That Whole 'Sickness & Health" Thing

After my parents forked over the price of a sleek foreign-made sports car for my college education, I decided that I should have studied something else.  I spent 4 years in the education department:  cutting, gluing, coloring, reading, and making file folder games.  But, it wasn't long after graduation that I wished I had done something else.

Nursing school.

I should have gone to nursing school.

I have thought a couple of times through the years about dropping everything and joining up in the program.  Don my scrubs and get to work saving the world...or at least a person or two. But then I had babies.  And decided to homeschool.  And I live at the baseball field 9 months out of the year.  And.And.And.  And none of those things are conducive to nursing programs.

But this week I was granted the opportunity to stretch my nursing legs.  To see if I had the right stuff.

I don't.

Clearly.

I don't.

This week I have played nurse to the husband.  And I discovered very quickly that the scrub-life ain't for me.  A very very quick discovery, I might add.

It all started Tuesday morning.

Kirk went to the gym.  Like normal.  He worked out.  Like normal.  He was walking.  Like normal.  And he fell.  Like NOT normal.

Turns out Kirk's busted ACL (which he's known about for a year now, and had a surgery to take care of it on the books for March) decided to go ape-wild, and when Kirk hit the floor at the gym, his cartilage went ape-wild with it.  After trying to get it "popped" back into place and failing miserably, he called me and said, "Get me to my doctor.  Stat."

So off we went.  The ortho doc is about a 30 minute drive from us, so we loaded up the entire crew and headed that way, fully expecting the doctor to pop the knee back in place and send him home with a handful of pain pills and a pat on the back.

Ixnay on the going omehay.

Turns out the doctor couldn't get it popped back in either, and he scheduled Kirk for urgent surgery THAT DAY.  Whahuh?  That was not what I had planned for my day when I woke up that morning.

Long story short...we got the kids squared away, we had A VERY ROUTINE surgery done, and we went home.  With a fistful of pain pills and a pat on the back.

And so began my nursing career.

Just so happens that my first AND LAST patient can't just do things normally.

We spent Tuesday night and Wednesday day and night at home on the most powerful pain meds that a person can take by mouth. And it was the most excruciating day and nights that I have ever spent.  And I birthed 3 babies...without pain meds. 

Yes.  It was that bad.

After waking up Thursday morning and being in even more pain, we headed to the Physical Therapy center per dr's orders...because MOST ACL patients start therapy 2 days out.

The husband isn't normal.  Remember?

The therapists took about 3 looks at him and said, "This ain't right, Mister.  Get thyself to thy doctor."  (Although I think I'm just making up the redneck/King James voice in my head...but that's how I remember it.)

So after talking to the doctor's office, we very gingerly made our way back the 30 minute drive to his ortho.  Every move and bump and brake of the car caused him to grimace and use his not-pretty words.  I seriously had never seen anything like it....

Until...

He got in the doctor's office.  When the doc started tinkering around with the husband's knee, I thought all hell was going to break loose.  The doctor's face turned a strange shade of green and sheer panic stretched across his face.  And (in my memory) in his very best redneck/King James, he said, "This ain't right, Mister.  Get thyself to the hospital." 

So here we sit.  We're going on 24 hours in the hospital on some pretty hardcore pain meds. 

And here's what we know:  NOTHING.

Seriously.  Nothing.  The doctor just came in to see him, and, basically, they have no idea what caused Kirk to not respond to the pain medication.  They've run tests and done x rays, and everything about this very routine surgery checks out as very very normal. 

They just don't know.

And right now, we are just having to be okay with the not knowing part.

We do have a plan though.  Kirk is right now being taken off of his drip drugs with the magic button that he gets to push every 6 minutes, and they are moving him over to pain meds by mouth.  And then we wait.  If he can tolerate it through the night, then we go home.  If it goes crazy again, then we stay and rehook to the drip. 

It's hard to not know.
To watch this big ole' burly man cry real salty tears because the pain is so ridiculous.
To see him hurt.
It's hard to wait.
And watch.
And sleep on these horribly awful foldout pieces of plywood that they call "Family Beds." 

One thing I do know though....

No nursing school for me.  I've had enough.

Nope. 

I'm sticking with the flight attendant dream.

Peanuts, anyone?

Whirly Wednesday

I'm feeling rather whirly birdish today....

• I walked into Sawyer and Tate's bedroom 14 times today in a span of 6 minutes.  And each time I had no idea what I was doing in there.  And I make it a point to go in there as little as possible.  It stinks like boy and smells even worse.  Whirly Birdish.
• I brushed my teeth twice this morning.  I'm sure that my dentist is thrilled with my display of extraordinary dental hygiene, but it was really because I forgot that I had already done it.  Just 5 minutes earlier.  Whirly Birdish.
• I had the boys copy their spelling lists this morning.  From last week.  The fact that they didn't notice either worries me just a bit.  Everyone is Whirly Birdish.
• I announced at 8:15 this morning that we were out of milk and asked someone to remind me to get some at the store.  At 8:16, I poured everyone a bowl of cereal and then was dumbfounded when I couldn't find any milk in the fridge.  Whirly Birdish.
• I made coffee this morning.  Without adding the coffee.  Whirly Birdish.  (And in need of an intervention.)
• I made an eye appointment for Keaton today, but as soon as I got off the phone, I realized that I hadn't written the date down nor did I have the foggiest idea of when I set the appointment for.  I then had to call the lady back and ask her to remind me.  She asked me that time if I had written it down.  Yes, Ma'am, but no promises that I got it right.  Whirly Birdish.
• While washing clothes, I chunked a cap of liquid detergent in the dryer and a dryer sheet in the washer.  I'm sure the load needed to be rewashed.  Because it probably was a bit soured anyway.  Whirly Birdish.
• I watched an entire episode of iCarly today.  By myself.  And I found myself giggling at the jokes.  Whirly Birdish. (And a possible intervention necessity.)

I make a motion that we adjourn this Wednesday.

Can I get a second?  Perhaps an Amen?

So moved.
This Wednesday is adjourned.

Being FAP-ed

Being FAP-ed stinks. 

And lately we've been getting FAP-ed more and more often.  I blame Facebook and its siren call that speaks to my offspring like cheesecake speaks to me.  You see, my wee babes don't log onto FB to network socially...oh no....they log on to play those blasted games.  Farmville.  Frontierville.  Treasure Islandville.  Pet Societyville.  And every other -ville possibly alive. 

The -villes are the source of the FAP-edness. 

Growl.

If you are unfamiliar with the world'o'FAP, let me just tell you that it is some hokey mess that my satellite Internet provider came up with to make my life miserable.  Apparently we're only allowed a certain amount of bandwidth yada yada per 34.6 seconds or something or other.  And if we exceed our allowance, then the FAP Patrol waltzes in and retires your computers to slower than dial-up speed.  And it takes me to my very ugly place.  And dern Farmville FAPs us faster than all get out.  (***I've had some people commenting that they have never heard of the mysterious FAP.  Go here.  Be enlightened.***)

Last night and today, we succumbed to the FAP gods, which disappointed me highly since today was my day that I had designated as my entirely free day.  All my chores were caught up around the house, and we had absolutely nowhere to be.  'Twould have been a fantastic day to catch up on all of my webby responsibilities, but, Behold:  The Almighty FAP. 

Double Growl.

So I did what anyone else would do when the FAP appears.  I got a little crafty.  And I napped.  And I read.  And I went through all 9,563 pictures stuck in my computer and organized every.single.one.of.them.  Go on....yawn with me.  Because the pictures wore me out.  But, I'm so glad that I got that job done.  My picture folders were beyond the clean-up stage....they needed an all-out overhaulin'. 

While I was digging around and deleting and moving folders here and there, I rediscovered some of my most favorite pictures EVER.  Some I remembered...but others I had forgotten about....

Like this 'lil beauty:

Nothing like a toga party.....

Or this one of me and Tate.  Gosh...I love his angel face.  Looking at this picture is enough to make me do the ugly cry.

Or what about Keaton dressed up as Gandalf the White (Lord of the Rings)?  It makes me snicker and snort all over myself:

This one is of Kirk and me up in Rocky Mountain National Park.  One of my most favorite pictures of us evuh.  And that trip to Colorado a couple of years ago was one of my most favorite trips I've ever taken.  Good sweet memories....

Aw...and this one makes me misty because I love my momma and daddy and big sister....

And I love this one of Keaton and me because he's actually smiling in the picture, and the.kid.NEVER.smiles in pictures....

I could keep this up forever....but if I keep uploading pictures, I'm just going to FAP us again.  And you already know my feelings on that whole scenario....

Although if I can dig back through pictures and snort-giggle and ugly cry a little bit...the FAPage may just be worth it.

I said MAY.

The Slightly Inappropriate Gohjus Preddy Boody Nail Suhlon

Before last summer, I could count on one hand the number of pedicures that I've had in my life.  They were an extreme luxury, and, frankly, not a lot of people I knew got them...unless it was for a special occasion.

And now it seems that bi-monthly pedis are worked into family budgets like the H2O bill. 

Works for me.

Because I'm addicted.  My toes actually begin to scream at me if too many days go by before they are plunged back down into the swirly waters of the leather massage chairs at my local nail salon.  Just walking in the door of the establishment and smelling the thick fog of ammonia is like crack.  I have arrived at podiatrical nirvana.

If you live in my area, then you are going to know the salon of which I speak, but I think I'm safe in that none of you are their first cousins or anything...so I shall proceed...

At the first of this week, my last go-round with a spunky pinky color and blingified black flowers on my big toes had started to chip and crack.  And my cuticles were craving cleanage.  It was time.

I chose an afternoon that I was childless, because achieving foot nirvana is slightly more difficult if I'm having to break up a fist fight while a sharp metal object is being wielded in the direction of my pinkie toe.  I entered the door of the salon and was greeted with:

"Hedoe.  May I hep you?"

"I need a pedicure, please."

"OK.  You sit dare."  And I was ushered to the only empty chair in a line of other women achieving foot nirvana.

I removed my flipflops and settled myself down into the chair.  The release of tension in my toes was already letting up.

Until.

He started touching me.

Um...excuse me.  I think there is a mistake.  This person touching my legs and feet is young enough to be my offspring. 

You see, I'm used to the ladies doing my nails.  Or the older gentlemen.  It's their job, right?  But a 14 year old teenager rubbing scrubbing salts and massage oil on my legs made me feel slightly uncomfortable.

Like gripping the armrests of my chair uncomfortable.
And I was looking for the police.  Because something about the whole deal made me feel slightly felonious.

I totally get that training for taking over the family business is necessary...but I'm thinking that training on my legs and feet is not okay.  Surely there are mannequins or something...at least until you are of legal voting age.

I did leave with pretty toes. 

But it wasn't the therapy that I needed.  In fact, I left more stressed about the condition of my feet than when I went in.

And from now on, I will make it a point to only go in the mornings...when surely Mr. Fourteen Year Old Foot Fixer is at school.

Oh. Shoot.  It's almost summer.

Time to find a new Gohjus Preddy Boody Nail Suhlon.



UPDATE***  My good buddy Whimzie hooked me up with this link...and I'm so glad that she did!  I totally forgot about this chick.  LOVE HER. 

Drugs Schmugs

I was flipping through blogs this morning and found to my much delight that my friend Kay had composed a post while she was on drugs. 

Not illegal drugs, silly.  Just the turns-illegal-if-you-harbor-a-meth-lab-in-your-home kind of drugs.  You know..the ones you have to sign away the lives of not only your children and your spouse, but also the life of your great aunt who lives in Buloxi, to purchase. 

Blogs on drugs make me snort giggle, really.  My good buddy Carpoolqueen recently delved into the mystical world of codeine composition. 

And people say bloggers are boring. 

Anyway....all the drug chit chat made me remember a funny encounter I had with the law once upon a time. 

The law, you say?  Oh yes.  The Fuzz.  The Pig.  The Po Po.  The Five-Oh.  The Heat.  The Bacon.  The Feds.

Now...I've had slightly more encounters with our friendly law enforcement officers than I care to discuss here, but my favorite story with the coppers involved me and a friendly bottle of Nyquil.

It was the mid-90s, and I was on a highway in Texas known to be a high drug trafficking route.  On my way back to college from my sister's home in the Great Big State, I was cruisin' along in my very unfancy Oldsmobile with my boombox sitting in the passenger seat.  I wasn't cool enough yet for the fancy DiscMan with the tape deck converter, so I resorted to packing my boom box with D batteries and spinning my Celine Dion and Green Day cds anytime I went on a trip.

I had contracted a horrid head cold whilst at my sis's and without my mama there to help me through my self-medicating, I erred on the side of bad judgement and downed a double dose of Nyquil before heading out on a 4 hour trip on an already sleepy Sunday afternoon.

It wasn't long before I got tired.

And not just like tired tired.  But like I'm going to keel over head first into the floor board tired.  And I'll take Celine Dion and her "If You Asked Me To" self down with me.

Somewhere between half-consciousness and just plain dead, I saw the blue lights.  And there might have been a siren.  But I would have had to have been fully coherent to notice that.

I pulled over because I thought I remembered that being what you were supposed to do if you saw the flashing blues of The Po-Lease.

He swaggered to my car, hand on his weapon, ready in case the ponytailed girl with the Baptist University sticker in the back window of the Olds tried to make a violent move.

"Ma'am?  I noticed you were doing a lot of swerving back there.  You feeling okay?"

"Oh, Officer, I'm fine.  I'm just on drugs."

Um.....probably not the wisest thing to say while speaking to a burly cop on the side of the Cocaine Corridor.

What proceeded was an interesting sequence of events which involved me with my hands splayed on the Olds, pleading my case of Nyqul consumption, and a thorough search of my car.

Which, I must add, turned up nothing but the bottle of green stuff, a pile of used kleenexes, and a suitcase full of dirty clothes.

So he let me go.

With strict instructions to "be careful, feel better, and do not tell police officers that you are on drugs."

Dually Noted.


---- Can't wait to see what kind of Google hits this post gets!!

Mammals....Not As Innocent As They Seem

I didn't breastfeed my kids.  I just didn't.  Didn't even try. 

I think it is a beautiful thing, and y'all can be all judgy and send me all kinds of emails telling me what an amazing experience I missed out on, how I have deprived my children of a stronger immune system, and how I shouldn't have stopped before I even started...I get it....but it was a choice that Kirk and I made, and it had nothing to do with any disregard for its significance or its beauty.  I just didn't do it.

But maybe I should have.

For the least of the significant reasons....because I was rendered completely and totally speechless yesterday.

It all started with a relatively normal day of school.  We had already finished up with our core subjects and had moved on to Science. 

The lesson:  Whales and Their Babies.

Sweet, right?  I was imaging a blessed little lesson in which we would "ooooh" and "aaaah" over cute little whale baby snapshots and talk about how amazing it is that these huge mammals are such caring, nurturing, and sacrificial mothers to their young.  Precious....this is what I thought, too.

Yah.  Sure.

We get to the part in our book where it reads something along the lines of "as with all other mammals, whales feed their babies with their milk."  And then it goes on to give a brief G-rated anatomy lesson on the exact placement of certain glands and so on.

All going well.  Until.

Sawyer:  They're like cows.
Me:  That's right.  Like cows.  Because cows are mammals.  And all other mammals do the same thing, we're just really used to seeing the cows giving milk.
Sawyer:  (because he's random)  I like cows.

Moving on to cute pictures.  No sweat.

Uh...not so fast.

Keaton:  (with the horror of realization crossing through his eyes)  But.....uh......we're mammals.
Me:  (with the horror of realization of where this convo is going)  Uh...that's right.  Humans are mammals.

The longest pause of silence known to man.

Keaton:  (sheer terror) Nuh-uh, Mama.  Nuh.Uh.  Please tell me that it isn't true.  Because that.is.gross.

And so induced the mystified haze my eldest offspring walked through all day.


Ranger Rick Safety Tip For the Day:  When making your pros-and-cons list for whether to nurse your very-mammal babies or not, add this one to the PROS side:  "Being around you while you are nursing your child's younger siblings will most likely eliminate the horror and traumatizing that will come one day when your nine year old son studies mammals."

You're welcome.

Redneck Inoculation Week

So we dove into the world of all things Redneck this week.

You think I'm kidding.

I'm not.

First up:
Toby Keith and Trace Adkins in concert in Southaven, Mississippi. All courtesy of our good buddy Wes's incredible gift of chatter.

I was so ding dang excited about the whole thing, I even bought a hat.


Kirk, Lisa, and I headed off to Southaven Wednesday to meet Wes after dumping and running dropping our children off with a very tearful goodbye. We bribed some of our great friends to keep our kiddos, and shockingly enough, they obliged us so that we could run around and act like hooligans for a night.

We didn't waste anytime. We checked into our hotel and then skedaddled straight to the concert. For we had a Meet & Greet to get to. Only we came to find out that our idea of Meet & Greet is different than multi-million dollar recording artists' idea of a Meet & Greet. I was envisioning schmoozing it up next to Trace and Toby and chatting about our kids, our favorite restaurants, and then they would do things like sign my hat, sign autographs to all 938, 857, 839 people on my friends and family list, and then we would take multiple pictures together while we giggled quietly with eachother.

Um. No. Their idea of a Meet & Greet is herding you through a line like cattle. No joke. We were with Mr. Trace Adkins for exactly 43.7 seconds....long enough for him to ask me how I was and for us to take this picture together.

Um...yes. He really is that freakin' tall. And he is a very pretty man...that's all I'm going to say about that.

After his security dug out their cattle prods and herded us back out the gate, we found our seats! And were they good seats.

See where we're standing? Yep...we were that close. Any closer and I could have reached out and grabbed that long ole' hair of Trace's.

And then the music started. And Lisa, Wes, Kirk, and I danced. And we sang. And we danced some more. And we posed for pictures while we were dancing and singing and dancing some more.

And there the hotties are right there. That's Toby Keith on the left and Trace on the right. Each of their concerts were totally awesome, and then they closed the show together. Amazing. And patriotic. And I might have cried.

And this is Lisa and I after the show...giddy and squealy and totally ready to become groupies. Oh...those streamers? Those are Toby streamers! And I dressed myself in them. And swore that I would keep them forever. But then left them in my hotel room. Oops.

The concert was amazing. It was super fun, but what was even better than the music and being all kinds of star-struck was hanging out with 2 of the best friends that Kirk and I have ever had. So, once again, here's a big THANK YOU to Wes and Lisa for inviting us along! It was a blast!!!

Second Up on the Redneck agenda:

The County Fair. Nothing gets more rednecky than our county fair. And we did it up in high style.

We headed out Friday morning for the Petting Zoo portion of the fair. We went with some friends from our Homeschool group, and we had a good time joking about all the opportunities we were going to have to go home with a good ole' souvenir of swine flu.

We geared up in our boots so that we could have full reign of the fair....animal poop, mud puddles, and water galore included.

I have no idea what the boys are thinking in this picture, but I'm pretty sure Keaton is saying, "Mom....why did you let my baby brother wear turquoise boots out in public?"

To which I replied, "Well, darling, they go with his girl pants. And I don't really care if your brother looks like a girl if it saves me a temper tantrum."

So, we went on into the livestock barn, turquoise boots and all, and did lots of this:

And we saw a cow whose tail had been rolled on sponge rollers then night before. Only in Arkansas.

And then we looked at giant vegetables and fruit.

And then we milked a fake cow.

And then we looked at funny poultry. This rooster was my favorite. Isn't his hair groovy?

In fact, the only thing groovier may have been his woman's hair....check it out. It reminds me of little old lady hair. Cracked.Me.Up.

After an afternoon of poultry looking, we headed to the County Fair Rodeo. It only has about 4 entries in each event, but it was super fun. And the kids had a blast. They even got to chase the rodeo clowns around the arena in the mud, and Keaton rode a sheep. It's what we do here in the South. Good clean fun.Next Up on the Redneck Agenda:

The Demolition Derby at the County Fair. Oh...not our county's fair. We aren't high-classed enough to have a Crash 'Em Up Derby....nope. You have to travel over to the next county over to get in on that action.

We headed out with our besties, Wes and Lisa and their girls, and Danny and Jennifer and their son Hesley (who incidentally won a huge ole' belt buckle the night before for riding a sheep the longest! Go Hesley!!).

We held our ears and grimaced as we watched grown men in ripped up tee-shirts crash into eachother in nasty ole' beater cars. Talk about a great time.

It really was a great night. Keaton came home with his pockets stuffed full of car parts that had been blown off the cars and we were all covered in dirt and grime....a running trend for the weekend.

But probably the highlight of Redneck Inoculation Week is that only in the South can you see this. And upon seeing such a fascinating piece of fashion expertise you feel like a true American.
God Bless the Redneck U.S.A.

EasyBlack

I hate cooking. Period.

I just don't like it.

But my least favorite meal to cook is lunch. I don't know why it crawls all over me, but I just hate it. Perhaps it is because it messes up just enough dishes to irritate me, but not enough to make me feel truly productive in the kitchen. If it were up to me, lunch wouldn't even happen. But, the rascals' stomachs disagree with my philosophy, so, therefore, I succumb to the evilness that is lunch making. Ick.

Unless, of course, I can coerce an older rascal to make lunch for me.

The boys are still not skilled with the usage of the stove, but mastery of the microwave has been perfected. And I take full advantage of their abilities more often than I care to admit.

Today I inquired of lunch making assistance and became vastly aware of why warning labels are still placed on appliances and children.

Sawyer was the chef of the day today, and he made fast work of heating up a mountain of fish sticks for his brothers. He, though, wasn't feeling the fish stick love and was crushing on the Easy Mac that was perched high up on the cabinet shelf.

I quickly walked Sawyer through the VERY simple directions, feeling very proud of myself for having passed yet another lunch torch to the younger generation. Now I don't even have to stop what I'm doing to make mac-n-cheese......utopia, for sure.

Sawyer scarfed down his first bowl of mac and came to find me to ask if he could make another bowl.

Me: Do you remember how?

Sawyer: Yep.

Me: Are you sure?

Sawyer: Yep.

Me: Well, then have at it.

And then I grinned smugly to myself. This was amazing. We were now a blue box self-sufficient family. Suhweet.

And then I smelled it.

A strange mixture of burnt popcorn/campfire/tar/skunk.

I ran in the kitchen and asked the obvious: "Is something burning?"

Sawyer: Uh. I think so.

Genius. My son.

There. Inside the microwave was a bowl being licked with flames. I punched the microwave door open just in time for a cloud of black smoke to come barreling out that tasted like it smelled.

When my eyesight returned, I reached in and delivered this:

Yup. That's it.

Minus THE WATER THAT HE WAS SUPPOSED TO ADD.

And there he is. Chef Boyardee himself.

Whose response to the whole fiasco was: "Accident."

You betcha.

Cookin' Schmookin'

I've been rambling on for weeks now about the bliss to behold that is summer. I've chattered about little tan lines on the backsides of the rascals, about sunkissed cheeks, and flip flops out the wazoo.


And today I did something about it.


The rascals and I headed to the water park. And it was summerliscious heaven. And because it was the right thing to do....I took pictures. But, they aren't very good. Because I haven't mastered the art of photog with Rosie.






Aren't they the cutest?


This next picture of me, taken by Sawyer, is not the cutest. By a long shot. But, I'm all about keeping it real....so here is me. In my new swimsuit. Dishing out cash for icees and ice cream sandwiches.




We were there for a couple of hours, and then we packed up our beach towels and goggles and headed for la casa. Because I didn't want Sawyer and me to turn into extra crispy fried chicken on our first day out in the sun.


Providence, I tell ya. Providence.


Because when I opened my front door, I smelled burnt cheese. And instantly remembered that I had set the crockpot before we headed for the pool just 3 hours earlier.


And then I walked to the crockpot and found this.



That would be the remains of this fabulous recipe that looked fool-proof. Obviously not. Me being the fool.


You see, I have all these friends that can cook. They are always raving about their fancy-schmancy new recipes that they have found and going on about their gourmet meals that simmer in their crockpots all ready to eat for when they come home from romps with their children.


So I decided to feed the family something other than mac-n-cheese tonight and branch out. After all, I was romping with the children today, so why not have dinner waiting for us when we returned home. Sounded brilliant.


Tiffani is always going on and on about this website, so since I heart Tiff so much, I thought I'd start there. I found a link for slow cooker recipes and one of the first ones that came up was this recipe for Slow Cooker Dump and Go Cheesy Chicken. The ingredients were family-friendly, and the directions were me-friendly.


So, I dumped in the ingredients, and I went. Just like the name of the dish instructs.


Look at this part:


Cook on High for about 6 hours.


That's right....it says to cook the stuff that I just dumped in the crock pot on HIGH and leave it for 6 HOURS.


So I timed out the whole thing. I turned it on HIGH at around noon, knowing that it SHOULD be ready for us to devour around 6:00. Things were moving along smoothly.


Back to walking in the door from the pool.


After only being gone 3 HOURS.


3 HOURS!


Wait. Did you forget what it looked like? Here's a refresher:



Yes. It's burnt. It's scorched. And it stinks.


I have no idea what went wrong. Maybe I just have a nuclear powered slow cooker. Who knows? I'm not sure why I even try, because Martha Stewart in no way, shape, or form lives here. But what I do know what the family is eating for dinner tonight.....


Mac-N-Cheese.


And the dog gets the cheesy chicken....maybe that's why they call it "Dump and Go."


UPDATE**So the husband is now playing Fire Marshall Bill and banning me from CrockPot Romping. I'm in turn subjecting him to meals of mac-n-cheese for the next eleventy hundred days. Take that, Bill.**

A Play. Not About Cole Slaw. But Equally Redneck. Written By Me.

Characters:

• AMBER – not wearing cute jeans as in previous Act, but wearing equally cute flip flops
• BARNEY FIFE – small town -- very small town -- police officer who most certainly carries his only bullet in his front pocket
• 3 RASCALS – tousled hair, sleepers in eyes, and remnants of chocolate poptarts smeared from chin to forehead (the remains of a rushed morning and excellent parenting)
• 1 RASCALETTE – very beautiful teenage girl who belongs to one of AMBER’S BFFs
• RED BOMB – minivan that adorns herself frequently in rancid chicken nuggets and sticky bubble gum wrappers under her seats.

Setting:

• Mayberry, Arkansas. A town with more cows than people and where the new pizza in the ONE gas station is the talk of fence gossipers.
  

Act II. Scene I.

The curtain opens with AMBER (don’t forget the flip flops), 3 RASCALS, and the RASCALETTE on their way to school in the RED BOMB. Spotlight shines on exaggerated speedometer which is registering just a “teensy” bit over the speed limit through Mayberry. The RASCALS are giggling and chatting. RASCAL #2 hurls a ball across the van. RASCAL #3 hurls a pencil and almost hits the RASCALETTE, who is putting on her makeup, in the head. AMBER is concentrating on driving extra cautiously. She is most certainly NOT texting on Rosie while driving.

Suddenly blue lights flash on a very conspicuous police car parked on Mayberry’s one road.

AMBER: You have got to be kidding me.

RASCAL #1: Not again.
(Note of Interest: Rascal #1 is delusional. He knows not of what he speaks.)

RASCALETTE: (giggling) It’s okay. It happens to my mom, too.
(Note of Interest: Thank, Jesus.)

AMBER pulls over on the side of the road and begins to retrieve her licence, and then looks through the glove box for assundry paper work.

BARNEY FIFE steps majestically out of his squad car. Struts to the RED BOMB.

BARNEY FIFE: (with chest puffed out and voice much deeper than is obviously his own) Ma’am. I’m assuming that you know why I pulled you over to chat today.

AMBER: I’m sure I was speeding.

BARNEY FIFE: You were, Ma’am. You were going 45 miles per hour in a 30. That’s fast, Ma’am.

AMBER: Yes, Sir.

BARNEY FIFE: Where you headed?

AMBER: School, Sir. I work at the high school.

BARNEY FIFE: Oh my. I just pulled over a school teacher.

AMBER: Yes, Sir.

BARNEY FIFE: And I’m assuming your kids are going to school, too. They aren’t gonna tell on ya, are they?

AMBER: Oh, I’m sure they will, Sir.

RASCALS grin at BARNEY FIFE from back seat. RASCAL #2 is now unbuckled, as if daring OFFICER FIFE to not only ticket his mother, but also haul her off to jail for child endangerment.
(Note of Interest: Thanks, Kid.)

BARNEY FIFE: Licence, registration, and insurance.

AMBER hands licence to BARNEY FIFE, but grabs entire handful of papers in glove box because she can't find her registration and insurance.
(Note of Interest: Awesome.)

BARNEY FIFE takes expired paperwork to squad car. AMBER pounds her hands on steering wheel, but does NOT begin to whine.
(Note of Interest: Because I would never whine.)

Time passes with RASCALETTE snickering and 3 RASCALS discussing squad car lights and sirens.

A school bus drives by full of students WAVING and POINTING.
(Note of Interest: Double Awesome.)

BARNEY FIFE comes back, still struttin'. Voice still weirdly deep. Gives back papers.

BARNEY FIFE: Ma’am, I’m gonna let ya go today. No citation. But, Ma’am, please slow down. We’ve had a lot of complaints about people driving too fast through here.
(Note of Interest: Here’s the best part…) I wouldn’t want you to hit a dog.

AMBER: (tries not to laugh at OFFICER FIFE as she musters up a very somber expression)
Yes, Sir.

BARNEY FIFE: Have a good day, Ma'am.

AMBER: You too, Sir. And thank you very much.

BARNEY FIFE struts his stuff back to the Fife-Mobile and pulls out….looking for dogs as he pulls into the NO traffic of Mayberry.

AMBER rolls up window and then laughs. She proceeds to school, waving to BARNEY FIFE as she drives by his squad car.

And she very CAUTIOUSLY watches for dogs the rest of the way to school.


THE END.


Only in Arkansas, I tell ya. Only in Arkansas are our very thorough law enforcement officers more concerned with canine citizens than homo sapian ones.

A Play. About Cole Slaw. Written By Me.

Characters:

• AMBER (Looks very similar to author of this blog. Acts like her, too.)
• LADY that works at well-known chicken establishment that rhymes with "Fentucky Cried Ficken."

Setting:

• Local well-known chicken establishment prominently displaying a sign that advertises a "SPECIAL" of numerous pieces of chicken, mashed taters, cole slaw, and bisquits.
• Tonight...2 hours past dinner...thanks to a thrilling evening at the baseball fields where the children sloshed in the mud through the entire game, resulting in a truckload of sweaty, muddy boys who are growling for food.

Act 1. Scene 1.

AMBER enters chicken establishment wearing very cute, new pair of jeans that she purchased today as part of her retail therapy plan. She very sweetly sidles up to the counter where a very pleasant LADY is waiting to take her order. Pleasantries are exchanged and then AMBER proceeds to check out the menu options. After studying the various options, AMBER looks LADY in eye, smiles, and begins to order.

AMBER: I have a truckload of hungry men in the car. I'll take the Special.

LADY: Will that be all?

AMBER: I would like to trade the cole slaw for macaroni-and-cheese, please.

LADY: We can't do that.

AMBER: I'm sorry. I thought you just said you couldn't do that?

LADY: That's right. It's on special. No substitutions.

AMBER: (Fidgets in cute new jeans. Looks confused....because she is.) Huh?

LADY: It's on special. We can't switch out the sides.

AMBER: (Chooses not to argue, because she is nonconfrontational...remember?!) Okay, then. I'll just pay you what ever the extra will be to switch out the cole slaw for mac-n-cheese.

LADY: We can't do that. You have to have the cole slaw.

AMBER: (Looks at LADY like she has done lost her ever lovin' mind.) We won't eat it.

LADY: I'm sorry. You'll have to take it if you want the special.

AMBER: I want the special. But no cole slaw. Thanks.

LADY: So what do you want?

AMBER: (Stunned that there might possibly be someone slower than her to catch on in this world.) Uh...I want the special. No cole slaw. Add mac-n-cheese.

LADY: I can't switch the cole slaw.

AMBER: I understand. Just give me the special. Add a thing of mac-n-cheese. Keep your cole slaw.

LADY: You have to have the cole slaw.

AMBER: I'm tellin' you. We won't eat it.

LADY: But it comes with the special.

AMBER: (Palms sweating now because conversation is heating up to confrontational proportions.) Just give me the special. I'll pay for the cole slaw. I'll pay for the mac-n-cheese. I'll pay for whatever you want me to. Just don't put the cole slaw in my bag or else I will gag when I see it.

LADY: So you don't want the cole slaw? Why didn't you just say so?



THE END.


Colonel Danders would be proud.

Bananarama

It was another tough day for me.

I'm still struggling with this person, and it's just not fun. I'm nonconfrontational to the core, so this kind of tension and stress just makes me weary. And uncomfortable. And makes me un-smily. Which was NOT my goal for today.

In addition, we've been slammed with rain. And I spent most of the day on the phone to the husband trying to figure out if I was even going to be able to get home today. We live out in the country...on a country road...that floods if someone sneezes wrong. And we also live on the other side of the river....that floods....all.the.time. Or at least it seems like that. So you put all of that together, and everyone who lives out our way starts hunting for gopher wood to construct arks. Because it is just about that bad.

I hate rain, and I hate driving. But I really hate driving in the rain. And I really hate driving in the rain over roads that are flooded. Does nothing for my stress levels.

So I double medicated today. Because I needed it.

And it was probably that extra medication that caused me the momentary lapse in what brain function I have.

Which allowed me to eat...

A banana.

Because it came with my lunch. And no one else would take it from me and eat it. And the lunch ladies didn't send me a cookie today. So the banana was the closest thing to comfort food I could find.

One problem.

I'm allergic to bananas.

Seriously.

I haven't had a banana in years. Because I know what it does to me. But something misfired in the whole noggin today, and I decided that I would "check and see" if my allergy had disappeared.

Uh...it hasn't.

I downed the whole banana. And then my mouth started to itch. And the insides of my ears began to itch. And then my tongue began to swell.

Nice.

I'm in a class with kids, so I can't just leave. So I scrawled out a hall pass and fished a dollar out of my pocket. I mumbled through swollen-tongue for one of the kids to go to the coke machine and bring me a "Diet Coke."

"A Diet Coke," I repeated. Because the last thing I need is to gag on some non-diet version whilst my tongue is swelling and my ears are itching.

Another lapse in brain function, because I slipped the dollar and hall pass to the ssslllooowwweeesssttt kid in the whole school. My tongue had grown to ginormous proportions and I was barely refraining from sticking a pencil in my ear canal to reach the itch when in walks Mr. Go-Get-Me-a-Diet-Coke with a...

Coke.

Not Diet.

Coke.

If I could have screamed, I would've.

But when in a banana crisis, the only thing to do is go ahead and pop the top. I swigged the nastiness and began to feel some relief. After I could swallow again, I went and found a Benedryl and eventually everything returned to normal. Except I still want to claw my eardrums out...because they itch. And I can't reach the itch.


Moral to story: Don't drown sorrows in bananas.


Note: Lest you think I'm crazy (like my husband does), I have an actual food allergy. I have spent my life thinking I'm nuts, and allowing others to chastise my weird tendencies to want to scratch the inside of my ears, until I heard of others with the same fate...on Oprah. It's a ragweed/hay fever allergy. For reals. I also can't eat watermelon, cucumbers, or cantaloupe. I also can't peel raw potatoes without my hands swelling. Still think I'm crazy? You can read an article about it here.... I'm not nuts. I'm tellin' ya.

The Great Flood of 7:30 Last Night

Ahhh. The uneventful weekend. What I've looked forward to for a week.

You know....

Laundry. Jammies. Junk food. Movies. Sleeping late. Blog reading. The Great Flood.

Say what?

Oh. Yes. The Great Flood of 7:30 Last Night.

What every great relaxing weekend at home needs....a little flood to shake things up a bit!

Here's how it went down...

I was somewhere between the couch and the laundry room and watching Boy TV. I had just downed my forty-fifth Diet Dr. Pepper of the day and was making my forty-fifth trip to the bathroom. The boys were piled in my bed watching Scooby Doo (since their daddy had hijacked the other TV), and I said something to them in passing. Probably something like, "Stop karate kicking your brother because you are messing up my bed while you're doing it, and I don't want to have to remake my bed," or "Stop jumping on my bed because I don't want to get out of my jammies to take you to the emergency room." So I said something super motherly and walked on into my bathroom.

AND MY FOOT HIT WATER.

And it sloshed. Because there was a ton of it.

Inches of water covering my bathroom floor.

And it was still coming.

Because SOMEONE plugged up my sink and turned the water on. And then forgot about it. And then went to my bed and karate kicked their brother while they watched Scooby Doo. And then looked stunned when their mother grew horns after her foot hit water.

I still don't know which one did it. No one can "remember." And each lost their ability to tattle when I needed them to. So I just went Crazy Mom on all 3 of them.

And then I had to use all my towels to soak up the water. Which meant more laundry.

And now my room stinks. Like flood.


I love my life.

Waiting...

I spent the morning in the doctor's office. Waiting.

Waiting to sign in. Waiting to be called back to a room. Waiting for the doctor once I was called back to a room. Waiting for the nurse to come and do blood work....twice. Waiting for the nurse to come and do a flu test. Waiting for my eyes to stop watering after the nurse finally came to do the flu test. Waiting for the doctor to come back to tell me to go home and wait.

So then....

I spent the afternoon at home. Waiting.

Waiting for the doctor to call me to tell me what all my waiting was for this morning.

I finally called her. Because I got tired of waiting.

And shockingly enough.....she doesn't know what is wrong with me. So I get to "wait it out."

Of course.

So I Read My Email and My Day Went Downhill

It was a normal morning for me.

I set my alarm for 5:20. And hit the snooze button until 6:20. I do this every morning. Why I don't just set the alarm for 6:20, I don't know. Something about slapping my bedside table every ten minutes for an hour makes me think I'm doing something really indulgent....like sleeping in. Although it is so not.

More normal came when it was time to get dressed. I live in my long sleeve white tee-shirts. I have three of them that I just run through several times a week. I layer them under everything, because I'm just that kind of girl. Anyway...all three of my tee buddies were thrown into the washer last night, to prepare for their next go-round, and I had every intention of moving them to the dryer last night. I got all flustered when my DVR cut off the end of American Idol last night, so I went to bed and pouted. And never got up to switch out the laundry. So this morning, I was in the shower when I realized that, horror of horrors, my shirts were all still wet in the washer. I did what anyone of the rest of you would have done. I found something else to wear? Not a chance. I took the time to fold all the towels that were in the dryer and then move the entire load in the washer into the dryer? Heck, no. Remember...I just snoozed until 6:20. And besides...who folds towels at 6:30 in the morning? Certainly not me. No, people....I dug through all the wet clothes in the washer, found one of my white shirts, chunked it in the dryer with the towels, and walked out the door an hour later wearing a white shirt with towel lint stuck to the arms. Because that's how I roll.

So everything was going as normal. Woke up late. Check. Laundry woes. Check. Kids ate healthy breakfast of Oreo poptarts and grape Koolaide. Check. Checked school email and found out that the science class pet is loose in the school. And it is a snake. Check.

Wait.

Say what?

Oh....that was my normal day turning into Code Red.

Or Code Green. For the garter snake named Rambo that is now loose in the school. And I don't like snakes. Pet ones named Rambo or not.

The email from our precious science teacher stated that Rambo was harmless. That he was small. And that he was "cute." Excuse me. Cute? Yes. She said "cute." And she asked that if we found Rambo wandering the halls to kindly call her, and she would come and get him.

Rambo.

All I can do is shake me head. And break out in cold sweats in my white tee. And hope that Rambo doesn't run up under my flip flop. Because Rambo would have to die.

Awesome Day....Me and Spiderman

I just found a squished fruit snack in my laptop. Poor Spiderman. He was crucified by the F2 button.

And all I could do was laugh.

So goes my life these days. I seem to have lost my mojo, and I seem to be living in some whacked out version of my universe. Nothing is going to plan, and Murphy's Law is alive and well.

I overslept again this morning and burnt my finger on the iron. I fell asleep in class and had lines on my face for an hour to show for it. I was bit by a mosquito on my little toe, and while I was trying to scratch it, I tripped and fell on the sidewalk. I had a pen leak all over my hands, and my piece of chocolate cake was soggy. I'm still cleaning up the aftershocks of Prom and had to deal with a missing bolt today (long story, but super depressing). I had to come home to a laundry room that should require a HazMat suit to enter, and stepped in something sticky while I was sorting dirty socks. I got spaghetti sauce on my white shirt, and the front panel of my dishwasher fell off. I went outside to dump the jar that I keep my grease in so that I could drain my hamburger meat, and ended up sloshing funky grease all over my bare feet. There are crunched up Pringles all over my bedroom floor, and now the toilet won't flush. The boys ate all my WheatThins despite the "Hands Off" scrawled on the front in black sharpie, and I just realized that Sawyer's birthday is the day after tomorrow...excellent. I just found out that Adam and his scary, freaky Johnny Cash song are safe on American Idol, and I just snagged a nail and ripped it off down to the quick.

Awesome day.

Kind of like the day Spiderman was having before he suffered a very cruel and very flat death.

For the Next Few Days....

If you are looking for me...

Try under a pile of these.

Or a mess of this.

Or in a giant heap of this.

Or I just may have been eaten alive by one of these.

That's right, ladies and gents, it's time for Prom.

I'm sure a swanky tiara would be a much better accessory than hyperventilation.

Sleepy

My day started at 3:30 this morning. That's early. Really early.

I rolled out of bed and crawled to the shower. I stayed in longer than I should have because the water was lulling me back to sleep. I think I took a little nap between shampooing and conditioning. I might have conditioned twice...just because I couldn't remember. I dried my hair, but refused to straighten it. Too much work. And no one should work at 4 a.m. I chose clothes that didn't need ironing and scrounged around in my makeup bag. I think I only ended up with mascara and lip gloss today....again too much work to do all the rest. I kissed my men goodbye while they snored and slipped out of the house with my hair flipping every which way.

To say awake I blasted some music and sang at the top of my lungs. I could because I was alone. This morning I was belting some Taylor Swift. Got to be one of my favorite singers of all time....I heart her like I heart High School Musical. What am I? Twelve? Geez.

As I sang about being 15 and lovin' some boy named Steven, I headed for Little Rock. At 5:00 in the morning. I stopped at a truck stop to get gas along with all the construction workers and farmers dressed in their Carhartt coveralls and John Deere hats.

I rolled into the Rock just as the sun was waking up.

I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the car. Taylor Swift sang to me, and I checked my mascara. I had yawned some of it down onto my cheeks. I cleaned myself up, stretched twice, and stepped out of the car. And made my way in the door of.....

KRISPY KREME!

Yes. Krispy Kreme.

Yes. I woke up at 3:30 for Krispy Kreme. And drove an hour for Krispy Kreme. And went to school and worked all day for Krispy Kreme (we weren't out for school today like the rest of the world).

Note. I'm all about the warm, luscious goodness of a fresh Krispy Kreme donut....but not that much.

Oh no. My momentary lapse of sanity that happened when I actually set my alarm last night for 3:30 a.m. is a result of this crazy new identity that I've taken on.....

Meet me. Mother. Wife. Teacher. And now....PROM SPONSOR.

Oh Lands.

I'm now neck deep in prom magazines, food menus, decorations, budgets, invitation samples, and, my new nemesis.....FUNDRAISERS!!

You got it. I drove all the way to Little Rock this morning to pick up fundraiser boxes of donuts. I think at one point today there were 172 boxes of Krispy Kremes in my room at school.

If I never see another donut in my life....I'll be just fine.

(*Krispy Kreme is a FABULOUS business to work with. They have been super nice to us and have been amazing. Check them out if you ever need a good fundraising idea.....or if you just need a donut!*)

In Case of Emergency....Don't Do As I Do

There is a brand spankin' new window in my bedroom now.

All thanks to.......

A hammer. Wielded by.....me. That's right....me.

It is all Kirk's fault though. Honest. If he hadn't left on a trip last month, our old window would still be intact. At least that is what I continue to claim.

It all started on a Sunday morning, a very cold Sunday morning, in December. Kirk had left early for the airport and was on a plane to Miami by the time the boys and I woke up. I hurried around the house that morning trying to get us ready for church and out of the door on time. Looking our Sunday best, I pushed the boys out of the house, grabbed my purse, and headed to the van. We buckled up and I began to dig around in my purse looking for my keys. Nothing. Searched my pockets. Nothing. Interrogated the boys. Nothing.

Aha. I'd locked my keys in the house.

This is a fairly common problem for me. And luckily we keep a key hidden for just such an occasion. This time though....out of luck. Kirk had just replaced the locks on our house a few weeks before, and I hadn't had extra keys made yet. (This is where I'm being told by Kirk to make sure I add that he had reminded me numerous times to get the keys made...yada yada yada.)

Keep in mind that it is FREEZING outside; Kirk is on a plane; and everyone we know is at church already. I racked my brain. I'm not good under pressure, so I cried a little, too...okay...a lot. I think I also said a couple of things that I shouldn't have and freaked out my kids. I told you that I'm terrible under pressure.

I checked all our windows even though I knew they would all be locked, because I'm pretty OCD about that kind of stuff. Our sliding glass door was also locked and barred....more OCD. I know nothing about picking locks, but knew enough to know that Kirk had bought the heavy duty locks when he switched them out, so assumed that breaking in my own house by way of the front door was probably a no go.

I went through my options. My not-good-under-pressure options.

1) Call a locksmith.

• I went back and forth on this one, because I was imagining the cost involved in calling a locksmith on a Sunday morning to drive all the way out in the sticks where we live. I'd had to call a locksmith to get the keys out of my car during normal working hours and practically had to sell a kidney to pay for it.

2) Bust down my front door.

• Just didn't seem right and couldn't really imagine how I would do it even if I wanted to. And I was wearing high heels.

3) Just go stay in a hotel or at a friend's house until Kirk came home.

• No keys to drive anywhere and was too cold to wait on everyone to get out of church and turn their cell phones back on.

4) Break a window.

• Seemed crazy but doable.

I was torn between the locksmith and the window. I went back and forth for a few minutes and finally opted for the window. I told you that I'm not good under pressure. Panic tends to overtake me and all of my good decision-making skills.

So, I headed to Kirk's shop in search of a hammer. I'd seen on TV how people wrapped a towel or something around their hands so they wouldn't get cut with the glass, so I grabbed an old t-shirt....closest thing I could find to a towel.

I'm sure that my boys were petrified at the sight of their frantic, sobbing mother heading around the back of the house armed with a hammer. Bless their hearts. I really think I'm scarring them for life.

I decided to break my bedroom window. I knew I needed to break a window at the back of the house so as to not advertise to the world that we had an easy access. The only other windows back there are Keaton's window and the kitchen window. I was parenting well enough at the moment to consider my child and to not want him to have the broken window. The kitchen window would have required me climbing on the doghouse and then crawling into the sink....didn't sound pleasurable in heels. So I opted for mine.

I tapped the window carefully at first with the hammer, still believing that this whole thing really wasn't happening to me. Then, when it didn't shatter instantly, I went for the kill. I busted that window with everything I had. CRACK! There were tiny pieces of glass everywhere.

I hadn't realized that the glass would stay in the window though. I was imaging it all busting clean out of the frame. Uh....no....there were huge shards of glass all jaggedy and scary looking. And I was needing to climb through that....more panic. I carefully (with the T-shirt hand) picked out the glass shards enough to where I thought I could get through the hole without seriously injuring myself. I did an okay job....I only got 3 nasty cuts and one glass splinter. Ouch.

I made it through the window and into the house. I retrieved the keys and met my freaked out kids outside. With my heart pumping a mile a minute at the realization that now I had a ginormous hole in my house, I searched our shed for a piece of wood to cover the hole. Luckily, Kirk had a large piece of plywood that the boys helped me drag through the back yard and prop up against my window. Just FYI -- plywood is heavy, y'all.

I checked my watch.....we still had time to make it to church. I debated on staying home and trying to patch up the window. But, I knew I needed plastic sheeting and didn't have a clue as to whether Kirk had any of that or not. (I only knew what I needed from watching all the tornado and hurricane coverage on the news.) Recognizing that it was in the middle of the winter and the likelihood of a snake or other critter crawling in the hole in my house was probably slim....the boys and I went to church. Noble, huh?

After church and after stopping by WalMart to buy window patching supplies, I changed clothes and stared at the hole in the house with tears in my eyes. This kind of thing only happens to me. But, I put on my big girl face and enlisted Keaton for help. Together we cleaned up the rest of the glass (wearing Kirk's way-way-too-big-work-gloves) and tacked up the plastic sheeting. Then together, we hung wood over the hole (just like I saw all those hurricane people do on the news). All said and done....we didn't do too shabby. I used power tools and everything!

Needless to say, I stayed upset about the whole incident for awhile. Kirk was really sweet about the whole thing (after the initial phone call....yikes!).

We just got our new window last week. It is so pretty and shiny.

And this is the best part.....it only cost $45. HA! I was so right about the locksmith vs. window thing.

It pained Kirk a little bit to admit that I was right. And then he reminded me that if I had just had the new keys made when he asked me to, then we would only be out the $1.30 for the key.

Ugh. I hate it when he is right. I was so close.

Just Skunky...Part 2

If you read my previous post....then you will appreciate this update:

Mama Skunk has been sent to the great big Skunkdom in the sky...thanks to Kirk and his manly self.

Now....wonder if Papa and Mama had babies.....hmmmmmmmmmmmm.....