Is this thing on?

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By George I Think He Got It

We were listening to the radio in the car this morning with the boys in the back.  The DJ requests that the women listeners call in and tell him if they liked to be considered mysterious.  The question was whether or not the claim was good or bad.  Hubs turns to Little Man and says "do you think brother is mysterious?".  Little Man says yes in fact, brother is mysterious, after which he proceeds to ask "what does mysterious mean daddy".  Hubs describes the term as meaning "difficult to understand".  Little man confirms what he had already stated about his baby brother and then added "my states puzzle is mysterious too daddy".

Isn't there a pill for this?

Attention pharmaceutical companies!  I have an ill that you may be able to cure with one of your magic pills.  There is a pill for everything these days so certainly you can make one for my little problem.  It seems I have acquired an allergy to alcohol, and not the rubbing kind.  How does this happen?  Why is it that I can go from one glass of wine and fine to three and having "symptoms".  My husband's diagnosis was something called "lack of will power" which I had never heard of so the only explanation I came up with is an allergy.  You see, as I have noted before, I am an all or nothing kind of girl.  I am not the type to sit down and have one glass with dinner.  I am the neurotic type that can not fathom a bottle of anything half empty; just finish it!  Like a pregnant woman that does not have a "shut off valve" at the dinner table, I seem to have lost my allergy indicator.  Seems I go from fine to bad without any warnings in between.  If you are concerned you too, might be allergic to alcohol I have listed symptoms to look for:

• Irritability.  Not with others, but OF others.

• Someone asking if you want some coffee.

• The sudden urge to sing at the top of your lungs.

• Not wanting to leave the party even though you are the last one and the hosts are putting on their pajamas.

• Groping.  Of others and of you.  Never a good sign.

Until the pharms can come up with a better solution, the only thing I am left to do is just not partake.  It would be nice if there was a pill I could pop when I realize I went a little too far.  Or maybe a way to siphon the alcohol; maybe not, I think that is called stomach pumping.  Like the warning on the granola bar wrapper "packaged in a facility that also has peanuts", I need a warning label too. My label would read "Goes from good to ugly with no bad to warn you".

I Am Not Your Mother

Arriving around 7am, I am first in the office in the morning.  Each day I pass this window and it's occupant and each day I think about throwing it away.  You see, at my house if you put something down and it is not in it's "proper place" for what I consider an unacceptable amount of time, you can bet it will not be there when you come back for it.  So why then, do I continue to pass what is obviously garbage and leave it in an unacceptable place?  Am I afraid, that like my husband looking in the office for his belt, someone will come back for a drink and will be distraught with dry mouth and nothing to quench their thirst?  Maybe I am performing some sort of test on the others in the office to see how long it will take one of them to throw it away.  Maybe I am just lazy.  Maybe I am too busy playing chicken with the alarm system.  Whatever it is, I am not throwing the can away.

*Disclaimer: I enter through the dock area, I just realized how dirty that window is but that is a whole other issue.

They Are More Afraid of You Honey

Although I would like to think my children will never encounter any pain, fear, or harm; I know it is a ridiculous idea.  So rather than shelter them and have them live in a bubble, I will just do what I can to equip them with the necessary copping skills to recover from these instances.  I want my boys to have a healthy respect for certain things but not be afraid to experience new things.  If they don't like it they don't have to do it again; I just do not want them to have regrets.  Little Man is going through a fearful stage.  The dark.  Bugs.  Some dogs.  I am not a fan of some of the same stuff that concerns him but what do I do?  I grit my teeth and show him there is nothing to fear but fear itself!  There is one thing though, that can send me straight to the fetal position.  German Shepherd dogs.  I admit I am not a dog person.  Before you condemn me, I will say I do not mind other people's dogs.  I pet them.  I even play with them.  I will dog sit for you.  Just don't expect me to have a dog as a full time resident in or on my property.  That being said, German Shepherds are on another level from my regular indifference to my canine friends.

When I was a kid my mom would make holiday treats for the neighbors that my sister and I would be employed to deliver to the surrounding homes.  When I was about 7 or 8 I delivered the annual goods to the house directly behind us.  Rather than walk ALL THE WAY around the block, I cut through the back yard.  What resourceful young person would not do the same right?

I exit the back door of the home and walking at the normal pace of a young child, realize that "Mandy" is "walking" toward me at a much faster rate and barking.  I know you are not supposed to run from dogs but what do you think my instinct told me to do?  RUN!  I had merely a few feet to get to the fence that separated me from certain death.  I ran like my life depended on getting to my yard.  My waist length bright red hair was down and trailed behind me and I was sure that if that demon dog could not catch up to me she would at least cut my hair six inches with her razor sharp teeth.  I imagined, like a shark can smell blood; my red hair sent Mandy into a feeding frenzy.  She was mad I did not bring her any holiday treats and she was going to make me one instead!  Of course, as I recall this story it is all happening in slow motion so you should slow your visual down as well.

I get to the fence unscathed and throw one leg over only to realize Mandy is hot on my tail.  Before I can get the first scream out she has my dangling knee in her death grip and shreds my favorite corduroys and has her way with my knee like Freddy Kruger on a taffeta prom dress.  As I am about to pass out from fear I see all 6 feet 7 inches of my father open the back door and hurdle every obstacle in his path.  He scoops me up in the blink of an eye, and although we were safe from further mutilation, takes me inside the house.

My memory has blocked the rest in a vain attempt to maintain my love of dogs.  Obviously the worst of it was the event itself and I did not receive any lifetime scars; physical scars that is.

I am driving home form the store today with the boys in the back seat.  A car approaches the driver side as it is about to pass us.  I hear the beast before I see it in the back seat.  Just the sound of a German Shepard bark makes me cringe.  In our back seat Little Man was watching Curious George and says "mommy, that was a bog dog that passed us".  All I could muster, as I involuntarily pushed the gas pedal, was "yes it was honey".

Why They Give Good Hand Jobs

When I first moved to my little conservative Midwest town back in college, I heard about massage parlors where men would go to receive a "full service" massage.  The description and reputation of these businesses were seedy, and at best I imagined them dirty, smoky, and slight smelly.  When I moved back here to raise my boys a couple of years ago I was under the impression from the news and conversation that these places were run out of town.  I know, you are probably wondering why on earth I  am even in conversations that include this subject matter.  Let's just say that there are times when the subject was warranted.  I digress.

The other day I was getting a long overdue manicure and pedicure at my favorite nail salon.  This is the place that I mentioned before that has me sit in a massage chair and my girl gives the best foot massage I have ever received from human hands.  So I am sitting there, drinking my coffee, being rubbed on and shaking profusely from the industrial strength massage chair that makes parts of me jiggle that should not jiggle.  I am in the zone.  I have my ear buds in listening to my favorite tunes and realize this is the place that the Sauna girls must have gone when their previous business was closed by the city.  That is the only explanation for why they give such great service and such fabulous...er...hand jobs.

What was your answer?

So what do you think is wrong with this picture?  Did you think it was that some of my stuff is in German?  Maybe you thought it was the fact that there are only about 118k miles on a car that is nearly 25 years old.  Oh, you didn't know the car was that old?  For those of you that know how neurotic I am, you may have thought it bothers me that the little silver cap is off one of the gauges.  Nope, not it either.

So what could possible bother me so much that I felt it warrants a photo and post?  I will tell you!  There is a gauge behind the steering wheel that I find very important.  A gauge that tells me when I need to stop and take care of something vital to whether I will reach my destination.  If I can not see the gauge, how will I know to stop?

Here is the deal.  I can see about half of the gas gauge from my driver's seat vantage point.  What the hell?  I have to lean to the right ever so slightly to verify that the light is not on.  I know, I should not wait that long to fill up.  I wouldn't have to if I could see the gauge better!  Germans.  What do they know.

Traditions

When I was a little girl I would go to the hardware store with my dad on the weekends.  Sometimes our trips would be for supplies for honey do projects my mom gave him, sometimes we just needed batteries, but most of the time I think Dad just wanted out of the house.  Whatever the reason was I really didn't care; I just liked hanging out with my dad.  I still remember my hometown Ace Hardware well and can visualize the layout.  The guys that worked there knew us by name and I usually left with some sort of treat.  My parents divorced when I was eight and Dad moved to the other side of the state.  These special moments with my Dad are the very reason I want create similar traditions for my boys.  A current routine for us is our Saturday morning breakfast at "Bill's".  Bill's is not the name of the diner, but the name of the owner.  This little local restaurant is a weekend retreat for many where they call you by name and know how you like your coffee.  The boys love Bill and his wife Julie and all the servers.  Bill will take the boys around kissing the old ladies and let them come behind the breakfast bar area to pour their own milk.  To top it off, the food is good and the service is top notch.  We usually see one or more of hub's old high school coaches in there talking about the weekend game and making bets on what positions our boys will play.  We leave with smiles and full bellies.

We went to Bill's as usual this Saturday but Sunday decided to give the boys an extra special treat from my home state of North Carolina. When hubs and I lived in NC, Missouri did not have an Krispy Kreme stores so we made a big deal about taking visitors there to get a little piece of warm heaven with icing right off the belt.  Since moving back to MO I tried to avoid Krispy Kreme at all costs.  It is kind of like going pee the first time after I have had a few beers, once I start I can not stop!

I did it for my children.  We drive up to the store and pull in the lot.  "The light" is on; they are hot.  We enter and each of us are handed a piece of the heaven I mentioned earlier.  No need to order now but we do anyway.  I am a fan of sprinkles so we get a couple chocolate sprinkle donuts and sit down at the window bar with our milks and coffee.  The boys decide Uncle Matt and his fireman buddies are hungry.  We order a dozen.  They hand us more off the belt.  I think I may explode.  We are walking out the door and I notice our dozen is now ten.  Do you think they noticed?

What is wrong with this picture?

Can you see the issue here?

Who you callin' fragile?

Yesterday hubs and I drove the boys about an hour north of town to some land where hubs hunts.  Not only did Brad need to pick up his blind, we thought it would be fun to explore the 80 or so acres with the boys.  It wasn't too cold but when the wind whipped I was happy that we all had on our hats.  We parked the truck in front of the gate and got out.  The boys were easily excited about having to climb said fence and quickly flew over it before I had time to even spot them.  Hubs had mumbled something about forgetting his boots and I thought nothing of it until I saw the creek and realized that although I wore my gortex, the boys did not.  We found a spot where we could cross the creek and keep the boys dry but not without effort.  Where would the fun be if this was effortless?  Brad heads down the approximately eight foot cliff first.  Not a big feet for an adult but you can imagine Little Man's horror when I told him he was next.  LM was next, the the Babe without a sound.  Now it is mama's turn.  Brad laughed at me as I slid down on my backside which initiated a chorus of laughter from the guardians of my honor.  What happened here?  I thought my boys were supposed to laugh with me, not at me!  So we head to the wood line to get Brad's gear and the boys get distracted by the cows that occupy the land.  Brad steps it up and we tell him we will just catch up.  The boys and I hang out with the cows and talk about four wheeling on the land and camping and such.  About this time Brad is back and laughs.  He seems to think I need to be toughened up before bringing the bikes or ATVs out here.  I guess he is under the assumption I am a little too fragile for such things!  Not that I am keeping score, but I reminded him about the 18 or so months I have given of my body to carry his children, then the two days of labor I gave up to give birth to them (there is a reason God has the women do the childbearing).  If I had the pictures of the inside of my knee with me at the time, I would have pulled them out to illustrate what I overcame before and after two knee surgeries.To bring the point home, I merely pulled up my sleeves and showed him the guns I had acquired over the last 3.5 years picking up our boys that currently weigh 80 pounds together, and "playfully" punched him.