Wednesday, June 30, 2010

I Don't Like You - Come Here!

Last night I holed up in my bedroom to watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey uninterrupted and all I kept thinking about is are these women for real? How hard is it to just stay away from the people you don't like. I guess I just don't hate anyone enough to spend that much energy on them. Of course, I'm also kind of lazy, and this much bickering about one person seems to take a lot of energy. More energy than I'm willing to spend. I choose to save my energy for the finer things in life, like dipping my chips in guacamole while having a glass of wine with my friends.

Is a fashion show (or any event, when you think of it) that important that you simply must show up and duke it out with your mortal enemy? I watched these women full of piss and vinegar (love that saying, by the way!), staring each other down and boring everyone at their respective tables about how much they hated each other. Honestly, there are other things to talk about. Like the oil spill in the gulf. Or how you feel about the latest Supreme Court nomination. Or what Hugh Hefner really looks like under that robe. I watched as one of the women very purposefully sat waiting to pounce on the other one - you don't like her! Just ignore her! But no. She just had to say something. Had to start the drama. Let her walk away. Be the bigger, better person. She doesn't like you. It's okay...

Really, what are you going to do? Chase her down at the local WalMart and verbally attack her as she's checking out her frozen pizza with her daughter? Run her down like a mad woman in the parking lot and pin her against her car with your cart? Screaming and yelling, arms flailing about as people walk by wondering what medication you forgot to take? Because if I was in that situation, and you were screaming at me in public, here's what I'd be thinking:

Holy, Mary, Mother of Jesus - this woman is a lunatic. Truly, a lunatic. I don't think I've ever been this close to a lunatic before. Maybe. Well, our algebra teacher was pretty nutty - but he mostly talked about stars, so he was kind of like a non-dangerous lunatic. But this woman! Woah! Check out how purple she's getting. That can't be normal. Is it raining? Was that rain? Oh gross - that was spittle. That was her spittle hitting my cheek. Her spit is on my cheek. But I can't just wipe it off - she might take the raising of my hand to be an act of aggression and who knows how she'll react to that. Is it safe for her vein to stick out that far? She's going to explode. Seriously. I think her head might actually erupt. Are skull fragments sharp enough to be considered shrapnel? What if I get a piece of skull shrapnel stuck in my eye. Can you imagine going blind from someone's exploding head? There'd be brain matter raining down all over this parking lot. Great. It's going to get on my car. Which means I'm going to have to wash it off right away because you don't want that stuff drying up in the hot sun; probably take the paint right off. Crap. I don't have any cash. The nearest car wash only takes cash. What is with that? It's brand new! Shouldn't they have all the modern conveniences of the world like the little machine that accepts a debit card in exchange for a washed car? I'm going to have to go to the one behind the bank. I hate that one. It's dirty. Last time I was there that creepy bearded man was going through the garbages. But it does take debit cards. You know, that's why kids today don't truly appreciate the value of money. But can you blame them? They never see it. Think it comes from a card. Back in the day, parents would pile their kids in the car on Saturday morning and head on down to the bank to cash their check. My checks have always been direct deposited. I can't remember the last time I was actually inside a bank. But back then kids saw their parents put some money in an account and take some money for bills. Then they were dragged around town while the bills were paid - a little at the phone company, some more at the electric company, and the rest for groceries. You didn't buy what you didn't have money for. My kids don't see that. They think I magically wave the card and we get stuff we like. They're never going to retire debt-free. They better have nice children to live with - because they're not living with me at my nursing home, that's for sure!"

So, the way I see it, life is way too short for you to waste worrying about whether or not my kids will be able to retire debt-free.

(Of course, this does not discourage me from tuning in for the next episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey when things really heat up and Danielle has a breakdown. I can't wait!)

Monday, June 28, 2010

Monday's Mention

Just thought I'd mention.....

I really like watching Big V with Cletus the Used to be Fetus.





I think they're both kind of cute.

Friday, June 25, 2010

For Mom, With Love: Get me outta here!

I got a letter from Dotter in the mail yesterday. She's been at camp this past week and comes home tomorrow. The letter consisted of three small pieces of paper - about the size of a square of toilet paper. Here's what was written on the squares (mistakes and all):

Hi mom my first day was fun.
I don't want to take the swim test sorry but I don't care
cause I can still have fun in the shallow end.
Bye Bye.
God blessing on you.

Hi mom again! It's Monday.
I just got back from chaple.
Mr. Chris is fun and nuts.
Tonight I'm going to give him candy.

Added to the bottom in different ink was this little end note:
This is the candy that he did not take. It was Skitles.

Hi mom. It's Tuesday.
I like the pichture that Brody gave me.
I kissed Brody.
I really want to come home and stay.
Four real.
God blessing on you.
I love you!
I miss you!
I wish I was home.

Now I feel guilty because she gave me God's Blessing and I sent her a letter about a chicken-cat.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Rats or Starbucks?

Our local health clinic and hospital is currently expanding. I'm guessing not everyone is happy about that because there are picketers at the corner outside the building. Helping them is a giant, blow-up rat. But then again, maybe the picketers have nothing against the medical center expansion at all. Maybe they're just a group of people protesting rats and chose this highly visible corner to express their freedom of speech. I was tempted to pull over and ask them what, specifically, they hated about rats (I, personally, have a long list - starting with that gross tail) but Dotter was freaked out over the giant, blow-up rat and I'd given her enough material for therapy already. Plus I was on my way to get a little sumpin'-sumpin' from our local Starbucks. Rats or Starbucks? I think the choice was obvious.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

I Would Never Be A Lifeguard Because You Never Know Who Might See You Naked

In high school we had to take swimming. In gym. It was a requirement. We wore really odd looking swimsuits of which, I have two, because I knew they were a relic then and I thought, hey, they only increase in value with age! And plus I could use those as a punishment someday. As in If you don't clean your room I'll make you go out in public wearing my old gym swimsuit! Is that what you want?

So, yeah. Required swimming in gym class. We were so lucky to have a pool at our school. I tried to get away with the beginning "I'm scared to put my face in the water to make bubbles" class because (1) I don't like exerting any sort of physical energy, and (2) I wanted to hone my acting skills. I had everyone going pretty good - even trembling at the thought of going in water past my stomach - but was busted out when some idiot called me out from across the pool. "Hey! You were diving off the springboard at Jamie's party this weekend - you can swim!" Thanks, buddy. Thanks a lot.

I was moved to Life Saving. Seriously. Life Saving? Now that there is a LOT of work. And gym was first thing in the morning, like, before my eyes were physically capable of focusing. I can't see, people, much less dive to the bottom depths of a pool, pull out heavy objects in an attempt to simulate a rescue, and bring them to the surface. What were they thinking? But I did it because, well, because I was scared of our gym teacher. He was tall and loud and he could get really angry. And loud. Did I mention he could get loud? I was already a target of his glare because I tried to skate by with the bubble blowing class. No way I was going to do anything else to draw attention to myself.

So there I was. Early morning. Diving into a cold pool. Hauling up heavy objects. Swimming the length of the pool to deliver them to safety. Repeat. Down I went. Up I went. Down. Up. Down. Up. When suddenly I was all Holy Mother of Jesus, I'm going to die. Floaters appeared before my eyes. My brain felt like it was being sucked into a vacuum. This was not good.

I sat on the tile at the edge of the pool, vaguely aware of the massive amounts of the fungus now pressed up against my thighs. I got hot. Really, really hot. Then I got cold. Really, really cold. And my vision was beginning to tunnel.

"I don't feel good," I slurred to no one in particular. I stood and stumbled my way into the locker room. Hands on the walls, feeling my way, I'm gonna pass out. Someone help me. But I was all alone. I saw my locker across the way, just gotta get my suit off. I'm too hot... as I fell onto the floor between the bench and my locker.

"Oh, my gawd! Is she okay?"

"Can you hear me?"

"She looks kinda gross."

"Can you open your eyes?"

"I think she's drooling."

I rolled my head to the side, trying to open my eyes. There was Mr. Mean Gym Teacher, two inches from my face. And every single girl in my gym class. Gawking at me.

"Don't move your head," Mr. Mean Gym Teacher advised. "Did you fall? Do you remember hitting your head?"

"... I... don't... know..." I slurred... and then....

"Someone get a towel and cover her up."

Oh. Dear. God. I was naked.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Shouldn't There Be a Law Against Tornadoes at Camp?

Okay. You know how I dropped my 8-year old off for a week in the middle of nowhere? The plan was she would have fun swimming in the lake, walking on trails, skipping to the dining hall and singing camp songs... well, how was I supposed to know a tornado would find them?

I sat unblinking at the television set all evening listening to the reports, constantly yelling at Big V: Where is camp compared to this map? Point to it! And he'd point and say, "See where it says Eagle? Right next to that." And I'd get all mad and yell things like why would you tell me that? That's right where the bad part is! Now I'm more scared than I was before! Just get out of here you big jerk!  And he'd say something like "I'm sure they have a plan for this type of weather activity. They can't be a successful camp if they let campers die out there." And I would yell What do you mean die? She could die?! I was just worried she was scared and afraid - thanks a  lot you jerk - now I'm scared she's going to die! And he would yell back, "Look, if it's making you upset, change the channel." And I would yell That's just like you. Change the subject! Just put your head in the sand and pretend there's nothing wrong! And he would yell, "Oh, geesh. You're going to have a heart attack if you keep this up." And then Cletus the Used to Be Fetus started gagging and I was all See! You made him upset - he's worried, too -- OH MY GOD! HE'S CHOKING! DO SOMETHING!"  And Big V saved his life by fishing out a piece of carpet shag from his mouth, but there was no way I was saying thank you because he still thought I was acting ridiculous so instead I said something along the lines of, "You should really pay more attention to your son when I'm obsessing over the weather forecast." It truly was a lovely example of love-centered communication.

Eventually the warning passed and I waited the obligatory 30 minutes to allow for emergency placed phone calls to reach me. I was assured by Big V that it wasn't anything but a little storm, that the meteorologists always get a little trigger happy at the start of storm season, and if there had been any problem someone would have called by now - I was, once again, making things bigger than they actually were. So I went to bed.

Fast forward to this afternoon, when my good friend, Rebecca, managed to (literally) hold her head above water over at The Office of Eternal Stench long enough to post a link of this little photographic evidence of the destruction and damage aforementioned tornado caused. Which, of course, I saw, and which, of course, I noted had touched down literally right next door to the campgrounds, and which, of course, raised my blood pressure a few points, and which, of course, made me want to hop in my car and go grab my child and tell her that smart people sleep in concrete bunkers - they do not go to summer camp! The only thing stopping me is the fact that my car is out of gas and my hair is a fright and, well, let's be honest, the kids are safe and I have margaritas waiting for me...

Monday, June 21, 2010

Mail Call!

Dotter is off at camp! She'll be gone for a week, which is way too long for an 8-yr old, if you ask me, but she wanted to go and has been looking forward to it since January when the sign up sheet was mailed to us. She says she will probably miss me but will have fun anyway. She's a somewhat of a realist.

Not wanting her to be completely "without" the family this week and, more importantly, not wanting to have to pay the extra fee for eMail service (where campers visit the computer center once a day to read/compose electronic messages in true camping form) I decided to pack some surprise notes, cards and letters in her bag with the outer envelope labeled so she'd know what days to open which envelopes. Basically I don't want her to experience what life might be like without us. You know kids, they get a taste of normalcy and pretty soon that's all they're talking about. "Maddie's mother didn't pack 300 letters in her bag!"

I wrote seven cards from the point of view of Cletus the Used to Be Fetus. They mostly centered on the topics of crawling, drooling or pooping. (What do you expect? There's really not much going on in that kid's life. He really needs to get a hobby.)

Big V added three cards. Which surprised me. Since he started complaining about his hand hurting from all that writing after the first card.

I forced the Bean to write at least two notes to her younger sister under the threat of dropping her cell phone into the garbage disposal and flipping the switch. She wrote one card but explained it should count as two since she shoved some old make-up into the envelope.

Then I wrote seven cards from my point of view. These are the best because they'll give her plenty to talk about in therapy with her friends. Here's just one of the cards I sent her....




I'm sure she'll be beyond thrilled to open all her mail! She probably won't even miss us a bit....

Editor's Note: I know my handwriting is messy, okay? That's because I had written, like, twelve cards by this point. Geez! Can't a mom catch a break?

Friday, June 18, 2010

On the Set of Mission Impossible


It's not everyday you look out the side window of the car you're driving and see this: a helicopter, racing next to you at eye level. Whatcha doin' over there, Mr. Helicopter Pilot? Aren't you supposed to be a little higher in the sky? You're not experiencing engine difficulties, are you?


A crop dusting helicopter?! That's right. I've got to tell you, I was impressed. It was like watching Mission Impossible the way that copter would pop straight up over a row of trees then disappear again in the blink of an eye.

But I sort of missed the bright yellow biplane...

Thursday, June 17, 2010

The One Where We Don't Allow the Bean to Babysit Anymore

Jelly Bean spent some quality time bonding with Cletus the Used to be Fetus. This is how they entertained themselves:


The mohawk was cute. Even the tattoo was kind of funny. The gansta chain was questionable. But the chest hair? I mean.... ew.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Because I Could Never Find a Ruler or a Pencil with MY Name on it...

Growing up everyone had pencils and rulers with their names on them. And little license plates for their bikes. And stickers. And pads of paper. And bookmarks. Everyone. Everyone but me. Every Jenny had one. (Several, actually, those snobs.) And every Kim. And all the Carrie's, too.

But not me. I had to have one of those names that you didn't really hear that often. Bridget. Sure, adults loved it. But me? Where was my pin with my name on it? Once in a while I'd come across a Bridgette - but that was nothing but a cruel joke. It was soooo unnnffaaaiirrrr!

And so, like any good mother suffering from insecurities brought on by a childhood of disappointments, I vowed to put my own children through that same hell. No normal names for me, no sireebob! Or Jenny.

But then one day I thought you know, I kinda like my kids. And I kind of like their names. And I feel bad that they will never understand what it feels like to have their name stamped into a 12" piece of neon pink plastic. So, I got me this:



This, my friends, is my most favorite, my most special piece of jewelry in all the world.

This is a charm bracelet handcrafted especially for me by the unbelievably talented Miss Lisa of Equinox Design Studio. It has each of my children's names and their birthdates stamped into the charms. And it was made with love. Because that's how Miss Lisa works. I love her!

Miss Lisa is already ramping up for her next season... she sits and makes all these beautiful pieces of artwork that you can wear. She's done a couple one-of-a-kind pieces (this being one of them) and I've been nothing but over the top impressed with the quality and handiwork. So make sure you get in line.

Now, if you know me, I wouldn't exactly be described as a jewelry wearing gal, but I wear this bracelet almost every single day. I'm especially fond of the light twinkling music the bracelet makes when the charms touch. Makes me smile every time.

I'm thinking of having more children for the sole purpose of adding on to the bracelet. That's how cool this is.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Bad Date #42

Once upon a time I looked across a seedy bar my friends and I hung out at and caught the eye of a guy I knew. I'd known him for several years but really all I knew was he was funny and when he smiled and laughed his eyes lit up. "He smiles from the inside out," I'd think.

So, Smiley made the walk over and we started small talk chatter that somehow morphed its way into a really fun night of dancing. Now, I love me a boy that dances. Dances. Not grinds, pumps or gyrates. No, I love me a boy that can dance.

For the next several weekends we would dance. And laugh. And dance. And joke. And dance. And flirt. And dance. Then the request came, but it was more of a command, "Let's have dinner tomorrow night." Uh, dinner? Together? As in sitting across the table trying to hold an actual conversation without dancing? What about the dancing?

But he was cute. And he smiled from the inside out. And he knew how to dance. Of course I said yes.

I got excited. Thinking about what I would wear. How I would do my make-up. What we would talk about. Where we would go.

He called in the early afternoon to remind me of our plans... "I'm just heading out to work a field, but I wanted to call and  tell you how excited I am about tonight." My heart was already melting.

I soaked in the tub, painted my nails, and put on a mud mask. I was going all out for Smiley.

A few hours later he called again. This time to tell me about tractor trouble. He might be a tad late. Not a problem, I told him. I understood. Field work doesn't wait. I changed my outfit. Twice.

A couple hours later he called again. This time from inside the cab of a noisy tractor. He was listening to the radio and told me he loved the country song playing, "If you were here I'd take you for a spin around the dance floor... it's a pretty big field so we'd have lots of room!" I smiled at the thought. Since it was getting late he proposed a change in plans. "I'll pick up a pizza and head on over to your place - but it'll be late. 9:30 or so."

About quarter after nine my phone rang. It was Smiley. He'd just gotten home, was hopping in the shower and would drive into town, pick up the pizza and be at my door.

Thirty minutes later my phone rang again. It was Smiley. He'd already showered, dressed, picked up the pizza (that was QUICK!) and wanted to know what I liked to drink because he was stopping off at the gas station. I told him I liked Coke and I'd see him in twenty minutes. Then I ran to the bathroom to do some last minute checks: reapply the lip gloss, another layer of deodorant, try to tame that cowlick, not bad.

I made sure the kitchen was clean and the pillows were on the couch just right. Pulled out a magazine so it looked like I had been casually reading and not running around as nervous as I was. Flipped through the television channels to find the best program to be watching when he arrived: not too girly, I'd seem lame; not too educational, I'd come off nerdy. I settled on the classic movie Caddyshack that was just beginning. Everybody's favorite. And I watched it.

All of it. I watched the entire movie. By myself.

Surely Smiley had been involved in a traffic accident. Or was car jacked. Or had stopped to pull a family to safety from a burning building. Right? I mean, what else would explain why he called before he got to the gas station and now, two hours later, he hadn't arrived. He had called multiple times throughout the day. Excited. He could've blown me off several times. What the heck?

Of course I called him. All I got was his voice mail. I left 2 messages. One early on just checking to see if there was any problem finding my house - I didn't want him going up and down the streets ringing doorbells at 10 o'clock at night. And another message later, more concerned, hoping that everything was ok and hoping there wasn't any emergency he had to deal with - like being mugged at knifepoint, having his mouth covered in duct tape and shoved into the trunk of some car.

Two hours turned into three, then four, and then I was falling asleep, waking up every now and again thinking I simply must have slept through the call that would explain how the police just saved him and he's on his way to the hospital now to get checked out. That he insisted on calling me from the ambulance because he just felt so horrible knowing I was sitting there waiting on him.

But I never missed any calls. Because no calls were ever made.

I'd drift off to sleep again.

My phone started ringing at 6:48am. I think I answered before the first ring had even been completed. It was Smiley and he sounded, well, sad. He was sorry about last night and wanted to talk to me, in person, if I had a minute. "Sure," I answered. "What time?" "Now. I'm outside." But my mascara is all smudged and my eyes are puffy because, although I didn't want to, I cried a lot last night.

I let him in, head down, shoulders slumped, and I thought, Oh, this is bad. Someone has died.

"I really, really wanted to see you last night. All day long I was excited thinking about it. Thinking about spending time with you. Laughing. You're so fun to be around and I love everything about you. I don't know what happened - I had the pizza and I stopped to get soda and when I went to check out, there was this girl - I had never seen her before - and she was just, well, standing there, working, and I don't know what happened - but it was like I couldn't breathe - she was just so beautiful..."

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

"...and I had to talk to her and before I knew it an hour had past. Then two. And then she was off work, so we stayed up talking all night long in my truck and - I've never felt this way before, but it was like, when I was with her nothing else mattered."

Smiley and the Gas Station Attendant dated, got married and had babies.

I bought my own pizza.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Crocodiles & Pearls

Last night I attended a jewelry show hosted by a good friend of mine. I wouldn't be described as a jewelry wearing girl but I certainly do like looking at the stuff and I almost always find something completely adorable to purchase. Getting dolled up for special occasions is a hobby of mine so I need things to choose from. Besides, what woman doesn't want to flee her children to hide amongst glitz and wine and small talk?

Small talk is also a hobby of mine because you just never know what kind of adventure it takes you on. For instance, who knew that one second we'd be talking about pearls and the next be introducing a crocodile purse into the mix? A crocodile purse? In your closet? For reals? Hell to the yeah that needs to be shown off! Go get it, girlfriend! Bring it down because I have GOT to check this thing out!


Do not be mistaken: It has a head. A purse with a head. I had never seen a purse with a head before, but I bet the real worldly types have -- like The Bloggess. She probably has tons of them in her closet. (Come to think of it, she probably made them herself, from people who work at the Electric Company.)

And beady eyes. A purse with a head and beady eyes!


Did you notice the little foot? The attention to detail is exquisite.
Don't think they forgot about the back of the purse...

Can you imagine?
I am so asking to borrow this the next time I have to attend a really boring function.
Or have to go out to dinner with someone I don't really like but am forced to be nice to.
Just plop this little puppy up on the table while I apply some lip gloss.


To answer your burning question:
I purchased this fun little number called Impulse.


It does not have a head.
It does have beads.
Although the bracelet is an absolute stunner,
I bet it won't get nearly the amount of commentary the crocodile purse would get!

PS: I am so adding "Carry a Crocodile Purse to a Function" on my list of Things To Do Before I Die.

PPS: No new crocodiles have been hurt or injured in the making of this blog post. This was from a long, long time ago. It was my friend's grandmothers or something like that. And the reason I knew I always liked her is because she hung on to this piece of fashion history. For reals.

Editor's Note: It has come to my attention that this might, or might not be, a crocodile. It might be an alligator. Or not. I don't pretend to know my reptiles.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Finger Follies

Like any good mother, I dropped my middle child off for her last day of school with a chipper, "Have a MOST EXCELLENT last day of school!" while readying my camera for the standard Last Day of School Photo.

Except Dotter didn't move from the side of the car, where she was standing, screaming, with her finger stuck in the door. I did what any mother in these situations would do - unlocked my seatbelt and bolted out of my seat yelling, "Open the door! OPEN THE DOOR!" (She was very appreciative of my advice, I'm sure.)

I took one look at the mangled finger and put her back in the car, "We're just gonna run and get this looked at real quick." I explained as I buckled her (screaming) into her seat. Then a thought occurred to me: This may begin to bleed soon. And there may be a lot of blood. And I just took out V's sweatshirt that had been sitting in the car for three months, so now what would I wrap the hand in?


I hurried into the school for ice and a towel before I whisked her off to the hospital. And, like any good mother, I started photo documenting our excursion, because I thought, "Hey! This will make a great blog post!" (I am nothing if not loyal to my avid readers.)

Meanwhile, Dotter was sob-asking if she was going to lose her finger like Uncle Patrick did when he was little, which I assured her would most definitly not happen since Uncle Pat lost his finger because he was picking his nose, not because it got slammed in a car door. (Another story for another day.)


The doctor came in to examine the mangled finger. "Can I ask you how this happened?" To which Dotter responded very clearly and quite loudly, "NOOOOOOOOO!"



Upon initial inspection, the doc ordered x-rays. (It was looking pretty gnarly.) Dotter sat contemplating silently for a bit so I tried to cheer her up. "Hey! Maybe they'll give you a sticker if you're a really good girl," I teased. "Like that'll help," she mumbled. (She can be so negative at times like this.)


She chipped up a bit when the rails were put up - told they were to keep her safe in case the driver got a little wild on the trip to the x-ray department...



She was sat so still (and completely frightened and afraid) during the x-ray she got not one, but TWO stickers! "Sorry I got blood on your white towel," Dotter apologized, unphased by the smile-makers in her hand. Hello?! Sponge Bob AND Sharpay?! How can you NOT be thrilled?!



It wasn't broken, but it is badly bruised. They decided the best step is a soft splint to protect that finger for a bit and a dose (or more) of Motrin.



I told her she looked like she had one of those big foam fingers people use at sporting events and that her new nickname was Big Finger.



The best part of the adventure? Neon Pink tape. Every 8-yr old girl's dream.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Why I'm a Mother



The very best part about this video was I got this reaction to raising my eyebrows. Yep. That's it. No tickles. No silly faces. Just slight eyebrow movement. Love. This. Kid.

Working Mothers

Today, we've had a lot of really upset people coming in our office. They're mad because they knew the rules, but decided to take their chances and not follow the rules, and then they got caught not following the rules so they got in trouble. Now they're mad. At us. Because of course we're the ones that told them the rules and then subliminally planted the idea that they should not follow them. We're totally sneaky like that.

It makes me feel like I'm at home surrounded by my children except I'm not wearing pajama pants.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

The Pioneer Woman

So I'm totally and completely obsessed with The Pioneer Woman - a fabulous blog that I read faithfully and follow on twitter. Of keen obsession is Ree Drummond's real life love story -- because what woman hasn't dreamed of being completely swept away by a handsome, hunky cowboy with incredibly huge, muscley biceps. And to hear that Hollywood has jumped on this band wagon and wants to make a movie (OhMyGod!OhMyGod!) is really about as good as hearing that you won the lottery. (Did I mention OhMyGod?) And what's even better -- rumor has it Reese Witherspoon might be cast as the staring role! Which means I can totally add the upcoming "Black Heels to Tractor Wheels" to my DVD'S TO WATCH OVER AND OVER WITHOUT EVER GETTING UP OFF THE COUCH ALL DAY EXCEPT TO PEE list. Right now there's only one movie on that list: "Sweet Home Alabama" (duh!) and if it's not on your list than you can just leave now because you obviously have no idea how awesome dirty, greasy men like Marlboro Man and Jake Perry can be.

Anyway, after an evening of sighing over yet another installment of Cowboy Love, I turned to Big V and asked (ok, swooned), "So, did you dream of being a cowboy when you were a little boy?"

"Nope."

"Really?" I tried to hide my obvious disappointment. "Really? I mean, didn't every boy want to grow up and be a cowboy?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Not even a little bit?" I was grasping at straws here. "Didn't you ever what to hop on a horse and ride the open range?"

"Nope."

"Never? You never pretended you were a cowboy gallopping in open pastures?"

"Well, I remember playing cowboys & indians once as a kid with the boys who lived next door. It was weird; they wanted to play barefoot because they said they had Indian feet."

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

I got a voicemail the other day from the hospital saying ‘since you’re the contact on record we just want you to know your Dad can get a Cov...