Don't wizzle in your pants - or anything. I know I've been slacking horrifically. And have had many tongue lashings by "those" who feel they are allowed to give tongue lashings. . . . . . But the holidays are so distracting. And I've been slumped on my couch. And it's hard to have anything interesting and of worth to say when you're slumped and distracted.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
Showing posts with label couch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label couch. Show all posts
Monday, January 6, 2014
Monday, December 16, 2013
False Advertising Deserves a Nose Tweak
So I got this email about a local production of the Nutcracker ballet.
Key juicy points:
1) It was rated on a professional level as: just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2) Tickets were only $5 a person.
3) The show was run by a Russian. And Russians know how to dance.
Things I planned:
1) Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap. So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2) It was a surprise for Murnice. Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling. What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3) I invited Friday Friends. That was a surprise too.
4) Dinner all together after the ballet.
5) Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.
The way it really went down:
1) It really cost $8 per person.
2) There were about 37 people there. All parents and grandparents.
3) I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet. But I'll try.
a. the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers. I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for: way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b. we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker. Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music Clue #2 the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c. there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason. What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats. (Yes, that all happened)
d. the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out. Grown-ups. And they couldn't dance at all. Not in sync for a second. They did the same 4 moves the entire dance. One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards. They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4) Murnice cried. She hated every part of it.
5) Friday Friends never showed up. Nor have they told us why they didn't show up. It's all very fishy.
6) The show lasted 40 minutes. Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7) The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil. And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8) Big D and I fought the whole time.
Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?
Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go. At least I didn't almost die again.
I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.
On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house. Big D said that I looked so lovely. And that my breasts looked lushishly large. (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)
P.S. Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits? I am not ashamed.
Key juicy points:
1) It was rated on a professional level as: just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2) Tickets were only $5 a person.
3) The show was run by a Russian. And Russians know how to dance.
Things I planned:
1) Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap. So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2) It was a surprise for Murnice. Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling. What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3) I invited Friday Friends. That was a surprise too.
4) Dinner all together after the ballet.
5) Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.
The way it really went down:
1) It really cost $8 per person.
2) There were about 37 people there. All parents and grandparents.
3) I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet. But I'll try.
a. the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers. I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for: way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b. we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker. Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music Clue #2 the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c. there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason. What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats. (Yes, that all happened)
d. the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out. Grown-ups. And they couldn't dance at all. Not in sync for a second. They did the same 4 moves the entire dance. One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards. They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4) Murnice cried. She hated every part of it.
5) Friday Friends never showed up. Nor have they told us why they didn't show up. It's all very fishy.
6) The show lasted 40 minutes. Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7) The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil. And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8) Big D and I fought the whole time.
Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?
Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go. At least I didn't almost die again.
I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.
On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house. Big D said that I looked so lovely. And that my breasts looked lushishly large. (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)
P.S. Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits? I am not ashamed.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Half-Way to Snow Bird Land
I left Big D again.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Struggles of a Couch Lover
I'm doing this virtual bible study called: Good Morning Girls. Admitted - worst, cheesiest, run-away name ever.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
Monday, September 16, 2013
The Day I Almost Died
I almost died.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Big D and I haven't spoken since Sunday.
Ok, honest truth. I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it. I like the purging of all things emotional. I like the rawness. I like the desperation. I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling. Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty. And I love nothing more than honesty.
Did you know that I love 100% honesty. And despise deception? More than one million percent?
Another thing I love about fighting: I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting. It's like a break from marriage. I don't have to try. I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts. Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad.
For example: Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea. Well, in theory it's great. However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work. That story makes me a nervy wife. But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting? Great idea. Don't really care as much.
On the other hand, if we're having this great week. Lots of naughty boom boom time. Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed. Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.
So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring. As much. (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)
So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk. Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions. It's great. It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.
"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate. And I'm going full on bangs. Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes." "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work. And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out. A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore. All by myself. Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."
So, that's how our conversations go. And have been going since the beginning of Monday.
One last thing I love about fighting. I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me. And snuggles extra hard. And watches Grey's Anatomy with me. And drinks wine with me. And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario. And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.
Also, I came up with a new word. Wankfaggler. I have a meaning for it that I will not share. But I would love some new suggestions . . .
Take Aways
1) Give me a fight any day.
2) The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now. And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride. It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill. And a very short visit at the top of the hill. But it's a cycle. You'll always go down. And you'll always come back up. There are enjoyable parts all along the way. And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.
Ok, honest truth. I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it. I like the purging of all things emotional. I like the rawness. I like the desperation. I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling. Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty. And I love nothing more than honesty.
Did you know that I love 100% honesty. And despise deception? More than one million percent?
Another thing I love about fighting: I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting. It's like a break from marriage. I don't have to try. I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts. Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad.
For example: Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea. Well, in theory it's great. However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work. That story makes me a nervy wife. But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting? Great idea. Don't really care as much.
On the other hand, if we're having this great week. Lots of naughty boom boom time. Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed. Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.
So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring. As much. (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)
So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk. Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions. It's great. It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.
"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate. And I'm going full on bangs. Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes." "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work. And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out. A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore. All by myself. Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."
So, that's how our conversations go. And have been going since the beginning of Monday.
One last thing I love about fighting. I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me. And snuggles extra hard. And watches Grey's Anatomy with me. And drinks wine with me. And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario. And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.
Also, I came up with a new word. Wankfaggler. I have a meaning for it that I will not share. But I would love some new suggestions . . .
Take Aways
1) Give me a fight any day.
2) The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now. And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride. It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill. And a very short visit at the top of the hill. But it's a cycle. You'll always go down. And you'll always come back up. There are enjoyable parts all along the way. And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Allow Me to Take Care of That for You
I am a bit of an extremist. A bit of an all-or-nothing type of lady. It's like, give me whole beard or nothing. Go big - or don't show your face. And don't try to grow a beard if you have awful facial hair. . . . .. Moving on . . . .. . Or, I'd rather have the fullest bowl of soup or no soup at all. Or, bring me to orgasm or don't even think about it. Or, sing as loud as you can with as much vigor allowed, or don't sing at all.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Low Lady on the Totem Pole
Big D and I have a severe difference. It's "OUR" fight. (You know, every couple has a fight that ALL the fights go back to)(Sister Bear's is about cockroaches. Friday Friends is about car key placement.) Our fight is about Big D never being home.
It used to be sports that took him away from home. He was on 5 different teams of various ball-themed activities when we first met and into our first couple years of marriage. Then it briefly went to friend visits. Then work meetings. And now it's a pleasant mixture of rabbi activities and work meetings. (I say "pleasant" with a twisted tongue.) He saves his friend get-togethers for the weekend. When the family can come. (This sounds so kind of him - but it's actually awful)
So in my eyes, I am competing for attention with all of these activities. And I want to be #1 at all points of the day, week, (including weekends) and forever. I am an introvert and love my couch. And I want Big D to love my couch almost as much as I do. AKA sit on the couch with me till he puts his butt before me, and farts.
Ok, I know I sound awful and greedy and so selfish. And truthfully, I'm all of those things.
However, that being said - I know that after 9 years of fighting to be the top of the totem pole, I know that I will only get as far as right below the scariest face. I have tried threats, seduction, food, promises, and other sorts of techniques that a lady should not admit too. . . . . . And he always leaves for whatever is more exciting than the couch.
I promise you, he sits in his big empty office at work, and thinks up ways to avoid the couch. Last night he went straight from work to a "peer support group meeting for fellow MBA graduates - minus Big D who is not a graduate - yet". AND get this! They got the college to provide food for them. How do people even think up these things?!
If I were on that committee - or any committee . . . .
"Foxy, we need to have a meeting ." "Ok, my couch is comfortable, lets meet there. And we'll drink tea."
"Foxy, lets have mom's group." "Ok, lets have it at my house. We can sit on my couch."
"Foxy, lets have intercourse." . . . . . . . (Secret: that's the real reason why my couch is so smeared)
(I'm getting so sidetracked)
Anyway, sometimes I try to act like a grown-up. I try to have a somewhat mature attitude. I'll put Big D's activities into my calender to try and make it seem a bit fancier than it really is. Sometimes when things appear fancy I have a better attitude.
So last night I started out with a better attitude. I took an afternoon nap while the kids watched an abundance of tv. I made boxed mac and cheese with tuna for dinner. (it was incredible) Then I read a few chapters to them to alleviate my guilt, put them to bed - and eagerly awaited Big -who was going to sit on the couch and watch Burn Notice and then New Girl with me, while we chatted about our days like grownups.
Except that's not how it went. Lets just say that after 2 episodes of Burn Notice AND 2 episodes of New Girl Big D still had not come home. And I got *ahem* a little excited. And then stormed off to bed like a spoiled poop stain.
So, 3 readers . . . What is your main fight? Do share. And then tell me if you have a solution for your main fight - or if you just take the opportunity to really duke it out. Because sometimes a duke session is really what the Dr. has ordered.
Take Aways
1) Find a permanent couch buddy and pay them handsomely.
2) Never have expectations. Especially if they're romantic.
3) Continue to rock as a mother and have outstanding evenings with your children.
4) I can't decide which one is better - tv or chemical dinner. Both were amazing. So . . . do both.
5) Maybe add something, like a little sodypop with dinner.
6) Have "poor me" treats hidden in the cupboards.
It used to be sports that took him away from home. He was on 5 different teams of various ball-themed activities when we first met and into our first couple years of marriage. Then it briefly went to friend visits. Then work meetings. And now it's a pleasant mixture of rabbi activities and work meetings. (I say "pleasant" with a twisted tongue.) He saves his friend get-togethers for the weekend. When the family can come. (This sounds so kind of him - but it's actually awful)
So in my eyes, I am competing for attention with all of these activities. And I want to be #1 at all points of the day, week, (including weekends) and forever. I am an introvert and love my couch. And I want Big D to love my couch almost as much as I do. AKA sit on the couch with me till he puts his butt before me, and farts.
Ok, I know I sound awful and greedy and so selfish. And truthfully, I'm all of those things.
However, that being said - I know that after 9 years of fighting to be the top of the totem pole, I know that I will only get as far as right below the scariest face. I have tried threats, seduction, food, promises, and other sorts of techniques that a lady should not admit too. . . . . . And he always leaves for whatever is more exciting than the couch.
I promise you, he sits in his big empty office at work, and thinks up ways to avoid the couch. Last night he went straight from work to a "peer support group meeting for fellow MBA graduates - minus Big D who is not a graduate - yet". AND get this! They got the college to provide food for them. How do people even think up these things?!
If I were on that committee - or any committee . . . .
"Foxy, we need to have a meeting ." "Ok, my couch is comfortable, lets meet there. And we'll drink tea."
"Foxy, lets have mom's group." "Ok, lets have it at my house. We can sit on my couch."
"Foxy, lets have intercourse." . . . . . . . (Secret: that's the real reason why my couch is so smeared)
(I'm getting so sidetracked)
Anyway, sometimes I try to act like a grown-up. I try to have a somewhat mature attitude. I'll put Big D's activities into my calender to try and make it seem a bit fancier than it really is. Sometimes when things appear fancy I have a better attitude.
So last night I started out with a better attitude. I took an afternoon nap while the kids watched an abundance of tv. I made boxed mac and cheese with tuna for dinner. (it was incredible) Then I read a few chapters to them to alleviate my guilt, put them to bed - and eagerly awaited Big -who was going to sit on the couch and watch Burn Notice and then New Girl with me, while we chatted about our days like grownups.
Except that's not how it went. Lets just say that after 2 episodes of Burn Notice AND 2 episodes of New Girl Big D still had not come home. And I got *ahem* a little excited. And then stormed off to bed like a spoiled poop stain.
So, 3 readers . . . What is your main fight? Do share. And then tell me if you have a solution for your main fight - or if you just take the opportunity to really duke it out. Because sometimes a duke session is really what the Dr. has ordered.
Take Aways
1) Find a permanent couch buddy and pay them handsomely.
2) Never have expectations. Especially if they're romantic.
3) Continue to rock as a mother and have outstanding evenings with your children.
4) I can't decide which one is better - tv or chemical dinner. Both were amazing. So . . . do both.
5) Maybe add something, like a little sodypop with dinner.
6) Have "poor me" treats hidden in the cupboards.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Why I Moved in With Mother
Here's the scoopy poopy.
Like I mentioned earlier last week, I've moved in with my mother. True dat.
And as much as I would like you all to think wild thoughts about the state of Big D's and my holy matrimony - I am pleased to tell you that we are fine and as smooth as butter.
I moved in with my mother for a selfish/nonselfish reason. Here goes.
When I turned 15 I started teaching swim lessons. And fell a bit in love - over time. I really was forced into the situation. Kinda like an arranged marriage. And over time my heart opened up to the love potential.
Things I Love About My Job
1) The pay
2) The challenge
3) The staff
4) The confidence in my ability to perform a job well done that has built over time
5) The results
6) The creativity
7) The reason to show off my firming buns
Things I Hate About My Job
1) The creepy dads
2) The chemical water that instantly gives me a rash
3) The temperature of the water
4) The possiblity of having to deal with a life or death situation
5) The conflicts
6) The bodily fluids/communicable diseases
So, every summer the swim program hosts a 6 week program - and last year I almost ended my marriage for the 37th time while doing the swim program. Every minute of every day has to be accounted for and Big D is anything but helpful. Honestly, it's worse than that. He turns into a dickleweed. And I turn into a roaring she-lion on steroids who just had 7 cubs. And we claw at each other and bite each other where it really matters.
When I finally decided to work this summer again (there were a lot of deciding factors) I thought maybe that moving in with Mother would be wise. I would get more sleep. I wouldn't have the stress of the commute (1 hour). And Big D and I would be separate and therefore loving when we had the opportunity to see each other (minus last night). The kids have a more consistent schedule and are a lot more pleasant to be around.
One week down, 5 to go. Big D is all about paying me extra attention . . . (every woman wants to feel desired - and I have felt desired, minus last night) Maybe it's just my new buns. I have gotten far less sleep - the kids are in bed with me. ("uggles mommy" - I think Ed is going through snuggle withdrawals since there really isn't a time to snuggle because there is always SO much work to be done at Mothers. So bed is the only place where I'm in one position for longer than 5 minutes.) I am less stressed and time constricted. The kids have a choice of 7-9 adults at any given time to play with/help/watch.
And then I came home - and my mole hole turned into this: (I hope this makes you all feel better about the condition of your mole hole. Or house - if you have an actual house.)
Take Aways
1) Choose unconventional ways to live life.
2) Find things that you love - and do them. Even if they're unconventional.
3) Sleep is over rated, stress is not.
4) Pay attention to the day you're in, leaving tomorrow for tomorrow.
Fun Fact
Ed is obsessed with feeling my armpits. He thinks they're soft. But when they're sweaty - which is 97% of the time - he says "ew" and them smears his sweaty fingers on the couch. I am destined to have the grossest couch forever and ever amen.
Like I mentioned earlier last week, I've moved in with my mother. True dat.
And as much as I would like you all to think wild thoughts about the state of Big D's and my holy matrimony - I am pleased to tell you that we are fine and as smooth as butter.
I moved in with my mother for a selfish/nonselfish reason. Here goes.
When I turned 15 I started teaching swim lessons. And fell a bit in love - over time. I really was forced into the situation. Kinda like an arranged marriage. And over time my heart opened up to the love potential.
Things I Love About My Job
1) The pay
2) The challenge
3) The staff
4) The confidence in my ability to perform a job well done that has built over time
5) The results
6) The creativity
7) The reason to show off my firming buns
Things I Hate About My Job
1) The creepy dads
2) The chemical water that instantly gives me a rash
3) The temperature of the water
4) The possiblity of having to deal with a life or death situation
5) The conflicts
6) The bodily fluids/communicable diseases
So, every summer the swim program hosts a 6 week program - and last year I almost ended my marriage for the 37th time while doing the swim program. Every minute of every day has to be accounted for and Big D is anything but helpful. Honestly, it's worse than that. He turns into a dickleweed. And I turn into a roaring she-lion on steroids who just had 7 cubs. And we claw at each other and bite each other where it really matters.
When I finally decided to work this summer again (there were a lot of deciding factors) I thought maybe that moving in with Mother would be wise. I would get more sleep. I wouldn't have the stress of the commute (1 hour). And Big D and I would be separate and therefore loving when we had the opportunity to see each other (minus last night). The kids have a more consistent schedule and are a lot more pleasant to be around.
One week down, 5 to go. Big D is all about paying me extra attention . . . (every woman wants to feel desired - and I have felt desired, minus last night) Maybe it's just my new buns. I have gotten far less sleep - the kids are in bed with me. ("uggles mommy" - I think Ed is going through snuggle withdrawals since there really isn't a time to snuggle because there is always SO much work to be done at Mothers. So bed is the only place where I'm in one position for longer than 5 minutes.) I am less stressed and time constricted. The kids have a choice of 7-9 adults at any given time to play with/help/watch.
And then I came home - and my mole hole turned into this: (I hope this makes you all feel better about the condition of your mole hole. Or house - if you have an actual house.)
Take Aways
1) Choose unconventional ways to live life.
2) Find things that you love - and do them. Even if they're unconventional.
3) Sleep is over rated, stress is not.
4) Pay attention to the day you're in, leaving tomorrow for tomorrow.
Fun Fact
Ed is obsessed with feeling my armpits. He thinks they're soft. But when they're sweaty - which is 97% of the time - he says "ew" and them smears his sweaty fingers on the couch. I am destined to have the grossest couch forever and ever amen.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Desperate Housewife? (Ew)
How shall I put this without sounding less than holy . . . I don't think there is a way. So I'll be less than holy and promptly get a ringle jingle from Big D. (this would be one of those times that having him subscribed to my life is probably not in my best interest)
So, remember this neighbor?
Her treemen came today. *pant*
Let me back up a tad more. Bruver Bear Chuck basically woke me up this morning. He called last night to tell me that his wife hadn't had the baby. I got sidetracked from that little call (that I did NOT answer because I was driving in turd twisting traffic) and took the wrong turn. And yelled "CURSES".
So he called me back this morning on his drive to work so we could catch up on ridiculous life. And reminisce about all the times he had to apologize to adults when he was a kid. My favorite story from this morning was the time that one of our mother's friends had to pick him up from piano lessons. He climbed in the vehicle and shouted, "smells like fish in here". Then he grabbed our mother's friend's hair, took a whopping sniff and exclaimed, "yup, that's what it is".
*can't stop laughing about that one.*
And then Bruver Chuck hung up and I raced to the restroom to take care of morning things and looked in the mirror, and smirkingly thought "ha, I look like I'm ready to see the neighbor". And then I said, "OH poopies and peepees!!! It's Thursday and the neighbor said she was coming back today to talk about tree stuff" *pant pant pant*
I threw clothes on. Which entailed picking up yesterday's clothes off the floor. But the neighbor wouldn't know that. And smeared on about 7 inches of deodorant because an alarming stench was wafting out of my pores from panicking about the neighbor.
Then I looked in the mirror and said, "yes, yes. that looks quite nice". And decided to throw on some makeups and really wow the neighbor.
Well, before the neighbor came over, the treemen came. They backed up their big-rig down the narrow driveway. And these men starting crawling out of the woodwork (no pun intended) (just kidding - pun intended) Lots and lots of men. They had these auras of testosterone that gleamed and glittered. Lots and lots of workboots. *pant* Nasty workmen jeans that only workmen can wear. *pant* Red dirty t-shirts. *pant* Hard hats and workmen sunglasses. *pant* And big BIG muscles *pant pant pant pant pant pant* And really loud machines. *pant* But the thing I LOVED the most, was the yelling. NONSTOP. Bickering and hollering and singing and bossing. And yelling.
So, the foreman gets in the cherry-picker basket and somebody raises him up over to the tree. And at that exact moment, all the other workmen revved every engine that was in sight. The truck, the woodchipper, and all 37 chainsaws. And the foreman starts yelling. Really loud.
I think a woman would have a) taken notes while up in the cherry-picker to talk about when she got back down on the ground b) have everybody turn off their power tools so she could yell from way above the clouds OR c) used something technical and smart.
But no. They just yell. And yell. And it was delightful.
And finally the neighbor came over and asked if I'd like to come over and talk to the men about getting some scraps for our Tiny Tim fire pit.
P.S. When I opened the door for the neighbor, she said, "hello beautiful". And I felt like a queen because I wasn't in my mom pajamas. Nor was my hair greasy and parted down the middle.
I grabbed both kids hands and we marched our bottoms straight over to the treemen - which happened to be around the corner - because the neighbor lives directly behind us. I hoped I looked fancy enough. Because every mother wants to be noticed. Especially by treemen. (do I sound like a hussy?)
And there I was. Standing before these huge, manly, sweat-covered, treemen. I was promptly directed to the foreman - and this greek-like, mythical creature turns around. And I couldn't help myself. I got real close. And sniffed real hard. And laid my hand on his arm - squeezed his muscular bulge, and said, "sorry. I couldn't resist."
Kidding.
Instead, I snorted twice and said, "hi . . . uh . . . .um . . .. .er . . . .I want . . . some. I need the firewood. Throw it over the fence." And then they said some things to me that I don't remember, because now I had a small crowd of treemen around me. But I do know that I twisted my tongue 7 more times and ran home. And hid in the house.
But I have a nice pile of firewood that will make Big D mad. And I'll say, "go put on your hard hat and cut me some wood."
Take Aways
1) Never ever leave the house.
2) And if you do, definitely don't open your mouth.
3) Just smile and nod.
4) Wear a whiteboard around your neck in case you run into a situation where words need to be exchanged.
5) Need to remember that God made me one of the worst speakers in the world for a reason.
6) Maybe it's to help with my pride.
7) Or maybe it's to keep me out of more trouble than I already get myself into.
8) Possibly it was to make me write, because if I could talk, I definitely wouldn't be writing. Takes too long.
9) Rent a chainsaw for the weekend. Maybe a few, and have my own treemen party. But I'll stay in the house. And yell.
Fun Fact
I scrubbed this monstrosity today.
Bye-bye pee dribbles and grease splatters.
Don't look too close. It's not perfect. But it's good enough for me.
So, remember this neighbor?
Her treemen came today. *pant*
Let me back up a tad more. Bruver Bear Chuck basically woke me up this morning. He called last night to tell me that his wife hadn't had the baby. I got sidetracked from that little call (that I did NOT answer because I was driving in turd twisting traffic) and took the wrong turn. And yelled "CURSES".
So he called me back this morning on his drive to work so we could catch up on ridiculous life. And reminisce about all the times he had to apologize to adults when he was a kid. My favorite story from this morning was the time that one of our mother's friends had to pick him up from piano lessons. He climbed in the vehicle and shouted, "smells like fish in here". Then he grabbed our mother's friend's hair, took a whopping sniff and exclaimed, "yup, that's what it is".
*can't stop laughing about that one.*
And then Bruver Chuck hung up and I raced to the restroom to take care of morning things and looked in the mirror, and smirkingly thought "ha, I look like I'm ready to see the neighbor". And then I said, "OH poopies and peepees!!! It's Thursday and the neighbor said she was coming back today to talk about tree stuff" *pant pant pant*
I threw clothes on. Which entailed picking up yesterday's clothes off the floor. But the neighbor wouldn't know that. And smeared on about 7 inches of deodorant because an alarming stench was wafting out of my pores from panicking about the neighbor.
Then I looked in the mirror and said, "yes, yes. that looks quite nice". And decided to throw on some makeups and really wow the neighbor.
Well, before the neighbor came over, the treemen came. They backed up their big-rig down the narrow driveway. And these men starting crawling out of the woodwork (no pun intended) (just kidding - pun intended) Lots and lots of men. They had these auras of testosterone that gleamed and glittered. Lots and lots of workboots. *pant* Nasty workmen jeans that only workmen can wear. *pant* Red dirty t-shirts. *pant* Hard hats and workmen sunglasses. *pant* And big BIG muscles *pant pant pant pant pant pant* And really loud machines. *pant* But the thing I LOVED the most, was the yelling. NONSTOP. Bickering and hollering and singing and bossing. And yelling.
So, the foreman gets in the cherry-picker basket and somebody raises him up over to the tree. And at that exact moment, all the other workmen revved every engine that was in sight. The truck, the woodchipper, and all 37 chainsaws. And the foreman starts yelling. Really loud.
I think a woman would have a) taken notes while up in the cherry-picker to talk about when she got back down on the ground b) have everybody turn off their power tools so she could yell from way above the clouds OR c) used something technical and smart.
But no. They just yell. And yell. And it was delightful.
And finally the neighbor came over and asked if I'd like to come over and talk to the men about getting some scraps for our Tiny Tim fire pit.
P.S. When I opened the door for the neighbor, she said, "hello beautiful". And I felt like a queen because I wasn't in my mom pajamas. Nor was my hair greasy and parted down the middle.
I grabbed both kids hands and we marched our bottoms straight over to the treemen - which happened to be around the corner - because the neighbor lives directly behind us. I hoped I looked fancy enough. Because every mother wants to be noticed. Especially by treemen. (do I sound like a hussy?)
And there I was. Standing before these huge, manly, sweat-covered, treemen. I was promptly directed to the foreman - and this greek-like, mythical creature turns around. And I couldn't help myself. I got real close. And sniffed real hard. And laid my hand on his arm - squeezed his muscular bulge, and said, "sorry. I couldn't resist."
Kidding.
Instead, I snorted twice and said, "hi . . . uh . . . .um . . .. .er . . . .I want . . . some. I need the firewood. Throw it over the fence." And then they said some things to me that I don't remember, because now I had a small crowd of treemen around me. But I do know that I twisted my tongue 7 more times and ran home. And hid in the house.
But I have a nice pile of firewood that will make Big D mad. And I'll say, "go put on your hard hat and cut me some wood."
Take Aways
1) Never ever leave the house.
2) And if you do, definitely don't open your mouth.
3) Just smile and nod.
4) Wear a whiteboard around your neck in case you run into a situation where words need to be exchanged.
5) Need to remember that God made me one of the worst speakers in the world for a reason.
6) Maybe it's to help with my pride.
7) Or maybe it's to keep me out of more trouble than I already get myself into.
8) Possibly it was to make me write, because if I could talk, I definitely wouldn't be writing. Takes too long.
9) Rent a chainsaw for the weekend. Maybe a few, and have my own treemen party. But I'll stay in the house. And yell.
Fun Fact
I scrubbed this monstrosity today.
Bye-bye pee dribbles and grease splatters.
Don't look too close. It's not perfect. But it's good enough for me.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Green Pants in the Rain is Better Than No Pants in the Rain
Praise the Lord, it has rained all day. Lovely lovely dark rain. The kind where all forms of productivity are put on hold. And your couch gets a little extra wear and tear. Or maybe it's just a big indent. Bigger indent. And a few more crumbs and greasy smears appear. And dishes collect on the floor surrounding the couch. It's most certainly couch day.
I love wearing couch clothes, which consist of . . . Green sweatpants with a huge grease smear on my left upper thigh. That would be from last nights dinner. I made salt block stew. And it landed on my pants because everybody loved it that much. Also on the left leg, I have dried on yogurt that fell on the floor this morning and splattered all over . . . my green sweatpants. On my right leg, upper thigh region, I have smeared ricotta cheese from last nights salt block stew. Ed was so pleased when he took his first bite, that he immediately shoved both hands into his mouth, gagged, and spit everything onto the floor. There were tears involved and very messy ricotta fingers that landed on my green sweatpants. On the top region of my hot bod, I'm wearing a red zipper hoodie. The sleeves are a tad too small as well as the bodice. But it is too comfy not to wear. On my left sleeve (right on the ribbed portion) I have a large gob of rubbed into exploded yogurt. It's crunchy and looks as though it's fading the red coloring of my sleeve.
I do not feel like a queen today.
Now today is Mom Group. Actually, it's when Betty Boop and I get together and smile and nod, because nobody else comes to it. Bom Group starts at 10am and I was feeling a bit adventurous. Adventurous actually spelled out is: No food in the house/starving. So I decided that a trip to the grocer was in order AFTER I dumped yogurt all over my Christmas outfit with approximately 20 minutes to spare before Betty Boo and crew arrived. I love to work under pressure. I perform so much better and efficiently..
I rush my list together. Grab my phone, keys, and money (budget - can't just use credit card *said in a really obnoxious whiny snarly voice*) Actually remembered to remind Murnice to use the bathroom. (For whatever reason, she will only go if told to go . . . *growling*) And put Ed's shoes on. And then remembered that Ed was not wearing a diaper, and we have never left the house without a pee-catcher. I left the lights on with the music. (Sometimes I like to come home with the lights and music on. It makes me feel like my house is welcoming me back. And I feel loved and wanted.) *Dear Jesus, please please please put a plug on Ed's urine production* Where's my shoes. "Murnice, grab the bags!" No blue, Ed. It has to stay home.
Mad chaos that lasted about 49 seconds. And then we all tumbled out the door. (Tumbling actually happens, because when the Witherhalls try to leave their house, the children rush forward, which makes it near impossible to open the door. Once the door is actually opened and all the children have moved accordingly, after being clunked on the head with bags, and toes have been properly stepped on, and noses have been crammed in corners, we - the adults, then have to open another door. The screen door. That door has to be pushed out. There are always children plastered up against the screen door which can only lead to tumbling out onto the stoop. Every time, this routine gets me really excited.)
So we make it outside onto the stoop and Murnice takes off to the car. It's raining quite heavily. Ed on the other hand doesn't want to move. More like, he's in a magical place and can't think about anything else besides the earth's gift of rain. And puddles. So that means Mother and her new blue leather bag must haul Ed to the car. And all you mother's know that sticking a child in a carseat when it's raining, is almost as bad as going to bed with your socks on. Half of you is in the car, the other half is hanging out. THE WORST. And Ed, like most children I'm sure, just looks out into the world unable to do anything helpful. "You want me to put my arms in the straps? Well, I'm just going to sit here nicely with my hands folded in my lap". Locked up with tetanus. Unwilling to move.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!!! Do you think I enjoy getting my bottom half washed. All slippy slimy, moist and damp? While I wrestle your arms into their rightful spot. Moments like those make me as pleased as punch. Pleased. As. Punch.
We got to the grocer in record time. Was only almost hit once due to the poor new parking lot set up. We hustled. We rolled. I whispered a lot of anti-pee slogans. And then I noticed it was Grandma day. And you just can't roar around with Grandmas everywhere. They are just too sweet and startily. So we kept our wheel squealing to a minimum and grabbed our 5 +3 items.
With a friendly reminder to wear my hat in the rain, from a 'helping hand' - we screeched back home only 30 seconds over our time limit. And do you know what the first thing Betty Boop said to me?
"NICE GREEN PANTS!!!" Actually she hollered this to me. From her car.
And that's how the beginning moments of my day went.
Take Aways
1) Never invite Betty Boop over when you're wearing green pants
2) Wear your hat in the rain
3) And never bring the children anywhere while it's raining
4) Unless they can get themselves buckled up
5) Actually, just stay on your couch. Forever.
6) An interview question I had yesterday: interviewer - "Do you have a favorite location in the world" Foxy - "My couch"
7) I'm not ashamed by that answer. Unlike Big D who almost died when I told him.
8) Ed did not pee his pants. That would have added a whole new element to the post if he did.
9) There is nothing of significance to this post - minus a look into my ridiculous mom life.
I love wearing couch clothes, which consist of . . . Green sweatpants with a huge grease smear on my left upper thigh. That would be from last nights dinner. I made salt block stew. And it landed on my pants because everybody loved it that much. Also on the left leg, I have dried on yogurt that fell on the floor this morning and splattered all over . . . my green sweatpants. On my right leg, upper thigh region, I have smeared ricotta cheese from last nights salt block stew. Ed was so pleased when he took his first bite, that he immediately shoved both hands into his mouth, gagged, and spit everything onto the floor. There were tears involved and very messy ricotta fingers that landed on my green sweatpants. On the top region of my hot bod, I'm wearing a red zipper hoodie. The sleeves are a tad too small as well as the bodice. But it is too comfy not to wear. On my left sleeve (right on the ribbed portion) I have a large gob of rubbed into exploded yogurt. It's crunchy and looks as though it's fading the red coloring of my sleeve.
I do not feel like a queen today.
Now today is Mom Group. Actually, it's when Betty Boop and I get together and smile and nod, because nobody else comes to it. Bom Group starts at 10am and I was feeling a bit adventurous. Adventurous actually spelled out is: No food in the house/starving. So I decided that a trip to the grocer was in order AFTER I dumped yogurt all over my Christmas outfit with approximately 20 minutes to spare before Betty Boo and crew arrived. I love to work under pressure. I perform so much better and efficiently..
I rush my list together. Grab my phone, keys, and money (budget - can't just use credit card *said in a really obnoxious whiny snarly voice*) Actually remembered to remind Murnice to use the bathroom. (For whatever reason, she will only go if told to go . . . *growling*) And put Ed's shoes on. And then remembered that Ed was not wearing a diaper, and we have never left the house without a pee-catcher. I left the lights on with the music. (Sometimes I like to come home with the lights and music on. It makes me feel like my house is welcoming me back. And I feel loved and wanted.) *Dear Jesus, please please please put a plug on Ed's urine production* Where's my shoes. "Murnice, grab the bags!" No blue, Ed. It has to stay home.
Mad chaos that lasted about 49 seconds. And then we all tumbled out the door. (Tumbling actually happens, because when the Witherhalls try to leave their house, the children rush forward, which makes it near impossible to open the door. Once the door is actually opened and all the children have moved accordingly, after being clunked on the head with bags, and toes have been properly stepped on, and noses have been crammed in corners, we - the adults, then have to open another door. The screen door. That door has to be pushed out. There are always children plastered up against the screen door which can only lead to tumbling out onto the stoop. Every time, this routine gets me really excited.)
So we make it outside onto the stoop and Murnice takes off to the car. It's raining quite heavily. Ed on the other hand doesn't want to move. More like, he's in a magical place and can't think about anything else besides the earth's gift of rain. And puddles. So that means Mother and her new blue leather bag must haul Ed to the car. And all you mother's know that sticking a child in a carseat when it's raining, is almost as bad as going to bed with your socks on. Half of you is in the car, the other half is hanging out. THE WORST. And Ed, like most children I'm sure, just looks out into the world unable to do anything helpful. "You want me to put my arms in the straps? Well, I'm just going to sit here nicely with my hands folded in my lap". Locked up with tetanus. Unwilling to move.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!!! Do you think I enjoy getting my bottom half washed. All slippy slimy, moist and damp? While I wrestle your arms into their rightful spot. Moments like those make me as pleased as punch. Pleased. As. Punch.
We got to the grocer in record time. Was only almost hit once due to the poor new parking lot set up. We hustled. We rolled. I whispered a lot of anti-pee slogans. And then I noticed it was Grandma day. And you just can't roar around with Grandmas everywhere. They are just too sweet and startily. So we kept our wheel squealing to a minimum and grabbed our 5 +3 items.
With a friendly reminder to wear my hat in the rain, from a 'helping hand' - we screeched back home only 30 seconds over our time limit. And do you know what the first thing Betty Boop said to me?
"NICE GREEN PANTS!!!" Actually she hollered this to me. From her car.
And that's how the beginning moments of my day went.
Take Aways
1) Never invite Betty Boop over when you're wearing green pants
2) Wear your hat in the rain
3) And never bring the children anywhere while it's raining
4) Unless they can get themselves buckled up
5) Actually, just stay on your couch. Forever.
6) An interview question I had yesterday: interviewer - "Do you have a favorite location in the world" Foxy - "My couch"
7) I'm not ashamed by that answer. Unlike Big D who almost died when I told him.
8) Ed did not pee his pants. That would have added a whole new element to the post if he did.
9) There is nothing of significance to this post - minus a look into my ridiculous mom life.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Grumpy Sue = List Day
I am way way way way to tired and lazy to say anything fancy. So it's list day!!!
1) The amount of crumbs and food under my table could literally feed a family of chickens for a week. (We don't sweep)
2) My fancy purple drink container is still sitting in the corner. It's making me mad. It's like I just want to kick it. And yell at it for being stupid, breaking as easily as it did. (Maybe I'm too tired)
3) I hate bananas. Especially the bananus. That part makes me gag.
4) I am very much hooked on Leverage at the moment.
5) I'm making a flower bed into a sand box because I have no idea how to grow things.
6) All of the silverware in our house are dirty and sitting on the counter. And they will sit there till Big D gets to them. I'm boycotting silverware for the moment. Or day. Or days.
7) I think I like reading Proverbs best. So applicable.
8) My couches have really nasty jack speckles and spots all over them. They really are only from water. And juice. And spilled milk. And greasy mac and cheese. And drooled carrots. And pee dribbles. But the best part is: when company comes over, and they look at the couch cautiously and contemplate which cushion to sit on. I like watching that awkward moment take place.
9) I'm working on not apologizing for the condition of our home.
10) My favorite snack to eat after the kids are in bed is chicken Ramen noods with Siracha. It's like an O in a bowl.
11) Forgiveness is hard. There are some big offenses swirling around out there.
12) Churches are weird.
13) I put underwear on in the middle of the night (don't ask) and I woke up with them on inside out and backwards. Neat. Hope the mites enjoyed that.
14) Murnice has a planters wart, and she wants to keep it because it's not growing.
15) My favorite part of putting the kids to bed: as SOON as I'm done saying prayers, the kids race to see who can kiss me first. Which always results in clunked heads, smashed lips, yanked nose rings, clawed eyes. And snot.
Hoping your day is filled with magical moments. Mine is going to end on a magical moment - tonight it's FRIDAY FRIENDS FRIDAY FRIENDS. Yup, I'm that much of an eager beaver to see adults.
Take Aways
1) Eat more Ramen and Siracha - it makes for a better disposition.
2) Big D - go buy me more Ramen.
3) Stop judging me for eating Ramen. I only use half the flavoring package.
1) The amount of crumbs and food under my table could literally feed a family of chickens for a week. (We don't sweep)
2) My fancy purple drink container is still sitting in the corner. It's making me mad. It's like I just want to kick it. And yell at it for being stupid, breaking as easily as it did. (Maybe I'm too tired)
3) I hate bananas. Especially the bananus. That part makes me gag.
4) I am very much hooked on Leverage at the moment.
5) I'm making a flower bed into a sand box because I have no idea how to grow things.
6) All of the silverware in our house are dirty and sitting on the counter. And they will sit there till Big D gets to them. I'm boycotting silverware for the moment. Or day. Or days.
7) I think I like reading Proverbs best. So applicable.
8) My couches have really nasty jack speckles and spots all over them. They really are only from water. And juice. And spilled milk. And greasy mac and cheese. And drooled carrots. And pee dribbles. But the best part is: when company comes over, and they look at the couch cautiously and contemplate which cushion to sit on. I like watching that awkward moment take place.
9) I'm working on not apologizing for the condition of our home.
10) My favorite snack to eat after the kids are in bed is chicken Ramen noods with Siracha. It's like an O in a bowl.
11) Forgiveness is hard. There are some big offenses swirling around out there.
12) Churches are weird.
13) I put underwear on in the middle of the night (don't ask) and I woke up with them on inside out and backwards. Neat. Hope the mites enjoyed that.
14) Murnice has a planters wart, and she wants to keep it because it's not growing.
15) My favorite part of putting the kids to bed: as SOON as I'm done saying prayers, the kids race to see who can kiss me first. Which always results in clunked heads, smashed lips, yanked nose rings, clawed eyes. And snot.
Hoping your day is filled with magical moments. Mine is going to end on a magical moment - tonight it's FRIDAY FRIENDS FRIDAY FRIENDS. Yup, I'm that much of an eager beaver to see adults.
Take Aways
1) Eat more Ramen and Siracha - it makes for a better disposition.
2) Big D - go buy me more Ramen.
3) Stop judging me for eating Ramen. I only use half the flavoring package.
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