Winning?

i love my husband. I Love My Husband. I LOVE MY HUSBAND.

Sometimes a gal just has to “remind” herself. Right? ;)

This morning started like almost any other weekday morning in my life. Hubbit was working at the firestation and I was in Full-On Momma Mode.

Like any other morning, I pulled Kid #1 out of bed, shoved a homemade breakfast in his face (toast does qualify, right?), helped him get dressed, packed his lunch and got him to school exactly two minutes before his tardy bell rang. Winning.

Then, I came back home, pulled Kid #2 out of bed, threw him in the shower, nagged him until he got dressed, shoved Pop Tarts in his hand and got him to school exactly three minutes before HIS tardy bell rang. Winning.

After I got home from dropping Kid #2 off, I started settling in for a quiet day of who-knows-what-when-you-live-MY-life. Much to my surprise, about 10 minutes later, I heard keys rattling at the front door and in walked my lovely husband…and the entire Engine 21 crew.

Instead of finding the June Cleaver wife my husband has always dreamed of turning me into, meeting them at the door wearing a lovely apron, sporting perfectly curled hair and welcoming them in with a plate of nice warm cookies I’d woken up at 5am to bake, “just in case” company stopped by…

There I sat. In my pajamas.

My hair looked like I’d just gone through either an Oklahoma tornado or beauty pageant nightmare (either one would have resulted in the same look, I’m certain). And obviously, since I make it a habit of NOT looking in a mirror immediately upon waking, there was no way I would have noticed the black mascara smudged down my cheeks.

Yep, instead of June Cleaver: High on Life, I looked more like June Cleaver: High On Crack. (That’s what you get when you don’t take 20 seconds to give your wife a “head’s up” call, HUBBIT.)

The real kicker wasn’t really my appearance though, as anyone who knows me understands you can likely find me looking this way on any given meeting-less-Monday-morning until at least 11am. After all, one of the biggest perks of working from home is able to “waller” in your own filth-sorrow-illness-pity-whatever on Monday morning.

Side Note: I’m constantly trying to explain to people that just because I work at home and can choose to look like a $2 hooker until noon (if I choose to do so), I actually DO work. In fact, most nights I’m up until 2am working on a press release, a white paper or some type of marketing strategy for one of several million dollar companies twelve hundreds miles or more from here. These big companies don’t care if I have mascara smudged down my face like a drunk Christina Aguilera. They don’t care if I’m surrounded by a hoard of tiny dogs. All they care about is the bottom line, baby. And, I never fail to deliver!

While I do work like a dog, Hubbit works 100+ hours EVERY FLIPPIN’ WEEK. He’s a machine. What can I say? Trying to keep up with his Superior Superman Skills (inside joke, sorry) and work ethic, when my work is slow and I don’t have any meetings scheduled, I will occasionally substitute teach.

Before you freak out thinking, “Good Grief, they will let anyone teach our children these days”, let me assure you…I am qualified. Or, so says the Master’s degree in Teaching it took me two years to earn. ;) Of course, I’ve been so insanely busy for the past few months, I’ve subbed a total of ZERO times this year. Hubbit has asked me a few times if I’ve had any substitute offers, and each time I’ve explained there haven’t been many offers coming through, which is basically true.

BUT, low and behold! Last night my phone rang with a substitute teaching offer for today. Hubbit randomly happened to be near my phone when it rang and when he saw on the Caller ID the call was coming from the Sub Line, he offered to answer it so I could accept the job. I quickly dismissed the idea, telling him this was going to be a completely overwhelming week with work and had absolutely NO time to take on anything extra. He made a joke about me declining the only sub job I’d been offered this year and with that, I went into a Full-20-Minute-Soapbox-Rant about how I not only worked my tail off, but I also did my best at keeping the house together, managing the kids’ schedules, volunteering and pretending to be a Rockstar on the weekends. Good Grief!

SO…

After patiently and lovingly listening last night to his cahhrazeee wife going on and on and on and on and on about having SO MUCH to do she couldn’t even BREATHE…

You can imagine his complete surprise when he and the Engine 21 crew walked into our messy house unexpectedly, on this “completely overwhelming” Monday morning, and found me…

Sitting on my comfy couch.
Surrounded by tiny dogs.
Stuffing my face with an omelet.

And watching…The Kardashians.

Winning?

Whitney

Marriage is nature’s way of keeping us from fighting with strangers. (Unknown)

"Scary"

My name is Whitney. I stand 5’3 on a “Tall Day” and weigh in at…a healthy weight. I am not large in size, but I’m pretty feisty. If you know me, you likely think I’m sweet, considerate and very “non-scary".

While I’m a big advocate of the campaign my kids started in my honor, called “Crazy Beats Big Any Day”, I never really thought I was all THAT terrifying.

But, if I’m being 100% honest with myself, I guess I should acknowledge…

Yes…

I have been very known for getting more than a little loud at the ball field on occasion. (What?!)

And…

HEAVEN FORBID anyone try to “come between me and MY man” (Spoken in my annoying Big Brother Rachel voice).

But, today someone I love deeply told me it was often hard to tell me the truth, because I made them feel afraid.

Afraid…

Of me.

Of what I would think.

Of what I would do.

Of what I would say.

It was in that moment, I realized I need to give people a little more slack. I always say if you don’t want to be disappointed, don’t expect too much from anyone.

But, the truth is, I expect a lot from everyone in my life. Not just “a lot”. A LOT.

My expectations for myself, for those I love and for those I choose to let in my life are great. In fact, they are most often so unreasonable, there is no one who could ever fulfill them to meet my standards. I preach the value of character authenticity, but then I am quick to cast judgment on it when it’s revealed.

I suppose you don’t have to be 7 feet tall and weigh 500 pounds to be terrifying. No, you can be 5’3, weigh a buck thirty five and still have the power to cause such immense fear that you’re unable to be given the truth.

I’ve decided I don’t want to be “scary” anymore.

So, to those who deserve it…I’m sorry. <3

Whitney

The Water Shut-Off

At the complete risk of completely humiliating myself, just to entertain my Big Sister and a few others who actually enjoy reading this blog…

Yesterday, our water was shut off. Not because the construction workers building the home across the street hit some sort of water line, not because I had a plumbing problem, but...for non-payment.

Yep. It turns out, if you owe the water company money, they can choose to cut your water off. Even if you only owe them $27.

Look, it wasn’t that I didn’t have the $27 in the bank to pay the bill. I most certainly did and the minute I realized my oversight, I obviously paid the bill.

It’s just that in a world where I’m trying to juggle a 3rd grader, a 6th grader, a crazy fireman husband, additional graduate classes, a full time job and an obsession with songwriting and performing, some things get forgotten. Sadly, the water bill was at the absolute dead-last-bottom of my priority list.

Thankfully, Hubbit, who has been telling me for about two weeks to “slow it down” and “you’re doing WAY too much these days”, was completely asleep during the entire fiasco. I have to admit, I did breathe a sigh of relief when after I humbly called to admit my oversight and pay the bill, they turned the water back on...before Hubbit woke from his nap.

Little did I realize, since Flea was home sick from school and witnessed the “Water Shut-Off”, after we picked up Bug from school, he revealed our little dirty secret. Flea also felt inclined to tell my parents, who then quickly called me to be sure I didn’t need money. Not a bad problem to have really...parents who are forever trying to give me cash! But, since I’m the world’s best daughter, I did not take their cash and simply admitted to my mistake. ;)

While we’re a family who likes to have no secrets, the problem with telling Bug ANYTHING is...he has zero ability to keep it to himself. He’s definitely not the kid to reveal anything to.

Not Chrismas present purchases. Not that you REALLY dislike his coach. Not that you secretly passed gas.

Because, he WILL tell.

So, ultimately Hubbit did find out and I got the exact response I knew I would get...”slow it down” and “you’re doing WAY too much these days”.

UGH. Doesn’t he know SuperWoman can do it ALL? Geez. Such a hater.

Side Note: Last year I made a bold statement that people over the age of 21 should NEVER use the word “hater”, by the way. In fact, my declaration REALLY ticked off at least one person. (giggle) But, in all fairness, it really does fit nicely in this context...so eat it up!

Anyhow, what no one knows...

I had already taken a shower before the big “Water Shut-Off” event, so the only thing I was genuinely concerned with was finding water to use for hand washing after using the bathroom. I searched the pantry and successfully found two bottled waters.

We were home free! Or so I thought...

After feeling confident we would “survive” this aggravation, I went to a few appointments and took Flea to the doctor. When I returned home, the water still hadn’t been cut back on.

No big deal. I settled down to do a little work, when I remembered I hadn’t washed Bug’s football pants and socks.

Since he didn't have practice until a few hours later, I knew there was still time. However, I had to act quickly, because I was scheduled for a studio session and had to leave 35 minutes later. I threw the clothes into my handy-dandy front loader, added detergent and turned it on. It started making a crazy noise and wouldn’t start.

My immediate thought was that our washer was broken and I started cursing the evil-too-expensive-not-really-worth-it machine. In my defense, since our dryer broke last week, I was a little paranoid about another broken appliance.

Knowing I didn’t have time for a “broken washer”, I did exactly what I do whenever I forget to wash things and have less than an hour to deal with it. I grabbed the clothing out of the washer, ran to the boys’ bathroom, tossed them in the sink and BEFORE THINKING, added a ton of liquid blue laundry detergent to the WHITE pants. Just like always, I twisted the water knob, fully prepared to see water come out so I could do my quick hand-wash.

ONLY...there was no water. How could I have forgotten about the “Water Shut-Off” and made such a big mistake. I looked at the clock and had absolutely NO time to run to the store for a gallon of water.

So, I panicked.

I looked at the bright white pants, covered in bright blue Tide. I looked at the remaining small amount of “hand washing bottled water” I had left. And, I almost started to cry.

Where on Earth was I going to get enough water to rinse out all of the detergent, so I could throw the pants in the dryer and hit the road to my session?

Just then, I got an idea. I’ll admit it wasn’t an ideal plan. In fact, if presented the chance again, I’m not sure I would do the same.

But, when your water has been shut off and you’re in a desperate situation, as I certainly was...

Lifting the back cover on your toilet, MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT be your magical-hear-angels-singing solution...

And you MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT be able to use the back of the toilet as a mini washing machine...

And if you are blessed to have three toliets with backs full of water, you MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT have enough clean water to rinse out a ton of blue liquid Tide from bright white youth football pants.

I guess, Hubbit doesn’t call me the Redneck Martha Stewart for nothing.

Whitney

We never know the worth of water, until the well is dry. (Author Unknown)

happy. 1st. day. of. school. seriously.

Today is the first day of school here, which means several things…


1) I might…JUST MIGHT…be able to blog more regularly now! Woot!! Woot!!

2) I gave THE performance of my life this morning, (in hopes of being nominated for a “Best Actress” award, of course) fighting back tears and pretending it didn’t bother me for a second to send my big boy to his first year of middle school (…gasp…) and my little bug to his first year at a new school, after being diagnosed with Diabetes (…double gasp…).

Thankfully Hubbit took off for a few hours this morning to be my ever present “Emotional Rock”. Last week when he mentioned he was taking off a few hours for the first day of school morning ritual, I was a little surprised. At that point the reality of this morning was far from my conscious, as we were trying to soak up the last little bit of summer break, laying poolside.

Our convo went something like this…

Hubbit: I’m taking off for a few hours next Thursday morning, just to help you get the kids off to school.
Me: Um, ok. I’m sure I’ll be fine though, seeing I’ve been getting at least one kid off to school EVERY day for the past six years. (Eye-Roll-I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar-Look)
Hubbit: (Totally aggravated at my eye roll, since he swares it’s the non-verbal equivalent to saying “FU”.) Well, maybe I just don’t want to miss their first morning back.
Me: Ok. (Thinking he is such a great daddy.)

What Hubbit knew then and I was simply too blind to realize is, I TOTALLY needed him this morning. While I’m sure he did love seeing the boys off to school this morning, he is one of those rare finds (AKA Soul Mate) who sincerely knows me better than I know myself. I always joke, he knows when to put his arms out to catch me, even before I know I’m falling and today was a prime example.

When Bug started crying at his desk, after we said goodbye in the classroom, I immediately shot Hubbit my “Please-Rescue-Me-Before-I-Totally-Lose-It-And-Bawl-Like-A-Crazy-Lady” look and he swooped in to fix everything. After a few minutes with his Daddy, Bug was tear-free and ready for a wonderful day! What would have happened if Hubbit hadn’t taken off this morning? Um, I would probably have laid my head down on that desk, right next to Bug’s, and wept too.

What can I say? I’ve said it about Hubbit before and I’ll say it again. He’s a keeper!


3)Hubbit and I were reminded that while we THINK we’re the hippest and coolest parents EVA…we are sadly as dorky as Flea constantly reminds us of being.

Here’s the scoop…

Hubbit and I both rode along to drop Flea off for his very first day of middle school, the thought of which brings me complicated and diverse horrors on many levels. I was feeling cool and confident as we properly navigated the potentially insane drop off route, with absolute ease. (Big thanks to EJH Middle School for providing an advanced copy of your car dropoff map I could actually decipher and understand.)

When we pulled up to the drop off point, Flea got out of the vehicle and started walking away from us, toward the school’s door. Hubbit and I looked at each other, in complete awe of the fact we now have a 6th grader.

Hubbit: Wow, it’s unreal he’s in 6th grade already.
Me: (Again, holding back those Crazy-Mom tears) I know. It just kills me. He’s like a little man.

Just as we were wallowing in our ridiculous sorrow, Flea looked back, smiled the biggest smile ever and waved. Shocked, surprised and ridiculously OVERJOYED at the fact our pre-teen son who typically only claims us as his biological parental figures when he needs cash or food, actually waved to US on his first day of school, we FRANTICALLY waved back and blew kisses, with Giant-Almost-Psychotic-Smiles on our faces.

However, our joy only lasted a moment when we glanced behind us to see a group of Flea’s best friends waving their arms in the air and yelling...

“Hey Flea! Wait for us!”

...and the embarrassing realization washed over us, as we realized he was indeed NOT waving to us.

Once a dork, always a dork. (Author Unknown, but I'd be willing to bet it was a teenager!)

The Fish.

If someone asked me how I operated under pressure, and I was COMPLETELY honest, I would say…TERRIBLY. In fact, these days I try to avoid drama like the plague because, although it amused me greatly as a teenager, it gives me total panic attacks these days. I avoid confrontation (unless it’s with an umpire or opposing coach on a baseball field, of course), stay clear of all crisis situations and basically try to keep as stress-free of an existence as I possibly can.

However, for SOME reason, Hubbit tends to attract chaos. For example, I would be perfectly happy and content living as a recluse in spider-less woods, miles and miles away from other people, where no one’s ridiculousness could skew my own. However, if I were to invite Hubbit to be my co-habitant in these spider-less woods that only exist in my sweetest dreams, there is no doubt…NO DOUBT…some person in need would stumble upon our creatively hidden tree house and need some type of flippin’ medical treatment, on a very regular basis.

I’ve pretty much come to expect some teenage pregnant chick to pass out, some old lady to crash into a tree or some anorexic beauty queen to have an allergic reaction to new psychiatric meds at any given time, pretty much any place we ever go. McDonald’s, an Interstate in Virginia or Arby’s…doesn’t matter where we are. It never fails, someone needs help and dun-dun-dun-aaaahhh…Hubbit comes to the rescue.

For the first few years, it freaked me out and Hubbit pretty much had two patients on his hands. The first being the person who was ACTUALLY in need of medical attention and the second being ME, the person who freaked-the-helicopter-out anytime an emergency occurred around me.

These days, my game plan goes a little something like this:

Stranger: Help, I think I am having a heart attack.
Hubbit: Dun-dun-dun-aaaahhh! I will save you!
Me: (turning immediately toward the door and saying to Hubbit) I’ll meet you in the car when this is all over, thanks.

Yep. Classic avoidance.

Something I’ve mastered over the years, no psychiatrist in their right mind can tell me isn’t helpful and/or healthy in at least SOME cases, such as this.

In any case, the whole point to my rambling is: Hubbit is a helper.

Now, on to the real dish…

About a week ago we were on our way to a family birthday gathering and as a result of an ignorant person trying to text while they were driving, two cars in front of us almost crashed horribly in front of us. At the speed we were going (Hubbit was driving so we ALL know it was faster than legally allowed), the crash would have been potentially very damaging to the cars and their drivers.

Hubbit joked: “Thank God they didn’t crash because I would not have been able to stop and help since it would have made us late for the birthday party. We're actually early for once.”

(Disclaimer: He was joking. We ALL know his “helper” mentality would not let him pass by anyone in need.)

Since we were actually running ahead of schedule, Hubbit decided he wanted to take us to this little fishing hole he’d discovered a few days before. While he knew you couldn’t eat them, he claimed he saw tons of enormous grass carp swimming in it and thought the kids might like to take a peek. After all, it was on our way to the birthday gathering.

We arrived at the little creek and when we did, were in absolute awe at the sight of thirty five GIANT grass carp, swimming in shallow water. Hubbit had noted the drop in the water level just from the day before, when he said it was basically at the top of the bank’s edge.

We all stood there, looking at the pretty 60 pound creatures floating around in the water. All of a sudden, Hubbit glanced down the creek and spotted a giant grass carp stuck in an extremely shallow area of water I’m pretty sure could best be described as a puddle. In fact, I’m 99% sure I’ve seen deeper puddles in the Wal-Mart parking lot after all of this rain we’ve had lately.

The fish had its head under the water, but most of its back was exposed above water. Hubbit grew concerned immediately. He was genuinely worried about the fate of this fish.

The only access to the big swimmer was to walk on really small rocks, into the middle of the creek. Convinced this fish would die unless he was able to transfer it back into the deeper water where the rest of the fish were fully covered, Hubbit insisted on venturing into the creek.

This is a man who just hours before told me he was thinking about taking up hunting and he now couldn’t stand the idea of this dumb fish dying. By the way, he’s never hunted in his life and I’m pretty sure he’d be more likely to kill a human being than a deer...but WHATEV.

I tried to stop him, considering we WERE on our way to a family party and HE was the one who insisted on us being timely. In addition, I was not amused by the fact he thought his giant size 15 shoes would fit easily on the tiny stones that led to the distressed swimmer.

But, my pleas fell upon deaf ears and before I knew it Hubbit was almost-falling every two seconds on the slippery rocks, making his way toward the fish. Meanwhile, Flea was laughing, Bug was begging to be allowed to help and I was praying out loud that Hubbit didn’t fall, knock himself unconscious and force me to make what would likely be the most embarrassing 911 call EVER. Although, I’m not sure if it would have been more embarrassing for me or him considering the Fire Department Grapevine passes gossip faster than any other I’ve ever witnessed. Who knew a bunch of middle aged men had better gossip spreading skills than the average 12 year old girl?!

In any case, he made it to the fish and bent down to pick up the giant creature. He picked it up with both hands easily, but as he stood up to walk three rocks down for the ultimate water transfer, the fish slipped right out of his hands. It landed on rocks (I have NO idea how it survived the fall) and before Hubbit could recover it once more, it slipped back into the puddle it was retrieved from.

At this point, I started trying to convince Hubbit things like…

1) It liked the puddle and actually WANTED to be there so it could tan it's back in the sun.
2) There’s no way a fish that big could be dumb enough to get itself stuck in a place it couldn’t survive. After all, it did somehow live long enough to pack on 60 POUNDS!
3) Even if he did catch the fish, it was far too slippery to actually hold onto long enough to make the intended transfer.

Persistent and stubborn, Hubbit refused to give up. Instead, he started silently looking around for something to aid him with the rescue. All of a sudden, Bug spotted an old rusty metal-grated-fence-type-of-thing and in his own personal MacGyver style, suggested Hubbit slap the fish up onto the grate and then carry the grate to the fuller area of water. Hubbit smiled, the plan was set into motion and Bug was VERY proud his idea was being put to use.

Twenty five minutes after we’d first arrived to the scene and after a few more failed attempts, the plan did work. The fish was “rescued” and we headed back to our parked vehicle.

As we got back in the van and buckled up, I looked Hubbit in the eye and said, “Well, it’s a good thing those cars didn’t crash because HEAVEN FORBID us be late because you had to play Superman or something.”

Whitney

“I used to be lost in the shuffle. Now I just shuffle along with the lost.” (Author Unknown)

Yep. We're "That" Family.

I love baseball.

Seriously, LOVE it. Doesn’t really matter who’s playing or if it’s major, minor or flippin’ t-ballers getting their ball-on, when Spring comes baseball is my “thang”.

So, I’m never one to complain when our kids’ baseball games aren’t called off for the possibility of rain and am all for getting the game in, if there’s anyway in the world it can be accomplished before the clouds burst open and Mother Nature shows her fury.

In fact, I think I might be more disappointed than the kids when their games get rained out!

But, last night was one of those nights the game should have been called off…BEFORE the torrential downpour began.

Here they were in the top of the 4th inning and like we’d all expected after it had gotten almost too dark to even see the ball five minutes prior, it started raining like Cahhhraaazzyyy!

Being great under pressure like he always is (giggle), Hubbit instructed Bug and I to start running for the van. Like good little soldiers, we did as we were told, only to get up the hill to the van and realize I had no keys to unlock the vehicle! So, we were forced to wait outside in the pouring rain for Hubbit and Flea, who FINALLY made their way to us with the keys, about FIVE minutes later.

As they came up the hill and noticed we were not safe and dry in the van as they’d expected, Hubbit yelled to me, “Where are your keys, you Moron?!”, just as Flea’s teammate’s grandmother rolled down her window to say goodbye.

Nice job looking like Husband of the Year, Hubbit.

Of course, since he had packed everything up and was carrying our chairs, a bat bag and most importantly…THE KEYS…I let his rudeness slide. For the moment. After all, Bug and I had run off with the only umbrella, totally abandoning him at the bottom of the hill with two arm loads of our crap.

After asking what took them so long to come to let us in the van, Hubbit started explaining:

Hubbit: Well, I was standing behind the dugout, getting DRENCHED, waiting on Flea to get his stuff together and run out. After waiting for about three minutes, I peeked around into the dugout to see what was taking him so long and caught him casually chatting with his teammates. He wasn’t even kind-of getting his stuff together. He was just STANDING THERE, twirling his batting gloves around like he had absolutely nowhere to be! Meanwhile, I was outside getting WET!

Me: So, what did you do?

Hubbit: I screamed like a banshee, “FLEA, get out here…NOW”. His teammates and coaches probably think I’m horrible.

Me: Nice.

Hubbit: Come to think of it, not only do the coaches likely think I’m horrible but it’s VERY likely the grandparents in the parking lot who heard me call you a “moron” think so too.

Me: (giggle) Just think of it this way. Maybe one day we'll win an Oscar for our roles as members of “that” family?

Whitney

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.(George Bernard Shaw)

Life Lesson #421: Never Take A Pee Break While Cooking

I have always believed in soul mates and still to this day feel like God brought Hubbit and I together in the most intentional-to-Him but random-to-us way. I could not ask for a better husband. Seriously, he’s as good as they get. After all, being married to me can challenge even the greatest man, as I tend to Samba on his last nerve at least a few times a week.

Of course, don’t get me wrong. Before I have another Single-White-Female movie scene on my hands, I want to be clear. Our life is not perfect. You may THINK I’m joking about the SWF thing, but last August I learned two important lessons in life:

1) I'm not the only chica who thinks Hubbit is a great catch.
2) There are people out there floating around this world who are crazier than me. Imagine that.

Anyhow, before anyone starts gagging, you should know that we do fight…”sometimes”. And, for those of you who know me well, if it’s only “sometimes”, then he truly is my perfect match! ;)

In any case, over the years I’ve managed to figure out many reasons God brought me Hubbit. But, the one that stands out consistently is the fact I have a really bad habit of accidentally-almost setting things on fire.

Me: Accidental Firebug
Hubbit: Valiant Fireman

Taaa...daaa.

In our first five years together, our near-catastrophes involving fire were basically limited to exploding jar candles I’d forgotten I’d lit hours and hours before or metal-in-the-microwave-fires (Who would think the old Little Caesar’s breadstick paper was actually metal?! I would have sworn it was just cheap silver paper…giggle). As life progressed and I started graduating from the idea that a $5 discount pizza couldn’t really be considered a home cooked meal, things got a little trickier.

How?

I started cooking!

Thankfully, Hubbit is forever on guard with a towel to fan the smoke detector, a lid to squash a stove fire or a fire extinguisher when things go haywire. Due to his diligence, we’ve never had a terrible tragedy, even though for some unknown and unintentional reason, I am bound and determined to set SOMETHING on fire.

In fact, he never even gets angry at me for nearly killing us all and destroying our property. Even when he was forced to repaint the ceiling due to flames reaching up to it after a candle mishap, he never made one disgruntled comment.

Until…

I almost set the hotel in NYC on fire…the SECOND time. Apparently, being woken up to a smoke filled hotel suite, by a far-louder-than-it-should-have-been-in-my-pyromaniac-opinion smoke detector, wasn’t his idea of a relaxing vacation.

The first morning, in true fireman style, he SILENTLY jumped out of a bed at record speed, opened the windows and started fanning the smoke detector until it stopped chirping.

But, apparently going through the EXACT same thing the NEXT morning was enough to aggravate him and not only did he repeat the previous day’s actions like he was living in some insane Groundhog’s Day movie plot, but he also had a few choice words for me.

Who knew? :)

In any case, I learned a few very important lessons…

1)Even though the bathroom might be less than three feet away from the stove, it’s not a good idea to leave sausage cooking on high heat, unattended, while you take a quick “pee break”.

AND

2) If you wake your fireman Hubbit up two mornings in a row to a smoke alarm, while he’s on vacation away from the firehouse, the smoke detector won’t be the only annoying sound you’ll be forced to listen to.


Whitney


How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being. ~Oscar Wilde

I'm Back Witches!! :)

WARNING: In the following VERY LONG blog, there will be typos/grammar issues/things that don't matter to me at this late hour.

It’s been about a million years since I’ve actually sat down and took the time to write “for fun”. So, the few of you who actually follow my blog might have been waiting, anticipating and expecting something fantastically funny or ridiculous.

Sadly...I’m likely to disappoint.

While my life is normally full of hysterical nonsense, the past week or two has been so hectic we’ve all been pretty much walking a straight line, just trying to get by.

What have we been up to?

Well, the most exciting adventure was our Spring Break trip to New York City. We’d been planning it for several months and were super excited to see something other than the beach. Until…we realize we were going someone other than the beach!

That realization occurred when we were about six hours along on our driving route when all of a sudden the temperature drops 20 degrees and we start to see three foot piles of SNOW on the sides of the road. This is the moment when Hubbit and I began to look at each other, silently asking one another:

Why in God’s name are we NOT headed toward sunshine, island music and the gentle sounds of waves crashing outside our hotel window?!

In any case, NYC was full of lessons…

What did I learn while traveling to NYC?

1) You’ve not experienced crazy driving until you’ve stepped foot in Sharir Omad’s Yellow Cab. I THOUGHT I’d experienced riding with a crazy driver. The Lexington firefighters so blessed to ride with Hubbit THOUGHT they’d experienced riding with a crazy driver. My mother, who seriously threatened to get out in the middle of nowhere on the highway 700 miles from home one year while on vacation with us when Hubbit was driving, THOUGHT she’d ridden with a crazy driver. But, while Hubbit can scare even the calmest man into holding the “Oh Crap” handle on the car interior roof, he’s NOTHING compared to NYC cab drivers.

The cab drivers in NYC are ridiculous. They are on the fastest stop-go-race of
their lives and whoever jumps in their cab gets to go along for the wacky ride!

The process:

* Jump in the cab.
* Cab driver asks you to buckle up for “safety” (Heh!) and then proceeds to go from 0-to-80 in the blink of an eye.
* Cab driver comes upon a yellow light and SLAMS ON BRAKES.
* You go flying forward, only to be jerked back due to the “wise” cab driver’s request for you to wear your seat belt.
* The light turns green and process continues, over and over again, until you reach your destination.

On the first ride you start to think about suing the cabbie for whip lash…until you realize it would be a waste of precious energy, as they tell you they only plan to be in the US for three weeks and are just trying to earn a little cash while here.

Question: How come it takes the average 16 year old 8-12 months these days to get their license but someone staying in the US for only three weeks not only has a license but also a job where they’re responsible for driving others around, as well? Things that make you go hmmm….

2) Times Square is a big fat joke. Those of you who “love” Times Square can “kiss it” because it literally made me want to stab myself. In the eye. Willingly. Not only is the noise and crowded pathways insanely annoying, but why? WHY?! Would a geographic area which hosts over 26 MILLION tourists each year have a McDonald’s featuring a ONE STALL bathroom? Ridiculous. Standing in line for 20 minutes to go to the restroom at McDonald’s after paying $32 for three cheeseburgers, two fries, two sodas and a water? I guess the concept of the Value Meal is lost on New Yorkers.

Interestingly enough, our bus tour guide kept pointing out the exact location a suitcase full of dynamite was found six months ago, placed there by someone who tried to blow up Times Square, but was unsuccessful. Everyone on the bus looked at it with shock and surprise, except me.

While my fellow bus riding tourists were saying...

“Oh. Em. Gee. I don’t understand how could anyone could want to blow up Times Square?!”

I was mouthing to Hubbit…

“Apparently he’d been here a time or two…”

* It’s a JOKE people. Don’t freak out.

3) Never agree to take the stairs when you don’t know how many flights you’ll have to take to reach your destination.

It’s interesting how traveling can bring out certain qualities in people. Bug has always been terrified of heights and particularly of massive staircases where you can glance over the rail and see all the way down to the bottom level. Thus, he’s usually just fine and dandy with taking the elevator. However, in NYC elevators are about the size of an airplane bathroom, which was quite a shock to Bug. In fact, it was such a shock he threw a total fit and convinced Hubbit to walk 24 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS to our hotel suite on the first day we got there.

Now, I hate elevators too. In fact, I once convinced Hubbit to walk 12 flights of stairs with me at the Patterson Office Tower at UK instead of taking their Zero-to-60-in-2.1-seconds-elevators. However, that was when I was much younger and I’ll be darned if I was going to try to hike up 24 flights of stairs. Especially on vacation! Needless to say, they got to about floor 5 and they grabbed an elevator the rest of the way up. I’m a chick who’s afraid of lots of things. I mean LOTS. However, I’m a firm believer when the will to accomplish something becomes stronger than the fear itself, the fear disappears completely and you’ll do anything to get what you want. In this case, the will to NOT have a heart attack from walking up one million stairs became stronger than the fear of riding the elevator and Bug became willing to do anything to stop climbing those stairs.

You’d think we’d learned a lesson from this. But, NOPE.

The next evening we decided to head back to Times Square for a second time to hit up the wax museum (which was honestly a blast). To get to the starting point of the museum’s self-guided tour, we were told we had to take an elevator. Confident Bug had learned his lesson about climbing stairs, we got in line. But, as soon as the elevator’s doors opened and we started to climb inside, Bug started freaking out. He was in a total panic, crying and absolutely unwilling to step even one foot into what he saw as a chamber of uncertainty.

So, what do us fools do? Oh, we say…we’ll just take the stairs.

Willing to satisfy our every request as she was trained to do, the customer service employee asked us to follow her. We entered into a staircase and began climbing. And climbing. And climbing. About four flights into the climb of complete silence, we start slowing down, disabled by the huffing, puffing and panting our bodies are showcasing.

At floor 6, I thought I was going to absolutely die and asked…

“How many flights are we actually climbing?”

The sweet rotund guide answered…

“Nine.”

GEEZ.

We made it to the ninth floor, collapsed in a family pile under an oddly beautiful wax figure display of Ru Paul dressed as a mermaid-he-she-not-sure-but-fascinating-none-the-less and vowed to never…EVER…agree to take the stairs again without knowing exactly how far we’d be traveling. Because, I’d bet if the girl had just told us how far we’d had to climb when we were at the elevator, Bug’s will to accomplish that elevator would have been bigger than his fear…OR…quite possibly I would have thrown him over my shoulder, carried him into the steel box of luxury and listened to him whine for the short 7 seconds until we comfortably arrived on Floor 9.

I could go on and on with little silly stories about NYC but it’s 1am and I still have about ten things on my To-Do list for today…well…now yesterday…I’m clearly not going to get done.

The funny thing is, while the city brought out the absolute WORST in my personality and I pretty much complained from the moment we arrived until we were out of New Jersey on our way home, there were definitely moments of beauty within the city and our trip.

There’s absolutely nothing that can compare to seeing Lady Liberty, strolling through the amazingly beautiful Central Park or seeing how happy our kids were to have amazing seats at Yankee Stadium.

But, no matter what bargaining I have to do or promises I have to make...next year we’re going to THE BEACH. :)

Whitney

“Travel is only glamorous in retrospect.” (Paul Theroux)

Happy Birthday Bug!

Today was Bug’s 8th birthday!

There’s the part of me who is thrilled he’s getting more capable and independent every year, being one of “those” parents who did a little dance of celebration when the kids learned to buckle themselves into their car seats without my help, learned to take showers without assistance and learned to find their own snacks in our overstuffed pantry on their own. Then, there’s the part of me who never wants him to quit asking me to sing him Otis Redding lullabies, make him homemade waffles or rub his sweet little back when he’s not feeling well. While I don’t miss the days of temper tantrums and diapers, I’m feeling overwhelmed with conversations he initiates about grown-up things, like why the fuzz on his legs (and “other” areas) doesn’t wash off in the bath!

All in all, most days it’s almost impossible for me to comprehend the fact my baby is not really a baby anymore and I wonder if I’ll forever feel that way.

Sigh.

In any case, today was a great day!

It all started with Bug nudging me at 6:30am, asking when he could open his presents. He was talking in such a hushed-whisper-sing-song-voice, it sounded borderline freakish after I'd only had 6 hours of sleep. Those of you who’ve ever lived with me fully understand unless I get 9 hours or more, I’m almost unbearable to deal with, so it took all I could muster up not to turn vicious really quickly. But, it was his BIRTHday! So, I kept my grump to myself.

As I desperately tried to pry my eyes open, I silently wished we’d let him open them when he’d asked at 12:01 last night, after he stayed up until midnight so he could “be awake when his birthday started”. It’s not like I sleep in often, but the morning before he'd gotten me up at 7:30 to jump on the trampoline with him. Of course, I complied since it was his early birthday present and because it really IS very fun. EVEN in your nightgown. EVEN when you accidentally pee a little during the first jump because you're still half-asleep and zombie walked outside, forgetting to hit the potty after waking up.

Needless to say, after two early morning wake-ups, I was feeling a little as if I were trapped in an odd suburban mother version of the Groundhog Day movie, starring a strange little whispering kid who wakes me up every morning in a freaky sing-song-hushed-voice at the break of dawn, asking me to “play”. Ugh.

For a few moments I tried to “play dead”, like I was too asleep to even hear his pleas. But, then he whisper-asked me if our giant-60-pound-blind-in-one-eye-Wiener dog, Zoe was still alive. He’d prayed the night before that God wouldn’t let her die on his birthday, after convincing himself she was on her last leg in life. The truth is, she’s basically a million years old and Bug is notorious for sensing death, ghosts and other things I’m not 100% sure I believe in but am too much of a chicken to ignore. So, when he asked whether she was breathing, I immediately jumped out of bed, ran to her side...and...found her completely healthy, wagging her tail and likely laughing at me for being such an idiot.

The funny thing is, I’m pretty sure Zoe is going to live at least a few more years but we all have this disturbing obsession with chronically checking to see if she’s among the living. I thought we were strange to behave in this way, but the last time Bug’s friend stayed all night with us, even he questioned over and over again if she was alive. I think he too was waiting for her to kick over dead at any moment. She does have a habit of laying REALLY, REALLY still, with her eyes open, looking about half-dead. Of course, you’d think after ten years we wouldn’t fall for her “dead act” any longer. But, Nope. We fall for it. Every. Single. Time.

Anyhow...

Even though I did jump out of bed earlier than should be legal on a weekend morning, I did manage to distract Bug from present-opening and entertain him with more pajama trampoline jumping and homemade chocolate chip waffles for a few hours until Hubbit woke up. Why? Because I am an AWESOME wife who lets her husband sleep in as often as possible. THAT’S why! ;)

(Side note: I should probably confess, it is a only a tiny act of gratitude for a man who puts up with my endless batch of crazy and BELIEVE ME…I am capable of some intense ridiculousness.)

After presents were opened, Bug wanted to play his new Diary of a Wimpy Kid board game. (If you haven’t seen the movie or read the books…do it. NOW.) At certain points in the game, players are required to write down their answers to questions on scrap paper and then guess what other players have written.

The first question was for me and Bug. Hubbit had to guess what we’d written.

It read: What annoys you the most?

I wrote: Dirt.
Bug wrote: Abooba (Inside family joke, not important to this story.)

Hubbit guessed incorrectly.

Quite a few questions later, it was time for me and Bug to answer another question on scrap paper. Since I wanted to conserve paper, Bug and I simply used the other side of the same paper we’d previously written on for the first question. However, Bug ended up with mine (with the word “Dirt” on one side) and I ended up with his (with the word “Abooba” on one side).

The question read: What is your favorite type of candy bar?

Now, here’s where things got tricky. While Bug did indeed turn 8 today and is a very mature and lovely boy, he still gets a little bratty when he doesn’t win a game the first time we play it. In fact, if we don’t let him win the first time we play, he likely won’t ever play again. Since this was a brand new game and it WAS his birthday, Hubbit and I were willing to do whatever it took to let him take home the victory.

That being said, we were at the point in the game where if I guessed Bug’s response to the question correctly, we would both get to move ahead three spaces…which would put Bug at the Finish Line and give him the big W-I-N. Hubbit and I were both aware and without speaking knew what had to happen.

To pull it off successfully, Hubbit had to peek at Bug’s answer to the question and mouth the words to me, allowing me to correctly guess what he wrote and allowing him to win!

I looked at Hubbit, gave him the “nod” and repeated the question:

What is your favorite type of candy bar?

He peeked at Bug’s paper slyly and mouthed something to me that was simply untranslatable. I was unsure of what he’d mouthed, but I was certain it was in no way the name of a candy bar. So, I quickly gave him the silent facial expression of “HUH?!” and focused clearly on his mouth movements the second time, putting forth my absolute best effort to understand what this man was trying to communicate to me.

After a few seconds of utter confusion, I suddenly realized Bug had used my previous scrap paper, Hubbit had looked at the wrong side of it and as a result, Hubbit was CONFIDENTLY mouthing the word “Dirt” instead of Bug's answer of his favorite candy bar.

Oh. Em. Gee.

Sadly, I could not recover from this TOTAL FAILURE of tag-team game scamming and was not able to guess correctly because well...for some ca-ray-zee reason...I knew and understood there is no candy bar on the face of the EARTH named “Dirt”. Apparently, I am the only ad-ult in this house that possesses that small piece of knowledge.

Ironically, Bug answered his next question correctly and won the game honestly.

Meanwhile, I learned…

1) There are many times as a parent you feel you must protect your children from disappointment. However, whether you succeed or not, things will turn out just fine.

And, most importantly…

2) Hubbit is a TERRIBLE board-game-cheater. Geez.

Whitney

“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I'm not talking about the kids.” (Bill Cosby)

Death By Chocolate...

Yesterday was my birthday!! Woo hoo!! I turned 29!! (Just not yesterday…more like two years ago.)

Many of you know, I am allergic to life. I honestly eat only about 10-15 different types of food…TOTAL. They are milk, chicken, eggs, beef, pork, peaches, celery, lettuce, bell peppers, organic cheese and the occasional sweet potato.

That’s it.

It may sound pretty drastic, but it keeps me from going into anaphylactic shock and keeps me free from the hives-stomach pains-dizziness and other nonsense food allergies can bring on, so I never deter from my eating plan…EVER. Day in and day out, I proudly display the willpower of a superhero when it comes to my dietary restrictions. Except for on my birthday.

Every year for my birthday my parents make me this amazing flourless chocolate cake using organic chocolate I would seriously think about selling my soul for.

It is HEAVENLY.

Sure, I’m allergic to chocolate but I only indulge in it once a year. Since I’m not incredibly allergic, usually I only have a few side effects…IF and ONLY IF…I stick to the rules.

Whitney’s Rules Of Eating Chocolate

1) Only eat it once a year.
2) Limit consumption to one small amount when you do partake ONCE a year.
3) Never, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, eat it twice in one day.

(Side note: Those with food allergies usually know if you’re prone to food allergies, you should never eat the same food twice in one day. Otherwise, your body can react to foods it normally wouldn’t react to. So, on a normal day I have to limit myself to eating eggs once, eating chicken once…you get the point. I once ignored this rule and had soup beans both for lunch and dinner one day. What happened? Oh…I had one of the worst food reactions I’ve EVER had, was scared out of my mind, was borderline going into genuine shock, and now I can’t ever eat beans again. Needless to say, I learned my lesson…sort of.)

Anyhow, last night I satisfied my once-a-year-chocolate-cravings with the special birthday cake my mother brought over. It was everything.

EVERYTHING.

I was a good girl. I had a small piece and then didn’t return for more. I followed the rules.

But, when I woke up this morning, things had changed. Overnight, my superhero willpower somehow vanished and the first thing I did when I woke up was rush to the kitchen to eat more chocolate cake…with MY FINGERS. Really?! Who does that? This girl does, apparently. By the time I came to my senses, I looked down and realized I'd eaten HALF of the cake!

Oh. My. Land.

I immediately felt guilty and told Hubbit what I’d done, in which he responded with a roaring laugh. I’m glad he thinks my serious chocolate-cake-binging-problem is SO FLIPPIN’ FUNNY.

To be fair, Hubbit usually doesn’t get involved when it comes to my chocolate addiction. I mean seriously, he’s a very smart man who realizes one should never come in between a woman and her chocolate. But, the truth is I’m not sure he is just wise to women after being married to one of the most challenging women on the face of this earth (I wear the badge proudly) OR he is secretly hoping I’ll have a horrendous reaction and he’ll FINALLY get to administer the EPI-Pen to me. He was THRILLED when I was prescribed one, making joke after joke about how AWESOME it would be to stab me in the leg with it. He’s sadistic like that. I blame it on his job. (I’m joking firemen…JOKING.)

The last time I went on a chocolate binge, it lasted a week. It was three years ago and I’d gorged myself all week, day and night on organic chocolate chips, eating bag after bag like a total freak. While I didn’t end up having an anaphylactic reaction requiring Hubbit to administer my EPI-Pen, it did land me in the cardiologist’s office with an IRREGULAR heartbeat that wouldn’t subside for a week even after I quit ingesting my tasty enemy.

Seriously, my body hates most food and especially loathes caffeine. A normal person could drink five cups of coffee one day and maybe end up with something as minor as being unable to sleep that evening. But, if I did the same, chances are I’d be in the flippin’ hospital with a heart that just couldn’t get itself together.

After showering off my shame and dressing in mostly black to hide the "food baby" I was sporting in the lower tummy area, I attempted to throw out the rest of the cake. However, Bug and Flea both pleaded with me to save it a little while longer, so they too could have a piece after lunch. I agreed, reluctantly, and decided we should leave the house for a bit to get my mind (and my grubby fingers) far away from my own personal chocolate-laced-CrackRock. So, we spent the morning shopping at the local flea market and sporting goods store.

Sadly, the distraction of the flea market and sporting goods store failed. Completely. As soon as I got home from our shopping trip, the cake starting calling (more like SHOUTING) my name. Bug saw my strength failing me as I walked slowly toward the cake and even tried to talk me down, asking me if chocolate cake was really worth:

1) getting fat
2) dying

I told him, it most certainly WAS. However, after shoving another two heaping forkfuls into my mouth, I realized something drastic had to be done.
The cake HAD TO GO and with that realization, I threw it into garbage can.

One would think throwing the cake away, into the disgusting garbage, would be enough to deter a germ-a-phobe from thinking about eating it.

But, Noooooooo.

My urges were just too strong. Only five minutes after tossing it out, I honestly thought about digging it OUT OF THE GARBAGE and eating it. Seriously, I was acting like a total crack addict jonesin’ to get that last bit of rock. It was ridiculous!

So, I did what any hanging-onto-the-recovery-wagon-with-the-tips-of-her-nails-only-addict had to do.

I went over to the garbage, looked down upon the ever-so-delicious-and-potentially-life-threatening treat and…

Sprayed it with Windex.

Problem solved.

Whitney

“I would give up chocolate, but I’m not quitter.” (Author Unknown)

Oh, Bennie.

Location: Garden Ridge’s incredibly long and irritating check-out lane where we started off being 10th in a line with only one cashier open and where people were getting very frustrated. Well, mostly just Hubbit.

The valiant 20-something-vertically-challenged-likely-Puerto-Rican-cashier, Bennie, dances onto the scene, hoping to save the sanity of the sole cashier chick who is scanning far too slowly to satisfy anyone. Well, mostly just Hubbit.

Bennie the Cashier: I can take the next person down here.
Hubbit: THANK God. (huffs and puffs as he pulls our cart up to Bennie’s counter
Bennie the Cashier: Oh, wait. I’ll be just a minute.

Bennie leaves the counter to straighten up some nearby merchandise that apparently just couldn’t wait to be rearranged. The entire time, Hubbit is looking from the slow cashier’s lane to Bennie, realizing if he’d not been “the next customer” Bennie had called for, he would have already been finished paying and out the door. However, due to his amazing maturity and class (happy meds…cough, cough) he waits as patiently as he’s capable of waiting patiently, which is not really all that patiently, to be quite honest.

About three-customers-through-the-slow-chick’s-land-later, Bennie finishes arranging the merchandise and dashes back to the register, with a smile.

Bennie the Cashier: Ok, I’m back!
Hubbit: awesome. (spoken with enthusiasm deserving only a lowercase "a")
Bennie the Cashier: Oh, wait! I have to change the register receipt paper. Hold on. (starts pushing things around under the register, to get the needed paper)
Hubbit: Are you flippin’ kidding me?! (looks at me, looks at the other slow cashier chick’s line flowing smoothly, looks at Bennie, still trying to stay patient)
Bennie the Cashier: All done! Here we go!
Hubbit: Great. (sighs...exhausted from the incredible effort it takes a man of his level of impatience to stay calm in a ridiculous situation such as this)

Hubbit is emotionally defeated from staying calm and collected during Bennie's shenanigans, wondering silently if he's the subject of the new and improved Candid Camera show I'm always talking about trying to make a homemade version of. (Side note: Surely, I'm not the ONLY person in the world who makes mental lists of situations which would make EPIC new episodes for its reprise on television, right?!)

The items are rang up and paid for, Hubbit has one foot turned toward the door to leave and Bennie the Cashier is handing Hubbit’s debit card back to him…

Bennie the Cashier: What are you? ‘Bout 305?
Hubbit: (realizes Bennie has just made an attempt to guess his weight and remains visibly unfazed after the entirely unusual exchange has led him to think ANYTHING can happen at Garden Ridge at this point) Um, something like that.

Good Lord, Bennie.

Leaving the store…

Me: (laughing hysterically) Who does that?!
Hubbit: I think he was a little "unique", honey.
Me: But, I mean…he was pretty darn accurate. How do people learn to do that?!
Hubbit: I don’t know. Maybe he is training to be one of those carnival guys who guess your weight. I can see him with a mic in his hand saying, Come on down!
Me: Yeah, I don’t get it. You pay those guys $5 to make you feel fat or old. And, they’re NEVER wrong. Nope. Because if they are, they have to surrender one of those horrible-hard-and-never-IT’S SO FLUFFY-stuffed-animals AND Heaven knows if they give away too many of those, they’re on their way out the Carnie door…
Hubbit: …and apparently working at Garden Ridge.

Right-on.

The big bonus of the experience was that Bug was shopping with us and went around for the rest of the day trying to guess MY weight, saying:

What are you, Mom? ‘Bout 130?

Nice.

Whitney

"Carnies built this country, the carnival part of it anyway." (Homer Simpson)

Keep Your Cough To Yourself, Lady.

Today, Hubbit and I took Bug to his first official appointment with his Diabetes doctor. Since he was diagnosed in mid-January he's only been to his regular pediatrician. I figured since for the last doctor visit Bug had, I took him without additional adult supervision (AKA one of my many tag team partners), I’d drag Hubbit along for this one. After the ridiculousness Bug threw out at his physical two weeks ago while Hubbit was working, I figured calling in backup for this visit was more than necessary.

Little did I know…this visit was destined to fail, regardless of whether I brought Hubbit along or not.

First, let me just say I live in a town with one of the best University hospitals in the eastern region of our country. Billions of dollars are spent each year not only on research, but also to encourage the country’s most qualified specialists to come here for work. The level of care provided, in specialty areas of medicine, is basically unmatched anywhere near our city.

But, silly me. I ignorantly assumed since the University is highly respected and the pediatric endocrinology department had such a raving reputation itself, a visit to their offices would feel at least SLIGHTLY different than a visit to the FREE county health department clinic.

(Side Note: Before anyone gets all huffy with me about dogging the Health Department, CALM yourself. The Health Department is a great service and since it’s basically FREE, I wouldn’t expect much if I did visit there. I totally understand they likely have no funding for art on the walls, live plants, a kids' corner or anything else you might see in a private practice. But, when you’re in the area’s “best” child Diabetes office, are paying premium insurance rates and have to cough up a co-pay that would be better spent on a spa pedicure, you’d expect to at least not have to endure a waiting room which smells like body odor, right?)

Anyhow, I should have suspected this visit was doomed immediately after we arrived. Hubbit was kind enough to drop Bug and I off while he parked in the aggravating parking garage (which BY THE WAY, you have to pay for whether your ticket is validated or not). I began signing Bug in on the registration clipboard, while also chatting with the receptionist. As I was handing over insurance information to the clerk, Bug came up beside me and leaned against the wall.

All of a sudden, I heard a gentle "woosh" sound. It sounded like a burst from an instant air freshener, which at this point was a very welcomed sound considering I’m not sure anyone else waiting in the room had showered in weeks. I'm serious. The stink was almost unbearable.

As I turned to look for the air freshener system, I quickly noticed my auditory instinct was inaccurate. No, it was not an air freshener I heard going off with the gental "woosh" sound.

Nope.

Instead, up against the wall, there stood Bug…with globs of hand sanitizer running down his forehead. He looked shocked, as if he had no idea what had hit him. Little did he know, when he’d decided to lean against the wall, he’d positioned himself directly UNDER the automatic hand sanitizer dispenser! I immediately burst out laughing but he still hadn’t exactly caught on to what was happening. He had no idea his sole presence under the machine was making it dispense sanitizer onto his noggin' at a rapid rate. So, while I was trying to unclench my legs (so I didn’t tinkle) long enough to move him, the hand sanitizer just kept pouring onto his head and shirt.

Oh. Em. Gee.

We managed to collect ourselves (and when I say “we”, I really just mean “me” ) and found the only seats available, which happened to be in the smack dab center of the giant waiting room. The room not only smelled like B.O. but it was also visibly dingy, so I tried to keep our belongings hugged tightly in my lap. After all, I definately wanted to avoid any unnecessary contamination. However, only a few moments after I sat down, the lady sitting directly across from me began hacking her head off. I mean, she wasn’t just barely coughing…she was COUGHING. Did she not see the friendly sign asking anyone with a cough to take a MASK or was she simply illiterate?! Sadly, I’ll never know.

Listen, I am a slight germ-a-phobe. It's not that dramatic really. It merely means, I do NOT like to be coughed, sneezed or spat on. I prefer people to keep their nasty bodily fluids to themselves, at ALL times. So, going to the doctor’s office can bring on panic for me. Typically, in specialists offices I don’t have to worry too much, because most patients are there for more complex reasons than a common cold.

But, NOT today. Germs were a’flying left and right!

As I frantically dug in my purse for anything I had to shield myself from her disgusting germs, Hubbit joined us. Although he caught me taking a piece of paper (It was the ONLY thing I could find!) and very obviously shielding my face from her “fluids”, he wasn’t dazed. After all, he’s been married to me for 11 years and none of my shenanigans shock him, even for one instant.

The nice part was I didn’t have to worry about trying to shield Bug from her likely-cold-or-possibly-worse-meningitis-avian-flu-hybrid-germs because well…he had already accidentally disinfected his ENTIRE HEAD with hand sanitizer. I'm pretty sure he'll be germ free from the neck up for the next two weeks, with or without bathing.

I have never been so excited to hear our names called as I was when the nurse mispronounced our last name. The truth is, I wasn’t sure if I could hold my breath to avoid inhaling illness for much longer without passing out. But, the actual visit really didn’t go much better. Bug did get a great “Doctor’s Report”, but once again his non-ADHD behaviors came out as soon as we were placed in a room. While I thought Hubbit might be a nice buffer to keep him calm, it turns out the addition of Hubbit in the room only gave Bug another person to use as a jungle gym.

While I’m 100% sure we’re ready for a new endocrinology office that does not make me feel like I need to take a Hazmat disinfection shower each time I leave, I do have to give props to the Nurse Practitioner we saw today. As she was chatting with Hubbit, Bug decided to randomly ninjy kick him right in “the area”. Although he hunched over in pain and she clearly saw the entire thing, she skipped no beat by instantly turning her attention to me and continuing the conversation, like she’d never seen a thing! That's professionalism at its best, right there.

Whitney

“Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died.” (Erma Bombeck)

Next Time Hubbit's Taking Them To The Doctor

We’ve been looking for a new pediatrician for a while, due to several reasons. So, I was really excited to get the boys an appointment with a great doctor last week. On the way to their appointment, I talked with them about getting a physical and how we wanted to make a good impression on their new doctor and her staff.

Somewhere along those ten miles between my house and the doctor’s office, my lecture on behavior must have completely flown out the window and became instant road kill. As a result, although I prepared them well for what I expected, our trip to the new doctor was quite the…adventure.

Who am I kidding?! Adventure is a nice way to say it. The truth is, from start to finish, it was a HOT MESS.

Let’s just say there’s nothing like your child BEGGING for the nurse to bring him his Flu Mist for a full 20 minutes, then running from her all around the office and ultimately having to be HELD DOWN because when she did appear with it, it “looked scary”.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t even going to make the boys get their flu shot or mist this year. I’m pretty off and on with it, actually. I usually give in and am guilted into letting them administer it to them on a random doctor visit, but for the past few years, we’ve gotten the shot and they’ve still ended up with a terrible case of the flu. In all honesty, I think it’s a little silly to get a vaccine for a virus. Isn’t our immune system built to fight them? I’m no doctor…just sayin’…

Of course, when the nurse initially asked me if they’d already gotten their flu shot, Bug piped in quickly with, “My mom doesn’t believe in the flu shot, don’t you know?” I was busted. For what, I’m not exactly sure. But, I have to say I kind of felt like a 3rd grader sitting in the office for stealing crayons or something. So, instead of being labeled “Worst Mother of the Year” for not scheduling a flu shot appointment for the kids on September 1st each year, I quickly responded with, “I never get it but we ALWAYS make sure they do”. What is it about guilt that makes an honest woman turn into a flaming liar?!

I would have been fine with being the crazy-mother-who-thinks-less-medication-vaccines-or-medical-intervention-is-ideal-if-possible EXCEPT for I’d ALSO been trying to convince the nurse Bug did not have ADHD. It was a huge task, seeing as he literally flopped around on the floor like a fish out of water for the first 15 minutes we were there. As I explained to her we’d already had him tested and the psychologist determined if he could sit as still as can be, without saying as much as ten words all day at school, his hyperactivity at home was a choice. I had to tell her my child CHOOSES to be ridiculously hyper and try to make it sound like a good thing. I'm not sure I was a success. The shrink who evaluated him even went as far to say he acted this way out of nervousness. So, since kids get nervous about going to the doctor, I have a feeling I’ll be defending his non-ADHD behavior each time we visit. UGH.

I have to say, although I’m sure he was nervous…I may have been guilty of letting him have a cup of regular coffee right before we arrived. FAIL. In my defense, it was an accident. Who would think they’d serve only regular coffee at a kids’ basketball game?! But, then again, would ever think a 7-year-old would be addicted to black coffee?

The bad part was all of this went down BEFORE the doctor even entered the room.

Before the nurse left, she handed both boys a hospital gown and told them to change. When they realized they were basically asked to change into “dresses”, they started giggling uncontrollably. Then they proceeded to smack each other on the rear end every time one of them turned around, because we all know…you have to leave the gowns open in the back. Lovely.

Flea went first for his check-up and got a great report, while I finally settled Bug down with a game on my phone. Then, it was Bug's turn to be checked out. Everything was fine until the doc had to check his…um…boy parts. All of a sudden, he freaked out and even called the doctor a PERVERT.

Oh. Em. Gee.

While I tried my best to make a great impression, I sadly crashed and burned. Now, not only am I the in-denial-mother-of-the-non-ADHD-child who rolls around the floor like a crazy AND the tree-hugging-lady who doesn’t “believe in flu shots”, BUT I’m ALSO the lady with the 7 year-old child who not only knows what the word “Pervert” means, but was also bold enough to call his new doctor one.

Nice.

Whitney

"Raising a kid is part joy and part guerilla warfare." (Ed Asner)

Clown College Doesn't Sound Half Bad Right Now :)

Most parents hope their kids grow up to be doctors, lawyers or super-star athletes, but I’m kind of a rare breed, I guess. We talk a lot with the boys about being successful in life but we rarely talk about it in terms of salaries. Maybe we took some cues from our semi-hippy parents, but Hubbit and I have implanted within them the logic they should only do things in life they love.

Yes, I am the mother who let her son quit soccer after only one practice because he hated it, the mother who believes not every career requires a college degree and the mother who would be just as proud of her son for LOVING his job as a starving artist as I would if he were to choose medical school solely for the paycheck.

Listen, we preach you have to work HARD. We just don’t preach what you should work hard AT.

Do you hate me yet? Surely not.

The funny thing is I never realized how our light-hearted view on success in life translated to our kids. But, tonight I got a quick clue!

Hubbit, Flea, Bug and I were all riding in the Swagger Wagon, on our way home from a quick shopping trip. On our way to our house we passed a few neighborhoods which contain beautiful homes, situated behind a lovely brick wall. Our trip past these homes prompted the following conversation...

Bug: Why is there a wall around those houses?
Hubbit: Well, it offers privacy to the people who live in those homes.
Bug: Why don’t we have privacy?!
Me: Um, because our home doesn’t cost $1 million dollars like those homes do, Love.
Bug: When I grow up, I want one of those houses.
Me: I really hope you are able to afford one someday, Honey.
Bug: I’d need a really good job.
Hubbit: Yep.
Bug: So, what job makes the most money? A circus clown? (spoken as SERIOUS as can be)
Me: Huh? If your goal is to own a $1 million dollar home, you may want to try medical school. Maybe you could become a plastic surgeon.
Bug: I don’t want to go to REAL college, I want to go to CLOWN college. I already know the clown walk and everything. Want me to teach you?
Hubbit/Me: (giggle)
Bug: If I don’t go to clown college, maybe I could play baseball for the Legends so I could get one of those big ol’ fat houses!
Me: Honey, minor league baseball players make a lot less than your dad makes and we can’t afford one of those houses.
Bug: Hmm.

I just wonder if no one worried about how much money they’d not-make doing so, how many of us would have by-passed REAL college and would have opted for CLOWN college instead.

Whitney

“A clown is like aspirin, only he works twice as fast.” (Groucho Marx)

Schtewpid.

Flea hasn’t been feeling well for the past few days. Since he didn’t seem half-dead or anything, yesterday I took him to the nearby walk-in clinic instead of calling his regular doctor to beg for an unexpected appointment. The clinic has extended evening and weekend hours, making it incredibly convenient. So, we do tend to use it quite often.

It’s the perfect solution. It’s less than three miles away, it offers great hours and you don’t need an appointment. Not that it matters, because even when you have an “appointment” at your regular doctor’s office, you wait long past your designated time to be seen. But, that’s an entirely other grump.

Anyhow, the only disadvantage to visiting this particular clinic is they employ idiots. I mean, I totally understand the fact most employers these days can’t legally discriminate against gender, race or age. But, surely it’s not illegal to discriminate against stupidity. Am I right?

Unfortunately, this particular employer must be trying to improve their Karma. Fortunately, I’m pretty sure they must only feel ethically bound to take on one sympathy case, because thankfully it seems they only have one Stupid on the payroll.

Sadly, this Stupid is...well...pretty darn stupid.

Backstory: A few weeks ago, Hubbit and I volunteered at the boys’ school. Each time you volunteer at the school, the office staff gives you a sticker and everyone is required to wear it at all times. It is meant to inform other staff members you have signed into the office before roaming the halls and have passed the secretary’s five second you-don’t-look-like-a-psycho assessment.

The sticker reads: Julius Elementary School Volunteer (Well, that’s not exactly what it reads but to follow the blogging safety rules set forth before me by my grand-big-Phi-Mu-sister, I am somewhat disguising the name.)

The whole sticker thing is pretty ridiculous, honestly. I mean, they don’t screen you via the FBI or anything before you get the sticker. They pretty much will hand anyone a sticker if they sign their name (doesn’t even have to be your own name) into the log book sitting on the front office counter. Furthermore, how on Earth is a sticker going to protect anyone from ANYthing?

Oh, she has a sticker! She must be harmless! Riiight.

However, the school takes these stickers VERY SERIOUSLY. I’ve seen teachers and parents even get into confrontations when a parent forgot to grab a sticker on their way into the hall and while it may shock you, I was only a bystander and not the offender.

Anyhow, back to my story...

Hubbit had been seen at the clinic a few days before for a foot injury and forgot to ask for a work release form while he was there. Apparently, the fire department doesn’t want people with a bum foot to run into burning buildings and they wanted verification Hubbit had doctor’s approval to return to work. After volunteering, Hubbit decided he would quickly stop by the clinic to get the paperwork he needed. When he walked in, there sat Stupid.

Hubbit’s convo with Stupid went something like this...

Stupid: Can I help you?
Hubbit: Yes, I was seen by Dr. M a few days ago and need a work release form so I can return to work. Unlike a large percentage of Americans today, I actually enjoy supporting my family without government assistance. After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, right? (Ok, I’m not sure he said that part but he IS a steadfast Republican and a bona-fide smarta$$. So, if I know him like I think I do, I am 99% sure something of that nature was spoken out of his I-don’t-care-who-I-offend lips.)
Stupid: Ok. Let me look that up for you, Julius.
Hubbit: Um. Julius?
Stupid: Yes, Julius. What’s your last name?
Hubbit: ~ Looks around like he’s in the Twilight Zone for a few seconds, starts to honestly question his own identity (Is my name really Julius?) and then finally glances down to realize he’s still wearing his sticker, which reads, Julius Elementary Volunteer. ~

Schtewpid.

Much to my surprise, Stupid was smart enough to keep her job a few more weeks and Flea and I had the pleasure of seeing her smiling face yesterday as we walked in. When we arrived, she was chatting with a patient at the registration counter, so I stood back to wait our turn. As I waited, I overheard her tell the patient she’d been working there over a year. So, when I walked up to the counter and told her we were walk-in patients, I expected her to understand she worked at a WALK-IN clinic. Sadly, she was unaware.

My convo with Stupid went something like this…

Stupid: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, my son needs to be seen as a walk-in patient.
Stupid: Do you have an appointment?
Me: Um. No. He needs to be seen as a walk-in.
Stupid: Hm. I have to see if we can take him as a walk-in. One moment.
Me: Um. Isn’t this a walk-in clinic?
Stupid: Let me ask. Hold on. (Turns to her supervisor and seriously asks if they see walk-in patients.)

What?! It was a WALK-IN clinic.

Thankfully, Stupid’s supervisor had a brain, quickly registered us without any problems and convinced me after a few minutes of my incessant hounding, we were in fact, NOT on Candid Camera. Would've made the whole thing SO much more worth it.

Whitney

“Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.” (Elbert Hubbard)

Like A G-6

Although I think my mother might kill me for this, I have to blog about it before I forget it...

About a week ago, Gigi, Bug and I were riding in my Swagger Wagon, listening to tunes. When there are no kids in the car, I prefer the uplifting K-LOVE Christian music station or 106.3, which plays “Old People’s Pop”, according to the boys. But, when Bug or Flea are in the car, they instantly start making their musical demands, like we're rollin' disc jockeys or something!

Most of the time their musical requests involve us putting in a CD by their current musical obsession, which 95% of the time is something we are not thrilled about hearing for the one millionth time.

For about two weeks when Flea was infatuated with Jason Derulo, we were forced to listen to his newest CD, NON-STOP. Sadly, I now know every word to every Jason Derulo song, which would be really impressive...if I were 15.

(Side note: Either Derulo has a very wise marketing team who forces him to sing his own name during every single he releases, or his ego is larger than his bank account. Otherwise, what on Earth would possess someone to sing their own name during EVERY song?! Please tell me I’m not the only one who this bothers.)

Whenever the kids start in with this routine, I think back to the day when Cyprus Hill first came on the scene and I was a young teen. WAY BACK when cars had cassette players, I forced my poor parents to listen to “Insane In The Membrane”, about one million times.

You may be thinking Cyprus Hill was quite an offensive group who used explicit lyrics in every song they released but...Don’t Fret. I had the censored version of the cassette tape, from Wal-Mart! In my little discount store version, half of the song was muted out, leaving the ‘rents unsuspecting and me happily singing along, “Crazy insane, got no brain” like there was no tomorrow.

Geez.

Of course, it’s not always a terrible thing when the boys go through one of their musical phases. While we’ve had our fill of the Black Eyed Peas, Lil Wayne and Bruno Mars on chronic REPEAT, there have been times where their tastes aligned with ours, if even for the briefest moments.

There WAS the six month time frame when Bug discovered Motown and “forced” us to cruise to some of the best harmonies ever created. That was great! I made sure I didn't voice my delight too loudly, in fear they would start hating it just because I thought it was cool. After all, is it physically possible to get tired of hearing the smooth sounds of Otis Redding or The Supremes? I think NOT.

The main problem is, I’m getting old and I now find myself saying things a typical made-for-tv-movie-parent might say, like:

“Is this what you consider music?”
“Do people actually make money selling these ridiculous lyrics?”
“What does this song even mean?!”

Today's pop music confuses me and leaves me wanting SO MUCH MORE. Nevertheless, it was only natural when Gigi, Bug and I were riding in the Swagger Wagon a few weeks ago for Bug to insist we listen to a radio station I feel is likely only appropriate for people 21 and under, and for me to comply.

Of course, as soon as we tuned in, one of the most annoying songs in the world came on. It's called G-6 or something like that. Ok, I just Googled it. It’s officially called “Like A G-6” and it’s by a “lovely” group called, Far East Movement.

If you haven’t heard it, you should probably YouTube it before reading any further. Otherwise, you won’t get why this is so funny...at all.

Anyhow, this song is the prime example of why songwriters like myself typically loathe pop music writing styles. I mean, these people are making millions off of writing songs about nothing. Absolutely NOTHING.

They take 15 minutes out of their day, rhyme a few words, add in a few made-up words currently unknown in the English language (slizzard?!), throw in a few “uhs”...and WAH-LA! A hit is born.

UGH.

This specific song irks me in every way, but Bug loves it so I usually just grit my teeth and let it ride. Somewhat because I love to hear his little voice singing along and somewhat because if I changed the station, I would be forced to listen to much worse...him pitching a TOTAL fit. The song stinks but not as bad as a cranky 7-year-old's hissy fit.

However, on this particular day, something unusual happened. The planets aligned perfectly and this song actually brought a smile to my face. Who knew it was capable of doing such a thing?!

Anyhow, here’s how it went down…

Song Lyrics: Like A G-6, Like A G-6, Now I’m feelin’ so fly like a G-6.
Me: I hate this song. It’s so dumb.
Bug: Like A G-6, Like A G-6, Now I'm feeling so fly like a G-6.
Me: Ugh. I really don't understand this song AT ALL. I can't believe people make money off this crap.
Gigi: Yeah. It really IS a dumb song. I mean, I just can’t understand why they’re singing about cheesesticks.

OH. EM. GEE.

I learned a lesson that day. When you think something is dumb, don’t rush to judge. After all, it could ALWAYS be made into something even dumber! (giggle)

Whitney

"Anything that is too stupid to be spoken is sung." (Voltaire)

Gotta Love The Church Basketball League!

Today is Saturday. On Saturdays, I wake up earlier than I’d like, try to find everyone halfway-matching outfits by frantically digging through the six foot pile of clean clothes I never get around to folding, scream at the kids to shovel their cold breakfast in their mouths, load up the Swagger Wagon and head to church with a forced smile on my face to watch Flea’s basketball game.

This Saturday was not much different, other than the fact I actually got there on time. I only live two minutes from my church but I sware it doesn’t help my punctuality. In fact, I think it makes it worse. I constantly think, “It will only take me two minutes to get there”, leave at the last possible moment and end up getting there with thirty seconds to spare.

I hate to wake up earlier and hate swimming in unfolded laundry even more, but I really do love watching my boys play sports. I was never a big sports fan, until I had sons. Now, I’m a borderline-crazy-yell-at-the-officials-kind-of-Mom.

In fact, I often have to be censored by loving family members when Little League starts. I’ve try to harness my obnoxiousness, but there’s just something about the look of the freshly mowed diamond, the sound of the cracking bat and the smell of the overcooked hot dogs that turns me into a raging lunatic. Over the past season or two, I’ve learned to contain myself more than ever before but the one thing which still brings out the crazy in me at the ballpark is a cocky opposing coach. Ooohhh…it just burns me up.

Apparently, my title doesn't extend past Psycho BASEBALL Mom because it is very clear Hubbit is a Psycho BASKETBALL Dad. I’ve always said one secret to our happy marriage is the fact we balance each other out in amazing ways and I suppose this is another example. After all, we BOTH can’t get kicked out of every game. Someone has to REPRESENT!

The funny thing is, while we’re complete and total opposites in every imaginable way, Hubbit and I are provoked by the same thing when it comes to our childrens’ sporting events...cocky coaches.

A few weeks ago, Flea’s basketball team played a team with a real “winner” for a coach. The bad part was, he also acts as a referee in the league. On this specific game day, he basically walked off the court after the previous game ended, changed his shirt from the well-known black and white stripe pattern to his team colors, gave the incoming refs a high five and hit the sideline, ready to coach.

Unfair, what?!

Throughout the game, he pouted, he stomped and he cried his way to get extra fouls called. It was ridiculous to see a grown man do such a thing. I was a little embarrassed for him. But, not Hubbit. No, Hubbit was TICKED.

Due to the fact this cocky coach was also a ref, it appeared he was getting his way MUCH more often than Hubbit thought was fair. So, Hubbit stands up and starts cursing and yelling insults his way. Hubbit starts insulting the officiating refs, insulting the opposing coach and even telling Flea to knock down the other players, so the ref could call “at least one honest foul”. There are no bleachers in the church gym, just chairs surrounding the court. Thus, when someone 6'5 stands up and spreads his arms out like a giant Pterodactyl, it doesn't go unnoticed. Nope. Everyone noticed.

Of course, it would be no big deal...if we weren’t in a CHURCH LEAGUE.

Geez.

Of course, Hubbit wasn’t the only one ticked off that day. Flea’s coach and her husband were also stomping on the sidelines, unsatisfied with the officiating. Yes, I said HER. Flea’s coach is a female. Not only is she a bad-in-a-REALLY-good-way coach but she’s also a Hottie Tottie. The boys listen to her like no other, work hard to seek her approval and have learned amazing basketball skills. She knows her stuff...FO’ REAL.

Fortunately, a few minutes into the ranting he freakishly spews out on Saturday mornings from 9am to 11am, he realized his obnoxiousness and ushered himself out of the gym without being thrown out by the refs. Thanks to his maturity (aka Old Age + Daily Cocktail of Calming Meds), he settled himself down and returned a different man.

Unfortunately, Flea’s coach wasn’t so lucky at today's game. I’m not completely certain why, but Hubbit and I have noticed the refs are ALWAYS really unfair to her team. No one else’s. Just hers.

As usual, the refs were being insanely hard on the team and apparently Hottie Tottie must have stomped one too many times on the sidelines in her fashionable Uggs, because she got herself a technical...in a CHURCH LEAGUE. Not only did this mean she had to tone down her normally very entertaining (and highly effective) sideline coaching methods, but it also means she can’t coach at the next game.

Who knew there’d be so much drama in a league where they PRAY before each game?!

The good news for the boys is, her even-hotter-and-closer-to-their-age-teenage-daughter will be taking her place as the coach for the next game. It's crazy! Their family is like the Swedish Bikini Team...only for basketball!

The funny this is, their team is the best one in the league. After all, nothing motivates a bunch of pre-teen boys like a hot blonde screaming at them. Boys may become men, but some things never change!

Whitney

“The trouble with referees is that they just don't care which side wins.” (Tom Canterbury)