Yesterday our new neighbors moved in, thus invoking theNo-underwear-on-the-clothesline Neighbor Clause. (YESSSSSS!) I’d hoped to bake some brownies or something to take over there today. Could my family wait a single day to make a good impression? NoooOOOOOooo.
When the new arrivals pulled in the driveway, our children and their visiting friend ran over to the edge of our property, (roughly 20 feet from their front door, mind you) and STARED like little slack-jawed idiots. I shooed them away after reminding them that nobody likes to be stared at, and that the neighbors movements are none of their business.
Aww Mom. We just wanted to watch.(’Watch’ as in giggle and point. I think not.)
I retreated to the house and began doing dishes, wondering if I’d have time to do a batch of homemade cookies for the new arrivals instead of brownies-in-a-box. (My cooking is atrocious, but I can bake up a storm.) As I was running through a list of ingredients in my head, the Hubby poked his head in the door.
Their names are Edith and Horatio.They seem nice.(Not really, but I’ve changed the names to protect the innocent.)
I looked up and down at my husband, noting he was about 2 weeks overdue for a haircut and his beard was beginning to rival Grizzly Adams. He’d been working on his semi, and he was wearing stained, ripped clothing. He had grease in his hair, and a dip of chaw in his mouth.
Yeah. I know.
I also noted he was not carrying his habitual styrofoam spittoon, which means he probably spit on the ground just before leaving our yard to say hi to the neighbors.
Lovely.
Fast forward to this morning. Our rural neighborhood was silent and peaceful. Houses were quiet, windows were open. No doubt our new neighbors were enjoying a restful, lazy morning in their new home. Right up until 7am, when my husband started his semi.
rrrRRRRRRRRRR!!!!! Diesel engines being what they are, he couldn’t take off quickly, either. For about 5 minutes, all you could hear in the neighborhood was the scream of his truck. I can just imagine what the new neighbors are thinking.
Rural back woods. Evil chickens. Scary Chuck-Norris-y mountain man. Staring, pointing Children of the Corn. Edith, I think this is where they filmed Deliverance!
I think I’d best get those cookies baked, don’t you?
A little background: The Hubster and I have been married for nearly two decades. During this time period, we have razzed one another mercilessly. (If you can’t torture the man you love, who can you torture? The kids will tattle to Grandma.)
So anyway, I decided to mess with my hubby this week. On the phone yesterday I told him I wanted to do something special for our 20th anniversary next year. I told him I wanted to renew our wedding vows and have a big reception.
This man has known me for 23 years. He of ALL people should know I’m a tightwad. Not to mention that I don’t do crowds, I don’t like fancy schmancy parties and I’d rather gnaw off my own left arm than repeat my embarrassing performance from our wedding day.
(Nervous laughing and crying that escalated to hysteria DURING the ceremony. Such fond memories.)
So you’d think he’d know better–but I caught him off guard. On the phone he couldn’t see me grin. I kept it together and he bought it hook, line and sinker! He also started backpedaling immediately.
“Uh, hon…? That’s really sweet, and I’d love to do it, too. (Yeah, like I buy that) I’m just not real sure we can swing that kind of an event. We still need to do windows, and I’d REALLY like to get out of this house…”
Trying not to giggle, I put it into overdrive.
“You’re worried about what it COSTS? I’m talking about renewing our WEDDING VOWS! We’ll be married for twenty years for crying out loud! We have a year to plan, and we can pay for things along the way. You mean to tell me that after all these years you can’t do this one thing for me?”
“Uh…well…I guess if you really want to…” he mumbled.
I let him off the hook then and told him I was messing with him. Wish I could’ve seen his face! He was like, “ARE YOU SHITTING ME? I was over here having a STROKE!”
Seemed like a good time to hit him with a request, so I told him I want the two of us to go away for a weekend for our anniversary. My hubby who hates leaving the house on weekends agreed without hesitation.
Got a good laugh AND a weekend away. My work here is done.
By the way, I got the idea from watching an episode of George Lopez. Who says tv is useless?
It is a proven scientific fact that some animals eat their young when they turn into mouthy adolescents. In the wild kingdom, formerly cute and cuddly baby critters turn into gollum-like creatures once the horror-mones kick in.
Not that my children are like that.
Take evil chickens for example. Yes, I know you’re probably sick of hearing about them, but with Hell’s Henhouse in my backyard it’s REALLY hard to get them off my mind. So bear with me, ok?
Do not be fooled by the fluffy exterior. Inside lurks the mind of an evil dictator.
Evil chickens begin their days as adorable peeping fluff balls suitable for any Easter basket. (That is, if you don’t mind salmonella-bearing feces mixed among the Cadbury eggs.) But they don’t stay little and cute, oh no. They grow. They lose their cuddly appearance and turn into gangly, bad tempered, moody beasts.
Again, not referring to my children, you understand.
Worried chicken Moms try and try. They make them say “Please” and “Thank you” at the water dish. They show them how to earn a respectable living scratching for earthworms in the dirt. They teach them not to fear the inferior beings that present them with daily fresh food and water, and to assert themselves by scaring the bejeezus out of the the big one at every opportunity.
And still they rebel.
Chicken-Moms worry. Oh yes they do! They worry their lessons will go unheeded and their baby peepers might become chicken gangstas. What if they get a little older and stay out all night or grow weed(s) out back of the garage? In every neighborhood, there’s always a few bad eggs–please don’t let them be mine! And that’s why we……er……they fret so much.
Recently I teased poor Kemiabout being preggars when she posted about havingdreams of pregnancy. I thought I would be clever and get in a good zing in her Comments section and run. But no…I seem to have underestimated Kemi’s voodoo powers.
Last night I dreamed I was preggars. I’d gone to the doctor about a sore foot, climbed up on the examining table and BOOM. I was preggo out to there. Since hubby’s been fixed lo these past 10 years, that would leave me with some serious explaining to do. (No, serious, hon. I don’t know where that baby came from, it just popped out!)
Our kids are 9 and 13. I’m waaaaay past the getting up every two hours thing. Kemi, I am wholeheartedly sorry for teasing you on your blog. I am no match for your powers and I will never tease you again. That you know of. Please stop burning the incense over the rubber chicken and let me sleep in peace.
It is commonly understood at my house that nobody speaks to Mom until she has a cup of coffee in hand. It’s not that I wake up mean, just mumbly and incoherent. Trying to hold a conversation with me before java is somewhat akin to talking to the comatose. That is, if a comatose person could look at you with bleary eyes and mumble, “Whaaamphh?”
Yet magically, when my beloved Bunn produces the Elixer of Life, I instantly grow a brain–and a working one at that! I don’t even necessarily have to ingest the coffee; just hold a scalding hot cup in my hand and smell the delicious scent. Ahhhhh…instant intelligence.
I tell you that to tell you this:
This morning at 7am, my husband called. While I arise between 5:30 and 6 all school year, during the summer I sleep in. 7am is NOT a time for wakey-wakey. As the cell phone chirped away, I groggily rolled out of bed. I had no idea what was producing the sound. Hunched over and makeup free, I resembled Igor (or maybe Gollum) as I stumbled around looking to STOP the noise.
Wha…? I looked around in a haze. chirrup! chirrup! Is that a bird? Does the cat have a bird in here? chirrup! chirrup! I stumbled to the nearest smoke detector and stared up at the ceiling. chirrup! chirrup! Plus a new sound–a vibration. I looked in the direction of my desk and saw the phone lit up and moving.
Ah.
Not wanting to wake the children, I wandered outside to answer. Oh yes, the neighbors have seen my jammies before.And more, actually.
“H’lo…?” My husband (who’d been up for hours) began speaking rapidly.“Hon, I had some work done to the truck a month or so ago. Or was it June? It may have been June. I need you to dig up a Freightliner receipt –look for a big one– and find out if I had the pressure switch changed when I did the AC compressor. I remember Terry said it was leaking, but I can’t recall if they changed it out. I’m stopping up here, need new gladhands, a headlight, oil filters, a zerbert, a shirkle, a couple of wagglusens…”
At this point I zoned out. He kept listing parts, most of which had no meaning to my sleep addled brain. I snapped back somewhere around the time he said he was buying a farfenuggen, I think. Or maybe it was a ukulele.
“…and oh hey–did you check on that oil? Never mind, I can do it later…so look that up on the receipt for me, willya babe?”
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“Hon?”
I stood on our front step, staring dumbly at the door latch. “Uh…what, now?”
The poor man. After all these years, he should know I wake up stupid.
So tell me. When you wake to a ringing phone, do you answer it? Do you try to sound wide awake and pleased to take the call, or let the caller know they woke you? And most importantly, do you function before coffee?
This past week my 5 yr. old nephew, who always has lots to say, referred to me as my mother–his Grandma Roo. This was no mere slip of the tongue, oh no. He went so far as to ask me where Papa was, because Papa “is always with you.”
Ummmm…no.
Horrified to be called the “G” word, (hey–my oldest is only 13 and I turn 40 this year–cut me some slack!) I called my Mother and left a message on her machine. She later emailed me and claimed to be sad that little Xander would bestow her beloved title upon me. That’s what she said, but I think she was fibbing. Secretly, I think she was highly amused.
Does this woman look old enough to have a 40 year old kid? Strangers frequently think my Mother is my sister. Sometimes my younger sister. While this is good for her self-esteem, it’s not so good for mine. (And did she pass on this youthful appearance to her firstborn child? NooOOOOOoo. Unlike my Mom, I look my age–and then some when my back is out.)
Hopping down a bunny trail just for a minute, (I’m prone to do that, you know), what if I was Xander’s beloved Grandma Roo?
By my estimation, that would make me my nephew’s grandma, my sister’s mother, my stepfather’s wife and somehow, I’m quite sure…my own Grandpa.
*Edited to add two points of clarification:
A: That’s not Xander in the photo. That’s another nephew named Connor (of “Gee Pig” fame) who is also as cute as a bug in a rug.
B: Isn’t my Mom pretty? As Grandmas go, I think she’s pretty hot. :0)
There was a note left on my desk. My heart dropped as I saw it spelled out in my 9 year old’s childish handwriting:
Mom, you Sucksed MOST of the time!
I suck? I SUCK??? What the heck was that supposed to mean? First of all, I couldn’t believe she was using that language, and secondly–what did I do to make her think I suck? I was so hurt, I can’t tell you. After questioning myself, I finally decided to ask Ems what the note was all about.
She beamed at me. “Mom, I just wanted you to know we know you’re busy ‘cuz you work so hard. And when you decide to do something, you succeed most of the time!”
Dusty Mama, (affectionately known as the Dust Mop) and I are are long time friends by keyboard. We have never met in person, which is probably a good thing since neither of us has that kind of bail money. I was tickled she won the Name that Winged Rodent contest, because that means I get to devote an entire blog entry to roasting her alive.
You might think that as friends, I’d post a glowing report about what a wonderful person she is. You might think wrong. Now hand me the tongs and the barbeque sauce!
I don’t believe in sugar coating anything, so let’s get right to it. For you, dear blog readers, I’m going to divulge Dusty’s biggest secret. The one Dusty DOESN’T Want You to Know. I’m only gonna say it once, so listen up. Are you ready?
Dusty used to be a man. And a good looking man at that. She was a promising young actor by the name of James. (Although he preferred to be known as Jimmy.)
I am sooo putting on a dress after this photo shoot.
Alas–fame and fortune proved to be too stressful for our high strung hero. After a string of failed relationships, (all with Mel Brooks, but you didn’t hear it from me) Jimmy knew he had to get out of the limelight. After faking his own death, Jimmy dropped out of sight by changing careers.
Enter the food industry. Jimmy rose in the ranks from dishwasher to busboy to meat packer in no time. They said no one could stuff a sausage casing like Jimmy, and no one ever will. In the fudge meat packer industry, he was King.
For a number of years he was happy in his meat mashing world; but sadly, fame found him yet again. Reporters and cameramen hounded his every move as Jimmy’s venture grew into a sausage empire.
Damn you, sausage patties, DAMN YOU!
Zesty goodness packed in a plastic sheath.
This brasierre is killing me.
Unable to dodge the paparazzi, hounded by sausage lovers everywhere, Jimmy packed his bags and moved under cover of darkness–the only clues left behind were his personal meat grinder and the lingering aroma of slaughterhouse. Once more Jimmy was gone, and his adoring public mourned for the loss of their beloved Sausage King.
Meanwhile, Jimmy had a plan. He grew his hair and legally changed his name to Dusty. With this new found private life, Dusty lived out the next few decades in style, marrying half a dozen three or four times (the Sean Penn incident was never quite proven) and having a family ala Michael Jackson. (Or was that with Michael Jackson? I forget just now.)
Dusty now leads a quiet life in rural Wisconsin, where (s)he can be heard referring to (him)herself in the third person on occasion, making such comments as, “Jimmy is SUCH a pain in the ass, but I love him anyway.” Most notably to her friend Shellie, who mistakenly believes she’s Dusty’s sister in law.
Oy. That family.
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Ok, ok. In all seriousness, Dus is a shoot-from-the-hip kinda gal who speaks her mind. She’s a dear friend and a fun blog read. So go read, already!From my Front Porch (Dusty’s Family blog), I’m Not a Bitch, Just Giftedly Outspoken! (Take no prisoners and eat the wounded!)
I’d like to thank all of you blog readers for helping out with our Name the Winged Rat contest! The entries were awesome (and way too funny, might I add!)
It was too hard for me to narrow down just 3 for my kids to choose from, so frankly I hung it up and let them choose from all the entries. (In light of the winnah, this is a good thing.)
Yeah, I changed the rules. So sue me.
Anyhow, the kids had a glorious time choosing, and though they wavered between a few funny names, they finally came to an agreement. Hallelujah!
And the winnah is…
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Are you still reading?
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Bet you’d like me to tell you, huh.
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I’ve known the winner for HOURS, too!
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Oh allll riiiiiight. The winner and residing champion is Dusty, with her entry Count Batula! WoooWooo!
To see more of Dusty’s fine work, visit her blogs From My Front Porch and Giftedly Outspoken. Do it! Do it, I say! I promise you’ll get a good read.
Dusty, congratulations on your winning entry. The Count and I both thank you for your selfless dedication to the naming of the wild Munchinsectus Suckbloodus species. Look for your blogroll bump and an upcoming schmooze blog entry just for you! In addition, (oh the excitement builds!), don’t forget your $1.99 Michigan Mosquito Magnet will be on its way! Your refrigerator need never go nekkid again!
Side Note: Some of you know that Dus and I have been online friends for a long time. I’m glad my kids chose the winner, because the contest was definately NOT rigged! In fact, the kids struggled with narrowing down their favorites, and spent time agonizing between the winning Count Batula, Shadow and Beauregard, the Emperor of Doom.
Can you just feel the air crackle with excitement?
That’s right, TODAY is the last day to enter our Name That Winged Rat Contest! Oh the competition is fierce and the prizes plentiful! You could get a blogroll bump, your very own post where I won’t make fun of you even once –ok, maybe just a little bit– or a lot. If I know you well enough I might make fun a lot– AND a brand new, never-been-stuck-to-a-refrigerator Michigan Mosquito Magnet! (That’s MMM good, doncha know!)
Oh yes, these fabulous prizes await the one person who can create a moniker worthy of our new yard bat! (Who has since brought friends, might I add. Say buh-bye to mosquitoes, baby!)
My brain decides on occasion that I don’t need to sleep. My brain is wrong; I DO need to sleep, I just can’t because my cerebrum keeps tapdancing in my head. It’s been rough lately. This week, Juan Valdez is my very best friend.
Scene: My house, 3:30am this morning:
Me to brain: You can stop dancing now.
Brain to me: Whaaaat, are you crazy? I’m just gettin my groove thang on.
Put your groove thing away, I have to sleep.
Thang. Groove T-H-A-N-G. No you don’t! This par-tay is cranking UP!
There is no party, it’s just you and me. Now unplug so I can go to sleep.
You’re a real cranky heifer, ain’t cha.
What did you call me?
Did you finish that novel?
Yes, two hours ago. Now go to sleep.
Did you read your bible?
You know I did, now go to sleep.
Get a snack?
I don’t eat at 3:30 in the morning, now GO TO SLEEP!
Didja hear that?
What?
That.
WHAT? Ugh, there’s nothing there, will you just GO TO SLEEP?
Sorryyyy! I think a murderer may be crouching beneath the window ledge, is all. The window’s open, too. But never mind me, I’m just a brain. With instinct and a need for self preservation. Fine, go to sleep. He probably won’t kill you; he’s probably just staking out the place so he can come back later.
Do you really hear something?
Talk to the pons, the frontal lobe ain’t listening.
Yeah, but did you really hear something, or were you messing with me?
As all of the blogosphere surely knows, we’re in the throes of the Name That Winged Rat Contest. For the shot at a nifty Refrigerator Magnet (Retail value: $1.99!), and a chance for fleeting Blog Stardom, the contestants will attempt to name the bat living at my house. (I believe the scientific name is “Munchinsectus Suckbloodus”, but that’s a bit too long to use.
Oh the competition is fierce out there, yessiree! In no particular order I bring you the entries so far:
Kemi, with her snazzy submissions, “Biff”, “Shadow” and “Robin” *snort!*
MJ jumps into the fray with “Bruce Wayne,” “Paul” and “Rhonda.” (I think there’s a story here she’s not telling.)
Kweenmama adds flavor with “Ralph” (Her Grandfather. He’d be so pleased to have rodentry named in his honor.) “Fledermaus” (She claims it’s “bat” in German, but I don’t speak German. For all I know she just called me “Lunatic with Keyboard.”) Oh yes, and “Bartholemew.” (Kween is presumably unaware that TWO of my sisters were slated to become Bartholemew had they been boys. Thank goodness they were born without wangers, that’s all I can say!)
Colby adds her gothic sumbishion submission “Beauregard, Emperor of Doom” to the mix. She seems awfully confident adding only one name!
Sugie (who is linkless, but I love her anyway) offers up “Baseball” (give it a sec–it’ll kick in.)
Catherine thinks her “Ugly Flying Rodent” could not be in the running. Ohhh but it is!
Carolle (aka Gem) tosses in “Boy” (As in, Bat…Boy. da-da-DA! chhhhh!) Love it!
Meg (wicked sense of humor on that girl)throws “Whilamina” into the running because she and I belong to the same MSN Group and she knows I try to name all the girl babies (and a few of the boys) the same thing. Using Insider Information…she cheats like that. (Pssst…Meg! I spell it “Wilhelmena.” Are you trying to show me up?)
As you can see, the competition is neck in neck, but the contest is still on! To read the official rules or submit up to 3 bat-names, go here…and hurry –the contest ends Friday!
I’ve done a lot of travelling this summer. I haven’t actually gone out of state, mind you, but for a homebody like me, driving all over Michigan is like wandering through the Sahara wearing flip flops and fishnets.
Don’t ask me. I have no idea.
In my travels down the spine-jarring cowpaths that are Michigan roads, I’ve noticed many an item lying lost along the highway. Some make sense; like broken tie-down straps or the occasional chunk of tire. Others…not-so-much. And so I bring you Things I Have Seen Along the Expressway.
Quivering with excitement, aren’t you.
First up, lying next to I-75 we have a bra. A very LARGE bra. The type of bra that is required to keep the poor woman from falling face first into the steering wheel–with OSHA approved safety straps and a secondary fail-safe to prevent accidental exposure of catastrophic proportions.
Where is this woman, and what has she done? While I understand the need to set The Girls free at the end of a hard day, I’m sure most of us do it at home. Does she not realize that eventually she must EXIT her vehicle? Unless she can prop those puppies on the tops of her shoes and duck-walk into the nearest Big Busts ‘R Us store, she’s in for some trouble!
I’m just saying.
The next item I found odd appeared to be a run over, mangled and VERY bad toupee. Somewhere up ahead was an old fart in a fire engine red convertible, trying to explain to his buxom young companion what happened to his full head of hair.
Perhaps she was the one with boobs sitting on her knees.
Next I spied a very large aluminum extension ladder. So did several other people, judging from all the black marks pulling over on the pavement just beyond the shiny treasure. I didn’t bother. You’d need a flatbed to move that thing–it wouldn’t fit in the back of our dually pickup, much less the minivan I was piloting. Crying shame, too.
I moved on.
A case of beer came next, left behind by a prankster with a wicked sense of humor and way too much time on his hands. The corner was torn open for can retrieval, but overflowing from the hole was a pile of rocks. Put there, no doubt, to hold the beer-free box in place for all of Suckerdom to see. Once again I saw numerous tire skid marks pulling over just beyond it. (Cuz a $15 case of warm skunky beer is totally worth wrecking a $600 set of tires for–don’t you think?)
And now for my favorite find. Lying next to US23 (Northbound, in case this lost treasure is yours), was a girdle. The type with built-in shorts worn like old man pants hiked clear up to the bra-line. I had no idea such devices of torture were still voluntarily employed by the female population – yet here was flattened proof lying next to the expressway.
I presume the wearer was a well dressed, elderly woman. Or a well dressed cross dresser. Or an elderly cross dresser. In any event, we can surmise that snappy dressing is involved. But please, I beg you, tell me how someone took that off in a car? And was the person driving while doing this little striptease? <shudder!>
Weirdness on the side of the road. And as the Great Gump says, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
On another note, have you entered our Name that Winged Rat Contest yet? You only have until Friday (July 25th) to enter up to 3 names. In case you’ve forgotten, the winner receives a bump in the blogroll, an upcoming blog shmoozing him or her for all of the blogosphere to see, AND…the fanciest Michigan Mosquito Refrigerator Magnet (oooh! ahhh!) ever made!
We live in Michigan, which may be the mosquito capital of the free world. Not only are they a nuisance, but they bring with them West Nile Virus, which can lead to meningitis, West Nile Encephalitis, or your left gonad falling off – kind of like half the prescription medicines available today.
A single bat can eat thousands of mosquitoes each night. For this reason, I built a bat house a few years ago. Followed online plans to the letter and put it up in our yard. I painted the outside black, and seriously considered painting the bat signal on it. I couldn’t wait to attract the predators that eat these little bloodsuckers.
Unfortunately, I threw a party but nobody came. Not a single bat moved in. The house sat empty and the mosquitoes continued to breed little bloodsucking babies. After months went by, I deemed myself a failure at bat house building.
Until…
Swooping, diving in and out of the glow from our yard light came a little brown bat munching mosquitoes. A bat! A bat has come to our humble abode! For the past week he’s been here, although I’ve no idea where he lives. I’m afraid of jinxing things by looking in the bat house.
I’m hoping he’s the scout about to bring a bunch of whoopass friends–sort of like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings leaping from the ship leading a swarm of ghost soldiers to save the day. Ohhhh yeahhhhh.
I want to make this winged rat feel welcome. You’ll help me, won’t you? From now until next Friday (July 25th) I’m holding a contest to see who can come up with the best name for our little flying friend. I’ll pick my top 3 favorites, and then my kids will have the final say on the winning name. Winner gets promoted in an upcoming blog, a bump in the blogroll AND their very own classy and totally free Michigan Mosquito refrigerator magnet. That’s right–this brand new, still-got-the-sticker-on-it $1.99 magnet could be YOURS.
WoooEEE I spared no expense!
So get your brainwaves moving and submit your best bat names by commenting on this post. Limit of 3 suggestions per blogger. Deadline is 12 midnight, EST on July 25–winner to be announced whenever the hell I get around to it July 26.
It’s day 56 of the Chicken Apocalypse, and I’ve formed an uneasy alliance with the Hens from Hades. Namely, I feed them treats and they don’t try to suck out my soul when I approach their pen. So far it seems to be working, as they’ve gotten much fatter and my soul is still intact.
Or so it seems.
Today I walked past their pen to get to the shed. As usual, they followed me the full length of their prison yard, eyeballing me the whole way. To ease their suspicions and diffuse a potentially dangerous situation, I took a leap of faith and put down the baseball bat.
They clucked their approval, and the two fat ones by the door put their lead pipes on the ground–but still close at wing.
Slowly, I reached for one of the ferns growing on the edge of our yard.
The chickens began to cackle with excitement and flutter about in their pen. After eating high dollar, perfectly balanced mash, oyster shell and hay all day, free and plentiful fern fronds are their favorite treat. Grabbing a handful, I yanked hard to break the thick stalks.
AYIII CARUMBA!!!! (and a few other Spanish words I can’t spell.)
One of the fern stalks sliced my hand wide open. Would never have believed it if I hadn’t done it m’self. It’s a PLANT, for pete’s sake!
I could see I was gonna live without stitches, but wanted to clean and bandage my hand. I dropped the ferns and walked to the house with the evil peepers trailing behind. They followed along the edge of their fence, clucking in disgust that I’d teased them with treats but didn’t deliver.
I think our fragile alliance is broken.
I left the bat outside too, dammit, and the smell of blood in the air. I’m not going out there without backup, I can tell you that. Maybe I’ll make my daughter walk out in front of me like a shield. With any luck, they’ll eat the little one and leave me the hell alone.
Should you ever come to my house with a handful of fresh vegetables, don’t get too close to the cage. They might confuse a finger with a carrot stick and nibble it right off.
Just so you know.
I told this wee exaggeration to our visiting 2 year old nephew to keep his tootsies out of the cage when I’m not looking. So far, it seems to work. Actually, what I told him is that our GUINEA PIGS bite, but Connor looked at me as if to say, “Woman, are you stupid?”
“BUNNIES, Aunt Kuddy! No Gee Pigs!” To him they are bunnies, and bunnies they shall remain.
Buddy
Two bunnies live inside our house, in a giant two story cage the size of our dining room table. It’s a little roomier than necessary, (but not much–they need a LOT of space), and this way the boys have room to themselves when they get in a mood.
Wish I could say the same for our daughters, who share a small bedroom and who have also been known to bite on occasion.
“She won’t pick up!” “Well it’s HER stuff!” “Yeah, but SHE got it out!”
Oy! Here–shove these carrots in your faces and go to separate floors.
(sigh)
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…Oh I’m sorry…are you still reading? Were you looking for a message, or some sort of clever ending? I don’t have one. Nope, searched my sleep deprived brain and came up with bupkis. Cute 2 yr old thinking guinea pigs are bunnies, random joke at my kids’ expense–that’s all I’ve got. I’ll try to do better next time.
There are advantages to getting older. I have to admit I have far more common sense now, on the cusp of 40 than I ever dreamed at 19. No offense to any young bloggers out there, I’m just saying that in my earlier days I was a complete dumbass. A size 6 dumbass, but a dumbass nonetheless.
My left leg is now a size 6.(Oh cruel fate!)
I don’t mind getting older for the most part. I whizzed by my 30th birthday without batting an eyelash. 32 bashed me over the head, however, as it occurred to me that if I had given birth at 16 instead of 26, and if my child had done the same…I was now officially old enough to be a Grandmother.
It took several whiskey and cokes to get me through my 32nd birthday.
Now here I am at 39–and counting–and actually appreciative of the wisdom I’ve gained over the years. I have no desire to be my 19 year old rebel without a clue self again, and I sure don’t miss the hangovers. What I do miss, and miss desperately, is a face without hag hairs.
I hear you whippersnappers snickering! You just wait your turn! It seems that nightly I sprout a hair or two on my CHIN for no particular reason except to drop my self esteem into the negative range.
I tweeze. I pluck. I’ve even waxed which let-me-tell-you is roughly akin to slapping hot road tar on your chin and grinding it off with a belt sander. The next morning, I find one or two offending follicles have produced plumage once more.
I’m 39. I wear glasses. What’s going to happen when I’m 80 and can’t see to pull them out? Do you think I’ll have to ask my hubby to do it? Good grief–I’ve been trying to hide this horrible truth from him!
Maybe I should let my man in on the secret before he’s old and faint of heart. Embrace my hag hairs now, before they get worse. If I just let them go, do you think he’ll notice? He is a man and therefore oblivious by nature. Over time, I could just work them into a snappy little hairdo, you know?
My Favorite Peeps section is a small sampling of–well–my favorite blog peeps. MJ atNote to Selfis also running a promotional contest. If you’re so inclined, leave her a note saying Today’s Musings sent ya. If you’re not so inclined, then don’t. heehee! Seriously, these are my favorite blogs to date, and all are worth reading. If you’re bored today, go take a peek!
The first thing I learned on our water park vacation is that fat girls aren’t used to walking up stairs. At least, not lugging inflatable rafts up FOUR STORIES worth of stairs as a wet swimsuit gives wedgies with every step.
Oh yes, the water slides were that high.
Children don’t understand this phenomenon. They (meaning mine and everyone elses) would race up those steps lickety-split, and then stand there waiting none-too-patiently for their parents to drag themselves up, huffing and puffing. Once the adults finally made it to the top, we’d climb into rafts with our kids and attempt to catch our collective breath while sliding down one of the twisty, curvy slides. Four seconds later, at the bottom, the kids would instantly race for the stairs again while the parents lingered in the rafts, dazed and numb, sucking air like blowfish lying on a beach.
Of course, we never saw our little energizer bunnies carrying the rafts, either.
(Not an actual photo from our vacation. I took regular pics, not digital ones, and they aren’t developed yet. Sorry!)
The second thing I learned on vacation is that moms are so busy worrying about our family members getting slathered in sunscreen, we can forget to apply it to ourselves. I now look like I have a raging case of Shingles. My husband says I’m “so a-peeling.”
Isn’t that sweet?
And the third thing I learned on vacation is that gay men will find my husband attractive no matter where we go. I see him get checked out all the time. Uh, Mr. Olive Garden waiter…HELLOOOO…? His wife and two kids are sitting RIGHT HERE, dude! (When the 9 year old says “Daddy, that man is checking you OUT!” it’s that obvious.) Not that I’m insecure, but it makes me want to claim my territory.
Swimsuit Season. That joyous time of year when us fat girls cram it into an straining hunk of black spandex we pray won’t split like an overcooked wiener.
Summer has finally arrived.
I tried to get away from somber, depressing shades of black last year and found a bright blue suit instead. I was feeling bold and sassy–still high from a food court frozen coke brain freeze, no doubt–and I thought to myself, “FLAUNT IT, BABY!”
Oh yes. I flaunted.
I flaunted like one of those big beautiful women who look like they eat men alive. I flaunted like a plus sized model after a chicken pot pie. MmmmHmmm…Work it, Girl! Unapologetic, I stepped out like Large Marge on a mission until I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in a mirror. I looked like Cookie Monster morphed with the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
With stretch marks and boobs.
Into the trash the blue suit went, under coffee grounds, old creamed corn and guinea pig poop, lest my Cheap Ass frugal nature get the better of me. That suit must never see the light of day again.
I consider it a victory for all of womankind.
Tomorrow we head to the water park and I must don a sausage casing swimsuit in public. I haven’t had the urge to pummel my self-esteem to dust chance to go shopping, so I’m wearing an old suit. I tell you this, because I’d like a few of you to cross your fingers that the seams on that bad boy hold.
Ever seen a tire blow on the expressway? Then you understand my concern.
This year, I’m back in standard black. I don’t know that it makes me look any skinnier, but I am thankful for one thing. At least no one will snicker and sing that damn song.
I love epic movies. Big, big stories with big, big characters doing big, big things. I’m not too fond of Fantasy, but I made an exception for the MARVELOUS Lord of the Rings series. However, my epic favorites usually involve gladiators or roman-era soldiers. Hence my children teasing me. “Mom loves good looking men in skirts.” ”Oh–Gladiator’s on again. Good looking guy in a dress alert!”
This is funny at home.
However, in the middle of WalMart when my child points to a pro wrestling poster of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and LOUDLY proclaims, “BETCHA’D RATHER SEE HIM IN A DRESS, HUH MOM!” –the humor loses something.
I knew she was referring to his roman soldier-ish garb in The Scorpion King, but the 2 dozen shoppers who stopped dead in their tracks did not.
In an effort to placate my husband conserve energy, I’m utilizing a clothesline this summer. We’ve had one for years, and I’ve never minded using it for things like blue jeans, jackets or throw rugs. But everything that dries on a clothesline gets stiff, and I draw the line at crunchy underwear, socks and towels.
Oh yes, I’ve heard of fabric softeners. Unfortunately one of our girls is allergic to all sorts of soaps and dyes, so fabric softeners are out. Poor kid breaks out in hives if I use anything that’s not dye & perfume free. I’ve even tried washing her stuff separately, but traces remain in the washer and she breaks out anyway. (Ugliness ensues. There is wailing and gnashing of teeth.)
Which leads us back to crunchiness.
I’ve always avoided stiff towels and underwear by pleading the Neighbor Clause. I can’t very well put our underduds out waving in the wind 20 feet from the neighbor’s front door now, can I? And since the husband prefers not to run the dryer for partial loads–my cream colored towels just have to take one for the team and go into the dryer too. Problem solved. Until…
The neighbors moved out, and their place is now vacant. It is the only house with a view of our backyard clothesline. Crap! The Neighbor Clause no longer applies! Unable to come up with a plausible excuse to use the dryer, I hung our unmentionables out this week. Towels, too. Last night, I overheard this conversation:
Tasha, from behind a closed bathroom door: “Ems! Bring me a towel, willya? There’s something wrong with this one–it’s all crunchy.”Sound of linen closet opening and rustling around.
“They’re ALL crunchy!”
“They’re all crunchy? How come they’re all crunchy?”
“I dunno–maybe the closet has a leak. MOOOO-OMMMMM!”
I explained to my progeny that we are doing the environmentally responsible thing and using the dryer less. They looked at me like this:
And then my oldest offered up a solution. “You’re right, Mom. We SHOULD use the dryer less often. So from now on it’s ok if you only put enough stuff in the dryer for me and Ems.”
I am a cheap ass about clothing purchases. I am not frugal, careful with money or a discretionary spender. I am a tightwad. I couldn’t possibly care less what label appears on my clothes as long as they fit fine and don’t cost too terribly much. But that’s me. Clothes are not my thing. If clothes are your thing, that’s fine–I’m a cheapazz with MY wardrobe, that’s all.
My kids know they can have designer clothing–they just have to pay the difference between what it costs, and what She Who Must Be Obeyed is willing to pay. To date, our oldest has elected to do this on occasion. The youngest (Mini Me, the miser) prefers to keep her cash and stick to my budget.
Both of them have more spending money than I do, and I’m proud to say that at 13 and 9, they each have over $1200 saved for their first cars. (Being cheap does have its advantages!)
And yet despite my penny pinching mentality about wardrobe, I have no problem spending great wads of cash on other things. My husband owns a semi. If it breaks, it gets fixed, no questions asked. (To the tune of about $1400 last week, might I add.)
My computer…? My business, Paperweight Productions, creates advertising, graphics and custom business documents. I also do employee newsletters and even web content on occasion. Since my computer is my income, I don’t hesitate to buy whatever it needs, including some very expensive programs. In fact, since my troubleshooting skills are lacking, (sigh) I think I’m the local computer guru’s favorite customer. I’m not sure, but I may have purchased his pool.
So I’m curious. Do you have vast differences in your spending habits? Got a ‘regular’ budget for some areas of your life and a ‘no holds barred’ section as well? Is it common knowledge, or is your significant other a wee bit in the dark about your spending? (Mine has decided as long as my business is self supporting –as his is– he just doesn’t want to know.) heehee!
As I’ve mentioned before, I am not a girlie girl. I was always a kid with scabs on my knees and a perpetual tan. I did go through an unfortunate stage of Girlyism during high school, the 80s big hair fad sucked us all in. (Doggone that Farrah Fawcett anyway.) Other than that foray into the unknown, I’ve basically been immune.
I do OWN a few girlie things, I just don’t USE them. Every once in awhile (mostly when in the throes of a high fever) I’ll purchase a curling iron or brush, use it once, and then stuff it away in a box somewhere. Eventually I get tired of tripping over the thing and give it away.
And then I buy another one.
My latest raging fever purchase involved an expensive combination curling & flat iron. I wasn’t crazy about the price, but I figured it was a multipurpose tool, and all 3 of us girls could use it, so it was a damn fine choice.
Right.
This thing is unlike any other girlie object I’ve ever owned. It heats not in minutes, but in seconds to temps that could smelt iron. Need some solid steel melted down? Wait there, I’ll be right over. This thing could fry the feathers off an evil chicken from 12 yards away–I’m sure of it.
I can’t. I just can’t.
The problem with not using girlie products is that I tend to forget HOW to use them. Note to self: just because you own something doesn’t mean you know how to use it. Sage advice, because we have a chainsaw and welding gear on the premises. I guess I’m lucky I was only screwing up with girlie stuff.
Yesterday I went to put ONE curl in my hair. One. We had to go somewhere, and I had a stubborn cowlick that refused to behave. I rolled up that hair easy as pie and then…I shivered.
That’s right, I shivered. And in so doing I touched my bare forehead with a thousand degree rod of torture. I heard SSSZZZZZZzzzzz! as flesh burnt off my body. I saw bright white lights. I smelled sulphur and heard an evil cackle from behind the shower curtain. I yelled out loud–not sure what I said, but I’m guessing it was profane–and my kids came running. I ripped that thing (and my hair) out of my head and slammed carefully placed it on my meltable Laminate counter top. The girls eyeballed it with suspicion and vowed never to use the evil thing.
Now there’s money well spent.
Today I have a second degree burn on my forehead. It’s gooey, creepy looking and painful. Anybody want a new curling iron?
Recently I teased poor 
Does this woman look old enough to have a 40 year old kid? Strangers frequently think my Mother is my sister. Sometimes my younger sister. While this is good for her self-esteem, it’s not so good for mine. (And did she pass on this youthful appearance to her firstborn child? NooOOOOOoo. Unlike my Mom, I look my age–and then some when my back is out.) 
My brain decides on occasion that I don’t need to sleep. My brain is wrong; I DO need to sleep, I just can’t because my cerebrum keeps tapdancing in my head. It’s been rough lately. This week, Juan Valdez is my very best friend.
As all of the blogosphere surely knows, we’re in the throes of the 
I’ve done a lot of travelling this summer. I haven’t actually gone out of state, mind you, but for a homebody like me, driving all over Michigan is like wandering through the Sahara wearing flip flops and fishnets.
A single bat can eat thousands of mosquitoes each night. For this reason, I built a bat house a few years ago. Followed online plans to the letter and put it up in our yard. I painted the outside black, and seriously considered painting the bat signal on it. I couldn’t wait to attract the predators that eat these little bloodsuckers.
She cut me. She cut me good.
I love epic movies. Big, big stories with big, big characters doing big, big things. I’m not too fond of Fantasy, but I made an exception for the MARVELOUS Lord of the Rings series. However, my epic favorites usually involve gladiators or roman-era soldiers. Hence my children teasing me. “Mom loves good looking men in skirts.” ”Oh–Gladiator’s on again. Good looking guy in a dress alert!”
As I’ve 
