Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Tales of A Girl Scout Drop Out

My daughter is a Girl Scout this year. 

There are multiple problems with this.

First, I am a Girl Scout drop out.  I quit the girl scouts in the 4th grade when I realized that the boys were camping in tents, and we girls had to use cabins.  I was filled with injustice!  (Apparently I was a little feminist in the making.)  Today,  I would take a cabin EVERY TIME.

Secondly, I have already "forgotten" to pick her up after her girl scouts' meeting.  I thought hubs was getting her.  He thought I was.  There sat Abs.  Not a good day in the mommy chronicles, I tell you.  Not. A. Good. Day.

And finally, the last and worst problem with Ab being a Girl Scout are these.


Ab is selling Girl Scout Cookies.

Heaven help me . . . and my thighs.

In honor of this momentous occasion . . . I give you this repost from last year's girl scout season, when the devil itself did not reside within my own house.


Dear Girl Scout,

I have you figured out!

You dress in your adorable uniform, you approach me with your smiling toothless grin, and you know.

You know.

Yes, you know very well that I will be unable to resist your little girl charms. I will inevitably buy a box or seven, just because you are cute. Forget about the fact that the Thin Mints are delish, and the Samoas taste di-vine crumbled up on vanilla ice cream. When you approach me with that box of cookies, and ask for my help, I will be transported back to when I was a girl scout (before I quit because they wouldn't let me tent camp like the boys). I will remember how hard it was for me to approach an adult and hock my baked goods. And when that memory comes rushing back, I am a goner.

And you know it.

You can smell the sale like a dog can smell fear.

I am but a victim in your entrepreneurial endeavors, and frankly, I may as well just set up a direct deposit into your cookie bank account.

I am that much of a lock.

So, please forgive me if I advert my eyes from your eager gaze. And, please don't take offense when I close the curtains and hide in the dark as you ring my bell. I am doing it for my own good.

And while you may not thank me for it, my ass will.

A drop out scout,


Sunday, January 23, 2011

Spies Like Hubs

"Have you ever considered that I might be a spy? "  hubs asked as we read the Sunday paper together.

I looked up briefly, met his eyes, and with a curt, "No," I went back to reading the paper.

He didn't take my hint and continued, "I mean.  I could go to school, go to an underground tunnel, and take off to a completely different life."

I stopped my reading. "Well, do you?"

"No, "  he paused and then said, "but I could."

He gaze was so intent that I burst out laughing.

"What?  What is so funny?" he asked.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I replied, " You are.  A spy?  I am picturing you as Maxwell Smart/ football coach. Too funny!"  And I started giggling again.

He chuckled too and then remarked, "I was thinking of myself as more of an Arnold Schwarzenagger type like in True Lies  It was on TV last night."

I summarized.  "So you are  leading a double life as a spy, and you picked Ahhh-nold as your persona?"

"Yeah!" he replied, proud of himself.

"I think that I am safe in knowing that you are NOT a secret spy. "

"Really?  How do you know?"

I answered easily. "Because secret spies do not tell their wives about being secret spies and compare themselves to Arnie. " I paused and then added, "Also, secret spies do not ask their wives if they know of a solution for toe nail fungus."

Case closed.

So, my question to y'all is this, "Do you have these crazy conversations with the one you love?  Or is it just me?"

Thursday, January 20, 2011

The Man I Love Is . . . Well . . . Weird

There are so many things about Hubs that I love. 

So. Many. Things.

He scrapes my car for me on winter mornings. (Never mind the fact that he did it with a snow shovel that caused deep horizontal scratches across my windshield and thereby required the windshield  be replaced.)

He has completely remodeled my kitchen for me.  (Ignore the fact that the project was started in April of 2009.)

He has trekked across the frozen tundra to get me the perfect Christmas tree. (It was also uphill and he was barefoot. At least that's the way he tells it.)

And, the man makes me coffee every morning.  (Although I am suspicious that he does this good deed purely for his own benefit.  I am not my best in the morning without caffeine.  Who is?  Wait.  Don't answer that.  I may be forced to hate you.)

The man clearly loves me.

But, my favorite thing about Hubs has got to be one of his little known quirks.

He analyzes people's eyes.

I know.  I know

Completely weird, right? 

Yes.  But, oh so completely endearing too.

Just read below and see what you think . . .

The Eye of the Beholder  originally posted 2/2009

I am a vain person. I fully admit it and own up to it. I care about the way that I look. So when hubby informed me that I had one eye that was smaller than the other, I thought that he was joking.

Immediately, I put up my first defense, "C'mon honey. Be serious!"

Cool as a cucumber, and without a hint of his usual sarcasm, he answered, "I am Annie. Your left eye is smaller than your right."

I searched his expression for any tell tale give away to his obvious joke, but found nothing.

"You're sure this isn't like the "big head" incident?" I asked, referencing the time that he had me going for almost a week that I had an abnormally large head for my body. He had seen it on an old Seinfeld rerun. Elaine's boyfriend had broken up with her because, in his words, she had a big head. Literally. Hubby had used the same tactics on me once, and my vanity had me believing that my melon was grossly disproportionate for my 5'2" body.

He patted my head lovingly and said, "Sweetie, it's no big deal."

Those words did me in.

I won't say that I ran to the mirror, but I did that silly walk run combo you see old men in nylon shorts do at the beach. And to my horror, I discovered that he was right! I pulled the curtain open in the bathroom in the hopes that allowing more light into the room would prove that the mirror was lying. But alas, it was not. My left eye was and is slightly smaller than my right. I was in shock. How could I have lived all these 35 years and never noticed that I was not proportional? But more importantly, after almost 9 years together, why was this the first time he had said anything to me about it? Why not just let me live in my ignorance? Why alert me to my eye lopsidedness?

I practically slid down the banister rushing to get back to confront him. "Why didn't you say something?!!!!!"

"About what?"

"About my eye!"

We stared at each other for a few seconds, probably trying to determine how and what to say next.

Carefully, he started. "Annie . . ." I always know that when he starts with my name, he is trying to soften me up. As in, "Annie . . . I wrecked your jeep or Annie . . . what are your thoughts about a 2 day golf trip?" Starting with my name, usually meant that I didn't want to hear his next words.

"Annie . . . I never said anything before, because it is not that big of a deal."

Easy enough for a non-vain person to say. I continued my stare in the hopes that he would continue. He did, but I wasn't prepared for his explanation.

"It really isn't that big of a deal, because . . ." and here was the kicker, "every person has one eye bigger than the other."

What? What? What? Was he seriously using that as his argument?

I retorted. "And I suppose that you look at every person's eyes to determine which eye has the deficit?"

And he shot back, "As a matter of fact, I do. I always can tell right away a person's smaller eye."

I didn't respond because I was too busy thinking . . .What? My hubby is weird! What else don't I know about him? Is he secretly OCD like Monk on TV? Does he check out people's other body parts? I was beginning to forget why I was arguing with him in the first place. I couldn't let this new tidbit go without some further investigation.

"So you mean to tell me that you analyze people's eyes for symmetry as soon as you meet them?"


"So if I named a person right now, you could tell me which eye is smaller?"

"Yep. Shoot"

So I went for it.





"Your sister?"

"Oh that's easy. Left."

We went on this way for several more minutes. I threw in friends, family members, celebrities, and even sports figures until I realized that this was not a function of my husband being critical of other people's appearances. This was a game for him. It was just something to do to pass the time. Once I realized that, I let go of my vain anger and decided to have fun with him. It was weird, don't get me wrong. But once I figured out it wasn't malicious, it WAS fun.

And now, since I know this latest little idiosyncrasy about him, it is also enjoyable for me to analyze with him. Case in point, last night at our Valentine's dinner, the waitress took our order and left the table. All I did was raise my eyebrow at hubby, and he knew.


And then we laughed like idiots.



Completely lovable.

I am linking this to Mama Kat and her oh so fabulous Writer's Workshop.  You rock Mama Kat!

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Crap Out . . . Crap In - A letter

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thanks so much for your care package.  Considering that we are in the midst of our January de-crapification,  it was so nice to receive more stuff to fill the crap void.  You are so thoughtful.

I especially liked the 10,000 beads that you included for Abbie's crafts.  They are currently on the landing of the steps acting as a Home Alone style obstacle course.

And the Dora book that plays music?  Well, that one is a gem!  You know what a joy Dora music is to my life.  I am now walking around the house singing La Cucaracha and I'm the Map.

Finally, the matchbox cars were a super treat for EthanAfter crashing them down the stairs and through the 10,000 bead obstacle, they are now currently awaiting a car wash to remove the play doh that has been shoved into their little nooks and crevices.  Did you know that a matchbox car will no longer roll once play doh has been inserted into its axle?  Me neither.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart for providing the means for such an entertaining afternoon.

You two are the best.


And Mom and Dad,  if you are reading,  please know that this is all in fun and that you really ARE the best.  But one question . . .  are your grandparent care packages just cleverly disguised revenge strategies in retribution for all the crap that  I ever caused you?  Just askin'.

I must have been a real pain.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Bunching Up My Panties

It is January and that means a few things around here.

1. It is ugly cold.  And, by that I mean that there is absolutely no way to be pretty when you are clothed in 47 layers, and thereby, you are ugly.  (Take heart.  So am I.)
2.  Krispy Kreme is giving out coupons for free donuts.  I take turns alternately loving Krispy Kreme and hating Krispy Kreme for that very reason.
3.  I am in an organizing and de-crapifying mode (a word coined by the Thrifty Decor Chick).

Today, I tackled my closet and drawers.  And, as I was surrounded by a sea of my panties and bras, I was reminded of the following post I wrote ages ago. 

Who knew that I'd have so much to say about panties?
Originally posted 10/2009

I read an article recently that detailed the 6 kinds of panties that every woman should have in her drawer. Apparently, to be complete, each and every woman needs to have in her panty drawer:

1. A seamless panty (to avoid the dreaded VSP's or visible panty lines)
2. The hipster. (The modern woman's go-to everyday panty, according to the article.)
3. The boy cut panty. (No. I don't know why they recommend these. Any woman with an ounce of curves knows that boy cut panties just ride up and give the ultimate wedgie.)
4. A thong. (Yes. I own one. Yes. There was a time when I wore it. After three kids, my thong is more likely to be used as a slingshot by my resourceful son than as a piece of intimate apparel.)
5. A nude panty. (Again, to avoid seeing your panties through a sheer skirt or white pants.)
6. The control top panty. (ooh! The lovely workhorse of my mommy wardrobe. The control top prevents the muffin top that results from the flab leftover after three, 40+ pound, pregnancy weight gains.)

So there you have it! The list that every woman should have in her drawer to complement her wardrobe. Unfortunately, this list is deceiving. Real women, I say, probably have a drawer more like my panty drawer. And, in honor of those real women out there, I provide you with the REAL LIST OF PANTIES in every woman's drawer.

1. The grandma panty. Yes, these panties are probably worn by your grandma, but frankly, you don't care. They are soft, cotton and deliciously roomy. Their largeness provides super comfort on those days when you are feeling bloated. (Like maybe you ate your weight in Krispy Kremes?? No? That must have been just me.) These panties are secretly loved by real women everywhere and are equally despised by men for having absolutely zero ounces of sex appeal. No matter! They are a staple of real women's panty drawers.

2. The holy (or should I say holey?) panty. No, these are not your Sunday best panties. These panties come in a variety of styles and colors, but the one thing that they have in common is a hole. Yes ladies. You can admit it. Your panty drawer probably has at least one panty with a hole. Now, your hole may give a peek-a-boo shot of your tushie or it may be located in a more delicate region. But regardless of the hole, these panties are your favorite for color or comfort or whatever, and you and I know that you will continue to refuse to trash them until they literally fall off of your body.

3. The panties that don't fit but you hope that someday . . . they will again. These old girls were at one time a favorite pair in your panty line-up. Unfortunately, as age and the pounds crept up, these panties began to slowly cut off your circulation to your lower appendages. Rather than walk around with numb toes, this pair of drawers was delegated to the lonely back of the panty drawer protocol where they collect dust and wait for the day when they can one day be put back into the rotation.

4. The husband boxers. These underwear are not necessarily worn as underwear, per se. Instead, these boxers have been lovingly stolen from your husband's underwear drawer. They are clean and boy-stain free.(Yes. You know what kind of stain I am referring too! As if you'd steal a stained pair?!? Yuck!) They too are cottony, soft and roomy and are loved for their yummy comfort and the ability to be worn as pajama bottoms.

5. The memory panties. These panties are rarely worn. Instead, these panties are kept as a memory of a special shared time with the one you love. Whether they be from the wedding night, a special anniversary, or just a steamy night, these lovely little panties always inspire a smile when you see them in the back of your drawer.

So, there you have it! The real woman's panty drawer. And, while I aspire to have the pretty panty drawer that the article describes, I am smiling content with my own actual panty drawer.

Because, after all, real life always trumps fairy tales.


Addendum . . . when all else fails . . . commando always works!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

I Have Scarred My Kids

Hubs and I, Halloween 2010, as Lois Lane and Clark Kent

Dear Kiddies,

I know that I do things that embarrass you. 

Abbie, I have plucked my eyebrows using the vanity mirror in the car while I was stopped at a red light . . . right while you were next to me.  And, Ethan, I have given you a big wet sloppy kiss . . . right before you have hopped on the bus for school.

Clearly, these things have scarred you.

I have used my patient mommy voice in public to help the Walmart checker understand how to ring in a 30 percent off purchase, and I have used my teacher voice in public to reprimand potty mouthed teenagers at the local park.  I know that your, "Maaaa-AAAHHM!"  sighs and exasperated expressions signal that these voices have embarrassed you too.

I get it.

I have inadvertently worn socks that don't match (and one time I wore shoes that didn't match).  I have sported contacts that made my eyes appear to be two different colors on the same day.  I have worn my pj bottoms and slippers for parent pick up, and I have worn a do-rag in my 2 day unwashed hair . . . all while you guys were around.

I am not perfect.

But, let me remind you that I have also donned roller skates to be one of the only moms that helped all of you non-skaters make it around the rink during the open disco skate.  I have not been afraid to perform a cannonball at the pool.  I have been the mom to ride fast, scary, and upside down roller coasters.   And, although I may have lost my top in the process, I have jumped and played in the waves in the ocean with you.

I may be just a mom, but I do like to have fun.

So, yes.  I have scarred you.  And truthfully, I am glad.  Because a scar lasts.  It is forever.  And, more than that, a scar is a reminder.  A reminder of me, your mom, and  . . . a reminder of who I really am and how important you are to me.

And, each time you think of that scar, you will think of me, and you will have a memory of me, and you will have a memory of us together.

Personally, I think that is awesome.

So, I will continue to actively scar you and to burn you with memories and with my love.

It's the best that I can do as your mom.

I love you.


PS  I can not wait to scar you during your teenage years.  This blog alone has so much scar ammunition that you may just want to hibernate from ages 12-18.  Just sayin'.

******I am linking this to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop this week.  Hop on over to read more prompts.:)**********

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Getting Screwed . . .

google images

"Honey, I have a screw in my pants," hubs mentioned as we got the kiddies ready for bed.

"What?!"  I asked as I struggled to pull a pj top over Ellerie's squirmy head.

And then he repeated it.  S-l-o-w-l-y.  "I have a screw in my pants.  Right . . . now . . ."

I instantly stopped what I was doing and began to giggle. I shot him a knowing look, a wink, and then I purposefully looked over at our children.

He ignored me and continued with his screw talk.  "You know . . . it's about two inches long, right?"

And then I burst out laughing.

"Two inches?  Two inches?!?  That's it?"  I wasn't trying to insult his manhood, but THAT was supposed to be enticing?  I . think. not.

He chuckled at my reaction, and then asked with his eyes twinkling, "Annie, what did you think that I was talking about?"

I am fairly certain that I blushed, because it is one of those annoying things that I do, as I gave him a very definitive, "Umm.  You know . . . well . . ."  And then an irritated, "Don't make me spell it out!"

He laughed.

I waited.

Finally, he explained, "I wore these warm up pants the last time that I was working in the house.  I put a 2 inch screw in my pocket, but apparently there was a hole in the pocket and the screw is now trapped in the lining of  my pants."


Now that's a screw of a different color.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Am I a Twit for Not Tweeting ?


I have a secret.


I don't tweet!

And, I am not really sure why I don't tweet, to tell you the truth.  Lord knows I could use some help when my 3 year old is stripping naked at Lowe's (see my last post) or when I am asked to come up with a team name for our trivia team (Team Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber must retire!)

Clearly, at the very least, I could use some cyber support.

So,  am I a twit for not tweeting?

Any advice for a virgin tweeter??

Friday, January 7, 2011

Getting Naked with the Lowes' Guy

Dear Lowes' employee from aisle 5,

Thank you for not laughing out loud when you spied my 3 year old daughter, Ellerie, peeling off her clothes and getting naked next to the rubbermaid storage tub display.  Your silent, shoulders shaking laugh was much appreciated.

If I wasn't trying to wrangle Ellerie's pants back onto her naked fanny while manuevering a cart and an 8 by 10 area rug, I probably would have offered you a tissue for your tears of joy.



Thursday, January 6, 2011

This Chunk is For You!

I don't do resolutions.

Never have.

It is not that I have anything against resolutions.  It is just that I know me.  If I make a broad, sweeping,  statement about what I want to do,   I just know that I won't do it.

Case in point,  if I resolved at 12:01 am on January 1st to eat healthier in the upcoming year, that resolution would be shot to hell when  at 8 am that next morning I turn on two wheels into the Krispy Kreme parking lot because the Hot Now sign is flashing.

google images

Sad, but true.

I operate better with smaller, concrete goals.  Something that I can write down.  Something along the lines of . . . I will buy at least three vegetables at the grocery store on the next trip.

Ignore the fact that I probably will not eat all of those veggies.  Just saying.

So, even though I want to run a half marathon, (I know.  I know.  I have been checked.  I am not crazy.) I will not resolve to run a marathon.  Instead, I downloaded a training schedule and I transferred the training numbers to my calendar. Instead of a marathon looming over my head, I now know that on such and such a day I have to run three miles, and when I accomplish that I will look ahead to my next small goal.

I am just chunking it up a bit.

And . . . it is good. 

google images

Think Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey.  Holy Yum!

Or Chunk from the Goonies.  Too Cute!!


Or chunky peanut butter . . . ummmm, hello?  Delish!

So, 2011 is my year of the chunk.

Here's to being chunky!

I am linking to Mama Kat and her Writer's Workshop.  Hop on over there and check out some more fun resolving posts.

Monday, January 3, 2011

What Do You Say When . . .

What do you say when . . .

-your six year old son says, "WOW mom!  My penis is sooooooo big right now."?

- you discover that your three year old has a secret hiding place under the dining room table where she has hidden her babies, your cell phone, and an old banana?

-you discover that said hiding place is also where your 3 year old goes to pick her nose in "pwi- vate."?

What do you say when . . .

-you are looking for your favorite pair of tweezers and your nine year old daughter remarks, "Yeah mom.  I was going to tell you that you needed to tweeze."?

-your three year old declares, "No panties!  I don't like panties!!"?

-your husband explains, "I thought that I would help with the laundry.  I put a load of my sweatshirts in the wash . . . on delicate."? 

And finally . . .

What do you say when . . .

-you discover that your team name at the local watering hole's trivia night is Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber?   (Stop laughing!  I am not making this stuff up, and it gets worse.)

- you find out that you have been selected to represent team Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber in a trivia game musical tie in front of the entire population of the watering hole?

-the trivia game's emcee asks, "Are you THE Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber?"  (See.  I told you.)


I am speechless too.

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