My Son's Perseverance Finally Pays Off

Today is the day of my son's first official catch.  There wouldn't be such hoopla over the event unless you knew his history.  Julian has been faithful and diligent for a year now in his fishing endeavors.  He would go out several days a week - even in the rain - in order to score a decent catch.  All he's brought home are little 3-4 inch "bait" fish.  Which he uses to go out and hopefully dangle in front of the BIG one and bring him home.

Today he did just that.  He was with his friend Reese and his friend's grandfather.  As soon as he reeled that sucker in, he called his mom to tell her the good news.  I was in the middle of my Wii Activ exercise, but gladly stopped everything to actually cry for all his efforts finally paid off.  You could hear the pride in his voice over the phone line.

Tonight we will be enjoying his first 22" Speckled Trout, for dinner.

This means that I will have to buy my first filet knife.  Maybe our Iron Chef neighbor (no, I'm serious - he's a REAL chef) next door can give me a few pointers in this department.  Can he also teach me how to filet this sucker!

You can tell my son is so happy - he glows!

Hurricane Season in Suburbia

Step right up folks, hurricane season is about to begin. It's that time of the year that we folks who live on the suburbia coastline down here in the South start staring at the Weather Channel as if God himself was talking to us from behind that 42" LCD screen we hocked our first born to buy. Let me tell you something, folks in the South love their Weather Channel.  I think I told you here, what happened the last time I went through a hurricane.

There's one thing that is a complete mystery to me about hurricane season though. How is it that people who work and live in Colorado (a state that doesn't even see one spit from a hurricane), be the one's who actually predict how many hurricanes and tropical storms will see landfall?

Hmmmm....... Rocky Mountains..... hurricanes..... Rocky Mountains...... hurricanes..... Rocky Mountains..... hurricanes........ NOPE, no connection there!

But still, we follow those predictions like we follow the ice cream man in his tacky white truck that plays wobbly music, as summer comes around.

ANYWAAAY....

Time to start worrying, randomly pulling hair out, and freaking out over every storm that has wind and lightning attached to it. Frankly, I like that kind of wind that blows so hard that birds fly standing still. Man, that is weird looking!

It is also time to download those supply list that those "experts" in Colorado say that we need. It is time to take inventory, or lack thereof, of our pantries and garages. It is that time of year that every hardware store within 500 miles of a beach jacks up the prices of plywood bigger than a foot. There's a stimulus package built in to every hurricane season here; the weather stimulates us to buy even more of what we really don't need - but maybe we do, and that's what makes this time of year so freaking nuts. We bought, but the hurricane didn't come our way, now we don't need it. But then, we did get hit and it all flooded away so why the hell did we buy it in the first place. We could have used the money to rent a condo in like..... Colorado!

As insane as we already are, we will soon be rushing down to Wal-Marts and Home Depot with our supply lists for the whole family in case your home is blown away and you have to sit in a FEMA trailer for the next two years waiting to see if your homeowners insurance will, or will not pay for the damage. Your new formaldehyde surroundings give them extra time to declare a new "hidden" clause in your policy that says "NOPE, we no pay you nothing because we are the cheap bastards that finagled all that money out of you with shoddy policies and we aren't about to give it back!" So, update that to-do list and start calling every relative possible to make living arrangements that just might last a few years.

Now about that supply list. I don't know how many are in your family, but I have to buy for six. This means I will have to obtain a small loan in order to afford everything that the NHC (National Hurricane Center), suggest that we are going to need. Now as you know, I just recently had a yard sale and the reason I had this sale was so that I could clear out the garage in order to now fit all the shit I have to buy that I may, or may not, use in the event of a hurricane. If some of the stuff gets that moldy/mildewy smell from sitting in a hot and humid garage all summer long for lack of use.... well then, just TOO BAD! I guess we can just donate it or something at the end of the season and take the loss on our taxes.

I'm getting crazy just thinking about all of this!

So my on-top-of-it, smarty pants kids went online and printed my "Hurricane Preparedness List" for this year, since, well..... I don't HAVE one! I guess after Hurricane Ivan, they felt we needed to be more prepared in case... like..... another tree crashes down on the house again! I choose to conveniently forget things like this, but then this is why God gave me kids in the first place.... so I don't!

So according to NHC, the following is a list that is suppose to make my summer a worry-free one knowing that my garage will now be full to the brim with my supplies needed to make my place livable even though we may be treading in three feet of water with the cat struggling beside us:

• Water
• Food/MRE's
• Blankets/Pillows, etc.
• Clothing
• First Aid Kit/Medicines/Prescription Drugs
• Special Items
• Toiletries/Hygiene Items/Moisture Wipes
• Flashlight & Batteries
• Radio
• Telephone
• Cash and Credit Cards
• Keys
• Toys, Books, and Games
• Important Documents
• Tools
• Vehicle fuel tanks filled
• Pet care items

Ah Crap! I better get a move on this thing! Wait..... where's the inflatable raft on the list? And some idiot forgot about the plywood that we all here on the coast know about. Boy, if you're new to the coastline, you're screwed on that omition!

Okay, as I've said before, I have a somewhat large family by today's standards. After I fill the garage with the 42 gallons of water I need along with all the tin foiled covered MRE's and the rest of the stuff, there will virtually be no living space left in my house to live cause it will be oozing out of the garage and into my living room! Does anyone think about this when making this emergency list?

Hell no, they all live in Colorado!

So I figure I should go ahead and get started on that hurricane-proof bunker I was fantasizing about over the winter. I'm thinking that it should be a live-in 25 x 25 foot bunker that will make the neighbors form a new Home Owners Association just to make me tear the white elephant down. This is where I'm gonna have to enlist the help of some gay designer to spruce up the exterior a bit and make it more acceptable to suburban blight!

I'm not kidding here! I'm telling you that most gay designers have more creativity in their little pinky than I do in my entire body these days. I'm stuck in the middle-aged, brick house, housewife look these days. Hell, when they're through painting the bunker in Flambo Peach, they can come on inside and invent some color like Whipped Rosemary and do a "Queer Eye for the Straight and Homely Look" on my interior walls! If they can take what I have and magically transform it into some modern metro look, I'll proudly slap a sign on my front lawn that says:

I know, I know, that's not gonna go too well down here in the South, especially in one of the most conservative areas in the nation, but I'm a desperate woman here.

So maybe there is something to look forward to this hurricane season; the possibility of getting a first rate designer bunker in my backyard filled with goodies I probably won't need - but might - and painted an obnoxious color that can be seen from the space station, and a complete redone interior to boot.

But what will I do with all those ick barf MRE's?

Dealing With Life and Hormones...... Again

So I've pretty much been on a writing hiatus for a little over a week. I have been stuck in my hormonal zone again. You think after all these years that the hormones would let up after a certain age.

But NoooooooOOOOOoooooo!

Somewhere in the 40-something range, they decide to kick in for one last hurrah that last for another several years until..... BAM, everything stops and you age about 15 years overnight. By that time if some random body part has not sagged to your ankles yet, then this is the time that it does. Whoever coined the stupid phrase that your forties are the new thirties must have been male or either had every crucial female part surgically removed before they were 30.

I like the fact that I have to still deal with everyday life while a rather large black cloud follows me everywhere I go. I have fallen way below being pessimistic during this time. To me, it feels like the world will literally blow up in a matter of hours. This is why I no longer watch the news. Hell, I was bawling like a girlie man while watching the complete unravelling of a somewhat happy family on "Jon and Kate Plus Eight", the other night. I went into my bathroom afterwards and continued to cry while managing to balance on the edge of the tub, cause my balance just sucks these days.

Of course my absolutely wonderful kids are following me around constantly asking if I'm alright and if they can do anything for me. "Yes!", I say. "Remove these stinking hormones from my body!", I plea. You know I am completely stupid if I am asking my kids to remotely understand anything to do with hormones. In fact, I'm scaring the shit out of my soon-to-be 12 year old daughter. She completely loathes what's in store for her no matter how much I try to make a joke of the fact that mini/maxi pads always feel like your walking around with a wad of toiled paper strapped to your hoo-hoo.

But regardless of what is happening with me and the chemical cocktail oozing throughout every cell in my body; there is a life to live here. Not just mine, but five others in the house as well. This is why the other cliche' "Supermom" came about. It was a mother's ability to still raise a family while her natural body functions were completely out of control every month for one to two weeks at a time. Let's see some male - any male - do THAT!

So on my to-do list is getting the twins ready for sixth grade when they haven't even finished fifth yet. Does this sound as crazy as my hormones or what!? I have to attend a meeting at the middle school when I would rather be dressed in my sweats and making mounds of homemade macaroni and cheese and eating it in my closet. I get dressed up and muster up some excitement to hear about what they'll be involved with next year. My little babies are so growing up way too fast.

Well, add black cloud number two to my life as I sneak into the back after being so fashionably late (husband was late coming in from work). For the next hour I become consumed with budget cuts, teacher cuts, program cuts, club cuts, the fact that there is only one art teacher left for 200+ students, and the states top rated band instructor is retiring and "hopefully" there will be someone who can pick up where she's left off.

I feel like an ostrich that wants to stick their head in the closest sandpit in order to hide from all this. I was really disappointed until I saw my next door neighbor and she said that they were actually not going to loose that much. Apparently, budget loss went from $10 million to $2 million, and no one thought to inform anyone conducting the meeting about this very large change.

I see a little ray of sunshine emerge suddenly.

I was all set to pull the kids out of school and start them on a vigorous routine of homeschooling until I saw her. Common sense finally kicked in as I decided to wait it out a bit before jumping into something so completely NUTS at this point of my life!

But then the next few days become nothing more than making lists for what the kids need for school in August. WAIT! What happened to summer vacation? It hasn't even started and I'm making school supply lists for the 2009-2010 school year. There are school supplies to buy, gym clothes to purchase, and band instruments. Oh, didn't I tell you that part. The twins want to take band. Luckily, I prepared for Nadia and bought her a flute a couple of years ago. But Julian wants to play the Tenor Saxophone, so I'm suppose to cough up $1800 stinking dollars as if I just happen to have it laying around in my gold plated freaking bathroom with diamond encrusted faucets!

"It will only cost you $80 for the rest of your son's memorable middle school years for this wonderful musical instrument.", the music store director tells me.

"Does it lay magical golden eggs that I can sell in order to feed my family if he gets it?", I ask the goofy smiling musical store director with hedgehog-like hair.

This is why people become stinking alcoholics!!

On top of it all, the husband decides we need to move to Montgomery. I laughed so hard on the phone that my chair slips out from under me (yes, it's on wheels), and I fall off to the right, knocking the trash can over in the process. Nia thinks I've finally emerged from my hormonal stage and is playing some game in which she joins in and starts tossing wadded pieces of paper in the air.

"Play mommy, let's plaaaay!", she squeals as she's bouncing around the room as paper is flying everywhere. Mommy is laying in the floor still laughing while her bladder, completely uselss after birthing four watermelons, is about to burst.

He's serious though, because the economy in this area is in reeeeeeally bad shape. 12 major restaurants closing, countless other food and retail establishments closing or already closed, and an economy whose main industry is construction - and we know that no one is building diddily these days! No one is hiring; everyone is laying off, so starting up a new business is.... well, quite challenging at the least. He figures it's best to throw in the towel and move closer to what he's already got going.

Suddenly, an extreme burst of anger emerges from me. It is so strong that the raging hormones go fleeing to..... well, wherever they go. I'm no longer hormonal, I am flat out pissed! He wants me to give an answer in about 30 seconds flat, about moving. I begin to remark my objections and he comes out with something stupid like "You're being so neeegaaaative!"

Negative this - I hung up on him and refused to answer his phone calls for the rest of the day. I fumed, I paced, I cried (again - I know, it's getting old), I ranted, then I finally sat down and decided to write him a long email:

Dear Husband,

No! We are NOT moving. Get over it!

Sincerely,

Your Wife

So today, everything is great. I'm getting my raised box gardens together. Went on a fabulous bike ride this morning with Nia. The sun is shining and the breeze is blowing through the old moss covered oaks that line our streets. The air smells fresh of salt from the sea.

Nia is busy separating pennies from dimes, from nickels in the floor beside me and I can breathe a sign of relief that we're staying put and my life will be normal until..... 28 days from now.

Ready To Sail

Boats docked in the early hours on Memorial Day at Pensacola Beach, FL.

I took these while biking before the crowds hit the beach this morning.

When She Became Old

The old woman sat by the window in the rocking chair she had managed to keep over the years, that she had bought when her children were first born. Time had weathered her well as her skin was pale and wrinkled like well worn lace; her hair thin and white. She was cloaked in a worn brown blanket, as the wind blew through the cracks of the wooden window panes.

She could sense little around her but a thin fog as she rocked slowly in her chair while watching the traffic and pedestrians pass along the road at the edge of the house that wore decay like an old familiar coat. Her husband had long passed away, and her children were grown and gone and seemed to have little time for her now as they had lives, and children of their own. That's how things were done now; out with the old as the youth were the new leaders of the world.

Oh what had happened to all the time and where did her life go, she thought to herself as she pulled the blanket closer to her frail, chilled shoulders. All the time spent on others, but now no one was around her to show that same love and support she gave all those years ago.

Many of her younger years were spent moving in order to find a better life for her kids; a safer one that was free from the ever growing violence that seem to permeate society itself. But each time her family moved, they always managed to end up in a community where people considered them "outsiders", so friends seemed few to none in her immediate surroundings. But her children seemed to fair better as they had plenty to share between them.

Her husbands profession always put him in a circle of acquaintances of which he spoke often about. They always seemed so colorful and clever whenever she heard the stories he told of their visits to the store. She enjoyed them quite much since she rarely had any to tell him. Except, she could care less to hear about his old business partner who thought that she was a lazy redneck for having children at all. She thought the ex-business partner to be a bitter old hag in the making since the woman apparently had not a clue what it took to devote ones whole-self to the process of raising a family.

In all the years she tried, no one really seemed to care to get to know her well enough to refer to her as a friend. There were the parents of her childrens friends that she would occasionally speak to, hoping that one day it would evolve into mornings sharing coffee or cookouts over the summer holidays, but it never seemed to transpire. She just assumed she didn't fit in because she wasn't "one of them". Therefore, her families life became the only one she really focused on.

She remembered having dreams of becoming an artist. She had tried for many years to start several projects, but each time, the needs of her family overshadowed her desires and needs for her own identity and self-expression. She felt selfish wanting something for herself when there was a family to take care. Her husband's and her children's needs came before her own, and it was a reality that slowly overtook her till she eventually emerged completely within them. She was no longer a separate individual; she had become part of the collective in which there was no turning back. As she rocked a little faster, she could hardly remember what it was that she tried to start all those years ago.

She thought back to how her personality had changed to one that seemed less about laughing, to one that was more about worrying how to keep it all together. She wondered where she had gone. It was never about being rich, or famous, or becoming a world traveler. All she had really wanted was a life rich with laughter and adventure.

She had hoped that was what she could journey through life with with her children. Instead, she became caught up in the practicalities of life, surviving without falling through the cracks, caring more about what others thought and less about what she needed, making sure the house was clean enough instead of making it a home, and constantly playing peacemaker. She had wondered if what she had really wanted in life was just a fantasy, and that all she actually experienced was a reality she was never fully prepared for.

She felt a warm tear emerge from her eye and slowly roll down her left cheek until it splashed upon her hand.

She spent over 20 years raising her children. Each left the flock one by one, entering into college, getting married, and moving on with their lives. She remembered a gentle kiss on the cheek from each, with a little "thank you" at the end, but that was it. There was the occasional phone call on Mother's Day, and a present in the mail at Christmas, but the rest of her days after motherhood were spent diligently taking care of her husband until his death five years earlier.

After the children had left home, her dreams still never made it back to the surface for she spent her time continuing to assist her husband in making his business and his dreams a reality. Afterall, he had always been the main breadwinner so she felt a sense of obligation since he had worked so hard for so many years supporting the family. None of the children had ever showed a desire for the family business, and it didn't quite surprise her either. Nevertheless, they worked long hours in the store, and she would come home every night to prepared dinner as she always did when the children were still in the house. Their routine had changed little even though there were no little ones to take care of anymore, until he suddenly died in his sleep one evening.

After taking care of him and the children for so long, she no longer knew how to do anything else. So she did all she knew how to do from that point on; she maintained the routine of taking care of the house, making three meals a day even though there was no one to share them with anymore, and running a store for no reason other than to keep it going. The passion she once carried in her younger years had now been replaced with a mechanical and predictable routine.

Now she sat alone in her rocking chair with no one around her as she sensed her time would soon come to a close itself. All the years she had spent on others, but still in the end, she was alone. She wondered what the purpose to it all was. Was to give all and expect absolutely nothing in return a "Godly" act that would somehow guarantee her entrance into heaven? She wasn't sure. She just wondered how she could have spent all those years and all that time and still be left so alone.

Suddenly she heard her phone ring as she felt her heart take a leap and wondered if one of her children had psychically heard her thoughts while she sat and rocked. She slowly shuffled her feet across the cold floor and picked up the receiver:

"Hello", she said in her small fragile voice. "Hello!"

"Uh, I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number.", a voice apologetically replied on the other end.

Click, and they were gone.

She quietly placed the receiver back in its place and turned her gaze back to the window. Her small eyes held fast to the glow of the day ending before her. She thought it best to focus on the brightness instead of the fog that laid around her.

Suddenly she could hear the blaring of her alarm clock at her head. She quickly turned to look at the time. It was 6:45 and time to get the crew up for school. As she pulled the covers away, she noticed she was drenched in a sea of sweat. Her heart began racing upon suddenly remembering the dream from which she had just awoken from.

She raced to the mirror and look at her tired reflection looking back. She turned to look at her husband as he still laid sleeping in the early morning. She was panicking as she looked at herself and the bed from which she had just arisen from. "It has to change, it HAS to change.", she began repeating to herself.

She looked steadfast into the mirror before her as she heard the stirrings of children in the next room. She stared at the beads of perspiration on her forehead, and as she looked closer into the blacks of her eyes, she thought she saw the faint outline of a woman sitting in a rocker and looking out a window.

If You're Having a Bad Day - Let's Make It Weird Then

For those of you who might be having a bad day..... well, I just made it a little weirder for you.

A Saturday In The Sun

Shoreline Park in Gulf Breeze, FL

Here'a a Great Giveaway for Anyone!!

For those of you who really crave one of these Prada bags, but can never cough up the loan to get one.... weeeeell, here's your chance.
Ideeli is having a giveaway, and it's ending soon. If you want a chance to win, go to www.ideeli.com and enter. Then send invitations to your friends because the more you get entered, the more your chances are to win.

By the way, this site has great designer duds for hundreds off the regular designer prices.

Happy Entering!

Man vs Machine

So I'm "assisting" my husband today in his bold endeavor to remove and replace the intake manifold on his bagel barge of a car. For some reason, the manufacture thought it would be cost effective to install a plastic intake manifold instead one of, say.... METAL, that would withstand the nuclear heat of water flowing through it.

No wonder American car manufacturers are going to the bankruptcy dogs.

I thought for sure we would be headed for divorce court, like tomorrow, once we embarked on this journey. I was pleasantly surprised how relatively easy it was once we got started. I was even surprised in how much I missed having this kind of connection with a car.

Armed with a laptop that walked us through the step-by-step instructions, and loads of ratchets, wrenches, and anything that would pry a heater hose of the back end of the manifold, we dug into a greasy and somewhat gas fumed undertaking.

We took loads of pictures, and being the neurotic ninny I can be sometimes, I had to label what wire/hose went where with a series of blue numbered pieces of masking tape.



This begin to drive my husband crazy as he likes to rely on the "hope I remember what went where," method of mechanics.

"What is it with those male chromosones?"

Only trouble we encountered is when a very small red gasket popped off one of the fuel sensors. The internet instructions suggested we use a paper clip (not long enough), or a fish hook (didn't have a fishing rod that small to reel it in with), to remove it with if one happened to get loose in the process of removing them. Ours just didn't get lost; my husband literally flipped it up and it landed in the bottom of the spark plug well. It amazed me that this was the only thing that gave us any trouble; a damn 1" piece of red rubber.

Since getting the manifold out was a success, we have decided to take on the little red rubber gremlin until tomorrow with a better light and fresh eyes. I have also developed a "jerry-rigged tool" that consists of a pair of hemostats hooked to a long fish hook, and thickly secured with masking tape. I have carefully twisted the fish hook so that it is torqued to the exact angle needed to pull that sucker out.

Add this hat to the list of unpaid jobs I do.

Next, we are trying to figure out what has possessed the 2001 Honda Odyssey van again. The battery keeps dying. We've taken both the battery and the alternator in to have them tested; both are fine and dandy (did I just say dandy?). But whatever is going on in this piece of junk van, is draining the battery even though we have turned everything off before getting out of the car.

So my husband decides that the automatic doors are the culprit and removes the fuses to them since the passenger side door sometimes closes - sometimes doesn't, and the driver side door motor won't stop running 20 seconds after closing it. We have gotten use to "butt" slamming the passenger side door closed from time to time. It's especially fun to do when I've dropped the kids off at school and I have to hold up 50+ cars in order to jump out, run around the car, attempt something that looks like a bad disco move to my car, run back around, flash a quick smile and a wave as all 50+ cars are flipping me off, then drive off with my head under the dash in humiliation.

THANK YOU HONDA!!!

So we went out to eat tonight as a reward for all our hard working and for not killing each other in the process. Since we can't use the automatic doors, we instead have to have five people (not six since my husband will be driving and has chosen not to participate in this "fun" event), enter the van by way of the front passenger door.

This has to be done quite delicately as if each child is not designated as to who goes in first, the damn kids try to pile in all at once! Lunacy cannot even come close to describing what this looks like. So I have the job of assigning who goes in first; my husband is having nothing to do with it as usual. So goes Julian first, and all the way to the back.

Oh shit! We forgot to lower the front seat console so he has to trip over it instead of lowering it because lowering it would mean using common sense and that just doesn't exist before the age of, say..... 25! So Julian trips over the console and lands face first in the middle seat. Since his nose isn't bleeding and still looks correctly attached to his face, we continue the process of piling through the front seat as if piling 20 people in a VW Bug.

Toni goes next, and even though she doesn't lower the console, at least she steps over it after hearing the groans of her brother in the back. I decidedly lean in and lower the damn thing myself. Nadia goes next cause she has to buckle Nia in cause if Nia goes in before someone older than herself, shell takes the opportune time to start running all over the van with the whole family trying to manage her wriggling little butt in her car seat as she's laughing at us all. Finally Nia gets in and we're off.

As we approach the restaurant, the same process begins again, only backwards and with the console already down. But now we are faced with people staring at us and wondering to themselves "Why don't those damn rednecks just open the side doors like normal people?". Here in the South, everyone is a redneck if things are not done as deemed "appropriate".

So I begin saying kinda loudly to the kids, cause I'm once again in a state of embarrassment, "Just deal with crawling out the front till we see if the doors are what is draining the battery.", in my ultimate "authority mom" voice. Again, I'm looking towards the curious passerby's and flashing the, "I'm cool - it's cool,", smile while they pass and give us the, "Your retards," smirk back.

What I learned today is that I hate modern cars. I long for the days when I could tinker with my '65 Mustang and not stress over complicated computerized gadgets that might set off a nuclear holocaust if the wrong plug was pulled.

Cars today may have more bells, whistles, bass, skylights, and coffee bars in them, but without the dance floor included, they are nothing more than a "hocked to our eyeballs in credit" window dressing, so that we all can look like we are far better off financially than our bank accounts say.

See working on an older car was like a dance between man and machine. The first few steps were scary under that hood, but once you found your rhythm, there was a symbiotic flow between the two of you.

Modern technology has all but taken that away from the average car owner. They have reduced that dance to nothing more than a date with a PS3 dance mat. No rhythm, no flow, just technical movements made through a diagnostic meter reader. Only now, your dance card will cost you a whopping $75+ an hour in labor.

I loved today, minus the issues with the van. I loved that we figured it out and did it on our own without Mr. Mechanic Man saying we couldn't. I can't wait till the new manifold gets here and we pop that sucker in and crank her back up. Then......

we're going to SELL it!

Mother's Day - A Reality Check

First of all, my Mother's Day ended with Toni knocking the entire vat of oil out of my deep fryer (not hot, Thank God), onto the floor which took my husband over an hour to clean. Nothing like cleaning 2 gallons of oil with two boxes of kitty litter, a bottle of Greased Lightning, and one large container of disinfectant wipes to top off the days events.

Which brings me to the subject of Mother's Day. After being a mother for 11+ years now, I think I kinda got a handle on the reason why we celebrate this day. Only I think we, as a society, have gotten away from what one is actually suppose to do for Mother's Day.

Somewhere through the years, this has been yet another holiday that has been hijacked by Madison Avenue and its' ample supply of R&D wizards and quick thinking ad execs. Remember, what THEY do has absolutely NOTHING to do with Mother's Day whatsoever.

Mother's Day is not about stuff. God knows we Americans have more stuff than we can handle sitting in our closets, and our garage doors are bulging outwards as we speak, from the built up pressure of the stuff it contains right now. Mom's do not need more stuff cause we gotta clean the shit up in the long run! The only exception to this rule is whatever your kids make for you for Mother's Day. Those are considered forever keepsakes and the spouse is to be hogtied and gagged if the mere suggestion to get rid of it is mentioned when comes time to get rid of some stuff.

Mother's Day is not about jewelry, Dollar Tree gadgets, funky chachkas, gift cards from JCPenny, tacky handbags from the flea market, one day makeovers or spa treatments (cause one day out of the year just is not enough for what we do), or a high-fat, long waiting line, ridiculous bill paying dinner at a local restaurant.

Now before some of you moms starting screaming at me from your 17" monitor, please stick with me here, I do have a point to make that just might benefit all of us if our better halves and children get it.

To make it plain and simple for all to understand; Mother's Day is about appreciation.

Say it with me now.... AP - PRE - CI - A - TION.

If we are unsure about its' definition, here it is:

"The recognition and enjoyment of the good qualities of someone or something."

OR

"Gratitude for something."

Now, in order for any of you to take this definition to heart, you must be able to walk in a mother's shoes for just one day; that's it. "That's simple,", you say to yourself. Okay, if that is the way you feel, then I will break a general days events for you so that you may prepare yourself. Once you are able to complete all these tasks and end the day with a smile and somewhat of a joyful heart, then you will understand what appreciation is and be able to genuinely show this. This is when you will understand the importance of Mother's Day.

We mom's wear many, many hats in the family. I mean it's not easy cleaning the skid marks out of our spouse's underwear and raising children under the age of 18 at the same time. In 2006, if paid, a Stay At Home Mom would have earned $134, 121. I guess it might make our jobs easier if we were getting that kind of paycheck, but we don't. Mother's are not paid; not monetarily at least. We don't live in a country that actually pays a mother to stay at home with her children unless you live in France, or someplace like it. Hell, I feel like moving now!

We are expected, on a daily basis, to perform an effortless array of tasks for our family and not receive a single dime, and sometimes be completely ignored for doing such tasks. Here is just a short list of what mom's do:

• to plan your meals,
• cook your food,
• wash-press-and fold your clothes,
• keep the house clean and organized,
• make the budget,
• fix the budget,
• be your accountant,
• inventory food and supplies,
• teacher,
• tutor,
• music instructor,
• coach,
• referee (don't forget the tacky shirt we have to wear for that one),
• psycho-analyze everyone,
• be your therapist,
• be your doctor and nurse,
• your office manager and administrator,
• your landscaper/gardener,
• your all-around fix-it-all handywoman,
• your fashion expert,
• your interior decorator,
• domestic and professional problem solver,
• your R & D department,
• your Santa Claus/Easter Bunny/and every other holiday expert,
• fix your car,
• fix your life,
• fix your heart,
• be the nanny,
• be the playdate,
• be the entertainment coordinator for everyone in the stinking house including the animals,
• feed the animals,
• clean the animals,
• exercise the animals,
• exercise - period,
• watch our fat intake,
• watch our fat,
• be presentable in public,
• be presentable for your drop-in friends,
• answer your calls,
• screen your calls,
• decide which calls your going to take and which to ignore,
• organize your clothes,
• organize your bath times,
• mend your clothes,
• buy your clothes,
• decide which clothes go to the thrift store,
• organize junk,
• sell/throw away junk,
• organize yard sales,
• organize garage
• organize the whole stinking house!,
• decide when kids can watch TV,
• decide when kids have watched too much TV,
• monitor their video games,
• don't hover and monitor your kids lives too much,
• talk to the kids,
• don't talk too much to the kids,
• make sure everyone is happy and healthy, and functional.

We are to complete these tasks with a smile on our face as if we are perfect and can do these jobs with flawless ease. Plus we are to be ready for sex at anytime of the week, with that same smile on our face, regardless of whether we feel like we haven't slept in six months or not. Thanks to modern medical technology and research, "Honey, I have a headache tonight.", no longer applies now. We are now expected to add 3-5 days of blood, sweat, and tears at the gym in order not to have a headache when the moment of a "Midnight Rodeo" arises. You will literally have to be dead and wheeled from your bedroom in a hospital gurney before the word "no" is accepted.

There is so much more and we don't even get stinking paid that $100,000 + for what we do even on a limited basis! For those mom's who have to do all this plus work outside the home for 40+ hours a week; you should be paid double! My hats are off to women who raise families and work outside the home; especially single mothers.

Single mothers not only have to do the job of both parents, they have to bring in the income of both parents. Talk about a plateful. When dad has left the building, so has any resemblance of a single mother's personal life and aspirations. Not only does she have to wear twice the hats in her family, she has to live with societies constant condemnation of her status; whether chosen or not. She has to work twice as hard for a lot less. So for every Bozo out there that claims that all single mothers are lazy freeloaders, I have a karmic two by four ready to smack your ass into the next universe of reality! For any other person who thinks that stay at home mothers are lazy freeloaders who sit around watching TV and eating bon-bon's, the same is awaiting you as well.

For those of you who think that raising dog(s) is comparable to being a mother to children - Reality Check - it is NOT! I don't see you turning over to breastfeed Fido off your sore nipples at 3 am in the morning! For those of you raising dog(s) like children after you've already raised children - what are you thinking? Wasn't changing three years of poopie diapers enough that you still have to now clean poop off of yours and everybody elses front lawn? Don't get me wrong, I love dogs; I just don't believe that they are same as raising a human child.

So, next year when thinking about what to buy for that mother in your life, got a suggestion that might save you some cash. Plus, your built-in budget manager will appreciate this as well when she's balancing the checkbook at the end of the month. Instead, show your appreciation by putting on some of those hats that she wears on a daily basis. Let her know you truly appreciate and understand how hard she works for her family. Clean the house with a smile on your face, plan a meal and make it yourself, and take care of the kids for the whole day without complaining. Do this pleasantly and do it without asking her a million questions on how to do it.

Also, the next time your out and about and you see a mother with her kids and she's possibly wigging out because they're not being the little angels you think they should be; try not judging her or flashing those classic nasty looks her way. Instead, give her a smile, let her know you understand, or try lending a hand. You just might help her be a better mother for it and let her kids know that compassion still exists in the world.

As I finish, my husband is quietly and methodically cleaning the remains of the oil from the floor while never asking for my help. He has not yelled or complained once about the smelly, oily mess left by my daughter and her fairy wings. But as I decide to bend down and help him sweep the oil-filled kitty litter into the trash, he says with a sheepish grin on his face:

"I guess Mother's Day is over now. I hoped you liked it."

I did..... I did indeed!

Make everyday a Happy Mother's Day.

A "Moms Nite Out" in the ER

It always amazes how I plan on doing one thing, and the kids can change those plans in a second flat. Well, I did agree to that clause in the parental contract when I gave birth to the little buggars even though I never saw the extremely fine print in that paragraph! Even now, I'm suppose to be making files up for the new clinic, but instead I am undoing an entire large box of jumbo colored paper clips that my three year old cleverly strung together - just because they were pretty.

It is that same three year old that had me us in the emergency room for over three hours the other night in order to put stitches in her head because she thought it was a good idea to go sofa surfing with a sleeping bag on. It didn't help that she had Toni as a partner in crime assisting her with this endeavor. I thought I was over with the "tag team-itis" when the twins got older. Apparently not, and apparently it runs in the genes.

I had my night planned out to completely submerge myself into the momlogic "Moms Nite Out" event that, judging by the 100+ emails I was receiving on a daily basis, every other mom in the country was planning to do as well. I had all the items listed out on paper that I was going to enter to win; and there were PLENTY to choose from. Dinner was pre-made and easy to clean up so that no one was left in the kitchen til half past 9 still trying to clean up.

I'm a family of six, so we have lot's to clean up from after dinner. Plus we own the motto: "Eat Fast - Clean Slow!". Let's see MickeyD's market that slogan.

After dinner, my husband and I leisurely stroll outside to what I thought was going to be a quick game of frisbee with the kids before it was my son's turn to put the dishes in the dishwasher. Stupid me was thinking that the rest of the crew was following right behind me like good little puppies. As I hit the middle of the backyard, Toni screams out the back door: "MOOOOOOOM, Nia is bleeding!".

I turn around, a bit confused because one part of my brain is thinking that we're suppose to be playing a game, so it's in fun mode, and the other side of my brain is saying "Hey, you need to switch to emergency mode any day now!", so I say something profound like "Huh?" to my daughter.

Because of her mother's temporary inability to grasp the current situation (I must be getting old), she has to repeat herself and about the time she's finished screaming it so that the inhabitants of Canada can hear her, the three year old comes out from behind her, towards me, and I can see blood on her hands and on her shirt.

And do you know what the first thing that comes to my mind is? The fact that for the first time, she managed not to get dinner all over her shirt, but instead, bleed on it.

Okay, now the brain cells kick into emergency mode and I run to Nia. "I'm bleeding mommy.", she says with a mild concerned tone in her voice. Actually, she's pretty damn calm for a child whom I never heard a peep, much less a cry from the whole incident, and whose right side of the head is covered in blood.

I instantly know there's a trip to the ER coming, but my husband (who I am quite sure has a "hidden" fear of doctors), is sure it's nothing but a scratched based on her reaction to the whole thing. I'm examining her while my husband's head seems like someone has instantly sewn onto my right shoulder cause he's hovering so close. She's just looking at her blood stained hands and asking what to do about cleaning them, completely detached from what is dripping out of her head.

Not wanting to alarm her at the moment about our impending trip to the ER, I pick her up and head to the bathroom to clean off the matted hair and blood so I can see exactly what I am dealing with here. She's still calm as I lean her over the sink and pour cool water over the wound. I can instantly l see the 3/4 inch gash is going to need a professional touch.

She's asking for a Dora the Explorer band-aid which is suppose to be the fix-all for all boo-boo's. I explain how it won't work because of her hair, and blah, blah, blah. My husband has the bright idea of suggesting we go buy a butterfly band-aid to put over it to pull it together to heal. "Honey.", I say. "It's not going to be able to stay put over all her hair.", I managed to say kindly while thinking "you moron!". I fatally mention at that point, that we need to see a special boo-boo doctor at the emergency room.

All hell breaks loose!

NOW she starts screaming, and crying, and throwing one of the biggest fits I've ever seen from her. It's that face full of tears and the gut wrenching mouth quivering. Why do they do that mouth quivering thing!? I hate that! It makes one feel like the worse person in the world around a child because WE/I have upset them to the point of make the lower lip quiver uncontrollably.

It takes daddy, my eleven year old, and myself to regain some sense of peace in the child; plus the fact that I had to bribe her with not just one, or two, but three new Barbie dolls in order to get her to agree to go to the ER. Reality check: she's only getting one because the only place she plays with them is in the bathtub, and I am sooo tired of taking those soapy headed, unrealistic-looking plastic asses out to dry almost every night of the blooming week!

How did all this even happen, you ask?

The damn loveseat in the gameroom seems to be a fixation for jumping on and off lately. My son and I had already told Nia not to be stacking pillows on top in order to jump off. I had repeated this order several times. Well, she took the opportunity to quickly grab Toni, and a sleeping bag right when we stood up for dinner. Think of it as that opportunity to take when no one is looking, and they think you're doing one thing while you do the complete opposite, and nine times out of 10, when this happens a complete state of chaos and tumult arises from it.

I know it sounds confusing, but if you have kids you totally understand what I'm talking about here.

I saw her run towards the end of the house, and again, stupid me thinks she's going to the bathroom after dinner. Uh, NO she wasn't; she was getting the sleeping bag. Apparently, she got into the sleeping bag and asked Toni to pick her up to put on top of the pillows in order to jump down and about the time Toni got her to the top of those pillows, that's when she "lost" her grip, and Nia hit her head on a metal and wicker chair, which has NOW been removed from the room. This story will be repeated over and over the whole time we are at the hospital to various personnel asking to know the "real story" of what happened.

Nia regains complete composure as we head off to the ER for the evening. She's such a "Chatty Cathy" when we get there, telling all the nurses what she likes, who she likes, her shoe size, what she had for dinner, etc., etc. It's kind of a mix of nervousness and excitement all wrapped up in a pretty little "I'm wearing my big,big sister's kimono shirt" package who chooses to imitate a wind up toy on espresso, instead of sitting in the waiting room chair while waiting for a doctor; ANY doctor to see her.

The only time the rest of us get to talk (I took Nadia and Toni along for the fun!), is to explain what happened; and since it was Toni's department to explain what happened, she did most of the the talking for the night! I just sat back and kept thinking how I was going to have to hold Nia down when it came to putting the anesthesia needle in. Ask my twitter buddies - I was tweeting them through the whole process.

This is where I take that special time-out during my story to say Thank You to those twitter buddies. It was also nice to have their cyber-hugs during our moment of distress.

Now - Back to our regularly scheduled program:

I made the big mistake of telling my husband it was just going to be a "quick trip" to the ER. We were there for 3 1/2 stinking hours for a couple of stitches. Nia was getting tired and restless, so she began getting off and on the bed. I'm thinking we are going to stay for an extra set of stitches if she doesn't stop. Toni keeps banging the bathroom door on a stupid metal rolling table that makes the loudest "bang" even though it's incredibly flimsy looking. Nadia is learned the art of channel surfing like her dad. How many times can this child go around all the channels and still not find anything for a three year old to watch?

I guess after about two hours of trying to look patient, I start looking more like the bitch with fangs and blonde scraggily hair instead of a concerned mother, as I'm looking out the window-plated exam room. I'm tired, the kids are tired, Nia's head is still bleeding, and I'm trying to figure out what's taking so long. So I ask...

"I'm sorry, the doctor was about to come in but an ambulance showed up just before he was to come in to your room." she says in her best "nursey" voice. I know she's trying to be helpful, but after blood, head goo, screams, pleas, bribes, and waiting till the cows come home, I want the doctor NOW. Newsflash to the nurse: The Miss Nicey-Nice mom left when that ambulance did.

Three hours after arriving, the doctor finally shows up, says she needs a stitch. Then he shocks me with the news that they are NOT going to give anesthesia because it causes more trauma and makes it harder to put the stitch in because kids usually spaz out after being numbed and it makes their job harder, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Insert mom now laying on floor from a heart attack with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

I'm visualizing me and my other daughters holding Nia down as they try to stitch her up. To say that I'm nervous is putting it mildly. So I wait.... and wait..... and wait..... and wait. I go to the nurses station 1/2 hour after the doctor has announced this ever-so-pleasant news to ask when are we going to do this cause have two other daughters that are starting to fall into a mild coma of exhaustion.

They have school tomorrow damn it!

The doctor looks up from across the nurses station and sees my tired and weary look on my face. He apologizes and says he has four sutures to do, but since she is the fastest he'll be in in a moment to do my daughter.

"Thank you God!", I say looking up at the stark, white, blinding fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

A few minutes later, the doctor (who was quite a looker), returns with the nurse, and with stitching paraphernalia in tow. The nurse holds Nia down as the doctor puts the sheet over her head, exposing the part that needs to be stitch. Upon a closer look, he decides she needs more than one, and still decides against using anesthesia.

GREAT! I'm gonna lose the use of both my eardrums after this is all over, cause she's going to let out the scream heard around the world tonight!

I'm rubbing her little legs and the nurse is gently holding her hands and her shoulders so that Nia doesn't move. The doctor begins the first stitch and I am prepared to control an uncontrollably, wiggily little three year old who I know is about to be in massive tears and terror in about five seconds... four.... three... two.... one.....

"Now that's not so bad!" pipes the little trooper from under the blue hospital sheet. Here comes Chatty Cathy again as she starts rambling about how she can't see anyone except blue, and how it tickles, and how she's gonna get a Barbie after this... NO, three Barbie's from this and..... is he done yet and.....

What a brave little trooper she's being!

Suddenly you hear a little fear in her voice when she says, "Mommy, I want my mommy." I'm still rubbing her legs and to keep her focused on the positive side of things, I come up with something clever for her like: "Nia, did you know you have hairy legs for a three year old? Where did you get all this hair on your legs girl? I'm gonna have to start shaving you soon." I say in my perky little mom's voice.

She let's out a little giggle as the doctor puts in the last stitch. They all laugh a little and any tension that was previously in the room has all but disappeared. Soon Nia is up and ready to go as Nadia, Toni and I let out a big yawn each. It's another 20 minutes or so before they bring the one sheet of paper I need to sign in order to leave. Meanwhile, Nia is bouncing up and down chanting "Barbie and the Diamond Castle", so it's pretty obvious what's on her wish list for the next day.

We finally get home at almost midnight. Julian is already in bed, and my husband is asking a million questions as to why I didn't answer the phone. I explain I couldn't get good reception where I was at as I usher the girls off to bed. Nia gets to sleep with us tonight because daddy wants to keep her close after her ordeal.

As I explain everything that happened and how she got stitches without being numbed, Nia grabs her daddy's face in her two little hands and proudly proclaims: "Daddy, I'm such a tough girl!"

Happy Birthday Lance Henriksen

Just wanted to tell you, wherever you are today, to have a great birthday. I know we're a day late, but it's crazy around here just like it is with you.

Just a shot of you before you were famous, LOL!

The Tagging Chain

Here is where we pay homage to our fellow bloggers. I'm calling it the tagging chain after my blogging buddy Tara_R. If you haven't met her, or read some of great posts and seen her awesome photos, then go on over to If Mom Says Ok and check out her stuff and leave her a comment or two. You'll be glad you did.

I am also going to take this opportunity to tag some of the other blogs that a frequently stalk because, franky, it's damn fine thing to do; recognizing others for the hard work they do.

So here's my list. Feel free to stalk them much as I do:

Rock and Drool
Violent Acres
Got Crazy Twins
Gulf Breeze Daily Photo
Catchy Colors Photoblog

Feel free to copy the bling above and do some of your own tagging and passing around.

Spread the love folks, spread the love!

A Stinking Yard Sale!

Yesterday I had one of the Spring Rite of Passage events; a stinking yard sale. It's quite a process that makes absolutely no sense at all once it's all over and done with. We spend hours combing through each and every room and closet for things forgotten, too small, or just plain in the way.

When we have gone through most and feel we still don't have enough to make that extra yearly income during this one day of the year, we become creative in the discipline department so that no child could possible live up to our standards, while we hold some "valuable" piece of toy hostage in hope of adding it to our sale. In other words, we loose our grasp on reality at this time of year.

For some reason, because of this one day in Spring, we become absolute retarded idiots in hopes of becoming a few bucks richer for our efforts. Never mind that most of the stuff we are selling is JUNK anyway. We still look at it like it's a priceless antique and give it some clever little acronym like EUC and stick a ridiculous price on it like it just entered the house yesterday.

It's used shit - sell it like it's used shit!

I like to sell my stuff for what it's worth - Nothing! I got over myself a long time ago with this yard sale thing. I finally stopped trying to make money, and starting thinking about actually getting rid of it! Frankly, I should write a blog on the art of being able to successfully sell your junk so that people will actually buy and you will stop thinking it's actually worth anything - because it's not.

But since we all have that other case of swine flu - the broken piggy bank kind - it's hard to downsize your financial fantasies regarding home based, junk selling businesses.

It was a slow day though. It would have helped if I had remembered about the Crawfish Festival going on downtown. There were lot's of yard/garage/trash-to-treasure sales in our neighborhood, but most of the community opted to suck crawfish heads and gulp mass quantities of alcohol in the hot sun instead. It is proved here that beer and fish are recession-proof.

Again, we all have our priorities.

I had been up since 6:30 shoveling all the stuff on the driveway and yard with my son. The husband who was suppose to help me was a no-show until 10:00 when he finally woke up. My son had been busy since the night before baking homemade brownies and preparing lemonade to sell alongside of me in order to raise some money for a new fishing rod. He wasn't fairing any better at the beginning of the sale either. Therefore, I felt worse for him.

We waited, and waited, and.... then we finally started selling. My son finally sold a few cups of lemonade, and his sisters were raiding their own piggy banks in order to buy some brownies; he wasn't giving anything away. He was focused, motivated, and on his own mission.

My husband finally had the bright idea of hitching his stuff up to the bike trailer and sending him on his way to the park where a local softball game was in action. This is where the day begin to change.

I was on my own now as the girls were sent packing themselves, to the park, and my husband ditched me for the computer. People strolled in and out and things were sold here and there until Miss Dorothy showed up. My desire to sell and make money was changed by my experience with her and by my son'sf ability to overcome adversity and intimidation while remaining focused on his goals.

Please read on for the story continues: