"What's that smell... Yankee perfume?"

I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card. It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me.

Over the last fifteen or more years, I have moved back and forth between my Southern home and the Northland that somehow sucks me back like a pool vacuum trying to get the smallest piece of soot from the bottom of the pool…it is relentless. Like that last piece of pool gunk; I have finally given in to the pull that I cannot resist; my fate is inevitable. Although my changing ways were vividly apparent to my family; I denied the accusations that I was somehow being “influenced” by “those damn Yankees”.

The irony of the situation is that to my friends in New England, I currently live in Hillbilly Country. I try to remind them that just because we like our “throwed rolls” and our okra fried, it does not mean we are backward in any way. My friends in the first thirteen find it funny that I have to explain the difference between tin and ten to my children; not the actual definitions of the terms mind you but the way the words are pronounced.

Looking back, I suppose it started after attending school in Missouri.  I moved back to North Carolina where I announced in mixed company that I did not care for sweet tea. You could have heard a pin drop. That’s right folks; a pin, not a pen. The family blamed it on the six months I spent in Connecticut. I attributed it to the fact that I like my syrup on pancakes, not in a glass.

The hardest thing for my family to swallow is that I refuse to eat anything that I have affectionately named “geriatric food”. You know what I am talking about; meatloaf, gravy, and beans. These foods require absolutely no dental tools that should be used for consuming sustenance. I just have a problem eating food that I could drink through a straw. As you can imagine; the fact that I “suddenly” will not eat brown gravy was like personally going to the cemetery and rolling over every ancestor I have.

Fortunately, I was given a very short probation period. The committee gathered around the kitchen table while playing Pinochle, and after a heated debate on the merits of my home made pie crust decided I had not shamed the family enough to take my card just yet. I was given a strict diet of pecan pie, Sundrop Soda, and NC State. I think it is fair to say the punishment fits the crime. Now where did I put my Wolfpack sweatshirt?

Pasties, Diaphragms and Back Yard Parties

I rarely write about my family other than hubs and the boys. I guess I feel like the family beyond the nucleus should not be subjected to such scrutiny. This story, however, was just too good to pass up.

A woman (she is in her early 30’s) recently told me the most hilarious story I immediately told her it would be blog fodder but I would not mention her name. Imagine, if you will, a woman. This woman may not be all that endowed. She is wearing something that warrants not wearing a bra. This woman prefers to not show off her nipples so she get some “pasties”. See, here’s the thing; some woman feverishly try to prevent their nipples from showing and others just don’t care. I am of the don’t care group. But I digress.

So my lady friend attends a backyard party and leaves to head to the next event with her beau. The night continues with a couple more parties and my friend heads home. Upon taking off her clothes to go to bed she notices she is missing a pastie. Not much to get worked up about right? Probably in a back yard somewhere; even if someone finds it they will not be able to figure out to whom it belonged. Or so she thinks.

Seems her soon to be mother law stayed behind at the first party. Something catches the eye of said mother in law and she asks another guest what it is. The mother in law picks it up and makes her own assessment. The next morning my friend listens to a somewhat serious voicemail from her soon to be mother in law asking my friend to return the call as soon as possible with the closing “we need to talk”.

It seems that the mother in law was under the impression my friend had lost her diaphragm. I did not know that was a common occurrence or that pasties and diaphragms look alike for that matter.

My friend is slightly embarrassed and assures her soon to be mother in law that it was just a pastie. I guess the mother in law is not quite ready to be a grandmother.

You Talkin' To Me?

I think it is obvious at this point that I have my pet peeves. Rather than dissect my laundry list of issues with others, I will concentrate on just one; eye contact.  Worse than a hand shake from a cold, clammy, dead fish; I cannot stand it when people do not look at me when engaged in conversation.  I am an eye person anyway.  Some woman like full lips, tight butts, strong arms, long hair, etc.  The first thing I notice on someone of either sex is their eyes.  The infamous “they” have said that the eyes are the window to the soul.  I am not sure if that is true, but I believe they can tell a lot about a person.

When I first meet someone I can tell how they feel about themselves by whether or not they look at me when introduced, and for how long.  Eye contact tells me they are confident but not necessarily cocky.  If they look at me too long I can get a little creeped out. You know what I am talking about; that guy that is still looking at you well after the introduction is over and you are looking at the introducing party.  Weirdo.

When I am talking to people I also pay attention to how often they look away.  It is one thing to get distracted by someone or something going on the room; especially if in a public place.  I too can get distracted by shiny objects. However, if I am having a one on one conversation and the other person looks away often, I start to wonder what they are hiding.  I read once that “A person who is looking to his left is accessing the memory; he is trying to recall the facts before relaying them to you. A person who is looking to his right is accessing the creative part of the brain. He is inventing a version of events or story to tell you.” I rarely pay attention to the direction someone is looking, I just get irritated they are not paying attention to the conversation. It’s just a mutual respect thing.

The one part of eye contact that we have no control over is the size of our pupils. In 1975, a study discovered pupils do more than simply react to light. When we are interested in the person we are talking to or the subject we are talking about, our pupils get bigger. When we're bored, they get smaller. To verify this, next time you're hanging out with a friend or significant other, talk about something you know he finds interesting, then suddenly change the subject to changes in this year's tax laws and watch his pupils change. I have tried this with hubs and can verify the validity. What do you think I chose as my subjects?

Because I am Mom, and I Have One Too

I normally stray away from "those" posts.  You know the ones; all about how little junior is such a super star and is in the gifted program and blah blah.  Sure my boys are great and super cute but they also drive me nuts at times.  Then they redeem themselves by saying something like "mommy, put on this blanket; super heroes need capes".  Where do they get this stuff and do they know what they are saying?  They break my melting heart.

I started this blog over two years ago with the objective of keeping my nationwide gypsie family up to date on what is happening with the boys; hence this post.

Little Man is graduating from preschool today.  I realize he only turned four in June but he is going to attend a super cool program at the elementary school!  The program integrates children of appropriate development with others that may be having difficulties.  I am most excited that LM will have the opportunity to be  in class with some hearing impaired kids. The idea behind the program is for Little Man and his counterparts to mentor the other kids and vice versa.

In honor of this exciting milestone I wanted to document some of his recent answers to a teacher:

My Favorites:

Food: Pizza
This is so true; the kid could eat his weight in pizza every day.

Music: Big and Rich
Another truth.  Every time we get in the car he asks to turn on Big and Rich.  It is a good thing we have a number of their albums or I would go crazy.

Sport: Baseball
Like his mama he doesn't like to do anything if he is not good at it from the get go.  He has had the most success and fun with baseball.

Color: Red
Of course it is.  I bet he will marry a redhead too.

Movie: Batman and Spiderman
Big surprise.

Book: Lightning McQueen
I need to find out where he read this book.  We obviously need to get it at home.

Place: The Zoo
What kid doesn't love the zoo?

Subject: Puzzels
This is the neurotic in him; the challenge of putting things back in their place.  That's my boy!

My Nickname: "No"
Well I normally call him crazy monkey.

My hobby: Playing with my kitty
I am not sure if Poco the kitty would call that playing.

If you could chose any animal to be what would it be and why: Big giant elephant because I really want to scare people.
I don't consider elephants that scary.  Might need to get this answer analyzed.

What would you like to do or become in the future: A firefighter.
Not sure about this one.  Apparently we hang out with too many firefighters.  His favorite uncle is a firefighter and a friend of ours  that Little Man says is "super funny" is also a firefighter so we tend to visit a station regularly.  If I ask their wives they would say "mama don't let your baby grow up to be a fireman" because the schedule sucks.  May need to consider new hang out spots.

Like a string on a sweater that you pull but you know better/But doing what you shouldn't is half the fun

Wordless Wednesday ~ If It Were Only This Easy

My Warrior Name is Big Spoon

When hubs and I first “hooked up” he had a king sized bed. I can’t really call it a bed; he had a king sized mattress on the floor in his bedroom (read: Bachelor Pad). I loved that bed; plenty of room to spread out and get comfy, but you could still meet in the middle when you wanted.

When it came time to move hubs out of his house and into my place, the relationship I once had with the king changed. You see back then, hubs and I moved ourselves; we were not as fortunate as we are today to have selfless friends and family that are willing to spend an afternoon sweating and grunting while breaking their backs to help us move. Back then, we did not have the smarts, or funds, to hire two convicts and a truck to pack the truck for us. Back then, it was me and the mattress. After wrestling with the king for what seemed like nearly eternity, I convinced the man that the best, if not only way to get it out of the house was through the window; and its landing spot became its resting spot.

Upon moving in with me, hubs had no choice but to accept his fate; he would have to sleep on a queen mattress. As far as I am concerned the queen offers more possibilities than the king to meet in the middle when we choose. If you ask Brad though, he doesn’t really get his own space. He swears he has about two inches on his side of the bed.

There is a perfect explanation for this; I am a snuggler. Not the “hold me” kind of snuggler mind you; I just like to have some part of my body touching his while we sleep. An ankle over his ankle would suffice but that is just not conducive to sleeping on my side (and isn’t it all about me?). So we spoon; Brad clinging to the edge of the bed and me breathing down his neck. Paints quite the picture doesn’t it? Hubs would be perfectly content if we did not touch at all while sleeping; he claims I give off too much body heat or something lame like that.

Funny thing is, I sleep so much better when Brad is gone. I wake up in the exact same position I fell asleep and barely have to make the bed due to lack of ruffled covers. When Brad is home; we toss and turn and the covers are all tangled and twisted. As a neurotic bed maker it drives me nuts. Maybe I am unconsciously getting back at him by only giving him two inches of space in the bed?

In every relationship there is a big spoon and a little spoon. I happen to be the big spoon. Which are you?

Wordless Wednesday ~ Partners In Crime

Prostitutes and Therapists

Some of you; ok all of you are probably wondering how I even connected these two professions.  Believe  me, understanding my thought processes is something hubs struggles with everyday.  As they say, "better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool  than open it and prove it"; I too will not go into detail on my madness.

Here is my proposal: If prostitution is illegal; shouldn't therapy be banned as well?  Better yet, just leave the prostitutes alone.

Think about it.

• We pay both professionals to listen to us talk when they are probably thinking about their grocery list.


• I imagine that each client takes a little bit of a soul every time the door closes; then on to the next "John".


• Discretion is of the upmost importance in both industries; you want to gain the trust of your clientele for repeat visits.


• We pay them to make us feel better about ourselves and the decisions we make .


• The best of each bunch share their drugs with us.


• Those that have excelled in their trade; whether through training or education even get paid more for less time.

It's genius isn't it?  Maybe madness?

Seperation Anxiety

In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have spent a number of nights apart that I could count on my hands. In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have only had separate careers for all of a year, maybe two. Most responses I get from others hearing this for the first time is something like “wow, you must really like each other” or “I could never tolerate my spouse that much”. We will both readily admit that hubs has the patience of Job and should be sainted for dealing with my antics, so he is really the one credited with our success all this time.

Like many couples, hubs and I met at work. However, after that organization moved us around the country together for a couple of years, we started a business together. Now it just feels odd to get up and do separate projects. We have a good rhythm to our routine; he has his strengths, as do I, and they fortunately compliment each other’s weaknesses. We are a good team.

It is really odd when you temporarily lose your right hand. The left hand tries to pick up the slack but can never fully complete the task. The man has a semi-annual fishing trip with his family friends at The White River. The trip is so good for him. He bonds with his man people; doesn’t shave for days, smoke cigars, plays cards, and occasionally gets a line wet. He comes back better than when he left; with his axe sharpened. He tells me bits and pieces of stories that he feels are acceptable for my “virgin” ears and he counts the days until the next trip.

This year he threw in an extra special trip to Canada with one of his brothers and his step dad. He was gone A WHOLE WEEK. I was a little worried (read: freaking out) when I heard how long he would be absent from our daily routine. My saving grace was the fact that the boys do go to preschool a couple of days a week. I knew I would be able to get some things done, or stare off into space like a zombie while they were gone. In preparation for his departure, I cleaned the place like my mother was coming to visit, freeze some easy to reheat meals and plan lots of activities to keep us busy and make the time fly.

Funny thing happened that week though; it wasn’t bad. Sure, I missed him; and so did the boys. Much to hub’s dismay we only had one night of dramatic “I miss Daddy” theatrics; and frankly that was because they were in trouble and think Daddy will save them from Nazi Mommy. Things ran as they normally would, some days even better (don’t tell Brad). I was even able to do some things I normally wouldn’t be able to do with Brad around. Most of you that know us might ask “what on earth does he not let you do”? First thing I did was go to the store and stock up on wine; then I came home and rearranged the furniture and finally….wait for it….it is s a biggie. I let the boys play with the shaving crème in the bath tub! As far as the three of us were concerned, the week was a success.

Fast forward to my girls trip to Florida this week. I too, will be gone A WHOLE WEEK. My already high anxiety level has now doubled. I know I will have a blast in Florida even though I am missing all my friends at Blogher. I also know that I cannot wait to start counting waves while catching up on my vitamin D therapy and my stack of books. I am, however, a little worried about what I am going to come back to when I get home. I know hubs is completely capable of caring for himself and the boys and the house, but have some issues with how effective they will be trying to do all of it at the same time.

The whole idea of these trips got me thinking about that saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. Although it is the case when I am apart from Brad, it is not always true with other scenarios. Does absence truly make our hearts fonder, or does the separation just give us the opportunity to learn that we are just in a situation of convenience. I suppose that is where the saying “out of sight out of mind” originated. When I presented this idea to hubs he laughed and asked, “are you worried I will learn to like to live without you while you are gone?”. Once my nervous laughter was over, I reminded him that he may be able to do so, but he doesn’t want to.

What do you think? Is it the subject matter (people, place, or thing) for which you long, or is it the fact that you just are away from it? From what have you recently been separated and what was it like when you reunited; was it what you expected?

My Husband Lies & Other Reasons Our Relationship Works

My relationship with hubs has been based on lies from the very beginning.

After high school I moved from Kansas City to Springfield to go to what is formerly known as SW MO State. I spent about a year in 417 land and then moved back to my birth state of North Carolina. I worked and played in the Tar Heel state for about a year and moved to Connecticut with some friends. Still young and free I was able to go where the wind blew. Things did not feel right in Connecticut so I packed up and moved back to KC on the advice of my sister. Sis informed me of this fabulous new job she had for a great computer company with a marketing theme based on a cow and a box.

I began working for the cow computer company after attending an eight week training program. Consider it a crash course in computers before the Internet was readily available and the hottest selling item was a 166 with 16MB; we called it "The Happy Meal" as it was packaged with a 15" monitor and ink jet printer for just $1,599.00.

During the eight week boot camp, we eat, sleep and breath cows and computers. The class spends all day together and then socializes at night together. There was a great mix of people from all walks of life. We enjoyed our time together but I enjoyed one particular class mate more than others. I was smitten with hubs the minute I saw him; he was charming and funny and knew more about my home town than I did, which intrigued me since he had only been there a couple of years. I was later told by a fellow trainee that the attraction was mutual; at one point hubs told the guy that he would "drink her bath water”. I was guessing that was a good thing. The strange thing was, although we all knew each others names, we did not use them, we used what I will call "stage names". Kind of like strippers, but with clothes and less money or attention. The first thing they do is change our names. We would be working in a call center setting so you can imagine how many folks have the same name: I don't want my commission going to someone else. We are told to pick three names that we like and the one that is available will be our new identity. Our new name will even go on our name badge. My new identity would be Kendall and hubs was known as Gannon.

As our training came to an end , hubs mentioned to me he was having a celebration cookout at his house in honor of our graduation. He drew a map for me and gave me his number. I was a little nervous and decided to dress like I didn't care. I wore my black boots, jeans, white button down, and my Yankees ball cap.

When I pulled up to the house as indicated on the map, I was certain I had read the directions wrong. There were no cars in the drive and no one in sight. I rang the bell to be sure. Hubs answered the door. I walked in to his Westport home to hear David and David on the stereo and no grill in sight. The only thing in the fridge was my brand of beer, some ketchup, and some relish. So much for a cookout. After a few beers and dancing around the inevitable, he looked at his watch and said "I guess it's just me and you tonight". (Maybe because he did not invite anyone else).

We never made it to dinner but filled up on drinks and dancing. Before I knew it he had taken over my spare closet and had stolen my spare key. I was able to forgive him for all the deception the night he played a song for me he had written about our first date (what woman wouldn’t love a song written about them….good or bad). To fully understand the context of the lyrics you need to know that at the beginning of the training class we were both living with our “significant” others. We were both living alone by the end of the training period.

It was an ugly situation, I finally realized one day
I hadn’t been happy in oh so long;
It was time to make a change

So I turned one in and I put her in the past
Trade her ass in on a love that would last

Well I did what I did, if when I did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The first time that I saw you, I knew what I had to do
I had to tear down fences and burn down bridges if I was ever gonna be with you

So we went to the Beamont on a Saturday night,
Got real drunk and we did it all night

Well we did what we did, if when we did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The moral, if any: Sometimes lies aren't all that bad.

My Husband Lies & Other Reasons Our Relationship Works

My relationship with hubs has been based on lies from the very beginning.

After high school I moved from Kansas City to Springfield to go to what is formerly known as SW MO State. I spent about a year in 417 land and then moved back to my birth state of North Carolina. I worked and played in the Tar Heel state for about a year and moved to Connecticut with some friends. Still young and free I was able to go where the wind blew. Things did not feel right in Connecticut so I packed up and moved back to KC on the advice of my sister. Sis informed me of this fabulous new job she had for a great computer company with a marketing theme based on a cow and a box.

I began working for the cow computer company after attending an eight week training program. Consider it a crash course in computers before the Internet was readily available and the hottest selling item was a 166 with 16MB; we called it "The Happy Meal" as it was packaged with a 15" monitor and ink jet printer for just $1,599.00.

During the eight week boot camp, we eat, sleep and breath cows and computers. The class spends all day together and then socializes at night together. There was a great mix of people from all walks of life. We enjoyed our time together but I enjoyed one particular class mate more than others. I was smitten with hubs the minute I saw him; he was charming and funny and knew more about my home town than I did, which intrigued me since he had only been there a couple of years. I was later told by a fellow trainee that the attraction was mutual; at one point hubs told the guy that he would "drink her bath water”. I was guessing that was a good thing. The strange thing was, although we all knew each others names, we did not use them, we used what I will call "stage names". Kind of like strippers, but with clothes and less money or attention. The first thing they do is change our names. We would be working in a call center setting so you can imagine how many folks have the same name: I don't want my commission going to someone else. We are told to pick three names that we like and the one that is available will be our new identity. Our new name will even go on our name badge. My new identity would be Kendall and hubs was known as Gannon.

As our training came to an end , hubs mentioned to me he was having a celebration cookout at his house in honor of our graduation. He drew a map for me and gave me his number. I was a little nervous and decided to dress like I didn't care. I wore my black boots, jeans, white button down, and my Yankees ball cap.

When I pulled up to the house as indicated on the map, I was certain I had read the directions wrong. There were no cars in the drive and no one in sight. I rang the bell to be sure. Hubs answered the door. I walked in to his Westport home to hear David and David on the stereo and no grill in sight. The only thing in the fridge was my brand of beer, some ketchup, and some relish. So much for a cookout. After a few beers and dancing around the inevitable, he looked at his watch and said "I guess it's just me and you tonight". (Maybe because he did not invite anyone else).

We never made it to dinner but filled up on drinks and dancing. Before I knew it he had taken over my spare closet and had stolen my spare key. I was able to forgive him for all the deception the night he played a song for me he had written about our first date (what woman wouldn’t love a song written about them….good or bad). To fully understand the context of the lyrics you need to know that at the beginning of the training class we were both living with our “significant” others. We were both living alone by the end of the training period.

It was an ugly situation, I finally realized one day
I hadn’t been happy in oh so long;
It was time to make a change

So I turned one in and I put her in the past
Trade her ass in on a love that would last

Well I did what I did, if when I did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The first time that I saw you, I knew what I had to do
I had to tear down fences and burn down bridges if I was ever gonna be with you

So we went to the Beamont on a Saturday night,
Got real drunk and we did it all night

Well we did what we did, if when we did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The moral, if any: Sometimes lies aren't all that bad.

Confessions of a Naughty Mommy

Prior to my current role as Mom I was many things. I have been a corporate career woman, student, and wanna be rock star. I had my share of boyfriends; after all, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. I did things I probably won't tell my boys about; and certainly wouldn't tell daughters if I had them. If my boys bring home a girl like me I may have to keep a close eye on her. I spent many late nights, and some mornings with friend and foe alike, searching for something more. Prior to being a wife and mother there was an excitement or thrill from "that life". Your decisions only affect you. No responsibilities. Nothing to hold you to one spot. Men chase you. You play along. Now I play new games. Go fish. The "eat your dinner" game. Brush your teeth. Get in the car. Go to sleep. Your turn to get up.

Hubs and I were at the mall with the boys this weekend while it was raining. As we walked and talked I asked him if he thought I dressed my age. The question popped in my head as I watched many people that I thought did not, in fact, dress their age. You know the type; sixty years old, with a see-through gauze top on and bra underneath. How about the pre-teen with inappropriately short shorts and a barely there top.

Hub's response was that he thought I dressed older than my age. Spending the last ten years working for myself from home you will typically find me in a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. Since my move back to Missouri from Florida I still don't have many closed toed shoes so I am usually in flip flops. Hubs asked where all my cute skirts went. He asked where all my high heels went. I guess I still have them but they are tucked back in the closet collecting dust. These items just don't seem conducive to digging in the rock box and looking for worms.

What else is tucked back in the closet collecting dust? What other parts of us as moms, or dads for that matter, are not seeing the light of day? I am not the same woman I was before I met Hubs, thank God. I may have thought I didn't want to get married and have kids at one point in my life but that was before I met him. All three of my "boys" make me strive to be a better person each day.

In my constant pursuit of balance, this conversation at the mall reminded me to clean out the closet every now and then, in more ways than one. It is ok for us to go to out, maybe drink a  little too much and come home and do things like we did before we were married and our names were mommy or daddy. It is ok for us to get a little crazy and "use" the family bathroom together at the Southwest Florida Airport.

Hubs is not a talker; meaning he does not talk openly about things like this.  I, on the other hand, talk pretty freely about just about anything and everything.  I believe we all think about these things, but not all of us are comfortable admitting it.  With that in mind, there is room for everyone here.  Tell me how you are "dusting off" things in your closet?

Get It While the Gettin's Good

If predictions by the Oxford Hair Foundation come to pass, the number of natural redheads everywhere will continue to dwindle until there are none left by the year 2100. The reason, according to scientists at the independent institute in England, which studies all sorts of hair problems, is that just 4 percent of the world's population carries the red-hair gene. The gene is recessive (and therefore diluted when carriers produce children with people who have the dominant brown-hair gene. Dr. John Gray's often publicized explanation of his foundation's findings: "The way things are going; red hair will either be extremely rare or extinct by the end of the century." The gene responsible for red hair - known as the melanocortin 1 receptor, or MC1R - was only discovered in the late 1990s. People have a good chance of being born with red hair if they have a mutation of that gene. Red hair is found in all ethnic backgrounds but is most commonly associated with people of Celtic descent.Maybe I need to have my friend the rocket scientist (ok, ok, genetic researcher) look into this…let me know your thoughts T.

I have a few thoughts about this possibility:

~Thank god I will be gone because a world without Red is no place to live!
~“Studying all sorts of hair problems”; who decides that is what they want to do with their life? ~Recessive my arse: My dad, me (obviously) my brother, and now my son. I won’t even get into my dad’s 7 siblings. (some of which are shown here)
~As I read the article about my people’s pending doom, I thought back to the ridicule I experienced as a young child and then the near celebrity I received as I reached adulthood. I have grown to love my red hair and “angle kisses” (now that I have the sharpie off my skin from my sister connecting the dots in an attempt to see how many I had as a youth; why did I let her do that?) and consider them my trademark.

Quotable and red:

A young man marrying a redhead asked his father for some marital advice. The father said, "Just remind her who wears the pants in your family." The evening arrived; the new husband tossed his pants to his bride and said, "Here put these on." She did and said "I don't fit into these." "That's right!" he said, "and don't you forget who wears the pants in this family!" With that she flipped him her panties and said, "Try these on." He looked at them and said, "I can't get into your panties!" She said, "That's right - and you won't until your attitude changes!"

Waxing Poetic

****The content below is for adults only; or for those that can handle direct language about body parts and the maintenance of said body parts.  If you are related to me, go to church with me, work with me or the hubs, come back later.****

First things first. I have never had to password protect a post. It seems, however, that the hubs thinks the content provided herein is not appropriate for all audiences. Word has it that my father in law has spread the word around town about my little piece of internet and now my damn priest reads the crap I write. I suppose the man of the house does have a valid point when he further mentions that some of his colleagues and my clients read the site too; I can only imagine what they would be thinking about at the next meeting after reading this. So in an effort to keep us both happy; we have protection. What I really wanted to tell hubs was to take off his panties and hose the sand out of his vagina.

Speaking of vaginas; well mine particularly. In all my years I have never waxed any part of my body. I am very fortunate to have not only very light hair but hair that grows very slowly. The down side to my good luck is that if I do not wear mascara, I look like a am nine years old at best. Imagine if you will, me at the age of twenty-nine with braces and no makeup; hubs felt a little awkward at times. He once came in the house to tell me the new neighbor girl had come over to ask if I could come out to play. He is so funny; just ask him, he will tell you.

Back to my vagina. For some reason I got a wild hair to get waxed. Many of you know that I am an all or nothing kind of girl though; if I am doing this I am going all the way. Brazilian baby. The first question I asked myself is whether I should go to someone I know, or a complete stranger. I determined a referral was more important than anything. I called one of my girlfriends and asked her advice. Having moved her business from a local salon to her home last year, she immediately sent me to her former place of business. She informed that the aesthetician was awesome and since I believe everything my friend/hair stylist tells me, I hung up and called the salon.

I had three days to wait after making the appointment. Your imagination can do a lot in three days. I was excited and petrified. My final thought was “how bad can it be really, you have given birth twice for god’s sake”. I wanted it to be a surprise for hubs so I did not tell him. The neurotic in me then starts thinking; “do I even want him to notice, that means I needed it”. We will get to his final reaction later.

Upon entering the salon on Friday and greet my girlfriends that work there and take some Advil; I had been told that doing so might be beneficial. This is one of those things I did to be safe and not sorry. I don’t know if I did not need it but I really did not want to find out if I needed it but didn’t take it.


The aesthetician greets me and escorts me to the servicing room. She explains the process and instructs me to disrobe from waste down and place a towel here and some paper there. I can do this. Towel here, paper there. The irony is that she leaves the room for me to undress but is about to explore places with a magnifying light the way only my gyno has done.

Upon examination and a test run it is determined my “front” hair is not long enough yet. Remember the fact that I am blessed with slow growing hair; it can suck at times. It also doesn’t help that I shave it all off anyway. No sweat. I am still a little nervous anyway and think I may back out of the back side if the front is agony. Kim proceeds to tell me to “hop up” on my hands and knees. The only way I can provide a visual for this position is to describe it as “child’s pose” in yoga but with your butt in the air. Or maybe a frog. The thing about this position is that is perfect for what she is doing, however, the wall that I am facing is all mirrors. Normally I would consider this hot, but in this scenario I do not care to watch, I lower my head.

So I have to admit that the hot wax was not bad; actually quite nice. I have the need to hold a conversation during this process in attempt to keep breathing. What I find out during the dialogue intrigues me. I live in what most would consider a conservative area of the country; otherwise known as “The Bible Belt”. My new best friend Kim moved here from Vegas five years ago and tells me she has seen things here that she never saw or even heard of in Springfield. How about that; I am not the only one in this town after all. I am not sure if that is good or bad.

Rip. Huh. Not so bad. Certainly not the vision from the 40 year old virgin I was imagining. “Blah Blah Blah”. “ Yeah I have two boys, 4 and 2.5; the picture of your girls is cute, how old?” Rip. How about that, it gets easier every time. Rip again. What the Hell! “Did you literally just rip me a new one?” She thought that was funny. Hubs is not the only funny one around here.  Like any quality aesthetician, Kim wants to be thorough, so out comes the lighted magnifying glass. Jesus; my gyno doesn’t even use a magnifying glass. She completes the examination of her work and sounding very proud says “looks great”. I have to take her word for it since I cannot see it. I am going to spare the details about how she applies the aloe in an attempt to prevent any male (or female for that matter) readers from getting entirely too excited about one woman rubbing cream all over another. That was the best part though.

I admit that I am happy I only have to do “maintain” every few months; but in end, hubs and I highly recommended this service.

As I am wrapping things up and paying, I asked Kim out to dinner; it seemed like the next step in our relationship.

*For those of you considering a Brazilian and are curious; there was little if any pain during or after the procedure!  Take off your panties and hose the sand out of your vagina and get it done!

Milk Cow Blues .......and A Contest!

You would have thought he had severed a digit the way he was throwing a fit. For those of you with small children, you know the fit I am talking about. It starts out innocently enough, bottom lip puckers out, eyes squint, and then the tears come. You quickly go into diversion mode to try to avoid escalation. No good. He is on to me and will not have any substitute for what he wants. What could he possibly want you ask? His blanket? A popsicle? A cookie? Heck no, that would be too easy. This kid wants string cheese. I make every effort to avoid this very scenario by anticipating a low stock of dairy in the fridge. I have to say my boys eat more dairy than any other food group. They start each morning with a snack of chocolate milk and string cheese. Upon waking they come into our room and say “I want chocolate milk and string cheese Mommy”, as if I do not already know that.

As we prepared for our recent weekend trip to visit the family in The Lou, I decided to wait until our return to restock the fridge and cabinets. As you can imagine, both boys were distraught by the fact that we did not have any string cheese for nearly four days! When I told them last Wednesday I would go to the store when we got home, they asked if Granddaddy had string cheese at his house.

Not only do they like string cheese, Little Man likes a certain kind of string cheese. Not the brand mind you; but the shape. I guess the generic brand I regularly purchase has a favorable shape for his mouth so when I mistakenly bought a name brand he was not happy. Now that I have made that mistake once; he asks every time we get a new bag if it is "the round kind". Chalk one up for the story brand!

Dinner always consists of some sort of dairy or multiple variations. Cottage cheese is a side that is requested often, as well as yogurt for “desert”. Ask Little Man what his favorite dinner is and he will quickly answer “cheesy eggs!”

I know where they acquired their affection for cheese and all things dairy(or their obsession, depends on how you look at it); my grandfather nicknamed me Mickey Mouse at a young age due to my ability to eat my weight in cheese ( I may be exaggerating a bit but you get the idea). I am telling you I could still sit down and eat a whole block of the dairy goodness. (again, go with me)

Today while I was shopping I purchased the usual items but struggled to think of something new. I am hoping you guys can give me some ideas on new ways to incorporate dairy into our meals; after all, there are only so many cheesy eggs I can handle. If you can, make the recipes easy as I have an aversion to the stove and anything that does not come in a package. Oh what the hell; The Man can cook it.

First person to comment gets a fabulous reusable goodie bag from The Midwest Dairy Council that contains a $25.00 gift card to Price Cutter, a jump rope, recipe ideas, and a coupon! I will then have a random number thingy pick three more winners to receive a $25.00 gift card each to Price Cutter and a coupon!

My kids are getting hungry people and dinner ain't makin itself...

*Don't forget to leave your e-mail addy and url is applicable so I can tell you if you win!

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.

Wet N Wild Wednesdays

I was hooked the first time I saw the sign at one of our local clubs.  Not only was I impressed by the fact that this type of business has found a way to differentiate itself from their competition, but each week I am curious what is on sale at the dollar store that week.

The last time I drove by, Creme Corn was the featured menu item.  This week, in true Ozarks fashion, we have smashed taters and gravy.  I find myself driving out of my way at times just to see what patrons have to look forward to upon their next visit.  I plan on keeping an eye on the situation in hopes that the cooks get a little more creative.  I am kind of tired of seeing things that sound like left overs from the local lunch rooms.  If those lunch ladies knew where their left overs were going!

Exactly Why I Should Not Even Wear Underwear

Stop me if you have heard this before.  I say that for two reasons: (1) My real world friends and imaginary friends have begun to collide, so I may have told you this before. (2) More importantly, I pray this has happened to at least one other person so it will sound familiar to you.

The boys and I are running around town the other day running errands. Little Man congratulated me from the back between stops and says “Mommy, you have been so good today I think you deserve a coffee”. I smile at the idea that positive reinforcement must be having an effect on the boy and point the car in the direction of my favorite drive through coffee establishment. Little Man then adds “and brother and I get chocolate milk”. I rarely deny either boy anything; partially because I am a sucker and the other because frankly, he was so darn persuasive.

I pull up to the little white noise box and place my order; my coffee and two milks. To my surprise, this is the only time the guy behind the box does not offer me one of his luscious tarts. Although I am slightly disappointed and wonder if he was able to see through the microphone, I proceed to get my fix. My little coffee boy toy pops his head out of the window and provides my total due with a large smile on his face; a smirk almost. He then offers me one of his luscious tarts. As my ego is repairing itself, I decline and hand him the amount due. At this time, the boys are being their normal silly selves; singing along to the radio and dancing. As I pull away from the window, I turn to hand the boys their drinks and notice the cause of the smirk and the offer I was just given.

The Babe. Wearing my underwear. On his head.

All I could do was laugh. I guess some static cling hide the little surprise in his shirt and I did not notice it when I helped him dress. Or, the conspiracy theorist in me thinks my boys are already geniuses and know how to embarrass mommy. This wouldn’t happen if I didn’t wear underwear.

If You Want to Walk on Water

You have to get out of the boat.

Fear is a powerful emotion.  It drives us to do things we may not want to do; just   things we may need.  Fear can also starve us from growing as individuals. One of my biggest fears is that of failure.  I have such high expectations of myself that there are times I do not even try to succeed in fear of failing.  I would rather not try so I can avoid not being perfect at something.  Golf happens to be something I would love to play more often but hate the fact that I am not constant.  Brad tries to tell me this is just part of the game but I have decided to stick to driving the cart, locating the beverage cart, and commentary.

In the past, fear has stopped me from potential personal growth as well.  You see, I love people but I have trust issues.  For the sake of keeping this "brief" let's chalk it up to something way back in the day that I can explain later.  This particular experience had a lasting effect on me.  This relationship impacted my romantic relationships as I grew up as well as my friendships.   Although you may not see it on the cover, the book does not tell the whole story inside.  You have to read between the lines.

I do not like to be in situations that make me vulnerable.  With that said, you can imagine why some may say I have "control" issues.  My rational is that if I am the vulnerable one in a scenario, I am not in control.

I am stepping out of my comfort zone this weekend; or should I say, stepping out of the boat.  I do not expect to walk on water at first, but I do expect to be changed.  I was recruited to be a volunteer mentor at the Boys and Girls Town of Missouri Changing Prisms retreat. This is the description of the event from the website:

Changing Prisms is a two-day, task-oriented workshop that provides the young women of Boys & Girls Town with an opportunity to work side-by-side with women who are successful in both their business and personal lives. Throughout the workshop the mentors provide support by sharing personal life-changing experiences, help the girls identify anxieties that keep them from being successful in their endeavors and work with them to establish goals that are realistic for them individually.

Mentors and licensed therapists lead 40 girls as they work in small groups to complete a variety of diverse activities that are both intellectually and physically challenging. Because of the intensity of these tasks, the young women experience immediate gratification, improving their confidence and self-esteem and developing positive coping and social skills.

To put it lightly, I am petrified.  I know I am going to get more out of this than I think I can ever give to these young woman.  I am honored to even be considered a mentor for the cause.  I have no idea what to expect.  My fear this time is exciting, yet rather than immobilizing me, it is motivating me.  I fear if I do not go, what will I miss.


To move out of our comfort zones, we must face our fears.  When the disciples saw Jesus walking on the lake, they were terrified. ‘It’s a ghost,’ they said, and cried out in fear” (v. 26). They were crossing the lake. The wind was blowing. They looked up and saw somebody walking on the water. They were scared! Peter had to deal with his fear to get out of the boat. The boat was his comfort zone. The rough water might have made him uncomfortable, but he had been in rough water before. He had never seen anyone walk on water.  When Peter stepped out of the boat, he stepped out of his comfort zone. I wonder what his first step looked like when he put his foot onto the water. His heart must have been pounding! He had to face his fear to step onto the water. Peter did pretty well for a few steps. He was actually walking on the water! Peter was walking toward Jesus. Then he took his eyes off Jesus, and his
fear started to get the best of him. He noticed the wind, and as his faith gave way to fear, Peter started to sink.  When faith gives way to fear, we always start to sink. To move out of our comfort zone, we must  face our fears. Fear will keep us in a circle of what is predictable and comfortable.  If there is something you fear, face it. Stop running from it. Walk toward it.

First I have a two hour drive...then I will walk.

Wet N Wild Wednesdays

One (yes, there are many even for a town our size) of our local "gentlemen" establishments offers weekly themed entertainment.  As I was driving by yesterday, I noticed that this week's  dollar store special was Cream Corn.  Most minds might find themselves wandering to a visualization of participants sloppin around in a tub, but all I could think was that would be the night I would use a vacation day; imagine the places the little kernels would be at the end of the night.  Oh, that is the point?

Didn't See This Coming

It is funny what my "big city" friends and family think of my Midwestern town. To hear them talk, you would think the boys would have to scribble on chalk boards at school rather than with pencil and paper. Hubs took my dad golfing and watched my father's expression change as he drove into the golf community of choice for the afternoon; "what do these people do for a living?" he asked in astonishment. I guess he thought we were just a bunch of hillbillies down here. Mind you, I feel the same way at times but it is kind of like that old saying; "I can talk about my mama but you better not" or something like that.

My little town is kind of a secret treasure. Good schools, good cost of living, plenty of rivers to float and lakes full of fish, it is easy to get around, and extremely family friendly. Funny thing is, I could not stand this place back in my college days. Perception is reality and my priorities, and this town, were different at the time.

I did not start out as a small town girl. Born in Charlotte and raised in Kansas City, I was accustomed to long commutes, big universities, and lots of cultural entertainment. Moving around the country over the last twelve years has afforded me the privilege to live in coastal cities, New England Burroughs, charming southern suburbs, and the occasional Midwestern armpit.

Hubs and I drove up to Kansas City last week to meet with a client. What used to be a miserable three hour drive, has become a not-so-mind-numbing two and a half hour commute to the big city. The visit afforded us the opportunity to visit hub's brother and have drinks with an old friend.

To my surprise, I was not prepared for what else the trip gave me; an overwhelming sense of contentment with my current city of residence.

I did not recognize what had happened until we returned home the next day. As I drove to pick up the boys from school, I was reminded my commute was maybe ten minutes, and that it takes me no more than 15-20 minutes to get anywhere of interest on a daily basis. I would not change my childhood or where I grew up for anything. My time in the city of my youth made me realize how happy I am that we chose our current city for my boys to grow physically and mentally.

Don't get me wrong, I get nostalgic for my former life on the coast. I long for Autumn days shopping on the Plaza in Kansas City. I miss driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains on a whim. Those are all great places for me to take my boys on vacation; I may stick it out here for a while. Who knew this gypsy would settle down?

Mom was Right...Again

When I was younger, my mom would offer advice about friend or boyfriend trouble. The one statement I remember her using a lot back then was "kill them with kindness".

I thought of this the other day when "she" did "it". Again. A woman I know, and respect actually, told me she didn't have time for blogs or reading other blogs. With a snide tone she chirped, "I wish I had that much time on my hands".

So I performed a little experiment the next time I saw her. I didn't say anything about the blog, but "my journal". You could say her tune changed. "Oh, I wish I did that, that is so great, the boys will love that one day".  What's the deal? What is the difference between my former hard copy journal and it's on line replacement? I am disappointed that this friend of mine, whom is normally very open minded, is so judgmental about this topic. She and I live similarly busy lives so I am not sure how or why she thinks she is better than me.  Maybe I am just better at managing my time.
I am curious if this prejudice is aimed primarily at work from home or stay at home parents. I am also curious if dads experience it as much as moms.

For now, I will follow my mom's advice. I will be the mistress of death...with kindness.

Penis Envy

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When I was pregnant with Little Man I swore he was a girl. Until I found out for sure, I even called him by the girl name we had picked out. I am not saying I wanted a girl, I just had this feeling. When I found out we were having a boy, I was more than relieved; I was not sure I could handle all the drama and emotion that it takes to raise a young women. When we were pregnant with The Babe I had no idea what the gender was and “hubs and I” (read: hubs) decided we were not going to find out. “It will be so fun to find out right as you are giving birth”. Maybe for hubs. I am way too much of a control freak to not know how to decorate the room. I also had issues just calling it baby. I needed to call it by its name….and not call it “it”! We got to the point in the pregnancy that hubs would not even consider missing a check up; he knew that I would be way to tempted to have the nurse do a quick scan and secretly tell me the gender; the man knows me well.

Fast forward four years later and I have three boys in the house including hubs. There is a lot of talk about body parts and smells, and more importantly, from where the smells are coming! I was dressing The Babe for school the other day while I was wearing my robe. Don’t get too excited men, this is the robe I think my mother in law gave me when I was still just dating hubs so you can imagine the appeal it has. Terry cloth, pockets, and a zipper. It has sexy written all over it. So I am in my “housecoat”, sitting cross legged on the floor with The Babe in front of me as I put on his socks. The Babe then points and says “Mommy’s Penis?” Trying not to laugh, I began to answer when I am cut off by Little Man; “No brother, Mommy doesn’t have a penis”. Not only was the comment funny, his tone caught my attention. It was as if Little Man felt so sorry for me, like I was somehow less fortunate than the men in the house. The Babe was curious and looked at me with a puzzled look; “You push it in?”. Now I am not able to contain my laughter. I simply tell The Babe that mommy doesn’t have a penis; beginning to feel some slight anxiety about how to distract them from the topic.

I swear if they were older I would tell them the truth; that they fall off the smart ones!

Station Identification

My mother called the other day, "you know honey, you really should be more careful about editing your blog; it is what you do you know". I was at a party the other night with friends; one of them is a word smith with one of the best blogs I have ever read. The topic naturally flows to blogs and he turns to me and says "ya know, you had a couple errors in that last post".

Have you ever had your hair done by someone that has really bad hair, only to walk away with the best cut and style you have ever had? I used to have my nails done by a girl with nails that looked like she was a mechanic rather than a nail technician. I loved my nails though.

There are many professions that require you to be a walking billboard advertising your services. In a way, my blog is just that. I normally don't talk much about work on this blog, for that very reason. This is my personal blog; I started blogging on this site for myself and my family. I try to consider myself the hair stylist that does not have time to get her own hair done because she is too busy making others look fabulous. I am happy that sometimes I am to be too busy sometimes that I just need to post rather than worry about grammar and spelling.

Better than Sleeping In

Brad and I determined this weekend that Mother's Day is really Mother-In-Law day'; at least for us. Brad's mom drove three hours to visit her Mother-in-law and Brad and I helped prepare Mother's Day dinner for Brad's mom. This dinner, like most special occasion dinners, took place at Brad's mom and step-dad's home. Don't get me wrong; I certainly do not want to do it at my house, and I am more than happy to do it since this woman watches my boys and their two cousins every Monday. I know she does it because she enjoys it, but I also know it is not a picnic every week.

The day started early for us; we had to get up at 6am to get the boys from Nana's house after attending a camp-out wedding reception Saturday night. Needless to say, I was a little sleepy. The rest of the day was business as usual for a Sunday at our place and then we headed to dinner around 5. The twelve of us included me, Brad, our two boys; Brad's brother and sister-in-law and their three kids; my in-laws; grandmother-in-law; and one of her friends. Since we have dinner at this table every Monday night, it has become a ritual for the kids to take turns saying grace before the meal. They each have their own version and sometimes don't want to do it at all.

To my surprise this time, my Little Babe decided he would offer his 2.5 year old version. He usually passes on the opportunity so I was waiting for just about anything. His cousin had already offered prayer and blessing to each of us at the table while performing roll call and big girl cousin had offered her sweet voice and traditional blessing as well.

Before I can ask The Babe sitting to my left if he wants to say his prayer, he looks at me and says loud and proud "Happy Mother's Day to my Mommy!" and leans in for a kiss. Indeed it was.

Nowhere To Run Baby; Nowhere to Hide

Before I actually visited a Hooter's restaurant I would have thought the place was a brothel where dirty old men sat drooling at young buxom women while they serve frothy beer in cold mugs.

Now that I have been to a Hooter's, I know that there are young men there too!

All kidding aside; our local Hooter's has great food. The boys love the grouper bites, I love the crab legs, and hubs loves the fact that we like the food. We have taken the boys there a few times in an effort to look less perverted, and always leave satisfied.

During our latest visit, we met Catalina. Catalina is a friend of our good friend Claudia. Claudia has just left to go back to Spain after visiting us for about a week. As you can see from the picture I took, hubs and The Babe are more than happy with the situation. Little Man, on the other hand is a little pouty. Seems Little Man has a new aversion to pretty girls. When Claudia came to visit from Spain I called to him
"Little Man, Claudia is here", to his response "Mom, I know", and then he ran and hid under his bed. My brother in law will bring his girlfriend over for a visit; where do you think Little Man will be found?

From the look on his face in this photo, you would have thought we popped the Hooter's balloon he had. He was just bummed there was no place to hide!

People In Glass Houses

I will be the first to admit that I do it. I judge others. I judge the way a stranger parents their child in the grocery store. I judge when I am at that same store and see a parent with her tantrum throwing toddler at nap time. I judge those that judge! I feel a little better about this vice knowing that I make an effort to stop myself from judging others. I do not know their circumstance and I am really no better than any of them. In the end, I need to be more focused on myself and my own family than others.

Like the four year old boy in my family that has decided underwear is optional. I was informed today that underwear and boxers are too "restrictive". Not sure where he heard this. Others may find this odd; I have decided to pick my battles. Who sees under his pants anyway to even know?

We are making every effort to attend one of our church(s) more regularly. Some may find it a little unorthodox that, not only do we allow our boys to wear jeans to church, but we do too sometimes. Just be happy we show up with clothes on at all based on the above.

I strongly dislike living in a town that has such a small degree of separation. Everyone is in everyone's business and they are all trying to impress each other. I do not care what kind of car you drive. I do care though, that both of ours are paid off.

When I was a kid, my grandmother told my mom something that I try to tell myself frequently. 'Fewer people see your home than your children; care for each accordingly.'   After I had children, my priorities naturally switched gears. Although I still go through what seems to be a once a month cleaning frenzy, I am not nearly as neurotic about the dust on my furniture as I am the smiles on my boys faces.

My wish for others is that they too, focus on their own dusty shelves and not those of others. Everyone will be a lot happier.

Mean Joe Green Would Be Proud

Little Man and Daddy went to a local Bull Blast recently. Similar to a full on rodeo, a bull blast is just that; Bulls. All bull riding all the time. Cheap entertainment at its finest. One of the great thing about living in this part of the country is events like this are super family friendly. Hubs and Little man arrive at the event and head straight to the concession to stock up on junk food. As they are waiting in line; Little Man spots a penny on the ground. Hubs tells Little Man he should pick it up for good luck. The two find seats directly behind the shoots and proceed to mingle with the other audience members. Little Man quickly befriends an elderly bearded man, and begins to share the man’s popcorn with him.

The first rider enters looking like he has already been ridden hard and put away wet. Full mouth of chew and a goatee that would make Ted Nugent jealous, the cowboy give the crowd a nod. Little Man leans over to hubs and explains that he thinks hubs should give the lucky penny to that cowboy. Hubs coaxes Little Man into doing it himself if he feels that strongly about it. Little Man slowly rises and walks over to the surly looking rider. Without a word, Little Man reaches up over the gate with penny in hand. Although you would think the sound coming out of the man would be gruff and stern it was the opposite. "What is this for son", he asks Little Man. "It is a lucky penny; I think you need it more than I do". The man smiled, nodded, and was out the shoot.

As the cowboy walked by Little Man after being bucked off the bull, he tossed the penny back and said "thank buddy, I think that penny helped me ride longer". Little Man was so thrilled and beamed with delight the rest of the night. I am not sure which one I was more proud of, the cowboy or Little Man.