Just today...

This darling child successfully drove every person at the dentist's office absolutely mad with his glass breaking, eardrum bursting, fingernails-on-chalkboard grating hoot.


Just today...

This darling child lost a very expensive game system he's had for three days. Three. Whole. Days.


Just today...

This darling child glued press-on nails, gems, and glitter all over herself, not to mention her bedroom.


Just today...

Three darling children harassed me to the point that hoards of zombies totally overran me and ate my brains.


And that is the reason I spent all day in town like this without ever realizing it.

Shhhhh! That is too the reason.

For a good time click...

I've heard yammering for a new post, but of course there hasn't been much to laugh about in our home for a while. (Dave's doing much better now, thanks everyone.) I am not feeling particularly funny myself, but because I love y'all soooo much I did a little research. I came across a site that is so hysterical that I literally have tears streaming out of my eyes and my sides are killing me. You've got to check out my new favorite blogger (notice the new link love under People Cooler Than Me).

She's a funny lady, so be sure you actually read it. Don't just look at the pictures. Also, notice that she includes links to her favorite charities at the bottom of each post for those feeling generous. How cool is that? Funny and philanthropic.

Enjoy!

Most Embarassing Post. Ever.

This post proves that I am in serious need of mental help and or heavy prescription drugs. When they come and take me away, you will all know why. Enjoy.

On the second Tuesday of every other month this ludicrously annoying fellow my kids have dubbed "the bug man" comes to collect yet another $75 thus reminding me of my complete gullibility and total suckerness. Each time this blessed day rolls around I watch as Jamie inspects every inch of every room of my home, yard and garage included, for any sign of whatever pest he happens to be "into today." What this means to you, faithful reader, is that every second Monday of every other month I break my neck in the attempt to scrub, sanitize, and de-junk this pit in the hopes of fooling an obnoxious man I can not stand at all into thinking we aren't the completely disgusting neanderthals I rediscover we really are every single time. It also means that should you ever decide to pop in on me unannounced, this Tuesday is the day to do it as my house will be clean and I will have actually showered and put on something other than my over-sized men's pajama pants.

I started pretty early this morning, and I must say I was doing quite well despite the laryngitis and uncomfortable drug side effects I've been so lucky to enjoy as of late. I de-cluttered, rearranged, scrubbed, cleaned out the sofa cushions, and actually moved furniture around to vacuum. By 1pm I'd made such a significant dent in what I needed to accomplish to shut the voices up...feel comfortable with a stranger poking around all my secret hidey places...have a reasonably clean home, that I started to get excited.

Now, this never ends well for me. You think I'd learn. When I bite off more than I can chew this happens. And sometimes this. And even... sigh... this. Unfortunately, today was no exception.

I have been looking at my hardwood floors for months now trying to figure out what went so horribly wrong. Being as this is the first part of my house you see upon entering, I try pretty hard to keep them up. Not that you can tell. I have mopped and polished them religiously for 3 years now, yet they still look dingy and gray and covered in a cloudy film. After some time on the Internet, I discovered my problem (OrangeGlo sucks)and it's ridiculously strenuous solution (saturating the wood in ammonia and water and then scrubbing with all your might one teeny square inch at a time). The crazy in me thought it was a splendid idea to work barefoot, no gloves, no mask, closed windows, face first in ammonia scrubbing with all my might. I scoured every inch, moved every single thing on the floor to be sure I didn't skimp anywhere. I even moved our massive Christmas tree, skirt, and all the gifts I had managed to wrap earlier today.

After 4 straight hours, my wood floors were literally gleaming, smooth, beautiful. I stood there for a couple minutes admiring my handiwork. Then it hit me. I was soaking wet, drenched in ammonia from head to toe. My throat was on fire. My hands, arms, back and neck were screaming in agony. I noticed layers of skin missing from my knees and elbows. I stood there in awe of my utter stupidity contemplating what sort of mess I would make if I walked through the house dripping ammonia and how long it would take me to clean it all up. It dawned on me that no one was around. No kids anywhere to be seen. Dave was conspicuously missing. After the work I'd done today why should I trudge up stairs throughout the whole house and back down again. I could just shuck my clothes right into the washer and then run up the stairs to my shower before anyone was the wiser.

I should just stop here. You all know what's coming.

I stripped completely and scooped up all the dirty linens I'd used on the floor to put in the washer. I stood there completely naked as I watched the washer fill and added the soap. I walked completely naked through the kitchen, the living room and was stopped completely naked in front of the picture window admiring my pretty floors one last time when a very shocked Dave standing at the bottom of the stairs said... "um.. you know the pizza guy just pulled into the driveway, right"? Wait. He ordered pizza? I was literally a deer in headlights for a minute. A very naked deer. They were shining straight in my face. I hadn't even noticed for the beautimous gleam of my shiny wood floors.

I stood there for a minute not knowing where to go. Couldn't go upstairs, I'd have to pass in front of the door. Couldn't go through the kitchen to the laundry room. I'd have to pass the picture windows again. Certainly couldn't stay there. I finally bolted back behind the love seat covering...well...not very much.. with my hands. To add insult to injury, as I was cowering (desperately trying to convince myself that the chuckling pizza guy didn't really see anything, my dear son shows up out of nowhere and hollers "Hey Mom, why are you nekkid back there" insuring the pizza guy had one more grin at my expense. There was nothing I could do. There was nowhere I could go, so I stood there dripping on the floor all red knees, elbows

and cheeks.

Surprisingly enough...

we are NOT the most annoying people at church. Nope, apparently we're just amateurs. There's a whole slue of things we've never even considered before. Who knew? Just in case you aspire to become the single most annoying family ever on the face of the earth, I've written a guide for you. I call it 12 Steps to Hell (cuz that's where everyone else will either think they are or will wish to be when you show up.)



1. Come in late making sure to slam your chair back into the knees of the person behind you.

2. Sit in the middle of the row and then get up a million times in less than 15 minutes.

3. Read your books out loud drowning out the speakers.

4. Sing the hymns in an obnoxious mocking voice but not on the lyrics. It's more fun to make up your own.

5. Take a big handful of the sacrament bread.

6. Make a piercing siren sound. Do it over and over.

7. Repeatedly knock items from the hands of others. Don't apologize or help them retrieve them.

8. Feed each other grapes out of the mouths of toys. Not just any toys, mind you. They must be little gross-looking monster toys that also roar, bite people, and make out with one another. Use loud smacky sounds.

9. Smear string cheese all over the place. I mean ALL over the place. Make sure to smear it on the people sitting near you.

10. Have a tickle fight with your small children. Give them plenty of zerbies so they'll scream.

11. Rub the legs of women you've never met. Be sure you laugh about how funny that is. It isn't creepy enough unless you do that.

12. Pull down each others' pants so we can all see who it is that needs a diaper change. Wait a good long time before you decide to actually change it.

So there you have it, folks. Stick to my guidelines, and I can guarantee you'll always have a pew to yourself.

Re-write of my lost formerly funny, but now just a shadow of it's former entertaining self and actually so bad you should just skip it post.

This is all past tense now, and fuzzy around the edges. I did promise to tell it again though, so here it is as well as I can do. If I've learned anything, it's always save your work in another program. The rewrite is never as good as the original.

While my husband is otherwise distracted I am going to complain a bit. Know that I wouldn't do this if he wasn't enjoying a week away from the family all expense paid... in SAN FRANCISCO no less, city of my heart, where I long to be young and free living with wild abandon eating sushi and listening to free-form jazz.... /sigh...

I love my husband dearly. We're a great match. I can talk to him, and he listens. He has been known to actually talk back as well and tries hard not to "fix" my problems. He's ridiculously smart. And cute. And funny. And he does all the cooking. And he helps put the kids to bed. And he hates sports as much if not more than I do. And he doesn't complain when I get computer viruses that he has to fix. And he fixes all the viruses my family gets (which is a lot guys, seriously. What DO you look at?) And he buys the expensive chocolates. And he has cute non-bending thumbs. And he doesn't complain when I wreck the car. Or laugh at me for it...much.

How lucky am I? I know, I know. Hate on.

He does all these things and more, but there is one thing he struggles with- one thing he hates so much there are no words. He'd rather walk on hot coals, rip out his fingernails, go to a.../gulp...chick flick than do any form of yard work.

Dave hates outside chores with the fiery passion of a thousand white-hot suns. He gets absolutely no enjoyment or satisfaction from it at all. There's no sense of accomplishment. No pride in a job well done. In fact, I don't think he'd do it at all if we didn't live in an area where they come measure your grass and fine you if it breaks code. We'd be the scary house on the block. All the little kids would dare each other to knock on the door. Hmmm. There's a thought.

Anyway, it doesn't matter what type of work it is whether it be mowing, weeding, edging...etc. He's an equal opportunity hater. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. We usually pay someone to take care of this for him, (I mean when would he have time to ever make me this if he was outside mowing down grass all the time? A girl guy must have priorities,right)? but we had to fire our lawn guy and hire someone else. When the replacement (his dear brother) said mow yer own lawn, dude changed his line of work, Dave and I had to pick up the slack.

Of course this means that weeks will go by and nothing will get done. At all. When it gets to the point where I'm starting to feel menaced by the neighbor's weed whacker I will inevitably break down, pull out the ole flowered gloves and prepare to get dirty. Why not, right? Someone's gotta do it.

There was a ton to do. There always is since the ex-lawn guy decided to seed all our beds with grass. More of it grows in the flower beds than in our actual lawn now, and it's a constant battle. This time around was especially difficult for me, and after hours of back-breaking, hoe-breaking, trimmer-breaking not to mention fingernail-breaking work in the blazing hot sun, I did what I never ever ever do. I cheated and took the easier way out. I raked up all the mess into a pile and carted it to the back of our property line to toss into the woods (rather than bagging it all nicely) all the while reminding myself of the above list of said husband's attributes through gritted teeth.

You'd think the story was over, right? Where's the crazy in a little yard work, you say? Well, as I was finishing up with the last load I noticed that some of the weeds I'd tossed into the woods had hung in a couple of bushes and some had fallen into big lumpy piles on the ground. How unsightly! Well we can't have that, can we? Heavens no. What would Martha think? Madame Brilliant here decides to shove her arms right into the mess to make sure everything was nicely distributed. I even remember thinking to myself as I felt my arms brush up against a massive bush how horrible it would be if it was poisonous, and maybe I should go wash off just to be sure. They say if you wash it off quickly you'll be okay. Did I listen to my own voice of reason? Do you read my blog? I chose to wait not 1 minute, not 5 or ten, but 45 minutes after having first suspected I'd touched the stuff.

It was a couple of days later before I first noticed the itch. Just a small spot really on the underside of my forearm. I thought it was a couple of mosquito bites at first, that is until it began to get bigger. And bigger. And itchier and itchier until there was poison covering the whole of my under forearm from the wrist to the elbow. I also managed to get it on my bicep, down my right side, on my hip and into the corner of my right eye. Ever wanted to jab your own eye out? Never thought I would either.

I set out on a mission to find relief. I tried everything from swallowing herbal supplements and tons of Benadryl to covering myself in oatmeal, Calamine, rubbing alcohol, and peroxide. I used a whole tube of really expensive local remedy. I stood in the tub and dumped half a bottle of bleach on myself. You don't even want to know about the screwdriver. Suffice it to say NOTHING WORKS. Before church on Sunday I covered myself in bandages so no one would freak out when they saw the mess. There were so many that the kid collecting fast offerings saw it and asked me how I had broken my arm. I've done that. Trust me poison ivy is worse. Folks, I have descended into the depths of hell. I can't begin to tell you the extent of my suffering. It doesn't end. Every day there is yet another new spot of torment and I try yet another pointless method.

What's the moral of the story, boys and girls? There isn't one really. Just know, Dave. You have to come home one day. Until then, dear, I'll be waiting.

Afterword--I have permanent scarring on my arm. It's a constant reminder to me of my idiocy.

Blog Angst

A couple of weeks ago I spent a lot of time writing out a post for you, and it was funny, man. I was so proud of it. I've had a rash of hilarity happen to me lately, and I thought that this particular post would start it all off just right. I had been working it up for about a week, and on Sunday it was all nice and shiny and ready to publish. Because it strongly featured me poking great fun at my husband, I left it up him to choose whether or not it was published. Upon getting his ok (he's a great sport), I hit save and publish. Only it didn't. Well, what actually published was the first paragraph only. Everything else magically disappeared. No save either. It was gone. 45 minutes of me frantically trying to find this work was for nothing. Several hours of my brilliant husband's brilliant computer expertise was also for nothing. I have since been too irritated over it to write up my other ideas. Sorry about that. When it stops chapping my hide I'll attempt a rewrite and y'all can resume laughing at my misfortunes. In the meantime, beware. The Cosmic Thumb strikes through blogger.

Who knew?

Ever get a tune stuck in your head? I recommend extreme violence.

Summer is almost over now, and soon to follow it is the ever-beloved ice cream man. As much as I hate being hot and sweaty (well, of course y'all know a Southern girl doesn't actually sweat... we glisten, but bear with me here I'm telling a story) there's just nothing like that tinny out of tune warble that only comes at this time of year to get your heart pumping and your mouth watering especially on those smothering wet blanket no breeze make you want to smack the devil dog days of summer.

I loathe the ice cream man. Blasted evil ice cream man; harbinger of summer, bearer of all that yummy cold creaminess, pied piper to all things child-like and fun. I would wring his neck with the cord to his crappy music box if he'd only stay still long enough. There I said it. When you can pick your jaw up off the floor, feel free to read ahead. I'll tell you why.

It started when we lived in Murfreesboro. It was the first time my children really conceived of what that weird truck they kept seeing was, when the correct synapses snapped together and the lights went on in their tiny heads. A man driving around in a brightly colored truck blasting kid music and giving out ice cream? Oh life is good when you're a kid. The only problem after that epiphany was keeping enough cash available for just in case said miracle man were to come driving by our home. Well, that and the waiting.....and waiting......and waiting..........

I'll never forget that last spring we lived out there. My kids heard the music coming often. We lived in a popular area and heard it daily, but we kept missing it. This one particular day the truck was so close but not quite up to our street. Seeing their chance, my little chickens ran inside to plead with me please mama please mama oh please he's almost here. I hurriedly grabbed the wallet and we ran out to wait. It was such a sweet time watching them debate over all the things they might find in that truck and what they might choose for themselves. They romped around in anticipatory bliss. I relished that enthusiasm and found myself starting to muse along with them.

Then there he was in all his glory, coming up at the corner, wailing canned joy out of the speakers on the rooftop while my ecstatic children whooped and cheered. The moment of truth had finally arrived. A month of waiting was about to pay off... that is until he turned the opposite direction driving away from my broken-hearted children and out of the neighborhood. Words can't describe the sorrow of that day.

This was the beginning.

For the next two years, my kids hoped for the elusive ice cream man. They ran out often.. sat in the grass watching day after day. After moving here where there are many more children I thought for sure this dream of theirs would finally be fulfilled. For a time he would just appear out of nowhere every few days...right in the middle of dinner. We'd be halfway through the mashed potatoes when that little tinkle would sound. I would have let them out regardless (I'm not totally heartless) but he always drove by so fast we had no prayer of ever getting out there in time. We know the back of that truck by heart now. Weeks of this ensued. I thought since no one else on our street ever let their kids out during dinner that the guy would get a clue and switch it up. He did finally. Yep. Changed it to lunch time instead. Then he just stopped coming altogether.

I'd thought my kids had mostly moved on from this unrequited desire until just recently. We were standing in the doorway when that old familiar tune that we hear even in our sleep(Frere Jacques) that we've heard so many times before showed up out of nowhere. (Seriously, Clara and I both hear that song even when it's not there, especially during dinner.) We all just knew it was meant to be. For once I had cash to give them. It was exactly our family's designated snack time. It was the last day of summer before school. The stars were aligned. My kids whooped with joy in the front yard listening as that music drew ever closer... and closer...and closer and passed our street by with nary a glance. Twice. If I could have conceivably caught up with him, I'd have gotten the baby up, thrown them all in the car, hunted him down with my Mama Bear SUV and run his sorry butt over. Instead I watched my faithful kids sit in the sweltering sun grasping their tattered bills for hours for hours hoping he'd come back before finally giving up and coming in for dinner. My son Sam said the blessing that night. I thought my heart would never recover when I heard him so sweetly pray for the ice cream man to safely come to our house. Then, and almost every prayer since.

Every day thereafter as my kids have sat on that porch just waiting; I have searched the Internet, the phone books, and every resource I can find on where to find a phone number or store front or some way of getting one to drive out here at a designated time to no avail. I have also spent more time on my knees by myself praying for the ice cream man to come and then just begging for a little boy's prayer to be answered.

Today it was. Sam never doubted. And let me tell you all is right with the world.

It’s a bird... it’s a plane...

Those of you who know my family well know what a struggle I've had with my now 5-year-old son, Sam. I mean this kid really puts me through the ringer. I could dedicate a whole site just to him and his exploits and document the daily struggle I face to refrain from throwing him out the window teach him to be a productive member of society. This summer has been particularly difficult. I have found myself really having to focus on remembering what a real treasure he really and truly is. (I had to look especially hard today.)

Thus we come to today's post.

This was one I wrote on my prior blog a couple of years ago. Sam was 3 at the time. Those of you who've read it will live through it again I'm sure. For those of you who haven't, here you go...another reason why I love my ridiculously difficult son.

It's a bird... it's a plane...
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

So my little boy Sam (a.k.a Destructo Boy, the Human Cyclone, Terror-of-the-Southern-Lands-and-all-things-Poultry) has turned over a new leaf. Seemingly. I'm not sure I truly believe it yet. Those of you familiar with the Era-of-the-Eggs can understand my reservations, I'm sure.

We've survived the Egg Era, Pirate Hell, and the "Call me Pablo, Tyrone" phase. Oompa loompas have stopped screeching parenting insults my way, and Lightning McQueen has stopped racing across my pretty leather furniture. No more noodle towers, Cheerio explosions, blackberry tracks, bleach stains, flour showers, and surprisingly, 12-packs of toilet paper last more than an hour.

This has all been replaced, we think. And with what? Cue the trumpet fanfare...now the drum roll...cap it with a cymbal clash... it's SUPERSAM TO THE RESCUE!!! Can it be? Is it true? Has my little deviant finally decided to renounce his terroristic tendencies in favor of....gulp.....the GOOD OF MANKIND?

Yes, ladies and gents. I wake every morning to find he's already up and dressed in his super suit. He zooms around the house righting wrongs, protecting the innocent. His muscles flex as he lifts heavy fallen objects. He leaps tall pillows in a single bound, all the while his theme music is playing over and over on the DVD player.

What, ladies and gentleman, would I do without this little man of steel? Why just today I was moping around after a long restless night nursing bruised feelings, when in flies Super Sam. He takes a long look at me, rips off his secret identity (it's his favorite firetruck shirt and some glasses with the lenses poked out. He won't let me wash it right now...) and while kissing me on the cheek whispers " but I love you, Mom."

What can I say... my hero.

Lesson of the day

Now class pay attention. This may be on the final. Now repeat after me.

Gorilla glue is not the same as crazy glue.

Gorilla glue will bond anything to anything else.

Permanently.

As in forever.

Should you not heed this lesson, be forewarned.

Ice will not freeze it off. Peanut butter will only make a mess. Even exacto knives will do nothing but cause you pain.

No, boys and girls, gorilla glue is forever.

Your only hope is that a kind loving husband will stifle his laughter long enough to tear apart the bottle rather than ripping the flesh from the bone. If not, you could always follow your son's suggestion to burn it off or just hack off the whole finger with a sword.

Pay absolutely no attention to the full inch of missing skin.

Class dismissed.

Need a good laugh?

Yesterday I learned a very valuable lesson. Here it is.




Heavy narcotic pain killers and trips to the salon DO NOT MIX.

Now check this out.


Notice the resemblance?


Next time I shall listen to my husband and just cancel the appointment.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Today I met the future me. Or at least where I fear I might be headed.

Maybe not. Currently, I'm a girl. But if the future me could be a slightly crazy vacuum cleaner repairman then I definitely met the future me. It was so weird, y'all. Like looking in a mirror. A really really crotchety old crazy mirror.

It started with my sis-in-law's cleaning routine. We're hosting a Family Reunion between us in July, and after hearing the lengths she's going to prepare her home for our company I was shamed into doing a bit more than I might have. (Not by her, y'all she's a peach. I impose this on myself.) Now I am a pretty decent housekeeper for the most part, but this chick is insane amazing. Seriously, I don't know how she does it. I would have to sandblast my walls......

hmm....I may have to consider...

Anyhow, this led me to finally get at steaming the kid remnants out of my carpets. Been meaning to for a while (this baby is quite the spitter) but I kept finding more important interesting things to do instead. As I was dragging that thing across yet another bitty-boy yuck stain, I heard this really unhealthy sound issuing from the steamer. I have learned (finally) not to ignore weird sounds in my house (i.e. crunching in the disposal, gurgling in the wash, the splatting of raw eggs from the 2nd floor...) so I turned it off and quite handily unscrewed every screw I could find. Amidst all the vacuum guts I found the culprit... one teeny partially ripped belt thingy. I figured I could handle that one little problem without resorting to calling the Man to come fix it. So I packed up the punks, and off we went in search of parts.

Apparently my steamer is a popular variety, because I found it in every single place I looked today. However, not a one of those places carried this particular belt. They carried all the belts for every other stupid machine on the planet but not mine oh no not mine of course they wouldn't have mine because I chose mine and Cosmic Thumb forbid I get one that will live for at least one whole stinkin year before it breaks just one whole stinkin year before I have to bust it apart, do major surgery and then search high and low for hours on end in the hopes of getting that freakin carpet looking more like carpet and less like the Manson family came to dinner but I digress.

(Bring Mommy her happy pills, please dear. No the little pink ones...thank you.)

Ahem.

As I was saying, it was proving a more difficult challenge than I at first believed, so I did the only other thing I could think of. I called my mommy. We can thank her now for finding my future male self, the man of my heart to which I will aspire NOT to emulate from this day forward.

He was in this little smelly vacuum repair shop. (Smelly yes, but with surprisingly clean carpet I must say.) I drug my exhausted, hot, starving, obnoxious little kids in the door and explained my dilemma to him. He knew exactly which model I had, what I had broken, and how I should fix it. He had the part in hand moments later with advice on making it work better, and I gratefully pulled out my debit card to pay him and start the long drive back home.

Here's where it starts to get weird. He got this look on his face and denied my card. Wouldn't even look at it. Mumbled something under his breath about what kind of people use a card for less than $10, but about jumped across the counter at me when he saw my checkbook. I thought he was gonna hit me at first, but instead he practically begged me to write him one. I took another step back and proceeded to do so. He just stared at it for a minute. When I asked if he needed my license he said (and I quote) "No thanks, I just bought mine. They say it's good for 5 whole years". Startled, I replied "well it's probably a better picture than this one is anyway." I'm sure it is, he says.

This should have been a clue about how the next 45 minutes of my life were about to proceed. Add to it the constant whining sound issuing from the mouth of my particular 5-yr-old brat and you can see how I might start to resemble this guy way sooner than I like to consider.

After taking my check, he gets close to my face and says "I'm in a 5-year lawsuit with a woman who wrote me a bad check for $497.53. I assured him I could swing $8.95 plus tax, but he wasn't satisfied until I'd heard all about the case and what all he'd like to do to the judge in the meantime. Sounds normal, right? Cautious, right? That's because you didn't have to hear what he wanted to do to that judge.

This was only the beginning of my time with him. I soon found myself regaled with tales of women who couldn't work their vacuums. Women who tried to vacuum stupid things... one who repeatedly returned her vacuum, sure it was always broken because the bags were soooo small, and she wanted her money back. They were filling up way too fast. (I thought to reassure him by mentioning it must have been an excellent-working machine. His reply to her was "you must have a really filthy house".)

Long story short.

It got a whole lot worse. So much so, that I can't begin to put it into words, but crazy was leaking out all over the place. I began to inch myself backwards to the door grabbing my kids by the arms when he mentioned that I had 3 kids and that it was enough, because he already had 4.

There just comes a point that even I can recognize some people just ain't right. Be warned, fair readers (at least those of you who actually comment once in a while instead of just.../gulp.. lurk).

Mirrors never lie.

I've heard that you miss me.

How sweet is that?

I know I haven't been writing. Believe me I've wanted to, but the purpose of this blog was to give me a certain type of outlet--a place to write out my experiences to hopefully find the humor in some of the more painful ones. Lately my life has contained more pain than humor, and I've struggled to poke fun at any of it.

They say that what doesn't kill you is supposed to make you stronger. I'm starting to think that whatever doesn't kill you just makes you wish you were dead. We've had such a rash of stuff gone wrong lately: work problems, large unexpected expenses, serious illness and death in the family. Speaking of family, our extended family on both sides has really gone through the ringer as well. We feel their pain like it was our own and struggle with our utter impotence at helping them through it. It's been quite an emotional roller coaster, and I'm getting a little queasy here. Someone seriously needs to let me off this crazy ride before I need one of those special little bags.

Through it all I have been trying to find some perspective, to learn whatever lesson it is that just won't sink into my rock hard skull so I can move on to happier times. It ain't been easy, but I'm chuggin' along. While joy is somewhat blunted and humor is scarce, I have managed to scrape up a few smiles here and there.

Here's my latest...

I had run to my computer for a few minutes leaving the baby with Clara and Sam in the family room. While I was paying a few bills, I kept hearing this really weird sound coming from the living room. Sam is notorious for making the most obnoxious noises ever, so I just brushed it off as 5-yr-old nonsense and finished up. When I returned to fetch the baby, this is what I found.



Of course as soon as I put the camera on him he decides he's done, but what 8 month old teaches himself to play the kazoo?

Mine.

Touche

Partial Argument Between Me and "the Boy"

ME: (getting pretty irritated)...I mean it. You stop it right now!

BOY: (in my face)....I don't HAVE TO.

ME: (majorly gritting teeth)...for the last time, yes you do. Do NOT make me tell you again.

BOY: (snarkily if snarkily was a word)...Why nooooooot?

ME: (tired of explaining common sense and good manners)...Because I said so. That's why.

BOY: (risking life and limb)...Well, you aren't the boss of me.

ME: (totally sinking to the level of a 5-year-old)... I AM TOO the boss of you because I'm the mom and that's what moms are for. To be the boss of little boys, so you better mind.

and the prize goes to ....

BOY: (at the top of his lungs)... Well JESUS IS THE BOSS OF YOU!!!

ME:.........

10 minutes later

............

Potty Talk

I have a thing about restrooms.

It stems from the tiny bladder I was born with that was then badly abused by childbirth and a terrible surgeon or two. Things have been a bit better since my last surgery, but I'm still always hyper aware of the nearest john jane, and I position myself in a room accordingly.

Suffice it to say I've been to more than a few over the course of my life. In fact, my husband thinks I should write a travel book documenting the best rest stops from here to the West, seeing as I've been in each and every one of them more times than I can remember.

I can tell you which ones are fairly clean, which aren't. Which stock the cheap TP and which spring for the good stuff. Which ones have soda, snacks, and ice cream machines, which have picnic tables and dog trails, which is the last one for 180 miles so you better go there or make sure you have a bottle handy.

Some places even have really cool touristy stuff to see that will entertain your children or plaques documenting local history. Basically, it would be a guide on what to be sure you hit and which ones could leave you cowering in the fetal position crying for your mommy to make it all go away. E coli, man. Fear it.

As a few of you know, my family took a much needed and highly anticipated road trip to the beach in Destin, FL last week (in which the Cosmic Thumb ran rampant. More on this in a future post). Between me and all three of my children this meant many a rest stop would be in order, and we were prepared to make many stops.

On the way down, we did pretty well for the most part. We stopped for food and gas, forced each kid to go right then and there regardless of need, and that was it. I was gratified that things were going so smoothly in this particular department.

Then the trip back home. Can I just say, Alabama, what in the world are you thinking? You know your mama raised you better! We hit the most disgusting places I have ever seen in my life all in the same day. Filthy, abused, smoked-filled, doors that wouldn't close, out-of-order...but the worst by far was when we stopped for lunch. Dave took the kids in while I stayed with the baby. He came back out and quickly drove away saying the lines were too long, and I should go somewhere else.

Now I am convinced that Alabama doesn't believe in rest stops, cuz we only saw maybe three of them that day, and they were always situated a couple a miles beyond whatever nasty gas station we'd eventually resigned ourselves to using. There sure was not one anywhere nearby at this point in our trip. Thirty or so miles away from the restaurant as my eyes were turning yellow, we finally found a town and stopped at a KFC. I ran into this joint as fast as I could, bulldozing my way through a line of hungry people to get to Shangri-La the rest room.

Be warned. What ensued is not for the faint of heart (or weak of stomach).

I ran in and took the first of two stalls, ripped my pants down, and was about to feel a whole lot better when I noticed the TP holder. It was empty, of course. (Rookie mistake, man. I so know better than to strip before checking.) A few colorful thoughts later and I was jerking my britches up, slamming through the restroom and hurling myself at the other stall door. Which was occupied. With a girl with quite the upset stomach.

My stomach wasn't feeling very great either as I took a look around me. It was bad. Really really bad. I'd been in such a hurry I hadn't noticed the pitiful state of affairs this joint was currently in. And then there was the smell. (I could describe it but this post is forever long already and you, faithful reader, might still want to eat something later.) I settled myself to wait a while.

After a few minutes, another family came in and tried to jump the line, but after seeing the look on my face they retreated back behind me. Sick girl finally came out, and I ran in. As I was about to lock the door, this woman waiting behind me pushed her way in with me. I'm now crossing my legs in an adult version of the pee pee dance while she instructs me to start pulling TP out for her and each of her children to take to the other toilet. I figured she was crazy enough to follow me, a complete stranger, into my toilet so there was no telling what else she was capable of. I tried to do as she asked. Only problem was, sick girl had used all of the roll. The other roll was shoved way on up in there, and the dispenser was broken.

I was almost in tears when I finally got enough for her to finally get out of my really nasty and really small stall. I finally got to sit myself down, but as did the whole toilet listed to one side, and I came very close to falling on the scum-encrusted floor. I had to balance the thing to keep it attached to the floor as I went.

Expecting Dave to be getting worried, I hurriedly took care of business and tried to leave the stall. Only I couldn't. The lock I had thrown so quickly (to ensure the woman didn't try to barge back in) was thoroughly jammed. I was sure I would have to crawl under the door, but I managed to open it. I washed my hands (without soap, they were out) and high-tailed it out of there.

Usually at this point in my post I sum up my experience and reflect on the lesson. This time though, I'm not sure what moral or lesson I should have learned from this experience, but it sure has inspired me to purchase one of these.

Dear Sam,

I had this really hysterical post all thought out about all the things you have done recently (in collusion with the Cosmic Thumb, I was sure.) Really, it's been a difficult week with you. I was going to poke some serious fun at you for eating a whole bag of chocolate Easter eggs before dinner. You know, you looked so silly with your finger stuck in that Bob the Builder work bench toy all covered in oil and ice, (which took Daddy a half an hour to cut apart from around you). I was gonna tease you for lighting a tissue on that candle and burning the carpet in three places (which again took Daddy a half hour to shave down), for standing on my laundry basket and snapping it completely in half, drinking half a bottle of cold medicine, and various sundry other things which would take all day to write out, but you know which ones I mean.

Instead, little punky boy of mine, now all I can think about is how purple that little finger got, and how afraid I was that you would lose it.

All I can think about is you crying with utter embarrassment when you realized that you'd broken a safety rule playing with fire and how close we came to losing our home, not to mention the 2nd degree burn on your thumb.

All I can think about is the egg-sized lump on your head from when you fell off that laundry basket. How I had to keep waking you up, to make sure you really would.

All I can think about is how miserable you've been with this never-ending cold that has tormented you for so long.

Maybe a day will come when we laugh together about this week, but for now, all I can think about is what if things don't work out so well in the end next time.


And that, sweet little curious boy of mine, isn't funny at all.

You know you need a change when...

So last month I was out and about foraging for birthday bliss for a certain ungrateful almost 5 year old boy of mine. I'd been to 8 different places at this point in my search for the perfect gift and the one essential part of his fire engine cake (that apparently doesn't exist on this side of the country), so suffice it to say I was pretty tired and irritated.

Wow. Run-on sentence.

Anyhow, I got out of my car at stop #9, slammed the door and attempted to walk away from my car. I didn't get very far. For the umpteen millionth time I had slammed my hair into the car door. My head jerked back so hard I saw stars. The woman parked next to me started laughing as I mentally chalked one more up to the big CT.

I pulled the door open as fast as I could to try to save a little dignity, but as I walked away, I found myself jerked back a second time. I thought the lady next to me was going to fall over she was laughing so hard. It took a few minutes to determine the problem, but it was interesting to say the least. I had not only slammed my 2 feet of Rapunzel-esqe locks into the door, but I had also managed to catch it into my seat belt which when released pulled back up into the car taking my hair with it. I was not going anywhere, and for the whole 7-8 ensuing minutes it took to extricate myself from the situation the lady who'd parked next to me literally howled with laughter.

She did eventually apologize for finding such enjoyment in my pain (hey, I aim to please), though she never offered to help. She said it was simply the single most hysterical thing she'd ever seen. I wished her ultimate pain and death anyway (not really, y'all, sheesh) as I finally ended up just ripping my hair out of the seat belt hidey-away place.

As my head came free, leaving behind ample evidence of my humiliation in the process, I vowed never again. Today I made true to my vow.

Take that, ponytail! There's about a foot and a half of hair in this pic.

And here I am all fabulous afterward.


After I left the salon, I couldn't help but worry a little about whoever gets the wig made from my hair. What if they slam it into their door? At least most of my hair stayed attached to my head.

The T-Mobile Dance

I know I usually only write about the tragic or freakish things that tend to happen to me (and only then when I've reached the point that I can laugh at it instead of cry.) This post is rather different.

My lovely sister-in-law sent me this video, and it totally made my day. Very life affirming for me. It seems so stupid to cry over it, but I did. Bawled all the way through it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"This commercial was shot at the Liverpool Street Subway Station in London 2 weeks ago (Jan 15, 09). Only the dancers knew what was happening; the general public didn't have a clue what was about to unfold. This Youtube site has had over 2 million hits in less than a month's time."

a typical morning

So I was sitting at my computer (fully clothed this time thank you very much creepy neighbor guy) stalking my favorite blogs like the lurker I truly am when all of the sudden I had the strangest sensation come upon me. I thought to myself for a minute "hmmm.. I know this feeling. This is something I've felt before. Whatever could it be?" I couldn't exactly place it at first.

I looked to this little guy who was sitting so sweetly in my lap.

Ain't he a doll?

As I was gazing into that sweet sweet face, the feeling started to change, he started to laugh, and I started to freak out. That so familiar sensation was the warmth of pee that was quickly filling my lap, puddling under me in my office chair, and literally running down my legs. Ever had another person's pee running down your legs? Try it sometime. It's an experience. (By the way, how does one manage to pee through a diaper, 2 layers of clothing and still manage to fill the seat of a rather large office chair? It's a mystery.)

I jerked him up out of my lap up over my head a little to forcefully I guess. It's a good thing he's cute, because as I was looking up at his still grinning face he vomited. Right into my face. Ever tasted someone else's vomit before? Again, quite the experience.

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

They say it's your birthday....

na na na na naaaa. It's my birthday too, yeah, but it sure doesn't feel that way. I've been waiting my whole life to feel like a grown-up. Maybe one day I will, but apparently today is not the day. (Just ask my neighbor across the street. I'd say he was a perv for watching me blog in my skivvies, but I was the one who left the blinds up. I now have to turn my chair around until he gets bored and goes inside..../shudder...creep. He just waved at me too.)

Has it really been a year since I hit 33? There is a most gorgeous angel food cake with fresh berries and chocolate sauce that exclaims that I really am turning 34 today (NOT 44 like my son Sam has been telling everyone who will listen. punk.) It's just sorta unreal to me this year. I can't seem to get into it. Where's the wisdom that's supposed to come with age? Where's the grace? Where's the fame, the fortune, the...well, the wisdom anyhow.

I don't have any problems with being 34 per se. I'm not pulling out or even dying my gray hair or scoping out wrinkles. I don't feel the need to start counting backwards. Matter of fact, I got carded at the dentist a couple of weeks ago. (She asked if I was at least 18. (I know, you hate me. I would hate me too. /wink)

I can usually at least muster some anticipation of a gift. My husband always gives me great gifts. He usually does it all on his own, but he needed help this time and asked me for some ideas. He was unhappy when I said new silverware, but when I suggested that the money he'd spend on me should go towards buying more food storage and emergency essentials he bout gagged. Apparently, he doesn't consider that a good birthday gift. I told him folks in KY would right about now. He said that we don't live in KY. Hmm...good point. Guess we'll see later what he decided.

In the meantime, what is wrong with me? Besides the fact that I really should put my clothes on. Maybe I am growing up after all....

Nah.

Just say no...

Sometimes I think I must have been smokin' dope the day I relented and agreed to have children.

I remember what it was like when I still had a brain before. Dave and I used to scoff at those horrible moms in Walmart shrieking at their demon spawn precious little angels in public. We had all kinds of opinions on what these women were doing wrong, cuz "it's just not that hard to raise a polite, law-abiding member of society. No kid of ours would EVER act like that and certainly not in public."

We were idiots.

I would now like to apologize to the following:
ahem...

1. My two closest friends out West. I judged you the most. Please forgive me.
1. The lady in Dollar General. So sorry. I would have been glad to pick it all up.
2. The teachers at preschool. You are my heroes. Please don't kick us out.
3. All Target and Publix shoppers. We'll meet again this weekend, I'm sure. My sincerest regrets in advance.
4. The people who have to sit in front and behind us at church. Next week it will be your turn. Need some Cheerios?
5. My mom. While they aren't just like me (I was just great) it really isn't as easy as I thought it was. Sorry for doubting you.

and finally...

I am so very very sorry to my own demon spawn. Mothering is hard, and sometimes I really suck at it. Love you anyway.

Watch it, mini-van driver, I will run. you. down.

I hate to drive. I admit it. I can be something of a road hazard at times. I freak a little when I have to change freeways. I have no sense of direction, so I manage to get lost in my own neighborhood. I can never find my car in the parking lot, and I still haven't figured out what that green light thingy means on the dash of my own car.

I can't change a flat tire, my oil, or any other of the numerous little fuses or spark thingies they try and teach women who want to be more independent. I am car slash driving impaired in every way really. Just today I managed to run three red lights while trying to turn left, blocked at least two intersections, and double parked on a one-way street. I speed a little and sometimes tailgate.

I've done all these horrible things and more.

There are limits, however, to my madness. No, I'm not winning the safest driver of the year award, but I haven't tried to kill anyone either. For the most part I don't wreck into anything but my own parked vehicles (and our garage door and Dave's weight bench..once). I am not completely stupid or totally oblivious of others around me.

For the most part, I am a timid and defensive driver. I will always move over when someone behind me wants to pass. I never intentionally cut people off and feel just horrible when I do. I don't text message, apply make-up, or fiddle with the CD changer while moving. I never go way under the limit, I'll always let you in if you aren't a jerk trying to cut way ahead of others, and dadgummit, I know how to merge.

Except for the fact that I don't drive super confidently and well, I am always courteous. That being said...

The next time you endanger my children with your self-absorbed disdain for others and their right to be on the road as well, mini-van driver, (a.k.a. moving roadblock) you will feel the wrath of Kitty. I will change like the Hulk from this timid driver into a shrieking ball of road rage just waiting to run down anyone stupid brave enough to get in my way.

You have been warned. Heaven help you.

Sniffles, Yaks, and the Crud

I know I've been a little M-I-A lately. I apologize to all 4 of you who followed me to this new site. I know how much you've missed my amazing punctuation and intelligent wit... heh. (Seriously now, where did everybody else go? Are you out there....lurking? That's kinda creepy, ya know. The crickets have been getting a little loud as of late...cheeky little buggers.)

The last couple of weeks have blessed my family with croup, colds, flu, stomach bugs, and sinus infections. I've pretty much cleaned up every body fluid known to man (and some that I'm swearing must be brand new) at least twice. And I got to enjoy at least two of these illnesses at the same time whilst getting my poor tooth crowned. Fun fun fun! You're so jealous. I can tell.

I'm really not exaggerating about the sheer amount of germs we've dealt with recently, so don't come around yet unless you'd like to partake. I'm not done disinfecting this petri dish. We haven't had bird flu yet, so I guess I'm feeling okay about it all.

I actually have done some writing (mostly in my head of course), but the sick yuck that my family has been fighting for weeks has turned my brain to mush. I've managed to forget, delete, or generally make a mess of everything I've attempted. I thought it best if I just move along. Watch out for a nice little burst of posting to shortly follow. Now that I'm on the mend, I'm ready to let it all out....

hopefully this time in a more coherent fashion.

So How Was Your Week?

In the last week or so I have....



Tripped and fallen twice while carrying the baby.

Had an unnecessary root canal.

Been nearly suffocated during said root canal.

Been vomited on.

Played Wii tennis to the point that I can't lift my right arm.

Cried through massage therapy on my right arm.

Humiliated myself in front of dear friends whilst "rockin out" to Rock Band.

Been vomited on.

Had unannounced guests catch me in my undies.

Humiliated myself in front of unannounced guests whilst "rockin out" to Rock Band in my undies at the top of my lungs.

Shampooed vomit out of my bedroom carpet.

Been charged over $7000 for completely unnecessary dental work.

Stormed out and gotten a second opinion (They just want me to pay for their cappuccino machine. jerks.)

Been run off the road by a crazy Escalade driver.

Lost a sister and her family to a new job out of state.

Did I mention I've been vomited on?



I'm ready for next week.

What's in a Name?

Been thinking about nicknames. You know, how everybody has had one...how it's really hard to shake one....how they can really make or break you as a kid especially. (You know the kid they called "Big T" probably had an easier time than "Stink Boy" did. ) P. Diddy gets it. Look at how many times he's changed his nickname...Puff Daddy..Puffy...P.Diddy.. Diddy...just what does he go by now anyway? Isn't his name Sean?


I've had my share of nicknames too. My daddy named me Kitty (short for Catherine that they thought was way too dignified for me at the time) when I was just a baby. Everybody still calls me this. I've tried to shake it before, but it inevitably comes back to haunt me. I gave it up. I'll be an arthritic 80 year old woman and people will still call me Kitty. Ah well. It could be worse. Actually, it has been worse.


My scary fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Jones, used to scowl and call me Chucklehead with that stern scary mean-face of hers /shutter. I hated it at the time, but again it could have been worse. (She called my brother PeeWee). I learned later that she had at least one Chucklehead and one PeeWee every year and often more than that. Those kids were always her favorites.

Then there was that mean girl who called me Ratty once instead of Kitty. (I had my own private little nickname for her...heh.) Mean girls suck. Luckily, that one didn't stick. Her bad rep did, though...heh.


One of my best friends nicknamed me Tikki when I was 16 years old, awkward, tongue-tied, and ludicrously naive about everything. It was given to me out of love and humor and an appreciation for my sad sad little clueless state. None of this has really changed over the years (thus the title of my blog for all those needing me to state the obvious.) This is one nickname I hope I never outgrow.


My sisters have called me SuperFreak for years. They even sang it to me at my wedding reception. We won't go into the whys of that one. Suffice it to say the name fits.

I know I'm rambling. Here's the point. Names have power, and I've been trying to decide what to call my children when I refer to them on this so-very-public-I-think-I-might-throw-up blog site. It wasn't an issue on my private blog. I didn't let pervs and pedophiles read it, so I never felt the need to hide their identities.


I've been reading other sites to see how other people handle this. Very few of you use your real names. Some people will use only their first name and then nickname their family members with cute little terms of endearment (gag). Others tag their kids with a descriptor that tells me exactly what you think of your kid (i.e. Pookie, Hellboy, Daddy's Little Princess) I don't want to saddle them with monikers they'll hate me for nor do I want any self-fulfilling prophesy (again...why would ever name your kid Hellboy?)

By far the most common (and most annoying) are those blogs that use only initials. I'm not the only one either. This guy says it better and (insert warning here) much more colorfully than I could. All I gots to say is amen to that... sing it brotha.

So what's your opinion? Do I try and come up with a possibly permanent nickname that the people who will pick out my future nursing home will have to live with, or do I risk putting the names of three groovy teeny people out there on the big bad scary interweb?


(edited for atrocious use of commas)

Smooth as a Baby's Bottom

Some people learn from the mistakes of others. Some people have to make their own mistakes. Guess which person I am! They say you gain a new wrinkle in your brain every time you learn something new, but what if it ironed one out every time you did something ridiculously stupid? How smooth is my brain after the last couple of days? Let's see how it all shakes down.

Things You Shouldn't Eat After A Root Canal

while you're still numb....

1. Mashed potatoes. Afterward they're fine. Until it wears off they'll just stick to your lip or run down the side of your face. 1 wrinkle gained.

2. Swiss steak. Yes it is quite tender and oh so yummy, but when you can't tell if it's steak or your lip you're chewing, you should probably not try and chew it. 1 wrinkle gained.

3. Orange soda. Even with a straw you just look like a drunk Elvis with orange soda running down his face. Check out this pic of my sister who made the same mistake....heh. 1 wrinkle gained. 1 wrinkle lost for not learning from her mistake.

4. Chocolate chip cookies. They're crunchy, and you'll look like a gerbil nibbling his kibble. 1 wrinkle gained 1 wrinkle lost.

5. Really you just shouldn't eat anything until at least your eyelid stops being numb. 1 wrinkle gained. 1 wrinkle lost for not learning this much faster.

After the Numb Thaws you still shouldn't eat:

6. Anything sweet. Sugar hitting a raw nerve is a special kind of pain...I just can't talk about it right now...sniff. 1 wrinkle gained.

7. Fruit roll-ups or anything, really, that will stick to your teeth. (They say it's fruit, but they LIE PEOPLE.) It's mostly sugar that glues to your teeth and won't come off without divine intervention all the while causing you the most exquisite pain possible not to mention the pain in chewing this rather hard tacky substance that hardly qualifies as food. 2 wrinkles lost. 1 for the sugar lesson you should have already learned, and 1 for not thinking about how sticky this stuff is.

8. Anything crunchy or with nuts. This includes Doritos. (They weren't sweet. I thought I'd be okay.) 1 wrinkle gained, 1 wrinkle lost. Of course something this hard is going to slam down the pain on an exposed nerve.

9. Yummylicious Godiva Truffles you got as part of your anniversary gift that are really really sweet and covered with nuts. 3 wrinkles lost, 1 for the sweet, 1 for the nuts, and 1 for the smooth texture that will stick the sweet in there insuring the most exquisite pain will last a while.

10. Lucky Charms. 2 wrinkles lost. How much crunchy sugar have I eaten the last 2 days anyway?

Score: -6 wrinkles, and we're having tacos for dinner....Mama would be so proud.

Live Comedy

In honor of my 10 year wedding anniversary (which is today) I shall not spend all evening complaining about my teeth, yelling at my kids, or cleaning my house. I should probably do a little of that last one, but I won't. (Just for you sweetie, cuz I luuuuuuuuuuuuvs you sooooo much. /grin) Neither will I spend all evening working on another blog post that no one will read but you.

I will, however, repost my favorite post ever from my soon to be deleted myspace blog. I know you liked it before, dear. Have another laugh at my expense. I love you. Happy anniversary.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Live Comedy

So I was recently asked to write about a reference I made to a past performance I mentioned in this blog of mine.

Go ahead. Go catch up. I'll wait................/begins humming the jeopardy theme song.......

/twittles thumbs.........

/glances at the nonexistent Movado on her wrist.....

/Jeopardy song hits final key modulation and...

done now? Are you sure, cuz I really don't mind. Well, I don't actually want to sit here all day. I don't particularly enjoy wasting time, but I guess I could. for you. cuz I'm nice like that. sigh. I am such a good person...

So to please all you sadistic readers of mine (and give you a little chuckle at my expense) I shall now recount my latest disastrous performance.

Ahem. James, my worst heckler biggest fan, had again asked me to accompany him on this solo he was to sing in church. I took a look at the music, and it was no problem really. It was several pages long with a repeat and a Coda which required back and forth page turning, but the music itself was certainly not anything to worry over. I practiced all week anyway just to be sure I had done my part and could be totally confident on performance day. The only real issue I had was just how many page turns I had to manuever. You see, I learned many years ago never to trust anyone else to get my pages turned. Those people just can NOT be trusted. Not. A. One.

So many types. There are page turners that aren't careful to turn just one page at a time. They grab two pages, or the the music sticks to their fingers so they can't let go and all but push you off the bench trying to fix it. Some page turners don't pay enough attention, get lost, then turn the page too late. Others get over-anxious. They are so worried they'll miss a turn that they jump the gun and turn a whole line too early, realize their mistake and then try to turn it back. Then there's the emo-turners (my personal favorites...not) who get so involved listening and feeling the experience that they forget the whole purpose of them being there is to TURN THE DANG PAGE FOO!

ahem. flashback....sorry.

I have always since quickly turned my own pages or memorized bits and pieces or taped little handles on the music... done something to insure myself I would always be in the right place at the right time. This time I struggled more than usual to find a good method. I worked at it all week to no avail and ultimately, I decided to stretch each page across the front of the piano to avoid having to turn pages at all.

Fast forward to performance day. Rehearsal that morning went great. James, my worst heckler biggest fan was in top form, and I followed him like a dream. We both were feeling quite pleased with ourselves and anxious to get the show on the road. I also play for the choir who rehearse before church(but not the congregation. That's another pianist, except when she doesn't show up. Then it's all me baby!) I thought I'd be all smart and set my stuff up early so all I had to do was sit and play later on. I put her hymnal on top open to the correct page and everything (cuz I'm nice like that.)

GO time came, and I went and sat down, removed the hymnal, and began to play. It was going pretty well. Until the second page that is. It was so odd. I was playing the music, I hit all the right notes, but it sounded so off. James was giving me weird looks. Then it hit me. My music was out of order. Really out of order. One page wasn't even music. Do you have any idea how difficult it is try to and skip around while accompanying someone? It's impossible. I totally FREAKED.

Everything that follows is so absurd, y'all, that really it should have been made into an old black and white silent film. So picture, if you will, an old timey t.v. set…speed up the action…cue the clown music…raise the curtain and…

Lovely Pianist has to get this straightened out and fast. Obviously she's playing the wrong page (insert laugh track) but where is the right one? (cue sinister music DUNT DUNT DUUUUUN) She starts to vamp (badly) with the right hand while the left hand tries to sort out the mess. What's this? (gasp) Is that the right page? GET IT FOO! She grabs at the music sending it shooting straight off the piano to the floor. "OH NO, NOT THE FLOOR" our tragic heroine cries. Lovely Pianist disappears from view, reappears and slams music onto piano. EUREKA. It's time for the second verse. We must go back two pages to repeat, but wait! What is this? Music is not only upside down but backwords too? "OH COSMIC THUMB", she cries as music flies off the keyboard in every direction "THOU HAST SMITTEN ME YET AGAIN." Lovely Pianist tries again to correct this problem. "AHA" she cries triumphantly as the piece of paper finally settles securely onto the piano. "I CAN CONQUER THIS MOUNTAIN! But alas. It's not so. That's not her music. That's not even music.

Things are desperate now. Who will save our lovely pianist from this nightmarish moment? Will it be the Lovely Pianist's friend, Brilliant Conductor, in the first row? She desperately sends visual pleas for aid to no avail. (Cue Camera 2) Brilliant Conductor is busy wrestling B.C.-Minis. Perhaps it will be Other Pianist who screwed up said music in the first place who happens to be sitting right beside the Lovely Pianist's lovely piano. (Cue camera 3) She desperately sends curses of pain, torment, and ultimate death again to no avail. Perhaps some loving being from on high will intervene and put things right? She prays with all her might. "WHAT? WHAT'S THAT ABOUT CURSES? " sigh. No avail.

Cue Curtains.

I did straighten it out eventually. It took me till the last page to do so. The whole audience watched this Comedy of Errors in the meantime. I have no idea how they could even hear James sing with all the paper ruffling and commotion going on. I have thought about the whole mess several times since then. Have I decided to go with a page turner in the future? Heck no, man. Next time I'm bringing duct tape.

So there you have it.

/Lovely Pianist takes her bow, and then glides gracefully off the stage.

I'd Rather Have a Root Canal...NOT

I hear this a lot. Don't you hear this a lot? People saying they'd rather have a root canal than listen to this horrible speaker, or they'd rather have a root canal than go out to dinner with those people or go out with that weirdo guy. For some reason, having a root canal seems infinitely preferable to lots of things that are thought to be unpleasant.

I've thought a bit about this recently. How bad can a root canal really be if so many people would prefer it? It can't be all that bad, can it? My little sister claims it's no big deal. (Yeah right. Go read her post.) So does my mom.

I've gone to great lengths in my life in hope of not having any problems with my teeth. I brush, I floss, I have horrific nightmares in which I always feel my teeth falling out into my hands that I for some reason feel the need to show my Dad. (I know, wierd, huh?) I always have my check-ups, and I haven't had any problems at all for close to 20 years.

Well folks, today I had a root canal. And let me tell you. I'd rather listen to that horrible speaker, go on that ridiculous date, have dinner with those people, jump out of a two-storey building, run naked through the streets yelling pollywolly doodle all day, and then get hit by a mack truck. Suffice it to say I'd rather do just about anything than ever have another root canal.


Now, I could go into a great detail about how this sooo wasn't my fault, how this was inevitable repair work from that jerk of a dentist from my childhood (who I sincerely hope rots in that place I can't name cuz my mom will probably read this.) I could talk about how nice the people were even though they turned up the happy gas so much that I almost blacked out. It totally freaked me out of my gourd, so they had to unhook me and start all over to keep me from screaming and running out of the room whilst drool ran down my chin.

I could talk about how they almost suffocated me to death when some moron in another room turned off my oxygen, so all I had to breathe was yes, more not so happy after all gas. I could talk about that horrible high squeal that radiates throughout your skull drilling closer and closer to the nerve that will haunt me to my dying day, or the pain I am now dealing with even though the tooth in question never once hurt me before this procedure.

But I won't.

Seriously, folks. It would be better to just have all your teeth pulled than risk a root canal. At the very least, make them knock you out first. I shall have nightmares forever more.

And thus it begins

I am one of the world's unluckiest people. If there is something horrible on a restaurant menu, I will order it. If there is a bee in the room, it will sting me. Toilet paper will undoubtably attach itself to my shoe, and it always rains when I'm wearing my glasses. I'm a trainwreck, really. It's not my fault. My life, I believe, is one big joke of the great Cosmic Thumb. What, never heard of it?

Let me explain.

The Cosmic Thumb belongs to the great tormentor of the universe. He sits around bored all day watching us peons down below just struggling to survive. He decides maybe he could have a little fun at our expense. We're just gnats after all, so down comes the thumb pressing onto the forehead of some unsuspecting little person just going about daily life. See how she squirms...watch how she gets up again and again. Dumb little gnat can't even see what's knocking her down. The Thumb follows random unfortunates around just to see how long the fun can last.

I'm kidding....kinda.

I am one of these unfortunates. The craziest stuff happens to me. A lot. I talk about it incessantly to my husband, usually when he's desperately trying to go to sleep. He claims I'm intelligent, opinionated, funny, and quite frankly....wierd (Hmmm. Can't argue with that),but that I should speak up when life happens. This has proven difficult for me in the past, but I really think I should speak my mind. (How else can I take over the world?) I shouldn't bottle up my thoughts and feelings. I think that what he really means is that he's tired of me chewing his ear off and wants me to start chattering at other less tired people.

Anyway, it's a challenge. I am a total mess. I trip and stumble and very often fall flat on my face. Might as well blog about it. Maybe it'll be easier to pick myself up ,laugh, and move on. What's the worst thing that can happen? I'll give it the ole college try, and should you start snoring I promise I won't try to smother you with my pillow.

Is there a thumb-print on my forehead?