Here's a Story . . . of a Family Named Brady . . .

As kids,  my sister and I would often come home from school, plop ourselves down in front of the boob tube, and watch one of our favorite reruns, The Brady Bunch.

Picture from connect.in.com

What?

Stop laughing.

You know you watched it too.

We would watch as Jan felt shunned as the middle child, as Peter's voice changed, as the whole family got locked in an Old West jail cell, and as Greg battled a bewitched Tiki necklace on Hawaii.  Even though we had a close knit family, I know sis and I wondered what it would have been like to have brothers to antagonize and 6 kids to play with every day.  It seemed like the Brady home was one big play date where the kids sold shampoo that caused hair to turn green, and  they washed clothes with too much laundry soap creating a suds fest only a college student at a dark, smelly bar could dream about.

Seriously.

It was family life nirvana.

Looking back though . . . I have some serious problems with the Bunch.



Picture courtesy Brady Bunch Shrine.



For example,  Alice was the Brady's housekeeper and part of the family.  Why did Alice have to wear that ridiculous uniform all the time.  Was it a job requirement?  Was it a turn on for Mr. Brady?  (Scratch that!  I just remembered that Mr. Brady turned out to be gay, so I am fairly certain that Alice was not his type.)

Hmmm.

Or what about the fact that the entire Brady clan calls their housekeeper by her first name, Alice, (duh!) but Alice had to refer to mom and dad as Mr. and Mrs. Brady?

Isn't that a little snobby?



Picture from Brady Bunch Shrine

 And, what about Mrs. Brady?  As a housewife, what exactly does she do?   Alice cooks.  Alice cleans.  And Mrs. Brady does . . . anyone? Anyone?   If memory serves (and more often than not, it doesn't),  I remember her sitting at her kitchen table, sporting that mullet (YIKES!),  drinking a cup of coffee while Alice prepped dinner.

Now that I think about it,  Mrs. Brady had it pretty good. 

I wish I had an Alice.






Picture from Brady Bunch Shrine

 Finally, my thoughts wandered to the Brady kids, and now that I am a parent myself,  I wonder,  how in the world were those kids sooooooo squeaky clean?  Yes, the kids do get into trouble here and there, but never anything serious, and never any trouble that real kids get into these days.  Where was the trip to the principal's office?  Where was the sneaking out of the house?  Where was the sarcasm or backtalk of the teenage years? 

Nowhere!  That's where!

Maybe, on second thought, I should get the episodes on DVD to show to my own brood.  I think I'd much rather deal with kid that throws a football at his sister's nose than a kid that knows how to text better than I do.



And hubs, if you are reading?

My birthday is in a few days and I would really like . . . an Alice.

Just sayin'.

I am linking to Mama Kat's this week!  Hop on over and visit!! :)

Maybe I Should Be Dorothy Gale This Halloween . . .

What do Dorothy Gale and I have in common?

A love for sparkly, red shoes?



Picture from wizardsofcostume.com


                                                           Yes, of course,  but that's not all.

The ability to break into song when meeting a live scarecrow?

Picture from gonemovies.com

Well, no.  That would just be Dorothy. Although, I do sing a very lovely, if off-key,  version of Scarecrow's If I Only Had a Brain, especially when I lose my keys.

What about a herd of munchkins that follow us around offering us already licked-on lollies?



Picture from silive.com

Well, obviously that is true for both of us.  Although I am fairly certain that Dorothy's little people were always fully clothed and potty trained.  Just sayin'.

No, the main thing that Dorothy Gale and I have in common is that . . .

Picture from climate.umn.edu

we both survived getting into tornado ready position and lived to tell about it.

 

Although, truth be told,  I took some clues from Dorothy and did not retreat to my bedroom where I got bonked on my head by a shutter. Nope.  Not me.  Instead, when I heard the blaring tornado sirens, I grabbed my half-naked munchkin and hightailed it to the basement with my iphone. 

Grab what's important, remember?

Rest assured.  All is OK.  We just had a wild and crazy afternoon.

If you really knew me . . .

If you really knew me, you'd know . . .


-that I am freakishly good at math.  Seriously.  A lot of the tutoring I do is with English and reading, but, I actually have more students that I help with math.  So, I'll admit it.  I like math!  In fact, in 8th grade I was even a Math-lete.  Throw me a matrix or two, or maybe a sine or cosine, and I am perfectly happy.

-that I bite my nails.  I know.  I know.  Gross! But, I don't even realize I am doing it, and after 36 years, it is just part of me.

-that if I could, I would be barefoot 365 days a year.  Of course, living in the frozen tundra makes that especially hard, but this former Florida girl hates shoes (and socks for that matter).


If you really knew me, you'd know . . .


- that I eat one chocolate thing every day, and I don't feel guilty about it.

-that despite the fact that I used to be a personal trainer, I still have a hard time motivating myself to go to the gym.  In fact, it was almost easier to get to get to the gym when it was my job, because I was accountable to my customers.  Apparently, being accountable only to me is not necessarily as motivating.

-that I don't diet.  I eat when I am hungry, keep my body moving, and try to make good food decisions.  Am I as skinny as my high school self?  Nope.  Not a chance.  But, I am happy where I am, and that is good enough for me.


If you really knew me you'd know . . .


 - that my house is, more often than not, a mess.  The laundry basket is in the living room, and there may be dishes in the sink.  Usually the mess doesn't bother me, but there are times when I lose it, and go on a cleaning spree.

-that I really do love to cook, but, my family's palate is not as adventurous as mine, and therefore, I am often bored in the kitchen.

-that I mean it when I say to just stop by.  You don't need to call me first, just show up at my door, and then, come on in.  My home may be a mess, but it is a home, not a house, and it is lived in and used and loved. So, put your feet up and stay awhile.  (You don't even need to remove your shoes if you don't want to!)



If you really knew me you'd know . . .


-that if I am yelling then all is good.  It is when I get quiet that you need to watch out!

- that I often use my smile and my humor to hide the way I am really feeling.

- that I take people's words and actions to my heart.  People's smiles can lift me up quite quickly, and just as easily, someone's remark or tone, can cut me deeply.  I have a tender heart.



If you really knew me you'd know . . .


- that I love to write.

-that I dream about writing my book someday.

-that that dream scares me sh*tless.

One Reason to Wear Clean Underwear . . . Revisited

This post is originally from March of 2010, but considering Mama Kat's wardrobe malfunction prompt, I thought that it was more than appropriate.  Enjoy!  And, if you get the chance, hop on over to Mama Kat's and read some more wardrobe malfunctions. :)



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!

Sniffing One Out

This morning as I sat snuggled under my Snuggie (Yes.  I have one. Do not judge!),  hubs moved frantically around the house while he packed his duffle bag for his afternoon football practice.

"You got everything?"  I asked.

"Yep.  I think so,"  he answered. 

I watched as he wandered from room to room gathering goodies as he roamed. Nikes?  Picked up in the living room.  Sweatshirt?  Retrieved from the back of a chair in the dining room.  You see, whenever hubs returns from work, he leaves a trail of clothing in his wake.

It used to drive me crazy,  his Hansel and Gretel like afternoon tendencies.

Seriously. 

Caaa - razy!

But, after 10 years of marriage, I am used to it.  Most days, I either leave his trail intact, or I place all of the items I find in one basket that I deposit in his closet.

It's not ideal, but it works for us.

So, when hubs zipped up his bag, paused and then said, "Oh!  Socks!  I need socks!"  I went into locator mode.  I quickly thought through a mental checklist of the done and to-be-completed laundry,and just as I was about to tell him where the clean socks were, I clammed up in awe.

There was hubs, bending over and picking up his discarded socks from yesterday.

"Really, hon?"  I asked.

He answered with a wry smile, "What? These?!?"  And then he took a good. long. sniff. of those yesterday socks.  He smiled again and said emphatically, "Really!"



And although I am completely grossed out by the yesterday socks and the sniffing . . .
at least it is one less pair of socks to wash.



Anyone else out there with a sock sniffing spouse, or is it just me?

From one mom to another . . .

Dear harried mom on the Continental flight to Jersey,


Girl!

I have been there.  I could see the despair in your face as you shushed and hushed your little one.  I could sense your desperation as you gently rocked that baby back and forth and back and forth as one traveler after another shot you dirty looks.  If I had an extra binkie, it would have been yours, my girl.  Flying with kids (especially babies) is an act of courage.

Good for you for shutting the meanies out and focusing on your baby.

Please know that although I was traveling without my kids (for once),  I was sitting 2 rows behind you, feeling every bit of your discomfort.  Although silly, I was sitting back, behind you, sending you positive thoughts and prayers.

Because, I have been there.

You needed them.

Here's hoping your return flight was better and peaceful!


From one harried mom to another,

Annie


PS   When that rude businessman rolled his eyes and made a comment about you and your baby behind your back (but really loud enough for you to hear)?  Good for you for taking the high road.

I would have told him to stick it.

"Serious"ly Annie

Forgive me friends.

I do not have any funny stories to recount.

Or, any sassy observations to convey.


My heart is heavy today.


I just heard the news that a favorite uncle of mine has been diagnosed with liver cancer, and truthfully, I feel like I am under water and gasping for a breath.  You see, 8 years ago, hubs' mom was diagnosed with the same cancer.  At that time, I was younger, and more naive, and I didn't realize the gravity of a liver cancer diagnosis.  Even though it happened right in front of my eyes, I refused to see mom waste away with increasingly toxic doses of chemotherapy.  I was helped along in my denial by mom, of course.  You see, she was so very brave, and never once did she complain outright of pain or sickness.  Oh, she got a little cranky and even a bit spunkier than her normal self, but, she never complained about the cancer.  She was the ultimate mom, after all.  Worried about her kids and their feelings.  Selfless to the end.

But now that I am older, I see the seriousness of a liver cancer diagnoses, and it makes me feel like I have been punched in the stomach. Hard.


I ache.

I am tired.

And, most of all,  I want to reach out and hug my dad, my cousins, and my whole family.


Since they are far from me, I will hug my own little ones just a little bit closer.  I will drink in their delicious vitality, and  I will appeciate their warm smiles and mischievious laughs.  They heal the hurts.


Most of all, though,  I pray.

Honoring the "Fallen"

This morning the temperature dipped into the upper 30's, so when I went to wake up my sleeping bear, Ellerie, she decided to be very two, and bury herself under the comforters.  I snuggled my way in after her, and as I hugged her tightly to my chest, she posed the following question.

"Mom?  Where are your boobies?"

I didn't really understand what she was asking me, so I rephrased her question, "What do you mean where are my boobies?"  I hugged her a little tighter to me so that she could feel my chest.

Then, I heard her giggle.  "Oh!  There they are!" 

Her exclamation and laugh made me laugh too . . . until she dropped the bomb.

"They are right down here.  They just fell down."


So, there you have it.


My boobs fell down.


They have fallen.


And,  they can not get back up . . . without surgical help, that is.   First, Ab called them dangly, and now El says they have fallen down.  It is just too much for a Monday morning.  And, it is just one more reason why I would like to invest in my plastic surgery fund instead of the kids' college fund.

A girl (and her fallen boobs) has to have her priorities, after all.