For Today, I am Awesome!

Hi y'all!

I am guest posting today over at Tracie's at Stir Fry Awesomeness.

Yeah. That's right.

For today, I am awesome.

So, hop on over there to find me . . . and check out Tracie while you are at it.

She is one of the reasons why I have decided to invest in Depends. They come in so handy when you pee your pants from laughing, afterall.

Enjoy!

I Need a Charge!

I went to the car wash today to clean out and vaccuum my van. It was, of course, a disaster. (As if you didn't know!)

That industrial strength vaccuum sucked up crayons, petrified french fries, dried leaves, Krispy Kreme wrappers (OK. OK. That was me. I'm guilty. You know how I love me some Krispy Kreme donuts!!), candy pieces dropped by El, unopened band aids, straws, paper clips, and . . . well, there was more, but that is all that I can think of off of the top of my head. I estimated that we were there for about 15 minutes.

But, I may have been mistaken.

You see, when I went to turn on the engine, all I heard was a faint click.

That's right.

My battery was dead.

Which led me to 2 thoughts . . .

1) Was God trying to keep me at the car wash in order to prove a point to me? Did he want me to continue cleaning?? Is cleanliness next to godliness when it comes to minivans?

and

2) My husband was soooooo going to enjoy rubbing in the fact that my car was so stinking dirty that by the time I had cleaned it, I had drained the battery.


I contend that I need a new battery.


So, give it up . . . is your vehicle as bad as mine? Would you have had a dead battery after you cleaned your ride?

Something STILL is Missing!

I am joining up with Lee over at Headaches, Hormones, and Hotflashes today. She is talking about her hubs and I found this gem in the vault that I thought would fit perfectly.

Afterall, I love hubs dearly, but let's face it, there are times when he drives me crazy.

I am fairly certain that the feeling is mutual.

Smooches hub!

Something Missing (originally posted 4/8/09)

Ever hear of the missing link?


Well, I think that the missing link is missing from my husband's head.


It seems that we have the same conversation over and over and over again. Either hubby is getting selective Alzheimer's disease, or this repeat discussion is just some elaborate practical joke on me. I wouldn't put it past him. He does sooooo love a good laugh, and fortunately for him, I frequently provide him with great material. I mean, who wouldn't love to poke fun at a wife that consistently burns the garlic bread each and every time that she makes it? Or what about a vain wife that wears heels that are "too cute" despite the fact that they give her huge weeping blisters? Seriously, I deserve to be made fun of . . . at times . . . but this ongoing conversation is just a bit too much.


"Annie? Hon? Where is the parmesan cheese?"


During this installment of the discussion, I was perched comfortably in our rocker in the living room. Before I answered, I crept out of the chair slowly and peeked around the corner of the kitchen to see what he was doing. Hubby was standing, staring, mouth a bit agape at the open kitchen cabinet. His hand was holding the door ajar, but he was not moving. Just standing. Staring.


Finally I answered with a question, "Paul? Have you looked for the cheese?" I already knew what the answer would be.


"Yes! I am looking right now." Except he wasn't. I was spying on him, and I had caught him, not looking, just staring at an open cupboard. I tried my sarcastically, sappy voice next.


"Hon . . . have you moved things around or are you just staring at the open cabinet?"


He instantly flushed red, realizing that I had him. "Well . . . no . . ."


I calmly emerged from around the corner, walked over to the cabinet, moved exactly one item, and voila! parmesan cheese.


Then I just looked at him. Sheepishly, he said, "I know. I know. You think that I didn't look."


And that's the conversation we dance around. If it is not parmesan cheese, it is his blue school shirt. (Never mind that he has probably 50 navy blue school sport shirts. He needs one particular blue shirt, one that feels different.) If it's not an item of clothing, it is the broom. If it is not the broom, it is the nail clippers. If it is not the clippers, it is some random tool. You get the idea. It is always something, and I could go on and on and on.


It makes me wonder if my hubby is just search deficient, or is it men in general?


Hmmmmmm.


Interesting.


And, in case this is not enough for you to ponder about, I will pose my next quandary.


How is it possible for hubby to find a particular bowl or pot to use in the kitchen, but then, when the time arrives for the said bowl or pot to be put away, he mysteriously develops amnesia and "forgets" where it should go? His mental deficit apparently applies to looking for an item, and finding a location for an item. I can not count how many times I have uttered the words, "If you know where it is to use it, why can't you find the place to put it away?" as I put away a random stack of pans and dishes that are teetering precariously on the edge of the counter top. The stack that is obviously leftover after Paul has unloaded the dishwasher. The stack that he claims that he "doesn't know where they go!"


It has to be a joke. If not, I am sure to have this conversation many more times . . .
especially when hubby is diagnosed with dementia down the road.



If I'm lucky, I'll be diagnosed too.


That way, I'll forget why I am angry.

Venting . . . Venting . . .

5 things that you could do to get on my S*** List . . .


1. Eat my chocolate. I have a stash of very good and very yummy dark chocolate. My stash is for emergencies only (read - pretty much every afternoon around 3 o clock), and if I go to my secret hiding place and find it empty . . . watch out! I will hunt you down and hurt you with my chocolate deprived self.

2. Wash my clothes without asking. I know. I know. On the surface, this sounds as if it would be a chore that I would love to have help with daily. And, I would. Love to have help that is. What I do not love is finding piles of clothing that have been washed by someone who shall remain nameless (hubs . . . I am talking to you!) that have items in them that are either not supposed to be washed in the washer or not supposed to be dried in the dryer. I am now down one cashmere sweater, and I am also now the proud owner of one shrunken, but still beautiful, spring blouse. Hubs . . . please do not help me anymore.

3. Wake me up from a sound sleep. Since becoming a mother 8 years ago, I have estimated that I have lost approximately 7,000 hours of sleep. I am seriously sleep deprived people. I daydream about when I can sleep. I crave it like I crave a BLT, and that is saying something since bacon is one of my favorite food groups. So, if you have a need to talk, don't call before 9 am or after 9 pm. I may not be asleep, but . . . I might be. Also, if you are having a nightmare, need water, or have the pukes . . . please stop by hubs side of the bed first. Just sayin'.

4. Drive on the road when you can't see over the steering wheel or remember who was president when you were born. Enough said.

5. Let your kid act like an idiot at the park. News flash: parents, when you take your child to the park, you still have to parent them. Putting your head in a book or texting on your blackberry do not count as parenting. If you choose not to parent, know that I will parent your child when they choose to throw sand, beat up kids younger than them, and/or use foul language. Also know, that if you choose to stick your head in the sand when it comes to your child's behavior, you will be on my list (as well as other parent's lists). We will be waiting for karma to bite you in the butt in a few years. Don't get mad when we laugh.



Thanks for letting me vent. I feel much better.

Lyrically Speaking

********I am linking this to Travis' Memoir Monday. He's a hoot! Go check him out. Go on. Do it!



If you catch me at a stoplight, I am usually doing one of two things.

1. Checking my rearview mirror to make sure that Ellerie is still in her seat.

or

2. Singing to the radio at the top of my lungs, much to the chagrin of my children and probably my fellow drivers with their windows down.

So, I was singing along the other day, when a new song popped on the radio, it was by a person or group named Young Life. I didn't catch the title, but one of the catchy lyrics made me laugh out loud. It was, "Call me Mr. Flintstone, cause I will make your Bed- Rock!!"

No.

I am not kidding.

After enjoying the laugh, I quickly changed the station to avoid another birds and bees conversation. But, then I got to thinking . . . are the kids really listening to the lyrics? Because, truth be told, when I was their age, I certainly wasn't.

If I had listened to the lyrics, I probably would have been a bit embarrassed when 80's band Frankie Goes to Hollywood sang, Relax . . . Don't Do It, When You Wanna Come. I was already married to my husband when he clued me in to the fact that they were talking about sex and orgasm. Who knew? Apparently, everyone but me!

Or what about when Madonna's Like a Virgin debuted? I remember I was in the fifth grade, and my mom had a very stern discussion with me and my sister about how we were not to sing or talk about that song when grandmom came to visit. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why, especially since I knew that grandmom was super religious and prayed to the Virgin Mary all of the time. I figured, why would she care if we sang about being like the Virgin Mary? I did wonder, though, why Madonna rolled all over the floor in lingerie. And, just why did she have that big cat in the video, hmmmm?

Yes.

I know.

Duh.

I was a little more with it when the 90's song, I Touch Myself was released. I figured out all by myself that it was a tribute to being master of your domain. What I couldn't figure out was why a girl was singing it. Of course, I figured that only boys took part in that kind of self pleasure. Truthfully, I am pretty sure that I didn't even know that women could be masters of their domains.

I know.

I know.

I obviously had a wealth of sexual education knowledge.

After re-reading this, I am amazed that I ever even got pregnant. At least I knew that it took more than running into one another in the dark, naked.


So . . . give it up . . . what lyrics were you clueless about when you were growing up??? Or were you so savy that you were the one explaining it to kids like me?

My March Madness

I need some advice. Or sanity. Or both.

My problem?

Simple.

Ellerie will not sit in her car seat.

Now, I know that some of you out there will just say, "Strap her in! " I, too, am OK with that approach if it weren't for the fact that Ellerie can undo the buckles. And, not just any, run of the mill seat belt buckles, mind you. These are tough for me to get undone without some concentration. The girl could probably figure out a rubik's cube if it meant that she could get out of her car seat. She is a flipping Houdini, I tell you!

Maybe she has a future in magic?

Hmmm.

At least I know that she won't be into bondage.




Any ideas to help? Duct tape?? Bungee cords??? I am pretty open to anything.

In the Pits . . . An Apology

Dear Man in the Blue Chevy Truck in the CVS parking lot,

I am sure that you think that I am crazy.

And, really, let's be honest. On most days, I am.

But, on Monday what you witnessed in the CVS parking lot was particularly nuts, even for me. For that, I apologize.

You see, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why I was shaving my armpit while sitting in the driver's seat of my van in the CVS parking lot. I was on my way to the gym when I adjusted my rearview mirror. It was then that I noticed that my armpits resembled a forest growing rampant. Holy yuck!! There was no way that I could go to the gym and show off those prickly hairs now could I? So, rather than go all the way back home to shave, I stopped at the CVS on the way, bought a pack of disposable razors, and took care of the problem in the parking lot.

Perfectly reasonable! So you see, I am not crazy in the least.


I am just a very creative and resourceful woman . . . with cleanly shaven armpits.

Sincerely,

Annie

PS I wholeheartedly appreciate that you did not take a video of my madness with your cell phone and post it on you tube. I checked. :)

I Cursed the Day . . .

There are times in my day when a good curse word just hits the spot.

Like say, when Ellerie undoes her buckle in her car seat for the 27th time in less than one mile, a nice loud, "Shi . . . .it!" gets the job done.

Or when I drop a full pot of water on my toe causing me to look a bit like a drenched rat doing a dance, a "Damn it!" works just fine.

But honestly, that is about the limit of my cursing vernacular. I am a shit or damn girl, only. Thankyouverymuch. Those more colorful words that begin with an F or maybe a C just don't pepper my conversations.

Except for that one time . . .

I was teaching the classic novel, Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain to my bunch of rowdy 7th graders. It was 7th period, the last period of the day, and I had the pleasure of having a class filled with 18 pubescent boys and 3 lovely girls. (No. That is not a typo. 18 boys to only 3 girls. Yikes!) To make matters worse, because of scheduling, the majority of the class had Phys. Ed. right before they came to see me. The class reeked of smelly boy B.O., and more than once I am sure I embarrassed them by having the deodorant talk.

So, my class was smelly, loud and bursting with boys going through puberty.

Nice.

One afternoon, they were particularly riled up. There was a constant low buzz in the classroom, and more than once I had to tell them to pipe down! Finally, it was time to go over their assignment from the night before. It was a worksheet about Huckleberry Finn.

I stood up in front of the class, cleared my throat, and in my loud and commanding voice stated, "Take out you Fuck Hinn worksheet!"

It took a moment, and then the classroom erupted with laughter. I paused. Replayed my words in my mind, and instantly realized what I had done.

I had dropped an F bomb.

I had transposed the H from Huckleberry and the F from Finn, and thereby said the mother of all curse words in front of a group of hormone riddled boys.

It took a full 10 minutes for the laughter to die down, and all I could think about were all of the parent phone calls that I would have to field.

Miraculously, there was nary a one.

I said a silent prayer of thanks and resolved from that day forward to curse no more. . . except for the occasional shit or damn.



A girl has to have some vices after all.

Caught in the Tentacles of Life

I don't think that I am cut out to be the mom of a little boy.

I mean . . . when Ethan ran his hand along a car's bumper in a mall parking lot and then licked his hand, I was utterly grossed out . . . but OK.

When Ethan pulled dirt, grass, sticks and stones out of his jeans pocket and then placed them on my dinner table . . . during dinner, I was repulsed, . . . but I didn't flinch.

When my boy removed every stitch of his clothing to use the bathroom, despite the fact that we were in public, despite the fact that we were in the Atlanta airport, I was horrified and wanted to douse him with Chlorox, . . . but, I survived.

But, when it comes to the birds and the bees, and boys . . .

I am not so good.

Recently, Ethan plodded into the bathroom to use the facilities. After a few minutes, I heard his familiar, "Mom!" so I trudged to the bathroom to see what was the matter.

"What's wrong buddy?"

"Mom, what are these things?" he said pointing to his male member.

"What things?" I asked innocently.

He fired back, "Maaaa- ooom!" with exasperation. "These things! There are two circle things under my pee pee. What are they?"

"Oh," I said, figuring it out. I decided to just use the correct terminology and be very matter of fact, even though the last thing that I wanted to be doing was discussing his male anatomy. "Well E, those are your testicles."

"Oh," he replied.

"Oh?" Maybe I was home free, I thought. But, I was wrong.

"What are they for mom?'

A thousand inappropriate thoughts flew through my head . . . but I reigned them in, and went with, "Well, they are boy parts that someday will help you to be a daddy." Then, I busied myself with folding a fallen towel, and I scurried out of there.

Later, when hubs got home, E, hubs and I were in the living room alone. I thought about our birds and bees conversation and decided to get hubby in on the action. After all, he deserves to be just as uncomfortable as me, right? I am a good parent like that.

"Ethan. Why don't you ask Daddy what you were asking me about today in the bathroom?" I figured it would be better coming out of his mouth.

Ethan's face lit up when he realized what I was talking about, and he said, "Dad, I have tentacles on my pee pee!"

Tentacles?!?!

I almost wet myself from laughing!

Hubs, however, remained composed, and said, "Tentacles? I think you mean testicles, right bud?!"

E laughed and nodded.

And I thank God for two things.

1) I have a hubby that is OK with the birds and the bees.

and

2) He did not teach E any other choice euphemisms for testicles.


Tentacles are bad enough.

Surprise!!

Yippee!

The kitchen cabinets arrived for the never ending kitchen remodel last night. I am anticipating a weekend of sweat and tears (but hopefully no blood!), but I didn't want to leave you all hanging out in bloggy world. I am good like that.

So, for all of you newbies, here is an old post about me and hubs. I learn every day that he is oh-so-much more than the handy sports guy that I married, and frankly, I love when he surprises me!


The Surprise of a Lifetime

My hubby surprises me rarely.


He is a creature of routine. His mornings consist of his alarm, coffee, newspaper and coffee, omelet making, bathroom business, ironing clothes, and cleaning the kitchen. In that exact order. Every morning. Day after day. Week after week. Sometimes if I wake up early and try to make myself breakfast or use our one bathroom, inevitably I mess up his routine. This always amuses me. This rarely amuses him.

Because of his routine-like habits, I usually know what to expect from hubby, whether in word or in deed. That's why I was so taken back at our date last night.

Last night, we ventured out (without kiddies) for a little fun at a local bar. They have great wings (hubby's fave!) and cold beer, a good combination in my book. On Mondays, they also have Trivia where customers compete against each other to win a free appetizer or free pitcher of beer. Free food or drink really spurs competition, and we enjoyed trying to outsmart the other patrons on questions like, "According to Papua New Guinea cannibals, which Hormel lunch meat tastes the most like human flesh?" Answer: Spam (Which we got correct! And, yes, I know that that is gross, and no, I have no idea why hubby and I have that useless knowledge residing in our brain.)

In between rounds, hubby said, "I really had a hard time falling asleep last night."

As I licked hot sauce off my fingers I prompted, "Really? Why?"

"Hmmmm. I don't know," he paused. "All I do know is that I was watching this movie where a guy gets amnesia and then forgets about his family."

Intrigued, I questioned, "What movie?"

"I don't know the name. After he forgets his family, he gets with another lady and her sons. The lady was played by Pam Dawber, and she looked hot . . ."

I interrupted, "Pam Dawber? Mork and Mindy, Pam Dawber? Are you sure it wasn't Pam Anderson?" I teased.

"Yes, I am sure. Pam Dawber. Mork and Mindy. Her. Well, she . . ."

I had to interrupt again. "Pam Dawber is not hot."

He shot right back, "Well in this movie she was. Now stop interrupting and listen."

I busied myself with eating and kept quiet.

"Well, after he had proposed marriage to the hot, Pam Dawber," he emphasized sarcastically, "suddenly, he gets his memory back and remembers his first family."

I waited for him and when he was quiet, I asked, "And? What then?"

"Well, it shook me up. The man decided to go back to his first family even though he was really in love with Pam. And even if he wasn't in love with her, Pam was much hotter. He definitely should have picked her."

I chuckled at his man logic, that the hottest woman should always win, and said, "Hon. What were you watching? It sounds like . . . well . . . crap."

And that's when he did it.

He surprised me.

"Well . . ." he started, and then he looked sheepishly down at his plate.

"Well what?" I asked pointedly. I was the cat and the curiosity was killing me!

"Well, I don't know what the name of the movie was, but . . ." he trailed off.

"But what? I couldn't hear you, " I asked.

"Well, it was on LMN."

"LMN?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't sleep last night because you were up watching the Lifetime Movie Network?!"
I asked incredulously.

"Well . . . yeah."

You could have just pushed me over with your pinkie. I was shocked! Here was my hubby, my sports guy, my guy that loves, loves, loves, shoot 'em up action packed thrillers admitting that a Lifetime movie got to him.

I couldn't believe it.

I started first with a slight giggle, and as my shoulders began to shake, that giggle turned to an outright laugh, and finally I was in hysterics. It was just too funny.

"Hon, " I said through my giggles, "I love that you watch the Lifetime Movie Network after I am cashed out for the night."

He smiled, realizing that I was teasing him, and then countered, "So I guess I shouldn't tell you that I stayed awake to watch Message in a Bottle after that?!?"

That little tidbit put me over the edge. LMN and Message in a Bottle?!?!?

My hubby was a closet sap! ( A fact that I had suspected ever since he had cried like a baby during our entire wedding ceremony.)

We laughed and laughed together at his latent sappiness as we finished our trivia round.

It was a great date, which wasn't surprising.

Disney Confessions . . .

The cousins posing for a pic.

I confess . . . it's been awhile since my last confession post.

Forgive me?

Yes?

Good. I feel better already.

On to more absolution . . .

I confess that I love Disney World. I wear the goofy hats, made the kids wear the goofy hats, and I even hugged on all of the characters that I met! I know. I know. I am a grown woman. I should practice a little more restraint, but, it is just soooo much fun to partake of the silliness. Seriously, if a 5 foot mouse were to approach me say, in my home, I would be after that rodent with a bat in less than a heartbeat. But, in Disney World a 5 foot mouse inspires nothing but love and affection, go figure!

Ab with Princess Minnie ears.

Ethan with Sorcerer Mickey ears that lit up!

I confess that on our recent Disney adventure, when an old teacher of mine that works as a stage manager at one of the parks was able to work a little special Disney magic, I almost peed my pants with excitement and enjoyment. My kids were jedis!! We all got to meet Darth Vader and denounce the dark side! Darth tried to tempt us with signed light sabers, but my kids used the force and said, "Step off!" Sure, it was dorky and geeky, but it was heaven! Nerd heaven, but still heaven!!

(That's me in the front holding a terrified Ellerie.)

I confess that Darth invaded my dreams that week. Does that mean I will join the dark side? Or that secretly, I want to be bad? Very, very bad? Hmmmm. I confess that I don't have the answer. (But, it sure is fun to think about!)


I confess that for the entire week in Disney, I did not formally work out.

I confess that it didn't matter that I didn't work out, because I walked approximately 7,000 miles while carrying a 40 pound Ellerie. No. I am not kidding. (My back sincerely wishes that I was!) Apparently the little turkey decided that she did not want to be restrained within the confines of her stroller. She even escaped a time or two when forcibly put in the seat. Consequently, I probably burned at least 20,000 calories trekking all over the kingdoms with her 40 pounds of love in my arms. (The insane things that we do for our kids . . . and for myself for that matter . . .)

Ellerie with a poopie face. Imagine that.

I confess. We had a ball! :)

Is that Elton John?!?

One Reason to Wear Clean Underwear . . .

Have you ever had one of those moments where you think to yourself, "This can't be happening to me?"

No?

Then, you should probably quit reading. You are perfect, and I probably hate you. (Not really, but, you know, hate is like a little bit of sugar. It just helps you swallow things that much easier.)

And really, after today's moment, I will probably need a truck full of sugar to step foot in the gym again.

You see, after arriving at the gym and depositing El at the playroom, I made my way to the cubbies to remove all of my extra clothes I was wearing. (Of course, all of these extra clothes would be completely unnecessary if Jack Frost would just die, but that is another post entirely.) First, I stripped off my hat and gloves. Then, I peeled off my husband's comfy sweatshirt leaving me in my favorite teal workout tee. Finally, I pulled my warm ups down and off haphazardly yanking them over my tennies. It was then that I first noticed the draft on my legs.

And, instantly, my heart stopped and my face turned a lovely shade of crimson.

Not only had I pulled off my warmups, but in my haste to get to my workout, I had also pulled off my workout shorts in the process.

Yes.

I was standing in the middle of the gym with a cute workout tee, tennies, and my exposed panties for all the world to see.

My first thought?

At least I do not have on my granny panties! Whew!!

And the second?

How many people are witnessing this right now?

As it turns out, while I was hurriedly putting my shorts back on, I darted my eyes around the facility and noticed that 1) It was quite empty, and 2) No one seemed to notice that I had, in fact, mooned the patrons with my black panties.

Although, I am not sure of this fact in the least. It is possible that I may be on some employee bulletin board later this week, but, I digress.

The worst part about this is that ( and I am embarrassed to actually write this down), this is not the first time that I have de-pantsed myself in public.

I know. I know.

You think that I would have learned to be a bit more careful.

Although, the last time that it happened, I am absolutely positive that there were witnesses to my mortification.

How, you ask?

The last time that I pulled my warm ups off, complete with my shorts too, I was up in front of the gym classroom, teaching the step aerobics class.

Try to live that one down!

Thank God I was wearing clean undies . . . both times!

****I'd like to include this in Travis' Memoir Monday! He is one funny, fishing guy!