Feet of the World

I was driving my offspring to school yesterday, singing along with the incessant Christmas music on the radio, when that wonderful, uplifting Christmas classic, "Feed the World...Do They Know It's Christmas" came on. Nothing like a pleasant little ditty about starving kids in Africa to make the holidays complete.

So I'm singing along, and suddenly, from behind me, I hear the angelic voice of FrogBoy. Very loud, but very sweet. And he's singing about "Feet of the World." Perfect.

It got me to thinking about how we often totally screw up song lyrics. And we're convinced that we have the right words, so we belt them out loud and strong. There are websites devoted to the phenomenon.

This immediately led me down another path. My brother, the professor, has a nice little trick he pulls out whenever he's singing and doesn't know the words: He starts up a conversation. Just out of nowhere. He'll be singing, "If you're happy and you know it" and suddenly, "So! How 'bout those Mavericks?" It's great.

Spanky does something similar: he sings loud and proud on the parts he knows, and when he gets to parts he doesn't know, he just starts mumbling. Then he smiles. He knows he's still cute so he can get away with this. The Professor doesn't even try this one.

So all this is going through my head yesterday and The Professor calls me. He has a list of Christmas songs to share. I will include it here because (1) it is funny and (2) I have made fun of him and it's 2 days before Christmas.

Psychiatrist's Christmas Carols
Narcissistic - Hark! The Herald Angels Sing...about Me
Manic - Decks the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Street and Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and Fire Hydrants and...
Paranoid - Santa Claus is Coming to Get Me
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder - Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells...
ADHD -- Hark the herald angels sing ba-rum-pa-pum-pum in the little town of Bethlehem up on the housetop in a winter wonderland one foggy Christmas Eve hey how bout them Bears no I don't want to switch to Sprint but thank you for shopping at K-Mart.

Okay, that's really funny, but not very nice. Point being, I can say this, because 2 of these live in my house (bonus points if you guess which ones!) and I'm related to all the others.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Up on the Rooftop

Yesterday we had a visit from one of my most favorite people in the world: Tim, the pest control guy. While it may sound odd to enjoy the company of your exterminator, if you understand and appreciate my complete dislike of pests (of any and every kind), this will make perfect sense.

I've been telling SuperHubby that I'm hearing things in the attic, which I have jokingly begun calling the rattic, but since he's mostly deaf, I end up trying to mimic the sounds (much to his amusement). And, of course, I have no proof there' s anything up there. So I asked my buddy Tim to check things out.

The news was not good. In fact, it was horrible. Apparently, we have a rat. Gross. But Tim, in his very sweet manner, told me the good news is that it's a roof rat. Wow, that makes me feel much better. He assured me that the rat didn't want to come be with me, that they were called roof rats because they like the attic and the trees. I assured Tim the rat and I were of like minds; I don't really want him to come be with me either. He also tried to make me feel better by telling me it looked like there was only one. It didn't work.

I had to leave the house for an extended period of time last night. I told SuperHubby I wanted to move. I am so creeped out it isn't even funny.

Then today I did the dumbest thing ever. I looked up "roof rat" on the internet. Don't know what I thought I'd see...maybe a picture of Mickey waving and smiling? Well, let me just share, that's not what I had staring back at me. Now my problem is compounded by actually knowing what's up there.

Tim swears the stupid thing can't get downstairs and visit. I just hope it doesn't get confused and decide to take up residency in the Christmas tree.

What a Ride

I'm a pretty groovy chick. I listen to a good mix of 80s tunes and classic rock. I have excellent hair. I own fabulous purses and am extremely organized (thanks, in part, to my many, many daytimers). I actually use the word "groovy" frequently, and not just in describing myself. I am terribly humble.

And yet I drive an extremely un-groovy van. A lot of people would think driving a mini-van immediately pushes you into the un-groovy realm, but that isn't the case. A Chrysler Town and Country is a very cool ride. A giant golden suppository, not so much.

This past weekend, our family took a little road trip. We met a friend of mine in Columbia. She lives in Greenville so it was halfway for both of us and we got to spend the day together. Our husbands were both very good boys and came along for the ride, even though I'm sure they both would have much preferred watching football or going to a hockey game or cleaning the garage. Not only did they not complain, they actually acted like they enjoyed themselves, which was a wonderful perk.

Since we have 2 terrible, awful, beat up, run down cars, we decide to rent something reliable for the day. I was going to go for a mid-size but my friend Doodles pointed out I could rent a Jeep Cherokee for only $10 more. Sold!

The dumb people didn't have a Cherokee, but they did have a Toyota Highlander. Now I have issues with Toyotas, simply because they are the ones that thought the suppository was a good design, but we went with it. And this was a SWEET little SUV.

I'm sure part of it was that we don't have to put gas in it 2-3 times a week. And part of it was that we don't have to make a car or insurance payment on it. Factor in that it was exceptionally clean (I guess that happens with some people, not so much with us) and I was in love! Plus, the radio worked (it actually worked very well, but working period is a bonus for us) and the ride was only bumpy when you went over bumps (another novel idea). This is what I call a luxury car.

The suppository didn't speak to me for a couple of days. She was ticked. I don't blame her. I betrayed her and then bragged about it.

On the way to school this week, I spotted my Jeep Cherokee. I pointed it out the boys. Told them it was my dream car, didn't they love it, etc. And Spanky informed me that he thought it was ugly. UGLY. I was shocked. Appalled. Bowled over --- when he informed me he much preferred the suppository, since it has more room.

Whatever. I do love the suppository. She gets me where I'm going. But she doesn't fit my hip image. We've gotta work on that.

The 12 Irritants of Christmas

Contraray to popular opinion, based mostly on a previous blog about Christmas beginning in early October, I am not a scrooge. I love Christmas. I love the decorations, I love the music, I love the sentiment, I love just about everything about this time of year. Just about.

There are a few things that drive me completely insane. Twelve actually. How convenient.

1. Decorated automobiles. Why are people putting wreaths and ribbons and bows and fake snow on their cars? I don't understand this. Decorate your house; drive your car.
2. Bad outdoor lights. If you're going to decorate the trees in your yard, do a good job. Otherwise, don't do it at all. These people that decorate only the bottom half of the tree don't realize that that's just a lighted version of whitewashing your trees. Very redneck.
3. Poor lawn decor. Closely related to #2 above. You should not have a manger scene complete with Santa and the Grinch. You should not have plastic glowing candy canes sprinkled randomly around the walkways. You most definitely should not have anything homemade in your yard.
4. Crowds. I don't like crowds the other 11 months of the year, but come Christmas, I can't hardly leave my house. I have to stock up on toilet paper around mid-September just so I don't have to stand in line for 30 minutes to buy a roll when we're desperate and have no other choice. This after being mauled by the crazies "just in the holiday spirit."
5. Finding a Christmas tree. First, let me ask, why are we cutting down a living tree and setting it up inside our house, only to have to make sure it doesn't die for a month, and then throwing it on the curb to be hauled away like it doesn't deserve to live? My dogs are totally confused about this tree in the house. Why can't they pee on it? It's fine when they're outside. Could we not find a better alternative? This year I proposed clearing a wall, painting on a tree, and letting the boys go nuts with paints to decorate it. After Christmas, I get a new paint job. SuperHubby was less than appreciative of this ingenious idea. We have a real tree.
6. Toilet paper gifts. A note comes home from school the other day asking that we send in empty toilet paper rolls. "We have some exciting crafts for the children, they will be making gifts for the parents, we need as many rolls as possible." Do I really want a gift made out of a used toilet paper roll? I guess it's better than used toilet paper. But I have a thought: why not let me send in $10 and you have a nice little store with nice little gifts that my child could buy me something. Preferrably something that didn't formerly take up residency in the bathroom.
7. Food. I love some holiday food. But I draw the line at anything that includes candied fruit. And a lot of holiday food has candied fruit hidden inside. It looks good, you take a nibble, you think you're home free, you take a bite, and suddenly you have a mouthful of candied pineapple. And the person who made it is standing right there. Crud.
8. Christmas colors. What's up with the red and green? These don't match. I'm thinking of a pink and black Christmas, baby!
9. Location, location, location. It's not so convenient to have Christmas in December. First, it's cold, and I don't like cold weather. I think we should work on this. Second, daytimers end in December (unless you have a 16-month calendar, but that's another story). So you have tons of notes and appointments to write down, but no room, because you've already used your calendar for 11 months and you're barely holding on until the new one can be used.
10. Mean, bratty kids. A nasty little girl in FrogBoy's class told him there was no such thing as Santa Claus. We told her she was ugly.
11. Media issues. It's not so wonderful to have holiday specials on all the time. Sometimes you just want to watch Law & Order and see someone get murdered. And the 24/7 Christmas music on the radio is really stale by now. AND just because the technology is available, that doesn't mean Cyndi Lauper and Frank Sinatra should EVER sing together.
12. Middle-of-the-mall vendors. These people annoy me. There's not enough room to walk anyway because of all the people in the mall, but some rocket scientist felt compelled to add more vendors by setting up keosks in the middle of the street. So you have to walk around. But you can't walk around, because there's too many people. Which is just what they want. Then they corner you. I actually had a woman ask me the other day if my hair was naturally curly. Being stupid, I answered her. When I said yes, she tried to sell me a hair straightener. Does that mean my hair looks awful and I need help? That's a bad sales gimmick, no matter how you slice it.

BONUS IRRITANT: Free gift with purchase. Ever notice how the free gift with purchase is really good, but not great, but something you'd like to maybe have? But they don't sell it on it's own, you can only get it free with purchase. But you have to spend some crazy amount on an item that (1) you really don't want and (2) really isn't worth what you're paying -- but you do it because you want the FREE gift.

I'm not anti-Christmas, really. I could go for some changes to the routine though. I don't think everything on the planet should close down (what if I need to buy something?). It is all about me, after all.

The Queen's New Ride

Due to my lack of automotive knowledge, and the subsequent near-death experience of the suppository resulting from my neglect, I have had much time this week to ponder my life without the Giant Golden Suppository as my primary mode of transportation. While such a thought makes me quite sad (not), I have given it much thought and have narrowed down my list of dream replacements for the GGS:

• The Oscar Mayer Weinermobile: I actually saw the Weinermobile on I-26 earlier this week. What an amazing vehicle. Driving the Weinermobile would greatly cut down on that pesky issue of locating my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot.
• A tow truck: I could park anywhere I wanted. Not like anyone would tow me.
• An EMS/Rescue truck: They don't really do anything special. They just show up at accidents so there'll be more emergency vehicles blocking the road and things will look worse than they are. Which means less responsibility, but I still get to drive through red lights and sound the siren.
• The Batmobile: No explanation necessary.
• An ice cream truck: Not because I like kids. But because the thought of people chasing me through the streets feeds my ego just enough to make it worthwhile.
• A hearse: People in Charleston are so polite, as SuperHubby is prone to pointing out, that they pull over to the side of the road every time a funeral procession drives by. Which means I would NEVER have to fight with traffic again.

Of course, my ultimate desire is to skip all the automotive nastiness and just pull an "I Dream of Jeannie" whenever I'd like to go somewhere. Cuts out the hassle of driving. Until that happens, I'll be driving around in the GGS with a case of latex gloves in the back. (I'm not kidding - it just gets more and more embarrassing, doesn't it?)

When It Rains, It Pours

Can I gripe for a minute? (Would it matter if you said "no"?)

Yesterday it monsooned. Lots and lots of water. From the sky. I love rain...when I'm inside and don't have anywhere to go and can crawl in bed with a candle going and the radio on and my cross-stitch by my side. But I had to take the boys to school. Calling in wet wasn't an option.

Typical of the day starting off with a downpour, my attitude was not the best. I managed to break 4 - count 'em, 4! - nails just trying to get into the suppository without messing up my 'do. Didn't work, and I lost 4 nails in the process.

Somewhere along Whipple Road, I hit a tremendous about of water puddling on the road. It would appear, from what happened afterwards, that this is not a good thing. The suppository sputtered. She shook. Then she stalled.

Comments from the backseat (FrogBoy) included: "Oh great, now I'm going to be late!" He the proceeded to ask me if my radio was working. How about the wipers? Maybe you need to call Daddy. The sad thing is, I actually was listening to the kid and checking the radio and the wipers.

Spanky was frantic. He's on Safety Patrol, and he's been promoted to top grade, meaning he has car duty. This is high class for 5th grade. And now I was making him late. (How did this turn into me against them?)

SuperHubby's on his way. I try the suppository again. She cranks. She doesn't want to go, but she putters to the school. We manage to get everyone where they need to be, and SH follows me to church.

SH then decides to start asking questions. Always a bad sign. And I learned something very valuable. Apparently, when the oil light comes on in the car, that's not merely a suggestion. The car really needs oil.

I sat around and fretted most of the morning about killing the suppository. Don't get me wrong, I want her to die, just not until I have my red Jeep Grand Cherokee. Or something very similar.

To top it all off, we had major commitments last night, none of which could be rescheduled, and we really needed 2 cars. I was a little cranky. I yelled at my boss.

In the end, everyone got to school on time, my nails and hair aren't as bad as some people's (I won't mention any names, you know who you are), my boss didn't fire me (yet - MAP at 1:30) and the suppository is still chugging along. That was one prayed for suppository yesterday!

Cocky

This should have been written sooner, but I've been studying for a social studies test this week. I suddenly have recalled why I didn't enjoy 5th grade so much. I'm okay with learning the states (okay, I already knew them, in alphabetical order, because I am Rain Woman) and their capitals. Locating them on a map isn't so easy for me - especially those in the midwest. This hasn't been much fun. No wonder my brother is the history teacher and I'm the cute and personable one.

Anyway, this past weekend I was delighted to join my brother and my father for the final quarter of the USC/FL game. I understand and enjoy football, so all you men can just stop rolling your eyes. Partaking of the game with my dad and The Professor is quite enjoyable, for a couple of reasons: (1) My father transforms into Crazy Football Dad, (2) both my father and brother become very aggressive (they're both about 110 lbs. so this is humorous in and of itself) and boisterous, and (3) they begin speaking some sort of secret language that I'm not sure normal people understand. SuperHubby -- thankfully -- sits on the sofa and smirks at them. Of course, he pulls for the Detroit Lions, so he's not really used to seeing a good game. But I digress.

So we're watching them game. And I'm actually watching, because, after years of pulling for USC, I'm mostly used to being disappointed. Let's face it, they're going to mess it up somewhere along the way, and someone (usually my dad) is going to get ticked. But this was a good game. And they won. Even better.

The best part of the game for me, though, was learning about a USC player called "Pops" Frisby. They call him "Pops" because he's 40 years old. And he's on the football team. Seems he served in the military (I don't know which branch, it doesn't matter) from the time he got out of high school, retired, and decided he wanted a college education. Nevermind that he was old. Nevermind that he has several kids. He wanted to play football. So he tried out. And made the team. How cool is that?

I don't know if Pops gets to play - I was too busy being impressed by the fact that he decided he wanted to do something and didn't let the definition of "normal" get in his way. How many people do you know who say "I wish I would have..."? I have several "I wish" items on my list. I wish I would have learned how to play piano. I wish I would have stayed in college. I wish I would have been more sensible when Spanky was born and not put the gigundo hospital bill on our credit card (hello - still paying for that mistake!). I wish I would have taken my dad up on his offer and eloped and pocketed the cash.

I can't go back and change most of my "I wishes" - although I guess I could learn to play piano if I were so inclined. I just think it's really cool that Pops Frisby is doing what he wants to do - no matter what anyone else may think.

'Tis the Season

It took me some time to find a radio station that I really liked. I have rather odd taste in music. Mostly 80s, but an occasional current tune, if it's good enough...which isn't often.

I found my station about this time last year. The morning show was clean, so I could listen in the car, and the tunes were adequate. At the end of January, they changed everything up and totally removed my morning show. Turned out okay; they replaced it with another show, equally as humorous, equally as clean, still played the awesome 80s tunes.

All was happy in QueenLand. And then it happened. About a month ago, I happily sang along on the way to work and school. Got in the suppository at lunch and lo and behold, they were playing some terrible, awful, not-very-good music. Okay. Minor programming glitch. I can forgive that.

But it happened the next day. And again the next. Something was fishy here. I checked their website and found that the station had been sold. Just like that. No phone call, no note, nothing. Just sold off my favorite station and started playing crappy music. Bummer.

I had to find another station. Fast. So I went back to an old favorite. I won't mention any names, but this station has been around town forEVER and they're very clean and slightly funny so I figured they'd do. I listened for about a week.

Then they did something horrible. Terrible. Ridiculous. They started playing Christmas music. On November 5th.

Now I'm all for Christmas music. In December. But hello, it's the beginning of November and we're playing 24/7 Christmas music. Give me a break.

I've learned a few things in the past couple of weeks. Like the worst things about 24/7 Christmas music:

• If you listen for an hour, you'll start hearing the same songs all over again. Oh, they may be sung by different artists, but there just aren't that many holiday songs to be sung, so you're going to get repeats.
• Old Christmas songs aren't that bad, but the newer ones are pretty much depressing. I cite "Feed the World" as my example and leave it at that.
• No one should ever, I repeat EVER, be subjected to Alvin and the Chipmunks singing anything on the radio.

And the best things about 24/7 Christmas music:

• Christmas songs do put me in a holiday kind of mood. They're festive, and I like that. Sometimes.
• They play a lot of religious songs (go figure), so Jesus gets some pretty good plugs that normally don't get put out there on, say, Groundhog Day.
• If you listen long enough, you may hear Neil Diamond. He still doesn't get as much airplay as he deserves, but it is increased during the holidays.
• If you're really lucky, you'll hear Adam Sandler's "The Hannakuh Song." That makes it all worthwhile.

Turn Out the Lights, The Party's Over

Thursday was a pretty good day. Until I got home. Flipped the light switch, nothing. Flipped a few more, still nothing. Proceeded to flip my lid. Is this for real?

I called the electric company. These people are not the smartest. Long story short, they screwed up my account and, although I've paid them exactly what I was supposed to pay them for the past 3 months, and they were able to verify that, they felt compelled to turn off my power. Nice.

It was 3:30. Okay, it's not cold and it's not dark. I can handle this. FrogBoy is getting anxious but it's all good. We start homework. They said they'd be by in 2 hours or less. Not a problem.

Precisely 2 hours later, FrogBoy is frantic and I'm quickly losing patience. I call back. Oh yeah, the day man goes off the clock at 4:00 and it switches to a new guy. Pray tell, when might I expect my lights to come back on? Oh, they assured me it would be before the Night Guy goes off duty... AT 11:00!

Now I'm not too happy. I begin to speak a little louder than before. I start explaining to every single person I get on the phone that, hello, my son is autistic and he's jonesing over here and I need help. They were all very sympathetic, but oddly enough, couldn't promise me anything before 11:00. After speaking to 5 different people (my favorite being Dana, who just hung up on me), I decided to do something drastic: we went shopping.

Here's the thing: I was now 6:00. And very dark. And we were hungry. SuperHubby met us and we had dinner, then he took FrogBoy and I took Spanky and we went our separate ways. By the time SuperHubby and the Frogster returned home, we had power. So I guess it worked out.

I have a couple of issues with this whole thing:
1. The first lady I talked to, very nice, but not so bright. Told me since it was a "mutual" misunderstanding, she wouldn't charge me a re-connection fee. Hello, how does their mistake become "mutual"?
2. No one responded to the trouble I was having because of FrogBoy. I don't usually play the autism card, but when I do, I do it because I want results. This did not work out so well for me.
3. There's only one company I can use for electric service, so regardless of what happens, I'm stuck.

Because my power was out all day Thursday, my phones didn't charge and were out all day Friday and Saturday. This meant no blogging...which was upsetting, considering I had STUFF to say. Anyway, I'm back, and I'm in rare form!

The Suppository

It really does exist

Why is it that a hoity-toity town like Mt. Pleasant always smells like a gigantic poofer?

He Went There

SuperHubby is in the Super Pooper. That's right, my friends, he went there. Counseling, anyone?

It started a couple of weeks ago when a friend of his called to ridicule him about the Detroit Lions. That's nothing unusual. When SuperHubby went to return the call, he found this particular friend had moved. That meant the information in my address book was wrong.

A few days later, I casually mentioned to SH that I hoped he had written down the correct address (gotta make sure they get their Christmas card). And this man, the love of my life, the man I have lived with for almost 14 years, says, "Yeah, I wrote it down. In the address book."

EXCUSE ME?!?! He wrote it in the address book. Has the lost his mind? I held it together pretty well...not. I went totally Rain Man on him.

I began to shake. I couldn't form a sentence. (The shaking has happened before, and I take medication for that, so I knew that was directly related to the affront that had been committed against me and my beloved addy book. The fact that I couldn't speak, well, that was just scary.)

I asked if he was kidding. He wasn't. I begged him to tell me he was kidding. He couldn't. I immediately started thinking, "Great, I spend 4 years finding the perfect address book, and now I have to replace the stupid thing because this bozo has written in it." You see, it's ours to look at, but mine to write in.

Fortunately, it's a loose leaf book. I had to go that route because I can't stand having scratched out information in my addy book and my friend Cindy moves every 6-8 months. (Remember, I admitted to Rain Man syndrome already). So it looks like I'll be rewriting the "N" page tonight.

Sometimes I think he does these things just to irritate me. He came in the room the following morning and saw me putting together my new daytimer. His comment? "Is that my fault too?" If he ever touches my daytimer, blood will be shed.

Freaky Freebies

Met my brother and my mother for coffee a couple of nights ago. Technically, that's not 100% accurate: he had coffee; she had a hot chocolate and I had a vanilla steamer.

Anyway, we sat in Books-a-Million for a bit, processing some super-heavy stuff, and somehow, I walked away with a new bedroom suite (from The Professor) and a Louis Vitton purse (from her). HELLO!

I started thinking about some of the other really cool things SuperHubby and I have been blessed with for free. Now see, that's the kicker....my little list had to be comprised of items that were completely no-cost (to us).

We've been given SuperHubby's first hearing aids (actually, the money for them, but close enough). Dinners and gas money out the wazzoo when SuperHubby's been in the hospital. Friends cleaning up the house after the dog exploded during one such hospital episode. (I'm not sure if the 2 people who cleaned my house think of ME as a friend, but they're high on my list!). And, of course, The Giant Golden Suppository.

The suppository is one of my most favorite freebies. She came to us at a time when we only had one car, and not a very good one at that. We still have that car. Anyway, we worked different schedules and had the boys to ferry to and from school, not to mention the regular "life" stuff, and we were given this wonderful van. Shortly thereafter, I realized I was driving around town in a suppository, but I didn't care...I had transportation!

The suppository is slowing nearing the end of her life. I'm sure of it. Spanky touched the tailgate a couple of weeks ago and the word "Previa" fell off. Just fell off. The windshield wipers need to be replaced, but as we found out the last time we needed new ones, they don't make 'em anymore. The muffler sounds terrible (gracias, SuperHubby!) and the thing doesn't crank on cold mornings. The a/c only works during the winter and the heat only works during the summer. And there's that little issue we have in the winter with the window sticking in the "down" position. Unfortunately, the windshield fogs so much that you HAVE to put the window down to merge into traffic...and then it doesn't go up until you have icicles on your nose hairs.

So I'm wondering why there wasn't someone at our coffee party with a Jeep Cherokee (red, please) to give away. I know it's coming. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the dickens out of my Sweet Golden Suppository.

Too Much of a Good Thing

So this weekend I was in Target. No real surprise there. And I happened to be frequenting the Target in North Chuck. This is close to my house ... and all Targets are the same anyway ... so I was okay with it.

The problem started when I walked through those glorious Target doors. I was immediately accosted by an employee in a red Target shirt, asking "Can I help you find something?" Seriously? This is Target, right? I mumbled, "No, I'm just looking" and ran away. Yeah, that sounded intelligent.

I hadn't gotten much further inside the door when yet another employee felt compelled to ask "Can I help you find something today?" I thought about saying "No, but try again tomorrow" but I didn't want to engage her in conversation. I happily replied "I know just what I'm looking for!" (lie) and ran away.

I rounded a corner and that same darned employee was standing there. She yelled "Can I help you find anything?" (although I'm pretty sure she was laughing by this point) and I said "Nope, got it!" and held up a box of Depends. I wasn't going to be stalked any further.

This got me to thinking. What's up with Target??? Do they not realize they are Target? I mean, when I go to a NICE store, like Carolina Girls, and I'm looking to buy a Vera Bradley purse, I expect them to ask if they can help me. We're talking bucks here. Not that I'm going to let them help me, but I expect them to ask. But not at Target. That's like Publix or Taco Bell asking if you're looking for something specific.... Obviously you are, or you wouldn't be there.

I applaud Target for trying to step it up in the customer service department. I just think they've gone overboard. Maybe just hand out gift cards at the front door. That, to me, says "We appreciate your business."

Forever Young

I am a child of the 80s. I love everything about the 80s. The clothes, the hair, the music, you name it. I'm not even embarrassed by it anymore...not since VH-1 decided to air 3, count 'em, 3 shows about this wonderful, marvelous decade.

So this weekend I was driving around with the boys in the car. It's an all 80s weekend on the radio. And suddenly I realized something very startling...when I'm listening to 80s music, I am transformed. I'm not driving the Suppository; I'm driving my fire-engine red 89 Sundance. I've got long, flowing, curly hair. Awesome hair. (Okay, nothing's changed there...it's still awesome). I'm belting out Air Supply and Night Ranger and anything cheesy or hair-bandy. Fabulous. I'm not wearing my frumpy old lady glasses, I've got on my cool snakeskin shades. And I'm skinny.

Say it with me: FANTASY.

I'm 35 now. I don't feel 35. I don't feel like I should have a 10-year old and a 7-year-old. How is that possible? I'm so young. And totally hot.

I was with my sis-in-law this weekend. We were driving with our 2 youngest in the car ... car seats, no less. And this Explorer with 2 VERY young (and cute!) guys pulls up alongside the van and drives next to us for FOREVER. Now, she has her own business, so her name and phone number are on the side of the van, so I'm sure that made them feel a little more confident. But we were thrilled! When they drove off, there was so much high-fiving in the van, we almost went off the road!!!

I'm pretty sure they were drunk. But let me tell you...it was a tremendous boost to my ego.

Trouble in the John

I really hate it when I'm in the bathroom and run into trouble. Not medication-requiring trouble, just inconvient trouble. Like when you finish your shower and drop your fresh, clean towel in the wet tub. When the people you live with feel compelled to flush or start a load of dishes while you're in the shower screaming "HOT! HOT! No, COLD! COLD!" and doing the SuperFreak Dance. When someone "accidentally" turns out the lights while you're showering. (Actually, we do that to Spanky, and it's quite enjoyable).

Some of my most recent situations...

• Sitting down at 3 a.m. and SUDDENLY remembering you live with 3 boys, one of whom has left the lid up, and you are now soaked up to your shoulders.
• Spraying your hairspray and thinking "Wow, that smells good," and not realizing until your neck is all sticky that you've confused the hairspray and the perfume....again.
• Shampooing your hair and - on the rinse cycle - realizing you've used Nair instead of Suave.
• Looking over and noticing there's no paper on the roll. And you're home alone. And the extra rolls are stored in the garage.
• Brushing your teeth and realizing - 3 seconds too late - that your toothbrush was already wet.

Makes the Ice Cubes of Happiness sound better all the time.

Fillin' the Tank

Pastor Greg really knocked it out of the park this weekend. The message was fantastic. Tremendous. Amazing. Man, I hope he reads this.

During the service, we had an incredibly uncomfortable moment...we were supposed to stand up and hug a complete stranger. Somehow this was supposed to make us feel good. I hugged SuperHubby and sat down very quickly. It wasn't bad.

This little display got me to thinking: I really don't hug people enough. Okay, I really don't hug people. But I started Saturday after church. And it wasn't too terrible.

The first person I saw was Doodles. That was easy. I could hug Doodles all day long. The HugFest continued for quite some time ... and I didn't die or barf or anything.

This was becoming a pretty cool "out of the box" experience. At dinner, I went outside the comfort zone and grabbed SuperHubby's hand. For no reason. And then he comes out with, "You know, that's my love language...physical touch." (Yeah, like I needed that update)

I've been thinking about the 5 love languages a lot this weekend. For those living under a rock, the 5 love languages are: Food, Jewelry, Football, Sex and The "Hey Baby" Principal (also known as "You're so sweet, I'm gettin' a toothache just lookin' at you!").

SuperHubby's LL is physical touch (sex). Mine are acts of service (food) and words of affirmation (Hey, Baby). And if you can't figure it out, the other 2 are gifts (jewelry) and quality time (football). Those don't factor high on my list.

So I've been thinking about how we stack up differently around our house. SuperHubby likes touch. I don't touch anyone or anything I don't have to. At least I didn't before Saturday. How is it that I've missed this important tidbit for 16 years? And the odd thing is...SuperHubby is the ONE person I love holding hands with, hugging, patting on the butt, high fiving, whatever.

What says love to me? Mowing the lawn. Doing the dishes. Cooking me dinner. Rubbing my back (sounds contradictory, but it's true). Telling me "Well done" or "Good job" or "You're the best assistant ever."

I've read the book a million times. I've practically got it memorized. But I wasn't following through. And not just with SuperHubby, but with my friends, too. Both of them. I tend to send cards to let them know I'm thinking of them, but is that speaking in their Love Langauge, or mine? Should I be doing things differently?

If you see a maniac running around hugging people, it might be me. It might not. I'm not going to hug people I don't like. That's just not honest. But I will make a conscious effort not to shudder with disgust each and every time someone wraps their arms around me.

The Week-est Link

Yesterday I had a terrible week. Indeed, after many, many tremendous Lori Weeks, Monday was a terrible, horrible, not-so-good day. Bummer.

My incredibly intelligent friend Doodles pointed out this morning that - as God told her at 4 a.m. - this was Satan pulling out the file of everything that had worked in the past on me and putting them all together - IN ONE DAY! What a butthead (Satan, not Doodles!).

I guess it actually started last week. I realized that out of 5 women in my office, 4 of them are blonde, beautiful and skinny. For the 3 people reading this who haven't met me, picture Roseanne...but only slightly nicer...but a lot less Yankee. Is there a reason I must be surrounded with ladies like this? I love them all, but honestly...my ego can't take this. I'm used to being the cutest one around (of course, that was when I was in insurance, and I worked with all guys, but I WAS the cutest).

Now last weekend SuperHubby killed his car. He revived it for a day, then it went kaput in our driveway. Not only does that mean sharing a car - which means he's driving the suppository, because I don't get to drive unless I'm taking him to the hospital - but on top of that, instead of pushing it to the front of the driveway, SH decided it would be a good idea to push it into the middle of the yard. We now have the most ghettolicious house on our street.

Lots of other junk has happened since then, but to make our home situation even worse, SuperHubby has now injured the suppository. It happened at school; he went over a speed bump going a little too fast (90) and bottomed out and now the muffler is making an odd sound. Idaho called and asked us to keep it down. So on top of the car in the yard, we have the suppository making a sound like a huge fart - which is NOT a good combination. And we live in North Chuck. Ghettolicious.

I'm hoping my week will get better. At least I know what's behind it now. And while I'm thankful my friend listened when God woke her up this morning, I can't help but thinking I could've gotten the same information if I had been paying attention when He woke ME up at 4:00. Praise God for good friends.

Meet the Parents

My parents are both having surgery in the next couple of weeks. They're high maintenance types. I'm trying to convince them to have their procedures at the same time.

My parents aren't exactly best friends. They have been divorced for 15 years. They haven't had a kind word for each other in 20. But they have 2 incredibly amazing children together (okay, one, but The Professor would get his feelings hurt if I didn't pretend he was wonderful, too).

My dad has to have all his teeth pulled. All his real teeth, that is. He already had half of them pulled last year. My mother has to have a pain management pump removed from her gut. Have I mentioned how FUN my family is?

Here's my thought: they're already both scheduled at the same hospital. If they go on the same day, they can ride together. Dad won't be able to talk, so he can't irritate Mom, and she's going to be given some lovely medicine which makes you forget everything (vodka, anyone?) so she won't remember being around him anyway. This could be the first time they were cordial to each other in over 20 years!

Dad could stay with my mother and her hubby at their condo (they have an extra room). This would make things a lot easier on me and my brother...only one place to visit the sickies. It's not like they haven't lived in the same house before, even after they were separated. (Yes, they are really THAT abnormal).

They could come out of the whole experience much more thankful for the state of SC and it's wonderful divorce provisions. Judges would be getting fruit baskets. It would be a beautiful thing.

Neither of them is inclined to help me out here. Apparently it's fine and dandy for them to make my life a living you-know-what with all their divorce nonsense, but let me ask one small favor, and I get zippo from them.

We're stopping by Olan Mills on the way home from the hospital. Webster's needs a new photo of my family to put next to the definition of "dysfunctional."

Tis the Season

I love this time of year. The holidays are right around the corner, the air is cool and crisp (somewhere) and I get to wear red and orange and brown. It's really superb.

This weekend I got started on my Christmas cards. Actually, that's not true. I started last weekend. Last weekend I made my list. This weekend I checked it twice. Seriously.

I have my cards ready to be addressed, I've got my final list, and I've decided the photo of Spanky and FrogBoy in front of the Statue of Liberty will be this year's insert. Life is good.

I absolutely love the holidays. I love Thanksgiving ... good food without the stress of presents and parties ... and I love Christmas ... because sometimes a little stress is good for the soul. I love the whole family thing. I love the weather and time off and holiday sales and no snow.

And the best part? Pumpkin Cheesecake. Oh. My. Goodness. If you haven't had pumpkin cheesecake, you haven't lived yet. Go to Barnes and Noble and get a slice or 6.

Pumpkin Cheesecake is like running barefoot through a meadow of daisies toward your beloved. It's like the 4th of July inside your mouth. It's like saying "I do." It's like finding a really great purse - on sale. You hear angels sing the Hallelujah Chorus when you have a bite of pumpkin cheesecake.

If someone were to choose you as their 40 Days of Community project, the best thing they could do would be to give you Pumpkin Cheesecake. Okay, that was shameless, but I don't care. This is The Stuff.

Try it. Get some to go, bring me a slice, and I'll share the joy with you. I'll sacrifice my non-existent diet just to get more people on the PC bandwagon. It's just that good.

Call Me Cranky

So this hasn't been exactly The Best Week Ever. The last couple of weeks have been great, and while I would like to report that I am still having quite the stellar hair day, the rest of life in the Fitgzerald household is pretty stinky.

FrogBoy has a rash. This wouldn't upset most kids, but it upsets FrogBoy. We think it's an allergic reaction to something, but it's driving him nuts. Which means he's telling us about his "rashes" every 5 minutes. That never gets old.

Spanky is just acting contrary, as my Grandmama would say. Don't know what's gotten into him lately, could be more of that puberty thing, but he needs to stop.

And then there's SuperHubby. SuperHubby has a headache and a stomachache. Okay, that sounds like I'm whining, but if you know me/us, then you know head and stomach usually equal MUSC. And that's not good.

SuperHubby has assured me that he doesn't THINK that's the problem. Maybe it's the new medicine he's on. Maybe it's a virus. Maybe it's because it's Thursday. I don't really care what it IS, I want to know what it isn't. And I want to know now.

So I've been stressing the last few days. I've also been running through the crisis checklist in my brain. I don't think I'm going to have to use it -- I believe that God has healed him of all that brain surgery nonsense -- but it's hard not to revert to my old ways and line things up "just in case." And, of course, that just causes the crabbiness to shine through.

To top it all off, I'm trying my best to catch a cold. I hate that. So I'm cranky (or crankier than usual, depending on how you look at it). If you say "Good morning!" and I bite your head off, I offer one tidbit of advice: DON'T hug me! Don't even act nice. Just move on, and you may escape with your limbs intact.

Body Art

Everyone has them. Battle scars. War wounds. Life's tattoos. Body art.

My father has one on his butt from where he sat on a lawnmower when he was a kid. My brother has one on his side where he had an uphappy meeting with a box cutter when he worked for a lumber company.

I have a lot of them. I think they make me unique - and a little interesting. They tell my life's story in a weird way. And I think they're all pretty cool...

• On top of my right foot, I have 3 small round scars. When I was a kid, I didn't know how to use the hand brakes on my new bike, so I used my foot. I wasn't wearing shoes. Not the sharpest crayon in the box.
• I have a tooth that is 75% fake and barely has a root. When we were young, my brother and I were trying to ride our bikes without using our hands. He veered off into me (I'd like to point out I remained straight all the way down). I got a fat lip, a busted tooth and a trip to the emergency dentist. He got serious restriction. (He also gets an assist for a broekn wrist of mine, but I don't have any scars from that, except the mental ones.)
• I have several hideous scars on my right hand. When I was 13, I tossed some hot grease in a frying pan - because I didn't want to set the table - and it splattered up on my hand. Got 2nd degree burns from that one, plus a trip to the hospital. The only thing worse than the burn was when the blisters ripped off while I was trying to water ski later that summer. Ouch.
• I have a BB in my butt. No kidding. I got shot the same summer as the hot grease incident. I would like to point out that my brother was nowhere near me when I was shot; he was at summer camp. I carry around the BB to this day; it was too close to my spine to be removed. More traumatic than having to explain to an entire household of my parents' friends - and all their SONS - that I was not "becoming a woman" was the lady in the ER saying, "Hey, where's the girl with the BB in her butt." That, and my dad still thinks it's funny to this day to announce to everyone that I'm toting lead.
• My left knee has a lovely scar I got from my wedding. Indeed. Small incident involving being chased by little people with rice. Busted my fanny good on that one; got the video to prove it.
• I've had 2 c-sections, so I have lovely railroad tracks on my lower abdomen. At least, that's what I'm told; I haven't seen that portion of my body since October 1997. Oddly enough, I know which scar belongs to which kid.
• Finally (let's hope), I have a fabulous little deal running the length of my right arm. I had a seizure...while holding Spanky...on my very first Mother's Day. My arm got caught under the bed and got messed up.

So while my body art isn't exactly pretty, it's like a roadmap of the big events in my life. They make me who I am...which I think is a little cool. How many other people do you know who have been shot? And the bullet's still in there. Bet you can't NOT think of it next time you see me!

Two Peas in a Pod

I've been realizing lately that a lot of my best friends are people I've met through work. These are people I wouldn't have necessarily chosen as friends had I not worked with them and been forced into situations of getting to know them; a lot of them are nothing like me and there's just no way we would've hooked up under normal circumstances. But I've been blessed with having them for friends.

Someone who means a lot to me is Doodles, a.k.a. The Princess of the Southern Kingdom. She and I are not at all alike. She's blond; I'm brunette. She's skinny; I'm brunette. She's very girlie; me - not so much. She's dainty and pretty and sweet; I'm just me.

Anyway, regardless of our differences, I count her as one of my best friends. We've been working in close proximity for a few years now ... and over the years we have grown closer, getting all up in each other's business.

I have a hard time telling people how much they mean to me, unless, of course, they move to Germany, in which case I can tell them a thousand different ways. I've been feeling like I should be more intentional in expressing my love and gratitude to my friends, and something happened last week that confirmed that thought. Doodles, I respect you, I love you and I thank God for you.

It's All About Me

So last week was Lori Week - a small group chose me as their project, apparently, and Operation Fitzgerald went into full swing. I highlighted the first half of the week in an earlier blog. Now here's the great thing...the end of the week was just as wonderful!

On Thursday, I got a very nice card with Moe's Money. Now Moe's is one of my absolute favorite places on earth. This is evidenced by the fact that they know me so well. Seriously. They shout out at me every time I walk in the door.

I love Moe's for many reasons. They have awesome food. They are super friendly. They have that great green salsa-y stuff. I can order my food buck naked. (Okay, that alone is enough for me, let's be honest.)

So I was floating pretty high on the Moe's Money. I got enough for many meals. If I take SuperHubby, it won't last as long, but since I don't eat in restaurants by myself, it looks like I'm sharing my good fortune.

Then, Friday, I got flowers. FLOWERS. I never get flowers. And these were absolutely beautiful. Some kind of lily, which I'm told I can plant in my yard, even if I kill it (which I will). And while I was thinking I was being stalked at the beginning of the week, by Friday, I was really digging the attention. I could get used to being pampered.

The card I got Friday could've carried me all week. It was awesome. And it would appear these people like me. Either that, or they're faking it really well. My brother, the Professor, says they chose me for their project because it's easy to be nice to nice people, but being nice to me is a real service project. Feel the love.

I got another card today. And Jessica told me I was still rocking the good hair day. And SuperHubby's car, which died over the weekend, was fixed by a friend of ours (who will remain nameless so others won't approach him when they have car issues!) and we were out only $25 for the towing bill because I was smart enough to put towing insurance on the car. Today has been a Lori Day. Fabulous.

In case anyone is interested, I am taking applications for the next group that would like to spoil me. I may just be a princess after all.

Lookin' Good

I have been having a fantastic hair day for about 2 weeks now. I has really been tremendous. This has resulted in my spending a lot more time looking at myself in mirrors lately. And that has caused me to come to the conclusion that I really don't like how I look.

I need to be skinny again. I used to be super-skinny, and I don't want to do that ... the malnourished look just isn't pretty ... but I wouldn't mind being a little less buff. Sadly, I have no desire to diet and/or exercise, which is probably why I'm not skinny. Whatever the reason, I have come up with some ideas to help me be thinner without dieting:

1. The poufier my hair, the thinner my face looks. The shorter and flatter the hair, the fatter the face. I just need to grow my hair out.
2. I have a theory: the friction from my thighs rubbing together when I walk should cause the pounds to just drop off. Most of them are located in the thigh region anyway.
3. I need to hang out with sight-impaired people. I have a skinny voice; my body just doesn't realize it isn't meeting up with people's expectations.
4. I need to hang out with people fatter than me. I will look thin in comparison.

If none of this works, I may have to do something drastic: accept that I'm not skinny and move on.

Be Nice!

I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was 2 years ago, though - and I was in a meeting doing the #1 thing on my Hate to Do List. Geoff had decided that this was the day we all needed to share our feelings for each other with each other. Joy.

I hated this exercise. I quickly scanned the room for an exit. The pastors had blocked the door. I was trapped. I glanced to my left and my right, relieved to find I was between 2 people I actually liked. This wasn't going to be so bad.

We went around the room, everyone complimenting the person on their left, then switched it up and went the other way, everyone complimenting the person on their right. And here's the cool part: I didn't have to make anything up ... I was actually able to come up with stuff for the people on either side of me. The even cooler part? To this day, I remember, almost word for word, what each of these people said to me.

Now I'm not big on accepting compliments. But one of Geoff's conditions, because Geoff always has conditions with these fun little games of his, was that we had to look at the person while they talked to us, and we had to just take it with a smile and a thank you.

My point? This was over 2 years ago, and the nice things these 2 people said to me have stuck with me. I think they were genuine. I know I was. A little niceness goes a long way.

We did an exercise like this when I was in college. Everyone had a sheet of paper taped to their back and you would write something nice on it, but they couldn't see who wrote what. I don't remember anything that was on that list, but I'm sure I've got it tucked away in my hope chest somewhere.

This week a funny thing has been happening to me. Apparently someone has taken me on as their 40 Days of Community project. While I'm baffled as to why anyone would do this, it's really cool. Here's what's happened in Lori World this week:

1. Monday - I got a great card telling me the group was praying for me and my family this week. It was signed "Operation Fitzgerald."
2. Tuesday - Another card plus a chocolate cake. YUMMY. Two benefits from this: My children were VERY excited and right now my brother, The Professor, is extremely jealous. I can just feel it. And it feels good.
3. Today - A mailed mystery letter constructed of words and letters cut from magazines. I joked yesterday to the front desk that I was being stalked; this was an interesting followup to that thought!
4. Later today - Apparently there's a card in my box at work. I've worked at the church for almost 8 years and can count on 1 hand the number of times I've gotten a card in my box, so I'm thinking this is the handiwork of the OF group.

Typically I don't like people that much; but I'm really starting to like whoever is doing this! I can't stand to be drawn out for attention, but this behind-the-scenes-love is really quite nice. It makes me feel like pulling a Sally Field and screaming "You like me! You really like me!" (If you're too young to understand that reference, I would just like to say that I have only seen it in reruns ... I, too, am too young to have experienced it firsthand).

I've always thought that I really didn't need other people and if they liked me, great, but if not, that was fine too. I think I trained myself that way, just to make life easier. But apparently I really do care if people like me, and I appreciate being appreciated. And I can't help but think of how many other people need to hear these words from someone. I know I'm going to be more intentional about expressing myself to the folks around me. Tomorrow, I start the hugging spree...Watch out!

Growing Up

Well, it finally happened. At precisely 8:37 p.m. yesterday, Spanky announced that he had just gone through puberty. I was immediately excited, as I really thought it took longer than that.

Here's the background: After getting out of the shower, Spank decided to run around the house doing the naked dance. And apparently, things were happening that I wasn't noticing. I was oblivious ... but not for long.

Spanky then returned to where I was sitting and made the big announcement: "I just had puberty." Kid's always had trouble with verbs. My wonderful response? "Oh, yeah?" He then went on to explain: "You know, when your thing sticks out." I couldn't help it. "I don't have a thing."

It's really SuperHubby's fault. He's supposed to be home for these discussions. He was not home. I become a blithering idiot when we have The Talk. Ask Pastor Glenn. I had to sit next to him in the Sex Ed class at school ... I couldn't even make eye contact (I still have trouble most days) ... and I'm supposed to be the adult.

So I did the proper Mommy thing: I asked if Spanky had any questions. He didn't. He did, however, have a lot of comments about the whole puberty thing. And he was kind enough to let me borrow his booklet "Puberty and Stuff" so I could get my questions answered. Nice kid.

This morning I asked if he had any questions. He still didn't. I reminded him that it was probably best if he would ask Daddy these questions, since he'd probably be more comfortable talking to him about it. And, as Spanky said, "Yeah, plus he's got a thing."

I may not explain it well, but I think he's got the most important facts down.

True Love

Last night, I experienced the kind of love that comes only between a mother and her child. As FrogBoy was getting ready for bed, I told him, "I love you more than Christmas!" This seemed like a good idea at the time: the kid loves Christmas, he knows it's coming and is very excited about it, and that would give him some way to gauge what I was saying. I forgot one very important factor: FrogBoy doesn't understand humor.

So I tell my baby "I love you more than Christmas!" His response? A resounding: "I love you more than Labor Day!"

Wow. That's serious stuff. I guess it's better than Groundhog Day or Daylight Savings.

Star Gazing

I was perusing the most reliable news magazine on stands today (People), reading all about what all the beautiful people are doing and who they're doing it with, and I realized a very important thing: I could never be famous. Not that I want to be famous, but I'm just realizing I don't have what it takes. I think I have too many brain cells. And I'm still on my first husband. So here goes... my Top 10 Reasons I Could Never Make It in Hollywood:

• They don't take marriage seriously at all. Unless you're the salad dressing guy (Paul Newman for you youngsters). Everyone else gets married after they've known each other for a couple of months ... and the marriages last just as long. I don't even make eye contact with people that fast.
• They name their children really stupid things. Fifi Trixiebelle. Soleil Moon Frye. Charmin Oh-So-Soft. I really don't want to start my kids off on the getting-beat-up path that early in life.
• I would never own a dog that can be carried around in a purse ... and enjoy it. Furthermore, if I happened to own a rat, I wouldn't dress it in little doggie clothes.
• Most celebrities are skinny. If they are famous and fat, they got famous when they were fat, and if they lose weight later, they become un-famous. I have every intention of losing weight someday. I don't want to have the demise of my career tethered to that goal.
• Unless I can wear jeans and tees on the red carpet, I don't want to come to the party.
• Famous people seem to enjoy flying. I do not. No famous person ever got famous by staying in South Carolina their whole entire life.
• Celebrities tend to have maids. While I am fond of this idea on the surface, I balk at the thought of someone else washing my underwear.
• The beautiful people always seem to be hitting the parties at 4:00 a.m. I only do one thing at 4:00 a.m. -- sleep.
• Famous people have to sign autographs and get their pictures taken with strangers and act nice. I don't like people.
• I have Fred Flintstone feet. I think this would probably hurt my chances in Hollywood.

So now everyone can rest easy. I will not be leaving my job, my friends or my family to pursue a career in NY or LA. What you see is what you get.

Family Fun Night

Last night, the boys and I had to pick up my mother-in-law, The Smurf, at the airport. I hate the airport.

We got there at the precise moment her plane was to land. We waited. And waited. We drove around. And waited some more. I decided I needed to park and check the flight schedule inside.

I tried to park. I was chastised by a lady who told me I couldn't "abandon" my car in the valet lane. I explained that I just wanted to find the Smurf and get home .... by now it was getting late. She told me she didn't really care .... I'd have to go park in the "No Parking" zone (no kidding) - but I couldn't leave my car! - which I couldn't figure out how to do.

I drove around again. Back to "No Parking." Left the boys in the car with an order: "Don't touch your brother!!!" I ran inside and discoverd, lo and behold, that her flight was on time ... and had, allegedly, arrived a good 40 minutes earlier. I know she's short, but I think I would've seen her come out.

Now it was time for drastic measures. I had to park my car. In the parking lot. This took some manuevering, as apparently there was a mild explosion in the parking lot recently (they call it "construction"). We parked in lot M, which stood for "Miles Away" - and began the trek to the terminal. Spanky had managed to injure his ankle at school, so we sang a little song as we went.
"OW OW OW, OW OW OW" Ah, that never grows old.

I hit the info center and have the Smurf paged. She's not there. Her flight is no longer listed on the little TV, because it arrived an hour ago. Right. Suddenly, my cell phone rings, and it's the Smurf, a little too chipper, frankly, saying "I'm here!" My answer? "Yeah, me too."

We collected her things and managed to get home by 8:00. Not bad, since we were picking her up at 5:30. I learned several things at the airport though:

• My children can be easily entertained. They were thrilled to ride the airport shuttle to the car. Spanky was particularly excited because there were no seatbelts.
• My children have pretty short attention spans. FrogBoy kept commenting "Look, an airplane!" As we were at the airport, this was a rather frequent outburst. And he was genuinely excited each and every time he said it.
• It doesn't take a lot of money to do something fun with your kids. We had 3 hours and all this fun, and it only cost 75 cents for parking. Forget the fair - we're going to the airport!

Another One Bites the Dust

I am very saddened by the recent demise of the marriage of Renee Zellweger and Kenny Chesney. I'm even more sad that I didn't really realize a wedding had taken place before the marriage was over.

Apparently, these 2 crazy kids (both rapidly approaching 40) decided to get married after a lengthy courtship ... all of 4 months. The marriage lasted 4 months as well. Not many people can meet, date, get married and get divorced all in the same year (except Britney Spears, but she doesn't count for anything, ever).

Renee has cited "fraud" in her annulment petition. Um, she's an actress, which means "fraud" is pretty much the basis of her life ... so I don't get it. According to my sources (People magazine), Renee and Kenny had different plans for their marriage that they didn't realize at the onset of the deal. Gee, there's an argument for getting to know someone before you marry them. At least find out their middle name.

So, to help out those who are not currently attached but happen to be reading my blog, which I think consists of my my 11-year-old nephew and some random guy in Nebraska named Bo, I have compiled a helpful little list of things to consider before marrying someone:

• Do they have a history of loonies in their family? (okay, granted, my brother and I would both be very sad and lonely people if this meant you couldn't get married, but it would be nice for people to know going in what they're getting)
• Do their feet stink? Do you care?
• What do they look like at their worst? My suggestion ... ring their doorbell at 3 a.m. and see how pretty they are. Anyone can look nice for a date. The challenge is looking ... and acting ... nice in the middle of the night.
• Do they roll the toilet paper from the top or bottom? Will this cause arguments, or will you simply change it every single time so it rolls right?
• Will your married name cause you to have initials that spell something bad?
• Is their family ugly? It doesn't matter if they're gorgeous, if there's a history there, chances are, you're gonna have not-so-pretty kids.
• Have they written a song about you prior to meeting you? (Kenny did) If so, join me in looking up the definition of "stalker."
• Do you live in Hollywood (CA, not SC)? If so, it's a pretty good bet you shouldn't get married, not now, not ever. You can't be happy. You can only be rich. It's a rough life but you chose it. Now go and enjoy your gobs of money ... alone.

I'm hoping to have this included in our wedding manual at church. I think there's some good stuff here. And to Renee and Kenny, we mourn the loss of your union. We'll see you in 4 months, flaunting the new "love of your life."

The Best Job

Sorry Geoff, Sherry, Shawn and anyone else I may work for but not realize it yet: I'm not talking about you guys. I'm talking about being a Mommy.

This weekend, FrogBoy has been quite sick. He has a UTI. Apparently this means Urinary Troubles Indeed. (At first I thought it meant You're Thing's Irritated, but would be a YTI, and that just didn't make sense.)

SuperHubby took him to the doctor on Friday. He's been one uphappy FrogBoy since Thursday. But he's on antibiotics and things will be better soon.

This weekend with the Frog Man has reminded me of why I love being a mom. No matter how big they are, how much they claim they don't need you to walk them to class, how they can do anything and everything "MYSELF!" - when they're sick, they want Mommy. This is way cool. This is a special treat God reserves just for women. I'm sure it somehow relates to the whole childbirth deal.

Rewind to the antibiotic. It's done what all antibiotics do: it's given the poor child one more problem south of the border. And who does he call each and every time he goes to the bathroom? Yepper...SuperMom! (I believe SuperHubby is secretly thrilled by this, although he just gives a half grin and shrugs, as if to say he'd do it, if only the boy wanted him.) All weekend I've heard "Mommy, come here please" or "Mommy, I need a little help here" or - my absolute favorite - "Mommy, I need you!" I don't care if I am wiping his butt, those words are magic to this mom's heart.

So we've sat around all weekend, snuggling, wiping and dealing with the concerns of FrogBoy. (Whenever he's sick, he's pretty sure he's going to die. This time it was "Is my face pale and white?" Every 5 minutes.)

I don't care. I hate for him to be sick, but I'm enjoying the benefits I get from it. He actually has slowed down enough this weekend to sit on my lap and be my baby again...until tomorrow.

There is a Season

Autumn is by far my most favorite time of year. I love everything about it: the cool weather, the reds, oranges and browns, the fact that fall clothes look best on me. Who could ask for more?

I was very excited yesterday when Mr. Weatherman told me that fall was on it's way. "Expect cooler temperatures this weekend." Hooray! Mr. Weatherman failed to mention that by "cooler," he meant "90" and not "so hot you really can't breathe."

The official first day of autumn is next week (Sept 22, mark your calendar). This has me eagerly anticipating all the things I love most about the season. A few of my faves:

• denim jackets
• new daytimers in stores now!
• chili and cornbread
• clunky shoes
• football
• Thanksgiving
• pumpkin pie
• Christmas shopping and sending Christmas cards
• funky pajamas
• naked trees
• no poodle hair
• not having to shave my legs every day
• the anticipation of winter break - 1 glorious week at home with SuperHubby and the boys, with nothing to do but organize and fill out my new daytimer!

Of course, I will have to wait until the end of October before I can even think of donning my autumn wardrobe. And then, since we are, after all, livin' the wonderful life in the lowcountry, we'll only have 2 weeks of fall before the weather changes again. Oh well...it's better than hurricane season.

God Bless the USA

Ever notice how someone can make the meanest, nastiest comment about someone else, and as long as they say, "Bless his heart," it's okay? Case in point: "He could eat an apple through a picket fence, bless his heart." It almost sounds like a compliment. Well, here are some USA "bless his hearts" - a handful of states, ruining it for the rest of us.

Florida. It's gross. It just hangs down and begs to be hit by tropical systems. Then everyone that lives there seems amazed that they were hit "again." If we cut it off, the US lines would be much cleaner.

California. Eventually it will just slide off into the ocean. No one will notice.

West Virginia. Looks like a kid with a very saggy diaper.

New Jersey. Any state with the nickname "the armpit of America" needs to just go away. I know a couple of nice people from New Jersey. They were smart enough to leave.

Wyoming. Not much personality here. Texas has a distinctive shape. Wyoming is a square. Wow, that's impressive.

North and South Dakota. A total of 9 people live in both states. Let's officially combine them. Most people call them the Dakotas anyway.

Alaska and Hawaii. Without these 2, no one would ever have to use the word "contiguous." Ever. Being unattached from the rest of us, don't they just fly in the face of the concept of UNITED States?

A Mouse in the House

A few months ago, SuperHubby went off and left me to my own devices. The boys and I shopped til we dropped, not buying anything but thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We had a great day. We came home, tired as dogs, flopped on the sofa to watch a bad TNT movie, and ordered pizza. We had a picnic in the den. Then life as we knew it ceased to exist.

Spanky and I went to the kitchen to dispose of our trash. Upon opening the cabinet door to pitch our garbage, I noticed a small, gray rodent sitting atop my trash can. I said, quite calmly, what any normal person would say: "Oh my goodness, Spank, it's a mouse." Once the words registered in my brain, I did the next thing any normal person would do: I ran from the room.

The evening after that becomes a blur. I know I made a lot of phone calls. I'm not sure how I thought that would help, but that was my first choice: reach out and touch someone. At some point I got my mother-in-law on the phone. She was a bit calmer, probably because she was 15 miles away from the gray icky thing that was now making its way across my kitchen floor. She suggested I let the dogs after the mouse.

I learned a valuable lesson right then: our dogs are stupid. Layla went and took a nap. That seems to be how she handles everything. Kane was a little better, after I showed him where the mouse was. He chased it around the kitchen for a long time. Meanwhile, I did what any normal person would do: I took pictures (I knew SuperHubby wouldn't believe me; I needed proof).

Life was okay for a brief moment in time. At this point, Spanky had left the house and was waiting patiently in the car. In the driveway. FrogBoy and I were in the house. I had to keep an eye on the mouse. Unfortunately, Kane felt compelled to play with this thing in the most inhumane way. He would pick it up in his big Boxer mouth, slobber all over it until it was stunned into a semi-comatose state, drop it, kick it until it woke up and tried to run, then start the process all over. I began to feel sorry for the mouse. Sort of.

Then Kane did the most dreadful thing. He brought it to me. I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. I know FrogBoy and I reached new levels of panic. The noises coming from our mouths were incredible. The only picture I can give is me, Helga the Hysterical Hippopatomus, trying to grab my child while running from the dog, with only a mouse tail visible from the corner of his mouth.

I ran to my room and shut the door. I had some problems. I'd been ready for bed. I was wearing grungy shorts, a nasty tee shirt and no shoes. FrogBoy was in his underwear. We're a casual family. Meanwhile, Spanky's still in the car, and I'm such a basket case that FrogBoy is calling to him for help. I quickly thought of all my friends and hoped someone would come to my rescue. Then I realized...it was Saturday night, and they were all where I should have been - at church. It was up to me.

I grabbed my baby, my new Vera Bradley purse, my cell phone and my new digital camera. Priorities. I faked the dog out and ran through Spanky's room, out the garage and to the car. Now there were 3 half-dressed people in the driveway, waiting for goodness know's what. I called my uncle.

My uncle and aunt live about 45 minutes away. It was late. I asked if we could come live with them. Forever. Oddly enough, they weren't interested. I asked if we could come out to their house. They offered to come to my house. I readily accepted.

An hour later, my troubles were over. A very wet, very dead, much smaller mouse was removed from my house. (I would like to point out that I went back inside after he expired and covered him with a trashcan, so the dog wouldn't chow down). We determined later that he was probably drunk on antifreeze, which would explain his poor decision-making that particular evening.

My family has laughed about this for months now. But I learned a valuable lesson. Never take off your clothes until you're really ready for bed.

A Royal Pain

I have managed to injure myself. I'm not sure what I did. I think it may have been the marathon organizing session of this past weekend. However, I am currently in quite a lot of pain.

I'm not a wimp. I've had 2 c-sections, thank you very much. I could feel the stuff happening during the second one. (And let's be honest ... if they would've put my innards back where they belonged, I'd still be a size 6.)

But whenever I pull something in my back, I end up with a sciatic nerve issue. And this is a problem. I can't take Advil, so I need a prescription to help with the pain. And I have an intense reaction to pain medicine. There's generally drool involved. It's not pretty.

So I went to bed as soon as I got home last night. SuperHubby pampered me quite well. He even made my favorite soup - although soup isn't the best choice when you're flat of your back. Spanky had to spend the majority of the evening helping me up off the bed. And FrogBoy kept coming up to me and feeling my forehead.

The cool thing is that my family is very nice to me when I'm out of commission. The uncool thing is that I don't have any drugs. Had I not been in agony, I would have really enjoyed the royal treatment I got last night.

Drive Me Crazy

I can't stand driving. I really only drive because I have to get places. I wouldn't do it at all, ever, if I could just my I-Dream-of-Jeannie transportation system down.

I didn't start driving until I was 19. I realize most men that read this will find this a horrible affront to human nature. I just didn't care. I always had a friend, boyfriend, or - last resort - my brother to drive me where I needed to go. I got my first car before I got my drivers license. And I've never learned to parallel park.

Most of the time, I hop into the suppository and toodle off to work or school, rarely venturing far from home. Oh, I run errands, but I plan them carefully, maximizing the time spent in the car so I only have to make one trip. I'd be okay with driving if other people weren't on the road. Some things that are really annoying me lately:

People who don't wave when I let them into traffic. They do realize I don't have to let them in, right? It's only polite to wave. When people act like they deserve to be let in, I want to ram their car with the suppository. But then, we don't want to hurt her.

People who drive with their hazard lights flashing. This is particularly annoying. Unless your car is about to blow up, I find no excuse for this. Most people do it because (1) it's raining, (2) it's dark or (3) they're just plain stupid.

People who drive with their blinker on for miles and miles. Slightly less irritating than the hazards going, which is a conscious choice, is the folks who drive on and on with their blinkers still flashing after they've made their move into another lane. If your attention span is so short that you can't remember to turn off your blinker, maybe you shouldn't be driving.

Tailgaters ... with attitude. I don't speed. I think tickets and increased insurance premiums are a collossal waste of money. Therefore, I am well acquainted with the tailgaters in our area. I'm okay with the ones who ride my bumper; I just smile and think to myself "I'm saving you a ticket, my friend, you should thank me." What I don't appreciate is the yahoos that find the first available opportunity to pass me and make gestures - obscene or otherwise. My favorite? The hands raised in a questioning way, face contorted like it just smelled old cheese. Sweet.

Hummers. I don't think I should have to explain this, but I will. This is quite possibly the tackiest, most ridiculous vehicle on our roads today.

I'm not a driving snob, don't get me wrong. I'd just like everyone to get out of my way, let me get wherever I'm going, then resume your normal activities.

Who Put Me in Charge?

One of my favorite pictures is of me, SuperHubby and Spanky, taken on the day Spanky came home from the hospital. SuperHubby's looking rather confident, laughing, smiling - meanwhile, I'm holding this little boy up in the air with a look of "What now?!" on my face. I like this picture for many reasons. It was our first family picture. It reminds me of how blessed we were during the whole ordeal with getting Spankster into the world. I am much younger, skinnier and have really super-awesome hair. It's a great picture.

I was reminded of this picture this weekend. SuperHubby and Spanky went away for the weekend, leaving FrogBoy and the Queen to our own devices. This is not good. Who thought this was a good idea?

I don't cook. I shouldn't have to cook ... SuperHubby is a chef. Needless to say, there were many dining experiences this weekend in places that had indoor playlands.

I also forget to do things. FrogBoy didn't get a bath on Friday. Oh well, he wasn't feeling all that great anyway; he probably wouldn't have wanted to do the whole naked-dance thing.

And then there's bedtime. I don't like bedtime when I'm all alone. I tend to stay up all night, just in case someone decides to break in the house. Somehow I feel more comfortable knowing I'll be awake and waiting for them. The dogs are useless. They just fall asleep. They stayed awake a little longer this weekend because - oops - I forgot to feed them. All weekend.

Anyway, I let FrogBoy stay up most of the night...not because he wanted to, but because I wanted company. When he finally went to bed, I went in a few minutes later, woke him up and asked if he wanted to sleep with me. He turned me down. That's painful. So I sulked back to my room and braved it alone.

Last time SuperHubby left town, there was a mouse in the house. I was pretty much convinced all his little mouse friends would come back to torture me this time around. They didn't, but I think I heard snickering while I was trying to go to sleep.

Thankfully, everyone got home before bedtime on Saturday. That means I only had 1 night in utter agony and only 4 meals I had to handle. It's amazing that some people do this single parent thing 24/7 --- I can hardly handle 24/2.

And I still say they should make you take a class or something before they just hand you a baby. That's poor planning.

On My Mind

I've had a couple of things on my mind lately. Things I've been thinking about doing, if not for the greater good of mankind, at least for my own sanity.

• I'm thinking about growing my hair long again. I used to have really long hair. Of course, that was 2 children ago. But it was great. I could pull it back in a ponytail when I was cleaning. Or if I just wanted to look "kicky." I have naturally curly hair, so when it's humid out, I tend to look like a poodle on steroids. With long hair, I look like a drowned wharf rat. I hear the rat look is in this year.
• I'm thinking of writing a book. I have a lot to say. I'm just not that sure that anyone wants to hear it. It would be cool to be able to say "I wrote a book," though.
• I'm thinking of learning to cook. Wait. Okay, the feeling passed.
• I'm thinking of getting a hobby. I used to have a hobby. I would cross-stitch like there was no tomorrow. I did Rainbow Row 3 times. Maybe that's what burned me out. I haven't picked up my stuff since Christmas of last year, right around the time my dad went in the hospital. No time. It's languishing in the attic now. I'd love to start again but I'm afraid I'd just be disappointed in myself. Anyone with any cool hobbies? I need something that's just for me.
• I'm thinking of getting in shape. Let's be honest, I've been thinking of this for a long time. I just haven't done anything about it. Seems it requires something called exercise, which I am not familiar with. I don't like to sweat. What a pickle. Hmmm, a pickle sounds good right about now...
• I'm thinking of getting another dog. We already have 2 dogs. Boxers. Big dogs. So we don't need another dog. SuperHubby doesn't want another dog. I want a French bulldog. Most adorable. Fortunately, they are very expensive, so unless someone is giving one away, I'm not getting one anytime soon.
• I'm thinking of cutting myself off from the purse fetish. I have been using my current purse since August 25. This is an amazing feat. It's a very cool, very retired Vera Bradley that I got from eBay. I love it! I've loved purses before though; that has never stopped me from ditching them the minute a new, improved purse comes into my life. However, I have decided to stop actively pursuing new, improved purses. That is, after I spend my birthday gift certificate at Carolina Girls.

There you have it, a glance inside my thoughts. This is what keeps me up at night. This, and the sound of Kane snoring like a Mack Truck.

Food for Thought

Frogmore Stew - Neither frog nor stew
Feta cheese - smells like feet-a
Smashed potatoes - A fancy way to say the chef was too lazy to peel the potatoes before he mashed them
Italian Ice - popsicle in a cup
Brussels sprouts - Big Huge Snot Balls
Fried chicken livers - proof Grandmama loves me
Unsweet tea - Why bother???
Elephant ears - Oh. My. Goodness.
Refried beans - a.k.a. Alpo
Cherries Garcia ice cream - Wowzer
Tofu - A nice alternative to eating your pencil eraser

Another Great Wedding

This weekend I had the privilege of attending another perfect wedding. This is the second one in 3 weeks. How cool is that?!

Over the weekend, Doodles and Mr. Perfect got married. Finally. These 2 crazy kids deserve this more than anyone I can think of, and their wedding was insanely simple and awesome all at once. Besides the bride and groom, there were 8 people there (1 being the pastor). It was on the beach. We all wore capris (even the guys!) and sandals. They dressed up but went barefoot. Very casual stuff.

But, to quote Doodles, God showed up and showed off. The day was perfect. Hardly anyone on the beach, gorgeous weather, a million yellow butterflies all around, and 2 people who love each other tremendously doing it their way. Very cool.

When SuperHubby and I were engaged, my dad offered us $10,000 to elope. We were young and stupid and took the wedding over the cash. We should've taken the cash. The wedding didn't turn out as we planned (does it ever, really?) The money would've been great.

At the risk of sounding like an old fogey, I wish these young kids these days would think about things when they're getting married. It really is about the marriage and not the wedding. If you're all into frou-frou and big parties, great, but that's really not what's important here.

What's important right now is that my friend married her man this weekend.

Feel the Love

Spanky and I were running errands the other day, and before we left the driveway, I was checking my reflection, making sure I was having a good hair day. I was. Or so I thought.

Anyway, while my hair looked particularly stunning, I noticed, much to my shock and dismay, that there were an amazingly large number of gray hairs in my head. I did what any logical woman who just passed her 35th birthday would do: I started yanking those puppies out by the root.

Spanky noticed my dilemma. The grays seemed to multiply as I pulled them out. He asked what I was doing. (I should mention he looked a little befuddled and I'm sure he thought I'd lost my mind. This is a commonplace event in our house though, so he moved on.) I answered that I was yanking the gray hairs out of my head, and made a comment about having so many.

Then my precious child said, "Mommy, you don't have gray hair."

What a sweet kid.

"Sure I do, honey, they're all up here." I even pointed in case he missed them. Cute kid. Maybe it's not as bad as I thought.

But wait. "No, Mommy, you don't have gray hair. Really! They're all white."

This is the kid I almost died giving birth to. I feel the love.

A Close Call

We almost had a tragedy in North Chuck this morning. While running errands this morning, a woman at Target came thisclose to hitting the suppository. Not good.

Now, I know my car looks like something you shove up the tenderest of places when your children don't feel so hot and you feel like being particularly cruel. Okay, maybe that's just us. Anyway, I proudly drive around town in one of about 5 suppositories. There are 2 silver, 1 a bluish-greenish-silverish mess, and 2 golden. It could be worse. We could be in the blue/green/silver situation.

But this woman almost hit my precious suppository. I was aghast. Shocked. Dumbfounded. And a little bit ticked. She wasn't paying attention to what she was doing...which, by the way, was backing in and out of a parking space to get things just right, because she was driving more truck than she could handle. This is one of my major pet peeves. If you can't handle the car, get something smaller. SuperHubby can't park the suppository to save his life. And it slays me. I can't parallel park, but I can drive this puppy like there's no tomorrow.

I've become a car snob. This is actually pretty funny, considering what I drive. But since I've been driving the suppository, I don't like driving a car. SuperHubby has nothing to worry about. I hate driving his car. I feel like I'm sitting on the ground. I feel like I'm in a sports car. I hate sports cars. I like my big bubbly van to surround me and make me feel safe.

Plus, when you drive a suppository, there's not much chance of it getting stolen.

It's Not My Responsibility

Someone actually uttered those words to me this week. I couldn't believe it. Are you serious??

I have a friend that makes this statement rather frequently. She calls it boundaries. I call it just plain obnoxious.

Back to this week. I was in the midst of something that, frankly, isn't written down in my job description, so I guess it's not my responsibility, but I was doing what normal people do and following up on something for my boss. I had to do one of my most favorite things in the world, ask for help. And I got "It's not my responsiblity" for an answer.

Splendid. Is this how we help each other out? I mean, if I work for someone (which I do), and they ask me to do anything during the hours they pay me, as long as that anything isn't illegal or immoral, doesn't it stand to reason that the answer is "yes" ??

How does one choose "no"? And why is "It's not my responsibility" an acceptable way to phrase that. This has gotten my ire up, and I've realized that it would be much better if people would just say what they mean...maybe I could accept that better. A few suggestions:

• Yeah, I would, but I don't want to.
• Sorry, I'm just too lazy, frankly.
• I don't really like you, so, no.
• I'm not a team player. It's all about me. I'll thank you, in the future, to not speak to me unless you are spoken to first.

Of course, there's always, "Sure, I'd love to." Even if you don't mean it. Act nice and maybe, just maybe, you'll fool some people.

SuperHubby vs. Rocky

We have a little situation at our house ... we have a lot of squirrels that like to stop by and visit. Unfortunately, they tend to hang out in the attic, and this drives SuperHubby absolutely nuts (bad pun intended).

We have 2 separate attics at our house. The previous owners built on an addition, and felt like they needed more attic space, so there are 2 attics with 2 different accesses. It's weird, but we have a lot of storage space, so we can keep way more junk than any family really should.

The attics both have these little vents on the sides of the house, plus one out front, where our furry little friends enter. They then get inside the attic and scamper around and generally make a lot of noise. It's bad when SuperHubby can hear them - which is pretty often.

Now, the vermin don't just sneak into the attic - oh no! - they will hang out on the side of the house and wait for SuperHubby to make eye contact, then they'll snicker at him and creep inside. This drives SuperHubby crazy. And then the war begins.

It's not unlike Caddyshack. If he had a gun, I'm sure he'd be shooting at them. As it is, he will drop everything he's doing and rush up into the attic, outside, or wherever else he thinks he has the advantage, and try to get them out. He has put up a grate but they knock it out. These are smart squirrels.

The exterminator said you can't kill squirrels. I say that's a lot of garbage, just pretend like you didn't know it was a squirrel, and oops - rat poison! But apparently you can get into a lot of trouble for that (who would know?!) and SuperHubby has made it a personal quest to simply have the critters move on. I'm all for death and destruction, but he'd rather just fight with them. Constantly.

It's really pretty funny. We'll be sitting in the house, calmly watching TV, and suddenly SuperHubby will leap to his feet and rush out the front door. He won't come back for hours. The children will start asking when Daddy's coming home. It's sad. But he never catches anything, and they always come back. We don't even have cable anymore -- we've got free entertainment.