She Guesses, She Scores

Oh yes I did score ten big points tonight!  My husband asked if any of us noticed anything different tonight...and, hmmmmmm, without looking I said (guessed), "You got a hair cut!"  He awarded me with my ten fake-a-roo points right then and there.  Yes, I did come across as being a wife who pays attention and notices such things.  But, in reality, I so am not that kind of wife (of almost 20 years, I'll have you know).  Dave's been doing tons of remodel-type work around the house lately, I mean big, slap-you-in-the-face obvious kind of work, and the guy has to lead me through each and every change and upgrade he's made so I'll take it in and give him the high fives he so deserves.  And to think he'd expect me to notice that he had less than an inch of hair cut off...ha!

Somebody done beat the stuffing out of it!

I'm trying to decide if I'm thrifty, neurotic, or obsessive.  I just spent the last bit of time repairing a bunch of well-loved doggie toys.  They had side tears, legs falling off, were well on their way to decapitation, and guts spilling out...ay-yi-yi!  I had the foul-smelling, dry slobber-covered creatures in a pile on the kitchen table (I WILL be cleaning it off, I promise).  Can I just say that they reminded me of my brother's favorite brown pillow he LOVED as a child...ah, piwwow....  Anyway, each of the doggie toys were carefully guided under the sewing machine needle as it zig-zag stitched the heck out of every injury, most of which were adjacent to previous repairs.  As I was sewing three of the five remaining octopus legs on Scout's oldest beloved toy, Hazel sneaked up to the table, delicately edged her muzzle over the edge, and snatched the stuffed flea, stuffing still hanging out of its side.

"Hazel, drop it!"

Flea retrieved, sewn, and thrown on the living room floor with the rest of the motley crew.  My job was done.  It was like a doggie Christmas here tonight!

Is there GPS app for that?

My big guy and I talk fairly often these days about his post high school plans.  Today he begrudgingly (though I think it was just a performance...he luvs him some samples!) went to Costco with me, and, on the car ride there and back, it came up again.  There are a number of possibilities, but the one I find myself focusing on the most is the one where he continues to live at home while he attends a nearby college or university, working part time somewhere, hopefully saving up some cash.  I wonder about his transition to adulthood and how that will affect my parenting and expectations.  I've told him he'd have more freedom, of course, but he could count on me expecting him to keep his room clean.  That he wouldn't have a bedtime, but I probably wouldn't go for him sleeping all day and coming and going all night long.  It's weird, these thoughts, and funny to me that I can't really let myself spend any time yet considering him moving out and away in less than eighteen months.  Me?  Well, I was seriously outa my parents' house one week after I graduated from high school.  I didn't look back and my parents didn't reserve any space there for me once I left.  I think I need a map for this ride I'm on.

Into the Labyrinth

Made the trek to IKEA early this afternoon.  We were so totally NOT the only ones with that destination idea in mind.  We made it in the door and the boys (yes, we brought them both) began duking it out.  We slipped them some cash and sent them on their way through the maze that IKEA is to get something at the restaurant in the belly of the beast.  Note, this was a safe risk as they pretty much get along great when it's just the two of them.  Dave and I looked at each other and realized that we were alone...might as well call this a date!  Yay!  We wound our way through the store, checking things out at our leisure.  Somewhere around the lamp section we realized that we had a blend of our stuff and someone else's stuff in our cart.  Either we stole the cart from a now puzzled customer or an equally puzzled customer had been adding items to our cart.  We took everything out that wasn't ours and gave it to an IKEA employee who told us this sort of thing happens all the time there.  Weirdness!  Dave split off to find the restroom and left me in charge of the cart.  There needs to be a 12 step group for folks like me who can't handle pushing IKEA carts.  I look like I'm totally failing a sobriety test as I try to maintain a straight path with that crazy contraption with four swiveling wheels.  I cannot.  I make it to the frame section, find what I want, and then I half push, half pull the errant cart as best I can to the register.  Time to gather the troops together once again...I call Dave and he calls the boys.  We reunite out front, teenage tummies full, adult bladder empty, bank account down just a tad, good times...you bet!

Tell me again why the chicken crossed the road....

Had one of those weird days where I figure I must've activated the cloaking device on my Prius.  I had two separate groups of young adults walk directly in front of me when I was driving.  Had to slam on my breaks twice.  Both times the groups looked up at me, shocked.  I like to think that at least one of them was thinking, "Gee, I guess at least one of us should've taken the time to look both ways."

I'm happy to report that no one in either of the groups was distracted due to looking down at an iPhone or anything like that...pretty darn sure they were lucky that the person who ended up responsible for their fate (me!) is someone who would never do that either.

As I got back into my neighborhood and felt I could exhale from the near misses, I came upon a fella who looked like he was going to continue the trend and just walk right out in front of me, too.  I slowed down and as I approached him he smiled really big at me and fake jumped at my car.  I flashed him a smile and a peace sign (hey, he looked like an old hippie...and, you know, I'm all about peace and stuff).  I'm guessing he was the universe's way of letting me know that my cloaking device had been disengaged.  Whew!

Smooth Move

As a rule, I find being casually dismissed by another human to be quite aggravating.  I will jump up and down, or gee, huff and puff at a minimum.  So, when my little guy did it to me tonight when we were sitting at the table together, me encouraging (prodding) him to keep working on his homework, it had the potential to get really, really ugly.

Little guy:  "Mom, let me use your computer."

Me:  "Use your own computer."

Little guy:  "Let me use yours.  You're not using it."

Me:  "I don't want potato chip grease on my computer.  No."  (Yup, mom of the year here...potato chips are a healthy after dinner snack.)

Little guy:  Giving me the stink eye and showing me decidedly not greasy hands.  OK, now get ready...he waved his not greasy hand an me in a "shoo fly" motion and said, "You can just...," yes, my brickles started getting up, "...just paint a picture."

Yeah, I swiveled my laptop to his side of the table right quick and followed that wise little guy's instructions.  Smooth, little dude...smooth.

Dinner Conversation

Tonight after dinner, OK after my and the kids' dinner and during Dave's dinner as he didn't get to the table till we were done, I was talking to Dave about something I'd like to do, something I was excited about, something I had plans for, something I had found a basic model for...suddenly Dave started laughing.

"What?!?!" I asked, totally exasperated by his response to my excitement.

I madly rubbed my tongue over my teeth looking for the foreign object that must have grabbed his attention.  I got a napkin and blew my nose to get that errant bugger that just had to be oozing out of my nose and lingering on my upper lip.  I checked my reading glasses as I was sure they were crooked on my face...again.

"You're cute."  Oh,  well that's OK, I suppose.  :-)

Good times were had!

Way back before I ever had kids I remember having parties and going to sleep before cleaning up as I was totally exhausted.  I'd wake up early (as that's simply the way I roll) and clean up the place.  I loved, loved, loved picking up glasses, plates, napkins, a jacket accidentally left behind, and even crusty serving dishes.  For me it was blissful evidence of a good time that was had.  I'd remember so many details associated with each discovery.  I'd smile a lot when I cleaned up.

As children came into my life the artifacts left behind after a good time changed.  Half consumed juice boxes or snack bags, a diaper in a corner that they'd taken off all by themselves, crumbs that somehow the dogs had missed, crayon or marker scribbles on the wall or table...all delicious.  Even after I got over the initial intense pain of stepping on a Lego barefooted, I'd love thinking of the creations they'd made the day before.

When my children were in elementary school items belonging to friends were always left behind, popcorn kernels littered the floor, game controllers with tangled wires strewn across the floor...the floor that was practically covered, wall to wall, with clean and dirty clothes.  Skateboards and helmets in the living room and clothing discarded one at a time marking the path from the door to their bedroom.  OK, I admit that I began to not feel as much bliss and satisfaction recalling their activities through this stage.  My expectations had increased and I was becoming ready to pass the picking-up torch on to the slobs my children.

Now that they're both teenagers the only cleaning of their messes I do is their laundry...well, that and a little crumb pick up in the morning that evidences their late night snack fests.  They're growing boys I'll have you know.  I make some discoveries while sorting and cleaning their clothes.  I do smile when I find the detention slip in their pocket that they failed to mention, the marbles I'm still so glad that one of them still loves to look at, and the clear evidence on their shirts of still being little guys that use their clothing as a napkin.

With the addition of our puppy, Hazel, I feel like we're starting over in the artifact department, very happily so.  Most mornings when I get up there's a collection of underwear (not mine yet, thankfully) and socks (yes, mine are there, too) on Hazel's bed.  She will have also gathered the towel that hangs from our oven door and any cloth napkins that have been thrown on the laundry room floor.  I think she wants to gather us (or at least our scents) close to her and snuggle in.  Note:  no clothing or towels have been harmed as a result of her hoarding tendencies.  I feel only love for her as I gather these things each day.  We even love the little dust bunnies, mainly composed of Hazel puppy fur, we find in the corners of our house and under furniture.  We affectionately call them "Hazel bunnies".  

It's good stuff, these artifacts.  Little reminders of the time we're in...right now.

This design available on shirts/bags/mugs/cards and more:  Field of Flowers

Issues...yeah, we've all got 'em!

I found myself thinking today about the issues we all have inside, the hidden challenges that we keep to ourselves, the ones we come up with incredibly effective (and not so effective) ways of working around. I suppose that ultimately these issues and challenges are what make us all unique, special, and, most of all, valuable.  I'm fascinated by what we all bring to this life and our relationships and intrigued by what draws us to and makes us avoid particular people.  And, believe me, I'm certainly not issue-free (just ask my family), so I'm talking about myself, too.  Anyway, sending the love out to all of us different folk.  I think we're rather wacky cool.

This design available on shirts/bags/mugs/cards and more:  LOVE

Flowers, Butterflies, Puppies...and an Unlucky Octopus

Driving to Gamestop today with my little guy.  He was clutching his gift card and he had a plan.


Me:  "What game are you gonna get?"

Little guy:  "You won't know what it is."

Me:  "Is it a game with flowers, butterflies, and puppies?"

Little guy:  "No," whilst giving me some serious stink eye.


So, we go in the store and he finds the game he wanted (he was looking everywhere until I let him in on the secret that all the games were in alphabetical order).  He went to the register and the guy checking him out asks me if it's OK for my little guy to get a "mature" game.


Me:  "What?  He said it was a game about flowers, butterflies, and puppies."  I had to say it...I couldn't help myself.

Checker dude:  "No puppies, but there's weapons in it that shoot a live octopus at targets."

Me:  "Ew, not nice.  No, that doesn't count as flowers, butterflies, and puppies, but yes, he can get the game." 


Points in my kid's mind for me being the cool mom that let him get the game.

Strikes in my own mind for allowing further corruption of my little guy's flower/butterfly/puppy-lovin' tendencies.  Sigh....

Dress or no Dress...That is the Question

I went on a decluttering rampage today.  OK, rampage probably isn't the right word, but I most definitely left a trail of destruction everywhere I was.  It would've been just fine had I been alone in the house, but as the rest of the family was here, too, I managed to be quite the irritant.  There were most definite signs of grouchiness when Dave would come in the bedroom to flop on the bed and it'd be covered with hangers, piles of clothes to donate, and piles to make experimental sewing projects with.  And don't even get me started with when the boys walked in on me when I was trying on a questionable shirt or pair of pants.  Gee, it's my room...the risk of entering without prior consent is implied.

Well, it was really, really easy deciding what to keep and what to get rid of.  I was quite proud of myself.  Easy, except for one dress.  It's something I'll never wear again (I actually only wore it once), but, it's made of super-stretchy nylon and is PERFECT for Dave to wear when he wants to cross dress.  Mind you this only comes up in late October...that I'm aware of anyway.  I waffled back and forth about it.  I knew if I got rid of it he'd try to squeeze into one of my little summer dresses and would be sure to ruin it.  If I kept it it might sit in my closet for years and never, ever be dragged out again.  Hmmmm...I could hide it in my big guy's closet, but gosh, what 16 year old wants his mom's (dad's) dress hanging in his closet.  I barely get away with having my old motorcycle jacket and a furry leopard print blazer in there (by the way, I'm done with the leopard print blazer, anyone want it?), I don't think he'd be cool with a slinky dress with a mod print.

So, the dress remains in my closet, on my side...you know, just in case. 

Kiss my Grits!

Yes, that's right, you can go ahead and call me "Flo"... in this home of mine, with two pretty much constantly starving teenage boys, taking orders for meals and snacks is pretty much most of what I find myself doing.  Here's pretty much how it goes.


Insert either boy's name here:  "I'm STARVING!!"

Me:  "What are you hungry for?"

Boy:  "What do we have?"

Me:  "You can go look in the fridge just as easily as I can."

Boy goes and opens the fridge, barely leans over enough to partially see in there, and stands there staring at the abundance of its contents."  (Note:  fridge is WIDE open and the staring can go on for one to three or more minutes.)

Me:  "Close the fridge!"

Boy:  "There's nothing in there."

Me:  "I went shopping yesterday.  There's tons of food in there."

Boy:  "What do we have?"  (Gee, this sounds vaguely familiar.)

Anyway, I usually give in and name a few options.

Boy:  "Yeah, I'll take that."  And they turn around and tootle off to their room.  Um...did they just think I presented them with a menu and was willing to take their order?

Me:  I sit and start painting and worry not one bit about their yearning tummies.


Ten or 15 minutes go by and a boy will venture out of his room.


Boy:  "Where's my food?"

Me:  "I was waiting for you to help me make it."  Too bad for them that their mom has Flo's sassy attitude.


Funny thing how ravenous appetites can vanish so quickly.  My guys...gotta love 'em.

Oh, the humility...

I'm sure you know we teachers are scavengers and thieves.  I've been known to dumpster dive (yes, it's true), "rescue" things from trash cans, take tons of stuff from free shelves, load my car up with bulky pick-up items, ask my neighbors to save all their toilet paper rolls, and on and on.

Lucky for me I have TONS of parents of both current and former students who think of me when they are clearing out their kids' toys and books, which is keeping me out of the dumpster business.  Today one of my awesome former parents dropped off a HUGE floor piano (think the movie "Big").  Good news is it is AWESOME!  I jumped right on it and made a really bad attempt at playing "Chopsticks", jump, jump, jumping.  Bad news is I really needed to pee and, well, I've had two kids, and, well, you know how it goes....

My Inner Yoda

Working with my little guy tonight on his homework has seriously brought out my inner Yoda.  Oh, my.

"I cannot teach him.  The boy has no patience."

For goodness sake, we're apparently living in the world of distraction.  Must pet the dogs, must hug the cat, must have a (another) snack, must look up something on the phone, must go to the bathroom (again), must sneak up behind my mom and scare the heck out of her...which brings me to...

"Fear is the path to the dark side.  Fear leads to anger.

Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to suffering."

In other words, bad idea, little dude.  Really, really bad idea.  I actually put up my dukes in response!

"Size matters not.  Look at me.  Judge me by my size do you?"

Well, he knows WAY better than that by now, for sure.  Or one would think, anyway.  After much jumping through hoops and some small bit of coercion (and perhaps a threat or two), he sits and begins putting forth effort.  I'm all about Yoda in so may ways, but I must disagree with his most famous quote.

"No!  Try not.  Do, or do not, there is no try."

Me?  I'm a big believer in the trying part.  Make a go, little dude.  This mama is in awe of you.

And now...

"Tired I am, rest I must."

G'night!

Alls about Me

From my little guy's Language Arts journal today.  The assignment was "Profiles of People"..."Describe a person that you know or have heard of.  Write down everything that you can think of about the person.  Let your reader get to know that person as you do.  (It had to be 5 sentences, minimum.)

My Mom

My mom is not tall.

She teaches.

And she makes paintings.

She is nice.

She makes really good cookies.

OK, my friends, you now know everything he can think of about me AND you know me as well as he does.  I love that my stature is the first thing he came up with.  He loves me...it's obvious!

is...ism

Dave was about to head to the coffee shop.


Me:  "You taking Scout or Hazel?"

Dave:  "Hazel."  I just know he implied a "Duh!"

Me:  "That's agism, you should take the old dog this time."

Dave:  "Scout's barky, spazzy, neurotic...it's not agism, it's isism...that's just the way she is."


Tis true.  We divided and conquered.  Dave took the babe magnet that Hazel is to the coffee shop, I loved on the big, old, barky, spazzy, neurotic, visually and auditorily impaired, sweet, amazing girl that Scout is.  Love....

Don' be Trashy...Recycle!

So, I started painting about six months ago.  I seriously luvs it, by the way.  Feels like I've been doing it forever AND like I've only just started.  It's my bliss.

Anyway, Dave asked me today if I'd make a sign to go over our recycling bin in the kitchen indicating that it is, indeed, a recycling bin (it used to be our trash can, so this furthers the confusion).  In hindsight I'm pretty sure he meant typing something up and sticking it to the bin.  Did I go that route?  No, siree, I did not.  I got busy painting (see below).  I got to thinking how cool it'd be to have it hanging in the kitchen over the bin and I realized that I haven't hung ANY of my paintings in my own house.  While my recycle bin painting was in different stages of drying, I hung a few...and, hey, I think it seriously classes up the joint!  Now, I know I get obsessive about things, but don't worry, I have no intention of hanging ALL of my pieces (about 200 at this point).  Just a few more, I promise.

As for my recycle bin painting...I don't think it'll make the cut.  We talked about it and we think for the teenage boy crowd that hangs out at my house all the time, they'll only see the flowers and quickly look away as they throw their microwave popcorn bag and buggery tissues in the recycle bin.  Ah, well.  Now to google a simple, printable recycle bin sign.

Lame Shlame

Hangin' with Dave at a coffee shop this morning and little guy calls...his tone was pure emergency.


Little dude:  "Mom, when are you guys coming home?  I need help!"

Me:  "In a little bit...what's up?"

Little dude:  "I need you to make this spaghetti meal for me."  (Note:  the spaghetti meal is a prepackaged Marie Callender's frozen dinner.)

Me:  "You can do it."  Gee....

Little dude:  "I don't know how!"

Me:  "Follow the directions on the box."  Duh....

Little dude:  "You're lame."  <click>


Me?  I'm the lame one?

Reflection is Perfection

So, here's where we're at.  New tile floor in one bathroom plus new toilet.  Check.  Other bathroom looks like heck now.  New tile floor in other bathroom plus new toilet.  Check.  Now the truly horrid, yet functional, little plastic drawer thingie looks like heck.  New shelf/cupboard thingie installed in bathroom.  Check.  Now mirror on wall doesn't fit the space.  Rehang the mirror vertically rather than horizontally in remaining space.  Check.  Now when you sit on the toilet you can look at yourself sitting there.  Check...I mean "oops".

Doggly Wogglies

Finding myself in awe of my favorite form of four-legged friends...doggly wogglies.  My old girl, in particular.  Our Scout has arthritis (which was pretty much cured by puppy tussling), one blind eye due to a cataract, and now she's deaf in one ear.  Does she ever complain?  Yeah, no freakin' way. 

My sweet old lady, Scout, had to have a procedure done on her ear this morning.  She's home now, still doped up, and hilariously sweet with her amazing disposition.  Yesterday we discovered goo in her ear and turned out she had an ear infection so severe that there's nothing left of her eardrum except for some random shreds.  The thing just burst into bits.  She only yipped once when I did my rub-her-ears thing I love to do when I get home every day.  I peeked in and thought, "ew".  Thing is, she, and pretty much every dog I know, are amazing in this way.  They can be in pain, lose a leg, lose their sight, whatever, and they pretty much keep on truckin'.  I'm in awe of these amazing creatures.  I mean, really, have you ever heard a dog say, "Oh, lordy, my bursitis is actin' up somethin' fierce today, Madge."

OK, now I'm off to try to convince Scout that she needs to take some pain meds...so far she's playin' up her tough girl persona and refusing.  "I can take it!"  Perhaps wrapping it in something tasty will do the trick.

Brotherly Love

My kids fight.  They fight a lot.  I mean, my goodness, they declare their hatred of one another practically on a daily basis, wrestle to the point of rug burns and bruises, and threaten to reveal each others' most private moments to their friends (with phone photo evidence!). 


The other day little guy had a friend over and his friend asked, "Does your brother ever annoy you?"

I was ready to hear an epic-length story of all the offenses and "accidental" injuries, but all my little dude said was, "Mmmmmm...sometimes."  Could've knocked me over with a feather.


But then I thought about it.  I'll often pass by one of their rooms and find them both sharing a chair, problem-solving a computer dilemma.  I'll overhear my big guy offering to go buy my little guy a Thundercloud sandwich (with his own money, no less).  I'll find them snuggled on the couch watching a YouTube video on one of their phones, each with an ear bud in one ear.

Yeah, my guys rock.  I'm so glad they have those precious moments.  And, when they're adults, they'll be SO glad they have someone, who understands like no other can,  to talk to about how wacky their mom and dad were when they were kids. 

Mother Fodder

I hear people say that they think we're placed on this planet to find relationships with particular people so we can further develop and become more complete.  Or whatever the gist of that is.  Well, I'm not sure what exactly I'm getting from my husband, growth wise, but he was definitely put into my life to give me something to blog about...at least I'm figuring that's what he's thinking.  Here's his most recent contribution (meaning he freely, and intentionally, gave it to me).

Dave:  "The dad burn terlet thing is caterwompus!"

Family ignores him.

Dave:  "I was giving your mother fodder."  His explanation for the previous statement.

Family ignores him.

Dave:  "Kali, I am not your fodder."  Cross between Darth Vader and some sort of denial that he's doing things on purpose so he'll be written about.

Family ignores him...well, actually I just pretend to ignore him as I quietly scribe.

You can call me "She Beast"

Sometimes I wonder...does every mom get called a She Beast when they tell their kid to do something undesirable?  My little guy calls me a She Beast at least once per day.  Sometimes more.  You know, depending on his work load and all.  It's got me thinking.  What does a She Beast look like?  I'm hopeful it's one of those buxom muscly babes like in the pictures on the walls at Conan's Pizza.  Or maybe it's some half woman, half wild beast (preferably in the big cat family).  Then there's the possibility it could be entirely in the other direction...hairy arms, legs, nostrils, eyebrows, and ears.  Perhaps it's not even human-like at all.

Hmmmm...time to go to the source.

Me:  "So, kid, what exactly does a She Beast look like?"

Little guy:  "A She Beast looks like your face."  Pretty sure I heard a little disdain in his voice.

Me:  "Oh, so She Beasts are kinda cute."  Scowl in my general direction.

You're wearing THAT?!?!

It finally happened.  One of my children has asked me, "Mom, are you going to wear that when we go out?"  I thought to myself, "I've gone out with you in a superhero cape, I've gone out with you with plaid shorts and a tie dye shirt, I've gone out with you wearing your jacket upside-down, I've gone out with you with marker drawings head to toe, I've gone out with you when you've had black eyes (not from me, of course, but I felt the eyes of strangers), I've gone out with you wearing only a diaper because you refused clothing.  I mean, gee....

OK, so what was I wearing?   Well, let me tell you the plans for the day first.  Trip to pick up some tile that was given to us (a dirty venture), shopping at HEB, then shopping at Costco.  Nothing fancy, I tell ya!  I went and looked in the mirror.  The blue jean overalls I had chosen were frayed in all sorts of places (not in any risque spots), they were very baggy, faded, and, yes, ugly.

"Would you feel better about being seen with me if I wear jeans?"

Affirmative.

Kid was right.

Most Eggcellent!

Today my little guy became a world record holder.  Really!  Believe it or not, there are world records for launching rockets with a raw egg in them and depending on how high your rocket goes and successfully returns to earth with the egg intact, you can rank.  Well...little dude set the record today for his age division.  I can only imagine how exciting it must be for him.  I always pegged him for wanting to be in the Guiness Book of World Records for something weird (or at least very uncomfortable), but I think launching an egg over 2000 feet high resides somewhere in between weird and normal, and it didn't hurt a bit.  Well, unless you count the poor little egg that he smashed to smithereens after the judge certified it whole and unharmed.

Me:  "I can totally picture you as a little old man telling your grandchildren about the day you became a world record holder...so awesome!"

Little guy:  "Why'd you say 'little'?"

What's next?

It happened.  I knew it would.  We redid the floor and toilet in one bathroom and now the entire rest of the house looks like ca-ca-pookie.  Suddenly the shower in that bathroom is seriously sub-par and it became the first target.  Dave ran out to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and got one of those shower tower shelf thingymabobbers.  It took about 30 minutes just to get the darn thing out of the box and all the pieces out of their individual packing materials (what's with all that?!?!).  I went into the kitchen to sort out the recyclable from the trash and to make cookies and could hear squeaking, pounding, tapping, doors opening and closing. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap....Dave walks by, clearly on a mission, with that oh-so-familiar look on his face that I know and love.

"I have to read the instructions."

Our Four Course Meal

Had one of those total family pleasin' dinners here tonight.  Homemade baked home fries, delicious tilapia, thinly sliced avocado, and, the best of all, canned corn.  Delish!  Course it took me an hour to make, and the family only took five minutes to eat it all.  Course there was some kiddo fighting at the table, and it ended with peace and both boys thanking me for the great meal (unprompted!!!).  Course I got caught cussing during the meal prep and for some reason Dave said something about me needing to take my collar off, and it ended up that he was talking about our dog who was being brushed.  Course meal times at the table all together are precious, indeed, and when the kids go to their rooms to do their thing Dave feels free to shake his groove thang all over the living room (think Elaine on "Seinfeld").  Perfect night!

I'm absolutely convinced that I would look like this today, with

tats all over my back, had the massive tattooing trend hit during my 

era of desire for such things.  Happy that I have just the two 

little tattoos I have, one is on top of the other...

thinking that really only counts as one, then, right?

B.Y.O.T.P.

We, in the Parsons house, are quite focused on the bathroom concept ever since we finished upgrading one of ours last night.  It's officially our favorite room in the house.  If we find ourselves accidentally heading into the "other" bathroom we quickly alter our trajectory (no matter the stage of pants-downness) and hustle to the "good" bathroom.  It truly does rock.

This has me thinking of the significance that bathrooms, going potty, and all surrounding topics have had in our home since our first kiddo was born.  And, in a house of boys, potty humor is always on the tips of our collective tongues.

I have a small notebook, one of my most precious possessions, filled with quotes and landmarks from my kiddos' childhoods.  I took it out tonight, as I'm apt to do on occasion, and found that a HUGE percentage of our noteworthy entries are toilet/potty related.  Here's a small sample:


"Mommy, I ate a big, big, big, big, bugger in the bathroom!"

Vocabulary..."little bubble poop" = fart

"Mommy, my bum bum is eating my big boy pants."

"I poopdied!"

"Yeah, my gas bombs smell bad, but they're awesome!"


Yup...feel the bathroom love, people!

My Superpowers

My kids apparently think I have superpowers.  They're right, of course.  Big guy thinks my superpower is sandwich making.  He thinks I make the best sandwiches in the history of everything mayonnaisey, pickley, and mustardy.  He's convinced that I went to sandwich making superpower school at Thundercloud Subs (where I worked all through college), and that's where I earned my cape.  He's probably right.  Little guy thinks my superpower is chocolate chip cookie making.  I've been making them since I was a wee one, following the directions on the yellow Nestle's bag, year after year after year.  Sometime in the past five years or so I started messing with the recipe and created my own version that apparently tops all others.  I don't think little guy has any theories about where I got my superpowers, I don't even think he cares.  He just wants those cookies.

What do my superpowers get me?  I'll tell you what they get me.  They get me TONS of hugs and "I love you"s before, during, and after I use them.  Awesome!

Shizzy-fuzza-what?

We sat around playing rummy tonight, Dave and I.  And, as always, Dave was determined to be a slang trendsetter.  Me?  I firmly believe that slang invention should be left to the experts...those half my age and members of the hip crowd.  Poor Dave is SO not that, not meeting either criteria.

Anyway, we're playing cards, he and I, and he's beating the "shizzinizzle" out of me (am I even using that word correctly?).  Now, that one I like, AND I suspect was come up with by "experts".  I don't watch TV so I'm not up to speed with the current vocab, but Dave does and I'm betting he was taking words for test drives.  Soon though, it's apparent that he's diving into his own well of creativity when he tells me how much "fuzunzle" (fun) he's having kicking my booty.  I'm not the best loser out there, by far, but someone telling me how much "fuzunzle" they're having doing it is not a mood improver.  We finish the game (thank goodness!) and he tells me, "You're welcome!"

Me, being the sore loser that I am, not willing to let him have the last word, I put on my best snarky face and say, "Wuzelcome!"  He beamed...not sure if it was the win, the "he got me"-ness of it all, or overwhelming pride in his wife's new word.  Regardless, I'm glad he was happy.

So, bring it, people, use my new word.  You don't even have to thank me for it as you're already "wuzelcome"!

Tap, tap...you cwazy!

I kept hearing people talk about New Year's resolutions today.  I've long since sworn off of those...basically, I'm not a fan of setting myself up for failure.  That and I simply don't understand waiting for a particular day to come before making a significant change in one's life.  I mean, gee, just start that day, right?

I've had some big changes in the past couple of years.  Some imposed upon me due to medical issues, some out of pure, personal choice.  So, at the risk of sounding like I know what I'm talking about, which I decidedly do not (really, I don't have a clue), I figured I'd just put out there my wacky little life in a nutshell, or rather, nutty shell.

I'll start with the things that have been imposed upon me because of my medical issues.  (Feel free to skip this paragraph and move on the the cwazy section below.)  There are two.  One, my blood clot, and two, my anemia.  I've been on meds for a year-and-a-half now to keep my blood thin enough to not knock the heck out of my clot and send it directly to my lung.  It was a real bear to get my blood to the right level of thinness and I've had to severely restrict my diet to enable the meds to work.  My inner five-year-old is very happy to have the excuse that "Eating this could kill me" in reference to salad, broccoli, spinach, and brussel sprouts.  My outer 44 year old thinks it's a big drag.  The other thing is that I have to take iron twice a day (on an empty stomach) for my anemia.  Believe it or not, it's a total juggling act, and I've got alarms that remind me to take my meds three times a day...ding, ding, ding...serious old lady alert!  My point with this is that when it's directly survival/health related, with immediate ramifications if you screw up you make life changes right now, no questions asked.  Quitting smoking or drinking would be much easier if partaking caused the partaker to have their arm swell up like a big purple sausage by that evening.

Now, with my goofy self imposed ones, this is what gives me my cwazy status 'round the house.  During the summer I decided that creating something to completion, every day, was something I wanted to / had to / needed to do to make my life more blissful.  It was imperative at the time and I almost desperately craved doing it each day, I ached for the fulfillment it provided.  It's changed over the months and now it's the icing on my cake, the soft quilt I get to snuggle in, it soothes my soul.  And, yes, still utterly and completely adds bliss to my life.

But...I'm a tremendously busy wife/mom/teacher and my time is thinly spread across my many priorities.  Picture chunky peanut butter (the good kind you have to keep in the refrigerator after opening) being spread across a piece of bread, the bread tearing a bit under the pressure, the lumps uneven.  Yes, my life is messy and full of lumps, just like that.  The thing is, I have A LOT of things I want to do, and I really do like them all.  Enter the multi-tasking genius/weirdo I've become. 

Every day when I get home from work I want to do the following before I pass out from exhaustion:

• hang out with my family
• do some household chores (this is more of a "have to" than a "want to")
• draw/paint
• blog
• check in on facebook
• make/eat dinner
• exercise at least an hour every day
• get to bed by 9 PM

My wacky, cwazy solution to these probably unrealistic expectations of myself is to vigorously march in place during pretty much all of it, as exercise is always the hardest thing to fit in, right?  OK, I can't really draw/paint or get in bed when I'm marching, but I'm telling you, I am known to do every single other thing WHILE I march in place.  "What are some things you can do while marching?" I'm so glad you asked!

Typing, cooking, eating (yup!), hanging laundry on the line (this one is a little embarrassing as I'm sure neighbors see me), dishes, folding laundry, helping with homework, reading, making tomorrow's lunch, etc.

Dave walks by me and says sweet nothings to me like:


"Tap, tap, tap, tap...."

"Are you there yet?"

"Where are you going, anyway?"


And, what's most awesome is when he spontaneously starts marching alongside me.  "The family that marches together, starches together...."  Yeah, I dunno...it's romantic, though, for sure.


So, I encourage you to get on my cwazy train, try something new, make it work, multi-task to your heart's delight no matter the opinions of others or how darn goofy you look.