Just Call Me Trashy

The boy and I were out running errands over the weekend, and we ran into Belk to buy a Father's Day gift for Dan/Daddy.
If you aren't from the South, you may not be familiar with the Belk.  It's a department store that has been around since the dawn of time.  Well, maybe it hasn't been around that long, but I remember my teeny tiny small hometown having a Belk store before we had much of anything else.  Even McDonald's.

The checkout lines in our Belk men's department were a mile long, so we found a half-mile long line in the women's department.  We also apparently got in line in front of the Fashion Police from 1937.

A group of 4 senior ladies behind us began to chat about the long lines.

"I remember back when you went to a department store, you had one sales person all to yourself.  They brought you clothes to try on, and they knew what looked nice."

Another one chimed in,
"I'll bet that salesgirl was dressed up, too.  They knew how to dress up for work back then."

Then the next one piped up,
"I can't get over how these young folks dress these days.  Especially in church!  They don't even wear pantyhose anymore!"

Now remember, I have a 14 year-old boy standing with me.  At this point in their conversation, we had stopped talking to each other and completely tuned in to them.

Grandma #4 joined in,
"I'm just glad they are coming to church, even if they don't have on pantyhose."

"Well I remember my mama saying a lady always wears pantyhose.  Not wearing pantyhose was just trashy."

At this point, I said a silent prayer of thanks that pantyhose aren't the standard anymore.   I'm always thankful to avoid that nylon prison of torture... especially in Summer.

The commentary continued.
"People just don't know what looks nice anymore."

"It's hard to find anything that looks decent."

"And then you have to stand in a long line to pay for it."

When it was finally our turn to pay, the boy was purple from holding in his laughter.  I wasn't far behind him.  We paid, and left the 4 Grannies to solve the rest of the fashion world's problems.

Only in the South can four total strangers bond over the trashy lack of pantyhose in our society.

I only hope they don't see me on Sunday morning... without my pantyhose.

The Day The Elderly Abused Me

I love senior citizens. I practically am one.
I love their ability to be blunt in every situation.  If your hair looks bad, they tell you.  If you have bad breath, they will tell you.  If you whisper in church, they'll turn around to shush you. If you've gained a few pounds, they'll tell you.  They are like toddlers with more money and more life experience.
And... if you let them, they will steal a shopping cart right out from under you.

Yesterday, I had to run into the Mart.  Sadly, it was pouring rain, so all the carts were soaking wet.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to loosen a cart from the jammed up cart pile for about 5 minutes.  When I finally got one free, I pulled it over to the side and wiped it off with an old Kleenex I found in my pocket.  Then I spied a roll of paper towels near the cart wipes.  (The "cart keepers" of the Mart were looking out for us.)  So I grabbed a few paper towels and kept on drying.
That's when the elderly man started stealing my cart.
He grabbed the front of the cart and was rolling it away with my purse in it.  For a grandpa, he was fast.  I had to jog a tiny bit to catch him.  Laughing as I ran, I finally grabbed the handle and said,
"You're stealing my cart!"

He said, "Oh.... I thought you worked here."

Well. 
I took my dry cart back and started my shopping.

For the record, I do not consider it an insult to be mistaken for an employee of the Mart.  But yesterday, there were some glaring differences.
I was drying off ONE cart... not the whole group.  The Mart employees are great, hard-working people... But none of them has ever dried off a shopping cart for me.
I was dressed up to meet Dan/Daddy for lunch.  By "dressed up," I mean "not stretchy pants and flip flops."  I had on a necklace and real shoes.  The employees at the Mart are nice, well-kept workers... But the sweater I had on was not "Mart blue." 
The Mart employee who stands at the door is friendly and chatty... But I wasn't even smiling.
So somehow, some way PeePaw thought I was a Mart cart wrangler.

My husband, my brother, my friend, and the boy all got the biggest laugh when I told them my story.
Dan/Daddy thought it was funny I had to run to catch the guy.
My brother told me he gets mistaken for a worker in stores all the time.
My friend said she didn't want to read about me abusing the elderly in the news.
The boy argued with me for at least 30 minutes about the color of my sweater.  He swears it was "Mart blue."  It's not.

When I paid for my things and left the Mart, PeePaw was walking out right in front of me. 
I laughed to myself, but I kept my eye on him.

Baby Jesus Goes To School

As a family, we don't usually celebrate Mardi Gras.  We don't live near one of those beautiful Deep South cities that holds a parade, and I can honestly say I've never shown any part of my body for a strand of beads.
We do, however, take any and every opportunity to expand our knowledge of the world around us eat cake.
We want the boy to know what other religions, cultures, and communities believe and how they celebrate.  If that includes food, then we're all a little happier.  And educated.  And fat.

So in honor of Fat Tuesday, I headed over to the local Publix to buy a King Cake.  The traditional King Cake has the baby Jesus baked inside, but in the Publix version, he comes taped to the lid.

My friend, M, went on a similar quest for a King Cake with a plastic Baby Jesus.  For some crazy reason, her cake box had no baby.  She sent her husband back to Publix for 3 more cakes.  None of them had a Baby Jesus.  Several people had theories, but I think someone went through those boxes and cleaned out the babies.  Sicko.

Before we ate our cake, I un-taped the plastic baby, flipped the cake over, and smashed him into the layers of sugar and cream cheese.  (The more I think about it, the more bizarre the entire ritual seems.)  We devoured the whole thing in about a day and a half, and the boy got the piece with the baby in it.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he stabbed into every area of the cake with a knife before he actually cut a slice.  (More and more bizarre by the minute.)

The plastic Baby Jesus hung out on the kitchen island for a few days, and then I saw him in the boy's bathroom... sitting on the counter.
Almost a week had gone by when I realized I hadn't seen him.  We were getting in the car, and the boy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and said,

"Wheeeew!  I thought that was Baby Jesus in my pocket."

"Ummm.... why would Baby Jesus be in your pocket?  Where is he, by the way?" I said.

Without any hesitation, he said, "He's been going to school."

"He's been doing WHAT?" I asked.

"Going to school."  He said it like you might say, "I have a math test."  Or, "I need pencils."

"Just how many times has Baby Jesus been to school?"

"Lots.  Don't worry, though... He only comes out at lunch, because we don't want him to be taken away."

Truthfully, I wasn't worried about Baby Jesus being taken away.  I was worried about the phone call I might receive from the school office.  Or the school Security Officer... whose main station is the cafeteria. 

"What are you going to do if Officer B sees him?" I asked.

"Oh, he already has.  He came by our table, and we showed him Baby Jesus, and he even held him."

The boy rolled his eyes as I said, "Baby Jesus needs to come home."

"He can't right now," he said.  "I don't exactly have him."

"Who exactly has him?" I asked.

"My friend has him at his house,"  he said.  "He's making him some clothes.  We were feeling bad because he's naked."

"Well, as soon as he gets some clothes and comes back to school, I'd like you to bring him home."

He rolled his eyes again, protested, and tried to convince me the tiny plastic Baby Jesus would not get him into trouble.  He said something about Baby Jesus being the highlight of lunch, and he probably said something about me ruining all his fun.
I reminded him it's my job to ruin his fun, and I take it seriously.

It's been a few days since that conversation, so I asked the boy last night about Baby Jesus.  He is, apparently, still at the friend's house.  He's still naked, but I have a sneaky suspicion he has been back to school.  How do I even begin that phone call with another mom? 
"Hi!  I was wondering if our naked plastic Baby Jesus is at your house?  Could you send him home please?"

My poor friend, M, finally did get her Baby Jesus.  Another friend who knew of the missing Publix babies was at a (real) baby shower and stole a plastic baby from the centerpiece and brought it to her.  I guess it's not technically Baby Jesus, but my friend, M, was satisfied.

I may have to make a surprise appearance at lunch to confiscate Baby Jesus.  There's nothing like your mom walking into Middle School lunch to take away your plastic baby. 
While I'm there, I may take lunch to Officer B.  The man who is the first line of protection in the school took a few minutes to goof around with a table full of 7th grade boys.
And their mascot, Baby Jesus.

A Penny For Your Texts

At the rate I am posting blog entries, I may have a big whopping 12 by December.
It's not for lack of material... Life is full of great stories, but getting them to the page is another task altogether.
If I stopped long enough to record my thoughts, I might be able to think more clearly.  Get some of that craziness out of my head, you know?

Speaking of craziness, have you ever scrolled back through your "received" and "sent" text messages? 
It's scary just how quickly those messages pile up.  The content of my messages is even scarier.

Last week, I was sitting and waiting in the car line at the boy's school.  Instead of catching up on my Bible reading (I'm behind) or catching up on my Bible study (I'm behind), I scrolled through some old texts.
Here's a small sampling of what my friends and I had been chatting about:

1.  Cat food is like crack to my dog.

2.  Caramel cheese popcorn is like crack to me.  (How do we all know so much about illegal drugs?)

3.  The DMV is a pleasant place in our town.  (This may or may not be an exaggeration.)

4.  Skin tight leopard print pants are not acceptable church attire.

5.  Has the "no Saturday mail" thing started yet?

6.  There are 2 houses in our neighborhood with Christmas wreaths still on the doors.

7.  Baby Jesus went to school.  (This is a post all on it's own.)

8.  Someone stole a plastic baby from a baby shower centerpiece.  (This is directly related to #7.)

9.  I need to justify my Target run.

10.  I'm stuck in the bathroom... I will text you my order.

11.  I tried to cut off the end of my left thumb.  Again.  (True story.  I cut the same thumb I whacked the end off of years ago.)

I was going to list an even 10, but I couldn't leave out the thumb text.  The doctor reattached the end of my thumb the last time I removed it.  This time, I manned up and glued it back together.  I have no idea why I hate my left thumb.

Thankfully, no left thumb is necessary to type out the "Plastic Baby Jesus Goes To School" post I'm working on.
In the meantime, I will be cleaning out my text messages.

Missing My Little Punkin'

We went to the Pumpkin Patch this weekend with our Youth Group from church.
I am the mom of a teenager, and that harsh reality really hits home at the pumpkin patch.
Small children are everywhere, and they are so stinking cute carrying those pumpkins around.
My friend, C, said
"I'm really missing my boys being little this year."
Ouch... I know exactly what she means.
Every year since the boy was a toddler, we've hit up the patch to pick a pumpkin.
I have pictures of him knee deep in bright orange pumpkins, riding in a hay wagon, and petting goats.
I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Little boys turn into big teenage boys.

Instead of climbing through pumpkin vines, the boy ran through the corn maze with his big teenage friends.
Instead of taking pictures, he zoomed all over the farm... acting like the goofy 13 year-old he is.
And instead of walking home with a pumpkin, he limped to the car.

He limped to the car because he was injured, and he was injured because he went with me through the "haunted woods."
You see... teenagers don't come to the Pumpkin Patch to sip cider; they come to go through "Scream Creek" in all its gory glory.
So because I am a  brave chaperone and a crazy woman, I went along.

The "Scream Creek" haunted woods were dark and scary on their own, and then all sorts of creepy things started happening.  We ran from werewolves, psychos with chainsaws, meat butchers, zombies, and a few clowns.  We tripped over roots, pushed through dark sheds with hanging body parts, and slid down a 75-foot slide.
I did it all... all while holding a death grip on the back of the boy's jacket.
He kept yelling,
"I can't breathe!  You're choking me!"
When I let go of his jacket, I held onto his arm until he wrenched it away and yelled,
"You're cutting off my circulation!!"

The worst part of the whole "trail" was a section winding through a corn field.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure chasing us. 
Being the sane, calm person I am... I whispered to the boy (who was in front of me),
"There's something in the corn."
When he didn't panic to my standards or speed up, I screamed,
"THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE CORN!!"
Then I tried to run.
Being the graceful, agile person I am... I fell.  I took the boy down with me.
One of the other chaperones behind us tried to help, but he couldn't stop laughing.
We rolled around for a second until my adrenaline kicked in.  I stood up and grabbed the back of the boy's jacket, lifting him onto his feet with superhuman strength.
I suppose we looked like prey, because the black thing in the corn burst out of the corn right at us.
Let's just say I'm glad I went to the bathroom before we got there.
Let's also say my son may never forgive me.

No matter how many times I told myself, "It's not real," I couldn't stop jumping and screaming.

The rest of the trail is kind of a blur to me.  I let go of my wounded child, and I clutched the arm of my friend, C, for the remainder of our trip through Scream Creek.
I may or may not have pulled her into a wall at some point.

When we finished the trail, everyone had a great laugh at my expense... including the boy.
As much as he fussed and complained, I know he thought it was hysterical.
It was a blast.
Except for the bruises all down the left side of my body.

I do miss the boy being little.  It seems like I miss it more every day.  He has such a fun personality, and I have enjoyed all his "stages" of growing up.
He may be a teenager, but he let this momma hang onto him all through the haunted woods.  He laughed with me and at me, and he says I wasn't even embarrassing.
He's been telling people I was the scariest thing in the woods.
As much as I miss my little punkin', I wouldn't trade these bruises for the world.

What Does A Bear Know Anyway?

We are 5 days into my most favorite month of the year.
I am dragging out the spooky decor this afternoon.  We've had cooler weather, and we've had a few pots of soup. 
We've also had strep and a stomach virus.  So far, only the boy has been sick.  I am praying like a saint that Dan/Daddy and I stay puke-free.
But I still love October.

One of my favorite Fall things is a fire... fire pits, Halloween cookouts, s'mores, and warm cozy fires in the fireplace.  I even enjoy grilling out more when it's cool outside.
Apparently, the love of a good fire is genetic.
It's passed down from one generation to the next like blue eyes or dimples.

I was picking up some clutter last week, and I reached to put a ruler back into the junk drawer.
That's when I saw it.

Look very closely.  You may have to click on the picture to see it best.

It's a freebie ruler... It's a little beat up and colored on.  It probably came from a preschool visit to the fire department.

It says, "Smokey's Friends Don't Play With Matches."
It's what's penciled in underneath that makes me worry.  Can you see it?

"Then I am not Smokey's friend."

I'm not sure when my little pyromaniac wrote it.  The handwriting looks a little shaky.  He probably wrote it a few years ago. 
He may have written it the day the firemen gave it to him.

I am so proud.
Happy October and happy fire building, friends.

Does The Cone Come In My Size?

School has been out for almost 3 weeks, and we have turned into complete bums.
I am ashamed the poor old blog has been so neglected.
We've been catching up with Dan/Daddy - who was gone for work.
We have been spending lots of time with some old friends who came into town for a few weeks.
We have made S'mores and homemade ice cream.
We have slept past 5:55 am every single morning.
We have seen The Avengers twice.  I am not ashamed to say Thor and Iron Man are easy on the eyes.

But I would be a bad blogger if I failed to tell you all the story of the cone.

It all started innocently enough... it always does.  Rosie the Dog went to the vet to be spayed. 
I brought her home with:

1. an antibiotic for a skin rash,

2. a pain medication she would later have a reaction to,

3. a very large vet bill,

4. and a cone.

Somebody remind me again why I have a dog?

She should have "bounced back" to her normal self within a day or two, but she didn't.  We ended up taking her back to the vet... who determined she was not tolerating the pain medicine.  The vet stopped the pain medicine, and Rosie perked right up.
For the rash, I had to shove 2 huge pills down her throat twice a day.
The vet also recommended Benadryl. 

After 2 weeks of taking care of the cone-headed dog, I considered asking the vet if I could finish off the pain meds.  And wash it all down with Benadryl.

The cone was to keep her from scratching her rash or picking at her stitches.  It turned into a weapon.  I have scars and scabs on my shins that may never heal.

On the day she had her stitches removed, the vet tech asked if we wanted to keep the cone.  It was shredded in 2 places, and the hooks that attach it to the collar were gone.

I politely told the vet tech she could throw it away.

Since the cone came off, we've been back at the vet for another rash and a problem with her incision scar.
Somebody remind me again why I have a dog?


One of my friends sent me a great picture... I've seen it on Pinterest, but I wish I could take credit for it myself. 

I am praying we can all remain cone-free for the rest of the summer.

To Cheer My Soul

Phew.  It has been one of those weeks.  Everything that's happened will make a great blog story, so I am only posting a picture today.
It's a picture that cheers my heart, and I hope it will cheer yours.

I think I mentioned the cat has been getting piggyback rides.
I think I may have even posted a picture last week.
Well that ol' picture just didn't make the experience come alive like I needed it to.
So I took another one, and oh my word...
I cannot stop laughing.

So I made it my screen saver, and I laugh every time I look at it.
Her face just says it all.
Her face is saying how I feel today...

So, enjoy.

And yes, I am worried she may come to kill me in my sleep.

Granny's Got Some Technology

In light of my last post... in which I documented the aging of my son AND myself...

I thought you would all get a hoot out of this.

I spent 45 minutes on the phone with our internet service provider yesterday. The internet was not connecting, and I couldn't figure out what in the world was wrong.
Calling tech support was my last option, but I had tried everything.

The tech support gal "rebooted" and "pinged" and did all sorts of other things that involved modems and routers, and then she asked me if the "wireless" button on the computer was switched "off" or "on."

Y'all. I didn't know where that button was. I didn't even know it existed.
Well.

When my 12 year-old showed me the button, it was in the "off" position.
I flipped it on, and the internet was back. Miracle.

Somewhere at a dinner table last night, a tech gal was telling a hysterical story about Granny and her laptop.

Me, Ellen, and Kathie Lee

There are 2 things on my mind as I compose this post:
1. Y'all are not going to believe me.
2. I should not eat Zaxby's wings at 8:30 in the evening.

A few nights ago, I had what could possibly be the kookiest dream ever.
I had a dream that involved pink lemonade cake, Ellen DeGeneres, and Kathie Lee Gifford.
I promise I am not making this up.

In my dream, I was apparently friends with Ellen and Kathie Lee. Ellen owned a bakery, and I was trying to get in to buy some of her pink lemonade cake. I was frustrated because her bake shop was closed, and I was having a conversation with a group of people about this problem. Kathie Lee popped out (from somewhere?) and told me that Ellen's bakery had been closed the day before, too.

Then, I woke up.

I can tell you how and why my subconscious brain put the pink lemonade cake in my dream. I cannot tell you why I dreamed about Ellen and Kathie Lee. Or why I was, apparently, living among the rich and famous.

I have been obsessed with the pink lemonade cake ever since I saw it on Pinterest.

Obsessed.
Not obsessed enough to make it, however. My sis-in-law made one, and my mouth actually watered when she told me about it.
I keep saying I'm going to get the ingredients together to make it. I just haven't yet.

Maybe I'll call my buddy, Ellen, and order one from her bakery.
If she'd ever open up the darn shop.

What Came First? The Chicken Or The Meat

Let me start this tale by saying Dan/Daddy is a very smart guy. He knows a lot about a lot of things. I like to pretend I know more than him, and I like to tell him I know more than him. But, truthfully.... he's pretty sharp.
In the many years we've been married, I've learned he is clueless about
1. current Hollywood happenings
2. reality TV
3. the stuff in People magazine
4. popular music
In other words, all the important things.

If I have to go through life married to a man who doesn't know Adele's latest song or what a Kardashian is.... then I suppose that's ok. That's why I have girlfriends.

But I may have to add to that sort list. We had a little family incident that has me worried.

Last weekend, we were playing the game "Catch Phrase." It's a great game where you shout out clues to help your partner guess a particular phrase or word within a time limit. Dan/Daddy was on my team and was trying to give me clues to guess the phrase "bacon and eggs."
Not too difficult, right? I can think of lots of clues to give someone so they would guess "bacon and eggs." Like...

"One comes from a pig and one comes from a chicken."

Or...

"Long and skinny strips of salty goodness and a roundish oval thing in a shell."

But, no. This is what my smart husband says to me...

"Two breakfast meats."

Huh? I guessed "bacon and ham" and "bacon and sausage" and "sausage and Canadian bacon" and "ham and sausage" and about a hundred other meat combinations.

Well. As you can imagine, the buzzer went off, and our time was up.
After the other team had a guess, he was able to reveal the phrase.

When he said "bacon and eggs" I had to ask him to repeat himself.
Then after we all fell over laughing, I said,
"Why did you say TWO meats?"
His answer?
"An egg is a meat."

Oh. My.
Yes, he did.

And so began the first family feud of 2012. No matter what I say about eggs being proteins or eggs not being meat (yet), he has continued to stand firm.
I took the war to Facebook and asked everyone to offer their vote. I also shamelessly asked them to agree with me because I had to win.

35 comments later and the count stands at:
Me: 32
Dan/Daddy: 2
Tie: 1

The only 2 people who voted for Dan/Daddy were his close friend and my cousin... who felt like people were just siding with me because they like me.
I told Dan/Daddy's friend that HE could be Dan/Daddy's partner in games from now on.
I told my cousin he was wrong... People agreed with me because I was RIGHT. (And I am a nice person.)

When I read all the comments to Mr. Eggs Are A Meat, he just laughed.
So I immediately jumped on Facebook again to ask people if he was being stubborn.

Behold the power of social media.

PS... Eggs are not meat.

I Suppose That's Why They're Called "Slippers"

I took an unofficial poll of our families over Thanksgiving, and I asked them how they all felt about the crazy Target lady. I got mixed reviews. She is, apparently, very polarizing. Either you love her or hate her.
Me? I want to be her.
Those commercials crack me up. My favorite is the one where she's "training" for Black Friday... in her red workout suit and high heels. Cracks me up.
I think she's onto something with those shoes, because I discovered that "comfortable" shoes may not the best option for me.

My Facebook status from last night:

"A house isn't a home until momma falls down the stairs."

We spent our long Thanksgiving weekend with both families, eating until we could eat no more, and we drove home yesterday. 8 hours in pouring rain. I was happy to get some laundry started and to put on my bedroom slippers. The boy and I ate dinner in front of the TV; Dan/Daddy needed to go into work for a bit.

When he returned home, I heard the garage go up. My phone rang, and it was him... calling me from the garage. I answered the phone, but he didn't reply. I heard the garage go down. Then my phone rang again... and again it was him. I answered again and got no response.

At this point, I'm thinking several things:
1. My husband's sitting on his phone and it's calling me.
2. The downstairs door is locked and he can't get in.
3. The neighborhood cat has wandered into our garage again, and I need to help get him out.
4. My husband better not be prank calling me from the garage.

So I got up from my cozy spot and hurried to see what was going on.
The "hurrying" and the "slippers" did not make a good combination.
I made the first flight just fine, but then I rounded the corner and hit the top step of the 2nd flight.
The top step was all I ever saw. My feet - in their cozy slippers - flew right out in front of me, and I bounced the rest of the way down on my backside.
Every time I hit a step and bounced up again, I said a not-so-nice word.
3 or 4 bounces and bad words later, I landed at the bottom, Dan/Daddy came running in from the garage and the boy came down right behind me on the stairs.

I mumbled something about being ok, and the boy asked if he could laugh.
Dan/Daddy started fussing at me about being more careful and not wearing ratty bedroom slippers.
Can't you just feel the love?

They really were worried about me, but once they knew I was somewhat ok, they relaxed. Even I laughed. The boy reenacted the whole thing about 21 times.

In case you were wondering, it was #1. I rushed down the stairs and bruised my elbow, my left calf, my right butt cheek and my tailbone (again)...
All because my husband was sitting on his phone.

I may never answer his phone calls again, and he better buy me new slippers for Christmas.
I'll bet the crazy Target lady never falls down her steps.

This Face

This is the smallish face that showed up on our doorstep (literally) this week.

She must have known that a bleeding heart softie lives here. (Make that 3 bleeding heart softies.)

I took her to the vet and spent a sad amount of money getting her checked out and treated for a respiratory infection. Then I spent some more money on de-worming meds and flea treatment because we don't have the heart to look at that face and tell it "no." That's probably what's wrong with the boy. Not worms... We can't say "no" to cute faces.

She barely weighs a pound, and the vet says she's probably about 6 weeks old.
We've known her for 3 days and we already love her to pieces.
The sad part of the story is we can't keep her. Our very overgrown and spoiled cat H-A-T-E-S her. Hate is a mild word.

We've spent 2 days on the phone and on the internet searching for rescue centers, no-kill shelters, pet foster homes, and humane societies.
No one can take any pets. NO one. And that includes several cities.
They are all so overfilled already, and they can't legally have any more.
It is heartbreaking... it makes me see why some people (mean heartless people, that is) just dump unwanted animals out like trash. They really don't have many options.

I am waiting to hear from 2 more rescue places, but the path ahead for baby kitty is unclear.
My mom is considering taking her, but she doesn't really want another pet. She also has 2 very spoiled and unfriendly cats already.

So for now, baby kitty is with us. Getting well and getting lots of snuggling.

In the words of Bob Barker...

"Have your pets spayed or neutered!"

Chihuahuas In My Shirt

I'll start with a bit of a confession. Then I will get to the story.

I've been in a mood lately.
I know, I know... I have too much to be grateful for to be in a mood.
But I am. I blame the weather's inability to cool off. Ya'll. I am sick of hot.
I partly blame Pinterest.
If you haven't been there, then go at your own risk.
It is addictive, and it's been depressing me lately.

If you don't know, it's a "collective" site of all the things you love. And all the things other people love and deem "cool."

So I sit and click and gawk and oooh and ahh and slide further into the blahs.

It's bad enough that my house doesn't look like all the fabulouso bloggers' homes out there.
And I don't cook like the Pioneer Woman. (How much do you love her?)
And I can't tell you how to make an entire garden patio from soup cans. (Don't laugh.... someone has probably done it.)

I can't just see a neat idea and recreate it, a yummy recipe and make it, or a pretty room and admire it.
I have to start feeling icky because I am not all that I see.
Why do we do that to ourselves? (Am I alone here?)
Internet, be darned.

But I have to stop, get off the world-wide web, and look around me at the life I've been given. It is a blessed one. I get to be a part of some really cool stuff.

Like just a few days ago.
I was running errands and stopped at a traffic light. I glanced over to the car beside me where a rather large lady was holding the tiniest baby chihuahua I have ever seen.
Cute didn't do him justice.
(What I am about to say is true.)
While I was looking at the puppy and going all "awwwww...." over him,
the lady took him and pushed him down into her shirt.
Way down in between her very healthy chest parts. Way down.
Tucked him in, put her hands back on the wheel, and drove off.

My "awwww..." went to "ewww...." and I know the light was red long before I could go.
I have seen a lot, folks. Now I have seen a lot more.

Who needs fancy homes, amazing photography, and sinfully delicious food?
Not me, I say.

Just give me my humble home, my scrawny pantry, my stack of dirty clothes, and my cat's stinky litter box.
I will also take a chihuahua. A tiny one that I can poke down into my bra.
Now that is living the good life.

PS... Not everything on Pinterest is cool. Or polite. Or appropriate. We do live in a free - but sometimes twisted - country.

Would You? Could You?

We now interrupt the regularly scheduled summer/moving recap to bring you...

A question.
Purely hypothetical.

Let's say you were new in town, and a new neighbor popped in to bring you a treat.
Mini cheesecakes.
And let's just say that when the new friend handed you the container of yum, an accident caused 5 or 6 of the yums to fall onto the floor.
And let's just say they landed right side up... even if the cherry jumped off.
And let's just say you hadn't had a good homemade dessert in at least 3 weeks.

When the neighbor left...
Would you eat the mini cheesecakes that had fallen on the floor?
(They're in a paper cupcake liner, people.)

I texted my friend, J, to share my purely hypothetical story with her.
She asked me what kind of topping they had. (It's the little things.)
I told her it was a cherry, and the cherry had actually rolled across the foyer...
picking up dirt along the way.

I most certainly did not eat the hypothetical cherry.
I told her I have my standards.
Hypothetically.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chiggers

The boy likes to keep things interesting, so this summer he decided to get 38,625 chigger bites.
739 of which are in places that chiggers should not go.
Places that a momma should not have to see; let alone apply medicine to.

The Summer of 2009, we went to the ER with a catfish barb through the boy's hand.
The Summer of 2010, we went to the ER with hives brought on by the oil in the Gulf.
The Summer of 2011, we are hoping to avoid the ER.
But we are having one grand and glorious time dabbing Caladryl where the sun don't shine.
Good times.

Stink, Stank, Stunk

It was super-de-duper hot in Chapel this past Sunday.
Like "Africa hot."
The hour of Sunday School was torture. My knee pits were dripping.
It was hot enough for me to feel the need to go to the bathroom and spray a little body spray. I didn't really sense a deodorant failure occurring; I was just paranoid. And hot. And have I mentioned hot?

When I got back to my seat, the boy made a nasty gagging face, pinched his nose, and scooted 4 feet down the pew away from me.

"What's the matter with you?" I whispered in that shouty little whisper that you use when you can't yell.

"You stink," he said.

"I just sprayed perfume!" I said.

"I know, and it's too strong!" he shout-whispered back.
(For the record, I am not a perfume fanatic. I like light scents, and I know how he feels about overpowering smells.)

So I asked, "What are you going to do one day when the pretty little girl you adore is wearing perfume? Are you gonna gag and tell her she stinks?"

"NO!" he shout-whispered. "Her perfume will smell good; not like...
old-lady perfume."

Well then.

I can't wait to buy his first real girlfriend a gift. A pretty little bottle of perfume.
Exactly like mine.
(Bwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaa.)

Sneezing Animals and Broken Cameras

The little zoo we took our family to over the weekend was the coolest place. It's made up of all "rescued" animals. The people that own it/work there/take care of the animals are the most kind-hearted people.
For the record, I asked Dan/Daddy if we could have a rescue zoo when we grow up, and he said no.

We had a chance to pet a baby wolf, we fed some monkeys, we saw the tiniest baby rabbit I have ever seen, and we started a barnyard riot.
Well, actually, my sis-in-law started the riot.
I was just the riot's victim. (And I am not referring to the dropped camera. That's another separate incident.)

We bought food for the animals as we entered the zoo, and by the time we got to this particular pen, the bag was empty.
That didn't stop this one goat. Or my sis-in-law. He wanted to eat the bag, and she sweetly obliged.

"Wow lady. Are you really gonna let me have this?"

"Oh my word. This is so much better than that dumb food you were feeding me."


"Gimme the bag, chic. The whole bag, I say."


"Thanks, people. Sorry fellas... none left for ya'll."


And that's when the riot broke out. Goats and rams and cows and other horned critters were pushing and shoving and trying to get up close to the fence to see if they could eat some bag, too.

And then somebody sneezed. Not a person; an animal. The cow, I think. I'm not too sure who it was, because I was in the direct line of fire.
Yep. I got sprayed with barnyard snot mist.

We had to help my brother up off the ground and wipe the tears from his eyes. (Not because he was sad for me, in case you are confused.)

Despite the sneeze and the riot and the broken camera, I still love goats.
A grand time was had by all.
We ended the morning with lots of antibacterial wipes.

And here are the goats I was feeding right before the unfortunate camera drop.
Aren't they cute?
See that one in the bottom right corner? Don't let his adorableness fool you... he eats fingers.

The Day I Cannot Participate

It's that day of the week when I link up to Roots and Rings for some Ten on Tuesday fun. Today's list is a fun photo questionnaire.
But I can't play along today.
Because I broke my camera. Again. The new one. The one I've had less than 2 months.

I dropped it at the zoo on Saturday. I was feeding these adorable little goats, and one of them decided to partially ingest my finger. So I went to hand my camera to Dan/Daddy while I washed/GermXed my bloody fingers.

And I dropped the camera. Lens out and face down in a goat pen.

I am cursed when it comes to cameras.

I think the Lord is trying to tell me ...
1. to NOT buy the wonderful expensive beautiful-picture taking camera I dream about

or...
2. that I am a klutz

or...
3. both

Hopefully this week, I will post the cute pictures I took at the zoo right up to the moment of camera death.
It makes me feel better to blame the finger-eating goat.

"Guilt... It's A Beautiful Emotion"

That happens to be one of my favorite lines from "Steel Magnolias."
By "favorite" I mean I quote it more than the other 342 lines I know.

Yesterday, the boy and Dan/Daddy treated me to:
1. a very full mug of coffee in bed (the kind of "full" where you have to sip it off the top in that gross slurping sound)

2. a new charm for my bracelet and 2 sweet cards (Well, Dan/Daddy's was a little inappropriate, but he thought it was a riot.)

3. homemade waffles and bacon for breakfast

4. a lunch of shrimp, salad, and baked potatoes

5. a nap

6. a clean car (and the fun of hearing Dan/Daddy tell the boy to "hurry up and get over here before the soap dries!")

7. pizza out at our favorite place and a trip to Sonic on the way home

Want to hear something nutso? I felt guilty. Especially when they were washing my car.
I know, I know. It IS crazy. Mother's Day only comes once a year, and I am usually the one doing EVERYTHING around this joint.
So enjoy it, right?
I did enjoy it. With a side of guilt.
It's the way I roll.

But I do not feel guilty about stealing kisses from the little man who calls me "mommy" or "momma" or "mom" (if his friends are around).
Nope... I will never feel guilty about that.