Do you know what J-man did for me? (J-man, the pool boy that lives at Mothers)
After a special extraordinary weekend filled with obnoxious men, grumpy attitudes, refusals to poop, and lots of screaming. (Big D included)
J-man brought his fancy computer to the table at Mothers, where I was sitting and groveling in my poor attitude. His computer has a chastity belt wrapped 2 times around the middle complete with 4 locks. J-man unlocked all 4 locks, threw them in the meat grinder and then emptied it into the trash. He opened the computer to reveal (star star sparkle star star) a special button that I push that brings me straight to my wonderful blog sight.
No fancy wizard twirls and special 5 letter, 7 number, 13 special signs and symbols pass codes. Just a simple double click.
I legitimately feel like a queen.
And what adds the luscious cherry on top - is that J-man leaves his computer in a very easy location for me to access. No wild goose chases or bachelor pad ransacks.
Also, he patted my hand 4 times and smiled nicely. And I half smiled back.
Take Aways
1) Whenever possible, steal any J-manish man off the street corners and have him move in with you.
2) 31 years later, I still hate Patch the Pirate the same.
3) Husbands don't care if J-men move in.
4) Honestly, it makes them happy, and life easier.
5) I think it's time for me to run away and have a break from all of these naughty men in my life. Minus J-man
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Dishes At Mothers = Instant Rage
When I'm not cooking at Mothers, I'll wash the evening dishes. It makes me feel like a semi-helpful daughter. It's the least I can do to cover my free room and board.
But Mother has this horrible habit. Not even habit, it's worse than that. It's more like a get-high-fix. It brings her that much pleasure. . . . I began washing dishes at the age of 7. And Mother had this problem then. So, it's been going on for quite some time.
Let me paint a picture:
Both sinks are filled to heaping. And the dirty trail winds itself down around the corner to the stove and then finishes on the table. It can be overwhelming, discouraging and make you down-right fill out a prescription for prozac. ( I say this without a rude heart, to those who legitimately take prozac)
You don't just jump up after dinner to tackle such heap. It's one of those jobs where you sit and mentally pump yourself up. And if you have mentally prepared yourself, often you must beat Mother off with a stick. Because she doesn't know how to sit for longer than 2.0945 seconds. And she starts cleaning the dish mess that you have started to emotionally invest in.
***************************************************************************
So once you've landed the job of your dreams and you're into your 2nd hour of washing. Coming up on the homestretch. You get that surge of accomplishment. Maybe a little bit of pride - Mother reappears with 3 dirty cups.
Who knows where she just came from. But you bite your tongue and wash those 3 cups. Then she reappears with a dirty plate and knife.
Ok. And maybe you puff and pant a tad, but you know that you are so close to finishing, it's not worth getting your panties all poopy.
Plate and knife get washed, and you're all ready to dump the dirty dishwater, and Mother reappears with a dirty pan and 2 bowls.
At this point I start yelling. I lose a fair amount of consciousness in my rage.
1) Where are these dishes coming from?
2) Why is she waiting till I'm almost done?
It's like she either
a) hoards dirty dishes under the couch to spring on any ambitious dishwasher
b) goes on a witch hunt just as the ambitious dishwasher is feeling like a champion
It really is unbelievable. And 100% of the time. Anybody who has braved dish washing at Mothers, knows this to be a dreadful fact.
Take Aways
1) Only wash dishes at Mothers when she is mowing.
2) Cook dinner every night.
3) Just take it like a man.
4) Play a betting game with the rest of the house members to see who is the closest in dish number.
But Mother has this horrible habit. Not even habit, it's worse than that. It's more like a get-high-fix. It brings her that much pleasure. . . . I began washing dishes at the age of 7. And Mother had this problem then. So, it's been going on for quite some time.
Let me paint a picture:
Both sinks are filled to heaping. And the dirty trail winds itself down around the corner to the stove and then finishes on the table. It can be overwhelming, discouraging and make you down-right fill out a prescription for prozac. ( I say this without a rude heart, to those who legitimately take prozac)
You don't just jump up after dinner to tackle such heap. It's one of those jobs where you sit and mentally pump yourself up. And if you have mentally prepared yourself, often you must beat Mother off with a stick. Because she doesn't know how to sit for longer than 2.0945 seconds. And she starts cleaning the dish mess that you have started to emotionally invest in.
***************************************************************************
So once you've landed the job of your dreams and you're into your 2nd hour of washing. Coming up on the homestretch. You get that surge of accomplishment. Maybe a little bit of pride - Mother reappears with 3 dirty cups.
Who knows where she just came from. But you bite your tongue and wash those 3 cups. Then she reappears with a dirty plate and knife.
Ok. And maybe you puff and pant a tad, but you know that you are so close to finishing, it's not worth getting your panties all poopy.
Plate and knife get washed, and you're all ready to dump the dirty dishwater, and Mother reappears with a dirty pan and 2 bowls.
At this point I start yelling. I lose a fair amount of consciousness in my rage.
1) Where are these dishes coming from?
2) Why is she waiting till I'm almost done?
It's like she either
a) hoards dirty dishes under the couch to spring on any ambitious dishwasher
b) goes on a witch hunt just as the ambitious dishwasher is feeling like a champion
It really is unbelievable. And 100% of the time. Anybody who has braved dish washing at Mothers, knows this to be a dreadful fact.
Take Aways
1) Only wash dishes at Mothers when she is mowing.
2) Cook dinner every night.
3) Just take it like a man.
4) Play a betting game with the rest of the house members to see who is the closest in dish number.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Empty on Love
On a scale of: keep me forever and I will snuggle you 3 million pounds OR you're getting fed straight to the chickens - Ed is getting thrown in the feeding trough. I'm not even going to give him the chance of the scratching yard.
It is painful that he is being so horrifically turdable at Mothers - since there is no wine. I would be a severe alcoholic at this point if I was living at home. I have never wanted to drown my sorrows so terribly and so thoroughly.
Its just constant screaming. And yelling "no". And the blatant disobedience. Have I mentioned his pride issue?
I have the brat that still screams in the shopping cart all the way through the store. Yup, and he's 2 1/2. Screams. The aisles clear faster than tsunami running.
And all I can think about, is picking him up like a hot torpedo, and launching him. And hopefully he would then land in the ravenous feeding troughs of the chickens.
He's been shit-bombing his underwear too, lately. (The "shit" was to emphasize how excited I am of late) Now I don't want to be grumpy that he's actually pooping - because of his hoarding history. But really? I used up that kind of patience 3 explosive squirts ago.
And to make matters worse - our bedroom at Mother's is 3x3, and the fan HAS to go in the window. But at the end of last week the temperatures traipsed down into the 50's. And do you think Ed would sleep under the blankets? Nope. Completely on top. And he complained all night about being cold. But as soon as I did a sneak-attack cover up, he kicks everything off.
Yesterday, he sat on Mother's lap for 20 minutes refusing to say goodbye to her. Screamed the whole time. Really exercised his pride.
And then Big D has the audacity to argue with me over the phone about getting 2 bowls of pho versus 1. (He's set up on the launch pad with a one-way ticket in his back pocket. Destination: feeding trough, chicken coup)
Take Aways
1) Trade boys in for new shoes.
2) Buy grape juice, dump down drain and refill with wine.
3) Put Ed in snowsuit for sleeping.
4) Pop a deliciously MSG bag of popcorn to munch on while watching Big D get launched.
It is painful that he is being so horrifically turdable at Mothers - since there is no wine. I would be a severe alcoholic at this point if I was living at home. I have never wanted to drown my sorrows so terribly and so thoroughly.
Its just constant screaming. And yelling "no". And the blatant disobedience. Have I mentioned his pride issue?
I have the brat that still screams in the shopping cart all the way through the store. Yup, and he's 2 1/2. Screams. The aisles clear faster than tsunami running.
And all I can think about, is picking him up like a hot torpedo, and launching him. And hopefully he would then land in the ravenous feeding troughs of the chickens.
He's been shit-bombing his underwear too, lately. (The "shit" was to emphasize how excited I am of late) Now I don't want to be grumpy that he's actually pooping - because of his hoarding history. But really? I used up that kind of patience 3 explosive squirts ago.
And to make matters worse - our bedroom at Mother's is 3x3, and the fan HAS to go in the window. But at the end of last week the temperatures traipsed down into the 50's. And do you think Ed would sleep under the blankets? Nope. Completely on top. And he complained all night about being cold. But as soon as I did a sneak-attack cover up, he kicks everything off.
Yesterday, he sat on Mother's lap for 20 minutes refusing to say goodbye to her. Screamed the whole time. Really exercised his pride.
And then Big D has the audacity to argue with me over the phone about getting 2 bowls of pho versus 1. (He's set up on the launch pad with a one-way ticket in his back pocket. Destination: feeding trough, chicken coup)
Take Aways
1) Trade boys in for new shoes.
2) Buy grape juice, dump down drain and refill with wine.
3) Put Ed in snowsuit for sleeping.
4) Pop a deliciously MSG bag of popcorn to munch on while watching Big D get launched.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Swapped Butt Juice
Bruver Bear (B. B.) Wensleydale and B. B. Bobby are still living at home. Which means that I get to see them every morning and during the working day - because they work with me at the pool teaching swim lessons. I won't say that I see them at night because they are off with their hussy ladies that care WAY too much about their appearance.
Anyway, B. B. Bobby always gets up so cheerful and eager to great the day. B. B. Wensleydale wakes up wanting to kill everything in sight. Including me and B. B. Bobby. Bobby eats breakfast with me every morning and Wensleydale is just rolling out of bed when Bobby and I are leaving for work. Bobby and I chat morning pleasantries. Wensleydale growls worse than I do when I haven't had morning tea.
So last week, Bobby and I were eating breakfast, exchanging morning smiles - him filling me in on the hussy evening (which. just. gets. my. blood. BOILING.) And who do you suppose comes charging through kitchen doorway? Bruver Bear Wensleydale, that's who. Oh, and he was gruff. Actually, livid.
Bobby is just a hair larger than Wensleydale. But Wensleydale is older. And both of them have matching swim trunks. And they both hate that they have matching swim trunks. But that's what Mother bought. Mother loves. LOVES for us to match. It's hideous and a curse.
When Sister Bear and I were younger, we had to make family matching outfits for pictures or vacations. And Mother never bought appropriate material. Material that would make us look somewhat like a normal family. She would only buy the loudest, brightest, most laugh appropriate fabric. Neon cats or huge toucan jungle theme. Mmmm fond memories.
So, apparently Wensleydale (who is more grumpy about the matching suits than Bobby is) told Bobby to NEVER to hang up their suits next to each other (when drying - or ever) And for whatever reason the suits got too close to each other the night before.
Which brings me back to Wensleydale, who is now livid standing in the kitchen doorway. With his brow furrowed down into his nose hair, he roared, "GIVE ME BACK MY SUIT". To which Bobby responded, "oh, I just thought my abs got a little bigger". And then Bobby shook and smooshed his manly buns (while still sitting) all around in multiple circles singing, "I'm naked in your swim suit, I'm naked in your swim suit". Which got Wensleydale REALLY excited. And then I think there was some mooning, and maybe a few punches. Followed by an exchange of swapped butt juice trunks.
Take Aways
1) Yes, this is what I'm living with for the next 3 weeks.
2) Please pray that neither fellas get mixed up with my swim suit.
3) Don't ever match your kids or cousins or friends. It only invokes awful memories.
Anyway, B. B. Bobby always gets up so cheerful and eager to great the day. B. B. Wensleydale wakes up wanting to kill everything in sight. Including me and B. B. Bobby. Bobby eats breakfast with me every morning and Wensleydale is just rolling out of bed when Bobby and I are leaving for work. Bobby and I chat morning pleasantries. Wensleydale growls worse than I do when I haven't had morning tea.
So last week, Bobby and I were eating breakfast, exchanging morning smiles - him filling me in on the hussy evening (which. just. gets. my. blood. BOILING.) And who do you suppose comes charging through kitchen doorway? Bruver Bear Wensleydale, that's who. Oh, and he was gruff. Actually, livid.
Bobby is just a hair larger than Wensleydale. But Wensleydale is older. And both of them have matching swim trunks. And they both hate that they have matching swim trunks. But that's what Mother bought. Mother loves. LOVES for us to match. It's hideous and a curse.
When Sister Bear and I were younger, we had to make family matching outfits for pictures or vacations. And Mother never bought appropriate material. Material that would make us look somewhat like a normal family. She would only buy the loudest, brightest, most laugh appropriate fabric. Neon cats or huge toucan jungle theme. Mmmm fond memories.
So, apparently Wensleydale (who is more grumpy about the matching suits than Bobby is) told Bobby to NEVER to hang up their suits next to each other (when drying - or ever) And for whatever reason the suits got too close to each other the night before.
Which brings me back to Wensleydale, who is now livid standing in the kitchen doorway. With his brow furrowed down into his nose hair, he roared, "GIVE ME BACK MY SUIT". To which Bobby responded, "oh, I just thought my abs got a little bigger". And then Bobby shook and smooshed his manly buns (while still sitting) all around in multiple circles singing, "I'm naked in your swim suit, I'm naked in your swim suit". Which got Wensleydale REALLY excited. And then I think there was some mooning, and maybe a few punches. Followed by an exchange of swapped butt juice trunks.
Take Aways
1) Yes, this is what I'm living with for the next 3 weeks.
2) Please pray that neither fellas get mixed up with my swim suit.
3) Don't ever match your kids or cousins or friends. It only invokes awful memories.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Holy Water
The Witherhalls had a holy weekend. Ok, not really holy - just a baptism. Big D decided that he needed the holy washing.
It's kinda a long story - and since family reads this to get updates since I don't do the phone very well, I'll tell the story. And they rest of you piglets can do as you please.
Big D could not remember when he became a believer, but got baptized when he was 16. He never really thought about it - until he heard David Jeremiah (on the radio) say that when you become saved, it's a moment in time. And it should be remembered. Something about it should be remembered. And Big D couldn't remember his moment in time. The only thing that was sticking in his memory banks was when he was in college and a change in his heart started to take place and he started to live out the scriptures. And if this is the case, his previous baptism was illegitimate.
I really struggled with this for a lot of personal reasons that I will not get into unless you are super super close to me and we share the same air.
A few of the reasons that I will publicly announce, that crumpled my toes: Big D loves a reason to run away from house duties, which means - if he can turn a 3 minute event into a 5 hour event - he will. And, Big D loves to be a showman. He's one of those people that will invite everybody to everything. (Those types of people make me growl)
So when he finally announced his decision to be baptized, I was on high-alert, grump style. He started going through his list of people that he was going to invite - I got real excited. Asked him what his motive was. And thank you, Jesus - he had a change of heart.
And now I'll move on to the actual day, because I could go on for the rest of the year on all the reasons I was being a sour puss.
Saturday was cool (72ish) Big D decided that 9:30am was perfect (with much cajoling) and the holy water experience was going to take place at a local hikery park that we walked to from our mole hole. Big D decided to invite Friday Friends and two other men (and their families) that have a spiritual impact in his life. It was a perfect intimate group of people. We walked a mile. The men up ahead, the women in the back with the kids. And we finally got to Big D's spot where the boy scouts were having a work party.
I have to be honest. It was quite lovely. My favorite baptism so far. So quiet, so simple, so special with a few of our favorites.
And then the fun began. We played in the river. All of us - minus the mama with the baby.
That's me swinging out on the rope swing. Yes, I'm wearing a dress. Big D is holding Ed, and Murnice is watching.
Take Aways
1) I'm glad I have a husband/bed romper friend that hears and obeys God.
2) I am so glad that all of the "things" that I was crumpled about - did not come to pass.
3) I am so glad that we had river time, together.
It's kinda a long story - and since family reads this to get updates since I don't do the phone very well, I'll tell the story. And they rest of you piglets can do as you please.
Big D could not remember when he became a believer, but got baptized when he was 16. He never really thought about it - until he heard David Jeremiah (on the radio) say that when you become saved, it's a moment in time. And it should be remembered. Something about it should be remembered. And Big D couldn't remember his moment in time. The only thing that was sticking in his memory banks was when he was in college and a change in his heart started to take place and he started to live out the scriptures. And if this is the case, his previous baptism was illegitimate.
I really struggled with this for a lot of personal reasons that I will not get into unless you are super super close to me and we share the same air.
A few of the reasons that I will publicly announce, that crumpled my toes: Big D loves a reason to run away from house duties, which means - if he can turn a 3 minute event into a 5 hour event - he will. And, Big D loves to be a showman. He's one of those people that will invite everybody to everything. (Those types of people make me growl)
So when he finally announced his decision to be baptized, I was on high-alert, grump style. He started going through his list of people that he was going to invite - I got real excited. Asked him what his motive was. And thank you, Jesus - he had a change of heart.
And now I'll move on to the actual day, because I could go on for the rest of the year on all the reasons I was being a sour puss.
Saturday was cool (72ish) Big D decided that 9:30am was perfect (with much cajoling) and the holy water experience was going to take place at a local hikery park that we walked to from our mole hole. Big D decided to invite Friday Friends and two other men (and their families) that have a spiritual impact in his life. It was a perfect intimate group of people. We walked a mile. The men up ahead, the women in the back with the kids. And we finally got to Big D's spot where the boy scouts were having a work party.
I have to be honest. It was quite lovely. My favorite baptism so far. So quiet, so simple, so special with a few of our favorites.
And then the fun began. We played in the river. All of us - minus the mama with the baby.
That's me swinging out on the rope swing. Yes, I'm wearing a dress. Big D is holding Ed, and Murnice is watching.
Take Aways
1) I'm glad I have a husband/bed romper friend that hears and obeys God.
2) I am so glad that all of the "things" that I was crumpled about - did not come to pass.
3) I am so glad that we had river time, together.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Not the Safe Choice
I haven't really talked about this - but I have been interviewing for a job. A nursey job. It's been a 2 month process.
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
Monday, July 22, 2013
Bachelor Pads That Cause Me Unneccessary Grief
You may be wondering why my posting is sodidlyoh sporadic when I used to have posts up consistently by 9 am. I wonder the same thing.
And here's the answer:
I do not have my own computation device. Mainly because Big D thinks that instant queenship-hood will envelop me and I would walk around with a crown on my head and nose 3 inches higher than it already is. So in order to keep me properly placed in my mom squzzies - cooking him dinner 3x a week and washing his man panties, I have to beg usage of others.
Ok, so I walk into Mothers knowing that I have nothing, and must produce something. On a regular basis - ie 5x a week. Challenge accepted.
I do have 2 brothers still living at home that both have a nice half eaten apple machine. As well as a new man, J-man (because he's the man) hanging around town (aka Mothers) who ALSO has a nice half-eaten apple machine.
And I thought to myself, "Foxy, this is NOT, legitimately NOT going to be an issue. This problem of having nothing - Jesus just turned nothing into 3 apples. I am cov-ured by the blood."
Until I realized that I had moved into a bachelor's pad. Yup, three bachelors. All on the hunt. They have this room with couches and corner tables and beds. Yes, multiple. It's air-conditioned. And dark. And they hide up there. With the apple machines. And they talk about hussies, that care WAY too much about their appearance. Hussies that I want to box their ears in and then ask, WHAT NOW?.
Back to the topic - machines. So these fellas hide what I need mostly. But on a rare occasion there will be a slip-up and somebody will leave their computer lying around in the western boating wing. I'll open it up feeling like a half queen, pleased as punch that I landed such a find. Only until I open the turkeybutt appliance and find that there are more password/codes/fancy finger moves/high kicks and wizard twirls that must be performed before I can even get to the internet.
My cover is legitimately blown. I either have to give up or holler for help with the wizard twirls.
That's the scoopy-poopy. You could pray for me that these men would have more of a generous, helping spirit. *ahem*
Take Aways
1) Box the hussies ears in, regardless.
2) Have a heart-to-heart with all the rude men that surround me.
3) Steal their computers and memorize the fancy moves it takes to get to said internet.
4) Give up completely and worry only about attending to body lice.
And here's the answer:
I do not have my own computation device. Mainly because Big D thinks that instant queenship-hood will envelop me and I would walk around with a crown on my head and nose 3 inches higher than it already is. So in order to keep me properly placed in my mom squzzies - cooking him dinner 3x a week and washing his man panties, I have to beg usage of others.
Ok, so I walk into Mothers knowing that I have nothing, and must produce something. On a regular basis - ie 5x a week. Challenge accepted.
I do have 2 brothers still living at home that both have a nice half eaten apple machine. As well as a new man, J-man (because he's the man) hanging around town (aka Mothers) who ALSO has a nice half-eaten apple machine.
And I thought to myself, "Foxy, this is NOT, legitimately NOT going to be an issue. This problem of having nothing - Jesus just turned nothing into 3 apples. I am cov-ured by the blood."
Until I realized that I had moved into a bachelor's pad. Yup, three bachelors. All on the hunt. They have this room with couches and corner tables and beds. Yes, multiple. It's air-conditioned. And dark. And they hide up there. With the apple machines. And they talk about hussies, that care WAY too much about their appearance. Hussies that I want to box their ears in and then ask, WHAT NOW?.
Back to the topic - machines. So these fellas hide what I need mostly. But on a rare occasion there will be a slip-up and somebody will leave their computer lying around in the western boating wing. I'll open it up feeling like a half queen, pleased as punch that I landed such a find. Only until I open the turkeybutt appliance and find that there are more password/codes/fancy finger moves/high kicks and wizard twirls that must be performed before I can even get to the internet.
My cover is legitimately blown. I either have to give up or holler for help with the wizard twirls.
That's the scoopy-poopy. You could pray for me that these men would have more of a generous, helping spirit. *ahem*
Take Aways
1) Box the hussies ears in, regardless.
2) Have a heart-to-heart with all the rude men that surround me.
3) Steal their computers and memorize the fancy moves it takes to get to said internet.
4) Give up completely and worry only about attending to body lice.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Wonderland
My body is a dermatologist's wonderland right now. The problem being: chlorine is my enemy.
Anywhere that skin touches skin = hives, rashes, flare-ups, intense itching, and such. Including my eye lids.
I have this incredibly sexy skin routine to help make life a tad more manageable as well as squander the rumor that I have body lice. It is not preventative, only helps.
Here's how it goes:
1) Before entering water, apply a thick layer of Vaseline under arms, behind legs, and (gulp) and where the sun don't shine unless Big D and I are being exciting - these are the areas that react the worst to the chlorine
2) Immediately after exiting pool, rush to take a shower with Dr. Bronner. Apply layer of Dr. Bronner and let sit for a minute. Rinse off.
3) Wipe down Vaseline area's of body with vinegar soaked cloth and let sit on skin for 1 minute.
4) Hop around enthusiastically, pretending you're the Easter Bunny.
5) Re-soap up body with Dr. Bronner and poof, scrubbing dangerously hard and rinse.
6) Upon getting home for the day, apply layer of arrowroot powder via a make-up brush on Vaseline area's of the body. This allows the body to not sweat, which exacerbates the vicious cycle of sweating, itching, move hives, etc.
7) Right before bed, apply a thin layer of corticosteroid cream to arm and leg area.
It's more than a pain-in-the-butt. It takes a lot of time. My running off to the shower and minimal entrance into the pool makes me look like a weeny whiny baby . . . . . . .. It's awkward when people touch me and they get a finger full of Vaseline (haha, that'll teach them for touching me)
And on top of all my skin pooplems, my head has decided to reject the whole idea of chlorine as well. I sneeze all day. Which produces massive amounts of snot. (Do you know how hard it is to blow your nose while in the pool?) I also look like I have a horrific case of wanky pink eye. (I try not to get too close to the parents, for fear they'll panic, hit me over the head, and never send their children back)
So to sum things up, I am a lust worthy lady over here. Big D could not be more thrilled that he does not have to share the bed with the pink-eye, flea infested, Easter Bunny (get it? The vinegar smell?)
You may ask, is it really worth it to work at a place where your body rejects your decision? Yup. Sure is. (Thanks for asking, by the way.) It's like my skin is just being a naughty screamy two-year-old. I'm not going to leave the store until I get what I came for. You can scream all you want, but this mama ain't leaving.
This mama wants her bathroom redid. I want to feel like a queen when bathroom duties call. NOT like a sad turnip in a cardboard box. Waaaaaahhh!
Take Aways
1) Yup.
Fun Fact
Murnice is learning how to play chess, which reminds me: when Bruver Bear Chuck and I were kids of a reasonable age, we had to stop playing chess together. Because, it always ended up in a bar-room brawl. I think the reasonable age was teenagers old. Homeschoolers are cool.
Anywhere that skin touches skin = hives, rashes, flare-ups, intense itching, and such. Including my eye lids.
I have this incredibly sexy skin routine to help make life a tad more manageable as well as squander the rumor that I have body lice. It is not preventative, only helps.
Here's how it goes:
1) Before entering water, apply a thick layer of Vaseline under arms, behind legs, and (gulp) and where the sun don't shine unless Big D and I are being exciting - these are the areas that react the worst to the chlorine
2) Immediately after exiting pool, rush to take a shower with Dr. Bronner. Apply layer of Dr. Bronner and let sit for a minute. Rinse off.
3) Wipe down Vaseline area's of body with vinegar soaked cloth and let sit on skin for 1 minute.
4) Hop around enthusiastically, pretending you're the Easter Bunny.
5) Re-soap up body with Dr. Bronner and poof, scrubbing dangerously hard and rinse.
6) Upon getting home for the day, apply layer of arrowroot powder via a make-up brush on Vaseline area's of the body. This allows the body to not sweat, which exacerbates the vicious cycle of sweating, itching, move hives, etc.
7) Right before bed, apply a thin layer of corticosteroid cream to arm and leg area.
It's more than a pain-in-the-butt. It takes a lot of time. My running off to the shower and minimal entrance into the pool makes me look like a weeny whiny baby . . . . . . .. It's awkward when people touch me and they get a finger full of Vaseline (haha, that'll teach them for touching me)
And on top of all my skin pooplems, my head has decided to reject the whole idea of chlorine as well. I sneeze all day. Which produces massive amounts of snot. (Do you know how hard it is to blow your nose while in the pool?) I also look like I have a horrific case of wanky pink eye. (I try not to get too close to the parents, for fear they'll panic, hit me over the head, and never send their children back)
So to sum things up, I am a lust worthy lady over here. Big D could not be more thrilled that he does not have to share the bed with the pink-eye, flea infested, Easter Bunny (get it? The vinegar smell?)
You may ask, is it really worth it to work at a place where your body rejects your decision? Yup. Sure is. (Thanks for asking, by the way.) It's like my skin is just being a naughty screamy two-year-old. I'm not going to leave the store until I get what I came for. You can scream all you want, but this mama ain't leaving.
This mama wants her bathroom redid. I want to feel like a queen when bathroom duties call. NOT like a sad turnip in a cardboard box. Waaaaaahhh!
Take Aways
1) Yup.
Fun Fact
Murnice is learning how to play chess, which reminds me: when Bruver Bear Chuck and I were kids of a reasonable age, we had to stop playing chess together. Because, it always ended up in a bar-room brawl. I think the reasonable age was teenagers old. Homeschoolers are cool.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Receive-Me-Not Lines
I do indeed have major issues regarding my bubble. Bubble of space. Space that is mine. All mine. No sharing. I think my bubble is a good 4 feet on each side/all around me. When my bubble is invaded I either:
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Dear Jesus, Food
Mother has a different way of handling food. She buys lots. And then stores it forever. Until it gets used. OR until one of us can get our hands on it when Mother is not paying attention (aka out of town = never) and feed it to the chickens. Also, she is really good at letting food air marinate (aka keeping refrigerated food on the counter for longer than I would like to know).
Expiration dates mean nothing to Mother. Smells mean everything. Don't throw food out that has mold. Just cut it off. Scrap it out. It's still good, somewhere. Microwave it an extra 3 seconds.
Yup, we don't waste food at Mothers. Eat what you're served or pay $1. And over the years we have had fun with it. Because there was/is no other choice.
Growing up, Bruver Bear Chuck would often say, "I'm a hungry hyena and this is my bone" - to food that was less than appetizing. And then he would proceed to cram his food in his mouth as fast as he could. You know, food spewing everywhere. He would also refer to oatmeal as "great grandmother's soggy old feet".
And once Sister Bear was practicing her culinary skills and thought that making the largest pan known to mankind of frozen, breaded chicken patties covered in alfredo and spaghetti sauce sounded perfect. Did I mention the pan was an illegal size of hugeness? Can't waste food, so we sat down to a gag-induced dinner. The fellas really out did themselves. They had 2nd helpings to finish off the pan. And then all ran across the road to throw up. Did I mention that we also had dinner guests that night?
Thanksgiving turkey carcasses are left on the stove,14 too many hours. And some how in this bacterial oasis, nobody has ever gotten sick. Maybe it's because we pray extra hard to bless the food. Or, perhaps our bodies have built an extra 13 layers of protection in our stomachs. Not quite sure which it is.
***************************************************************************
Dinner last night consisted of cream of chicken soup that expired in 2009, stuffing that expired in 2011, and some sour cream that smelled like a rotten chicken butt hole (didn't check the expiration on that one - just smelled)
We survived. Without even a smudge of a tummy ache. That's the power of Jesus, baby. (You know, pine-sol commercial?)
Anyway, if anybody would like to throw up an extra prayer for me over the next 4 weeks regarding my stomach accepting the food presented to me - I would greatly be pleased.
Take Aways
1) Never ever ever take a microbiology class.
2) Always pray before eating.
3) When life tastes like grandmother's soggy old feet, find something to snicker about.
4) Don't be ashamed of having dinner guests over if your dinner didn't turn out the way you wanted. Building community and memories is way more important than a little episode of puke.
Expiration dates mean nothing to Mother. Smells mean everything. Don't throw food out that has mold. Just cut it off. Scrap it out. It's still good, somewhere. Microwave it an extra 3 seconds.
Yup, we don't waste food at Mothers. Eat what you're served or pay $1. And over the years we have had fun with it. Because there was/is no other choice.
Growing up, Bruver Bear Chuck would often say, "I'm a hungry hyena and this is my bone" - to food that was less than appetizing. And then he would proceed to cram his food in his mouth as fast as he could. You know, food spewing everywhere. He would also refer to oatmeal as "great grandmother's soggy old feet".
And once Sister Bear was practicing her culinary skills and thought that making the largest pan known to mankind of frozen, breaded chicken patties covered in alfredo and spaghetti sauce sounded perfect. Did I mention the pan was an illegal size of hugeness? Can't waste food, so we sat down to a gag-induced dinner. The fellas really out did themselves. They had 2nd helpings to finish off the pan. And then all ran across the road to throw up. Did I mention that we also had dinner guests that night?
Thanksgiving turkey carcasses are left on the stove,14 too many hours. And some how in this bacterial oasis, nobody has ever gotten sick. Maybe it's because we pray extra hard to bless the food. Or, perhaps our bodies have built an extra 13 layers of protection in our stomachs. Not quite sure which it is.
***************************************************************************
Dinner last night consisted of cream of chicken soup that expired in 2009, stuffing that expired in 2011, and some sour cream that smelled like a rotten chicken butt hole (didn't check the expiration on that one - just smelled)
We survived. Without even a smudge of a tummy ache. That's the power of Jesus, baby. (You know, pine-sol commercial?)
Anyway, if anybody would like to throw up an extra prayer for me over the next 4 weeks regarding my stomach accepting the food presented to me - I would greatly be pleased.
Take Aways
1) Never ever ever take a microbiology class.
2) Always pray before eating.
3) When life tastes like grandmother's soggy old feet, find something to snicker about.
4) Don't be ashamed of having dinner guests over if your dinner didn't turn out the way you wanted. Building community and memories is way more important than a little episode of puke.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Scandalous Cooking at Mothers
I write a lot about grocer trips. I think it's because they're interesting places. Or it could be that I have low humor when I enter these facilities - and witch mode is in high alert and easy access.
So I'm at Mothers, and I try to bring ingredients to make a smashing dish for one of the way too many dinners I'm there/here for.
I completely forgot to bring my cooking wine from home. And Mother's house observes strict prohibition. Even the appearance of any sort of ridiculously tasty adult drink is banned. Sparkling grape juice = banned. IBC rootbeer = banned.
AND to make matters even a tad more tricky, if the family knew a smackeral of alcohol was in dinner - it would have been boycotted. Now I will not give in to such ridiculousness. And so I planned my sneaky attack of the *gasp* cooking wine shopping spree.
Sneak Attack #1
Head to the local grocer in town to purchase devil juice IMMEDIATELY after work.
Sneak attack denied when I had to take a guest back to Mothers.
Sneak Attack #2
Drop guest off and run to local grocer.
Nailed it.
I crossed my fingers twice hoping I would not run into anyone I knew. It can always be expected running around home towns and such. And it always happens when you are looking less than a queen and smell on par with a rotting skunk carcass.
I pulled into the parking lot - looked around to see if I could catch a glimpse of somebody I knew. Checked my booger status, smoothed my chlorine frizzed hair - and marched into the joint.
I did my own quick survey of where the cooking wine would be in the 3-aisled store, and ran into a nice fellow who was stocking shelves. He had no idea of what I was talking about or where I would find such a thing. It was his first day.
In the mean time I kept seeing the same, but different scene play out over and over again. Extra large parents. Large children. Running amok. Hollering like banshees. Touching everything. Running the cart through the aisles like they're a bowling ball and I'm the pin. The whole store experience was like walking into a movie titled "Whose Mother can Yell More?". Yes, mothers screaming, SCREAMING at their children. Babies screaming out of sheer horror. (why are there more babies if the first 3 can't be controlled?) Why am I even in this store?
Thank the Lord I found somebody who knew what cooking wine was AND where it was located. I also found the new guy who was stocking shelves and said, "PSSST - (and then I held up the bottle of cooking wine and waved it around violently) aisle 1, for the next customer who wants to know!!" He ignored me. Which was rude of him because I told him "good luck", and he should have acknowledged my helpful attitude.
Finally got in the check-out line, tried to hide from gross leers. Was run over once from a gross leerer. (thank you sir) And then the worst, worst part happened. If you know me - you know that I hate plastic bags. I will try to avoid taking a bag at all cost. Plastic bags make me feel crazy, the waste of all of them. But I had to take one. I had to hide the wicked sauce in something in order to get it into the house. My heart hurt for the next 3 1/2 hours just thinking about the terrible waste of that plastic bag. What would become of it? Fish killer? Tree killer?
When I finally got home, there was then the obstacle course of getting it into the house (not difficult) to getting it measure out (very difficult) and into the pan to reduce ( impossible).
Let me tell you, when dinner was finally finished. And eaten. And everybody felt like kings and queens. And couldn't believe how insanely divine it was. And told me all sorts of nice things - I pulled that cooking wine out. I unscrewed that lid and danced around them all. In a circle and saying, "you all just had wine *laugh laugh laugh* now what?! NOW WHAT?!!!!!!"
Kidding. I said thank you and smiled awfully smugly.
Take Aways
1) Teach your children control when they're babies so when they're 14 I won't get run over by them with a shopping cart.
2) Number 12
3) I did not run into anybody who recognized me - aka I performed my mission well.
4) Don't ever forget the cooking wine from home, one less plastic bag will be floating out in the world.
Fun Fact
Ed calls pubes - nay hair. I love that kid.
So I'm at Mothers, and I try to bring ingredients to make a smashing dish for one of the way too many dinners I'm there/here for.
I completely forgot to bring my cooking wine from home. And Mother's house observes strict prohibition. Even the appearance of any sort of ridiculously tasty adult drink is banned. Sparkling grape juice = banned. IBC rootbeer = banned.
AND to make matters even a tad more tricky, if the family knew a smackeral of alcohol was in dinner - it would have been boycotted. Now I will not give in to such ridiculousness. And so I planned my sneaky attack of the *gasp* cooking wine shopping spree.
Sneak Attack #1
Head to the local grocer in town to purchase devil juice IMMEDIATELY after work.
Sneak attack denied when I had to take a guest back to Mothers.
Sneak Attack #2
Drop guest off and run to local grocer.
Nailed it.
I crossed my fingers twice hoping I would not run into anyone I knew. It can always be expected running around home towns and such. And it always happens when you are looking less than a queen and smell on par with a rotting skunk carcass.
I pulled into the parking lot - looked around to see if I could catch a glimpse of somebody I knew. Checked my booger status, smoothed my chlorine frizzed hair - and marched into the joint.
I did my own quick survey of where the cooking wine would be in the 3-aisled store, and ran into a nice fellow who was stocking shelves. He had no idea of what I was talking about or where I would find such a thing. It was his first day.
In the mean time I kept seeing the same, but different scene play out over and over again. Extra large parents. Large children. Running amok. Hollering like banshees. Touching everything. Running the cart through the aisles like they're a bowling ball and I'm the pin. The whole store experience was like walking into a movie titled "Whose Mother can Yell More?". Yes, mothers screaming, SCREAMING at their children. Babies screaming out of sheer horror. (why are there more babies if the first 3 can't be controlled?) Why am I even in this store?
Thank the Lord I found somebody who knew what cooking wine was AND where it was located. I also found the new guy who was stocking shelves and said, "PSSST - (and then I held up the bottle of cooking wine and waved it around violently) aisle 1, for the next customer who wants to know!!" He ignored me. Which was rude of him because I told him "good luck", and he should have acknowledged my helpful attitude.
Finally got in the check-out line, tried to hide from gross leers. Was run over once from a gross leerer. (thank you sir) And then the worst, worst part happened. If you know me - you know that I hate plastic bags. I will try to avoid taking a bag at all cost. Plastic bags make me feel crazy, the waste of all of them. But I had to take one. I had to hide the wicked sauce in something in order to get it into the house. My heart hurt for the next 3 1/2 hours just thinking about the terrible waste of that plastic bag. What would become of it? Fish killer? Tree killer?
When I finally got home, there was then the obstacle course of getting it into the house (not difficult) to getting it measure out (very difficult) and into the pan to reduce ( impossible).
Let me tell you, when dinner was finally finished. And eaten. And everybody felt like kings and queens. And couldn't believe how insanely divine it was. And told me all sorts of nice things - I pulled that cooking wine out. I unscrewed that lid and danced around them all. In a circle and saying, "you all just had wine *laugh laugh laugh* now what?! NOW WHAT?!!!!!!"
Kidding. I said thank you and smiled awfully smugly.
Take Aways
1) Teach your children control when they're babies so when they're 14 I won't get run over by them with a shopping cart.
2) Number 12
3) I did not run into anybody who recognized me - aka I performed my mission well.
4) Don't ever forget the cooking wine from home, one less plastic bag will be floating out in the world.
Fun Fact
Ed calls pubes - nay hair. I love that kid.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Naughty Big D
Nothing. NOTHING, gets me more excited than a Sunday-after-church grocer trip. During normal weeks I'll shop with just the kids. But with me living with Mother, it's just easier to make the dreaded trip right after church, when I'm already in the car. (Because I have no self-discipline during the weekend)
This is how a normal Sunday grocer trip goes:
Me: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond witch like
Big D: anything but helpful
Kids: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond brat like
******************************************************************
For as long as we've been married (9 years) Big D has been incredibly awful about thinking up a menu for the week AND making any sort of grocery list. If I absolutely refuse to do ANYTHING, he will make the same glorious list of:
spaghetti
fish
chedder beef enchiladas
tacos
WITH. OUT. FAIL.
DRIVES. ME. NUTS.
Ok, so on his grocer list, he'll write down spaghetti, fish, enchiladas, and tacos - AND THAT'S IT. Not what he needs to make those things. No side dishes. No refills of things we've run out of around here. Just 4 items. *Ahem* or 4 dinners.
So over the years I have demanded less and less of his help with food planning, unless I'm super desperate. Or going on strike. Both have happened. More than the sun has shined.
************************************************************************
Moving on to the usual grocer trip . . .
We walk in as a glorious family, loving and kind. Pleased to smell the fresh bread and see the pretty cupcakes. We grab the kids their free cookie - to shut them up for 3.0096 seconds. We stop and look at the poor lobsters. Ed just squeals and squeals with delight. And cries if we leave without saying "goodbye lobsters".
And then the fighting begins. Because I have the grocer list. Because I have MADE the list. Because I have planned the menu - I am the holder of the list, and the leader of the list. Big D is merely the cart pusher. And as a cart pusher I expect YOU to follow ME. But no, this is not what Big D does.
I'll say, "I'm going to get parsley". What I mean: you stay exactly where you are, or follow me - but I am going to grab a bag of parsley and then I will come straight back to you and put my parsley in the cart. And then we will move on to the next item".
What Big D hears, "I am going to play hide and seek now. Please run to the farthest part of the store and grab some random item without telling me where you are headed or what you're going to get. And we'll see how long it takes for me to find you".
INSTANT RAGE.
When I am rageful, I do not care who hears, observes, witnesses, listens, stares, records, or takes note of my behavior. Because it is all rational in the situation.
I have yelled, hollered, fought, thrown, stomped, squealed tires, and given the bird in the middle of the grocer. Literally, I turn into an animal. And it's ONLY when Big D accompanies me.
I blame him entirely for my rude behavior. Maybe in another 9 years, I will completely ban him from any sort of grocer trip with me. Sometimes it takes me a long time to make an intelligent choice/decision.
Take Aways
1) Big D needs a huge wallop on the seat of his pants.
2) Big D needs to learn some manners when it comes to doing a grocer run with the family.
3) Big D needs to read a recipe book.
Fun Fact
Whenever I send an email to a company or professional individual - I never hear back from them. Maybe they think I'm a joke. Maybe I should stop being honest and tell them what they WANT to hear, or what normal adults say. This is me having a pity-party because nobody ever gets back to me. waaaaahhhhh.
I love love love running into "swim kids" in random places (ie target) and saying "hi" to them, and they have no idea who I am. My favorite favorite part is when I say, "do I look different with clothes on?" And the parents softly gasp and then everybody giggles and says, "yes". Reactions to situations are so, so great.
This is how a normal Sunday grocer trip goes:
Me: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond witch like
Big D: anything but helpful
Kids: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond brat like
******************************************************************
For as long as we've been married (9 years) Big D has been incredibly awful about thinking up a menu for the week AND making any sort of grocery list. If I absolutely refuse to do ANYTHING, he will make the same glorious list of:
spaghetti
fish
chedder beef enchiladas
tacos
WITH. OUT. FAIL.
DRIVES. ME. NUTS.
Ok, so on his grocer list, he'll write down spaghetti, fish, enchiladas, and tacos - AND THAT'S IT. Not what he needs to make those things. No side dishes. No refills of things we've run out of around here. Just 4 items. *Ahem* or 4 dinners.
So over the years I have demanded less and less of his help with food planning, unless I'm super desperate. Or going on strike. Both have happened. More than the sun has shined.
************************************************************************
Moving on to the usual grocer trip . . .
We walk in as a glorious family, loving and kind. Pleased to smell the fresh bread and see the pretty cupcakes. We grab the kids their free cookie - to shut them up for 3.0096 seconds. We stop and look at the poor lobsters. Ed just squeals and squeals with delight. And cries if we leave without saying "goodbye lobsters".
And then the fighting begins. Because I have the grocer list. Because I have MADE the list. Because I have planned the menu - I am the holder of the list, and the leader of the list. Big D is merely the cart pusher. And as a cart pusher I expect YOU to follow ME. But no, this is not what Big D does.
I'll say, "I'm going to get parsley". What I mean: you stay exactly where you are, or follow me - but I am going to grab a bag of parsley and then I will come straight back to you and put my parsley in the cart. And then we will move on to the next item".
What Big D hears, "I am going to play hide and seek now. Please run to the farthest part of the store and grab some random item without telling me where you are headed or what you're going to get. And we'll see how long it takes for me to find you".
INSTANT RAGE.
When I am rageful, I do not care who hears, observes, witnesses, listens, stares, records, or takes note of my behavior. Because it is all rational in the situation.
I have yelled, hollered, fought, thrown, stomped, squealed tires, and given the bird in the middle of the grocer. Literally, I turn into an animal. And it's ONLY when Big D accompanies me.
I blame him entirely for my rude behavior. Maybe in another 9 years, I will completely ban him from any sort of grocer trip with me. Sometimes it takes me a long time to make an intelligent choice/decision.
Take Aways
1) Big D needs a huge wallop on the seat of his pants.
2) Big D needs to learn some manners when it comes to doing a grocer run with the family.
3) Big D needs to read a recipe book.
Fun Fact
Whenever I send an email to a company or professional individual - I never hear back from them. Maybe they think I'm a joke. Maybe I should stop being honest and tell them what they WANT to hear, or what normal adults say. This is me having a pity-party because nobody ever gets back to me. waaaaahhhhh.
I love love love running into "swim kids" in random places (ie target) and saying "hi" to them, and they have no idea who I am. My favorite favorite part is when I say, "do I look different with clothes on?" And the parents softly gasp and then everybody giggles and says, "yes". Reactions to situations are so, so great.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
17 Things That I'm in Love With
1) I can not get enough of Manischewitz wine. Wow, wow - in my tum.
2) Seeing Iss for 13.49957 seconds at a funeral over the weekend.
3) A new nephew from Bruver Bear Chuck.
4) Being told (from my boss) that I've changed - in a good way. (Wonder what's changed?)
5) Workouts at Mothers. Because we all do it together. It's grand. And really sweaty.
6) Watching Bruver Bear's Wensleydale and Bobby turn into men. Maturity AND body hair wise.
7) The way Big D kisses me when he hasn't seen me for 3 days.
8) The way Big D dances naughty-like for me.
9) When Ed dances because daddy is going to get more wine at the store. He is allowed "1 sip" from my cup - you know, a little European mentality. This drives Big D nuts. Absolute nuts - which of course brings me great pleasure.
10) Far-away fireworks - because somewhere somebody is either having fun, or living by the skin of their teeth doing something illegal.
11) Big D's extra naughty dances.
12) Fettuccine Alfredo Um, one of the biggest o's I've had in my mouth.
13) Murnice's headband that turns her into a crunchy soul.
14) The Pissa Eater
15) Ed pronouncing the word bear, "beer". Favorite.
Take Aways
1) I don't follow number rules
2) It's better to work out in numbers. Especially when people have as weak of muscles that you have.
3) Stop judging my wine drinking.
4) Stop judging my wine sharing with Ed.
Fun Fact
I am really digging the side pony tail and side braid. A lot. And you should too.
2) Seeing Iss for 13.49957 seconds at a funeral over the weekend.
3) A new nephew from Bruver Bear Chuck.
4) Being told (from my boss) that I've changed - in a good way. (Wonder what's changed?)
5) Workouts at Mothers. Because we all do it together. It's grand. And really sweaty.
6) Watching Bruver Bear's Wensleydale and Bobby turn into men. Maturity AND body hair wise.
7) The way Big D kisses me when he hasn't seen me for 3 days.
8) The way Big D dances naughty-like for me.
9) When Ed dances because daddy is going to get more wine at the store. He is allowed "1 sip" from my cup - you know, a little European mentality. This drives Big D nuts. Absolute nuts - which of course brings me great pleasure.
10) Far-away fireworks - because somewhere somebody is either having fun, or living by the skin of their teeth doing something illegal.
11) Big D's extra naughty dances.
12) Fettuccine Alfredo Um, one of the biggest o's I've had in my mouth.
13) Murnice's headband that turns her into a crunchy soul.
14) The Pissa Eater
15) Ed pronouncing the word bear, "beer". Favorite.
Take Aways
1) I don't follow number rules
2) It's better to work out in numbers. Especially when people have as weak of muscles that you have.
3) Stop judging my wine drinking.
4) Stop judging my wine sharing with Ed.
Fun Fact
I am really digging the side pony tail and side braid. A lot. And you should too.
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, July 5, 2013
The Bakery is a Place Where Buns are Made
Something happened to my butt. It's gotten really unflattering. The gluteal muscles run down into my hamstrings. I'm not quite sure when this happened. Maybe it's been a gradual descent - following the two babies that have made their exit. Or maybe it's because I love my couch so much and my buns are constantly making mushy face with the cushions.
It took me awhile to see the impending doom that was taking place. Who spends time looking at their buns? It's hard work. You have to find another mirror somewhere in the house so that you can stand backwards and see what the world sees. Ugh. Too much work to do on a regular basis.
But what really got the ball rolling of paying extra attention to what was happening back there, started when Sister Bear came to visit. And we did a tot-swim class together. I noticed that her buns stopped where buns should stop. And there was no jiggle or cheese. And I thought "my, I don't think that looks like what I got".
So I started pulling out my mirror. To often for comfort. Like, what if it looked like that just today? Or maybe it's the underwear that's causing that unfortunate shape? Is it normal to have your buns roll into your knee space? Was it getting lonely up there by itself?
Now, I would like to say: Big D has proclaimed allegiance to my buns. He has made reference to finding joy in the unsightliness of them. And he thoroughly finds the never-ending wobbliness entertaining.
Or so he says. Husbands say a lot of things that maybe are not quite accurate. You know, shut the wife up - make her feel like a queen. So because of his adoration, I really didn't pay a whole lot of attention - until my sister came and waggled her non-wobbly buns around.
Around the same time of acquiring a complexion, I started the process of buying new work clothes - which entail swimsuits and volleyball/running spandex thingys (which I wear over my swim suit to help hide the goods). And every woman knows that different bun coverers produce different allusions.
And there were plenty of allusions to be had.
Allusion #1
Left bun completely contained. Right bun hanging out in a steep diagonal.
Allusion #2
A chewed up piece of gum on the underside of a city bench.
And that's when I decided to start doing something about it. May 1st I started. And kept it a secret.
Because I wanted to know if Big D noticed. You probably have seen that thing rolling around pinterest where it says something to the effect of - It takes 1 month for you to notice, 2 months for family/loved ones to notice, and 3 months for the rest of the world to notice.
I will just say - June 29, Big D said some nice things that do not need repeating.
So, I proved that silly saying true. Or maybe Big D proved that saying true. And I felt like a queen.
Personally, I can't see or feel a difference, but when I walk - that feels different. Maybe a more controlled jiggle vs. an illegal wobble.
Buns are on the mend. They may not ever crawl back exactly where they came from, but they're trying. And I'll take satisfaction in their positive attitude.
Take Aways
1) Love the potential your body possesses.
2) Feel like a queen when somebody notices, even if it takes 2 months.
Fun Fact
I came back home last night due to the holiday in the middle of the week. Sometimes it's nice to be separate from husbands for a bit. They like you a lot more that way. And you like them a little bit more too. I thoroughly enjoyed my splattered couch, Jewish wine, and mind-rotting tv.
P.S.
A picture to honor mom's bellies.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Why I Hate Church
For quite awhile I've been struggling with the idea of church. But lately, it's been heavily on my mind. The silliness of it all.
I don't think that it was supposed to be "silly". Back when whoever came up with "church". But it has gotten that way.
So, these are my thoughts on church. Because I blog, and blogging is a purging of the mind. Or, diarrhea of the mouth via the fingers.
. . . . . .
I think church was created, or has become a way to alleviate guilt. I think it's a man-made thing. At least in the United States.
It doesn't matter the denomination. We go to church because. . . "that's what you do"? To learn about Jesus? Sing songs? Be together as one body learning about Jesus and singing songs? To feel good about ourselves?
And then, what do we wear? Our best? Or the usual? Does it really matter? Do we feel guilty if we don't wear our best? Or is not having nice enough clothes one of the excuses of why we don't go to church? Why are clothes always a hot topic when it comes to church?
We smile nice and have "no" issues going on in our lives. We shake hands like fake soldiers and gush pleasantries. And say things like, "be blessed" and "good to see you".
We sing songs that make us feel good. And have too big screens with fancy swirls zooming across. Video clips. Too much air-conditioning. To the point where it is imperative to bring thick sweaters. Programs to wisk our kids off too.
I really hate all of it. So fake. So needy.
And maybe it's not. Maybe I'm just having a poo attitude. But where else in the world is this going on? Isn't simple Jesus enough?
What happened to just plain old regular church? A sermon that teaches truth, encourages. Gives hope. What happened to kids sitting up with their parents and learning the art of sitting still for a bit? Learning the art of listening. Hearing together. Why. Why do they have to be separate? Entertained?
To make it fun? So people come back? To pay the bills the church ensues from having a flashy place?
Church doesn't need to be entertianing. Church doesn't need to dull either.
If you truly want to gather together, be filled with God's truth and hope. Isn't that enough? It is everywhere else in the world. Why isn't ok for Americans?
Because we're whiny and needy and selfish. And need to be entertained.
And I'm not just talking about "big" churches either. The "smaller" churches, even more conservative churches are just as guilty. The ones that follow the "rules" that they've set up.
Where is God's heart in all of this? Why does it all seem so man-made and controlled? Who are we trying to impress?
What if we just went bare bones. What if we as a church were brave enough to open our hearts and not feel fear of revealing. What if we included each other in our lives? And didn't care about who thought what about what?
What if we were ok with just hearing truth? Without screens and swirls? What if our songs were strong, that yelled out truth. Old songs that meant something. They don't have to be slow. Or boring. There doesn't need to be an organ. We can still dance wild and free. New songs that really roared.
What if kids sat with parents. And learned too? And it was a family affair.
What if we really looked at our hearts and discovered why? And then did something about it to break boundaries.
What if we danced wild and free - not because of the music, but because of freedom.
What if we broke tradition? And looked each other in the eye and said, "I'm not having any of this". No to guilt. No to shaking your hand. And stop watching porn.
Take Aways
1) Where is the heart and what is behind motives?
2) Refuse to shake hands and bow instead.
3) Stop being fake and ruled by guilt.
By saying all of this, I am not trying to put down any church. I have just found that overall in church-hood too much is going on that doesn't matter. Man is played up. And I'm tired of the facade. Where is the truth?
Ok, I think I'm going to step down off my soap box. Anybody else out there have thoughts?
Also, there are things about church that I do appreciate. But my title is "why I hate church" - so I'm going to leave it at that. The end. Or should I say, Amen.
I don't think that it was supposed to be "silly". Back when whoever came up with "church". But it has gotten that way.
So, these are my thoughts on church. Because I blog, and blogging is a purging of the mind. Or, diarrhea of the mouth via the fingers.
. . . . . .
I think church was created, or has become a way to alleviate guilt. I think it's a man-made thing. At least in the United States.
It doesn't matter the denomination. We go to church because. . . "that's what you do"? To learn about Jesus? Sing songs? Be together as one body learning about Jesus and singing songs? To feel good about ourselves?
And then, what do we wear? Our best? Or the usual? Does it really matter? Do we feel guilty if we don't wear our best? Or is not having nice enough clothes one of the excuses of why we don't go to church? Why are clothes always a hot topic when it comes to church?
We smile nice and have "no" issues going on in our lives. We shake hands like fake soldiers and gush pleasantries. And say things like, "be blessed" and "good to see you".
We sing songs that make us feel good. And have too big screens with fancy swirls zooming across. Video clips. Too much air-conditioning. To the point where it is imperative to bring thick sweaters. Programs to wisk our kids off too.
I really hate all of it. So fake. So needy.
And maybe it's not. Maybe I'm just having a poo attitude. But where else in the world is this going on? Isn't simple Jesus enough?
What happened to just plain old regular church? A sermon that teaches truth, encourages. Gives hope. What happened to kids sitting up with their parents and learning the art of sitting still for a bit? Learning the art of listening. Hearing together. Why. Why do they have to be separate? Entertained?
To make it fun? So people come back? To pay the bills the church ensues from having a flashy place?
Church doesn't need to be entertianing. Church doesn't need to dull either.
If you truly want to gather together, be filled with God's truth and hope. Isn't that enough? It is everywhere else in the world. Why isn't ok for Americans?
Because we're whiny and needy and selfish. And need to be entertained.
And I'm not just talking about "big" churches either. The "smaller" churches, even more conservative churches are just as guilty. The ones that follow the "rules" that they've set up.
Where is God's heart in all of this? Why does it all seem so man-made and controlled? Who are we trying to impress?
What if we just went bare bones. What if we as a church were brave enough to open our hearts and not feel fear of revealing. What if we included each other in our lives? And didn't care about who thought what about what?
What if we were ok with just hearing truth? Without screens and swirls? What if our songs were strong, that yelled out truth. Old songs that meant something. They don't have to be slow. Or boring. There doesn't need to be an organ. We can still dance wild and free. New songs that really roared.
What if kids sat with parents. And learned too? And it was a family affair.
What if we really looked at our hearts and discovered why? And then did something about it to break boundaries.
What if we danced wild and free - not because of the music, but because of freedom.
What if we broke tradition? And looked each other in the eye and said, "I'm not having any of this". No to guilt. No to shaking your hand. And stop watching porn.
Take Aways
1) Where is the heart and what is behind motives?
2) Refuse to shake hands and bow instead.
3) Stop being fake and ruled by guilt.
By saying all of this, I am not trying to put down any church. I have just found that overall in church-hood too much is going on that doesn't matter. Man is played up. And I'm tired of the facade. Where is the truth?
Ok, I think I'm going to step down off my soap box. Anybody else out there have thoughts?
Also, there are things about church that I do appreciate. But my title is "why I hate church" - so I'm going to leave it at that. The end. Or should I say, Amen.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Never Assume
It's always a little awkward when you think you're the only person in the house. And you produce an enormous amount of unflattering noises that come from unflattering places. And maybe the songs you sing are a bit pitchy and rude. And the crashing and thrashing that's being produced while cooking dinner is a tad alarming.
It can be quite awkward just assuming that you're all alone only to realize that maybe you're not.
And you happen to walk into the darkened living room and there beholden unto you, is a god-like creature sprawled in the recliner with a cup of coffee.
Things that physically happened
1) My vocal cords collapsed, which resulted in a gasp and gargle, followed by a choke
2) My heart landed on the floor, flopped around and then crawled back into my chest cavity via the back door.
Things I thought
1) Where did this creature come from?
2) How did he get in this back room without me noticing?
3) What is he doing lounging around drinking coffee? (I have a thing for creatures that lounge and drink coffee. Argyle socks are an added bonus)
4) What are the things he's heard?
5) How long has he been in here?
6) Who is this special gift?
Things I said
(after I was done choking, gasping, and my heart had resumed its normal behavior) Are you a parent?
Then I ran - after we had a decent amount of awkward time, and went back to the kitchen and did kitchen things and died a thousand deaths.
It was like walking in on somebody taking a poop in your garage.
The good news was - it was dark. And we couldn't see each other's eyes. Just outlines. And muscles. And coffee. And voices.
And then the worst part happened. That coffee drinking muscle creature stumbled out into the revealing lights. I worked furiously. *look busy and unapproachable* *scrub that cup* And that man walked right over into my peripheral vision and stood. And I washed. And he stood there. And I washed. But he wasn't leaving. Just staring. And waiting.
*NO! NO EYE CONTACT!* But I had to. Because he was just standing and waiting. I had to look and acknowledge that the uncomfortable moment of number 584,395,110 in my life had happened.
I looked. And the creature was gone. It was just a regular blue-eyed man. With muscles. And a crumpled shirt. And he asked where he could throw his coffee cup.
********************************************************************************
Doesn't this man know what the rules are of awkward meetings - at all cost, avoid another meeting? Especially in the light?
Apparently he missed THAT memo.
Or maybe, that memo is only for women, and men get a different memo.
Take Aways
1) Never assume that you are alone.
2) Wear a bag over your head. And don't cut eye holes.
Fun Facts
I moved in with my mother. And that's all I'm going to say.
It can be quite awkward just assuming that you're all alone only to realize that maybe you're not.
And you happen to walk into the darkened living room and there beholden unto you, is a god-like creature sprawled in the recliner with a cup of coffee.
Things that physically happened
1) My vocal cords collapsed, which resulted in a gasp and gargle, followed by a choke
2) My heart landed on the floor, flopped around and then crawled back into my chest cavity via the back door.
Things I thought
1) Where did this creature come from?
2) How did he get in this back room without me noticing?
3) What is he doing lounging around drinking coffee? (I have a thing for creatures that lounge and drink coffee. Argyle socks are an added bonus)
4) What are the things he's heard?
5) How long has he been in here?
6) Who is this special gift?
Things I said
(after I was done choking, gasping, and my heart had resumed its normal behavior) Are you a parent?
Then I ran - after we had a decent amount of awkward time, and went back to the kitchen and did kitchen things and died a thousand deaths.
It was like walking in on somebody taking a poop in your garage.
And then the worst part happened. That coffee drinking muscle creature stumbled out into the revealing lights. I worked furiously. *look busy and unapproachable* *scrub that cup* And that man walked right over into my peripheral vision and stood. And I washed. And he stood there. And I washed. But he wasn't leaving. Just staring. And waiting.
*NO! NO EYE CONTACT!* But I had to. Because he was just standing and waiting. I had to look and acknowledge that the uncomfortable moment of number 584,395,110 in my life had happened.
I looked. And the creature was gone. It was just a regular blue-eyed man. With muscles. And a crumpled shirt. And he asked where he could throw his coffee cup.
********************************************************************************
Doesn't this man know what the rules are of awkward meetings - at all cost, avoid another meeting? Especially in the light?
Apparently he missed THAT memo.
Or maybe, that memo is only for women, and men get a different memo.
Take Aways
1) Never assume that you are alone.
2) Wear a bag over your head. And don't cut eye holes.
Fun Facts
I moved in with my mother. And that's all I'm going to say.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Friday Night, Swank Style
Friday, Big D and I had a special night that doesn't happen very often because we have children. Friday Friends and we aligned babysitters so that we could have a night on the town.
Friday Friends always get dressed so nice. It's because they can wear things from Banana Republic. The Witherhalls can't. My hot bod is as straight as a board. So I swim in adult clothes. And must shop at Justice and Limited Too. Big D has curves, so . . . um. He shops at Lane Bryant. *snickering* On the other hand, Mr. Friday Friend is as straight as a board and Mrs. Friday Friend is curvy.
Mr. Friday Friend had his tight pants on. And we all talked about his tight pants.. And Mrs. Friday Friend had her hip hugger dress on. We wore jeans. And snorted.
First we went to a hopping Mexican joint. Had a drink. Talked about things that adults talk about. Water bills and dirty dishes.
And then we swaggered over to another swank joint that was playing live music. Jazz.
We had a really uncomfortable waiter. It was like he was sucking his buns in too hard and couldn't exhale properly. But he did bring us food and drinks. And wasn't quite as bad as Julian - but came in a close second.
Mr. Friday Friend and I be-bopped our heads and tapped our fingers to the beat. A little shoulder shimmy here and knee wobble there. And then neither of us could take it any more. Mr. Friday Friend lunged at me and said, "dance with me or die". So I danced.
Except I don't know how to dance. And neither does Mr. Friday Friend. But we can feel the beat. So we did our own fancy moves and watched all the 70 year olds who knew what was up - and tried to copy them.
And we laughed at ourselves and then ran home.
Take Aways
1) Never give up a chance to dance.
2) Always dance with somebody who is not your partner.
3) If you don't look fancy make sure you feel fancy, because that carries over to your feet.
4) Make sure you have a swank sitter for the kids that knows how to bring order to your pig hole.
Friday Friends always get dressed so nice. It's because they can wear things from Banana Republic. The Witherhalls can't. My hot bod is as straight as a board. So I swim in adult clothes. And must shop at Justice and Limited Too. Big D has curves, so . . . um. He shops at Lane Bryant. *snickering* On the other hand, Mr. Friday Friend is as straight as a board and Mrs. Friday Friend is curvy.
Mr. Friday Friend had his tight pants on. And we all talked about his tight pants.. And Mrs. Friday Friend had her hip hugger dress on. We wore jeans. And snorted.
First we went to a hopping Mexican joint. Had a drink. Talked about things that adults talk about. Water bills and dirty dishes.
And then we swaggered over to another swank joint that was playing live music. Jazz.
We had a really uncomfortable waiter. It was like he was sucking his buns in too hard and couldn't exhale properly. But he did bring us food and drinks. And wasn't quite as bad as Julian - but came in a close second.
Mr. Friday Friend and I be-bopped our heads and tapped our fingers to the beat. A little shoulder shimmy here and knee wobble there. And then neither of us could take it any more. Mr. Friday Friend lunged at me and said, "dance with me or die". So I danced.
Except I don't know how to dance. And neither does Mr. Friday Friend. But we can feel the beat. So we did our own fancy moves and watched all the 70 year olds who knew what was up - and tried to copy them.
And we laughed at ourselves and then ran home.
Take Aways
1) Never give up a chance to dance.
2) Always dance with somebody who is not your partner.
3) If you don't look fancy make sure you feel fancy, because that carries over to your feet.
4) Make sure you have a swank sitter for the kids that knows how to bring order to your pig hole.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Where I've Been - Day 2
I really out did myself on the weeny whiny baby part on day two.
Weeny Whiny Fit #1
Being woken up at 7am by a very eager beaver husband who could not wait to get to our destination for the day. Hershey Park.
Weeny Whiny Fit #2
Having the tv turned off on me while I was watching a cat hoarder show snuggled up in bed, refusing to move my bottom and thoroughly enjoying cable.
Weeny Whiny Fit #3
Fit #3 never ended. From the time we left the hotel until the time we pulled into our driveway back home I threw a fit. I do want to say that I really tried my hardest to remember this trip was not about me. But there were just some times were I couldn't keep it under cover a second more.
Honestly, I view amusement parks like a chore when you have children. There is nothing amusing about them. Just driving to one makes me want to turn around, right back to that cozy bed I left and watch cat hoarder shows.
Things that make me hyperventilate
1) The line of cars just to get into the park
2) The hot sun
3) The amount of pavement.
4) The masses of people that are all pleased as punch that they are at Hershey Park.
5) I don't like pleased as punch people.
6) The lines people commit to stand in just to go on a 30 second ride.
7) The bathing suits that should be illegal to wear.
8) The fast-food around every corner that cost 3 arms and 2 toe-nails.
9) The incredibly awful/creepy waiters named Julian that ask stupid questions and stare too long.
10) Big D's over exuberant attitude about staying as long as possible.
Personally, I was ready to leave around lunch time. Approximately an hour and a half and 3 rides in. We had officially experienced the Hersh Park.
I really turned into a 2 year old at this point. I will not go into details.
But I guess the highlight of day 2 began when Big D finally deemed it was allowable to leave.
It started raining. And we only had a mile to walk back to the car. And then it went from raining to - Jesus really wanted to host a spontaneous white tee-shirt contest but you didn't have to have a white tee-shirt to participate. And then we couldn't open our eyes. And the parking lot that was the size of a Hawaiian Island turned into an ankle-deep watering hole.
And Big D got really excited looking at me, because I looked like a drowned sewer rat - and that look really does it for him. Or maybe he got excited because it looked like I was wearing spandex. Who knows. But he was paying me extra attention.
And then the arguing began. Big D thought it would be wise and pleasant to throw everybody in the car with all of our belongings and drive somewhere to change.
Now any mother knows this is the foolishest of foolish decisions ever. If we did that, we would never get dry the whole way home - due to the car and seats soaking up our rat-hood.
So I put my foot down hard, which caused a mighty splash.
How we went from wet to dry and had a semi-pleasant ride home until we went to the Mulberry Cafe
1) Undressed kids in Noah's flood and threw them into the car with a semi-dry towel. (a miracle gift from God)
2) Shouted through the window to Murnice to dry herself off and then Ed.
3) Opened the trunk and retrieved kids clothes in approximately .00034 seconds and threw them in the car.
4) Shouted more instructions through the window to Murnice.
5) Wisked all drowned clothes into a pile and then found a bag collection that was supposed to go to Weggers but was forgotten about for such a time as this.
6) Shouted more instructions to get into car seats.
7) Adult clothes came off - all thoughts of modesty don't waft around when you are in survival mode.
8) Laughed that we could see daddy's peener.
9) Jumped into mostly dry car and finagled clothes on.
I would like to point out that Jesus did stop the rain for a few minutes in that 30 minute wet clothes/dry clothes dance so that we could do few vital car rearrangements. Thank you Jesus.
Take Aways
1) Never, never agree to discounted homeschooler tickets to amusements parks again.
2) Smile smugly that when mother says it's time to go, that mother knows best. And if we had left when mother said lets go - we would have been very dry and pleasant all the way home. And had time to go to Olive Garden vs. Mulberry Cafe that ended up being a rodent hole. AND we would have gotten home before midnight.
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