Showing posts from January, 2011

Snowstorms and Snakes

"Wouldn't that be funny if the blizzard hit when we were at our meeting? And we couldn't get home? And we'd have to stay here at the office all night long?" Uh, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be. I'd rather eat coconut than have a slumber party at the office. And trust me, eating coconut is no treat. I'm sure I'm not the only person on the planet who thinks coconut is a little too similar to baby toenails. But just in case we do get snowed in, I've mentally staked out the fire proof safe room as my personal night time space. What it lacks in carpeting in makes up for in safety, being fire proof and all. And while it's true there's a big rat trap in the corner of the room, the rest of the office gets pretty cold and drafty. I'd rather share my space with a rat than freeze to death. Plus, since it's really warm in there, there's a slim-to-none chance potential snake intruders would slither their way to enjoy my body heat

Navigating the obstacles of life just to get to Starbucks.

Last night I had big plans to escape my family and head to our local Starbucks to spend an amazing kid-free time with my amazing friend, Kim. I spent all day imagining the carefree laughter and the ability to have a conversation without being interrupted by people shorter than four feet. It would be pure bliss, I was certain. At 5:01pm I was driving excitedly from the office parking lot, heading towards unadulterated freedom and a grande chai tea latte! Except at 5:02pm, the reality of my life slapped me hard in the face when Big V called and said he didn't actually have time to pick the kids up from day care so I'd have to do it. I'm pretty sure he did that on purpose because I didn't invite him to our Starbucks soiree. He can be bitter and petty like that. (Just kidding. That's called sarcasm people.) The truth is, Big V was off to referee a basketball game. He does that from time to time because he likes to play dress up and has an extra prisoner's shi

The Lang Company Thinks I'm A Loser. Maybe. Or Else They Love Me. I Can't Tell.

January 27, 2011 The Lang Company PO Box 1605 Waukesha, WI 53187 To Whom It May Concern: Last night I went to my mailbox which is something I do daily with a certain amount of dread because there are usually only bills inside, or junk mail addressed to some lady named Colleen who doesn’t even live in our house and really, what fun is that? But ‘lo and behold, last night, waiting in my mailbox was a package from The Lang Company . And I love me some Lang, know what I mean? (It’s the paper. Superb!) I opened the package and found a 2011 Folk Art Engagement Planner inside. That made me confused because I was pretty sure I had already received the one I ordered but I tend to drink a lot of wine and also the baby has been suffering from a pretty bad cold and hasn’t been sleeping through the night lately so I couldn’t actually be certain I had one already. The mind can play some pretty powerful tricks on a person when they’re exhausted and/or drunk. So, I went to my purse and ‘lo a

Thanks to The Bloggess, My Life's Mission is Just About Complete

Yeah, yeah, I've given birth to three children, served in the United States Army, and can touch my nose with my tongue, but hasn't everybody? Well, not everybody. Obviously, no man has actually given birth to a child, unless you count Thomas Beatie  who was transgender and legally a man but kept his girlie parts so he could have a baby. And the Army stint? They let anyone join. Seriously. Some time I'll tell you about Private Gloria Farmer (yes, her real name) who almost blew my legs off because she panicked during the whole "pull the pin, count to three and throw it" grenade exercise. Nowhere did it say "get nervous, fumble, and drop the sucker between the legs of your fellow soldier who is pretending to save your sorry ass with tracer bullets." (Don't worry, it wasn't a real grenade; those are expensive. These were the pretendish grenades that were more like fireworks. But fireworks can still blow off appendages, people. The danger is real

What's For Dinner?

I'm thinking of writing a cookbook called I Have No Food and I Have No Time, What's For Dinner? because really, that's the story of my life. I usually work later than Big V and, while he's a great help at picking up the kids and carting their butts home, he tends to just sit there and wait until dinner magically appears in front of him. The older kids have picked up on this habit. I'll walk in two to three hours after they all got home and be ambushed by three starving, foaming at the mouths wild monsters, and one super cute toddler who's seemingly only word is a high pitched HI ! (which he rapidly repeats 672 times before tiring). (Yes, 672 times. Believe this to be true.) I haven't yet removed my shoes, I'm hopping up and down because my bladder can no longer take the ten minute commute down bumpy, country roads and I really have to pee, the baby is pulling on the purse hanging from my arm (another fun game we like to play, Let's Rip Mommy's

What did YOU do this weekend?

Things I learned this weekend: The digestive system, which simply put, breaks down food into a form our body can use, is 28 feet long and consists of the mouth, esophagus, stomach, small intestines, large intestines and anus. Digestion starts in the mouth where food is chewed and broken into smaller pieces. The mouth's saliva contains enzymes that turn starches into sugars. The food then travels down the ten inch tube, with a one inch diameter (about the size of a quarter) called the esophagus. The esophagus connects the mouth to the stomach. The stomach is a strong bag-like organ that squeezes the food for about 2 hours before it's passed to the small intestines. The small intestines are narrow - also about 1" in diameter, and 22 feet long. It is here where the liver and pancreas help aid in digestion. The liver produces bile that breaks down fat and the pancreas creates a chemical that breaks down stomach acid, without which the acid would burn through the walls of the

I still don't know how it works.

Last night I went over to my parent's house to help them pick out paint colors for their walls. I kind of feel like an Honorary Member of the HGTV Design Team when I'm asked to help with interior design; except the feeling is really short lived because the extent of my involvement includes fanning the sample book open against the wall and my dad arbitrarily pointing at the nearest swatch announcing, "That looks alright." Then I glance towards my mother and ask, "Can you live with this color? Or will it slowly send you slipping into the inner depths of hell to the point you will snap and stab your husband 487 times in his sleep because the wall color was so god-awful you couldn't take it anymore?" My mom then shrugs and says, "that one's alright." She's either very laid back or is quietly laying the groundwork for her defense. Either way the whole picking-out-the-paint-color process takes about eighteen seconds which leaves us lots of ti

Mary Jo Update

Mary Jo Update (for those of you as giddy and excited as I am):   Mary Jo was removed from the ventilator and has been breathing on her own, is chatting up a storm  and "wants to take a vacation in July" with her family and grandchildren. I cannot thank God enough.

A Dollar for your 'Stache

I have school age children. The law states when you enroll your child in school you must happily participate in fundraising. Lots of it. Over the years we've sold frozen pizzas, wrapping paper, candles, coupons for a local restaurant, frozen pies, peanuts and cashews, t-shirts, cookbooks, and knives. Just to name a few. It's all just so much work . The papers, remembering who paid, delivering the goods... can't the school just tack on an extra fundraising fee amount to the school fees? It would just be so much easier. And not feel like dreaded work . And then, just when I think I can't stand the idea of another boring fundraiser, I come across THIS. A very clever and witty dad in California is raising funds for his young daughter's art and music program at her charter school by WEARING A FAKE MUSTACHE IN PUBLIC EVERY DAY! Each day promises a different style mustache. He blogs about the whole experience (which will leave you in stitches wondering what would

Mary Jo

"Sadly, we have confirmed that Mom is in a 'persistent vegetative state.' As she made her will to state that life support should cease if/when this happens, we will fulfill her wish on Monday morning (1/17/2011) so that she may finally share 'a cup of coffee with God' as she had always wanted. Further updates to follow." I stared at the words haunting my computer screen. I found myself confused, not knowing what they meant. I read them again. And again. Persistent vegetative state? Cease life support? This just could not be happening. Not to Mary Jo. 14 years ago I met Mary Jo. I was 21 years old and knew nothing about taking care of the baby I was now responsible for. Finding a babysitter to watch her while I worked full time was a necessity. Finding someone who would love my child more than I did was a blessing. Mary Jo was a legend in the babysitting world. My aunt swore that this was the only person she ever trusted with her children, and that was

Drawing the Line

Cletus the used to be fetus is now 16 months old. This means he can walk, run, play, jump, climb and generally never stops moving during waking hours, which is great because it's never too early to train this kid for the Olympics according to Big V. Big V grew up with seemingly no other purpose than to play sports and he's intent on passing this on to his son. I spend our evenings watching V hurl a regulation size football at Cletus's chest in the hopes that sooner or later automatic response will kick in and suddenly his banana smeared chubby hands will grasp that pigskin and snap it back. I kind of feel bad for the boy, but he seems to laugh every time he's knocked down. Now, I've never really played sports - I'm more of the cheering type. (If you count sitting with my friends in the bleachers catching up on the latest gossip "cheering.") - but I still think whipping an object at an innocent child's body in the hopes of turning him into the sta

Happy Sunday, y'all!

Breckin Meyer. Just because. Just because I like to think he's chuckling at something witty I just said. Just because I think men who can fashionably pull off scarves are sexy. Just because I drink water, too. Just because.

Food Issues

Last night I went to the front porch to get the mail. I turned on the outside porch light so our little mailbox could illuminate any potential rabid birds. See, the owners before us had secured some sort of ugly artificial plant hanging thing just above the mailbox which I had to knock down after I discovered two birds nesting in it. Scared the life out of me and them - except they didn't drop dead. They just flapped around my head and tried to attack me. Then they had the audacity to re-nest when I went back inside. I don't know how thousands of birds  can drop dead from simultaneous fear but these two little suckers were hearty enough to handle my surprise attack. Whatever. I knocked the artificial plant thing down and that was the end. Stupid feathery squatters. Anyway, I always turn on the light and I always make a lot of noise to make sure any animals disappear before picking up the mail in the dark. So, I stepped out on the porch and spied with my little eye a pile of

2011 Resolutions

I've been so procrastinating writing this post. I know it won't live up to the Rah! Rah! Rah! GOOOOOO NEW YEAR! expectations. Because seriously, I'm not about resolutions. It's like a test: Quick: what do you resolve to change about yourself? It's as if I'm being asked what crappy thing about me do I think I need to change. Uh, where do I start? So let's just get the formality out of the way: Uh, I solemnly swear to resolve to attempt to remember to write 2011 on any check I might actually end up writing in 2011, which I don't think will be many since I do everything online. Phew. I feel so much better.