I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is. She's a mother to a large car load of kids. And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.
I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.
These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1) Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2) Doesn't own a chemical
3) Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the best there is
4) Homebirths
5) Grinds her own flour
6) Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7) Her make-up is from the holy earth
8) Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9) For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into
But she does like her fancy cheese. And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method. (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)
The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner. And it's good stuff. But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.
Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time. And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion. Eggs and muffins. Naturally I agreed.
Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs. So perfect.
But the next thing that happened was not perfect. It was quite confusing.
I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex. I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.
And then I didn't know what to do. I was a guest. And I had a hostess. And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more. And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".
No, that's not appropriate at all.
But that's exactly what I did. I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too. There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid. And you can't think. And you don't care. But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.
Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?
Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"
As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough. They had to write another list. A lady list. And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
- Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
- Go to bed at the same time she does.
- Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
- When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
- Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
- During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
- Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
- Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
- Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
- Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
- Put the toilet seat down.
- If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
- When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
- Help her put the kids to bed.
- Pray with her every day. Every day!
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Fifteen Ways?
I got an email from Big D this morning. It said this:
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
- Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
- Prepare his favorite meal.
- Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
- Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
- Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
- Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
- Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
- Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
- Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
- Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
- Take walks together.
- Keep your junk out of the garage.
- Greet your husband warmly after work.
- Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
- Clean out the car for him.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Typical Day With Ed
My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Worst Aunt
I'm assuming that when normal people get the opportunity to have nieces or nephews, there is this push to be grander than all the rest. I'm assuming that normal people want to be the coolest, or the nicest. They want to be thought of, fondly. And with smiles.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Sister Bear Finally Pops
I've been face-timing Sister Bear everyday. Normally, I'll call her everyday - but she's a mumbler. And she's pregnant. So, when I face-time her, not only can I lip read her and catch every word she mutters. But I can also look at her face and get an idea of what her day looks like. Have I mentioned that I LOVE face-time? It really sums up the "a picture is worth a thousand words" saying.
So last year, I made my annual trip, half way to snow bird land, in the middle of August. But Sister Bear was a wheeny whiner and asked if I could come at the end of September this year, so I could be there for the birth of her 2nd baby. Or at least see her new baby.
Well, said baby was stuck as an old tortoise in a balloon. And everyday that I would face-time Sister Bear, she would look a tad more not happy. . . . Let me back up a little more.
Sister Bear was supposed to have a homebirth with her first baby - Gills. But things went a little differently and she ended up in the hospital. With a full fledge hospital birth. Induction, epidural, oxygen, and all the other things hospitals like to use on their poor unsuspecting victims.
So with THIS baby, Sister Bear was feeling the pressure of every day passing. Every day that the baby didn't come. Because our society is stuck in their silly made up game of "due dates". Every day closer to another hospital birth.
And so Sister Bear's growls would accumulate. And her temperament went quite south by the 6th day of being over her prescribed day of baby puttage out.
But I was still planning on visiting for the birth. That was the plan. And I was bringing Murnice and Ed. You know, homeschool science/health lesson.
On the 8th day over due, I packed my car. Stuck the kids in bed. Reminded them that I was going to wake them up offensively early - and to just keep their grumbles to themselves.
And 3 seconds before heading to bed myself, I received a phone ringle from Mother. And she said things like: Sister Bear is a puddle. Sister Bear is nervous about you bringing the kids. Sister Bear doesn't have any food in the house. Sister Bear has been crying all day.
WHAT THE BLOODY DAD GUM???!!!
(Remember I face-time Sister Bear every day? And not once did she let on to any of this)
So I squeezed my buns together real hard, and called Sister Bear. And she said things like: Are you mad at me? My house is too little. I don't have any food. I don't want the kids in the house when I'm pushing a baby out. Can you just drive the kids around the city while I'm having the baby?
That last one did it for me. I put a kibosh to the whole trip. I did not think it would be beneficial to anyone's smiles, to drive most of the day - to only be stuffed back in the car to drive around "the city" for an undefined time limit. Without being fed.
So I said, "That's it. I'm not coming. Good riddance."
And on the 10th overly miserable day - Sister Bear had her baby. Like she wanted. At home. And everything went perfect and grand. And fast. And a transition phase that lasted only 1 contraction.
And I still refused to go see her and wish her well. But I do keep face-timing her.
Take Aways
1) Never believe a word your sister says.
2) Always overstay your visit with your brother and his family.
3) And tell him that he doesn't have a choice. You're staying regardless of how he feels.
4) And then smile as large as your bottom lip will allow.
5) And then really act like you own the place. And forever get your large bottom in the way.
So last year, I made my annual trip, half way to snow bird land, in the middle of August. But Sister Bear was a wheeny whiner and asked if I could come at the end of September this year, so I could be there for the birth of her 2nd baby. Or at least see her new baby.
Well, said baby was stuck as an old tortoise in a balloon. And everyday that I would face-time Sister Bear, she would look a tad more not happy. . . . Let me back up a little more.
Sister Bear was supposed to have a homebirth with her first baby - Gills. But things went a little differently and she ended up in the hospital. With a full fledge hospital birth. Induction, epidural, oxygen, and all the other things hospitals like to use on their poor unsuspecting victims.
So with THIS baby, Sister Bear was feeling the pressure of every day passing. Every day that the baby didn't come. Because our society is stuck in their silly made up game of "due dates". Every day closer to another hospital birth.
And so Sister Bear's growls would accumulate. And her temperament went quite south by the 6th day of being over her prescribed day of baby puttage out.
But I was still planning on visiting for the birth. That was the plan. And I was bringing Murnice and Ed. You know, homeschool science/health lesson.
On the 8th day over due, I packed my car. Stuck the kids in bed. Reminded them that I was going to wake them up offensively early - and to just keep their grumbles to themselves.
And 3 seconds before heading to bed myself, I received a phone ringle from Mother. And she said things like: Sister Bear is a puddle. Sister Bear is nervous about you bringing the kids. Sister Bear doesn't have any food in the house. Sister Bear has been crying all day.
WHAT THE BLOODY DAD GUM???!!!
(Remember I face-time Sister Bear every day? And not once did she let on to any of this)
So I squeezed my buns together real hard, and called Sister Bear. And she said things like: Are you mad at me? My house is too little. I don't have any food. I don't want the kids in the house when I'm pushing a baby out. Can you just drive the kids around the city while I'm having the baby?
That last one did it for me. I put a kibosh to the whole trip. I did not think it would be beneficial to anyone's smiles, to drive most of the day - to only be stuffed back in the car to drive around "the city" for an undefined time limit. Without being fed.
So I said, "That's it. I'm not coming. Good riddance."
And on the 10th overly miserable day - Sister Bear had her baby. Like she wanted. At home. And everything went perfect and grand. And fast. And a transition phase that lasted only 1 contraction.
And I still refused to go see her and wish her well. But I do keep face-timing her.
Take Aways
1) Never believe a word your sister says.
2) Always overstay your visit with your brother and his family.
3) And tell him that he doesn't have a choice. You're staying regardless of how he feels.
4) And then smile as large as your bottom lip will allow.
5) And then really act like you own the place. And forever get your large bottom in the way.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Half-Way to Snow Bird Land
I left Big D again.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
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