But today is my birthday!"
Me: "I am waiting for that big sale."
Aaron: "Whatever. You are weird."
Me: "How about you just pick the music for the blog today."
Aaron: "OK. Can it be rap?"
Me: "Good Lord Above NO!"
So here it is folks... Aaron's choice for music today. It is from High School Musical. He wanted American Rejects "Dirty Little Secret" but I don't think he understands what that means, and I would like to keep it that way.
Monday, October 8, 2007
No Flash Photography Allowed...
I just don't get it...
Today we went to a few museums downtown DC and I have to ask... why the hell do people feel the need to take photos of every stinkin' thing in a museum. I mean, it is in a museum, it is not like it is going to go away or anything.
I don't know how many times I had to stop and wait for someone to finish taking a picture before I could pass the big Wholly Mammoth that they were so thrilled to see that they had to forever preserve it in their camera or life as they knew it would cease to exist. Eventually I gave up trying to be polite by waiting for that random tourists to photograph themselves in front of the display case of the African Anteater rituals, and so I just kept walking. I may have ruined their picture with my middle finger pointing directly at the lens-I don't know.
Can someone explain this to me? I am not a camera type of person. I take picture, but they are of main events in our lives... the birth of our children, the first day of school, Baptisms, First Communions, the day I was paroled, you know... the important things. I don't go around flashing my camera at every single thing known to man. It is insane.
Do they develop all of these pictures, and if so, what in the world does a person do with 600 shots of them standing in front of a glass case that the contents within this case is unknown because their flash has blinded everything in the frame?
I honestly saw a man taking a picture of the big Brown Bear in a glass case today-and that is it. No kid in the picture making a frightened face from the bear, no wife grabbing the Bear's rear and laughing, no nephew picking the Bear's nose... just the bear. That was a winner of a shot. One to develop and put in the scrapbook. Good job.
So if you have recently gone on vacation and have just picked up your 1,000 photos and you see a few with just a big ol' middle finger pointing at you... that is probably me.
Don't tell me I never gave you anything.
Today we went to a few museums downtown DC and I have to ask... why the hell do people feel the need to take photos of every stinkin' thing in a museum. I mean, it is in a museum, it is not like it is going to go away or anything.
I don't know how many times I had to stop and wait for someone to finish taking a picture before I could pass the big Wholly Mammoth that they were so thrilled to see that they had to forever preserve it in their camera or life as they knew it would cease to exist. Eventually I gave up trying to be polite by waiting for that random tourists to photograph themselves in front of the display case of the African Anteater rituals, and so I just kept walking. I may have ruined their picture with my middle finger pointing directly at the lens-I don't know.
Can someone explain this to me? I am not a camera type of person. I take picture, but they are of main events in our lives... the birth of our children, the first day of school, Baptisms, First Communions, the day I was paroled, you know... the important things. I don't go around flashing my camera at every single thing known to man. It is insane.
Do they develop all of these pictures, and if so, what in the world does a person do with 600 shots of them standing in front of a glass case that the contents within this case is unknown because their flash has blinded everything in the frame?
I honestly saw a man taking a picture of the big Brown Bear in a glass case today-and that is it. No kid in the picture making a frightened face from the bear, no wife grabbing the Bear's rear and laughing, no nephew picking the Bear's nose... just the bear. That was a winner of a shot. One to develop and put in the scrapbook. Good job.
So if you have recently gone on vacation and have just picked up your 1,000 photos and you see a few with just a big ol' middle finger pointing at you... that is probably me.
Don't tell me I never gave you anything.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
A Coincidence? I Think Not.
My husband went golfing this morning.
This afternoon after dinner he looked in his wallet and found that he was missing his debit card.
I called the golf course to see if he had left it there.
He had, and I asked if they could just set it aside and I would come in tomorrow to pick it up.
After a few moments of deep thinking, my husband declared that he did not feel safe leaving his debit card at the golf course overnight. I think his exact words were "I don't think I can trust them."
He decided to go fetch the debit card tonight-and since it was still early he may as well hit a few holes.
Is it just me or does this sound like a carefully crafted scheme to be able to golf twice in one day?
Maybe I need to leave my debit card at the jewelry store.
This afternoon after dinner he looked in his wallet and found that he was missing his debit card.
I called the golf course to see if he had left it there.
He had, and I asked if they could just set it aside and I would come in tomorrow to pick it up.
After a few moments of deep thinking, my husband declared that he did not feel safe leaving his debit card at the golf course overnight. I think his exact words were "I don't think I can trust them."
He decided to go fetch the debit card tonight-and since it was still early he may as well hit a few holes.
Is it just me or does this sound like a carefully crafted scheme to be able to golf twice in one day?
Maybe I need to leave my debit card at the jewelry store.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Follow The Yellow Brick Road...
The other day I happened to turn on Oprah and she had Dr. Oz on. Now, if you have never heard of or seen Dr. Oz, he is Oprah's favorite Doc who brings disgusting things on her show like a carotid colon or a festering eyeball. It is all interesting stuff and he is a huge hit with her viewers. One could even say that people are starting to trust Dr. Oz and believe everything he says.
I was pointing that exact notion out to my husband as we sat there and listened to Dr. Oz talk about men's health issues. I said "How do we know Dr. Oz knows what he is talking about? I mean, if he told you that your insides are purple, people would believe him and the entire world would start thinking that their insides were purple. A "purple heart" would take on a whole new meaning!"
Just because Oprah likes someone, does the rest of the country have to like the person as well? Don't get me wrong, if Oprah called me tomorrow and wanted to do a show on fabulous blogger moms who drink and make fun of their neighbors, well then I would be the first one to say "Absolutely!" Could you imagine the hits this blog would get after an appearance on Oprah? I would be uber-famous... but I digress.
How do we know what Dr. Oz is saying is correct, factual, infallible, and true? We don't. That is my point.
I think he proved my point when he made the comment that men should have sex an average of 4 times a week.
Are you kidding me?
He then went on to say that a man's life expectancy is lengthened if he has sex 4 times a week. He made a joking comment that wives need to take heed to his suggestion if they really and truly love their husbands and want them to live a long life.
Now, I don't know about you, but 4 times is a lot. Maybe if I was younger, thinner, didn't have so many kids wearing me out, was rich and had a chef, was rich and had a trainer, got my hair done regularly and my nails done weekly, had a pedicure, and was drunk every night... then my husband would get sex 4 times a week.
As it stands now, he is lucky if he averages 2 times, OK, make it once.
ANYWAY... my husband believed Dr. OZ. Did he believe him because he was on Oprah or because he was suggesting that he should have more sex? I am thinking the latter but what do I know.
Being the good and dutiful wife that I am, I attempted to lengthen my husband's life expectancy this past week.
I am exhausted... a person can not keep this type of schedule up.
Dr. Oz is wrong. If my husband asks for sex one more time this week I may just shoot him. What does that do for his life expectancy?
I was pointing that exact notion out to my husband as we sat there and listened to Dr. Oz talk about men's health issues. I said "How do we know Dr. Oz knows what he is talking about? I mean, if he told you that your insides are purple, people would believe him and the entire world would start thinking that their insides were purple. A "purple heart" would take on a whole new meaning!"
Just because Oprah likes someone, does the rest of the country have to like the person as well? Don't get me wrong, if Oprah called me tomorrow and wanted to do a show on fabulous blogger moms who drink and make fun of their neighbors, well then I would be the first one to say "Absolutely!" Could you imagine the hits this blog would get after an appearance on Oprah? I would be uber-famous... but I digress.
How do we know what Dr. Oz is saying is correct, factual, infallible, and true? We don't. That is my point.
I think he proved my point when he made the comment that men should have sex an average of 4 times a week.
Are you kidding me?
He then went on to say that a man's life expectancy is lengthened if he has sex 4 times a week. He made a joking comment that wives need to take heed to his suggestion if they really and truly love their husbands and want them to live a long life.
Now, I don't know about you, but 4 times is a lot. Maybe if I was younger, thinner, didn't have so many kids wearing me out, was rich and had a chef, was rich and had a trainer, got my hair done regularly and my nails done weekly, had a pedicure, and was drunk every night... then my husband would get sex 4 times a week.
As it stands now, he is lucky if he averages 2 times, OK, make it once.
ANYWAY... my husband believed Dr. OZ. Did he believe him because he was on Oprah or because he was suggesting that he should have more sex? I am thinking the latter but what do I know.
Being the good and dutiful wife that I am, I attempted to lengthen my husband's life expectancy this past week.
I am exhausted... a person can not keep this type of schedule up.
Dr. Oz is wrong. If my husband asks for sex one more time this week I may just shoot him. What does that do for his life expectancy?
Thursday, October 4, 2007
A Day In The Life...
Conversation between my son and I as we were leaving the Optical Store after picking up his new pair of glasses...
Aaron- "Do I look cool or like a dork in these Mom?"
Me - "Like a dork... definitely a dork."
Aaron - "Thanks"
Me - "Not a problem."
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
My Kid Is Better Than Your Kid! Na Na Na Na Na...
Today I had to go on a field trip to a pumpkin patch with gobs of preschoolers. It was torture. Why was it torture you ask? Because the preschoolers' mothers came along as well.
At one point I sat on a tree trunk around a fire and listened to other preschooler moms chatting. They were talking about how they worry if their little Emily and Magenta (yes, there is a poor little child in this world with the name "Magenta") will be prepared for Kindergarten. Each took turns boasting about their daughter's writing abilities and spelling abilities and how articulate their children are and how they even know how to tie their shoes... but oh sweet Jesus, will it be enough to get them through the rigorous demands of Kindergarten?
I started to chuckle to myself. You see, my preschooler is the third child in a family of four kids. She may or may not know how to spell her name-I'll have to check when I am finished with this post, but I am not worried about kindergarten. Why you ask? Because it is stupid to worry about kindergarten that is why.
I remember when I just had Hope (our oldest) I was positive that she was a genius. She knew her colors, her alphabet, her shapes (even the tricky ones like a pentagon or a hexagon), her name, her address, her phone number, her parent's names, her prayers... and even what a noun in the objective case was! I occupied each and every day of our lives reading books, singing songs, and helping her along on the road to college.
When Aaron came along, I didn't have as much time and I was satisfied that he knew what his name was when he went to kindergarten. The kid still has trouble tying his shoes and he is nine.
Poor Emma has the influence of her older siblings in her upbringing and in her education at home. She may not know her ABC song, but she knows who Hannah Montana is. She may not pay attention to her shapes, but she knows how to program the DVD player. She may not even know what her address is, but she knows how to get to the park and back following the creek. She definitely does not go around singing "I'm A Little Tea Pot" but would rather belt out the words to Avril Levine's "I Wanna Be Your Girlfriend."
I am sure there is no hope for Mary Claire when she gets ready for kindergarten. Hell, I don't even know if she will be able to walk by them.
My point is this. Don't be so "my kid is better than your kid" with your preschooler when they are your only child. My preschooler may not know who the hell Little Miss Muffet is, but I bet she could survive on the cold streets of DC if she had to. She has older siblings who have taught her well my friend.
Emma will do just fine next year in Kindergarten, I am willing to bet that she will do much better than Emily and Magenta. Wanna know how I know this? Because while the "Kindergarten will be so challenging" moms were going on and on about how fabulous their little girls were, I saw my Emma stop little Magenta from putting the goat poo pellets she had in her little chubby hand into her mouth explaining to her that she would get sick and die if she ate goat poo.
Emma is going to be President one day!
At one point I sat on a tree trunk around a fire and listened to other preschooler moms chatting. They were talking about how they worry if their little Emily and Magenta (yes, there is a poor little child in this world with the name "Magenta") will be prepared for Kindergarten. Each took turns boasting about their daughter's writing abilities and spelling abilities and how articulate their children are and how they even know how to tie their shoes... but oh sweet Jesus, will it be enough to get them through the rigorous demands of Kindergarten?
I started to chuckle to myself. You see, my preschooler is the third child in a family of four kids. She may or may not know how to spell her name-I'll have to check when I am finished with this post, but I am not worried about kindergarten. Why you ask? Because it is stupid to worry about kindergarten that is why.
I remember when I just had Hope (our oldest) I was positive that she was a genius. She knew her colors, her alphabet, her shapes (even the tricky ones like a pentagon or a hexagon), her name, her address, her phone number, her parent's names, her prayers... and even what a noun in the objective case was! I occupied each and every day of our lives reading books, singing songs, and helping her along on the road to college.
When Aaron came along, I didn't have as much time and I was satisfied that he knew what his name was when he went to kindergarten. The kid still has trouble tying his shoes and he is nine.
Poor Emma has the influence of her older siblings in her upbringing and in her education at home. She may not know her ABC song, but she knows who Hannah Montana is. She may not pay attention to her shapes, but she knows how to program the DVD player. She may not even know what her address is, but she knows how to get to the park and back following the creek. She definitely does not go around singing "I'm A Little Tea Pot" but would rather belt out the words to Avril Levine's "I Wanna Be Your Girlfriend."
I am sure there is no hope for Mary Claire when she gets ready for kindergarten. Hell, I don't even know if she will be able to walk by them.
My point is this. Don't be so "my kid is better than your kid" with your preschooler when they are your only child. My preschooler may not know who the hell Little Miss Muffet is, but I bet she could survive on the cold streets of DC if she had to. She has older siblings who have taught her well my friend.
Emma will do just fine next year in Kindergarten, I am willing to bet that she will do much better than Emily and Magenta. Wanna know how I know this? Because while the "Kindergarten will be so challenging" moms were going on and on about how fabulous their little girls were, I saw my Emma stop little Magenta from putting the goat poo pellets she had in her little chubby hand into her mouth explaining to her that she would get sick and die if she ate goat poo.
Emma is going to be President one day!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Random Acts of Violence
Yesterday my sister-in-law called. She has hurt her wrist in some way-either broken or badly injured-and we started joking around. I suggested that maybe our Mother-in-law has a couple of voo-doo dolls in our likenesses and she is the main cause of my tooth problems and her wrist problems. We thought we would know for definite if anything else happened to us...
This morning I woke up and my back went out.
Spooky.
****************************************************************
I love Dairy Queen Blizzards. I love the m&m blizzard. I could live off of this yummy dessert.
My husband was going to pick up my daughter from her riding lessons last night and I suggested that he stop at DQ and bring me back a m&m blizzard to which he replied, "No way."
I led him to believe that if he did stop at DQ and buy me a m&m blizzard that there would be some "action" in his near future.
He bought me a large... he is so easy.
******************************************************************
My brother-in-law Chet (we all remember Chet from the birth story right?) is out to sea. He is not "out to sea" as in "crazy and at a crazy hospital that no one is talking about it so we just say he is out to sea" - he is in the navy. Anyway, he is supposed to come home Thursday. He called my sister-in-law (my voo-doo doll twin) early this morning as simply said, "I might be coming home tonight-clean the house-gotta go!" and hung up.
It is the romance that keeps their marriage rockin'
*******************************************************************
This morning I woke up and my back went out.
Spooky.
****************************************************************
I love Dairy Queen Blizzards. I love the m&m blizzard. I could live off of this yummy dessert.
My husband was going to pick up my daughter from her riding lessons last night and I suggested that he stop at DQ and bring me back a m&m blizzard to which he replied, "No way."
I led him to believe that if he did stop at DQ and buy me a m&m blizzard that there would be some "action" in his near future.
He bought me a large... he is so easy.
******************************************************************
My brother-in-law Chet (we all remember Chet from the birth story right?) is out to sea. He is not "out to sea" as in "crazy and at a crazy hospital that no one is talking about it so we just say he is out to sea" - he is in the navy. Anyway, he is supposed to come home Thursday. He called my sister-in-law (my voo-doo doll twin) early this morning as simply said, "I might be coming home tonight-clean the house-gotta go!" and hung up.
It is the romance that keeps their marriage rockin'
*******************************************************************
Monday, October 1, 2007
Saint Apollonia, Pray For Me.
My face still hurts. It has been 4 days since my root canal and although my tooth no longer hurts, I still look like that kid in the movie "Mask" starring Cher.
I decided to look up the patron saint of toothaches and found that it is Saint Apollonia. After reading her story, I vowed to stop complaining about my tooth.
St. Appollonia had all of her teeth broken out of her head with a pair of pliers when she would not renounce her Christian faith and when her persecutors threatened her with being burned at the stake, well St. Apollonia jumped into the flames herself!
Let me tell you something. The way my tooth hurt, if I had all of my teeth broken in my head... I would jump into a fire as well to make it stop hurting.
St. Apollonia was one tough chick.
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