Fat, Black, Baby Sister

Tonight Flea’s BFF is staying all night with us (the son of Ape and The Cop from my previous “Deer” blog). He’s an awesome kid so we love having him around. In fact, Hubbit suggested he stay two nights with us and practically wept (my story…my version) when the kid said he had to visit his grandparent’s tomorrow night and just couldn’t. Poor Hubbit felt the rejection.

Hubbit says when this particular friend of Flea’s is over, it makes him think we should have had a third child.

Pshaw!

OF COURSE he’d think this, considering several things:

1) He never had to carry or deliver his not-so-mini-me 10 pound, 3 ounce spawn. Talk about uncomfortable!

2) He’s forgetting this friend of Flea’s is 11 years old. Sure, it might be nice to get a nice and polite preteen son just delivered to our door step, looking for a family to join. Wouldn’t it be lovely to “come upon” one that was already properly parented, was mannerly and got good grades? But, does that happen in any world other than Hubbit’s La-La Land? Um. NO.

3) Even if we had a baby (which WON’T be happening), what are the chances he would be a cool kid and not some annoying whiner? Ugh, whiners are THE WORST. I say “he” because I’ve always known deep within my baby-producing-gut, I am not meant to be a mother to a girl. I am a woman who would spit out 10 boys, trying for that prized girl. Forget that! I would tell you why I think this is, but then I might sound a little pathetic and immature. All I’ll say is I’m pretty sure I am the only princess that should ever reign in our house.

Of course, Bug is no help to this matter right now. He has always hated babies. I mean, HATED them. Even when he was as young as two, if another baby cried in a restaurant or store, he’d start screaming, “HUSH BABY, HUSH”, which was usually not as funny to the parent of the screaming baby as it was to me.

Hubbit and I talked just today about how both of our kids were 5 going on 25. They act, think and speak like they are little adults (more Flea than Bug), which is sometimes good and sometimes odd. Obviously, they take after their fantabulous mother, because Hubbit is amazingly 34 going on 12.

How does that happen?!

Anyhow, my point to the story is lately Bug has been begging for a baby sister. Of course, not just any baby sister, but a “fat, black, baby sister”. (FYI: This kid does have great taste. See adorably-squeezable attached blog photo for proof.)

He even asked for one for Christmas, along with a set of boobs (Don’t ask). Regardless, the request for a fat, black, baby sister was quite the improvement from what he requested last year. Let’s just say he felt the South American construction workers around our neighborhood might be useful to have around, to “help with stuff”. I’m trying to be as politically correct as possible here, but how on Earth do you make your child’s request for a “Mexican” for Christmas sound anything less than completely racist? Not to worry. Hubbit and I set him completely straight and hopefully we can all chalk that up as a “Teaching Moment”.

Back to the story…

I tried to tell him Mommy was in no way going to have another baby and the various reasons why a baby would be not-great for our family. It’s funny because I imagine other parents trying to give an exact opposite speech to their older children after learning they’re going to be parents again. Instead of telling Bug about how a baby would be great, I am likely giving him psychological trauma for the future by telling him why a baby WOULDN’T be great. When he’s 35 and I’m begging for grandchildren he doesn’t want to have (due to the fact he “somehow” thinks they would be bad for his life), I may regret this.

Of course, the only part he really heard through his little 7-year-old ears was that I physically could not have a baby any longer. So, his solution was adoption. I had a quick comeback, saying adoption was extremely expensive and not an option for our family at this time.

He was devastated and spent the next hour screaming, “I want a fat, black, baby sister”, that as time went on and he grew more and more tired, changed into a cry of only the words, “fat…black…baby…(sob)…fat…black…baby…(sob)”. It was both hysterical and sad at the same time.

So, this has me really thinking…

Instead of my biological-clock-ticking-hormone-time-bombs going off, making me THINK we need another baby, it’s actually Hubbit’s and Bug’s trying to make waves in my otherwise-really-great life. Who knew a 34-year-old man and 7 year-old-boy were capable of those feelings?!

Regardless, since we all know who’s in charge of this household (wink, wink) there’s no need to worry about the sounds of little footsteps anytime in the near future…although a fat, black, baby sister does sound kind of sweet!

Whitney

Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it. (Marshall McLuhan)

The Holidays Are Over...Thank The Lord Above

Since school has been out for the past few weeks, I’ve been staying in the house more than usual. It’s great for my state of mind but pretty boring when it comes to gathering blog material.

So, with absolutely nothing to blog about I am just going to recap my holiday experience, just in case I ever have enough time to go back and actually recollect.

Christmas Day

Christmas Day was pretty fantastic for my little family. The kids were pleased with their gifts and no one cried because they’d gotten underwear. In fact, no one in my house ever gets “unders” for Christmas, thanks to Flea’s “Underwear Christmas Meltdown of 2005”. Yep, that was the year the very first present he opened was some really cool Batman underwear I’d forgotten we’d even bought. He was all hyped up for presents and when he opened the “unders” he started sobbing and screaming, “This is the worst Christmas ever”. It took us almost an hour to calm him down and convince him the remaining presents would more than make up for the first gift failure. Never again. NEVER.

We spent the morning at our house with a visit from Gigi and Pappy (who bought us some awesome presents we are completely enjoying) and then headed over to my grandparents for Linner (after lunch, before dinner).

There was no dumping of plates on heads (Thanksgiving blog)…just a few friendly games of Uno Attack (the greatest game EVER) where my Auntie reigned as Uno Queen. She swore she never wins anything but we found it hard to believe as she totally stomped our tails game after game. It was kind of interesting that she was the one who’d given the game to Flea and my grandmother also knew how to play really well. Since they live together, it makes me wonder if they’re running an underground Uno Attack operation over there. Hmmm…

The most notable thing about the holiday was we completely skipped our family tradition of eating Sir Pizza on Christmas Eve and Golden Wok on Christmas Night this year. In fact, the kids still haven’t even noticed the big skip-out. Maybe we’re starting to turn into a normal family, after all (I’m CAUTIOUSLY optimistic).

The Day After Christmas

Since my family has had a very accident prone year, it only makes sense we’d spend at least part of our Christmas holiday with our “friends” at the UK Emergency Room. While it’s usually Flea who leads us there (boys will be boys), this time it was (reluctantly) Hubbit. Bless his heart!

On the day after Christmas, we were all ready to walk out the door to head to the mall (to brave Return City) when I asked him to take out a few lightweight trash bags. Keep in mind, this is a man who lifts people for a living. Full grown (and sometimes WAY overgrown) people…out of buildings, out of cars, out of houses…you get the point.

However, when he bent down to lift these two trash bags, he tweaked his back. (FYI: Lift with your knees!) Immediately he went down in total pain. After trying to fool me by “walking it off”, I decided the trip to the ER was necessary. I mean, if you can’t stand without looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, it’s not really “walked off”, is it?

The good news is he’ll be fine in a few days and the even better news is they loaded him up on pain medications and muscle relaxers. I tell ya, I just don’t understand how people have problem getting pain meds when they need them. I’m constantly hearing people complain about their docs never wanting to prescribe pain medication but I sware people throw pain meds at Hubbit, without him even asking.

Have you ever heard of a dentist giving Percocet to someone who has only had a filling? Hubbit’s dentist does!

Thank God he’s not a junkie. Geez.

Side note: Hubbit’s a man who gets what he wants…always. It’s aggravating to people like myself who have to throw hissy fits to get even a portion. It’s the strangest thing. He doesn’t see it this way so every now and then I have to prove to him that people respond to him more than they do to me. To do this, I’ll walk beside him in a busy store and happily say “Hi” to people as they walk by. About 95% of the time, they don’t respond back to me (RUDE). Then I force Hubbit to do the same and 100% of the time, they respond nicely back to him (UGH). In fact, we’ve even greeted the SAME person before and they’ll blow me off but respond to him (DOUBLE UGH). What can I say? I married a very charismatic person who people are drawn to. The benefit is he sometimes does use this gift to also get me things I want in life, since apparently I’m invisible to many people. I’ll give him credit…he’s nice like that.

Anyhow, this light-weight ER doctor said due to Hubbit’s not-tiny-stature he was sure he’d need some pretty heavy duty pills. So, Hubbit was okayed to take 2 Percocets, 1 Lortab and 1 Muscle Relaxer every FOUR HOURS.

I’d argue they use less to tranquilize farm animals, but I’m certainly not a doctor. Thankfully, Hubbit is off work this week because I’m pretty sure it would be a total violation of Fire Department rules (and ethical code) for him to show up completely stoned, even if it was “Doctor Okayed”. Just saying…

Whitney

I like a man who's good, but not too good - for the good die young, and I hate a dead one. (Mae West)

My Non-Legitimate-Bi-Polar-Christmas-Eve-Of-Twenty-Ten

Christmas Eve Twenty-Ten…Can Somebody Say BiPolar?

I should tell you, I’m not legitimately bi-polar but I think today I might have been channeling someone who is because this day has been ridiculously full of rapid mood swings. Unfortunately, the mania spells I’ve heard do come with being bi-polar did not channel properly and as a result, I still have five loads of laundry waiting for me upstairs.

You know, my house might actually be a lot neater if I could channel some of those manic spells. In fact, I “hear” mania episodes can give you the energy to paint an entire floor of a house in less than 3 hours. Not that I know anyone who has been there/done that or anything. (giggle)

Anyhow, here is my humble attempt to explain my Non-Legitimate-Bi-Polar-Christmas-Eve-Of-Twenty-Ten!

Feeling Good

I woke up feeling merry and holiday-spirited. All was good!

Feeling Vicious

Flea did not like the clothes I’d laid out for him today, threw a total fit about them, but refused to find his own clothing. This made me more than a little agitated and I retracted one of this Christmas presents that he hasn’t even gotten yet, which is my go-to punishment during the holiday season. There’s nothing better than wrapping big presents, teasing the kids with them being under the tree for a week or two and then retracting them when they misbehave.

Our exchanges usually go a bit like this:

Misbehaving Child: I am not going to (fill in this blank with any bad behavior you prefer).
Me: Fine. You've just lost yourself 1 Christmas present.
Misbehaving Child: Who cares?! I have tons under the tree.
Me: You'll care when you figure out it's the biggest and BEST one you've lost.

Bahahaha…THE POWER…Bahahahaha! Don’t freak out! I always end up letting them “earn” them back by behaving nicely.

Feeling Good Again

My Christmas Eve got back on track as we spent the morning with some really great people for their annual Christmas Eve Brunch gathering. It was fun and I look forward to it in coming years! On our way home from the brunch, I stopped by the grocery store to quickly pick up some frozen sausage balls Hubbit was craving. While there, I scored some amazing deals on holiday cookies that were marked off 75%. Woohoo! Nothing like a great deal to make this frugal Momma happy!

Feeling VICIOUS Once More

FYI: Our Internet has been “broken” for three days and I’ve been arguing with Windstream (our provider) for days about whether it’s on their end or our end. I always hate when people say the Internet is "broken" but daggonit, mine is BROKEN.

We stayed home all day yesterday waiting for a repair man who never showed up (even though he claimed he called and knocked on our door). Was he at the wrong house or was he too lazy to finish his service calls during this holiday week? To pacify us, Windstream promised to send another repair man to our house this morning.

Anyhow, when we got home from the grocery we realized our Internet was STILL not working. Ugh. After Jimmy called and the Windstream Rep told him a service person had been here and there was no problem on their end, I got ticked. After all, in my mind I was still questioning whether they were honestly here this time and the simple fact was, IF THEY WERE…our Internet service was still not working.

So, what did I do? Well, I might or might not have called and cursed out an innocent Windstream Customer Service Representative…on Christmas Eve. Upon her kindly telling me there was nothing she personally could do for me at this time, I might or might not have told her I would like to be transferred to “someone with a brain” and I, without a doubt (no might or might not needed here), got hung up on immediately thereafter.

Feeling Good…For Good

I know there are lots of people who say they have no idea where they’d be without God in their life but I know exactly where I’d be today…harassing some poor Windstream Customer Service Rep on Christmas Eve. As I was being hung up on I realized I had only three minutes to get to church (which thankfully is less than 2 miles from my house) for the Christmas Eve service. So, I refrained from calling back and attempting to get the same Windstream Rep, only to give her an even bigger piece of my Non-Legitimate-Bi-Polar-Mind.

I’m not sure if the real blessing of the church service preventing me to call back was to her (for not having to listen to my crazy ranting a second time) or to me (for actually getting my mind focused on what is TRULY important in life).

Thank God for our non-basement tonight since I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to harass a Customer Service Rep who has access to not only your phone number, but also your address. I'm sure I would be wasting hours, staring at our non-basement door, stressing at the thought of a revengeful Customer Service Rep lurking down below, ready to make me her Christmas Day lunch!

Anyhow...FOCUS...

Church did me loads of good, like it always does and strangely enough, it also cured my Non-Legitimate-Case-Of-Bi-Polaredness. Well, church and the fact that when we got home, my Dad (who just happens to be a computer genius) taught me a trick to get online until the Internet gets “fixed”! :)

Whitney

No self-respecting mother would run out of intimidations on the eve of a major holiday. (Erma Bombeck)

Ladies & Gents: Introducing Nature's All-Natural Cure For Depression

WARNING: This blog is not quite like others I’ve written. It does contain some seriousness at the beginning and is EXTREMELY LONG. But, I promise there is some humor in the end! :)

I’m typically a pretty positive person. I realize we’re all fighting our own personal battles and no one is without struggles of some capacity. But, I’m human and every once in a while I have a day where, despite my amazing family and the many blessings I’ve experienced in life, I just want to curl up in bed and feel sorry for myself.

I came into 2010 saying the one word that described my year-to-come would be “Giving” and I’m going out of 2010 feeling like the only thing I want to “Give” is the finger to anyone who crosses my path. I’ve renamed 2010 “The Year Of Brokenness” and can only pray 2011 might be “The Year Of Healing”.

Usually I’m a person who takes all of this stuff in stride, packing all of the emotional trash it brings with it in a “closet” somewhere deep within my soul. It helps me get through and move on quickly…my own built-in defense mechanism.

But, like any typical overstuffed “closet”, there always comes a time where with each new item placed in it, trash starts to seep out from under the “door”. And, sooner or later the entire door bursts open, because it just can’t handle the pressure from all the trash you’ve put inside. Late last night, my “closet” door just came bundling down and unfortunately it carried on into today.

Today was meant to be one of those days where I laid in bed all day in my bathing suit (explanation to come), wallowing in my own self pity.

I’d woke up this morning realizing I needed a pick-me-up so I thought we’d take the kids to the indoor pool complex in G-town. But, when we called to check their hours of operation, they were closed for the morning. In my lame-o depressive state, that (ridiculously minor) fact was solely enough to push me back over the “Poor Me” edge and back into bed (swimsuit and all).

Fortunately, that wonderful family I mentioned above decided it was not to be! In fact, Hubbit physically pulled me out of bed after deciding he wasn’t going to put up with some basketcase-of-a-wife on his first official day of vacation.

Since Bug has been bugging us to give it a try, (hahaha corny puns always make me laugh) Hubbit decided we’d spend a family day at Champs. For those of you who are unaware, Champs is a roller skating rink with laser tag, arcade games and for those parents who just can’t take the neon lights and Miley Cyrus music anymore…beer.

We are not a family who frequents Champs. In fact, I'm not sure Hubbit had ever been.

I wasn’t fully on board and quickly proclaimed I would not be participating in skating of any kind. But, the thought of “shooting” people in laser tag did peak my interest enough for me to toss my swim suit aside, brush my ratty hair and throw on some yoga pants.

When we arrived, we immediately played laser tag and I’ll admit my emotional state did improve slightly as I was able to take my aggression out on the little bald father who was trying to act like a stealth ninja with his son. The Acke Four forced them out of their hiding nook and unleashed fury on everyone in the place. That's how we roll! Woot! (At least that’s how it went in my head).

Then Bug decided it was time to skate and Hubbit hesitantly agreed to be his accomplice. I knew Hubbit wasn’t a professional skater because about 12 years ago I’d once taken him ice skating with me. Based on that experience, I was well aware he was a complete klutz when trying to balance himself on ice, using only two small blades of metal. But, I figured having a total of eight wheels this time might help him redeem himself in the skating world.

Those of you who know Hubbit, know he’s not a small man. He stands 6’4 and he’ll tell you he weighs 300 pounds but the truth is he doesn’t. (Random thought: Why is it men “lie up” when it comes to their weight and women “lie down”?) Anyhow, my point is, regardless of what happened, I knew anything Hubbit tried to do on eight tiny wheels would at least be...interesting.

What I didn’t know is that I was about to witness nature’s all-natural cure for depression.

I don’t even think I can do justice to this with words, but I will try. Close your eyes (not really…unless you can read with your eyes closed and in that case please call me ASAP because I think I have a really great way we could make a lot of cash, quickly). Imagine a tall redneck (wearing some of the most redneck gray sweatpants you could imagine and one of those redneck “Big Dog” t-shirts) trying to “float” around the skating floor on two small (as small as size 15's can be) roller skates, meant for someone with at least SLIGHT coordination.

Where you and I might think of skating as being the smooth movement of the feet across a floor, the only thing making a smooth movement across the roller rink was Hubbit’s backside.

I’ve never in my life seen someone fall as much as he did. I sware, he only had one skate on and it (like it had a mind all its own or something) slid out in front of him (while he was SITTING), causing him to almost fall off the bench before he even had the second skate on! This was all BEFORE he even tried to stand.

Usually I would have sat to the side, playing on my iPhone while he and Bug had fun. But, after seeing this start to their journey, I knew the “Big Event” was yet to come and I sure-as-heck wasn’t going to miss out on an opportunity to laugh “with” my husband. So, I made sure to pay close attention to them as they struggled to skate-walk across the carpet and onto the slick skating rink floor.

Within THREE seconds of unsteadily stepping out onto the rink floor, Hubbit fell flat on his rear. I giggled from across the room because...well...it was funny. But, the funniest part was watching Hubbit try to get back UP! Oh. Em. Gee.

He started by trying to kneel on both knees, with the skates behind him and then attempted to bring one foot up to place it on the floor (like anyone might get up from a kneeling position). But, as soon as he’d get one skated foot up on the slick rink floor and try to stand up, he’d fall again. Then he'd immediately try the other foot, as if it for some magical reason might give him better luck! This went on for about 60 seconds which was well enough time for me to almost pee my pants and scare off the people sitting next to me with my annoying cackling (or, now that I think about it perhaps my strange pee-pee-dance-stance).



(Photo: Hubbit about .5 seconds from hitting the floor.)

The funniest part of this whole situation was the little skate guard guy’s reaction.

Skate Guard (noun): College kids who can’t let go of their middle school glory days where they “ruled the skating rink” and have come back for a part time job to relive them as best they can, all the while telling their friends they only do it for beer or gas money. (Secretly, I think they do it for the neon orange uniform jacket, but that’s just me.)

The poor skate guard kept standing right beside Hubbit while he was flopping around on the floor like a loose goldfish, not really knowing if he should offer him a hand of help or not. I could see him weighing the dilemma in his little head. I think he was both wanting to help and afraid to help. Unable to reach a decision on what to do, he just stood there, reaching his arms toward Hubbit every few seconds and then quickly deciding it was too risky to try to help The Thing up, due to possibly falling down himself. This went on for the entire 60 seconds Hubbit was trying to get up…falling back down…trying to get back up…falling back down.

Anyhow, after an hour of watching Hubbit get the best workout of his life (and to think I was a little irked we weren’t going to the gym today) I felt sorry for him and decided I would skate with Bug to give my poor couldn’t-skate-if-his-life-depended-on-it Hubbit a break.

I got my skates laced up and hit the floor like the amazing skater I am and have always been (my story…I can tell it however I want). Seeing I was actually a good skater, Hubbit was slightly annoyed. He threw his hands up in the air and grumbled something about how it wasn’t very nice for me to make him almost break his neck trying to skate with Bug when I actually KNEW how to do it and never said a word about it. (I try to tell him that even after 12 years together, I have skills he’s unaware of. It’s his fault if he doesn’t believe me).

FYI: I didn't fall one time. In fact, I didn't even almost-fall. Heh!

While my depression was cured by simply watching Hubbit skate, the most exciting part of the day had to be when I got into a tiff with the sassy six year old who knocked Bug down on purpose. He was one of those skater kids who could skate circles (literally) around anyone and everyone, doing little fancy (stupid, girly, lame-o) tricks and he’d made it his personal task for some reason to try to knock Bug and I down.

After I caught on to what he was doing, I gave him a little "talkin’ to" but apparently he was raised by baboons (at least that’s what his facial features lent themselves to) and didn’t care what I had to say. Since his parents weren’t there, I had no adult to reason with regarding him. Honestly, I don’t blame them for wanting to drop him off somewhere for a few hours. If he’d been my kid, he would have gotten the Claw Pinch ON THE CHEEK! (Flea says that’s the WORST even though I’ve never attempted it as of yet).

But, like life always ensures, karma is a witch and Bug and I had the pleasure of seeing this kid fall flat on his back. So, we did what every honorable mother and son would do. We stood over him, pointed and laughed as hard as we could. We SHOWED that 6 year old. Heh! (Side note: In hindsight I'm thinking of that quote that says, "How people treat you is their karma. How you react is yours"...oops!)

Whitney

Never take life too seriously. No one gets out alive anyways. (Author Unknown)

Deer Meat and a Big Batch Of Stupid.

Today has been the first day in months I’ve not worked. Since I work for myself, there’s rarely a day when I don’t put in at least a few hours. But, since I’ve been busting my rear so much lately trying to meet deadlines, Hubbit requested I not work this weekend. I’ve gotta tell ya, it’s pretty darn difficult to back away from work, especially when he and the boys left me all alone (or as alone as you can get with five dogs) while they went Christmas shopping for five hours today.

So, what did I do? Well, before Hubbit awoke from his nap, I spent the morning shopping with Flea. Then when my three elves left for their shopping expedition, I spent some of the day cooking, some of the day playing the guitar and some of the day watching reality TV on DVR.

But, the day wasn’t totally wasted on self-indulgence.

I did learn a few things!

I learned: I hate the smell of cooked deer. Seriously. You know that one food that the mere smell of it, turns your stomach instantly? I never really knew what “that” food was for me, until today. Flea’s best friend has a family that hunts and this year they shared some of their kill (Is that what you call it?) with us…because they are Awesomest of all Awesomes.

The boys and Hubbit were thrilled with the thought of getting some as-fresh-as-it-gets deer meat, so today I thought I’d cook the deer roast for them. I can cook a mean roast, considering the only skills it requires is putting the meat in the Crock Pot, adding vegetables and walking away. I do best on those “walking away” recipes since they require absolutely no level of attention span.

Side note: My dad doesn’t hunt so I’ve never really been exposed to the whole hunting process. So, when Flea’s best friend brought a huge bag (the size of a garbage bag) into our house telling me there was deer meat in it for us, I almost passed out in the floor. Seriously. I felt woozy, for real.

Hubbit was highly entertained by this because he’s mean and for some reason thinks me feeling woozy and weaving like I’m going to pass out is somewhat entertaining. As I was grasping the counter for support, I kept looking at the shape of the bag and swore it looked like a baby deer carcass was lumped up in it! So, I screamed for Hubbit to take it out to the garage, open it and report back to me about what he found. I told him that under NO circumstances did I want to see what was in that bag. As the good husband he is, he did as I asked and came back hysterically laughing, holding beautifully white packaged roasts and steaks from a professional butcher’s shop.

Remember: I had no clue how this transfer-of-deer-meat-process actually worked or that it was actually 100% civilized. Of course, I didn’t dare tell our friends who gave us the meat that story of my own “stupid” because…well…they’ve witnessed my “stupid” first hand all too many times before and I don’t want them to think I’m a complete moron.

Listen, I’m all about being yourself and all but let me just explain one instance these particular friends have experienced from me and you'll quickly understand just one tiny bit of the "stupid" I'm capable of.

I will call this friend Ape and will call her husband The Cop. A few years ago, my mother calls me and says she’s seen in the obituaries that a young man has died and it lists Ape’s and The Cop’s names (both first and last) as siblings.

Now, I had known this family for about four years at this point and had met both Ape’s and The Cop’s parents. In fact, Ape’s sister is even married to a firefighter Hubbit knows. I thanked my mother for the useful information and immediately dialed Ape’s cell phone. I got her voicemail (just like I fully expected, as her brother had just tragically passed away) and left her a beautiful message.

It went something like this:

Ape, this is Whitney. I just heard that your brother passed away and wanted to call you to tell you I’m extremely sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Maybe I can babysit your boys or cook you guys dinner (Who was I kidding? I totally would have brought take out because while I make my family eat my cooking, I would never make a grieving woman’s family do the same). I just feel terrible about this and just hate that you guys are going through this horrible tragedy. I'm sure you're just heartbroken. I can't even imagine the pain you must feel. Really, please call me as soon as you can because I just want to help in any way. Ok, call me. I’m so sorry. Ok, call me. Call me. Ok, bye.

Nice and friendly, right?

About an hour later, my phone rings and Ape’s name shows up on Caller ID. I answer it with my best “sympathy” voice, immediately going into the whole “I’m so sorry” thing before I realize she is laughing HYSTERICALLY on the other end of the phone. I stopped and asked what on Earth she was laughing about. She proceeded to tell me, she in fact did…NOT...have a brother. She did however let me know that she was going to be sure to share this with The Cop, so he too could get a kick out of it.

Geez.

The bad part is I know her family! I knew she had only one sister. I know the sister. I've been to family birthday parties where there has NEVER been a brother of any type present.

Ugh. What are the odds there would be another husband and wife with their same first and last name combo?!

What we had there was a big batch of “stupid” and that’s not the only batch Ape and The Cop have witnessed from me. I could go on and on, but I will spare you. All I can say is, they must really love Flea to put up with me! LOL

Ok, back to the deer meat! See why those “walking away” recipes work perfectly for me? I have no focus.

As it was cooking, I started getting nauseous from the smell. At first I thought it was all mental, because I did kind of cringe at the thought of poor little Bambi’s daddy cooking in my pretty little cooker. So, I tried to ignore it and with the lid on the Crock Pot, I was successful. But, when I took it out later to cut it I could barely stand it. Now it’s all I can smell. I feel like it’s forever burnt in my nose.

Ugh.

The great news is the boys and Hubbit loved the deer roast! The bad news is I’ve vowed to NEVER EVER let it be cooked in this house again. But, I did agree they could use the outside grill for their steaks at a later date. Wasn’t that nice of me? (giggle)

Oh, I did learn one other thing today: If I were to go “brain dead” the only thing my husband is worried about is whether or not he’d be able to recreate the Oreo Balls (thanks for the idea Crystal) I made this afternoon. He specifically asked me to write down the recipe, just in case. He's a keeper. Hmph.

Whitney

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.(Albert Einstein)

snow day. joy.

What I’ve Learned About Snow Days

1) Snow Days drive Hubbit to drink…wine coolers.

I’m sure he’d rather be drinking bourbon but we never keep liquor in the house, we only buy cheese at Liquor Barn (never liquor) and they don’t sell the “hard stuff” at Krogers (which oddly enough is the only place we buy alcohol).

In his defense, he does buy the “dude” coolers. If there was a gender war in the wine cooler industry and each cooler had to choose between “girly” and “not-as-girly”, then his would fit in the latter category without question. I can’t remember what they’re called but it’s something like Mike’s Hard something-or-other. That kind of sounds vulgar now that I think about it. In hindsight, I’m not so sure I should be calling them “dude” coolers after all.

2) I do “vicious” really well.

I found myself going completely postal on Flea tonight because he was trying to argue that the cereal and toast I tried to pull off as dinner didn’t exactly qualify as a hearty meal.

Does he think I'm June Cleaver?!

I sent him to his room for having a bad attitude and then realized he was at least partially right. So, I “upped” my game a bit and made him oatmeal. Hey, at least it was hot!

3) I have slow focus.

The people I live with (Hubbit, Flea and Bug) have been telling me for weeks I am a horrible listener and I have to say, I don’t agree. In fact, whenever someone asks me what my good qualities are I always say with confidence I’m a great listener. I prefer to say I have focus problems. Yep.

That’s exactly what my problem is. Slow focus. I blame it on the little nerve in my ear that doesn’t send signals fast enough to my brain and vice versa, which is ironically what causes all of my problems, whether they are health realted or not. Burnt toast? It was my slow signals. Bad hair day? Slow signals. Forgot the kid at school (ONLY once...geez). Slow signals. (Hubbit: That inside joke was for you. Focus!)

Apparently, what I think of myself and what others think of me don’t always match up. That's my life story. Hmph. But, since another one of my great qualities is being smarter than everyone else, I know I’m right…and they’re WRONG. (Calm down, it’s a joke. I know I’m not smarter than EVERYone.)

Side note: Maybe that slow focus is the reason I still can’t back my van up successfully (AKA safely). For those of you following my lack-of-driving-success, Gigi did in fact purchase one of those blinking stop signs for me the other day. So far it’s kept me from driving through the wall but I’m not sure you’re really supposed to get as close to it as Hubbit did when he was trying to prove his truck could fit into our garage.

FYI: The truck did fit. Barely. (See the blog photo above.) When he asked why I hadn't done the same when I drove it, I just rolled my eyes (which he absolutely LOVES by the way) because the Man must have forgotten that I can’t even park our small van in the garage, let alone a giant Man Truck. Maybe he’s not such a great LISTENER either.

Hmph.

4) Big trucks kick as*.

Wow, that little * up there really doesn’t make that word look any more attractive when I use it than it doesn't when others use it on their Facebook rants. Just thought I’d give it a try.

Seriously, I am in love with my Swagger Wagon. I even held strong as a Swagger Wagon fan when my pal (I’ll call her Memphis) tried to BULLY ME into forgoing the wagon in exchange for a jumbo SUV. I’ve owned an Expedition and while I loved it, I felt like I was selling my soul to the Middle East every THIRD day when I had to pay $60 to fill that bad boy up. No more of that for me, thank you very much.

I love the way I can pile loads of stinky boys into my Swagger Wagon, along with their baseball gear, backpacks and big feet. The only thing I do NOT love about it is the fact that it doesn’t back up properly. Darn thing has a rear end that’s drawn to big trucks.

But I can’t say I blame “her”, because I’ve fallen in love with Hubbit’s truck over the past few days. There’s just something about its height, its power and the security it gives me that makes me consider leaving my familiar old Swagger Wagon behind and running away forever with it. (Sounds kind of like the story of how I met Hubbit now that I think about it).

What I don’t like about it is the fact that while it has four doors, when the boys are both in the back seat, they can reach each other far too easily. Those who have two or more kids understand this means:

1) They don’t have to exert much effort to smack each other in the face for absolutely no reason.
2) Siblings will aggravate each other more often than usual if the process of aggravating each other doesn’t require much effort.

When I’m in my Swagger Wagon, I can just send one of them to the back row seat and this problem is S-O-L-V-E-D. In the truck, the only option is to make one of them ride in the open truck bed and while I’m proud to be at least 75% redneck, that 25% on my civilized side makes me think twice about trying that in 4 degree weather.

While I’ve not left the house today even as much as to check the mailbox and have basically sat my rear end watching movies all day (when I wasn’t making the most kick-tail Rice Crispy Santas with Bug), thinking back about all of these lessons have me absolutely exhausted.

Wonder what I'll learn tomorrow?

So, goodnight loves!

And, to my sweet friend Susan: I hope this gives you at least a few laughs! :)

Whitney

A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water. (Carl Reiner)

Appendix Drahaaammaaa!

So, last night was fun…if you call spending three hours in the UK Emergency Room with a 10 year old who might or might not be having appendicitis fun.

Anyhow, here’s how it all went down.

Flea started having right side pains after dinner and was pretty wimpy acting. After a few hours he was still feeling no relief. Of course, Hubbit was at the firestation for 24 hours so I didn’t have my go-to-medical professional to consult and was forced to call the on-call nurse for advice.

Firewives can testify to this. If your kid is going to randomly get a concussion at the swimming pool at the hands of a pretty little Asian 6 year old girl, if your dog is going to completely bite through your hand (accidentally) on Christmas Eve, if your only toilet is going to quit working OR if your washing machine is going to flood your house… IT WILL happen on the 24 hours your husband is on shift. It’s like a law of nature. I learned to accept it within the first year of him being on the line.

Side note: As I was on the phone with the on-call nurse, Bug grabbed our “homework white board” and drew what may have been the most accurate picture of an appendix ever drawn by a 7 year old. Heh! I hung up with the on-call nurse as Bug stepped in front of us with his odd drawing and announced, “I’m going to teach you all about the appendix”. Um. Ok.

The real kicker was that he’d drawn a second picture of a dead cartoon boy and wrote something to the effect of “if appendix hurts = (dead boy cartoon)”. Considering we were trying to tell Flea his pain wasn’t something to worry about, this was really bad timing on Bug’s part. Or, really great timing if you’re thinking like a little brother who LOVES to make his big brother miserable.

Back to the story…

Being the awesome Grand-Mall (as Bug calls her) she is, Gigi agreed to go with me and Flea to the ER while Pappy babysat Bug. It was almost bedtime so I figured Bug would give Pappy some peace and just go to sleep. Boy, was I wrong! Poor Pappy. I have no idea what happened while we were gone but when we left for the ER, Pappy looked rested and youthful and when I got back home, he looked like he’d been ran over by a 7-year-old-appendix-drawing-semi-truck. (Side note: Thanks Daddy! )

The highlight of the ER trip had to be when Gigi got hot and had to remove ONE of her shoes. Just one. Then she proceeded to show us how high she could kick her leg with her shoe on and with her shoe off. Oddly enough, the shoe did help her get more height but Flea and I just couldn’t understand why she wanted to show us this skill in the first place.

Of course, she had been doing Ninja kicks ever since we’d all gone to the Ninja Lego event a few hours before. I kind of wish I’d gotten it on video because she was even wearing a black-ninja-head-band-thingy. It was another $10,000 moment down the drain. Drats!

Hmm, I wonder how tough she’d be if we also taught her the Judy Chop. She could be…dangerous! ;) (Side note: I love my Momma!)

After some x-rays, a lot of tummy pushing, a Strep test, a urine sample, doctor ordered vanilla ice cream (lucky kid), way too much George Lopez on Nick at Nite via the ER television and Gigi’s entertaining Ningy Kicks, Flea was diagnosed…with something that he probably would shoot me if I blogged about.

Why did I make that initial promise to try not to embarrass him?!

I’ll just say his entire problem can be fixed with additional fiber.(giggle)

Whitney

To an adolescent, there is nothing in the world more embarrassing than a parent.(Dave Barry)

Trimming Toenails

I haven’t been blogging much lately because work has been insane. Thus, I’m pretty sure I would put everyone straight to sleep by sharing all about the crazy deadlines I’m under or why a client would pay me a tiny fortune to write 300 blogs about “clipping” grocery coupons online. I still don’t know how that’s profitable to him, but I’m not complaining!

However, Hubbit apparently likes to read my blog and has requested a posting. So, I’m trying my best to muster up something somewhat entertaining, to amuse him with this evening.

It’s more than a little challenging when my brain is practically mush from researching.

BUT, here’s my humble attempt…

Today was pretty insane with the boys being home sick with fevers and throats that looked like Puffles from Club Penguin. (If you don’t have kids, you probably don’t get that reference, at all. Sorry.) We took them to the doctor, did a little shopping and have been home for most of the day.

So, sadly enough, the most entertaining part of my day involved trimming the dogs’ toenails.

Don’t judge me. If you think this menial task might seem ridiculously UNamusing, you’ve never seen it happen at my house!

Dog #1: It all started with me struggling to grip a tiny chihuahua’s foot and cut his toenails, while Hubbit had to hold him UPSIDE down just so he would stop trying to attack my FACE. Yoda is street ninja. Seriously.

Dog #2: I was dealing with a scared-stiff dog, which worked out to my advantage. No drama here from Chubbs (who happens to be one of the slimmest dogs we own and was terribly mis-named).

Dog #3: Chowder is our Drama King dog of the house. This dog actually hyperventilated during the process. Oh Em Gee. He was breathing so rapidly, he started “honking”. Drahaama! Hubbit and I looked at each other a few times, silently thinking, “If this dog stops breathing, YOU’re going to be the one doing CPR…not ME”. Thankfully, we were able to quickly cover his head with a hand towel (so he could no longer see the procedure) and he recovered fully.

Dog #4: Mr. Pickles is the “old man” of our strange herd and he squeals like a dying pig if even the wind blows his way. So, you can only imagine the ridiculousness he brings to the toenail clipping arena. He is a total sweetheart to me when the clippers are safely in the drawer, but when he saw them in my hand, he went completely vicious on me. Hubbit thought it was hilarious and was laughing so hard he kept losing his grip on the 5 pound chihuahua…allowing him to BITE ME continuously. So much for the tag team protection! Thanks, Hubbit. Thanks a bunch.

Dog #5: God Bless her. It’s odd, but she bites her own toenails. So, I’ve never had to clip them. How did I get so lucky to have the world’s only dog who is capable of giving herself a manicure? Zoe rocks!

By now (if you didn’t already know), you’ve realized I have five dogs. Yep. What really bothers me about this is I could never be one of those people who puts those little stick family members and pets on the back of their car because...well...my Swagger Wagon's rear window wouldn’t be big enough.

Imagine:

1 fireman dad
1 guitar-playing momma
1 baseball-playing big brother
1 art-loving little brother

AND

1 tiny Chihuahua
1 slightly larger Chihuahua
1 extremely “fluffy-not-fat” Jackawawa
1 trim Jackawawa who’ll never outlive his days of baby fat because his name is…Chubbs
1 giant Weiner dog

Sigh.

Well, that’s it.

If you didn’t think I was crazy before, then:

1) This must be the first blog of mine you’ve read.
2) You can (without question) safely assume I am now.

* On a positive note: I've made head-way in the arena of not hitting Hubbit's truck while backing out of the garage. We've (meaning Hubbit, not me) decided today that I'm now going to instead learn how to back INTO the garage so I can see his truck fully when pulling out facing forward. Heh! I'm taking bets on how long it will take for me to back completely up the driveway...through the garage...and INTO my kitchen.

Whitney

You can always trust the information given to you by people who are crazy; they have an access to truth not available through regular channels. (Sheila Ballantyne)

Going to the gym to sweat? Wasn't in my plan!

Yesterday Hubbit and I decided to bite the bullet and get our rear-ends back to the gym. We were going almost every day until six weeks ago when Hubbit hurt his ankle inspecting fire hydrants at work. The doctor made him wear a fancy walking boot and he was restricted from activity, so our gym days came to a halt.

As a result, I’ve gained 10 pounds! You might be wondering why I didn’t just go to the gym by myself, but the truth is I’m frugal. I’m an add-on for Hubbit’s membership at the gym and I can only go if he’s with me. Hey, it saves me $30 a month and we usually go together anyway.

I thought we’d start with a little stationary bike and finish with some hard core (yeah, right) strength training. You know, non-jumping-stuff easy on Hubbit’s ankle that’s almost healed, but still not 100%. After all, he’s not been able to test it to see how much it can endure and there’s no way he wants to go back on Light Duty at the firehouse (Apparently, answering phones is no way for a firefighting adrenaline junkie to spend his 24 hour shifts).

But, Hubbit had a different idea. He decided we needed to try one of the classes offered at our gym. I was a little hesitant, because to me the idea of taking a class with people more fit than me is…well…less appealing than accidentally poking myself in the eye with my mascara brush.

But, I went online, read the info blurb about the class and after a great deal of guilt-tripping by Hubbit, I agreed to be thrown to the lions. The blurb did say it was perfect for all fitness levels and was a “member favorite”, so I figured it wouldn't be too bad.

I prepared myself by eating a big breakfast, showering and applying makeup. Hubbit shook his head, asking why on Earth I was showering and using makeup before going to the gym. I “shooshed” him and told him if I was going to die at the gym, I wanted to be sure I at least looked good doing it. I also told him I wasn’t planning on sweating, so showering wouldn’t be a lost cause.

When we arrived we were instructed to put together our step equipment and grab “heavy weights”. I looked at Hubbit like he was insane when I saw the step equipment. Did he not remember he was supposed to be taking it easy on his ankle and was still not supposed to step up or down quickly? But, Hubbit has this problem of thinking he’s Superman so he brushed it off and pretty much told me to put my big girl undies on. I set up my step at the easiest level I could (I'm lazy. ) but I did grab the heaviest weights they had, which were 12 pounds each so I wouldn't look like a total slacker. (Side note: About 10 minutes in, I had to switch out my weights to 5 pounds. What was I thinking?!)

Geez.

For the following 60 minutes, I visited HELL. Oddly enough, the soundtrack of Hell was corny 90s music (on full blast) and the ride there and back was narrated by a blond fitness queen who screamed at us through her tiny headset microphone to “do something…ANYTHING…with our arms” as if simply trying to not fall of the step each time we jumped up and down wasn’t enough. (FYI: I did sweat. A LOT. It was gross and I don’t plan on doing much of it again anytime soon. And, that big breakfast was NOT a great idea either. Ugh.)

*Side note: People fail to understand that just because you’re not overweight does not mean you are fit. There is a huge difference! I might be within normal weight ranges but I am NOT fit. My body is not hard…it’s squishy. I am a weakling with absolutely NO endurance. It’s sad, but true. Even the 80 year old woman standing in the back of the class BROUGHT IT more than I could and I was trying!

My final conclusion about the class:

The website lied.

Perfect for all fitness levels? Hmph! It was not perfect for me or Hubbit but the uber-fit female body builder in the 2nd row did seem to ALMOST keep up.

A member favorite? Shyeah! I didn’t see anyone in that class enjoying themselves and I’d bet if I’d conducted an exit poll there would be very few who agreed it was a “favorite” in any way.

But, it was pretty fun to watch Hubbit’s size 15 feet try to maneuver to the rhythm of MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This”. That alone may have made the entire thing worth it.

Whitney

My gym routine lasts 1 hour and 30 minutes. 15 minutes cardio. 15 minutes weights. 60 minutes talking myself into beginning. (Unknown Author)

Throw Down In Kroger

Today was pretty uneventful because the kids were at school. But, leave it to them to create some Maury type drama this afternoon. I should have known their complete silence for the first two minutes after I picked them up was a total fake out.

Thinking they were being oddly polite I decided to do the unthinkable and stop by the grocery store on our way home. I figured they could handle a quick trip to get the bare necessities. (You know, the stuff your household can’t live without? Diet 7-Up, Tide and three boxes of Little Debbie cakes.)

They quickly reminded me I must have lost my mind to think the grocery was a good idea. Only five minutes after picking them up from school, they were throwing down in Kroger’s. I don’t mean just kind of picking on each other.

I mean THROWING DOWN.

We had ninja kicks, Judy chops, choke holds, rolling on the floor…the whole shebang. (Side note: I should probably delete the six hours of WWE we have recorded on DVR, just in case it contributed to their impressive skills.) The match was quite uneven with Flea being 5’4 and Bug coming in under 60 pounds. But, I will say Bug is quite scrappy (he gets it from me) and plays really dirty, so Flea didn’t go completely unharmed.

So, what did I do? I pulled them off of each other (as best I could since Flea is not only as tall as me but also outweighs me by about 40 pounds) with my famous Claw Pinch.

I tell ya, some mothers have “The Look”, some have “The Belt” and I have “The Claw Pinch”. If you ask my kids what they fear most about me, I’d bet one million dollars they’d say, “The Claw Pinch”. I’ve perfected it over the past few years and I don’t have to use it very often. Only in extreme cases. No, it doesn’t really hurt them so don’t freak out! It’s just a tiny little pinch that doesn’t even leave a mark. But, the beauty of it is they HATE it. (bahahaha…THE POWER…bahahaha)

Their match for the Heavyweight Title Belt drew quite a crowd (picture two kids rolling around on the floor, kicking, screaming and throwing punches in the middle of the front area of Kroger). I did get a few snarls by other shopping mothers.

They MUST have just been envious I could stop professional wrestling moves so effectively with just one tiny pinch of the arm. (The moves being demonstrated by my angelic sons were apparently called the “F-U” and the “Attitude Adjustment”, but from where I was standing it sure didn’t look like any “Attitude Adjustment” I ever got as a kid!)

OR…

Perhaps these holier-than-thou mothers only birthed girls.

Surely, they weren’t wondering what kind of mother raised two barbaric kids who went ballistic on each other in such a crowded public place. (sarcasm intended)

Highlight of the moment: As I’m standing in the middle of the aisle with Bug crying a river into my coat and women looking at me in horror, Flea says, “I didn’t punch him, I only smashed his head”. Note, this came after I witnessed him punching Bug right in the face with my very own eyes.

The oddest part of the situation was the way they made up. It went a little like this...

Location: My Swagger Wagon, 10 minutes after the throw down in Kroger.

* Flea was eating a piece of fried chicken (from the Kroger deli. yum. yum.) he’d managed to throw in my cart before the big fight scene.

Bug: That chicken sure smells good.
Flea: Do you want a bite?
Bug: Do you have enough to share?
Flea: Yep, I’m finished. You can have the rest.
Bug: Thanks brother. You’re the best!
Flea: You’re welcome!

* All was well and smiles were abundant, like nothing ever happened and they weren’t smashing each other into the Kroger floor just moments before.

Of course, the one thing I have learned as a mother to boys is, there is nothing about the relationship of brotherhood that’s logical. Absolutely nothing.

Whitney

If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you'll be going, 'you know, we're alright. We are dang near royalty. (Jeff Foxworthy)

Facebook Costs Me $1200 A Month. What?!

I’m the first to admit, I spend way too much of my day on Facebook. I mean, who can argue it’s not a gigantic waste of time? Will my life really be changed dramatically if I don't see Betty is in a "relationship but it's complicated" or Bobby is having steak tips for dinner (complete with a picture of them cooking on his brand new Weber grill he's searching for an excuse to show off to his FB "friends")?

No, it won't. But, I still log on multiple times a day.

The fact my iPhone quickly and easily connects to it only makes my addiction worse and Heaven forbid I forget my phone and can’t immediately see my email or Facebook account. Oh. Em. Gee!

I start jonesin’ like I’m a Crack Momma without her juice.

Side Note: Ok, I have NO idea what they call it…but juice sounded pretty good. No? Maybe it would be better to say, I start jonesin’ like a toddler without her sippy cup. Not even close? Ok, I give up. The truth is, I will never know what they call it because even Tylenol gives me the Heebie-Jeebies, I only take antibiotics if I’m half-dead and you can FORGET about trying to get me to take a flu shot. Hmph.

Back to the point of my blog…I get sidetracked so easily. I’m always leaving things cooking on the stove and getting side tracked doing laundry or something else, only to find Hubbit has finished dinner without me even remembering I was cooking. He’s so great like that. Ya know, great at keeping the house from catching on fire and all that good stuff? I wonder if Alzheimer’s can start at age twenty-ten. Hmm.

Ok, you catch my drift, right?

Anyhow…

It’s great Facebook is free and all, but I’ve actually figured out with the work I DON'T get done due to wasting time on the site, Facebook costs me about $300 a week!

SERIOUSLY?! Seriously? seriously.

Wow. I really AM like a Crack Momma. I’m wasting $1200 a month on my addiction and don't even have any cute shoes to show for it.

Not only am I wasting money using it but Facebook kind of annoys me. Now, I know you know what I mean.

What I’m trying to say is, some of my FB "friends" do the Tango on my very last nerve, at least twice a week. It can be extremely challenging to bite my tongue, as it’s really not in my genetic makeup. (Those of you who know my mother, understand this. hehehe)

This is why I’d argue the best part of Facebook is the “Hide” button. (Don’t act like your feelings are hurt because I’m sure a lot of you “hide” me when I get on my crazy rants too. And don’t fret. I usually “unhide” you after a while).

Reasons To Love The Facebook “Hide” Button:

1) It offers some type of insanely ridiculous passive aggressive satisfaction. Like me “hiding” you really “sticks it to ya”. Heh!
2) It provides the closest thing we’ll ever have to the Human Mute Button.
3) It allows me to temporarily ::poof:: you from my life, without you even knowing it. Like magic, I can ::poof:: you in and ::poof:: you out. Yes Sir!

Since Facebook obviously costs me too much G-Money (Benjamins? Green? Bread? Clams? Ugh. I’ll never be “gangsta” and for some unusual reason that makes me a little sad), I’d love to go on some soapbox-holier-than-thou-rant about how I’m giving Facebook up for 30 days and how you should do the same. In fact, if all of you go without Facebook for 30 days, I won’t miss anything. All will be well with the world and you’ll be making it much easier on me.

But, who am I kidding? Like me learning to back of my driveway without the need for a Magic Eraser...it's SO not going to happen.

Whitney

“I gotta work out. I keep saying it all the time. I keep saying I gotta start working out. It's been about two months since I've worked out. And I just don't have the time. Which uh..is odd. Because I have the time to go out to dinner. And uh..and watch tv. And get a bone density test. And uh…try to figure out what my phone number spells in words.” (Ellen)

Bad Driver On Board

In the last 14 years…

# of auto accidents I’ve been in while driving: One. It wasn’t my fault. Seriously.

# of times I’ve been pulled over or given a ticket: Zero. Score!

# of times I’ve taken off a side mirror on a car I was borrowing: One. I’ll admit that doesn’t help me form my case here, but Gigi will get a kick out of it because it was her side mirror and I was borrowing her car because of the sole accident mentioned above.

In any case, since I’ve had my handy-dandy mini van, it turns out I’ve completely forgotten how to drive. Just a few months after I got it a year or so ago, I sideswiped a truck as I was trying to park (Thankfully, it belonged to my parents but I still had to shell out $500 to fix my Swagger Wagon).

In addition, just THIS WEEK I’ve backed into Hubbit’s truck twice as I’ve been pulling out of the garage.

Geez.

I didn’t even tell him I backed into it again today, for several reasons.

1) He was napping. Enough said.
2) The Magic Eraser saved my tail AGAIN and completely wiped my blue mini van paint off his bright white Ram. So, the evidence went kaput!
3) I figured he already knew it was coming since he “watched” me back out the other day with his hands COVERING HIS EYES.

You see, our garage is ½ full of stuff like tools, an extra freezer and other things we “need”. Since Hubbit is the sweetie pea he is, he lets me park in the clean ½ of the garage and parks his truck out in the cold, on the opposite side of the driveway. Our old house had no garage and I’ve actually only started parking in this one.

Along with my new parking spot, I’m learning new things like:

Just because you can’t see out of the garage with the door closed, there might be something (AKA Hubbit’s big truck) out there waiting for you to run into it and when pulling in you REALLY should leave at least two inches between your van and the wall attached to your kitchen (that’s really a whole other blog topic waiting to be written).

That brings up a question, if I accidentally ran into the wall would my auto or home insurance cover it? (Maybe I’ll check on that one).

Gigi has already threatened to buy me a light up stop sign Bed Bath & Beyond carries for “unique” drivers like myself. Apparently it lights up when you get close enough to the wall for the garage door to close but not so close you end up in your kitchen hallway upon finishing the “parking” process. I wonder if the inventor had a wife like myself. I’d bet he did.

The thing is, I have NO idea why I keep backing into his truck! Other than the fact I completely forget his truck is out there…like EVERY time I start to back out and up until the moment I hear the lovely scrape sound. Thankfully, I back out at the speed of a snail, or else I would be spending way too much time drinking the free bottled water at the Collision Center.

What do I really WANT for Christmas?

Volumizing Hair Rollers.

But, what do I really NEED?

Driving Lessons.

Whitney

When Solomon said that there was a time and a place for everything he had not encountered the problem of parking an automobile. (Bob Edwards)

Oh Thanksgiving, How Entertaining You Can Be!

Highlights of our Thanksgiving holiday…

We go to my grandparents’ house every year on Thanksgiving and this year was no different…for the most part. One thing that WAS different was the new addition of my cousin Casey’s adorable dog (Chadwick). The dog is A-dorable, but the fact it peed on my leg as soon as I arrived was not. Maybe it was claiming me as its own? (giggle)The dog did make it up 100% to me as he entertained the boys FOR HOURS. So, I think we'll call it even.

It was great to see my parents, grandparents, my Auntie and cousins, but the shining moment of the day had to be watching my grandmother accidentally dump an entire plate of food on my grandfather’s head. (Maybe she was claiming him as her own, much like Chadwick tried with me?)

Bless her heart! She was just trying to shimmy between the back of his chair and the china cabinet to get to the other side of the table…and "oops". The bad part was Bug saw it all and started cackling really loud as my grandma tried to wipe mashed potatoes off my grandfather’s bald head.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry but what I do know is...

1) We missed out on a $10,000 Funniest Home Videos moment, for sure.
2) Pa did not find it entertaining OR funny…at all.

Only three hours after stuffing their faces at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving Linner (after lunch, before dinner), the boys wanted their “house” Thanksgiving I had not at all prepared for. So, Bug and I made our way into the kitchen to quickly throw together a meal using whatever we had in the pantry. It actually turned out pretty nice, even though it was extremely unplanned.

As we went around the table during our On-The-Fly Thanksgiving dinner at home, to say what we’re thankful for, Bug quickly said his hamster (Helen, who is a Chinese hamster and was named after the only Chinese person Bug knows...his classmate Helen. I honestly think he feels Helen is a traditional Chinese name. Sigh.)

Flea said he just didn’t know what he was thankful for (in a very annoyed tone I’m certain the Cleaver boys would have been backhanded for off-camera if they’d tried to pull with June).

Nice.

Side note: In Flea’s defense, it was pretty corny to go around saying what we were thankful for. But, I kind of felt like we needed to at least ACT like it was an official Thanksgiving dinner, even though everyone knew it clearly was not. (MY BAD for trying to start a “normal family” tradition with kids who think ordering Sir Pizza on Christmas Eve and eating at the Golden Wok on Christmas night are the most precious family traditions known to man.)

While I was cleaning up the mess, I decided our dogs should be able to celebrate as well. So, I fed them the leftover mashed potatoes and ham the boys hadn’t devoured. They enjoyed it greatly and I was pleased with myself…UNTIL a few moments later when one of the dogs barfed all over the kitchen rug.

Lovely.

Happy Thanksgiving…again.

Whitney

“Some family trees bear an enormous crop of nuts.” (Unknown Author)

Save Turkeys, Eat Stuffed Peppers

FYI: I’m allergic to life and about 100 different foods. I’ve always eaten turkey but last years allergy test update revealed I’m now allergic to it too. Ugh. Pretty soon I’ll be living off sugar and water alone, apparently.

So, instead of turkey, dressing and all the yummy traditional stuff, this year I will be eating…drum roll please…stuffed peppers. Yum. Yum. (Did that sarcasm come across clearly?)

While your house will smell like a traditional Thanksgiving feast, mine will smell a little like Mi Mexico.

Anyhow, I had to share this little bit of funny before I forgot it. Today Hubbit, Bug and I ran to the grocery store to pick up a few things before the crowd starting showing up to buy last minute Thanksgiving supplies like the world is going to end tomorrow and Stove Top is the only thing that could save them.

The trip was pretty uneventful, really. But, there was one moment that still makes me giggle a few hours later so I thought it would be worthy of sharing. Since I don’t really cook for the big old “Turkey Day” holiday we were just picking up “regular food” (you know, non-turkey, non-stuffing, non-gravy, non-pumpkin items). Hubbit noticed a lovely pork loin and thought it would be tasty for dinner sometime soon (AKA, when the last of the leftover turkey we hijack from my grandmother’s house has been eaten next week). I agreed and we started to discuss how to cook a pork loin.

Now, I am not the most fantastic cook AT ALL. I can "bake but not cook" and those of you who can "bake but not cook" know exactly what I mean. Give me a scientific recipe to follow and I’ll make you the prettiest yellow cake with chocolate icing treat you’ve ever seen. Hand me a pork loin and all you’ll get is a confused look and possibly an under or over-cooked piece of pig later on in the evening.

Hi, my name is Whitney and I am a terrible cook. I am the first to admit it.

We stood there talking about cooking the pork loin for a while, which basically involved me telling Hubbit I had no idea how to cook it and him telling me it was no problem. He informed me we needed some type of bag to marinade and cook it in. I was just glad he "knew" what he was talking about and figured I might be able to pawn the pork loin dinner preparation off on him one night this week.

As we headed down another aisle, I asked him what type of bag we’d need to be on the lookout for and he said…wait for it…a GARBAGE bag.

What?!

We then got into a little tiff about how I was 100% sure garbage bags would most certainly melt in the oven and how he said he was sure that’s what they used at the station for cooking pork loin. Somewhere in the act of trying to prove me wrong, he actually somehow convinced himself PLASTIC garbage bags would not melt in the oven.

What?! Oh My Land.

(Side note: In his defense, three points should be noted. 1) It is pretty fun to argue with me and sometimes he makes things up just to get me riled up. 2) He has worked the last 48 of 72 hours and was completely sleep deprived. 3) Me sharing this story is payback for the rotten blonde joke he told in the checkout lane...that I am apparently so blonde I can't even remember. I love you, honey!)

The good news is as we’re in the middle of the most ridiculous argument of ALL TIME, I glanced to my right and see non-plastic, melt-free Oven Cooking Bags lit up like there was a light shining from heaven upon them (ok, maybe the light was just my imagination, but still…you get the point).

Divine intervention? I think SO!

Anyhow…Happy Thanksgiving!
xoxoxo

Whitney

“I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.” -Rita Rudner

Can someone PLEASE tell me how to slow life down a little?

When I was younger, I would dream about the days when I would grow to be an extremely busy lawyer who had to squeeze lunch dates with pals and family outings into my schedule.

Today, I figured it out. I made it…halfway.

No, I didn’t go to law school (thank the Lord above) but somehow I did manage to get so busy “living” that when I tried to schedule a visit with my Louisville-based-best-girlfriend today, I figured out I wouldn’t be available for 4 weeks. FOUR weeks.

Good Lord. I don't even have a full time job!

But, in the next four weeks I’ll be cooking about 70 meals, packing 16 lunches, washing 35 loads of clothes, folding 336 pieces of clothing, matching 224 socks (or more likely throwing 224 socks into a big laundry basket to fish out as needed), writing approximately 300 articles, feeding the dogs 56 times, loading the dishwasher 28 times and working out 15 times (ok, 10 times. OK, probably 6).

I will spend 420 minutes showering, 280 minutes drying my longer-than-it-should-be-hair, 112 minutes brushing my teeth and will be trying my best to get at least 224 hours of sleep.

What am I doing for the next four weeks that prohibits me from visiting the closest person I’ll ever have to a sister?

I’m “living”, that’s what.

Whitney

"A bee is never as busy as it seems; it's just that it can't buzz any slower." (Kin Hubbard)

Sometimes the better comes after the worse...

For two weekends in a row, Hubbit and I have enjoyed date nights. This is quite rare because we usually only get babysitters (which aren’t really babysitters and are instead grandparents) to watch the kids if I have a gig. Since patio weather is over and I rarely play out in the colder months, we’ve had some opportunities to just hang out together. It’s been really lovely…or crazy (depends on who you ask).

So, what did we do?

Last week it was Bingo (my idea), this week the theatre (his idea). Interesting combo?

Listen, while I like to think I’m fairly cultured, artistic and have been called snobby more times than have been justified, the truth is I like redneck things. After all, I did marry Hubbit, right? ;)

I might hesitate to admit it but I love big trucks, bon fires, blue collar folks…and Bingo. Or, at least I thought I did.

So, I got a great idea to find a local Bingo game (there’s one almost every night, who knew?!)and drag Hubbit to it. For those of you unfamiliar with us, Hubbit is a redneck in every sense of the word. His favorite song is “A Country Boy Can Survive”, thinks cutting the sleeves off of a t-shirt makes a dandy tank-top and drives a huge truck.

(Side note: The Magic Eraser ROCKS. I accidentally backed into his huge truck yesterday because I can’t seem to find the skills to back out of my garage, putting a big blue streak down its white side. But, before Hubbit woke up from his nap I managed to completely get rid of the scrape with a Magic Eraser. I was thrilled!!)

But, even though he embraces his redneck soul, Bingo is not for Hubbit.

I should explain, this is not your grandma’s Bingo. These people are serious. Some were dressed well but most looked like they were spending their last $10 on trying to win enough cash to pay their “rent”. At least I hope it was their “rent” they were trying to finance.

Bingo Etiquette:

1) Stand in line for 45 minutes just to get your Bingo packet (which consists of like 18-36 Bingo cards PER GAME).
2) Sit down but under no circumstances in Martha's lucky seat she won her last $599 pull-tab in six months ago.
3) Spread out your twenty Bingo dobber markers, which you retrieved from a custom made Bingo dobber suitcase, just in case a few go dry during the $1000 game.
4) Be quiet and unless you want to get lynched...turn your cell phone ringer DOWN.

We were clearly unprepared and even though I thought Hubbit was a redneck, even he looked completely out of place.

Thankfully, I made friends with a lovely Bingo-a-holic named Rita in line (with Hubbit making faces at me the whole time she wasn’t looking, questioning why I had to talk to people everywhere we went). As Rita left the line to save us a seat near her, I explained to him if we wanted to win the “big prize”, we clearly needed some insider information and he just rolled his eyes. Rita took us under her wing and did her best to keep Hubbit from having a redneck melt down. While we couldn’t keep up even when giving it our full 100% concentration, Rita read a book WHILE PLAYING BINGO. This woman could multi-task like no other!

Even though she tried, we were S-T-R-E-S-S-E-D! We quickly figured out Bingo wasn’t as fun as I’d thought it would be.

There was one game of Speed Bingo where they asked everyone in the room to be silent and they called numbers one after another, super-fast. Hubbit got so frustrated because it was impossible to keep up. So, instead of sitting quietly he starts huffing and puffing (which really means saying curse words not-so-under his breath because the man can’t whisper).

He then loudly crumbles up his Bingo card sheet and throws it in the trash. All of the regulars looked at him like he was insane. Then, his phone proceeds to ring…in the middle of the sacred silent period. People were ticked. If he weren’t a giant, we might have been done-for. Don’t get in between Momma and her “rent” money!

Oh. Em. Gee.

The good news is this weekend was much calmer. Hubbit surprised me a few months ago with tickets to my favorite musical and last night he took me. It was a great show and even he enjoyed it, which was an unexpected benefit. He’s not a musical guy but apparently he loves me enough to endure them...and Bingo.

Whitney

More marriages might survive if the partners realized that sometimes the better comes after the worse. ~Doug Larson

Flea and the Bully

My new favorite show is Parenthood. If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s an hour of bliss each week and Hubbit and I are always sad when each episode is over. We just can’t get enough of it!

The reason I’m telling you this is because one of the main characters on the show (Adam Braverman) has a son with Asperger’s (Max). Last week on the show, they were standing in line at the grocery store, a bystander called Max a “retard” and Adam punched the jerk right in the face. Hubbit and I cheered for Adam, thinking we would have done the exact same thing.

BUT, what do you do when the “jerk” is an 11 year old boy?

What do you do when you overhear your son and his friend talking about how that 11 year old “jerk” called YOUR SON a retard?

If you’re me, you get mad. Then you cry.

B, who I’ll refer to from now on as Flea (for reasons only he understands) was diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome last April after a very lengthy diagnosis process which left our entire family pretty drained. Flea immediately became an advocate and decided he would do his best to educate others and raise money for the Tourette Syndrome Association (he raised over $1200 last year). We agreed as a family there was nothing to be ashamed of and he should be proud to be himself. He talked to his classmates, wrote essays and poems about it and wore his TS badge with pride and dignity. His friends didn’t care and have been nothing but 100% supportive.

Don’t get me wrong, there were times (and still are times) when it’s challenging for him. It’s not easy. But, overall he functions like a typical sassy 10-year-old boy who only lets his mother kiss his cheek if no one’s looking.

So, I was really shocked today when I picked him and one of his best friends up from school. His pal was talking about how the “jerk” had called Flea a retard. Not just once, but multiple times. He apparently is bullying Flea. The “jerk” was rallying other kids saying there was something wrong with Flea and “you could just tell he was a retard”. He then proceeded to tell Flea he would never be anything but a grocery-bagger-guy (Grocery bagging specialist? Grocery cashier assistant? Don’t hate me for not knowing the proper term for this job.)

I hate that I feel like I even have to justify this but just in case someone who doesn’t know us personally comes across this blog, I want to be clear.

Flea is brilliant.
He is creative.
He’s never earned a B. All A’s in the most advanced classes offered at his school.
He’s in the Gifted and Talented program at school.
He wins Science Fairs, gets elected as Class President and is an All-Star baseball player.
He’s a teacher favorite and has the most loyal friends I’ve ever witnessed anyone having.
He is BRILLIANT.

So, why would the “jerk” call him this?

I would like to believe it has nothing to do with anything other than the fact he is jealous. But, as a mother to a child with a unique disease I feel more than defensive. I knew these days would come and they would be difficult.

What do I want to do?

WELL…

I WANT to march my butt right over to 555 Jerk Street, knock on the door and let his incredibly sweet parents know just how horrible their child is.

I WANT to grab the jerk by his ear and tell him exactly why bullying is wrong.

I WANT to scream, shout and make him feel as bad as Flea (and maybe me) feels.

What will I do?

I don’t know.

All I know right now is I’m heartbroken.

Whitney

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.” (unknown)

Poor us.

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Before I start, one of the loveliest lovelies in the world gave me a little scare the other day regarding using my family’s names on my blog. So, from here on out I will be much less specific. Thank you crazy stalkers of the world!

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A little over eight months ago I was 29. I was challenging 30 to “bring it on” and vowed I could care less about wrinkles, saddle bags and all that came with being old…er.

THEN, out of no where the other day, Bug asked if he could take a picture using my camera phone. I obliged and he began to position himself behind my head. Curious, I asked what he was doing. He proceeded to tell me he wanted to take a picture of my GRAY HAIR for me. Thank you, Bug. Lord help the girl you marry because your brutal honesty is something else!

He was positively sure I’d not seen it. After all, it was in the back of my head where as far as I'm concerned IT CAN STAY.



Feeling a little down on myself, yesterday I get a text from Lulu (Remember: names are now being changed so that psycho killer I talked about hiding in the basement-I- don’t-have won’t stalk and kill me).

Side thought: I wonder if she’ll kill me for posting this because the other day she did refrain from sending me a picture of her coaching 7 year old cheerleaders because she was afraid I’d “post it on Facebook or something”. I really do want to see her as a cheerleading coach because knowing her well, it's just so darn funny. She's lucky she lives 1.5 hours away! (giggle)

I swore I would never do something like that, but she does know me quite well. Maybe she’s on to something! ;)

The text-versation went a little something like this:

Lulu: At the salon. Losing the gray hair battle.
Me: Ugh. Bug took a pic of my gray hair the other day. Lovely.
Lulu: Not ready for this aging thing.
Me: At least the hair dye will fix the gray. The wrinkles are killing me. Even my hands are veiny (Another made up word? That's how I roll.) and old.
Lulu: Freckles are turning into age spots. Used to be “cute”.
Me: Poor us.
Lulu: You know, we sound a lil pathetic. We should be embracing our life “scars”.
Me: Yes, we are pathetic. Thanks for not judging me and whining with me for a few minutes. Let’s allow ourselves to do this a few times a year.
Lulu: Might be needed at least once a day.

So Lulu, while I remember when we dyed our hair for fun and not to hide grays…those days are gone. Poor us. LOL

Whitney

It's important to have a twinkle in your wrinkle. ~Author Unknown

I wanted to post this...BEFORE I BLEW AWAY!

Can somebody tell me why…WHY…I agreed to buy a house without a basement? Sure, on the beautiful Kentucky days of Summer and the freezing cold days of Winter, I could care less if I had a basement or not.

BUT, on days when the winds blowing so hard I sware I can hear the Wicked Witch of the West cackling as she flies by on her bicycle, I need a basement. I repeat, I NEED A BASEMENT.

But when I really think about it…

The truth is, basements kind of freak me out. YES, I'm kind of like a six year old kid. I am still afraid of the dark, still hate storms and am terrified of "ghosts" (but mostly only because Riley is always seeing them or talking to them).

If I did have one, I’d probably spend way to much time glancing at the closed basement door, wondering if some psycho killer had slipped in through the basement window and was waiting to feed me to his creepy spider pets.

Or, maybe I’d obsessively check the basement each time I arrived home (while my heart raced frantically because I would be convinced once again the psycho killer was on the prowl for a petite steak).

I’d probably make Jimmy install some crazy door lock that could only be accessed from the upstairs and then knowing my klutzy luck I’d probably lock myself down there on accident a few times a year. Instead of simply going out the walk-out basement door, I'm sure I'd go into a full panic and sit for hours at the top of the potentially neck-breaking basement stairs, screaming for someone to help me. (If you know me, you can probably visualize me doing just that.)

So, all in all having a basement might not be the safest thing for me…or at least for my mental health.

But, for tonight: I NEED A BASEMENT!

Whitney

“That's the scary part. I didn't know if I should smile, crack up, scream or run.” (Wizard of Oz)

Hey World. It's Me! :)

If we could only see in black and white, I would venture to say there are two types of online posters. The first type is the voyeur who is addicted to social networking just the same as their polar opposite but rarely (if ever) shares.

Then, there is the overshare-er. (Did I just make up that word? Maybe.)

I fit into the second group, in a MAJOR way. So, it should only seem natural I’d feel inclined to start a blog. I mean, it’s cheaper than sitting at my therapist’s office every time I want to throw my thoughts around the world. (YES, I do see a therapist and YES, you probably need to see one too. If you want her name, just ask. She ROCKS.)

I’m not a very open person…in person. I rarely trust someone enough to share with them more than the basics, let alone allow them to see inside my thoughts and feelings. But, it seems I am the type of person who could easily be seen as someone without an online filter.

Why do I find it incredibly difficult to disclose something as minor as my favorite color to a new friend in person but have NO problem whatsoever telling the entire world via Facebook what I’m having for dinner? Interesting phenomenon many of us can relate easily to.

So, for this first blog post I’m just really laying down the basics of my intent.

Most likely this will be a place I post random things that evoke emotion in me. They might make me happy, might inspire me, might make me sad or make me angry.

I can’t promise to…

* Never offend anyone.
* Never over-share.
* Never be judgmental. (Look, I try my best but I’m a sinner like you and everyone else, so don’t hate me…immediately.)

What I can promise is…

* I’ll try (keyword TRY) to think things through before I randomly post soapbox rants.
* I’ll try not to embarrass my family. (This mostly pertains to Brantley.)

Most importantly, what I absolutely CAN promise is…

I’ll post in an honest voice despite how it might change anyone’s perception of who I am.

Whitney

“Shake structures. School yourself. Look twice at a thing, once upside down. Answer yourself clearly.” (Mary Anne Radmacher)