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.