And You Thought YOUR Neighbor Was Crazy...

My lovely mother’s birthday was this weekend! Happy Birthday Gigi!! So, on Friday evening, Hubbit, Flea, Bug and I jumped into the Swagger Wagon and headed over to my grandparent’s house to celebrate with a little cake, a little ice cream and more than a few laughs.

I’ve always loved seeing my extended family and enjoyed their silliness, but until I started this blog I never realized almost every time we all get together, I end up in tears from laughing so hard!

At Thanksgiving the laughs came from my grandmother dumping a plate of food on my grandfather’s head. On Christmas they were caused by the emergence of what I’m certain is an under-ground-Uno-Attack-operation, ran by my 73-year-old grandmother. However, this weekend the laughs were not due to a family member...but a neighbor.

Here's how it went down:

At most of the family events held at my grandparent’s house there is a point in the celebration where myself, my mother, my grandmother, my aunt and sometimes our kids, gather for a while in the dining room. We sit around the dining room table, chatting and catching up on the latest "news", which rarely could actually be considered legitimate "news", but is promised to ALWAYS be entertaining.

As we were chatting, Flea entered the room, squinted and made a strange face toward my grandparents’ organ piano, where there are several photographs displayed. He then turned to my grandmother and asked, “Who’s Coco?”

Before she could answer, I turned to the organ to see what Flea had discovered. There, I spotted what appeared to be a very new calendar someone had made for the holidays. You know, the type where you take 12 photos of your kids or family to the Wal-Mart photo center and they create a nice family memento for you to enjoy all year long? The type with each month featuring a different picture of your sweet little kids looking as if they are nothing but angels, even though you are 99.9% they are the cause of every wrinkle on your face?

It was THAT type. Only, it didn’t feature family members. It featured Coco.

It was not a calendar of the famously fashionable Coco Chanel, the hilariously inappropriate Conan “Coco” O’Brien, or the beautiful-or-skanky-depends-on-who-you-ask wife of rapper Ice-T, Coco Austin.

No, it was a 12-month calendar of Coco…The Neighbor’s Pomeranian.

In total disbelief, I picked up the calendar and started flipping through it, almost expecting each page to contain something other than...Coco. I initially thought perhaps the furry hairball was only the cover model and there would be something like...maybe humans...somewhere in the middle.

NOPE.

Each of the 12 months featured a lovely photograph of Coco The Pomeranian, posing like the supermodel dog he or she apparently is in training to become. I sware, the dog could strike a pose even Tyra Banks would call “fierce”.

Confused, I turned to my aunt...

Me: Um. Who’s dog is this?
Auntie: The neighbor’s. He lives around the corner and down the street a few houses.
Me: Who is he?
Auntie: Well, he’s a little strange and his wife’s Japanese.
Me: Uh, did he give this calendar to you guys?
Auntie: Yep. Around Christmas time, he came around with this little calendar for us. He also gave us a refrigerator magnet.

I could not believe my ears. I’ve heard of people bringing candy, fruit cakes, holiday cards or dinner to their neighbors during the holidays but I have NEVER heard of people giving calendars of...THEIR DOG. He actually paid to have this made for my grandparents!

Oh. Em. Gee.

By this time, I was laughing so hysterically that tears were pouring down my cheeks and I was forcing myself to squeeze my legs together, just so I didn’t pee my pants. As my aunt kept talking about the neighbor, I did the “Pee-Pee Dance” into the kitchen. Lo and Behold! Right there on the side of the fridge was a 5’7 magnet of Coco’s furry face.

Of course, I am no stranger to crazy neighbors. After all, I previously lived next door to a paranoid schizophrenic for eight years, who unexpectedly jumped my fence every time I was in the backyard, insisted on calling me “Hannah” because he SWORE it’s what my name actually was AND caused me to regularly be questioned by the police because he liked to call 9-1-1, tell them President Bush asked him to call when the aliens were about to attack, and then refused to answer his door when they arrived.

But, I guess just when you think you’ve seen it all...here comes Coco!

Whitney

"A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence, but doesn't climb over it." (Arthur Baer)

There's Humor In Everything...

Those of you who are lovely enough to listen to my Facebook rambling already know this week has been one of THOSE weeks. You know, THOSE weeks which test your physical, intellectual and emotional well-being? This week could certainly fit into that category much like hopefully due to stress, I can fit into my skinny jeans sometime in the very near future!

Many of you have heard this story already, but here’s a more elaborate version for those of you who are like me and need to KNOW-IT-ALL. :)

Bug hasn’t been feeling well for a few weeks, but his symptoms were so subtle we figured he just had the Winter Blues. After all, HOW MUCH MORE SNOW can we Kentuckians endure this year?!

Geez.

In any case, he woke up one morning this past weekend feeling really not-so-great, and told me he was “shaky”. Being the hypochondriac-neurotic-person-I-am, I convinced him to let me check his blood sugar. I had a very old tester because I often get low blood sugar when I forget to eat, but we very rarely use it. Now that I know how to recognize the feeling of low blood sugar without needing the tester and understand the best cure for low blood sugar is EATING...it's been pretty useless to us.

Of course, I am constantly TRYING to get someone to let me use it on them. Anytime a visitor to our house complains of feeling a little dizzy, shaky, nauseous, (insert ANY feeling here from tired to hungry to heartbroken), I offer to check their blood sugar. It’s the one and only medical related thing I know how to do and darn it, NO ONE ever agrees to let me showcase my skills!

That being said, I have never checked Bug’s blood sugar. Ever. I don’t play that come-on-let-me-check-your-blood-sugar-because-it’s-fun-to-watch-grown-adults-squirm-at-the-sight-of-a-tiny-needle-and-an-even-tinier-amount-of-blood game with children. I might be crazy, but I’m not mean. Well, not to children anyway.

Since when my blood sugar levels get low I get shaky, his description triggered me to think about the meter. He immediately declined allowing me to prick his finger but thankfully he’s very easily bribed by money. The kid will do almost anything for $1, including giving foot massages, shoveling snow and other useful tasks sweat shop workers in third-world countries wouldn’t even agree to for this low of a wage. He’s cheap labor…and in the USA. What could be better?!

(Before you start getting all easy-parenting-is-lazy-parenting on me or bribing-your-child-with-$1-to-shovel-your-entire-back-porch-is-unethical, calm down and get your hand off the Child Services speed dial. He loves to “earn” cash and he’s ridiculously spoiled overall. The kid has an amazing life where he wants for absolutely nothing!)

Being able to easily bribe him with small amounts of cash right now makes parenting a little easier, but it might end up being a REAL problem when he hits his teens and young adult years. I’d better start praying about that NOW!

After convincing him $1 was a good trade off, he happily obliged. While I was expecting low blood sugar levels, we got the exact opposite. Since Hubbit was working, we decided to head to the firestation to get him re-checked by professionals.

I’ve said it one million times before: 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.

Anyhow, after some phone calls and a visit to the after-hours pediatrician (since it was the weekend), we ended up in the UK Emergency Room, the UK Children’s Hospital and ultimately with a diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes. Sigh.

While this was a very stressful event where smiles weren’t freely abundant, there were a few interesting highlights to this week that made me giggle. So, in the spirit of finding the humor in EVERY situation, here’s my humble attempt.

1)When we first arrived at the hospital, we had to wait for a short time in the ER Waiting Room before we could be admitted. We sat down in a fairly unoccupied area with only one other woman nearby. The ER Waiting Room furnishes public telephones on the tables for visitors to use and she was talking on one. Being the nosey people we are, Hubbit and I immediately tuned in to her conversation.

It went a little like this…

Crazy Lady: Look, the police department is corrupt! Ever since that plane went down in 1983, they’ve been after me.
Me: ---Leaning in closer, trying to remember if there really was a plane that went down here in 1983, giving Hubbit the “this-is-better-than-the-new-90210” look---
Crazy Lady: They knocked on my door back then and Cletus and I had to slip out the window. I had to go on the run!
Me: ---quickly realizing this lady was a nutjob, turning my head and covering my mouth to keep from laughing out loud and being exposed by the Lady on the Run.---

(The bad thing is, I’m pretty terrible at stifling laughs. I can hang on for a few moments but if I have to go more than 60 seconds without laughing out loud, I fail. Miserably. What usually happens is my laugh ends up coming out as a loud and obnoxious snort-cackle. It’s really UN-attractive and Flea has grown to be completely embarrassed by it when he’s around.)

Hubbit: Geez. ---Showcasing his absolute inability to say anything quietly enough to be considering “under his breath”.---
Me: ---Stifling laughs, heaving of my body, trying to keep it all under wraps before Crazy Lady caught on.---
Crazy Lady: Listen, you call the FBI and you tell them I have information for them that will blow their minds. Yes, it will blow their MINDS.

--- She hung up, looked at us directly in the eye and left.---

Hubbit: How much do you want to bet there was no one on the other end of that phone line?
Me: SNORT/CACKLE!

2) Backstory: When Bug was about three-years-old, he went on this tangent where he didn’t like his name. He would ask us to call him other names, with his all-time-favorite being “Max”. In fact, there were several times where he cried for lengthy periods of time, asking us why we didn’t name him Max! It was funny...and ridiculous...all in one. But, there were also times in between where he’d go for weeks wanting to be called names other than "Max".

The absolute BEST name he ever demanded to be called was Old Ham Lincoln. He was obsessed with Abraham Lincoln at the time, but for some crazy reason was convinced his name was not Abraham, but Old Ham. He would argue with us endlessly when we tried to correct him, so ultimately we just gave in and for about three weeks we called our precious three-year-old, Old Ham Lincoln.

Exchange this week involving Bug and his new Diabetes Doctor, Dr. Smith

Dr. Smith: Hi, I'm Dr. Smith. What do like to be called, young man?
Bug: ---Shrugs his shoulders as if saying “I don’t know”---
Dr. Smith: Well, what does everyone else call you?
Bug: You tell him, Mom. ---looks at me---
Me: Riley, Ry, Ry Bug, Bug?
Bug: NO, Mom! That’s not what people call me!
Me: ---confused---
Dr. Smith: Well, what do they call you then?
Bug: Ry Fry
Me: I’ve never once in a million years EVER heard someone call you that. Seriously. NEVER.
Dr. Smith: Ok, Ry Fry…

While we’ve once again been reminded this week that life can change in an absolute instant and how sadly you can’t do-it-Marty-McFly-style and jump in a DeLorean to go back in time to stop it, we’ve also been reminded…

Some things never change. Thank God for that.

Whitney

No matter how bad things get, you got to go on living, even if it kills you. (Sholom Aleichem)

Thank God For Grandparents

I absolutely LOVE my family. They not only give me undeserving love but constant entertainment and since I love to laugh, their craziness makes me love them even more!

Usually the lead actors in the on-going comedy I call, “My Life” are Hubbit, Flea and Bug. However, my extended family does provide comedy relief almost every time I see them, as well. See Thanksgiving Blog for proof.

This week I was blessed with a visit from my grandparents, Nona and Pa.(It’s awesome I don’t have to make up blog code names for them, as they’ve been publicly using their own special code names for years!)

A visit from Nona and Pa is always a good visit, as they are sweet, chatty and most of the time, absolutely hilarious. Thank God for grandparents!

Of course, a visit is not nearly as entertaining as taking a road trip with them, where you can witness my 81-year-old grandfather punching the CRAP out of my grandmother’s arm and shouting “PUNCH BUGGY” every time he sees a VW Bug, followed by the sounds of my saintly Baptist grandmother responding with, “Dam*it! I’m going to whip Bug’s little as* for teaching you that game!” and Bug giggling uncontrollably from the back seat at the entire interaction.

Since my grandfather is in charge of providing transportation for the Senior Church Trips every month, I’m wondering if he refrains from playing Punch Buggy while plays chauffeur to those he lovingly calls “the old people” in the church van. If he doesn’t, I’m sure no one's fighting over Shot-Gun!

Anyhow…as expected, their visit this week was not a disappointment.

While we had a great time catching up on lives of extended relatives and various things we’d all eaten throughout the week, the best part was when Pa and I were discussing television.

Our convo went a little like this:

Me: I’m not sure the boys should be allowed to watch wrestling anymore. They’re driving me nuts trying out the moves they see on WWE.
Pa: I use to watch wrestling but now it makes me nervous, so I don’t anymore.
Me: It just puts me straight to sleep. (Side note: Maybe my cure for insomnia?! ) But, when I do watch TV I just want to watch something uplifting, like a comedy or a love story. Or, even better…a romantic comedy!
Pa: (turns to my grandmother) See? Whit likes love stories too! I’m not the only one! (turns back to me) I watch love stories every day on TV.

(grandmother rolls her eyes)

Me: (confused) Pa, what types of love stories are you watching every day?
Pa: Jerry Springer.

Seriously?!

Pa: He comes on every day! You should see some of those love stories on there. Yesterday there was this woman who didn’t know who the daddy was to her baby and they did all these tests and it turned out the father-in-law was the daddy! (He was being totally serious and was totally shocked.)
Me: (trying my darnest to stiffle my giggling)
Pa: Ya know, I’ll tell you one thing though. I would hate to be those Security Guards on those shows. Those women on there will scratch and bite them, trying to claw at each other! They are crazy.

Good Lord.

I suppose if one was looking for the most dysfunctional-dramatic-baby’s-daddy-questioning love story in history, Jerry Springer would certainly be a great place to start their search. Not quite the type of Nicholas Sparks love story I had in mind, but they do say men and women view romance differently, so maybe that’s where I’d gone wrong in that conversation!

Of course, this was not quite as funny as a few visits back where my grandmother told us about a few movies she’d picked up for my kids at a Church Sale.

First, let me start by saying…Church Sales are NO JOKE. They are much like garage sales, only are not for amateurs. They are for professional garage salers looking for loads of low cost items, all in one location. In fact, they’re quite a garage saler’s dream. You only have to park in one spot and get to view stuff from hundreds of people. Forget about driving all over town to look at single garage sales from street to street. These are the cream of the crop!

My grandmother has a self-admitted Church Sale addiction and honestly, I can easily see myself following in her footsteps as I get older. On beautiful Saturday mornings I have certainly been known to wake the kids up at 7am, throw on a hat, jump in Hubbit’s big truck (SO necessary for hauling my “finds”) and hit the streets in search of the next best garage sale find. In fact, most of the time I make sure I’ve hit the ATM the night before, to ensure I have cash on hand and no time is wasted. The kids once thought this was fun but are more annoyed by it than amused, these days.

The problem is, most often I buy stuff I-absolutely-without-a-doubt-don’t-need-and-can’t-even-find-a-place-for-when-I-get-home. Fail.

My grandmother has found a way around this dilemma, however. She buys the stuff she absolutely-without-a-doubt-doesn’t-need-and-can’t-even-find-a-place-for-when-she-gets-home and then gives it to me, the kids, my mother or my aunt. So, she gets to fulfill her Church Sale addiction and not become a hoarder.

I envy her…she’s a PRO. Not to mention, I do not complain when she finds me brand-new-with-tags Ann Taylor dresses for 50 cents!

Anyhow, she cracked me up a few weeks ago when she was telling me about a few movies she’d picked up for Flea and Bug.

Nona: I found a few movies at the Church Sale this weekend for the boys.
Me: Thanks! They will love them. Which ones are they?
Nona: Dirty Old Men and Dirtier Old Men.

Oh. Em. Gee.

I have yet to get the movies from her, but I am praying she meant “Grumpy Old Men” and “Grumpier Old Men” instead, because I’m thinking we might need to cut her off from her Church Sales if the ones she’s going to sell pornographic material!

And to that, I'll say again...Thank God for grandparents!

Whitney

“Surely, two of the most satisfying experiences in life must be those of being a grandchild or a grandparent.” (Donald A. Norberg)

Five Birthday Double Cheeseburgers Without Pickles And An Extra Side of Stupid, Please.

Today was the third birthday of two of our dogs, Chowder and Chubbs! For each of our dog’s birthdays, we always treat the entire herd to their own individual double cheeseburger without pickles from McDonald’s, and this birthday was no different. Ya know, I was shocked my mother-in-law had a cat who lived to be 18 years old, but with this kind of birthday diet it’s no wonder our dogs don’t live past age 10.

After spending an hour and a half this evening at Toys R Us, trying to find something for Bug to spend his allowance on (plus extra cash he managed to weasel of out his grandparents by crying, who would do almost anything to make him smile) I was exhausted. In fact, I was so exhausted Hubbit and I decided it would be a great night to let the kids eat fast food to avoid cooking dinner. Since we’d already planned to stop by McD’s to get the birthday double cheeseburgers without pickles, the kids agreed to eat there as well.

When we arrived, the kids and Hubbit ordered their food and we all sat down. I can’t eat McD’s so I was just sitting there, almost half asleep, when I realized we’d forgotten to order the treats for the dogs. Oh no! While my family grubbed, I went back to the counter to place the special birthday order.

Behind the counter was a sole male teenage cashier, to the left were two female teen drive thru attendants and in the rear were a handful of workers preparing the food. Each of the workers was calmly tending to their individual tasks, without complications.

As I walked up to the counter, I also noticed the manager salting the fries. His nametag read, “Jeffrey”.

Just as I was ordering our traditional dog birthday double cheeseburgers without pickles, all chaos broke out behind the scenes. Within a short span of thirty seconds, employees started screaming demands at Jeffrey the Manager from every direction.

They needed $5 bills, manager codes for the register, drinks and more beef! Pronto!

Jeffrey the Manager moved with fluidity, gliding across the McDonald’s tile to smoothly fulfill every employee need, without saying a word. He moved to the right and with one swift moment, grabbed the cups from an overhead shelf. He spun around to the front and within five seconds had the money drawer open and ten $5 bills counted, quickly placing them into the hands of the cashier. Right after the money exchange, he wooshed over to the drive thru register and typed in his manager code with what seemed like a typing speed of at least 100 wpm. He then slid to the back of the store and magically appeared with beef for the cooks, with only seconds having passed. Wow!

I was HIGHLY impressed at his ability to handle himself, his employees and customers with great ease. He never let the pressure get to him! As I returned to the table with my bag of heart attacks, I immediately started bragging to Hubbit about Jeffrey the Manager.

It went something like this:

Me: Wow! You should have seen him, honey. He never let the intensity get to him and just whirled around the floor, getting whatever people needed with such grace and agility.
Hubbit: Are you joking?
Me: No! What a high stress jobs these fast food managers have! Who knew?!
Hubbit: (Silence coupled with an irritated glare of total disbelief.)
Me: I feel so bad for him having to deal with all of this stress each day. It must be really difficult to deal with.
Hubbit: YES, honey. Being a fast food manager must be INCREDIBLY stressful. (Roll of the eyes and heavy sarcasm.)

I sat there for a moment, trying to process why Hubbit was not feeling Jeffrey the Manager’s plight like I was. How could he be so heartless?! Poor Jeffrey!

All of a sudden, I realized how dumb I must have sounded to him.

For a brief moment, I’d completely forgotten who I was married to.

I COMPLETELY FORGOT I was married to a person who did not skip a beat when we unexpectedly arrived upon an enflamed car smashed into a highway tree on our way to Virginia Beach a few years ago. While I was breathing and counting through panic attacks from just watching from the sidelines, he was busy saving some poor woman’s life who apparently drives worse than I do. Imagine that.

I COMPLETELY FORGOT I was married to a person who was only a few days ago tending to people with bullets lodged in their bodies, a person who has seen the gruesome results of a person being smashed to death by a 750 pound piece of concrete and a person who has pulled numerous lifeless bodies out of cars.

I COMPLETELY FORGOT he risks his life each time he clocks in at the fire house, whether he’s entering a 1200 degree fire or simply entering a stranger’s house without a weapon, to tend to drug overdoses, suicides, shootings or worse things he doesn’t dare to even mention to his scaredy cat wife...all for modest wages, unappreciative citizens and a government who has done everything in their power to make his department miserable for the past few years.

I COMPLETELY FORGOT I was married to my very own Superman.

Needless to say, just as the original Superman most definitely would have been, MY Superman was highly offended by the fact I was impressed with Jeffrey the Manager’s high stress “skills”.

I may be the most insensitive firefighter wife alive. Seriously.

Although I have a REALLY hard time admitting when I’m wrong, I have absolutely no problem apologizing for my stupidity. So...sorry honey!

Your “superior Superman stuff” deserves to be glorified. (FYI: An inside joke that’s not even slightly as vulgar as it now sounds.)

Whitney

"Take all the fools out of this world and there wouldn't be any fun living in it..." (Josh Billings)

Insomnia, You're Such A Flippin' Stalker. Ugh.

All my life I’ve been the type of person who is very easily affected by everything around me, which is why I try my best to steer clear of most news mediums. After getting my undergrad degree in political science, which constantly required me to be informed about the events of government, I backed completely away from the media.

Well, to be honest I backed away from the media “that counts”.

Each day I still check out AOL News! Of course, the stories I choose to click on mostly fill my brain with nonsense information about which celebrity is going to rehab or which television show is about to premier.

I also keep “up-to-date” by scanning Twitter at night when I can’t sleep. It’s amazing what you can learn via Twitter! Did you know, there is a real life Sleeping Beauty in England who dozes for two weeks at a time? Or, that water boiled in a microwave, can explode? (Follow @OMGFacts for more useless information like this.)

Of course, I still haven’t decided if I scan Twitter because I can’t sleep or if I can’t sleep because I’m constantly scanning Twitter. Hmm…

Whether Twitter is the culprit or not, I'm totally serious about this sleeping problem. Not only do I have a difficult time falling asleep, but also staying asleep for more than a few hours. Last night I went to bed at 9:30pm because I was exhausted from not sleeping the night before and thought it might be great to hit the hay early. But, what happened? Well, since Hubbit was at the fire house all night, both kids piled in my bed and insisted I sleep in the middle of them. We were all freezing because I’d forgotten to turn the heat back on, and when I looked at the thermostat, it was a frigid 66 degrees in the house!

Living in Kentucky can be difficult for those of us who have trouble remembering even the most basic things, like the need for heat when it’s 30 degrees outside. With the weather going from 4 degrees one day to 65 the next, it’s all too overwhelming to remember. Ugh.

Anyhow, because we were shivering, I added two extra blankets onto the bed and we all snuggled up to enter Dreamland. After I figured out how to rub the backs of two kids on each side of me at the same time (spoiled kids), I fell asleep quickly. I was completely content nestled between two Snuggle Bunnies, but woke up about three hours later feeling like I’d been thrown into the desert to bake. I was sweating, nauseous and the worst part…wide awake.

I was able to peel myself carefully out of the middle of the bed and sat in front of a fan to cool off for a few moments. But, because I’d been following the flippin’ “real-not-AOL-or-Twitter-news” all evening, I could not go back to sleep.

Each time I closed my eyes, I imagined a crazy psychopath-creepy-freak lurking in my tiny 12 inch bushes, then busting down my door with his vicious ninja kick and sneaking past my five bark-at-anything-that-moves-or-drives-into-our-court-dogs. Of course, while hiding in the bushes or breaking down the door might be possible, sneaking past my five yappers is not realistic. But, at 1am in the morning I am not a very rational person.

Sure, this problem will hopefully resolve itself soon and I’ve certainly been here/done that when it comes to insomnia. But, the longer it persists, the more I’m at risk of dangers like:

1) Spending ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculous infomercial items like the iRenew Bracelet (my newest pet peeve), Slim Ts, Fushigi Balls, a Kangaroo Keeper or…the infamous Shake Weight.
2) Being a total witch every morning, of every day, forEVER.

To avoid these hazards, I’m trying to find non-medicated ways to cure my insomnia.

Here’s what I’ve tried so far:

Scanning Twitter. (Fail: Again, this may be a contributor to my insomnia, although I’m not sure enough to give up the Twitter night-habit altogether. Addicted, what?)

Sleeping with a bat beside my bed. (Fail: I’m thinking a Barbie pink Glock at my side might make me feel a bit more secure and Flea is complaining I’m stealing his best bat for the “stupidest reason”.)

Positioning my five dogs around me, from head to toe, like a force field of yapping protection. (Fail: Not only was I sweating like a pig, the puppy pile was not at all comfortable to be part of. How do puppies sleep like that?!)

Drinking enough milk to put a normal person in a sleep coma, right before bed. (Fail: Only made me have to pee every twenty minutes.)

Daily exercise. (Fail: I’ve been to the flippin’ gym almost every day for the past two weeks and the only thing I have to show for it is sore legs. And, just so you know, the same people who proclaim daily exercise will help cure insomnia are also wrong about exercise boosting your energy. I’ve barely moved since getting home from the gym this morning. They’re liars. Skinny lairs, at that!)

What I’ve thought about doing, but haven’t:

Putting my exercise bike in front of my bedroom door, just in case the psychopath-creepy-freak tried to ninja kick his way in.

Let my body have its way by staying up all night to work and sleeping all day while the kids are at school.

Ordering The Ultimate Lock (Look up the one by Ron Daniels. He’s a great guy and it’s an amazing product.)

It would be easy to solve this problem if I could just hold strong to my motto of never watching the “real-not-AOL-or-Twitter-news”, but last night apparently there was some type of psychopath-creepy-freak running around my side of town on a shooting spree, and my curiosity got the best of me.

Well, that and the fact I’m one of “those” firefighter wives who gets a little nervous when her husband is working in the same area of the psychos, which I’m beginning to believe is the majority of this city. Because I knew Hubbit was responding to the scene of the shootings, I felt inclined to monitor the news like a maniac until I’d heard from him.

The good news: Hubbit’s fine, the bad guy has been caught and there is at least one less psychopath-creepy-freak running around our city.

The bad news: I’m so exhausted from my lack of sleep, I can’t manage to get myself off the sofa.

The silver lining: Blogging can be done from anywhere and the sofa is as good of a place as any to throw some more of my ridiculousness out into the blogging world! ;)

Whitney

“Nothing cures insomnia like the realization it’s time to get up.” (Unknown Author)

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)