Turn Up the Valium

Parker, Parkour

2015-08-09T10:41:00.005-05:00

Background...
My bed is about a gazillion feet off the floor. When we bought the new mattress and box springs, we didn't realize that putting them on our bed frame would make their combined height about five foot. I exaggerate by only about 2 inches.

Background...
Parkour for those who don't know is trying to get from point A to point B in the most direct path. This involves running, jumping over obstacles, and basically acting a fool. The Kid is really good at one of the three.

I'll let you guess which one.

The story.....
There I am, lying in bed, letting my phone charge, and generally being lazy on a weekend morning, when she comes running in.

"Parker! Parker!" she screams at the top of her lungs shattering the morning calm and screeching as though perhaps someone named Parker has broken in and is chasing her.

Confused, my mind immediately goes to 70s heartthrob Parker Stevenson of the Hardy Boys. I always knew I would marry him in my little 8 year old brain. Apparently, he finally got the memo and is coming for me in my ~~old age~~ thirties.

Dreamy, isn't he? Even with Farrah Fawcett's hair.

"Parker?" I ask.

"Parker! Parker!"

The Kid flings her body, like a drunk in a mosh pit, off the bed only to immediately high jump back onto the bed like an Olympic gold medalist.

Unfortunately, I had shifted slightly with my elbow resting on the bed and my lightly closed fist high in the air.

My hand glances along her cheekbone and rests on her eye.

"Stop, you nut job! I don't want to explain to the ER how you blacked your own eye on my fist!"

"It won't be my fault. PARKER!" she screams as she flops around on my bed like a fish out of water.

I begin to mimic my own voice talking to a doctor from the emergency department. "Yes, doctor. There I was just lying there, minding my own business, checking Facebook, and in she runs and throws herself on my fist while screaming something about Parker from the Hardy Boys."

I change my voice into a deep, pompous doctor's voice, "Yes, I see. She screamed Parker and then you punched her, because she is mentally disturbed and special. Nurse, call CPS."

I bump her with my shoulder, "Do you see how this is going down? This is the beginning of the story of how you got a new family."

The Kid starts giggling. "Who's Parker? I said 'Parkour.'"

You said, "Parkour? Parkour?"

The Kid rolls off the bed and flings her body back onto the bed, her feet almost hitting in the ceiling fan. "HARDCORE PARKOUR!"

So when you see her with a black eye and various bruises all over her body, she's not been abused. It's just hardcore parkour, bro.

These Happy Days are Yours and Mine

2014-09-24T18:53:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is 50s Day for our middle school pep rally.

I'll be sporting a Lucille Ball-style dress complete with petticoat, red lipstick, heels, horn rim glasses, and pearls.

I remember back when I was in school...we would throw our hair up in ponytails, roll our jeans, and slap on some Keds, our daddies' white oxford and class ring, maybe a familial letter jacket, and a chiffon scarf tied around our necks. We were style icons. Those who were really committed boasted a felt poodle skirt and saddle shoes.

The past few years of teaching, I've noticed that kids are no longer understanding what the 50s uniform is.

This is a conversation from my classroom today. I wish I could say they were trying to fool me, but unfortunately, I repeated bits of this conversation all day long, as did other teachers. Read with caution...you'll age thirty years over its span:

Student A, excitedly: I can't wait for 50s day tomorrow. I'm dressing like that TV show "My Name is Earl."

Me: What? That's not 50s! Think "Happy Days," "Laverne and Shirley"....

Student A: It is, too, 50s! Flannels and mullets are from the 50s! Have you ever even seen that show?

Me: Yes, I've seen every episode. I love it, but it is definitely *NOT* set in the 50s.

Student B, confidently: Um, nope, you're wrong. Hippies are the 50s.

Me: Um, nope *you're* wrong. Hippies are the 60s. Woodstock, fringe, flowers, tie dye, Volkswagens, peace.....

Student A: No they're not. You're wrong. "My Name is Earl" is based on Woodstock which is the 50s!

Me, shaking my head: You don't even know what Woodstock was, do you?

Student A, adamantly: Yes, I do. It was drugs and flannel and mullets and music.

Me: Two out of four..... Mullets are the 80s and redneck, definitely not 60s...

Student C, interrupting and absolutely outraged: Hey, my dad had a mullet! Are you calling him a redneck?

Me: Uh....

Student D: My dad had one, too!

Student E: Mine too!

Student F: So did mine!

Me, trying desperately to recover: So how many of your fathers had mullets?

*about 9 hands go up*

Me: um......So Billy Ray Cyrus had a mullet in the late 80s..... Ever heard of "Achy Breaky Heart?"

Student A: He's a poser. He took it from the 50s.

*Students D, E, F, C, G, H, J, K, and M nod their heads and murmur their agreement about his posing as a redneck and not truly being one*

Me: Mullets are the 80s. You say your parents had mullets. Are your parents old enough to live in the 50s? Do the math! They'd be in their 60s!

Student A, doggedly pursuing the flannel issue: But flannels and long hair are 50s!

Me: Nope. That's the 90s.... Nirvana, Soundgarden... The Grunge movement from Seattle grew the flannel movement in the 90s.

Student A, absolutely bewildered: Who the heck is Nirvana?

Me: You did not just ask that!

Student N: I think they play them on the oldies station.

Student A: Yeah, 'cause they're FROM THE 50s!!!!

Me: NO!!!

Student R: So what do we wear for the 50s?

Me, relieved: Poodle skirts...

Student S: WHAT?!?!?!? They wore skirts made from poodle skin???

Me, horrified and rising in volume with each word: Oh. MY. LA. NO!!!!! It's a felt skirt with a poodle on it.

Student N: Well, that's just stupid.

Student O *nodding*: Yep. Pretty stupid.

Me: It was actually very cute and feminine.

Student P: Still sounds stupid.... so a skirt with a dog on it for the girls. What about the boys? A shirt with a cat?

Me: Funny, but no...... the boys wore blue jeans, rolled up. Converse. White tshirt. Hair greased back.

Student P: So basically, they just wore the same thing that they wore in the 70s.

Me: You guys are kidding me, right? You know this stuff. You cannot possibly NOT know this stuff.

Student Q: When did everyone have Afros?

Me, tiredly: That would be the 70s, but not everyone had Afros.

Student Q: I think you're wrong. I've seen pictures.

Me: Well, a lot of people did. Some black people had them, and some white people got perms.....

Student R *interrupting*: I think that's racist.

Me: Well, I think we are through with this conversation. Ever seen "Grease"? Dress like that.

Student B: But it's not 60s day....

Me: No it's not..... It's 50s Day and that's 50s clothing. It's set in the 50s. "I Love Lucy," set in the 50s. "Happy Days," set in the 50s. Laverne and Shirley, set in the 50s. If you've seen those, dress like them. Otherwise wear flannel, grow your hair long, wear an Afro, whatever......

And that's how today became one of those Unhappy Days........

Death By Crocodile

2014-09-16T20:05:00.004-05:00

So today, my day was my crap.

Then I read this.

http://dailycaller.com/2014/09/16/woman-commits-suicide-by-crocodile/

Yeah...

So to sum up, there's this 65 year old lady in Thailand. Her family was a little worried about her on Friday and contacted the police because they couldn't get ahold of her. The police said she had to be missing 24 hours before they could fill out a missing person's report.

Meanwhile, she travels to the largest crocodile farm in the world, Samut Prakarn Crocodile Farm & Zoo, home to over 100,000 crocodiles. She walks up to the fence, takes off her shoes and sets them neatly down by the fence, and dives head first fully clothed into a ten foot deep pit filled with ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING hungry adult crocodiles waiting for her.

The workers tried to beat the crocodiles away with long poles, but, you know, ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING HUNGRY CROCODILES said, "Thanks, but we've got this."

You read that right. She committed suicide by crocodile.

What. The. Heck.

Can you imagine? How stinking bad must your day be to say to yourself, "Self, death by being eaten and mauled by a thousand savage beasts is appealing to me today?"

This article has taken up a good portion of my subconscious today. I cannot stop thinking about it.
It's a horrible way to die, and perhaps the gruesome of her choice of suicide makes this one stick out horribly to me. To be honest, though, one of the things that has bothered me all day, besides her death, are the shoes.

Why did she take them off and lay them so carefully? I've had a thousand ideas. Were they crocodile shoes and she didn't think it was right that they eat them? Were they her sister's and it was a final good-bye? Was taking off her shoes before she committed suicide a sign of respect for her country? Did she just want to be barefoot when she left this world?

It has bothered me all day. I can't stop thinking of those two little shoes lying there beside a fence, while a horrible death goes on beneath them. It's too vivid a picture for me, and I just have to know why.

I was talking to The Kid about this, and very pragmatically she said, "Easy. She wanted to make sure people knew it was deliberate and that she didn't accidentally fall in."

Oh. Wow.

That makes sense. The one scenario I didn't think of and it's so simple.

So while I've had a really bad, no good horrible day, my day has *NOT* been death by crocodile bad....It's all about perspective.

May this poor woman finally find peace.

The Trickle

2014-07-22T15:52:00.000-05:00

Weird things sometimes happen to me in public bathrooms. When you have a disease/disorder/funky colon that refuses to work correctly, you spend a lot of time in that lovely little room.

Maybe that's why I notice the weird times. Not much else to focus on.

In all my times in public bathrooms, however, I can honestly say that I've never struck up a conversation. God forbid, I HAVE had to ask for paper from my stall neighbor, but never have I just been like, "Yo, how you doin'?"

I've never asked someone if they're having a good day. I have never asked if the other pee-er has seen a certain item and on what aisle I might find it. I've never asked if they know a good place to eat lunch. *excuse me while I make gross sounds with my ass and expel last night's dinner while I was ask you about where I can stuff my gullet back full so I can repeat this whole disgusting process tomorrow*

I have had these things happen *TO* me... and more.... but I've never talked to someone else.

I've also never apologized for any noises. The way I see it, we all make noises while on the porcelain throne, and in polite society, we just freakin' ignore them and move on. I heard nothing. You heard nothing. I smelled nothing. You smelled nothing. If anyone asks when we leave this place, we all farted roses in here and danced with a unicorn. Capice?

Today though, bless her sweet, meek soul, I had someone apologize to me.

But not for what you think.

There I was minding my own business, doing my own business, when the bathroom stall beside me locked.

I could hear Homegirl prepping the toilet with the Paper Shield of Cleanliness and Sanitation (because all germs are afraid of paper, don't you know... they see that paper and cower in fear. If you're very quiet you can hear their voices, all Cindy Loo Who-like scream, "Please, not the paper!" every time a stall door closes.)

Finally Homegirl settled down, and her own sweet angelic voice pierced the quiet. "Forgive my awkward stream."

"Seriously?" was my first thought. Then I wondered wildly, "Wait, is she praying or is she talking to me? Am I supposed to respond, and what if I do respond, and she was praying and thinks I'm an idiot?"

But then I heard it.

Her awkward stream.

DRIP. DRIPDRIP. DRIP. PSSSSHT *for a nanosecond* DRIPDRIP. DRIP. PSSSHT. *for a full second* DRIPDRIP......DRIP.

Then she giggled, wiped *I assume*, and flushed.

What in the name of Charmin was going on next door? Did she pee or was the toilet leaking? I've choked on more water than she expelled.

Seriously count, "One Mississippi... Two Mi....." and that's how long she peed. Seriously.

I know Kegels are good for you, but I humbly submit those were not Kegels she was doing. That, my darling loves, was a kidney infection waiting to happen. There was no way she emptied everything up in there. My only hope is she went and got some cranberry juice, and she is sipping on a glass of that bad boy right now.

Homegirl's gonna need it.

Unappreciated

2014-02-20T18:07:00.002-06:00

My poor kid just doesn't realize how blessed she is to have a mom who likes to spend time with her.

Today while driving home from work with The Kid in the car, we listened to some music on my iPhone. I have pretty eclectic tastes... I never realized just how much until today. I don't think The Kid did, either. This song came on from one of my playlists from one of my first teaching jobs. It is one of my all time favorite songs. I love the whole CD, really, and know it by heart.

Isn't it just a happy bouncy song? It makes you want to dance to it...which I did.

While driving the road at 60 mph. It was a sight to behold.

I love this song much. I can sing all the words. I can translate the words. I can even sing the music......at the top of my lungs... *especially* at the top of my lungs...much to The Kid's chagrin and the poor pedestrian's fright. They were just walking down the street, minding their own business and got dragged into my happiness vortex.

They may never be the same. Bless them.

Of course, the more The Kid fussed, the louder I had to turn it up, and the more I had to shout the words and sing the trumpet parts. I enjoyed myself so much the first time that I went back for another round. By this time, we were passing the house, so I just drove around with the child guard locks on (so she couldn't get out and run) and blasted this melodic jewel.

She says it was kidnapping. I say it was just good family bonding time.

I can't wait until the drive tomorrow to school. I feel Styx, "Come Sail Away" building up inside of me.

Good times.

Pretty, Pretty Ballerina

2014-01-30T18:14:00.001-06:00

These are my favorite socks.

These socks make me unbelievably happy....stupidly happy...because I feel graceful and thin and like a ballerina in them.

Yes, these socks make me feel skinny. Odd, I know, but whatever works, people.

Big Daddy hates these socks. Every time I put them on, he rolls his eyes and sighs this big, deep long-suffering sigh.

I'd feel bad for him, but I'm too happy wearing THE SOCKS OF ETERNAL HAPPINESS.

Actually, I don't know if it is the socks so much that he hates or the fact that while lying on the couch, watching TV and wearing these socks, I am constantly pointing my toes and scissoring my legs through the air while screaming, "Watch me dance! Daaaance!"

Or it might be that as I'm walking through a room, I'll suddenly stop and shout, "Fourth position!" and then freeze. I don't care who is behind me or trying to get around me. Dance stops for no one, and I am a serious artist.

Big Daddy might also hate that I toe through a room like a demented ballerina on crack, sing-songing, "I'm a pretty, pretty ballerina!!! Looooooove me!" and then I dip down into a graceful, ballerina-esque bow.

Whatever the reason, obviously, he's the one with the issues. If I wasn't a pretty, pretty ballerina, would I be able to do this????

Peek a Boo, I See You

2014-01-19T17:26:00.002-06:00

I took The Kid for a leisurely trip to our local Books A Million bookstore. Since it would take less time for a hipster to grow an ironic beard than it does for her to pick out her latest book, while there, I had to run to the bathroom.

There are two stalls in their restroom, and both stall doors were closed The room was rather small and to keep from being hit by the main door, I leaned against the sinks and patiently waited my turn. In one stall, a young mom and her preschooler kept up a steady stream of conversation about Fancy Nancy. I could feel that my bladder would not wait much longer and tried the handicap stall door.

Locked.

Of course.

I leaned back against the sinks and crossed my arms, silently praying that my bladder would stretch a wee bit more.

I glanced at the handicap stall door and realized there was about a 3/4 of an inch to an inch inch gap and that I could see right into the stall. I quickly looked away, granting that poor lady privacy, and then looked back.

Tell me I did not see that.

Au contraire, I did.

There she was. A woman in a bright red sweater, dark hair pulled back, pants pulled up, just sitting on the toilet, book in her hand, looking at me.

Are you stinking kidding me?

She gave me a bit of a look, like I should mind my own business as she was doing hers. I looked away again. Then glanced back. SecretBookThief was looking back down reading. Reading!!!! Not doing her business at all.

My bladder twitched in anger.

I ran through possible scenarios in my head.

Tell the manager she's in the bathroom reading when the sign CLEARLY says not to bring books into the bathroom? Nah. I'm not a tattler.

Say something? Well, Mom and Sparkly Baby Toms were so busy talking, I didn't think SecretBookThief would hear me.

Front her out after they left? Possibly. I am the Queen of Passive Aggressiva, after all. That might definitely work.

About that time, I glanced back over, and she was looking at me through the crack and giving me a dirty look.

Frowning, I made my first two fingers into a vee pointed at my eyes and then at her. The universal sign for, "I see you, now go outside and read in the bookstore like the rest of the normal people, instead of trying to steal books in your purse. Dangit, I have to pee. BAD."

She jumped a little and guiltily looked down. The toilet flushed in the other stall and my bladder celebrated.
I quickly entered the now empty stall. As I did, there was a rustling in the stall next to me.

Perhaps she's decided to do her business now, I thought.

Then a shirt landed on the floor, its arm half under the divider between our stalls.

What. The. Heck.

There was more rustling. What was she doing?

A bra joined the shirt. I quickly finished and flushed.

As I opened the door to go wash my hands, the clink of the button on her pants hit the tile.

Ooooooo....kay....

I kept my eyes averted and went to the sink to wash my hands. I checked my appearance in the mirror, and like the car wreck you can't help from looking at, I used the mirror to glance at the reflection of the floor of her stall. Yep, there was her entire outfit on the floor, and without looking at the gap itself in the mirror, skin was visible.

Homegirl was now buck ass naked, reading a book.

And that's when I left.

So yeah. Don't use hand military hand signs in the bathroom. People may think you are a creeper and try to out creep you.

It *will* work.

Cavity Searches Are in Her Future

2013-11-27T09:04:00.000-06:00

Around this time of year, every other sentence it seems is punctuated with, "Do you know what I want for Christmas? A ....."

This morning I was confronted with something new.

The Kid: Mom, I want a Stuffie for Christmas.
Me: What the heck is a Stuffie?
The Kid: It's a stuffed animal.
Me: You need one of those like a hole in the head. Seriously? Aren't you getting a bit old for a stuffed animal?
The Kid: But this one is special.
Me: I've heard this spiel before.
The Kid: No, mom! Seriously!
Me: What's so special about it?
The Kid: This one has hidden pockets all over it.
Me: What do you need with hidden pockets in a stuffed animal?
The Kid: I'm planning ahead for my teenage years. I can hide my drugs in there.

And *that's* one gift we WON'T be getting.

Something Foul Is in the Air

2013-11-09T13:46:00.001-06:00

Tomorrow I'm making Indian Tacos for dinner.

They are delicious.

I totally took that photo from Wiki. Looks good doesn't it? I'd tell you the recipe, but then I'd need another blog for that. And a book deal.

Anyway, I needed some tomatoes and onions to make pico de gallo.

Once at Wal-mart, however, I discovered it was cheaper for me to buy their already made pico de gallo and add a bit of cilantro than it was for me to buy everything to make it.

As I picked up the sealed plastic container, The Kid breathed in deep.

We walked a few more steps, and she says, "Oh! It's the onions!"

"What is?" I asked, distractedly.

"Well, I smelled onions, and wondered if it was me, but I put on deodorant this morning. So then I wondered if it was you, but I can't tell if you stink. Then, I thought maybe it was that lady over there. When we walked by though, I couldn't smell her, either. I was trying to figure out who had the bad body odor when I realized that it was the actual onions, not a person. Whew. When you're at Wal-Mart though, you can never be too sure."

So true.

And....now I'm not hungry.

Legos, Fruit Ninja, and Too Much Walking Dead

2013-10-29T15:25:00.001-05:00

Even my nightmares are jacked up.

I know I've shared my crazy dreams with you before, but last night, I had a nightmare.

I had just finished The Walking Dead's latest episode. I love me some Daryl Dixon, even though he looks to me like he would smell so badly my eyes would water. And homeboy desperately needs to wash and cut that hair. A sexy squint will only get you so far. Soap will take you a lot farther in my book.

I also love me some Michonne and her Crazy Katana of Catastrophe. For those who don't know, katana is a fancy word for a long, sword-ish like weapon. I am sure that it is a great and honorable weapon from somewhere in the Pacific, but mainly to me it looks like a slender sword perfect for killing zombies and looking like a badass while you're slinging it around.

Hi-ya.

I even love me some zombies, because you never know what they're going to look like. And with this show, you never know in what creative way they're going to be destroyed.

The Walking Dead is pretty graphic, filled with zombie guts and gore, and every single Sunday night after watching it I dream of zombies. My dreams are never nightmares though; they just feature zombies in some way.

Until this week. This week was different.

In my dream, I was an elementary school teacher.

A nightmare for sure, right?

I kid. I kid.

Maybe.

Anyway, there I was at my desk teaching first or second grade, judging by the size of the kiddos and their desks, surrounded by red, yellow, bright blue, crayons, and the ABCs.

Legos were on the floor. Paste was on the table. Rounded scissors were in little hands when suddenly I heard the unmistakable ring of a katana being drawn. Then I heard the swish of the blade and someone screaming, "Fruit Ninja!" and then a thud.

A maniac was in the school, slicing people like fruit and bellowing the name of a video game.

People began to run and scream, trying to find refuge. As I was escaping through a hallway, I found a sink with a little cabinet beneath it. Miraculously, in that way that only dreams can do, there were no pipes beneath the sink, and I scurried beneath it, as the swinging katana and "Fruit Ninja" cries came closer.

Here is where I found out what a ~~bitch~~ bad person I truly am. I feel like I'm going to hell for even dreaming this.

A little boy about kindergarten age came by. I could just barely see his hazel eyes and freckled nose through the crack of the door.

"Is there enough room for me?"

"Nope. Sorry, " I called and looked at the empty space where my feet were.

The little boys shoulders drooped, and he slowly ambled away.

That's right. I turned dream kindergartner away in my nightmare landscape while a crazed video game-playing lunatic was on the loose slicing, dicing, and julienne-ing through the school.

Because I am an awful, terrible person in my dreams.

In real life, I'm rather amazing, though. Just sayin'.

So, in my dream, through my little peep hole, I watched the children rushing by, listened to the continual rings of the katana followed by the screams of "Fruit Ninja" and then the answering thuds. In my nightmare, I chastised myself for not giving him a safe place, but I stayed right where I was.

Then the maniac came closer. I saw his feet. His sword was covered in grape goo and strawberry sludge as I watched the Fruit Ninja maniac slice someone and move past my hiding place.

And then he turned....

And my alarm clock went off.

Thank you, tiny baby Jesus.

As though my waking hours aren't weird enough, now I'm dreaming about Legos, Fruit Ninja, and weapons that I'm sure are illegal in 57 states.

Try typing all that dream into a dream interpreter website.

For just one day, I want to be normal.

*sigh*

Itching Like a Man on a Fuzzy Tree

2013-10-10T16:33:00.002-05:00

I have tables in my classrooms instead of desks. Usually I love them, except....

There I was, watching my class work quietly. Enjoying my super-teacher status as all of them were engaged and actively writing. Suddenly, one of my students started playing with something on the table. The student beside her leaned closer and started looking and giggling. The little boy at the end of the table was soon distracted and he, too, was looking at whatever was on the table.

I quickly walked over, "Hey guys. What's going on? What are we looking at?"

The boy looked up at me with a grin, "It's a baby roach. Isn't it cute?"

Three things here.

One.... it wasn't a baby roach.

Two... no way in hell that thing was cute.

Because, number three, it was a louse.

A. Louse.

LOUSE.

As in the singular for lice.

As in crawling across my table.

As in that thing was looking for a new wig to crawl in to. God, please, don't let one have found their way into my hair.

I quickly made a face, and said, "Oh! We definitely don't want THAT in here!" And I killed it. With a thousand pounds of pressure and shiver up my spine. The kids never wiser.

I'm sorry. I'd write more but I've got to go take a shower and wash my hair again for the seventh time.

In gasoline.

And napalm.

My Deepest Darkest Secret

2013-09-24T17:39:00.000-05:00

Confession time.....

I like to think that I'm a good person. I try. I help out the homeless. I pay for people's groceries sometimes. I've bought the person's coffee behind me at Starbucks. I don't beat my husband, my kid, or my dog. I pay my taxes on time.

See? A good person.

Take me to a restaurant and turn me loose with all those little candy-colored plastic dipping cups and I'm not responsible for my behavior. Worse yet take me to a steakhouse and give me those sharp, rosewood handled knives and I turn into a raving, discerning kleptomaniac.

My husband and daughter have teased me for years. I am ~~NOT~~ ashamed to say that we have 13 of the condiment cups from Red Lobster. It's really their fault, though. Bring me an unpartitioned Styrofoam to-go box and what else am I suppose to do in order to take home my pina colada dipping sauce for my coconut shrimp? Otherwise, the sauces gets in my left over mashed potatoes or that one lonely Cheddar Bay biscuits I threatened stabbing my husband over. I HAVE to take the little dipping bowl home. There's no choice, really.

You cannot defile the biscuit with tartar sauce.

It's like a rule or something.

If you eat chicken, pork chops, or a steak at my house you will find that all my good steak knives are of restaurant quality. They should be. They all came from Logan's Steakhouse or The Road House.

It all started one date night when we went out, and I ordered a steak. After using such dull knives at home, I was shocked by how smoothly this piece of fine cutlery cut. We spent about sixty bucks that night for a couple of steaks that weren't cooked correctly, but I loved the knife.... I took it home with my leftovers as a consolation prize.

Yes, I didn't like the steak, but I took the leftovers home. And I stole a knife.

I'm not proud, people. It was a low moment, and the beginning of my need for an intervention.

I used the heck out of that knife. I loved it. But alas it grew dull. And an obsession began.

Here's the part where I'm going to try to rationalize breaking one of the commandments. I only took one knife at a time. Only if it was really sharp. And once I had six a set of six, lovely, heavy, sharp Rosewood handled knives, I stopped.

The thrill was gone. I had a set.

I haven't taken any knives in a long time, and I think it is starting to bother my husband now. Big Daddy used to get upset by it, but lately he's changed.

Just the other day, we were sitting in a restaurant, and he was all, "Hey... look at this fork. It's such a pretty fork. So heavy in your hand. It just feels so good when you hold it. It's almost like my favorite fork at home. I wish we had forks like this at home. You want this one?"

I, of course, was properly shocked! Steal a fork??? Are you kidding? We have a full set of forks at home! What kind of fiend steals cutlery from a restaurant?

Big Daddy raised his eyebrow and gave me a look.

Oh yeah. Me.

What Does the Fox Say?

2013-09-17T16:17:00.000-05:00

I am not sure what country this is from. I am not sure who sings it. I cannot even say that I have always wondered what the fox says. I can say that this makes me laugh. Watch it all and try not to smile. Even worse... try not to sing along. I dare you.

Dream a Little Dream

2013-09-16T16:40:00.002-05:00

I have jacked up dreams. Always have.

I usually dream in color, but occasionally I dream in sepia tone. I never dream in black and white. I dream every night, and I always remember my dreams upon waking. Sometimes, they are so vivid that I wake up mad at Big Daddy or almost hyperventilating because of crying.

No matter the dream, though.... they're always crazy. Every morning for years, I've told my hubby about my dreams the night before, and for years he has shaken his head and looked at me like I need to be in a loony bin. He's the one who doesn't dream, though, and *they say* (whoever they are) that if you don't dream, you'll go crazy. I read somewhere that Vincent Van Gogh didn't dream, and we all know how that turned out for his ear. So maybe Big Daddy's the crazy one in this relationship.

Just saying.

The other night I had a dream about the country singer Reba McEntire and her family Olympics in Oklahoma. There I was, on my horse, talking to her daughter and son (does she even have a daughter and son? I don't know), riding my horse during the fox hunting expedition portion of the Olympics when Dream Reba pulled her horse up to mine and told me now was the time to begin the karaoke portion of the family Olympics. So, in my saddle, with my crazy little fox hunting hat perched on my head, I began to sing to Dream Reba McEntire and I wowed her so amazingly, I won the gold medal in her family Olympics for my awesomeness. Yep, you heard that right. I won the gold medal.

Don't be jealous.

Now, to celebrate my winning this symbol of my superior vocal gymnastics, Reba and I went to her home nightclub complete with pink, flashing lights and hanging silver ball, and she and I did a duet. I'm sad to say, I sang way better than her. I think she may have been having an off-night, but she was very gracious about it. When I told her how amazing this all was to me, because everyone hates my singing and they will never believe that I bested her entire Reba McEntire family, she said that I was the best singer she had ever heard. She held me as I cried and explained to her how my sister, junior high choir teacher, and my friend's grandmother used to make fun of my singing all the time. She said we just wouldn't invite them to her BBQ picnic next weekend at her house. So there. I'm eating ribs with Reba and my sister, Carrie, isn't.

I woke up so excited, grinning ear to ear, and then realized I don't know Reba. I don't know if she has family Olympics. And I sure as HECK cannot sing.

Talk about crushing. A little piece of my heart died that morning.

A few days later I had another crazy dream.

I was in Brazil and that gigantic Jesus statue there came to life and started walking around. And it wasn't just a statue of Jesus, but really Jesus. He was just a gazillion feet tall and a big, white statue. No one else realized it was really Him; they just thought the statue came to life with some other random spirit. Since I knew it was really Jesus , I kept trying to sneak a peek at his real/statue face, because then I would be the only living person on earth who had seen Jesus's face. Every time I looked up, there were clouds obscuring it, though. I was getting more and more disturbed by this, until I really listened to Him speak and realized Dream Rio de Janiero Jesus's voice sounded exactly like the Jolly Green Giant in those old commercials. While I was thinking of the Jolly Green Giant, twelve matadors came running up to Him. He told them to go to Spain and reveal that the Jesus statue in Rio de Janiero had come to life and He dwelt among us now. Now in my dream, I began to think....twelve matadors....twelve disciples...... the Jesus statue was like the Jolly Green Giant, and he had a friend named Sprout.....that meant that Sprout was showing up soon and who was going to be Sprout....because God should be the Jolly Green Giant since He's the Big Guy, and Dream Rio de Janiero Jesus should be Sprout, since He's the Son...but God and Jesus are the same, so they're both the Jolly Green Giant, so maybe the Holy Ghost would be Sprout, then, and what would that look like....

And then I woke up with a headache. Can't understand why.

Another crazy dream I have is a recurring dream that happens about once a month. It always freaks me out.

It's exactly the same and has never changed. It's in sepia tone and slow motion. There is a music box that plays the soundtrack to this dream. It's a song I don't recognize, but the little tinkle-tinkle is very horror movie-ish. I'm riding my bike with a couple of friends back in the town where I grew up. We come upon this road that I've never seen before. We ride down it, all together, and go around this heavily wooded corner. It takes us to this little perfect, Stepford kind of tucked away neighborhood. There are hills in the distance which are completely unseen and makes no difference from the flat, farm land entrance. As we turn into the neighborhood my friends fade away, until it's just me riding my bike through this slow motion perfect hell. There's the man with his plaid shirt tucked into his khakis who is watering his yard and always turns to smile and wave at me. There's the older woman unloading her groceries from the back of her car. She, too, turns and waves. I can see smoke from someone's backyard as they grill out. Children frolic in a sprinkler in the front yard. The music box tinkle continues through this all. Finally, I arrive at a house that I know, but is not mine. I go through the sliding glass door and end up in a kitchen where a blonde woman with a large butcher knife is cutting something up on the kitchen island. She smiles as I come in. My heart begins to pound, and I am afraid.

And then I wake up. Every stinking time. I wake up. Heart pounding and afraid.

My fear is that someday, I won't wake up. Someday, I will understand this dream. Someday, she will speak to me and I know what she's cutting up and why I should be afraid. Someday.....

And that will be the last dream I'll ever have.

If I'd Only Known......

2013-09-13T17:20:00.001-05:00

When I was young, I, like most of us, spent my youth wishing I was older.

"I can't wait until I have a house of my own," I thought. Then I got one, and there's not enough storage space and the bathroom has dry rot. The floor keeps getting dirty and needing to be vacuumed. Someone keeps pooping in the toilet and creating the need for it to be cleaned. Every light in the house gets left on, and I go storming around turning them off like I'm in the middle of London during WWII and afraid the Germans will see the light, yelling and sighing the entire time about the cost of kilowatts. I learned new words with my house like interest rates and mortgage payments and points and housing inspections. I learned fascinating things like the difference between a 15 year roof and a 30 year roof. I worried about hail storms and termites and ants. Nobody told me about all this.....

If I'd only known....

"When I get a car, I can go anywhere I want," I said to myself. Then I bought one, and insurance had to be paid and speed limits had to be obeyed. There were inspection stickers and registrations, and God forbid, you blow a tire. A set of those babies can cost more than your mortgage. Happy, happy, joy, joy. Speaking of joy, let's talk about gas prices.... better yet let's not. I'll just get more depressed. There's great vocabulary with this one too like water in your gas, blown head gaskets, broken timing chains (which aren't actually chains, who knew?), and vacuum lock (which does not mean you don't have to vacuum the floors anymore). So much for freedom. Who can afford to drive?

If I'd only known.

"Mom is so mean. I don't feel good and she won't take me to the doctor. When I'm older, I'll go anytime I want." Then I got my own insurance, and learned what deductibles and premiums and out of pocket expenses were (such an odd name, out of pocket expense... since it's ALL out of my pocket and it's ALL an expense). I learned about pre-existing conditions and copays and FSAs and out-of-network charges and itemized bills. Go to the doctor?? Who can afford to use the insurance when you're so busy trying to pay for insurance?

If I'd only known.

"I won't cook nasty food like this when I'm older." Then I had a kid who wouldn't eat a hamburger, pb and j sandwiches, or ketchup. Not all together, mind you. But seriously, what kid doesn't like ketchup? Or a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Seriously?? I would have starved to death had it not been for a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich in my Muppets lunchbox. Seriously? Her idea and my idea of nasty clashed. I learned about nutrition and the 20% percentile for growth and fat for brain development. I discovered that onions won't kill me and olives actually taste good and salad is not the enemy. Green vegetables are your friend and you will eat them or you will get this same damn meal for breakfast, doyouunderstandme?

If I'd only known.

"My kids will have braces and not have crooked teeth like me." Almost $7,000, an oral surgeon visit, and more hours of my life than I care to count researching orthodontists, my kid will. I learned about frenectomies and bilateral xrays and ....... Okay... I didn't learn that much other than she'll wear them for awhile and then her teeth will be straight forever if she wears her retainer.... and she will.... or by the name of all that is holy and Crest Whitestrips, I will kill her.

If I'd known about all of this perhaps, I would have been nicer to my parents. And perhaps I would have locked myself in my room and worn my hair in pigtails and played with my dolls, refusing to grown up, until I resembled Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.

Yep, just like that.

If I'd only known.

Mother of the Year, Mothertrucker

2013-07-28T16:59:00.002-05:00

When The Kid was little, I was petrified that something would happen to my little girl, and she wouldn't know what to do.

I wanted to equip her for anything... bad touches, peer pressure, bullying, drugs, kidnapping. We played with dolls and acted things out, role-played scenes, and had mini conversations. If it was suggested in a parenting magazine, I did it. Not obsessively, because I didn't want her to grow up to be a bigger freak than her DNA already assured she would be, but just enough that she would *hopefully* feel in control if something were to come up.

There she'd be innocently taking a bubble bath (yes, I know they cause UTIs in tiny humans, but apparently, my kid's urethra was super long....don't judge my parenting, yet. There are worse things going to happen later in this post.), and I would casually ask her who has touched her little girl bits. Then, we would talk about who was allowed to and who wasn't and what to do if someone tried to.

When she got older and she started school, we played out bullying scenarios and what to do or say if someone said something to her face.

We talked about what to do for peer pressure. For drugs. For alcohol. For cigarettes.

We would role play, and I would say something like, "Well, you're a chicken. Your parents will never find out. Do it!"

She'd respond, and we would talk about responses she could make.

We've not done it in a couple of years.

The other day,however, it completely came back to bite me in the ass.

I have been ~~consumed~~ ~~addicted~~ playing a game called "Run with Friends." Sounds like I'd be healthy, right?
Ha. Ha. Hehe. Snort.

Um, no.

It's a game where you are thrust into the world of running the streets of Pamplona, Spain during the running of the bulls. Barrels inexplicably come flying at you; random hay bales litter the streets; and slow-running "friends" try to trip you up as bulls run behind you and straight at you as your character runs faster and faster down the winding streets. After your turn, your real life friends get to try their hand at the course and bragging rights ensue.

People, I'm going to say something here that shocks you.... I love this game more than Candy Crush.

There. I said it. And it's true.

I love it.

I have tried to get The Kid interested in it, but she's been reluctant. I, after much begging, finally got her to try it on my iPhone. She stunk.

Quickly, she gave me the phone back.

"I don't like that game," she said petulantly.

"Come on! It's great! Try it again," I offered.

"Nope," she steadfastly refused.

"It's good!" I said.

"Nope," The Kid replied.

We went back and forth like this for awhile, and I'm sad to admit it ended with me making chicken noises and walking around the living room bobbing my head and flapping my "wings."

Not my finest moment as a parent, I know, but we both were laughing, because I am one ah-mazing chicken impersonator.

My Kid's response to the peer pressure, though?

"We've talked about this before, and you said that when someone is trying to pressure me and they make that sound, it's probably something that isn't wise for me to do, so no!"

Wow? I said that? I might be a good parent after all. Yea me!

She actually listened to me, internalized it, and used it? Go her!

I really wanted her to try the game again, so I begged her once more, "Just try it one time!"

"Peer pressure won't work on me! Back the heck up, mothertrucker!" she said proudly.

I kid you not, those were her exact words.

I just kind of blinked at her. She grinned.

"Did I teach you that?" I asked.

"Yep!"

"Those exact words?" (Because let's face it, SOMETIMES, not often, I lack a filter between my head and my mouth.)

"Yep those exact words, mom! Aren't you proud I remembered?"

Yeah. Yeah, I am.

Wow.

I'm sure my Mother of the Year award is in the mail as we speak.

Fish Toilets and Jet Skis

2013-07-19T12:41:00.001-05:00

One day Big Daddy came home with this. He was working at a motorcycle shop and all his friends had one. It'll be fun, he said. You'll like it, he said. I've always wanted one, he said.

Yay, I said weakly, throwing my hands about me in a bad jazz hands rendition.

You see, I hate the water. I am petrified of it. I don't like water that I can't touch the bottom in, so for me, that limits the deep end of the swimming pool, and I HATE water I can't see in. Fish die there. They poop there. It's like swimming in a fish toilet. You're in their house. Maybe they don't want you there that day. There are days I don't want people in my house. Maybe they're grumpy. Who know what's in the water? Have you seen the size of some of the fish people catch??? No lakes. No oceans. Unless I can see the bottom or I'm not in passed my waist. No, thank you.

I've hated the water for as long as I can remember. When I was in first grade, my mom's best friend had a swimming pool. She lived down the street from us, and we spent the summer splashing around in the shallow end. One day, someone decided to turn on the slide, and people started zooming down and splashing around in the deep end. I didn't know how to swim, and I was positive if I went down the slide I would drown.

Someone had the bright idea of putting me on the slide. I fought and fought, positive I was going to die. I was put on the slide anyway, and they pushed my tiny, little baby girl body down the slide. I held on to the edges of that fiberglass slide as though my life depended on it, because it did.

My hand were flayed open. And I still went into the water.

In fifth grade, the mom of one of my friends read my palm, and told me I would die in water and have one child. Thanks. Every 10 year old needs someone to feed their phobia.

In college, I had my palm read again, and again, I was told to avoid water.

So I do.

No oceans. No lakes. It's a rule.

My luck, I'll slip in the bathtub, break my neck and drown under the faucet, or I'll choke on my water in the middle of Red Lobster and that'll be it.

Big Daddy didn't really know all of this, though, because we aren't really "lake people". He wanted to hang with his friends at the lake and have fun, so....

Jet Ski. Yay.....

He took me to the store and I got fitted for a life jacket. Good plan, since I was GOING TO DIE.

I was not thrilled at the prospect of the lake, but at that point in our relationship, I was all about stuffing and not really letting him see what I liked and didn't like, because I wanted to please him in all things. Very 1950s housewife to the nth degree. Mistake number one.

Off we went to the lake; I met his coworkers and their wives and girlfriends. We ate. We relaxed. The boys rode jet skis while the girls gossiped.

Life was good.

Until the boys came back to shore and said, "Your turn!"

Several of the girls, giggled, dusted the sand from their butts, and bounced out into the water. I, on the other hand, looked at Big Daddy like he had lost his freakin' mind.

He just smiled and held out his hand, ready to show me how to ride the water demon. Apparently, though, ride wasn't the right word. You see, while the other guys had jet skis, you sat down on, this one you had to stand up on. Like this....

Looks fun, right?

No. It does not.

In order to get to your feet, you had to twist the throttle and drag yourself by your arms behind the jet ski so you resemble an orangutan riding motorcross.

According to Big Daddy's directions, you just let the jet ski drag your dead weight through the water, and then, like a ninja, you pop up to your knees on the jet ski, and ride that way for a while, and then pop up to your feet, when you hit top speed. When I asked how I would know how fast to do each of these steps, I was informed I would just know.

'K. Let me get this straight.

Me, the girl who can trip on flat surfaces and who is deathly afraid of water and who has the upper body strength of a three month old, is going to drag her body through the water, magically know when to ninja herself to her knees gracefully, and then in one swoop jump up like a jack in the box all while wearing a restrictive life jacket and careening across a lake.

Hell, yeah, I can do this. NOT.

Big Daddy showed me how to do it several times while I was still safe on shore. Then he took me out into the lake and started the jet ski. He floated along behind me, and we practiced several times.

After several times, my arms were exhausted. My ribs were bruised. My thighs were banged up. I had huge marks up and down my shins. I couldn't get the jet ski and my body to coordinate. Either I flooded the engine, or I couldn't get my body up when I was supposed to.

Big Daddy was getting frustrated, and I was getting flat out pissed. Resolutely, I decided to try one last time. Mistake number two.

Big Daddy, as he was floating along behind me, kept telling me, "Give it more gas. More gas!!! Don't be afraid of it." The jet ski was puttering us around the lake; and I punched the throttle.

Suddenly, I was going across the lake about a gazillion miles an hour, my body skipping like a stone across the surface of the water, Big Daddy flopping along behind me like a rag doll. In a flash, it was like a weight had been lifted, and the motor kicked into high.. I looked back in fear, hanging on for dear life, and Big Daddy was a tiny spec floating far, far away in huge circle of white foam. The force cutting through the water forced a huge wave behind the jet ski had slapped him with a wall of water straight to his mouth and nose, making him to let go in self-defense. I looked back in front of me. This wasn't quite how I planned it, but I was on my own. Step one accomplished, so I tried to ninja to my knees.

As I was bouncing along behind the out of control jet ski and attempting to drag myself up to kneeling at the same time, I saw a boat coming straight toward me. Or maybe I was going straight toward it. I don't really know, but I panicked and turned the jet ski hard to the side, successfully, drowning the motor, and stopping me from certain death. The boat zoomed by me, and the wake rocked me and the jet ski, pitifully.

I tried to start the motor, but it wouldn't work. I tried over and over. I was exhausted and way too far from the beach to swim. Big Daddy looked like he was about an 1/8 of inch tall. I could tell by all the movement, they were freaking out back on the beach.

Finally,a couple of people jumped onto a jet ski and decided to rescue me. Thankfully, it was a sit down jet ski, and thankfully Big Daddy was still back on the beach. He was livid.

We never went back to the lake with that jet ski. Big Daddy didn't learn though. He took me back to the lake one other time. On a catamaran, but that time, HE almost died.

But that's a blog post for another day.

Snow White's Got Nothing on Me

2013-07-18T10:20:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, I feel like I am on a secret medical show. I don't realize I'm on it, but everyone else is in on the gag.

"What crazy crap can we diagnosis Kristi with next?"

Let's count just the top ten odd medical things that have happened in my life...

1. I've already told you about the time I ruptured my ear drum with a Q-tip. Yes, it can happen. Yes, it hurts like hell.

2. In the same post, I gave you the lowdown on my finger getting caught in a bowling ball and rupturing all the tendons. Because, of course, getting your finger stuck in the ball *always* happens to people who aren't in cartoons.

3. Then, there's the day my large intestine decided to vacate my body. That was a fun, fun day.

4. Oh, and the time my ovary tried to kill me by exploding. Seriously. Exploding....like an organ bomb. An. Organ. Bomb. Just think about that.

5. And, of course, because of the same bitchy ovary, I got peritonitis from it and swelled up like a nine month pregnant woman because of all the infection coursing through my internal organs. That was a jolly good 8 days in the hospital.

6. Once while playing basketball, I came down on my ankle wrong, and tore the tendons in it.... badly enough that you could pull my foot away from my leg like a drawer out of a dresser. Now THAT felt
ah-mazing, I'm here to tell you.

7. When I was a senior, I got mono. That's normal enough. Until I developed mono hepatitis and my liver swelled up like a third boob on my abdomen, and my spleen, not wanting to be left out, decided it didn't want to work anymore either and became grumpy and inflamed. I had a note from the doctor saying I couldn't wear a seat belt, because if my mom slammed on the brakes, my liver would lacerate, and I would bleed to death before I made it to the hospital. Eventually I was sick enough that they told mom to take me home and make me comfortable. I'd get better or I wouldn't. Hooray, HMOs and crappy insurance in the 80s.

8. A couple of years ago, I got a lovely case of Dog Whooping Cough. Yep, Bordatello. Kennel Cough. That was me. The whole school had to be cleaned because kids get whooping cough booster shots in the seventh grade, and guess who teaches seventh grade? Yep, that's right. This gal.

9. After major surgery, I developed a raging case of C. diff., a scary antibiotic resistant superbug which makes you so sick with vile, foul-smelling uncontrollable diarrhea and vomiting that you can't keep down water. I spent almost three weeks in the hospital. At my worst, I was losing a pound a day. Everything made me nauseous. The only upside was I developed a crazy, grizzly bear-like smelling ability. I could actually smell the medicine they used to flush my IV. I could smell what people had eaten hours before. I could pick out their lotion or body wash or hair spray. Sounds awesome, but the smell of EVERYTHING, even my own shampoo, made me throw up. If you ever get a choice in a superpower, this is NOT the one to pick. They brought me a chemo nurse who didn't wear perfume or lotion. I also received a lovely PICC line which delivered this thick, IV goop directly into my heart, so I wouldn't die. Two of the best gifts I've ever received.

*sigh* Memory Lane. Good. Times.

Then there's our latest installment of weird crap that Kristi gets and should make her her own reality show.....

I got sun poisoning.

Yep, you can be poisoned by the sun. Who knew?

Apparently, according to the doctor, "normal" people (his word, not mine) blister outward with a sunburn. Sometimes, people blister in and so there ya go.

I was outside for three hours on a Saturday. Three hours. That's it. I didn't have sunscreen on, because really, it was three hours. Who burns that quickly?

This girl on that day, apparently.

The sunburn started normally enough. That night I started getting red....and then redder...and then redder.

I thought it was weird, but I am the color of an Irish albino ghost normally, so I just thought I DEFINITELY needed to get out into the sun a *wee* bit more this summer.

Sunday morning, I woke up and my forehead looked like this.

Okay.. maybe not *just* like that, but my forehead swelled up so much it jiggled like jello when I walked, and stuck out like someone had stuffed a turtle under my skin while I slept.

Crazy weirdness.

I didn't feel well that day as I battled a headache, but we went grocery shopping, because apparently, despite how I am feeling, people in my house think they still need to eat.

As we wandered the aisles of Kroger and my forehead shimmered like some desert mirage, a young mom looked me straight in the eye, watched my forehead wiggle, and said, "Oh!! That reminds me!! We need aloe vera!"

Yeah... me too.

I posted something on Facebook about my crazy sunburn and a gazillion and four homemade remedies came in.

I tried vinegar and brown paper sacks. Nothing. I tried Noxema (which actually felt flippin' amazing and gets my vote). I did the aloe thing. Nothing.

Something I did took the sting out, however the forehead just kept swelling and swelling, though. Monday was Memorial Day, so I didn't have to go to work. That was excellent because my headache was now worse. I just hung out on the couch and moaned all day. Tuesday, I went to work. One of my friends, who had seen the pictures I'd put on Facebook, stopped by my classroom and said, "Wow. My daughter had sun poisoning one time, and you look just like her, but her swelling went all down into her eyes. You're lucky."

From her mouth to the angry Coppertone god's ears.

Within an hour, I started having difficulty blinking. When I went to the bathroom I was shocked to see that my entire eye looked like someone had punched me. The swelling was moving down.

I called urgent care and went in. The doctor informed me I had sun poisoning. I didn't understand how it was possible. I've been outside plenty of times. This has never happened before. Was it something I did or didn't do it? He explained that sometimes, we just take on more UV than we should, but doctors don't know why. Even if I had worn sunscreen that day, this may have happened... just to a lesser degree. He gave me a steroid shot, told me to drink lots of water, and said that I life would be great in a day or two.

He lied.

Oh, how he lied.

The next day I was worse. My headache was a full-on migraine. One of my eyes had bruised beneath and both eyes were attempting to swell shut. My left side of my face was numb and funny feeling, and occasionally, when I would speak, I would make this funky pfffft noise like a horse farting. My mouth and eye on the same side started drooping slightly. I was drooling a little, and my left eye wouldn't quit watering.

It was mucho sexy-o.

Hmmmmm. mmmm..

The good news was the sunburn was gone almost completely gone, and I was this beautiful brown color.

Back to the doctor I went. My real doctor this time. He was not pleased with my symptoms. Apparently, my face had swollen up enough that it was pressing on a nerve and causing Bell's Palsy. It wasn't a full on attack yet.... the swelling was just irritating the nerve. If I laid down and didn't get up for the next three days while the steroids worked their hoo-doo magic, life should be good and the palsy would go away. If I didn't let gravity do its job, the attack would be full-on, get worse, and it would be anyone's guess as to when it went away.

I was forbidden from going to work the rest of the week.

Now let's, recap shall we? Three hours in the sun. Sunburn. Sun poisoning. Bell's palsy.

What. The. HECK.

How many of you have worked in the yard, wandered around at a flea market, gone to garage sales, and not put on sunscreen? Who would have thought three hours in the sun would make me look like Quasimodo on steroids? Literally?

The moral of the story is this. From now on, I will wear sunscreen. And a floppy hat. And sunglasses. Long sleeves and jeans, if need be.

Who cares if I'm the color of milk?

A Pharmacy Tech is the Life for Me

2013-07-11T16:25:00.001-05:00

I mentioned in "A Walmart Greeter Kind of Day" that I have often thought when teaching gets to be too much being a dental assistant might be the way to go.

"Clean your teeth" Stab. Stab. Stab.
"Brush better." Stab. Stab. Stab.
Having a bad day? Stab. Stab. Stab.
Patient annoying you? Stab. Stab. Stab.

You could get all your frustrations out at work.

After my recent experience at The Pharmacy That Shall Not Be Named But Starts With A W, I think I've changed my mind.

I want to be a pharmacy tech.

There are five cars in the drive-thru, and eight customers in line. One person is working all the registers and the drive-thru. There are four other people behind the counter, studiously avoiding looking at the customers. Since it's just one person doing all the work, does she up her game? Walk faster? Look flustered? Move with anything more than cold molasses for muscles? Show an inkling in her dull, vacant eyes that *every* *single* *person* in her close proximity that is not a co-worker, and possibly even them, are wishing they have voo-doo dolls of her cute, little Abercrombie-clad self so that they can cause her untold pain for her slowness? Does she care?

No. She's like the honey badger. She doesn't care at all.

She doesn't work quicker. She doesn't work more efficiently. She doesn't even acknowledge that there is anyone else in the world besides the person she is working on. No eye contact with anyone. She doesn't look up, just keeps working. No apologetic smiles to the others in line. No multi-tasking. Just plodding along, one person at a time until quitting time.

Is it brilliant customer service? Or just an apathetic attitude?

I'm not sure.

She'll get to you when she gets to you. Don't rush her. You don't exist to her until you're in front of her. No pressure. No expectations. No hurry.

What a life! Dude, count me in.

Just So You're Not Shocked When the News Breaks

2013-06-11T06:55:00.003-05:00

I've always had a PCH... pretend celebrity husband. He's my freebie. The one who if I meet at Albertson's while buying groceries, I can run away with, no questions asked, and Big Daddy will understand.

I think he's okay with this, because he thinks it will never happen, or maybe he's just ready to pass me off to the next poor, unsuspecting schmuck.

It might never happen, but it could.

Sooner than he thinks, actually.

My long-standing PCH is Robert Downey, Jr. I fell in love with him in a movie called "Only You." If you haven't seen it, do. He plays this amazing guy who's in love with this girl, and she's in love with him, actually she's in love with his name. Then she changes her mind, so he has to win her. It's filmed in Italy and has some breathtaking scenery. Just see it. It'll make you smile. And even if it doesn't you get to look at this...

Yummy. I don't think he'd have a hard time winning me. He's funny. He's smart. He has those huge brown, puppy dog eyes, and a slight naughty boy air, all wrapped up in that pretty package. Don't tell Big Daddy, but his resemblance to Robert Downey, Jr., is ~~the main reason~~ one of the reasons I keep him around.

At different times, my PCH has also been Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs.

Because you just have to love a man who can keep his sense of humor while dealing with crap. And who sings opera for fun.

I also have been pretend married to Desmond from LOST. Yes, I realize his real name is Henry Ian Cusick. He'll always be Desmond from LOST to me, though.

He has this crazy accent and brown puppy dog eyes like my original crush, Robert, or as he likes for me to call him, Sweetie-Pie, Honey Face, Kissy-Kissy. Yes it's a long pet name, but it works for us.

Don't judge.

Where was I? Oh that's right. Me and my Pretend Celebrity Polygamy.

Right..... So, Desmond from Lost. If you've ever seen an interview with him, you know he's also crazy smart. Crazy. Smart. Not crazy and smart. There is a difference. An important one. He speaks like a gazillion languages and has done a ton of Shakespearean plays, even working with the Royal Shakespeare Company, which is the crem de la crem of Shakespearean companies, as you hoity-toity people know.

My latest PCH, however, is this guy right here.

Mr. Adam Levine. It's not just that he's a rock star who writes catchy lyrics that just beg for me to respond to them.

Tap on my window. Knock on my door I wanna make you feel beautiful.

You do?? I wanna feel beautiful! It's fate!

Don't mind spending every day

Out on your corner in the pouring rain

Look for the girl with the broken smile

Ask her if she wants to stay awhile

And she will be loved

You want to repair my broken smile? You are so committed to making me feel loved, you'll stalk me in the rain? Ok, Adam. If you feel you must, okay.

When it's cold outside and you got nobody to love

You'll understand what I mean when I say

There's no way we're gonna give up

You're committed to our PCM (Pretend Celebrity Marriage) like I am? Whew, what a relief. I'll even overlook the fact that you used got in a sentence.

He's also loyal to his fans. He's funny. He loves his pets. What girl can resist a guy who loves animals? He had a dog that recently passed away and was heartbroken. I could help him get over that grief.

Because you see, Maroon 5 will be on the Today Show on Friday for their summer concert series, and I'll be right there in the Today Show Plaza. I'll be easy to recognize. I'll be the mom who will be stock-still, like a deer in the headlights caught in the presence of amazingness. I'll be the one with the stupid expression on my face as I make googly eyes at my PCH. And while I will also be in the presence of my RLH (that would be my real life husband) and chaperoning 25 middle school and high school students on their first ever trip to New York, I know that when my eyes meet Adam's across that plaza over all those screaming fans and Cupid's little bow goes *thwang* as he shoots his arrow....... it's all gonna be all right. I'm prepared to be his muse. It will be a tough life, but I'll do it for the music.

You know, I just thought of this... my first blog post ever even involved him! That's it. Definitely something larger than us all at work here. Done. Deal.

I've already informed Big Daddy to be prepared for this eventuality. I've even given him strict directions on how to get all the students back to Texas after I run off.

He just rolled his eyes.

I might need to give him those directions again.

I wanted you guys, my loyal blog readers, to be prepared, as well.

When you hear that Adam's off the market. Don't be shocked. You heard it here first.

I was gonna use this picture for Adam's picture, but I am *so* against the objectification of someone's body I just couldn't make it the big picture. So I made it the small one. ;) You're welcome.

*** I just realized that I didn't make the above picture smaller. I was so overwhelmed by his eyes, I forgot. Eyes, yeah. Let's go with that.

The Toe Bone's Connected to the Pizza Bone

2013-06-09T09:31:00.000-05:00

Real life conversation at my house....

The Kid, after she falls over the bean bag which I had told her to put up fifty eleven times: Mom, I think I broke my toe.

*much moaning and gnashing of teeth*

Me: No, You didn't, and if you did, that's what you get for not listening to your mother!

The Kid: MOTHER! I'm serious. It's turning purple!

Me, slightly concerned and looking at it: That color is called red, and your toe is not broken. You stubbed it. It's fine.

The Kid: Nope. It's broken. I need x-rays and pizza to fix it. You can find me crawling to my room, because my toe is broken, and you can't walk with a broken toe, everyone knows that.

Me: You can definitely walk with a broken toe. I have. And your toe is not broken. And we are not having pizza for dinner.

The Kid: *moan* It is broken. I can feel the broken-ness down deep in the bone. Where. It. Is. Broken.

Me: Not broken!!!

The Kid: Remember, pizza sets broken toes. I need pizza, STAT.

Me: No more medical shows for you.

Another Reason Not To Clean... Like I Need One

2013-06-07T14:06:00.003-05:00

Here it is... the first day of summer break. During the last six weeks of being a teacher, the house slides into incredible chaos, even worse than usual. There just doesn't seem to be the energy, or the will, to do anything. When the first day of summer break comes, you see the house with fresh eyes and with a sense of, "Holy heck, when did we move into an episode of 'Hoarders'?"

This summer is no different, except we also have people coming over tomorrow, the second day of summer break. For me, cleaning went into overdrive. For Big Daddy, projects that had been put off had to be finished. We couldn't let people see that we live like this.

Years ago, we needed a new stove. We were stretched tight on money, and I wanted a really nice stainless steel fronted stove. Big Daddy gave me a budget of 500 dollars. I took my five hundred dollars and stood in line for 10 hours to get 2 Wii the night they came out. The next day I sold them both on Ebay for triple the money.

Then I bought my dream stove.

About a year later, the light bulb in my oven went out, because Big Daddy loves nothing more than to sit on the floor in front of the oven and watch the cheese melt and bubble on his homemade pizzas. It's almost like an obsession and can keep him entertained for hours. I know. I know. It's weird, but it keeps him happy.

Unfortunately after watching Pizza-TV, he never remembers to turn out the light, so my light bulb burned out months after I got my stove.

It seems like just yesterday, but it was five years ago.

Five. Years. Ago.

At various points, I've asked for it to be replaced, and I was always put off. This year for Mother's Day, I asked for two things: the shelves that I've had since Thanksgiving to be put up and the dang light in the oven to be replaced.

I'm sure I'm the only one who asks for those kind of gifts, right?

Today, praise be to the great god of fancy general electric stoves, is the day the light bulb was replaced. It cost three bucks and ten minutes of time, and Big Daddy had a happy wife. You know what they say. "Happy wife, happy life." Big Daddy was all smiles after he finished the chore and went to read the newspaper.

Actually turning on the light, however, illustrated how absolutely freaking disgusting that oven was.

No worries, I thought to myself. I have a self-cleaning feature on my fancy-schmancy oven. I locked the door on that bad boy and programmed it for the lowest level of self-cleaning, four hours and twenty minutes, rationalizing that we could always go back for more if it was still nasty.

Those of you who have used the self-cleaning feature before know how badly it smells. We were about 15 minutes in, when we began to talk about going to the movies to get away from the smell.

Eighteen minutes in, The Kid wandered into the kitchen to make a sandwich for lunch.

"Mom?" she said in a tremulous voice. "There's a fire in the oven."

"A fire?" I ask, already moving toward the kitchen.

"Yep, a real fire. Like with flames and everything," she affirmed.

There in stark relief to the inky blackness of the oven window was a fire with flames about a foot tall. It reminded me of campfires at night, licking at the sky, wild and free. Beautiful, in a stone firepit in the mountains.

Not as beautiful in my kitchen.

Big Daddy came rushing in behind me. I wish I remember exactly what I said. A la Sweet Brown, it would have been funny to have said, "Oh, Lawd Jesus, it's a fahre" and then followed it up with "Ain't nobody got time for that", but I was too worried about my house burning down to be funny.

I do remember immediately turning off the self-cleaning cycle, trying to unlock the door, and Big Daddy screaming, "No!"

I remember asking if we should call the fire department, and Big Daddy again telling me no.

Then, with nothing else to do, we just stood around in a loose circle in front of the stove watching the flames flicker and dance.

It's seemed like a good plan at the time, and it's always important to have a plan in case of emergency.

Now that I had a plan, I watched the flames more closely. Where they taller? Where they spreading?

Thankfully, the answer was no.

I'm glad to say, that eventually, after several minutes, the fire burned itself out.

Sadly, there's a safety lock on the oven door. I can't open it until the oven gets to a certain "safe" temperature. With my new light bulb, I can't see anything through the brownish, smoky haze of the glass.

At least I hope it's haze and not actually what my oven looks like. It's gonna stink if that three dollar light bulb turns into a thousand dollar new stove. Can you imagine how hard Big Daddy would be to live with?

"If I hadn't changed the bulb, you wouldn't have turned on the self-cleaning. Without the self-cleaning, there wouldn't have been a fire. Without the fire...."

It'll be like the worst version of If You Give A Mouse a Cookie, ever.

Meanwhile, I'm listening closely. God speaks to some people with a burning bush. Me? He used a a burning stove.

Obviously, He doesn't want me to clean today.

I have *so* gotten the message. Think I'll read a book and put my feet up. Or maybe catch that movie.

Matter of fact, I may never clean again.

If you don't know the video, I mentioned above... Here it is in song version. You're welcome for getting it stuck in your head.

Ode to Walmart

2013-06-05T18:00:00.002-05:00

Here's a little poem I wrote after a particularly frustrating experience at Wal-hell

Perhaps, you feel the same.

ODE TO WAL-MART

To you, it seems I always go

Walking your aisles to and fro

All the items are constantly changing,

'Cause the aisles you're always rearranging.

Bananas, clothes, and shampoo

Futons, dog food, and cheap shoes

Plungers, lightbulbs, CDs, and more

How I love to visit my Wal-Mart store!

Get it all in one place

Put a smile upon your face......

That is,

Until you reach the line...

Then the problem you will find

One checker there and fifty baskets...

Makes me want to blow a gasket

Five minutes, ten minutes, then fifteen

How to fill the time in between?

Feet are tapping and heads are steaming

Little children in line screaming,

Grabbing at the shelves of candy...

Isn't Wal-hell really dandy?

I hate this place; oh, I hate it so

To Wal-Mart, from now on, I will not go!

I'll buy my things at some other store,

But wait....

Do they have the things I want and more?

Or will I run from place to place

With a frown etched on my face?

Somehow, I always end up, right back here

This is the Wal-Mart curse, I fear.

So same time, next week I'm sure you'll find

Me waiting STILL in the Wal-Mart line

Fuming, cursing, and counting the ways

To bring an end to my rollback days....

Of All the Things I've Lost, I Miss My Mind the Most

2013-05-15T11:22:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned before that "Old Timers" runs in my family.     My own grandma didn't recognize me at my baby shower and called me a bitch. Oh yes.  We're THAT family. :)

Her father, who lived with them when I was young, used to believe that the Germans would bust into the house at any time and carry him away (no, he was not Jewish), and so he hid all his money in a table-top cathedral radio. Sometimes, he would get agitated, and chase us around the room, screaming cuss words and "shooting" at us.  My favorite thing was when he peed out the window of his second story bedroom.   Yep.   Great-grandpa was a blast to hang out with.

There have been several incidents throughout my life that cause me to fear that someday, this may be my future.

Once after grocery shopping a few blocks from my house, I got in the Jeep and headed home. Somehow, before I arrived, I managed to turn on the street before mine.   Instead of being rational and turning on the right street when the houses I saw weren't the ones I looked at every day, I freaked out.    *They* moved my house and ALL the other houses.   *They* were fast, because they did it in only 15 minutes. *They* had taken my family and I would never know where they had gone to. These were literally my thoughts.   Not, "Hey, dumbass, you turned on the street before yours. Take a right, and you'll be at home."   Oh, no.   I'm freaking out because some unknown, nebulous THEY took my house.

I would love to say this has only happened once.

It hasn't.

*Sigh*

Last night, something even more disturbing happened.   The dog wanted out at three this morning to ~~pee or eat grass or chase cats or just piss me off or~~ do whatever it is she wants to do fifty frazillion times a night. I have a routine when she wakes me up.  First, I keep the lights off so I'll go back to sleep.   I go and do my own business in the dark of the bathroom and then curl up on the couch to doze until she barks for me to let her back in.

This morning, however, as I lay snuggled up snoozing away on the couch, a strange thing happened.

The dog barked her warning bark, my eyes shot open, and I was confronted with brown. Somehow, in my sleep, I had rolled over and was facing the back of the couch.    Okay, no big deal.   Roll over and get up and let the dog in before her infernal barking wakes up the whole dang neighborhood.

Oh, if only it were that easy.

I lay there on the couch for a good 3 minutes, or 100,000 barks, trying to remember HOW TO ROLL OVER.

I kid you not.

My future is bleak, you guys. Someday, you will walk by me at the store, greet me, and I'll think I am fighting in WWI and chase you all around Wal-Mart screaming cuss words a four year old should never hear.

At least Big Daddy has already bought me an old radio to hide my money in for when the Germans come.

Go Away Monster Spray

2013-05-12T14:24:00.000-05:00

When The Toddler was between the age of two and four, she had the worst case of night terrors...not nightmares which are an occasional bad dream. Night terrors consist of a child sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide open, and screaming bloody murder. There is nothing you can do to console them, because they are caught in the midst of the dream.

We would go to her, and The Toddler would fight us, biting and clawing, as we tried to comfort her. All the while she was screaming in this high-pitched shriek that sounded as though we were ripping out her toenails. Her eyes would be wild, and she would look about the room or her bed, trying to get away from something. Her heart would be pounding. She'd be drenched in sweat. After about 10 minutes of constantly talking to her and trying to soothe her, she would finally "wake up" and then go back to sleep, exhausted. We would have these once or twice a night, three to four times a week.

Big. Fun.

When we weren't having night terrors, she was petrified that there were monsters in her room.

I was getting zero sleep. And a sleepy momma is a cranky momma.

I tried rationally explaining that there was no such thing as monsters. Those of you who have kids know how well that worked. We tried showing her the movie, Monsters Inc. Our thinking was that she would realize that the monsters weren't trying to kill her, just make her laugh. Didn't work. She started the night sleeping in her bed, but between the night terrors and the monsters, she was soon sleeping in our bed every, single night.

We were desperate.

I decided desperate times, call for desperate measures. We had recently been invaded by ants. The Toddler loved to watch me spray the line of ants with Raid. Once they began to curl up and die, she would bust out in this crazy happy dance, jumping up and down, clapping her hands, wiggling her booty, and squealing. I hoped the same thing would work with monsters.

I went to the dollar store and bought a can of air freshener that I wouldn't mind smelling every day for the next few weeks. I took it home and printed out a label for it.

When the kiddo was out of Preschool that day, I took her to the dollar store for a one dollar reward for her good behavior in school that day. As she was looking at all the beautiful "jewelry" and water balloons, I slipped my new and improved can of air freshener to the clerk. I explained that I would want to "buy" it in a minute. She looked at the label, laughed out loud, and readily agreed.

When we got to the checkout with The Toddler's new treasure, I excitedly mentioned the Go Away Monster Spray sitting on the counter. "Look baby girl, it's Go Away Monster Spray! Just like the ant spray Momma uses, EXCEPT this kills monsters! Want to get some?"

"Nope," she said, shaking her little head.

"Are you sure? No more monsters," I cajoled.

"Nu-huh, Momma," The Toddler restated.

"But it'll kill all the monsters! It's Go. Away. Monster. Spray."

"Don't want it."

At this point the clerk was cracking up.

"Well," I said, "we are getting it anyway. Just to try it out."

And that was that.

Later that night, after bath and stories, I asked her where the monsters are usually in her room, because I wanted to spray those areas.

"Behind da do-wa!"

I sprayed behind the door.

"Unda da bed!"

More spray under the bed.

"In da coo-na!"

Spray went into the corner.

"In da cwaset."

As I sprayed the closet, the scent of flowered fields filled the room.

"Smell that? It means the monsters are gonna die when they try to come in here tonight," I told her, full of enthusiasm.

"Den spray in da dwesser draw-uhs. De are always in dere."

I opened up the dresser and soaked her clothes in air freshener.

After deciding that we had sufficiently sprayed the monsters, we snuggled in the asthma-inducing, stomach-churning, sickly sweet, smelly room. My child made a contented sound and snuggled under the covers, a smile on her little face.

All was good.

Until it was not.

Around one in the morning, The Toddler woke us with screaming.

"Dey are-ra back!"

I sprung into action. "Where?"

"Da cwaset!" came her frantic little cry.

Bam! Sprayed.

"Behind da doo-wa!"

Pow!

"Quick! In da coo-na!"

Splat!

I was a monster spraying machine.

"Da dwesser, Momma! Da dwesser! Dey are dere!"

Zap!

"Unda da bed!"

Zing!

And then....silence.

I was lightly panting from my unexpected midnight work-out. "Did I get them all?"

"Jes," and she snuggled back down for sleep.

Easy, peasy, lemon squeasy. I could not believe it.

We repeated this another couple of times that first night. As the days turned into a week, I had to go back to the store to buy more Go Away Monster Spray. Each night, though, I was getting up less and less. Then, we started skipping nights until it was only once a week.

After about three weeks, The Toddler told me as we were snuggling before sleep, "Dat spway works. De Monsters don't come here any-mowa. Dey are too afwaid of you."

And we never had a monster again.