Redneck Diva

Sleep Credit

2012-01-04T12:48:00.000-06:00

Several years ago my mom sent my sister and me to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. While it's normally attended by married couples who want to drastically change the way they utilize money in their household, thus changing their lives, neither of our husbands were up to the challenge at the time, so we two sisters went as a couple. I was doubtful I could impact our finances, seeing as how he wasn't attending the life-changing course with me and frankly, wasn't a supportive spouse in much of anything at that time, (I don't think he minds me saying that, either - he is fully aware of what a jackwagon he used to be.) but I went and I went hopefully.

It's a nine week course. By week four I had paid such close attention to what Dave had to say about the horrible decisions we had made and were making at the time that I had managed to spark a fire under Paul and we elminated $11,000 in debt by week five. We were selling things right and left - two boats (one big, one small, neither used anymore), furniture, knick knacks, clothes, several large pieces of junk and the kids were completely convinced they were next. We got all up in the "envelope system" and I proudly cut up five credit cards in front of the class during week five. My sister cut up 11.

After one serious mess-up two years later where I got a credit card unbeknownst to my husband and quickly ran up a large chunk of totally unacceptable debt, I 'fessed up to Paul, asked for forgiveness and he forgave. Whew. I got a part-time job to start paying off my mistake and within that year we were once again sans credit cards. The following winter we paid off my van and officially became debt-free.

DEBT. FREE. As in NO DEBT.

I felt good. I mean good. So good that the thought of a van payment now makes me nauseous. Had we been paying ourselves first (as Dave Ramsey advises) these past few years, buying a new van this spring wouldn't be a nauseating event and we'd be able to throw some cash around at the dealership and walk out with a new-to-us van and still no debt. However, we haven't exactly been paying ourselves. Heck, we've had a hard enough time paying the electric bill and phone bill this past year, so yeah, we just slacked. We will likely have a van payment in the next month or two, much to my chagrin.

I'm a born and raised Baptist. Tithing could easily be in any infant Baptist's early vocabulary, - right after "mama" and "dada" comes "tithe". It's usually preached from the pulpit and preached HARD. The Bible tells us to give 10%. Most people limit that to money, but I've since learned we're also required to give 10% of our time and talents as well. Yes, really. Not only should we give that 10% right off the top of the ol' paycheck, we should also be giving 2.4 hours of a 24 hour day to God. Along with 10% of our talents. Most of us don't. We may get the money thing down and forget the time and talents altogether. Or maybe it's easier for you to volunteer and pitch in rather than write that check. Regardless of where you fall, none of us do it like we should. I get the money one down well and time gets about half-billing. Talents? I fail.

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NOTE: I am not preaching nor judging, let me just say that outright, right here and now. This is my blog and I'm saying it how I feel. I'm not belittling or chiding, rebuking or scolding anyone. Hey, after my prolonged absences, you might wanna take what you're getting. :) I am merely writing today what God has put on my heart to write. Read it, maybe ponder it and either digest or spit out. Your choice.
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Before we moved out here to Diva Ranch we bought a new bedroom suite. Bed, dresser, chest, nightstands and new mattress/box springs combo. We crammed all that gigantic furniture into our itty bitty bedroom in our 800 square foot house in town and we were happy. We moved out here to a bigger house where our bedroom furniture fit better and we were happy. Then I got pregnant. We both gained weight. We both started getting older. Suddenly our mattress seemed to have one goal in mind - to kill us in our sleep by way of our spines. One quick mention of the demon mattress and a friend offered to give us one that was just sitting in storage. We took it with many thanks and it was a fine mattress. It's still a fine mattress. It's a Serta and is in great shape, but it is just not the mattress for us. Have I mentioned we're old and fat?

We started researching mattresses and were intrigued by the Sleep Number beds, but seeing as how we are snugglers and sleep side-by-side, touching, all night long, one of us would be sleeping on that hump in the middle and we aren't anxious to give up the snuggling, even for a good night's sleep. And, just a hunch here, but I'm pretty sure I would end up being the one on the demilitarized zone hump while Paul snoozed away in his sleep number-y paradise. And I might end up bitter. And grumpy. And no one wants me any grumpier than I already am.

So then we looked into the Tempur Pedic beds, but started hearing that they sleep hot and seeing as how I'm on that slippery slope to menopause and hot flashes and night sweats are some of my closest companions these days, I wasn't anxious to sleep on a bed I knew was going to raise my body temp by 452*. We decided to try a memory foam topper, around 4" deep, to see if we liked the foam. We figured even if we had to spend $100 or so, it was better than dropping a few thousand then discovering I was at a dangerously high risk of nocturnal sponataneous combustion. None of the Walmarts we visited had Queen sized toppers and on a whim we wheeled into the furniture store next to Walmart that had a gigantic banner plastered to the outside of the buildling advertising their Tempur Pedics. The salesperson immediately told us the horrors of foam toppers (and that they didn't carry them anyway, which he said with obvious disdain and disgust) and convinced us to try a full memory foam mattress. Lying on those Serta memory foam mattresses was just a gateway rest that led straight to the real Tempur Pedic mattresses. We should have known.

We laid on all three Tempur Pedics and the middle-of-the-road in firmness and price was the one we loved. He quoted us a price and offered us interest-free financing through 2013. We conferred and decided to finance it and pay it off with our income tax return. That wasn't necessarily a Dave Ramsey-esque line of thinking, but it worked in our minds. The salesman said he could give us a yes or no on financing in 7 minutes, so we filled out the necessary forms and then we waited. I prayed while we waited. I prayed that if this was something we really weren't supposed to do - go into debt, albeit temporarily - that it wouldn't go through.

And sure enough, we were denied. Paul was embarrassed. Especially after the salesman dismissed us rather rudely. Apparently, credit approval is how he bases the worthiness of humankind. I wasn't upset. I was disappointed, because that bed felt sooooooo good, but I also knew that God had a plan. Paul fumed all the way home from Joplin. He fussed over our dismissal and wondered at the reason we were denied. The next day I checked our credit. I couldn't get our score without paying, but I did check our credit and saw all the good and bad and ugly on the report. The credit cards were mostly good. Discover Card was bad. Bad bad bad bad BAD. But I knew that. Discover did some bad things for us and we to them. It got ugly. All of the vehicle loan accounts were reported good with no delinquencies.

When the letter came in the mail telling us why we were denied, we also got our credit score (for FREE - so there's how to avoid that $14.95 fee to get it online. Just apply for credit and get denied!) and it's really pretty good. So why were we denied credit on that heavenly mattress?

Because we have had no recent accounts opened or closed.

Yessssssss. Success! We have successfully lived debt-free long enough to NOT HAVE ENOUGH CREDIT! We've had people tell us we're shooting ourselves in the foot by not having credit because then what if we need credit and can't get it? Well, we're counting on God to take care of us there. And we know He will. So there are no worries on our part regarding our credit - or lack thereof. Dave Ramsey has a credit score of zero. Ours will start going down and keep at it, this we know. We obeyed when God told us to live debt-free and now we are tithing and being blessed, we are saving up for the things we want and paying cash for them rather than using credit, we are trying very hard to truly have financial peace.

And a mere week after the denial letter came in the mail we got a phone call from a friend asking us if we'd like a memory foam mattress. For free. It's not a Tempur Pedic, but it's delightful and will hold us over until the time comes we have the cash to wheel and deal ourselves into a debt-free Tempur Pedic. And then? Man, are we gonna sleep easy.

Good-bye and .... Hello Again

2011-11-25T21:16:00.000-06:00

I've been blogging since June 4, 2004, a fact I find hard to believe at times. I can't believe I've been blogging seven-and-a-half years. I look back at those early posts and I cringe. I was young and my kids were so little! My marriage was shaky at best and life was so much different that it is now. Now I'll soon be celebrating the last birthday of my 30's. I have two teenagers, my youngest is in her next-to-the-last year of elementary and my marriage is stronger than it has ever been.

My mom used to shake her head at the blog. She worried. Her early-morning television viewing showcased too many stories of women who had met someone on the internet and were then found months later, chopped into pieces and stuffed into 55-gallon drums, buried in some crazy's backyard. I guess she thought I had a bigger audience than I really did. Back in the beginning I shared a lot of personal information that, looking back, I should not have. I had a foul mouth and it spilled over into my writing. I trash-talked my husband and griped about everything. I wasn't a very positive person.

Fortunately, around 2008 I experienced a change in my life. While God has been a part of my life since birth and I have been a born-again Christian since I was seven, I certainly didn't act like He was a part of anything I did. In 2008 I rededicated my life and began an earnest attempt at living better, living right and doing everything for the glory of God. I undertook the painstaking process of removing all the f-bombs, s-words and other un-pretty words from the blog so as not to be a stumbling block to my children, the people who read my blog and mainly because I felt like I should.

A few years ago MySpace came on the scene and I got one. I spent a stupid amount of time changing my background, answering polls and searching for people I went to high school with. Then I heard about this Facebook thing and I wasn't intrigued in the least. I heard it was pretty utilitarian and you couldn't customize your page like you could with MySpace. For some reason, I liked the bling that went with having a page of "social media". Then one day I caved and decided to check out Facebook.

That's when my blogging went to pot.

It's a time suck. It's a distraction in the worst way. It's addicting. And I'm finding....it's rarely used for good. I can sit here and say with a red face that I have literally wasted entire days doing nothing more than hanging around on Facebook. My kids were not paid attention to, my husband was ignored, my house was a wreck, we ate a lot of cereal for dinner and I became an observer to all of my 300+ friends' lives. For what?

Seriously. For what?

I have "friends" on my list who have literally made eye contact with me in Walmart and not spoken to me, turned the other way like I was invisible. It happened to me twice in one shopping trip. I have "friends" on my facebook who have started rumors about me. There are "friends" on Facebook who have trashed their "friends" while all their "friends" played judge and jury. Marriages have been ruined because of Zuckerberg's brain child. Lifelong friendships have been tossed aside because a "friend" smarted off on someone's wall and someone else got involved, whether invited or not. Lies are spread. Information is misconstrued. Jobs have literally been lost because of Facebook behavior. Facebook posts hold up in court, people. They hold up and they hold up bigtime.

We have become a society of passive-aggressive social idiots. We are losing the ability to communicate with one another face-to-face. The telephone took some of it away years ago. Email took more. Facebook is destroying it completely.

I've been threatening since Spring that I was going to delete my Facebook page. I decided to leave it until after my class reunion because, honestly, it was incredibly helpful in finding and communicating with classmates and putting together the reunion was made much easier. Then the reunion came and went and I kept my page. I have become increasingly more and more convicted about my use of Facebook lately and it weighs very heavily on me. I find myself more and more these days picking up my phone and calling people, even when Facebooking them would be easier. I also find myself loathing text messaging more and more every day, too.

We hide behind our devices. We avoid person-to-person contact. It's easier to be mean while typing than it is when we're standing in front of a person. We get involved in arguments and situations we should stay out of - and we would stay out of if we weren't sticking our noses in everyone's Facebook page.

I am a youth leader in my church. The kids in our youth group, save four, have Facebook pages. Sure, it's very easy to communicate with them through the site, but it's not worth it. I have their phone numbers. I know where they live. I don't need Facebook.

So I still have my account active for right now. I set up a page for our church awhile back and post things to it, but I'm thinking the pastor is internet-savvy enough he can do those updates as needed. The clock is ticking and soon.... I will be Facebook-free.

And I will not miss it.

I have, however, missed my blog. I've missed writing in general. I've missed out on a lot. I might miss out on some information, I might miss out on some news, but I will also miss out on the drama. That seems incredibly refreshing at this point.

I will miss my Farmville, though. I'll miss my imaginary cows and my imaginary crops and my imaginary pink tractor, but seriously? I have three kids and a husband who have been missing me more. They are real. They are mine. They are important. It's time to give up the thing keeping me from being as real as I need to be.

And who needs an imaginary farm when you have this?

And here it is....November

2011-11-03T11:10:00.000-05:00

Back in May we left the church we had been attending for just over a year. We made a smooth transition to another church with nary a Sunday off. The church we attend now is the first church I ever attended as a toddler. It's a small country church and always has been small, even at its biggest. Some years have been better, some not so great, but the doors of the church never closed - even when just over a year ago, there were 10 people attending and five of those were the pastor and his family. Now we average 80-something in Sunday School and Wednesday night Bible study sees 65-70 people as a general rule.

I have always had a heart for youth and at every other church we have attended, was never used in that capacity (or any capacity for that matter, but I'm not bitter). I began to doubt the desire I felt God had put in me, began to think I had misinterpreted what I felt so deeply in my soul. All five of us were discouraged that we had left yet another church and felt like we were wandering aimlessly.

Enter Hudson Creek Baptist Church.

We started attending there mid-May and the third week of June I was packed up and headed for my first week of camp as a sponsor (that week was Children's Camp, grades 4-6). By the second week (Youth Camp, grades 7-12), the pastor was already talking about Paul and I taking over the youth group some time in the future. About three weeks after that, while standing in the LifeWay store with the pastor and his wife, waiting to pay for our purchases, the pastor looked at Paul and I and said, "Oh and by the way, you're going to start teaching the Youth Sunday School class, right?" It really wasn't a question, more of a statement, and Brother Jerry said it so assumingly that either the statement itself or the look on my face amused the clerk so much he laughed out loud.

And so it was decided - Paul and I had officially become the Youth leaders.

When the new church year started, we split the Youth kids out of the Older Children Sunday School class and moved into our teeny tiny room just off the church office with bright red (hideous) carpet, two cinder block and two paneled walls and an abandoned church pew from the old sanctuary. We had about 11 kids that first Sunday. We average about six now. But Wednesday and Sunday nights our Youth come crawling out the woodwork to see what crazy stuff we've cooked up for them to do, witness or be subjected to. We've since painted the room so it's less dismal and have added some posters, a bulletin board and a white board which is the focal point of the room and usually covered in grafitti, names, hearts, stars and declarations of God's love, written by these kids who can smell a dry erase marker a mile away and are inexplicably drawn to them.

We average 11 kids on Wednesday nights and have had as many as 17. We've thrown rubber ducks at each other in a game meant to illustrate focus. We've snorted at each other in an attempt to make our peers laugh. We've played some very violent games of Red Rover and Cat & Mouse tag. We've wandered a corn maze with 23 kids. Paul and I spent an hour one night paintstakingly emptying a can of Sprite of its contents without breaking the seal on the pop tab then refilling the can with Coke as an illustration on judging things and people from the outside. I also sucked the insides out of a Twinkie and refilled it with ketchup and mayonnaise for the same illustration. We discovered that, unlike my youth group when I was a teen, this particular group of teens does not enjoy a rousing game of "King Frog", which leaves us scratching our head and wondering WHY? because, dudes, that game rocks. We've played many a "Minute to Win It" game. We've stayed up all night at a lock-in and plan on doing it again on New Year's Eve. We've answered texts asking for prayer after Midnight. We've listened to kids cry, gripe, whine, complain and argue. We've had our hearts broken by their disrespectfulness. We've laughed until our stomachs hurt. We've taught the unfailing, inerrant Word of God and learned many things in the process. We've opened our home to any number of them on any given weekend. We've been invited into their lives, something we've learned is an act of highest honor to a teen. We've taken the "Sword Drills" of old and turned them into Bible Trivia Smack Challenge: Extreme Church Edition. We've watched more football games this year than we have in all of our years of marriage because with a couple football players, three band members, a couple of cheerleaders and some on the dance team, we show up to see "our" kids do their thing. We've gone the cafeteria to eat lunch with them a few times, reliving our days of cafeteria corn dogs, cold tater tots and cartons of milk. We've been frustrated beyond measure, cried many tears, laughed at their antics, gotten more hugs and "thank you's" than we ever dreamed and even though yes, we have had times of doubt still that maybe we'd misinterpreted the calling, God quickly shows us that we are right where we are supposed to be.

It's exhausting. It's time-consuming. It's frustrating. It's difficult. It's fun. It's hilarious. It's rewarding. It's .....

It's one of the best things God has ever allowed us to do.

So when I break the cardinal rule of blogging and give excuse for my lack of posting and frequent absences, just know I think of you often, Constant Reader, and know that you're still out there somewhere. Hopefully your patience hasn't worn too thin. I am doing my best to find a balance for everything in my life right now - Christian, wife, mother, Youth Leader, Independent Sales Consultant for Thirty-One, babysitter extraordinaire and anything else my kids and husband throw my way. We're gearing up for our display at the Park of Lights (after a year off). We're trying to schedule our many family holiday gatherings and dinners. And somewhere in there I have to sleep. Some nights that works better than others.

I write a lot of blog posts in my head as I'm shuffling laundry from one machine to the other, while I'm scrubbing the soap scum from the shower walls and driving from one end of the county to the other, but when I finally get a moment to sit down....writing them with my actual fingers slips away as does my consciousness.....

.....but I'm working on it.

Mobile Blogging

2011-09-22T23:38:00.001-05:00

Really, this is just a test post from my iPod because I got the Blogger app and want to see if it works.

This.....yes, *this* is how exciting my life really is

Be jealous.

A Van-tastrophe

2011-09-21T12:48:00.001-05:00

Vehicles are kind of a sensitive subject for a lot of people. You have your Ford people, your Chevy people, your Jeep folks and then, the really amazing ones who are Dodge people. (Yes, we're Dodge people. Why do you ask?) There are some who are brand-loyal and some who drive whatever Consumer Reports says is best. Some drive beaters that are so environmentally unfriendly they are on the EPA's Most Wanted list and some, like my parents, who drive those hybrid ninja cars that make no sound and I never know they've driven up my 1/10 mile driveway until they knock on my door, scaring me to pieces and making me holler "Wait a minute!" while I scurry to find a bra.

Now, before I start this and you all immediately think I'm a whiner, please know that I truly do recognize my blessings. I really do. I know that there are a lot of people out there without homes, much less vehicles, but please indulge me a moment if you will.

When we got married in 1993, myself on the verge of turning 20, I was still driving the car my parents had given me at age 16 - a 1986 Chevy Cavalier that was still sporting the badly crackled paint job, the dent in the rear driver's side door where I crunched into Jerry Friend's pickup bumper in the school parking lot my Senior year and there was literally a brick holding the driver's seat in an upright position. I ran her out of oil once and still she kept on doin' her thing. She was a good car. When it got to the point where I had to put a quart of oil in her every single day, we decided to let her go. A family friend who owned a car lot gave us $2000 trade-in on her and boy, was that generous.

We traded the Cavalier for a 1989 Ford Tempo. A two-door Ford Tempo. And for a Ford, it was a good little car -- until we had our first child in 1996 and crawling in the back seat to buckle in a carrier carseat got real old real quick. We made do until May 1997, then we drove to Tulsa to the car lot where my cousin worked and he finagled us a decent deal on a 1993 Mercury Sable. It was a spunky little car with a ginormous motor. That motor meant nothing to me, personally, but it was always a topic of conversation with Paul who took great joy in showing people how much space the engine took up under the hood.

In December 2001 we had our third child. The formerly spacious back seat of my car suddenly shrunk. Trying to get a forward-facing car seat, a rear-facing car seat with a base and a booster seat all crammed safely into that car became something requiring just short of an engineering degree. In March 2002, after literal tears from me, we decided we needed a minivan.

It was hard on me. It didn't bother Paul very much at all. Of course not -- he had just traded off the fancy new truck he had driven off the lot with 17 miles on the odometer for a big ol' honkin' Chevy pickup with dual exhaust that would rattle the fillings in your teeth. He wasn't compromising his manliness, his youthfulness, for a.....a....minivan. I found myself at 29 years old, a mother of three and sentenced to an eternal life of carpooling, chauferring and hauling. Granted, I'd have done all those things in a car as well, but there was just such a stigma attached to driving a minivan.

We found a 1998 Chevy Astro Van, a gigantic box of a thing, built on a truck chassis and capable of hauling approximately 742 people. Okay, I kid - it seated eight. I think it could've hauled a regular minivan around in it, strapped next to one of my kids in their carseats. It was a monster and definitely NOT a minivan. It took me about two days to fall desperately, madly in love with that ugly monstrosity. And I drove it until the back door would no longer open, the driver's window would no longer roll down (made ATM's and drive-thru's always fun) and Paul was worried the transmission was going to shift so hard one day we'd leave it behind us on the highway. I mourned the loss of the Astro before it was even gone, because I knew he meant business. He was bound and determined to get me a new vehicle. I whined. I bulled up. I pouted. I griped. I begged. I pleaded. He wouldn't budge.

Then one day he called me and with an excited tone in his voice told me he had found me a minivan. I was less than happy. I said, "Fine. I'll come drive it, but I refuse to like it. No matter what." It was a shiny red 1999 Dodge Grand Caravan. A little old couple had driven it to and from the grocery store and church (sounds so silly, but it's true!) and it was in immaculate shape. I scoffed at the light tan interior, imagining the McNugget crumbs and melted suckers that would soon adorn it. I grumbled at the leather seats which were cold on my rump. I grumbled more when the salesman flipped the switch to the bun warmers, thus promptly toasting my backside, certain that I would end up with 2nd degree burns when they shorted out. I said I hated the dual sliding doors. I said the Astro only had one, why would I need two? Hmph. We took it home for the weekend to drive it. We ended up selling the Astro over that weekend, so ..... yeah, that next Monday we bought that stupid Caravan.

And now, here I am nearly five years later, pre-emptively mourning the loss of her. She's got new creaks and thumps, the air conditioner/heater is tempermental at best, she's got 160-some-thousand miles on her, she's 12 years old now, she smells like sweaty socks (probably because for some reason the kids like to leave sweaty socks in her overnight when she's all shut up).....I guess it's time. I hadn't fully admitted to Paul it was time, though, until last week. I have been quietly contemplating a new vehicle, mostly because with a new (to me) vehicle also will come a car payment and after three years of being totally debt-free, this causes me stress. Dave Ramsey himself says car payments are unacceptable debt. I know this. But we haven't really stuck to that whole "pay yourself first" thing because heck, we're doing good to tithe, pay the bills and clothe the kids these days, much less set aside any for an impending vehicle purchase. It's totally our fault. We know this. So we'll have a car payment and we'll survive. We just won't like it.

So, the other day, when I saw a brand spankin' new, probably 2011 Grand Caravan in the Walmart parking lot I nearly wet myself in excitement. THAT WAS THE VAN I WANTED! It didn't look like a traditional minivan, heck, it doesn't look like the Grand Caravan I'm driving now. It's lower profile, boxier shaped, looks more like a longer SUV than a van.....I call them SUVans. And I want one. So I parked close to it. Mosied over by it and gave it a look-see. Paul scoffed. And proceded to tell me it was a $40,000 vehicle and I couldn't have it.

SAY WHAT??? For one thing, I was pretty sure it wasn't a $40,000 vehicle and for another, he drove a truck off a lot with SEVENTEEN MILES ON IT, eleven of those put on by us on the test drive! Why CAN'T I have a new vehicle? I've never ever gotten a new one, never even gotten one less than four years old! He drives a 2004 Ram right now that is simply gorgeous and we paid wayyyyyyy too much for because he saw it and he wanted it and he got it.

Well, his laughter just infuriated me on the spot. I ignored him and went on into the store. We shopped. We checked out. We stopped by my Mom's office and I had her look up a 2011 Grand Caravan online.

HA! $26,000, BUCKO!

He grinned and said, "Okay, let's go find one and test drive it."

I crossed my arms and firmly said, "No. I will drive the one I have until parts start falling off of her. And then when the parts do start falling off of her I will just duct tape them back on. Because I'm not getting a new van. Period. I simply refuese." His reply: "Okay."

Grrr.

Yeah. I showed him.

I turned on the air conditioner yesterday and the sound that came out of the vents was, I'm pretty sure, the van's signal to the mother ship, to beam it up, it's tired and wants to go home. Paul made a funny face, looked sideways at me, grinned and crossed his arms across his chest.

"So......you got any duct tape?"

I so do not find him amusing sometimes.

This is the Stuff

2011-09-03T13:46:00.000-05:00

The life of a stay-at-home mom is not for the faint of heart. When your children are infants you yearn for the voice of another who isn't screaming to be fed, changed or burped and doesn't want to suck on a couple of your appendages. When your children are toddlers you yearn for the voice of another who isn't screaming NO! to every plea, request or bribe. When they are preschoolers you just want to hear someone NOT ask you question after question after question about poop or the color of the sky. And then they go off to school.....and if you're me, you start all over by babysitting.

Don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I dearly love staying home what with me being anti-social and all, but there are still days that the crazy starts to creep in.

Thursday night is Paul's golf night and I'm totally okay with that. I value my "me" time and I respect his desire to go walk around with his friends on a lush green pasture whacking at a tiny ball with a skinny pole. Usually he goes with his work friends and is home by 8 or 8:30, but this week he went with the men of the church and you know how Baptists are - they had to eat afterwards because Baptists think it's not fellowship unless there is eating. He didn't get home until 10. Normally I would still be up then, but I've been fighting off a weird stomach virus this week and just didn't feel well, so I was in bed when he got home. I had spent the whole day parked in my chair because I didn't have the energy for much else and rather than be unproductive, I started scheduling activities for the church youth group. I did so without any counsel from my fellow youth leader (Paul) or the pastor, so I was a little worried I had made flawed plans and hadn't taken into consideration some such other activity or event.

As soon as I woke him up Friday morning I kind of barraged him with talking. Looking back, this was a bad decision and I shouldn't have said all. those. words. so early in the morning, but I had spent all day Thursday feeling half sick while taking care of two three-year-olds (okay, so they watched a lot of Disney Junior that day) and had only seen him for about 10 minutes between him getting home from work and leaving for golf. I enjoy our usual after work conversations and frankly, I miss him all day while he's at work. I had a lot of things to say! Imagine how quickly my chirpy, caffeine-fueled chattering got under his skin and he told me to just please stop moving my mouth and allowing words to come out. Then when I didn't, he just shut down and ignored me altogether. Then I got my feelings hurt. Then he told me to quit being so sensitive and get off his back. Then I started crying. Then he stomped out the front door and slammed it behind him. Then I started crying harder. Then he drove off. Then I got mad and called his phone. Then he didn't answer it.

Soon after that my newest babysitting ward, Mary, arrived in full-scale three-year-old diva mode, bawling her face off while her father tried so sweetly to tame the savage girl-beast he was carrying. I totally related to her and was pretty close to a diva meltdown of my own. She eventually mellowed and her daddy felt like my safety and well-being wasn't going to be endangered by that of his youngest offspring and he left. Shortly after that Conner arrived and brought yogurt parfaits, thus further soothing Mary and myself (because I didn't have to fix breakfast!). I was feeling pretty confident that even though the morning had started off a little rough, it was going to be just fine. We were out of dog food for our swiftly growing German Shepherd pups and the plan had been to go to town and pick up a 740,439 pound bag of food because that's roughly how much those beasts eat in a week, a few groceries and be home by lunch time.

I called Mom to see if I could print off a few things for my Sunday School lesson and was given the go-ahead to stop by the house when I got to town. Oh yeah, I had the morning under control. In the short 45 minutes that had elapsed from the end of breakfast to that particular moment, Conner and Mary had managed to empty the toy box, Lego box and Hot Wheels box into the living room floor, so I told them to clean up quickly so we could go to Walmart. They both gasped in excitement and turned to, what I thought was, clean up. I grinned smugly to myself that oh yeah, I was doing great. I hurried to the bathroom to finish my makeup and while doing so heard the sounds of toys hitting plastic and three-year-old conversation. I assumed they were doing as I had instructed.

Silly me. They're three. Duh.

I finished my makeup, gave my hair one final spritz of hairspray and exited the bathroom only to see WHAT?!?! HOW DID THEY GET MORE TOYS OUT??? I thought they had already gotten out all there had been to GET out!! Did the toys somehow multiply? My living room looked like Santa's Workshop had vomited onto my living room carpet. I said, "Conner! Mary! Didn't Kiki tell you to clean up your toys so we could go to town?" They both nodded. I continued, "So why did you not do it?" Conner shrugged and said, "We didn't want to," and turned back to his Lego tower. Oh no he di-n't. I gently informed them that it wasn't really an option to which they resolutely ignored me and continued playing. I literally had to get all up in their faces and again, gently explain, clean up or else. Not sure what "or else" would entail, but fortunately they didn't try me. They understood I meant business at that point.

Then I discovered Conner had wet his pants. Wardrobe change. Tears.

Sigh.

As I was buckling Mary into her seat while Conner kicked up dust in the driveway even after I told him to get. in. the. dadgum. van. my phone rang and it was the school's number. Lovely. It was Abby telling me she had gotten a mosquito bite in Ag and it was swollen. Ooookay? My silence prompted her to continue, "No, Momma, you don't understand! It's REALLY swollen! Like, Ms. Tina even TOLD me to call you! It's HUGE!" I sighed and said I would bring her a Benadryl. I dusted Conner off from the self-inflicted dust storm and loaded him in, his butt hitting the seat and poufing up more dust. Usually I park right by the door of the high school and just run in when I have business in the office, but there was no parking by the door, so I had to unbuckle both kids and herd them into the building.

Sure enough, Abby's mosquito bite was about the diameter of a nectarine. She is allergic to them anyway and always reacts with huge welts, but this went beyond ridiculous. I marked the edges with an ink pen and told her that if it got bigger after the Benadryl to call me.

After re-buckling both kids we headed to town. I went through Sonic because at that point I needed a sweet tea. It wasn't until I was nearly to Walmart that I took the first swig to find it was about the strength of water. With a hint of sugar. Grrrr.

Sam has taken on this gigantic growth spurt as of late and is outgrowing clothes as fast as we buy them. He is currently jeans-less and since we are still holding out hope that eventually the weather will stop being quite so hellish here in Oklahoma, I figure it's time to buy him some. Yeah, you try buying jeans for a swiftly growing almost-13-year-old without him being with you. Not easy. As I was searching a rack for the ever-mysterious boy's size 18 of which only three pair are made in each style and each one of those three are sent to separate stores approximately 1300 miles apart, I hear this little voice go, "Kiki? Mary frew up."

*blink blink*

I quickly ran to the front of the cart to see Mary looking up at me with her big blue eyes, hands in her lap, certainly not looking like she had just "frew up". I said, "Mary, sweetie? Where did you throw up?" She pointed down. I looked under the cart. No barf. I said, "Mary, honey, where were you when you threw up?" She said, "I am sitting in the cart, silly." I said, "No, honey, the cart was moving....were we here when you threw up or over there?" and pointed to the boys clothing section. She shook her head. I continued looking around for this phantom puke. Then I heard her giggle. Then I heard Conner giggle. I put my hands on my hips and said, "Guys.....are you pretending to throw up?" They both busted up and then Conner grabbed his belly and said, "OOOOOH I'M GONNA FROW UP!" Well, I was in on the joke at that point, but those shopping around me all looked up in absolute freak-outed-ness at his very loud proclamation. I just grimaced and said, "No, no, no....they're pretending." Old women shook their heads and did not appreciate the imaginative play of my little darlings.

I continued to shop, fielding strange looks as they continued to "frow up" throughout the store. But when we got to the produce aisle it was then that Mary demanded popcorn chicken. I said, "No, sweetie, no popcorn chicken. We'll go back to Kiki's house and have lunch." Her requests got louder. Conner, not to be outdone, joined in. The cries of frowing up changed into yells of "WE-WANT-POP-CORN-CHICK-KEN!" I firmly said no. They yelled louder. And louder. I then walked to the front of the cart where I could see their darling faces and said, "You are not speaking kindly. You are not asking nicely. You are yelling and you are being rude. You will not get popcorn chicken. Ever." Yes, it was an empty threat since their parents may probably someday feed them popcorn chicken, but I had suddenly turned into "that mother" in Walmart and neither of them were actually my children. People were staring. It was after my lecture that they both promptly busted into cries of, "BUT WE'RE HUNNNNNNNGGGGRRRRYYYYYYYY! Feeeeeeeeeeed ussssssss!"

It was then that the kind man stocking the bananas gave them each one in an attempt to make the screams stop because I'm pretty sure the Walmart police were getting ready to swoop in on me and either escort me out or call DHS because I was apparently starving the children.

We made it to the checkout line where the Associate said the words "d*mn" and "h*ll" three times apiece while checking out the woman in line ahead of me. In her defense, the other woman was saying them as well. I guess she felt peer pressure. I just felt annoyed.

I had to remove the kids from the cart because the groceries and plastic bags would've suffocated them and yes, while that would've made them significantly quieter, it's just a hassle to explain to their parents and the police. I threatened them that if they removed their tiny little hands from the carts that kittens all over the world would die. Actually, I did not say that, so please don't call DHS. I just told them that Kiki really needed them to touch the cart and to do what I said. I think they noticed the tic just under my right eye and they complied.

After some jackwagon barreled through the parking lot and nearly broad-sided me, I made it out onto the road. The kids were being incredibly quiet and I felt bad for the whole "we're hungry" pleas in Walmart and we had been shopping a long time, so I wheeled into McDonald's for Happy Meals. Again with the demanding of food. I quietly told them that when they could ask for their food the right way, they could have it. They both crossed their arms and pouted. Two peas in a pod, I'm telling you. I just drove on. They just continued to pout. I was okay with that. Finally, at the edge of town, I heard two tiny voices asking so sweetly for food. I was happy to pull over and comply.

By the time we got home they were fed and happy once more. I deposited them both at the table to finish up their apples and went out to unload the car. The dogs could apparently smell the Puppy Chow through the van windows, so they and the cats attacked me as I walked to the van. After kicking them all away I managed to get the dog food open and dumped some out onto the ground (who needs bowls) and then unloaded the groceries. I cleaned Mary and Conner up, took them both the potty and then told them to get their nap towels and blankets.

They wanted to watch Little Bear. I said no. They were already 30 minutes past naptime. They cried. I said they could watch Little Bear after nap. They threw themselves onto the floor. I said, "Fabulous. You're already on the floor for nap. Sweet dreams." I handed them their blankets, kissed them both and walked into the kitchen. Strangely enough, they both went right to sleep.

It was after I finally had the groceries put up and the kids were softly snoring their adorable little preschooler snores that I sat down and found myself humming this song:

Thank you, God, for the reminder.

Lunchtime Reflections

2011-08-26T15:40:00.001-05:00

When I was in Junior High we all spoke longingly of the day we could go "uptown" to eat lunch. I can remember from the time we hit 7th grade we all talked about the day we could go off-campus and partake of whatever unhealthy treats awaited us. Some of us loudly proclaimed we would eat candy for lunch because, let's face it, sometimes 7th graders lack imagination when it comes to dietary rebellion. Some of us said we'd only drink soda because after having no choice but white milk from Kindergarten up really builds up a sense of needing to break free in the beverage department I guess. The really rebellious ones had no desire to eat whatsoever - they only wanted off campus so they could either smoke or make out with whatever flavor or the week they were "going with". Looking back, the ones who said they were going to smoke, probably didn't. The make-outers, though, yeah....they probably did already while on campus. They were just tired of having to work so hard to be sneaky.

Freshman year was the magic year we could leave behind the security of the campus that sheltered us for six hours and 15 minutes a day and be free spirits for that 45 minute lunch break. Some of us found a loophole our 8th grade year and discovered that some kind upperclassmen would gladly take your $2.00 and purchase a $1.50 cheeseburger for you and not bring you back one red cent of change and we were totally okay with their profiting from our stupidity. We were just tired of square pizza slices and fish sticks every Friday. We thought we were cool being all sneaky with our contraband off-campus food and scarfing it down while watching for a rogue teacher to come wandering over between the gyms where we were hanging out.

Shortly after the beginning of 7th grade I quit eating school lunches. Every day the line wound up the two flights of stairs that led from the Junior High hall down to the cafeteria below and spilled out into the hall and sometimes into the lobby. Waiting in that line left absolutely no time for me to socialize and my 12 year old self would not give up social time, nuh uh, no way, no how. When I first started skipping school lunches I would instead buy a Diet Coke from the lobby vending machine and a $1 candybar from the Junior High Pep Club sponsor, Mrs. Reid. For $1.50 I got an afternoon's worth of caffeine and sugar and absolutely no nutrition whatsoever. Not long after that, my best friend, DeLisa, somehow talked her mother into preparing she and I a lunch every single day and that kind woman never asked me once for payment. I guarantee you that I never told my mother this fact because she would have been mortified that RoseMary fed her eldest child every day for nearly two years and was never reimbursed. Mortified, I tell you. In fact, if she reads this she may very well call RoseMary up and offer to write her a check.

My Freshman year finally arrived and even though our family qualified for free lunches through the state program for poor, malnourished kids, I would have considered prostitution on a street corner to get money to eat uptown rather than visit that cafeteria (and that would've been something considering that until October of that year I had never been kissed and frankly, found the whole process of mere kissing to be disgusting). Fortunately, every Monday my mother somehow always managed to send me with lunch money for the week, thus saving me from a life of prostitution. My father was in nursing school, we were living off of her meager income as a legal secretary and the money she made cleaning houses on the weekends, so really I don't know how she found an elastic area of the budget to allow for her self-centered 14 year old to eat junk food every day, but she did. She's amazing like that.

I don't remember eating uptown with the aforementioned BFF, DeLisa, that year and I think it had something to do with athletics. I think basketball girls either got out of gym too late to go uptown or had to be in the gym too early the following hour to allow it. Or maybe the coach demanded they put something halfway healthy into their bodies. I don't remember eating uptown with Stacie much either. But Chloe and I, man, we were the queens of tuna sandwiches from the cooler, a bag of Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles and a bottle of Coke. Every day, the same thing. The chip flavor didn't change. The soda didn't change. Occasionally, the tuna sandwiches would all be gone by the time we got there and we'd instead get a couple of Blow Pops to substitute for the loss of protein. We managed to eat this feast for $1.72. Of course, I rolled my eyes to hear my mother freak out about how expensive that was because back in her day, she'd get a sandwich or burger, a bag of Fritos and a bottle of Vess for .52. The times, they had definitely a'changed. They've changed even more. It costs my oldest child $3 or more every day now. *sigh*

Eventually C&R Grocery closed - I think during my Sophomore year - and we turned to eating greasy cheeseburgers from a little burger grill (I think simply called "The Cafe") that took advantage of the opportunity and opened up right across from the gymnasium. They were heavy on mustard and onions and grease would just drip out of the waxed paper pocket they came in. If you were dying of starvation because Typing had just been ever so strenuous that day, you would sometimes bite into the greasy goodness before removing the toothpick, thus injuring your palate. I'm pretty sure every kid at Wyandotte High that year gained 15 pounds because of those burgers. To this day, I can still taste them, though. No really. I mean, literally. Sometimes I belch and I'm like, yep, that one tasted like my Sophomore year.

It had to have been the latter half of my Sophomore year - because I'm sure I was driving by then - that I gained about three hours of infamy because of lunch time at school. We had all gotten our Recommended Daily Allowance of grease and mustard from The Cafe and I was finishing up my Diet Coke (oh, the irony) as the bell rang. I tipped the can back as far as it would be and slugged back the last of what was in the can. Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation on my tongue. And the roof of my mouth. And my throat. I coughed. Then I gagged. I coughed some more. It occured to me what had happened. I stopped walking in the midst of the herd of trampling teenagers and loudly screamed, "I JUST SWALLOWED A TRASH BEE!"

What we called "trash bees" are actually yellow jackets. We called them trash bees because they swarmed those outdoor trash cans like crazy. Apparently they liked mustard and hamburger grease as much as we did. The only thing I can figure out is that one of them had wandered inside my soda can while I talked with my friends, languishing in the saccharine-y delights ensconsed within that aluminum can, and when I tipped back the can, it got caught in the deluge and ..... yeah..... I drank it. It fought the good fight, stinging all the way down, but succumbed to the horror of being eaten alive by a 15 year old. My next class was Home Ec, so I ran in, half laughing, half crying, to Mrs. Johnson and told her I was probably going to die soon and could I be excused to call my mom before I expired? She gave me a cup of ice cubes and sent me to the office where I told the secretary and principal the story, all the while my tongue getting larger and larger, my throat getting narrower and more sore. RoseMary called my mom at work who in turn called the family doctor. He advised getting some Benadryl in me ASAP, told her to have me suck on some ice cubes for the swelling and to alert the staff that if I stopped breathing to call an ambulance. Duh. I don't know where the Benadryl came from, but by the time school let out that day at 3:12 my tongue, while still sore and thick feeling, was no longer resembling something out of a sci-fi movie. From then on, I kept my thumb over the opening of my soda can. So did my friends.

By the time I was a Senior, Butterfield's General Store had opened and our menu veritably exploded with variety! We could choose from a hamburger, chicken strips, Frito chili pie, a bowl of chili with cheese, fries and tater tots. And the fountain drinks were aplenty! The second the bell rang after our 4th hours class, we would stampede our the doors and head uptown and invade that teeny tiny store. Some local adults in town were usually there when we arrived, sitting at the bar stools, but we didn't care. We didn't have time to sit, we grabbed our food and ran.

One day the store was particuarly full. Cyndi and I were toward the back of the crowd waiting our turn to order. Another kid in our class, Keeling, was particularly snarky that day and apparently I was particularly cranky. He mouthed off to me, I snapped back at him. He responded by calling me a b*tch. I hauled back and slapped him across the face as hard as I possibly could. The whole entire store went instantly silent as the pink hand print blossomed across his cheek. He blinked a couple of times. I fumed in anger and turned around to wait my turn in line. Eventually people started talking again and a few of the "regulars" sitting at the counter chuckled and looked back at me.

Little did I know that would be the first time my husband would lay eyes on me. He was a skinny red-headed 28 year old, I was a short, overly-emotional 18 year old. He was employed and living on his own. I was a Senior, angry with the world and angry that I had to grow up. We wouldn't meet for nearly another year and a half and it would be another year or so after that before he'd tell me he was in the store that day, sitting at the counter with his friend, Dean, impressed at the attitude and anger I displayed as I waylaid the kid who called me a name.

I'm guessing he liked it.

The End of an Era (part 2)

2011-07-20T17:17:00.000-05:00

I know like, the first rule of blogging is to never apologize for an absence, but I kind of feel like I need to explain my eight-day space between Part 1 and Part 2. See, I am teaching the three- and four-year-olds at Vacation Bible School this week and lemme tell you, they are EXHAUSTING! I am out of practice - especially when you put seven of them in my classroom and two of them cry hysterically when momma leaves every night and all of them have to go potty at the exact same time, which is about every 20 minutes, but man, they are adorable. Then Monday (which was the second day of VBS) I had the church girls at the church for 12:30 until 5:30 for a Girls Day. We cooked and did crafts and talked about school coming up and laughed a lot while we all got frustrated trying to learn to square braid. So see.....I have been a very busy, tired and overworked Diva lately.

Now.... on with the story!

Paul wasn't happy at the rescheduling, but it freed up our weekend to go to Tulsa with some friends for a visit to the Lifeway store and Mardel's and a kid-free dinner. He fretted all weekend, though, and by Monday morning had stewed himself into a tizzy. I told him I'd rather go get my dang tubes tied then listen to him whine another second. I grabbed the phone to cancel the appointment, but thankfully he told me not to. (whew!) At noon he took an Ativan. At 1:00 he took another. At 2:00, another. He kept saying they were faulty and no good because he wasn't relaxed at all. Funny, he kept yawning and eventually fell asleep. I had to wake him up to leave for town. When we got there, the doctor said laughingly he was pretty sure that the wall Paul had stumbled into had actually jumped out in front of him because, yeah, those big tough guys never, ever walk into that office sedated.

I went back with him and asked the nurse a few questions, helped him get into his gown ("Yes, honey, you really do have to remove your underwear. Yes, really."), giggled as he scratched parts previously unshaven, kissed his face, then went to the waiting room to well, wait. At the one hour mark I started to kind of get concerned, but it was just moments later he came through the door, kind of wobbly and grinning. Since he had already told me, "If this hurts, I will never forgive you," I was happy to see him smiling. The nurse said, "He needs his shoes tied. I was going to do it, but he said he was going to make you." The nurse shrugged at me with a confused look on her face. I'm not sure what the thought process was there, but I tied his shoes nonetheless. I guess it just needed to make sense to him. He held his hand out to me, the nurse made sure I had his "goody bag" (pun?) and we began our slow shuffle to the parking lot. About halfway down the ramp outside he stopped. I asked if he was okay. He kind of moved one leg, adjusted himself and said, "You DO know I have an ice pack in my pants, don't you?"

Yes, I was the woman who was literally bent over at the waist in the parking lot of the doctor's building that day, laughing hysterically and gasping for breath. I don't know if it was a release of nervous tension, the way he said it or just the literal thought of an ice pack in my husband's pants that did it, but I just went goofy.

It was 107* in the parking lot when I turned on the van and I was kind of wishing for my own personal ice pack in my pants then.

He got home, I eagerly fetched the bag of frozen peas that had been staring him down from the freezer for a week and wrapped it in a towel. A few nights before I had made peas for dinner and he nearly had a stroke when he saw them on the table. "WHY DID YOU COOK MY PEAS, WOMAN!?!??? THEY WON'T DO ME ANY GOOD COOKED!" I calmly showed him the super special bag of .76 Great Value peas, bought just for him. I wasn't about to let him put the bag of pricey Schwan's peas on his junk. Oh, sorry, I digressed. Anyway, I managed to get him out of his jeans and into a pair of pajama pants, watched as he clumsily stuffed a bag of frozen legumes in his draws and bit my lip trying not to laugh hsyterically again. He fell back into his recliner and closed his eyes as he sighed heavily. I turned to get him a blanket when I heard him slur, "I needtapee." Seriously. After all that.

He wouldn't let me help him up, so he wallered around until he got up and then like a football player with the ball under one arm, he put one shoulder forth and charged for the bathroom. I cringed as I watched him nearly catch one foot on the step up to go down the hall, but he managed to make it without a faceplant. I stood in the hallway, listening for him to hit the wall or for the sound of the shower curtain being pulled down as he fell into the shower, but it didn't happen. Then like he had been shoved by a schoolyard bully, he flew out of the bathroom, hit the wall across from the doorway, bounced off it to the other wall and then laughed at the look on my face. Finally he found his recliner again, got his ice pack replaced and within seconds he was snoring loudly.

It's now been over a week and he's doing great. As far as the vasectomy itself goes, he has had very little discomfort and no side effects. However, Saturday we ended up at Rapid Remedy because he pulled the muscle that attaches to the large tendon in the upper leg, perilously close to the groin. He had actually pulled it before the vasectomy, but then because of the vasectomy his gait changed somewhat to protect the boys, thus pulling it further. But directions to apply heat and take it very easy for the next six weeks and a prescription for muscle relaxers made his boo-boo all better and we have nothin' but blue skies and sterile days ahead.

Hallelujah. I'm considering getting this shirt:

The End of an Era (part 1)

2011-07-12T23:06:00.000-05:00

We have three kids, ages 14, 12 and nine. We are way past bottles, diapers, fussy crying all night, temper tantrums (well, sort of--that teenager can drum up some dramatic stomping on occasion), potty training and having to pack up half the house to make a trip to Walmart. Our kids can all go to the bathroom completely unassisted and just last week Abby drove the van for the first time.

I am 38 years old. Paul is 10 years older than me. It won't be long before I leave my 30's behind and Paul waves good-bye to his 40's. We like where we are right now. Our marriage is stronger than it has ever been, our kids are well-adjusted and self-sufficient and we just love life right now. So for the past few years we've talked about doing something permanent to ensure our nights remain full of sleep -- well, at least until Abby starts dating.

I have had three vaginal births. With Abby I had an epidural that took only on one side. I also got a Badge of Honor by way of an episiotomy with her. With Sam we tried the epidural route again, but he came so fast that by the time the anesthesiologist got it in (after FOUR tries) he was here and I wasn't numb until after he was born. With Kady I didn't have so much as a Tylenol. She was born au naturale. Our very pregnant niece and I were texting the other day and I was telling her that natural childbirth was the way to go. She was not convinced and pointed out that after a completely natural childbirth I haven't done it since. She made a point, although not entirely valid. We really hadn't planned on Kady, so SURPRISE! Baby #3 made her appearance without planning aforethought. Since #3 wasn't planned, we didn't plan on a #4 either.

A few years ago I started the ball rolling to have my tubes tied at the Indian Hospital. Then I chickened out because I thought there might be an eensy weensy chance we might possibly want another baby. But you know, like a bolt from the blue one day we both told the other we didn't want any more babies. And there was a peace there. We were totally okay with it. We felt our family was complete.

I didn't relish the thought of having surgery, albeit of the outpatient variety. I asked Paul to get a vasectomy and he wouldn't even discuss it, so I dropped it. Occasionally I'd bring it up again and every time he would shut me down before I even got started. I don't believe in taking the pill (and couldn't if I wanted to because I have Factor V Leiden), so hey, if the guy wanted to use condoms for the rest of his life I was going to be okay with that. I decided I was going to be stubborn on the issue and apparently he felt the same way. Remember I said Kady is nine. That's a lot of prophylaxis, dudes.

Then out of the blue back in May he off-handedly mentioned a vasectomy and asked a few questions. I wanted to do cartwheels, but instead I answered his questions and shut my mouth. Then The Great Kidney Stone Adventure of 2011 happened (parts one and two chronicled there and there). A few weeks after his dismissal from the hospital he had a follow-up appointment with the urologist. He came out of the doctor's office and I looked up to him from my seat in the waiting room. He grinned and handed me a packet of papers with an appointment card paper clipped to the top. It had his name and a date and time and in the nurse's handwriting across the top it said VASECTOMY.

I'm telling you, I heard angels singing.

He scheduled his week's vacation around V-Day, as we call it around the house. The procedure was supposed to be on Friday, he'd recover over the weekend and by Monday be up and ready to get into mischief all over the place. Then last Thursday, the day before, the receptionist called the house. She asked if he still wanted to have his vasectomy. Uhh....yeah. Well, while she was on vacation they had schedule the doctor in surgery for that Friday and she was having to reschedule everyone. I explained that his vacation had been planned around the blessed event, so the earlier she could get him back on the books, the better. So things were bumped back to Monday (yesterday) at 3pm.

.....to be continued.....

Two Weeks of Sweat and Blessings

2011-07-12T12:52:00.001-05:00

The third week of June my three kids and I packed up half the house and headed to Grand Lake Baptist Assembly in Grove, OK, for a week of Children's Camp. I was going as the girls' sponsor and while Abby was technically too old and Kady was technically too young, Sam was just the right age (this was his last year at Children's Camp, though). My nephew, TotTwo, also went that week. Given my pops' recent health problems I didn't want to burden Mom and Pops with taking care of two extra kids for the week, so Kady went as a "junior camper" and Abby went as a "junior sponsor". We all loaded up my van to nearly bursting and left Paul here to hold down the fort.

All together, including sponsor's kids, we had 11 girls and six boys. Some were from our church, some were from the church whose cabin we were using. The girl's dorm was positively brimming over with estrogen and drama, but what a wonderful group of girls they were! As it has always been, I was the cabin hair stylist, spending a good chunk of every day braiding, French braiding or fishbone braiding someone's hair. I also spent a good deal of time hollering the words "SHUT THE DOOR!" Our pastor, Jerry, and his wife, Nickie, and Melissa, another female sponsor, said it, too, just not with the same volume I did. I definitely had the best lungs in the group. The girls called me Camp Nazi. I took it as a term of endearment whether they meant it that way or not.

There is something positively awe-inspiring in an open-air Tabernacle full of boys and girls singing and clapping and praising God. No matter how many times I go to camp, I will never get over that. Three girls in our cabin accepted Salvation that week. Hallelujah! There was only one truly miserable evening in the Tabernacle when the wind decided to not blow, but the rest of the week was hot, but not too hot. The band was a string trio and the pastor was Royce Railey, a professional bass fisherman who really knew how to get the kids' attention.

Thursday night was the last night in camp and the boys had teased the girls all day about "prank night", so when it came time for bed the girls asked if we could push a bed in front of the door to ensure our safety from all pranky-ness. I had no problem with that at all. I do not enjoy pranks, doing them or being the subject of them. The door securely barricaded, I hollered for lights out and told the girls to get quiet, but they had a problem with the fact that there was SO. MUCH. NOISE. coming from the boys dorm. Considering Jerry and I hadn't really discussed enforcement of lights out or noise reduction that final night I figured well, he's the pastor and followed his lead. I then told the girls I was tired and was going to sleep and as long as they stayed in our dorm and kept the noise to a minimum they didn't have to sleep. They were giggling and talking and bouncing and giggling and giggling and giggling and I was just about to doze off when we heard WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM on the front door of the cabin.

All motion and noise stopped instantaneously. Then again WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM on the door. Immediately girls who were not in their own beds dove for their own in the dark. All I could hear was heavy breathing. I also didn't move because, hey, I was tired and snuggled in. I figured Jerry would answer the door seeing how he's a man and all. Then again with the banging, only seemingly louder this time. The girls started stage whispering "Kristin! Do you hear that?" Well, DUH, girls. I said, "I do, but I'm letting Jerry deal with it. If it's security, he'll smooth it over with them." Quiet reigned once more.

WHAM WHAM WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM!!!!!!!

I was more than perturbed at Jerry for not handling the situation and wasn't at all excited about greeting a security guard at church camp with no bra on, but with the whamming still continuing I didn't have time for a support garment. I had one of the girls help me move the bed blocking the door and out I stomped to the commons area. I flipped on the inside and porch light to see not a security guard, but OUR PASTOR.

No wonder the boys had been so noisy on their side! They were un-chaperoned!

I unlocked the door and opened it to the greeting of "WOMAN! YOU LOCKED ME OUT OF OUR CABIN!"

We both got completely tickled as I told him how he had scared our poor girls nearly to death and how I had begun doubting his chaperoning skills as the noise from the boys dorm grew louder and rowdier as time went on. Ahhh....communication.

We left camp around 9 that Friday morning and took the kids to McDonald's for breakfast. We were bordering on Duggar status escorting that many kids into a fast food restaurant. The boisterousness from the night before had all but dissipated and they ate in relative silence and we adults were thankful for that.

The kids and I got home and dumped all camp laundry into the living floor, divided it into 15 loads and then I started running them all through the shower so they could scrub off a week's worth of dust, grime, goo and sweat without having to wear shower shoes. There is nothing quite like that first post-camp shower. By 5pm I had all but the sheets washed and re-packed because Abby, Sam and I were heading back to camp on Monday for Youth Camp. Kady stayed with Mom and Pops that next week because that first week had just worn her little junior camper self out. Also, knowing the temperatures were forecast to be in the 100's by mid-week, I figured she needed to stay where there was ample air condidtioning.

Monday afternoon we headed back to the cabin and greeted the other sponsors doing a second week with a hearty "WELCOME HOME!" This time we had three boys and five girls in our cabin, some ours, some the other church's- considerably a smaller group than the week before. We were okay with that.

Praise and Worship at Youth Camp is also an even more awe-inspiring event because those youth just get all kinds of crazy with the worship. It thrills my heart to see them abandon "cool-ness" to praise their God holding nothing back. The band was Ryland Russel and his band. A-MAZE-ING group of guys who just knew how to play what the kids (and sponsors) needed in order to worship God. The camp pastor was Eric Hovind, aka Dr. Dino, with Creation Science Evangelism. His mission is to prove God and Creationism and disprove evolution. It was enlightening to say the least. There were times I thought my brain was going the explode from all the information he presented.

One girls accepted Salvation and I am so proud and joyous to say that it was my darling niece, TotOne! Talk about a happy family last week!

The temps soared and kids were sunburned, tired and very, very dirty. Recreation involved blood, sweat and tears and that camp nurse was kept hopping. Most of our kids just hit the pool and tried to stay cool there. It was simply an amazing week. Exhausting....but amazing.

I am so thankful for where I am in life and that I am blessed with the time and ability to take two weeks and go to camp with these kids. They are the future of our churches and they have so much to offer. I get my socks just blessed right off when I'm around them. They are hungry to learn, but also teach me in the process. I am so excited at where our little church is headed and how it is growing! God is so good and loves us so much it's just ..... well, it's just awesome.

A Tasty Trip Down South

2011-06-17T16:48:00.000-05:00

Since Monday I have been trying to reach the Little Debbie factory store in Gentry, AR, because they donate snack cakes to churches doing camps and VBS and such. One of our previous churches had Oatmeal Cream Pies running out our ears from June through December, so we knew it was worth the drive to go. However, no amount of punching the numbers for the Cake Donation Line would get me through to a person. It took my mother calling the number and letting it cycle her through the menu twice before she got fed up and punched zero when it said, "If this is an emergency please press zero to speak to a person." I guess the prospect of not getting free snack cakes sometimes merit emergency procedures. The security guy she spoke to gladly transferred her to the donation guy who said we were the 134th church that had asked for donations this year. And it said it kind of not nice. Now, here's the way I look at it: If you give donations, lovely and thank you so much. If you no longer wish to give donations or choose to cut your donations after the 4,000th Swiss Roll, so be it, just politely tell people you have given your alottment for the year. There's no need to be hateful, Little Debbie Dude. Then when Mom said we needed snacks for 60 people he sighed annoyedly (Is that a word? Eh. Who cares if it isn't.) and said, "That's not even a case, ma'am." Mom said, "Okay, make it 100." Another sigh. "That's not even worth your drive." Mom said, "Okay, then I'll take more." He harumphed and said, "Well, sure. Everyone will take more!" My mom, being the darling she is, just said syruppy sweetly, "Sir, after church camp we will have Vacation Bible School and you know what, 300 would suit us just fine!"

This morning the kids and I left the house around 8 to drive the hour and a half it would take to get to the hills of Arkansas to pick up our 300 servings of Little Debbie goodness. I figured they'd give us some pumpkin rolls with persimmon icing or something after Mr. Crankypants' attitude yesterday, but hey, they're free and kids at camp will eat pretty much anything, so on we went.

The girls didn't even get dressed for the occasion and chose to travel in their pj's. Abby even took her pillow and slept most of the way. Sam sat in the front seat with me and we chatted and talked excitedly about camp and summer and the sleepover he's attending tonight and how I am totally jealous he's going to see Green Lantern without me. The road went from nice, wide highway to narrow, winding and scary. I didn't say anything, but I'm sure the folks who were following me were saying things. About my driving. And possibly my momma. One particular curve sent Sam grabbing for the armrest and sent Abby sitting bolt upright. Kady just went, "WHEEEEEEE!"

It was just as we crossed the state line into Arkansas a radio commercial came on with background music of a more hillbilly persuasion than we are used to. Sam reached over the touched my arm and whispered, "Drive faster, Momma. I hear banjos." That sent us three girls into a laughing fit like no other. We also passed Connie's House of Products which made us all howl with laughter. What a name. Not "House of Amazing Bargains" or "House of Stuff You'll Put in a Garage Sale Next Summer" or even "House of Awesome", but simply "House of Products". I guess it's up to you to decide what kind of adjective to put on those products.

When we got to Gentry we found the store easily enough, drove to the back of the store, backed in and I got out to ring the buzzer. I was standing facing the buzzer, waiting for someone to come out of the building I had just rung. Instead some dude with a perm came up behind me and said this very startling, low "Hellllllo". I nearly wet myself right there in Gentry, Arkansas. He ushered me into the little storage building and asked who I was with. I said told him and he said, "Wow, are you Baptists congregating somewhere next week? I have seven Baptist churches picking up stuff today! I've never seen the likes of it!" I just said, "Oh you know Baptists, we like to eat." He wasn't amused. I refrained from any further Baptist jokes, such as those regarding dancing. I just loaded up my 300 units of cakey goodness, thanked him and got the heck out of there.

Of course, any town that has a Sonic in it has to be visited by me and mine and after a sweet tea, Powerade slush, Dr. Pepper and a Coke we headed back to Oklahoma. We stopped in Grove in search of a store a friend told me sold henna because the kids wanted tattoos before church camp, (Yes, I know. No, we really are Baptist. Really.) but the guy was out and will be for two weeks, so we came back home henna-less. Never fear, though.....I own a whole bunch of Sharpie markers in various shades, so they will go to camp with semi-permanent tattoos after all. No, they won't last as long as henna, but they'll do for now.

Bub's Not of This World ink

I think my next tattoo will be on the inside of my wrist (much to my mother's horror), so I'm playing with various designs until I decide on something. My kids' initials in birth order spell ASK, so I'm trying to work that into something. Kady wants an ice cream cone. I am so glad 9 year olds can't really get tattoos. Imagine her being 87 years old with an ice cream cone tattooed to the inside of her wrinkly ol' age-spotted arm. Of course, unless I get a boob lift soon, that ladybug on my chest is going to morph into a caterpillar in a decade or so.

Squished

2011-06-13T17:01:00.000-05:00

As far as I know, no one in my family has ever had breast cancer, but still, I am a staunch supporter of awareness and early detection and I preach it to my daughters, sister and mother. So back in November when I went to the Indian Clinic for my yearly well-woman exam, two months shy of my 38th birthday, I knew she was likely going to suggest a baseline mammogram. And sure enough, she did. And today I was mammogrammed for the very first time and I lived to tell the tale.

I had a scare a few years ago when I discovered a lump in my breast and upon a clinical exam, the PA discovered a matching one in the other breast. There I laid on the table, topless, trying to catch my breath as I listened to her say "There's another one." Instantly I went into panic mode, but...turns out, a matching set is not a bad thing. She said identical lumps in both breasts usually indicate normal hormonal changes in a woman's body - or excessive caffeine intake. Well, I've been in perimenopause for about three years now so that explained any hormonal changes and I used to drink so much caffeine my sister swore if I died no one would discover it for a week because it would take that long for the caffeine to run through my system and my body to stop moving. I think I hummed I had so much flowing through my veins. So magically, a drastic increase in my water intake and dramatic decrease in my caffeine intake made me far less lumpy.

I have had no anxiety about the impending mammogram whatsoever, even after having to reschedule it three times - once because of the blizzard, once because I had a horrible stomach virus and the third time because they were upgrading their mammogram "suite" to all new digital technology. I hear women all the time talk about how horrible mammograms are and how they are just awful experiences, but I look at them the same way I do pelvic exams. No, I don't want to do one every day and they are not the most pleasant thing I've ever experienced, but they are absolutely necessary and both could possibly save my life. And I have a lot to live for.

Paul has been teasing me for the past week, telling me he would help me prepare by slamming my breasts in the refrigerator door, but I declined. I figure it's one of those tests you really don't cram for. Pun kind of intended.

Because I am one of the many uninsured in this great nation, I utilize the Indian Health Services for preventative care and when I'm so sick I can no longer treat myself at home with Benadryl, Tylenol and a heating pad, so the mammogram was done at the Claremore Indian Hospital, a place I've never had reason to go to until today. I text my friend, Stace, last night asking for the best directions considering she out-Indians me by about .... well, a lot. (I'm 1/128 Cherokee and she's about all Seneca-Cayuga.) She text me the directions and between her directions and my untrusty Garmin, who thrives on getting me lost, I made it about 30 minutes before my appointment time. They suggested 40 minutes, but there was construction on the turnpike so I was running behind. I walked into the building and was instantly overhwelmed.

I was just about the only white woman there. And there were a LOT of people there. I walked up to a woman in what looked like a bullet-proof cubicle and waited while she had a cheery conversation about her daughter's babysitter or something and acted incredibly put out that I was speaking to her. She told me to check in at Registration. Great. Now, where was Registration..... I finally decided the cubicles (more bulletproof shields) was the blessed Registration and stood in line until it was my turn. Fortunately, the girl who checked me in was incredibly nice and made me feel less overwhelmed. She checked me in and directed me to x-ray. I waited in line to check in there and when she had me checked in, I asked her where the nearest restroom was. A pot of coffee at home and a bottle of water combined with the newness of being in a building I had never been to before had me a little....anxious. The woman cocked her head and gave me a funny look as she said, "Hmm....well, I think there's one on the other side of this horseshoe.....and there may be some down another hall....oh, but wait.....they're not using those....." and with that dismissed me and my needy bladder to sit down and wait.

I immediately sent a text to Stace and told her I really had to pee and would likely have an embarrassing accident when the squishing began if I didn't find a restroom. God bless that woman, she called me and walked me through the building to a restroom. I love her a very much lot.

I sat in the waiting area across from two women in their 50's who were utterly jubilant over their mammograms and had scheduled them for the same day and made a whole event out of it. Shopping would ensue afterwards. They were adorable. Shortly my name was called and I was taken back to the mammogram suite. The woman had me address two envelopes to myself, sign and date a paper and then told me to step behind the screen and get all topless. Now, by this point I was still not nervous about the scan itself, but worried that my lack of deodorant was going to offend the poor woman who would soon get to know me very well. The information letter said not to wear deodorant, so I complied. Apparently I could've worn it and then removed it with the moist towelettes provided, but you know me, all rule follow-y and stuff. I slipped on the little vest which could've certainly used some bedazzling or at least an applique of some sort and stepped from behind the screen, stifling a giggle as I envisioned the Great and Mighty Oz in the mammogram suite. Pay no attention to the topless woman behind the screen!

The woman was very business-like and told me she was going to put some stickers on my nipples for identification purposes. I again stifled a giggle because I never thought of my nipples needing identification. I haven't ever given them names or anything. My friend, Tanya, warned me of the stickers and said she nearly lost nipples that way and had cautioned me to only secure one edge for the safety of the sisters. Fortunately, the woman merely applied two adorable Hello Kitty bandaids and I breathed a sigh of relief that my nipples would live to see another day.

She explained the procedure, that she would do the scan horizontally and then at an angle, that the scan might be uncomfortable, but shouldn't be painful and if I had any questions to feel free to ask at any point during the process. It wasn't bad, ladies. Like I said in the first paragraph, I wouldn't want to do it every day, but it wasn't bad at all. She was very good at her job and I wouldn't have it for all the money in the world. She handled my girls in ways I'm not even sure my husband has. I only got the giggles once and that was when she was trying to move the upper plate into place to begin pressing, but the position I was in my other one kind of got in the way. I had to ....ahem....shift things to right the wrong and she chuckled which made me giggle. It didn't hurt. It wasn't all that uncomfortable really. I guess if I had to say it was anything, it could be mildly embarrassing if you're a modest person, but obviously the people who do mammographies for a living don't think twice about your breasts once you walk out the door, so to me embarrassment wasn't an issue. I mean, I guess if yours are particularly dazzling or something, they might mention them to their husband at dinner time - "Hey, Fred, you should've seen the boobies I handled today!" - but I'd say most women's average boobs are very unimpressive to a technician who handles three sets an hour for an eight-hour shift.

When she was done, the technician congratulated me on surviving my first mammogram and told me to help myself to anything in the basket on my way out. I removed the Hello Kitty bandaids, got dressed and helped myself to a pink ink pen, a pink mint, a sheet of SBE (self breast exam) stickers AND a packet of seeds that will grow - you guess it - pink flowers.

And my mother-in-law, who had watched the kids while I went to my appointment, turned about 67 shades of pink when I got home and told her the kids' and my project for the day was to go plant flower seeds in honor of my breasts out in the yard.

So ladies, go get squished.

I promise you, you will survive your first mammogram

-- and you, too, have a lot to live for.

A Scary Week

2011-05-28T13:30:00.000-05:00

Sunday after church we came home to eat a bite of lunch then drove into town to an auction Mom was working. The kids wanted to go to Joplin to shop, but thank God Paul and I both felt that with the weather being iffy and storms forecasted to move in that evening we decided not to. We are totally big chickens when it comes to weather and don't stray too far from the 'fraidy hole when we know it's likely to get bad. We didn't even go to church that night, however Mom and Dad did. I called her while they were driving toward the church (which is about 2.5 miles from our house) and said, "Keep your phone on silent if you need to, but keep it where you can see it go off. I will text you if we go under any warnings. It takes less than five minutes to get here, so be ready." She assured me she would, but seeing as how she thinks I'm a nervous Nelly with weather I figured she wouldn't heed my warnings.

Paul and I had the kids pack their 'nader bags and put them underground, then we settled in to watch the storms roll in. We were watching the local NBC affiliate when the tornado warning for Joplin was issued and were also watching the tower cam when the tornado appeared on the screen seemingly unbeknownst to even the newscasters on the air live. They were showing graphics of tornado safety tips and the radar, but when they popped it over to the tower cam even they were feeling the same shock and awe we were as we saw a HUGE tornado hitting the city of Joplin. We could see the flashes as it took out power poles. We all five sat in horror and watched it slowly destroy everything in its path. I happened to be on the phone with Sis, who lives in Yukon, OK, and I kept saying, "You don't understand! It's happening RIGHT NOW! Even Jeremiah Cook and Caitlin McCardle didn't know it was there and THEY'RE THE METEOROLOGISTS!" She hung up with me to call her ex because he was on his way back here to Miami with my niece and nephew at the time. They weren't in danger, but she wanted him to be aware of what was going on.

Our NOAA radio was about to wear itself out it was going off over and over with various t-storm watches and warnings, followed by tornado warnings right and left. I text Mom and told her it was getting bad and we were going to the cellar. I was on Facebook and saw where someone said there was a tornado on the ground in Fairland. We are about five miles north of Fairland. That was when I called Mom. In church. She answered in a whisper and I said, "WHERE ARE YOU?" She said, "Hudson Creek. At church. Why?" I said, "Mom, I just heard there is a tornado on the ground in Fairland. Y'all need to take cover NOW." Mom interrupted the preacher and told him. He said, "Oh. Okay, well, we should probably stop what we're doing then." About that time a first responder's radio went off and he ran out the door. He came back in moments later and said the tornado was in Ketchum, not Fairland, so the threat was somewhat less, but still imminent. They prayed and dismissed. Mom and Dad came here right after we came up from the cellar. We went in the house and watched in horror as the first pictures from Joplin started coming in.

Mike Bettes, with the Weather Channel, has been doing his Great Tornado Hunt this past week and drove into Joplin on the heels of the devastating twister. When a seasoned, veteran meterologist is rendered speechless and cries shamelessly on camera surveying the devastation and horror you know it's bad. We sat and cried as we saw the town we knew so well was now completely unrecognizeable. The surreality of it was stunning.

Monday we woke up to rain and the rain wouldn't stop. It rained so hard our main pond here at the ranch overflowed its banks and then some. Our driveway washed out to where I wasn't sure my van wouldn't get lost in it. Sam was supposed to go to basketball camp that morning, but his coach called me to see what I thought and also reassured me that they would take the kids to the safe room at the slightest hint of anything severe. It eased my mind and I decided to go ahead and take him. Then about 30 minutes later as I'm running my three kids and Conner to the cellar because there is rotation over my house, I text Coach and said we wouldn't be there. He already had kids in the safe room. By noon, the severe threat was over, however the rain just kept coming. I decided to go ahead and send Kady to the afternoon girls session of basketball camp and Sam stayed with her. At 12:30 the water was over our dirt road, but still passable. By 2:30 when Abby, Conner and I left the house to pick them up it was so high it was up the bottoms of the van doors. I called Paul and said, "You should probably come home as soon as you can. We're going to be flooded in soon." I turned out onto the highway and made it nearly a mile to the low water bridge and watched a car stall out trying to go through. I turned around and made a frantic call to my mother: "MY KIDS ARE IN FAIRLAND AND I CANNOT GET TO THEM!!" She tried to direct me down other dirt roads, but my van sits so low I didn't dare chance anything. I called Chad, Conner's daddy, and asked if he could get to the kids. He said he could and that he thought he could get through the low water bridge, too, seeing as how he drives a big ol' Dodge. Paul called to say he was in his Thunderbird and could I call Chad to see if he could wait for him, too? Poor Chad ran a taxi service that day, ferrying wandering Hoovers home. The Highway Department closed the low water bridge just as they got there and after an hour and a half of driving around trying to find passable roads, they made it here.

Miami canceled school the following day because of the widespread flooding and threat of severe weather the following day (Tuesday). By morning we were completely flooded in, so Courtney couldn't have made it anyway. Paul couldn't get out to go to work. By noon the rain had stopped, allowing the water to recede enough that we could get back into Fairland to pick up Paul's car, so we took Kady to afternoon ball camp and Paul spent the afternoon repairing our poor driveway while Abby, Sam and I put as much valuable stuff as we could fit into the cellar. We've made many a run to the ol' 'fraidy hole, but this past Tuesday was the first day I put baby pictures, the deed to the house and other important documents down there. I went to Paul and said, "The box isn't that big and if you think there is room, can you help me put the box of the kids' baby pictures in the cellar?" He got a mischievous grin on his face and started to make a joke. Then I busted into tears and said, "Paul, I'm scared. Please don't." He grabbed my hand and said, "Baby, go get the box. We'll get those pictures underground." We were completely and fully prepared to be blown away. The anticipation was horrible and I clenched my jaw so hard all day I was pretty sure my teeth were in danger of breaking. After picking Kady up from camp we just sat and waited, flipping the TV back and forth between local channels and TWC.

They closed the Canadian County courthouse early, which is where Tater works. She and her husband work in El Reno and live in Yukon and had planned to ride out the storm in their guest bathroom, but as they saw it making a path for El Reno they decided to head into the City where they rode out the storms in an underground parking garage. El Reno was hit and five were killed.

Back in the old days you ran for cover from the tornado when you saw it lifting off the neighbor's cows and silo, today we are given 24 hours warning, which is by all means a good thing, but still nerve-wracking. We went down into the cellar twice that night. Fortunately the storms didn't hit here like they did around us. Welch got some wicked winds, Grove had some tornados over the lake, but we managed to get by with some minor rain, moderate winds and not even a single hail stone. Praise God!

Today Paul is in Joplin helping some of his family's family empty what's left of their elderly uncle's house. The man is 97 years old and the house is demolished. The things left inside have been subject to theft the past few days. They are working furiously to empty what they can to keep the heartless looters away. I don't understand how people can be so low and I try to focus on the good I've seen coming to Joplin rather than the scammers and looters and heartless evildoers who plan to picket the town for their "wickedness" that caused the tornado. I try to think about the Tide Loads of Hope truck, the Duracell truck, the fact that Sam's Club is allowing anyone to shop there without membership, about the $1 million each that Home Depot, Walmart and Tamko Industries has donated to the cause, the KC Chiefs players who are clearing yards, the little girl in Texas who is sending her own personal belongings to Joplin, the doctors, nurses, firefighters, police officers and volunteers who are working tirelessly.

I pray and praise God in the midst of it all. I am very detached from it really, and everyone says seeing it in person is so much worse than what you see on TV and the internet. I hug my kids a little tighter. I am thankful. I am sad. I am proud. I am hopeful.

Stoner (Part 2)

2011-05-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

I made it to the hospital that Thursday morning by about 5 after 7, kissed my swollen and puffy husband's face then settled in with my iPod to partake of free WiFi while we waited for the Surgery nurses, also known to kidney stone patients as Angels of Mercy. Paul told me he had had a bad two hours during the night when the stone was trying to move again and he maxed out on pain meds and commenced to doing the Funky Chicken all over the room. His nighttime nurse was a Godsend and he said he's forever grateful to her. It must've been bad.

It was after 8 when the two gals from surgery came up, got his IV unhooked from the pump, put his cute little bootie socks on his feet and it was just as she pushed the Versed in his veins to make him a little groggy before they took him downstairs they realized he still had his Bermuda shorts on under his gown. (Dude is a little bit modest and said he didn't like his "junk" out there all flappin' in the breeze, so he wore his underwears and Bermudas under his gown. He is just precious.) The girls kind of giggled and said, "We'll step behind the curtain so you can slip everything off." I stepped over to the side of the bed to hold his IV line out of the way and quickly realized my husband was absolutely 100% drunk out of his ever-lovin' MIND already. We're talkin' like two minutes. I gently moved his hands from the zipper where he was trying to repeatedly unzip his already unzipped shorts and kept saying, "Come on, honey. Help me out here." I heard giggling from behind the curtain. I was not amused. Okay, I was kind of amused. I said, "Uhm....girls.....he's plumb goofy, could I get some help?" Just more giggles. So finally after several more minutes of me trying to get him to lift his rump I managed to get the Bermudas off him. I left the underwear for the team of professionals downstairs. I figured they were getting paid the big bucks, let them lift his rump from that point on.

I kissed his forehead and gathered my things from around the room and went down to the surgery waiting room. I checked what was going on around Facebook, glimpsed quickly at Twitter, but it was reading Testify Blog that soothed me and passed the time for me without nerves. About 30 minutes after they took him I saw Dr. Stout come around the corner. He sat down next to me and bluntly said, "I couldn't get it." I love this guy. Most of the time when you see him he looks like Paul Bunyan, usually with a full beard and a lot of hair (on his head and all over his body) and sometimes he wears flannel. In the office. He played the oldest brother, Ruben, in the local little theater's production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat a few weeks ago. He's just an all-around neat guy. So there he was in his surgery scrubs, sitting in the chair next to me like we were old friends catching up, all relaxed and laid back, explaining that the stone was too high, as he had thought it might be, while I sat on the edge of my seat in horror that this ordeal was not over yet. He also said that the kidney they thought was fine and not blocked, was indeed blocked and when he placed the stent....well, I shan't describe it here as he described it to me. Suffice it to say....YUCK and EWWWW. Then he reminded me that he was leaving the following afternoon for Boston and wasn't going to be in town until early the next week. Oh the tears that wanted to spill at that moment.

He said, "I can send him home with that stent in place and we can schedule a lithotripsy (where they bust up the stone with sound waves) for when I get back if that's okay with you." Well, I had no choice, huh? I nodded dumbly and looked at my hands, feeling helpless and worried and knowing that Paul was not going to do well in that scenario. Dr. Stout patted me on the leg and told me I could go on upstairs and wait for Paul there. As I gathered my things, I glanced down at my iPod where the post on Testify I had been reading had quoted the old hymn I recall Tennessee Earnie Ford singing when I was kid, "It Is Well With My Soul". I blinked back the tears, took a deep breath and as I walked the long hallway toward the elevators I prayed. God, you are in control of this. You are the Great Physician and I can't worry any more. You have this. I know it. Paul is in the palm of Your hand and You are in control. It truly is well with my soul.

And I made it to that empty hospital room with a renewed spirit and no worry. And moments after I sat down in that hard-backed chair to await my Prince Charming the room phone rang. The nurse aide came screeching into my room hollering, "ANSWER THAT! ANSWER THAT! IT'S DR. STOUT!" I said hello with trepidition - had something happened to Paul in those few short moments between then and now? I pushed the thought away and listened as Dr. Stout told me he had called Oklahoma City, pleaded the case, arranged for them to send the mobile lithotripsy unit up the following morning and the procedure was scheduled for 8am. There would be no waiting the weekend, no dismissal to home with the stone still there, no having to wonder if another urologist was available in Dr. Stout's absence.

Talk about God's favor!

I took Paul a long time to come around what with him being a sedation lightweight and all and as he had when he had his EGD procedure back in March, he had some temporary amnesia and asked me questions over and over and over. It's cute at first. It gets less cute after you answer the same question for the 27th time. He was groggy and nauseated, in a lot of pain and just generally grumpy when it finally hit him that the stone had not been rolled away, so to speak. He refused to eat that day. He was depressed. Peeing was excruciating for him. Watching him under all of it was excruciating for me. He had a lot of pain medication in him. He was intensely nauseated. They were pumping the IV fluids in him like crazy and there was very little output. He swelled up like a poisoned pup.

I went home that afternoon to get the kids off the bus, let them re-pack their bags for another school night sleepover at Gram's and said I'd take them to Sonic after going to see Daddy. Abby caught me off to the side as soon as we walked in the hospital room and said, "Why does Daddy look like that? Why is his face so FAT?" That had to be startling and I assured her he was fine, just retaining a lot of fluids, like PMS on steroids. She giggled. They visited with him for awhile, then hunger got the best of them. After kisses good-bye we headed to Sonic. As I puilled in my father called and said the storms headed our way looked bad, to get the kids to shelter and forget Sonic. Yeah.....no. They needed food and Sonic is fast and close to Mom's. We made it to Mom's, flipped on the TV, watching the radar show the storm go around us. Mom and Dad were eating dinner and with the weather iffy I decided not the leave the kids alone. I took that time to put my feet up since they were swollen from sitting in that dang hard backed chair for two days.

Dad dropped Mom off at the house and headed up to see Paul and take him some magazines. I loved on my babies awhile longer, visited with Mom and then headed to the hospital myself. He was in the shower when I got there and seemed to be feeling better, probably knowing the end was near and he was 12 mere hours away from relief. I went home again that night to sleep alone, no Little Joe to protect me from the big, bad coyotes and panthers and bobcats out here in the woods, but I was so exhausted Fitty could've waltzed in and hacked me to bits without me ever knowing.

I was back to the hospital by 7 the next morning, things were very delayed and x-ray didn't come get him until after 8. They had no sooner gotten him in the elevator the anesthesiologist walked in. He looked around with a confused look on his face and said, "Uhm.....your husband? He would be.......where?" When I said x-ray had just taken him he said, "Come on, we'll go catch him" and whisked me off to the surgery elevator. We missed him by moments and waited patiently outside the x-ray room door. The anesthesiologist also laughed when he said he was only giving Paul a half dose of Versed this time since he was hit pretty hard by the full dose the day before. I rolled my eyes and said, "Don't I know. You ought to have been the one trying to take off his shorts while the surgery nurses laughed at you behind a curtain! That's blog material for sure!" He laughed then assured me he would take good care of him and headed for the OR. I got to kiss Paul's face before the other surgery guy (far less giggling from him) whisked him away, I met Dad in the hallway and we waited together this time. The hour and 15 minute wait was made far easier with him being there.

Finally Dr. Stout made his grand appearance with specimen cup in hand. He showed us a stone fragment that had already passed when the stent had been removed. It was about the width of an unsharpened pencil lead. Ow. He said he had also managed to bust up some of the stones that were in the proper position in the left kidney, thus hopefully eliminating a few episodes in the future. I thanked him for all his string-pulling, mad stone removal skillz and wished him safe travels on his road trip to Boston.

And thanked God the ordeal was over. And praised him for his goodness and mercy and healing.

Paul was awake, alert and HUNGRY when he got back to the room this time. The nurse aide brought him a sandwich because it was still and hour and a half until lunch trays would be there. He ate and acted more like himself than he had in four days. And he ate part of the lunch on his tray when it got there. He put on his Sooner pajama pants and OSU hat - he is an enigma, that man - and said he was ready to go HOME.

By 2pm we were heading home with three prescriptions for antibiotics, pain and nausea meds. Our kids were insanely happy we were both there when they got off the bus that time. We were, too.

____________________________

Fast forward to yesterday, one week after dismissal: Paul passsed SIX stones/fragments yesterday. They were all about the size of a match head. He never even knew he'd passed them until he saw them in the urinal. Talk about God's favor again. I can't fathom trying to pass something that size.

Sweet tea has not touched his lips since and he says it never will again. I doubt that. I mean, we live in Oklahoma, for cryin' out loud, that stuff is everywhere. He's been drinking a lot of water and since he heard lemonade helps to etch stones that are already formed, thus reducing them in size, he drinks a LOT of lemonade. Hey, I guess whatever floats his boat. Or his stones.

Stoner (Part 1)

2011-05-17T21:59:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago Paul came about *this close* to rupturing a disk in his back. It was awful. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard Sam say "She's in the shower. Okay, okay, I'll get her." My 12 year old son with eyes squeezed tightly shut, hand over his closed eyes and while holding the phone as far away from himself as possible slipped the phone through the bathroom door and said, "It's Dad." I grabbed the phone with my dripping hand, said hello and was greeted with the soft, panting voice (no, not that kind of soft, panting voice) of my husband saying, "You've *pant* got to *pant* come out here *pant* and help *pant* me. NOW. *pant*" I said, "Well, I'm dripping wet, I'll be out there as fast as I can! Where are you?" He replied with "*pant* The carport *pant*" and hung up.

I threw my shorts and shirt on while still drippy, squeezed excess water out of my hair and ran out the back door fully expecting to find my husband missing an arm or his leg bent awkwardly out behind him since the last time I had seen him earlier was as he flew down the driveway on a four-wheeler. I wasn't looking forward to what I thought I was going to see. Instead I just found him kind of bent over at the waist beside the lawnmower. He slowly turned his head toward me and said, "I threw out my back." My initial reaction was that I wanted to laugh, but then fortunately I caught myself as I realized he was really hurting. It took about 15 minutes, but we slowly, and I mean slowwwwwwwwwwwly, got him straightened up and I walked him in the house.

Three days of missed work, four chiropractor visits and a metric ton of ibuprofen and he finally felt like a human again.

Fast forward to 2am this past Tuesday morning. A tote fell off the cedar chest at the foot of our bed. I got up, put it back up and crawled back in bed. I had just settled in and felt Paul get up. He said, "My stomach's cramping" and kind of staggered sleepily out of the room. I figured there was nothing I could help him with there and promptly went back to sleep. About 45 minutes later I was awakened to him shaking the bed violently and saying, "Kristin, you've got to get up now and help me. I'm hurtin'. Bad." I grabbed my glasses and followed him to the living room where he took up pacing as he apparently had been doing for the previous 45 minutes while I snoozed away.

It was the dreaded kidney stone.

In 2008 he passed five of the little buggers and he recognized the pain of them moving all too well. Three years ago he was admitted to the hospital and was scheduled for basket retrieval surgery the following morning at 6am only to pass them all a few hours later.

Not so much this time.

I text his boss and told her he would not be coming in and what was going on. I rummaged around in the cabinet until I found the blessed bottle of Vicodin from three years ago knowing they were expired, but also knowing the dude needed some relief. At 5:30 I got up to start my day having not gone back to sleep.

He felt fine during the day that day (Tuesday), achey and sore on the side where the stone was, but not the horrible pain he had felt during the night. He figured the stone had dropped into his bladder and it was just a matter of passing it from there so he got down in the floor to put together a new ceiling fan for our bedroom. The crawling and squatting and bending got the stone moving again and within 30 minutes he was begging to be shot. I instead suggested the emergency room and while he insisted a bullet would've been better, he agreed to the hospital. Mom and Dad couldn't get there quick enough for his taste, so we left the two younger kids in Abby's care and headed for Vinita, about 25 minutes away. There was a little girl with an ice pack on her arm ahead of us, so Paul took to pacing the floor. When he was finally called back to Triage the nurse and I struck up a conversation which included the game of "Don't I Know You From Somewhere?" and "Man, You Look Awful Familiar". Paul was not amused and kept giving me looks that essentially conveyed that I was heartless and shouldn't be allowed to continue living.

Two shots of Demerol and a shot of Morphine landed him on a heart monitor and oxygen because apparently they were concerned at the amount of drugs they were having to give him to even give him any semblance of relief. After the Morphine he finally quit doing the Funky Chicken all over the bed and settled down enough they could take him to CT where they announced he was the proud owner of a 5mm stone which was in the ureter and was certainly considered "passable". 20 minutes later the doctor came back in and said that upon further perusal of the films the stone was 7mm and right on the border of "passable" and "no way in Hell that baby is coming out on its own." He also announced there were six more stones in the left kidney and three more in the right which means we have the fabulous opportunity of potentially going through this NINE MORE TIMES. By 11pm the doctor was writing dismissal papers and said to drink until his eyeballs floated and if the pain came back and we couldn't control it at home to go to either Grove or Miami hospital because both of those hospitals have urologists and they didn't.

I didn't watch Conner that next day (Wednesday) considering neither of us had slept in two nights and he was still in pain and couldn't stop throwing up. By the time the kids got home he was pacing the floor and cursing, asking for a bullet in between barfing into a trashcan and draping himself over various pieces of furniture. At one point told Kady her voice was so annoying he couldn't stand hearing another thing from her mouth. Fortunately it didn't break her sensitive little heart and she didn't cry. She knew her daddy was hurtin' bad. I told the kids to pack an overnight bag and called Mom and said I was bringing them to her and we were headed to the ER. We dropped them off and he staggered into the ER where fortunately we didn't have to wait long to be triaged and sent to a room. More Morphine and Zofran for the nausea and the doctor said he was sending him home. Paul nearly started crying. He was exhausted from the pain and the vomiting, he was so dehydrated they had to stick him five times (after having stuck him seven the first time in the ER at the other hospital) and he just wanted some relief. I called and texted my best prayer warriors and put them on mercy-prayer detail - we needed favor in the form of a sympathetic ER doc and urologist.

It helps that the local urologist is a stone producer as well.

Another CT scan to see if the stone had moved in the past 24 hours (it hadn't considering it was the size of Manhattan) and the ER doc came in and said, "I can send you home with oral pain meds and we'll see if you pass this thing in a day or two or you can be admitted and Dr. Stout can do a basket retrieval procedure in the morning." We both at the same time said, "Admit!" Dr. Stout, the urologist, came by to see him while he was still in the ER and said the stone was kind of high, but he would try his best to retrieve it. By 8:30 he was being wheeled upstairs to his room where my sweet, exhausted husband just wanted to sleep. I went home around 10:30 that night to sleep and was so tired I just knew that no howling coyotes or even Fitty coming to hack me into itty bitty bits was going to keep me awake.

I finally fell asleep at nearly 1am. I was up by 5 to be back in there by 7 because the surgery was scheduled for 8. I was running on fumes and about eight hours sleep in three nights.

To be continued......

I Got Nothin'

2011-04-30T15:46:00.000-05:00

If there was some way to remove my eyeballs from their sockets, rinse them under water to remove the dastardly pollen that is making them utterly unbearable, then replace them -- all without harm, I would totally do it.

Abby's been babysitting by herself for a few months now, but I still can't leave the kids home alone with her in charge.

I love green pepper steak, fajitas and even stuffed bell peppers, but please do not insult me by putting green bell pepper on my pizza. It is disgusting.

I did not watch the royal wedding. I have seen two pictures from it. It interests me not. Kate is gorgeous and anyone who has a sister named Pippa is absolutely rocktacular, but yeah.....they got married. I'm more excited about my sister Bettie's wedding and my friend Melinda's daughter's wedding in the next few weeks.

My girls are gone for the day so I have shut myself up in the bedroom by myself with the iPod, laptop, a big glass of water, eyedrops for my itchy eyes and about 14 pillows -- all of this in an attempt to distract myself from the noise of my husband and son playing Call of Duty: Black Ops. So. Much. Gunfire.

Sally Kern is embarrassing.

Every time I go see my town's little theater productions I miss the stage so badly it hurts. Yet I can't quite get to where I can audition. I guess when they do "Hairspray" I'll audition for Edna Turnblad. Or maybe Ursula the sea witch if they do Disney's Little Mermaid. There are just so few acting opportunites for fat bottom girls.

My daughter called me "Emo Mom" yesterday. I liked that.

We planted tomato plants the other day. I held the plants in my lap on the way home, so I'm pretty sure they'll die. I can't grow anything but kids. And mildew in my shower.

I am completely and 100% addicted to Words With Friends. Seriously.
Start a game with me: RedneckDiva.

We have a new TV. A big TV. I still can't get over the fact that now every show looks like a soap opera. Does that make sense? Soap operas always look like stage plays, not like movie sets or other TV show sets. Soaps always look different. But now SUV looks like All My Children and it's weirding me out.

If there is something you'd like me to write/blog about please leave a comment. My dearest Library Lady has requested a post about Disney World and everything involved with planning a trip there and one of these days I'll get around to it. Of course, vacation season will be over by the time I get to it, but I will regardless.

I have no idea why the writer's block continues to plague me. I'm frustrated. I sat down one day and blasted out two stories for my column at WelchOK and two weeks ago I wrote the last one I posted here.....and that's it. I am pathetically uninspired. Maybe if you give me topics it will help. Maybe.

The only good things about this time of year are flip flops and storms.

The heat, the bugs, the humidity, the pollen, the spiders, the ticks....they all suck.

Words With Friends, "RedneckDiva", find me, play me. It's pretty much guaranteed you will beat me, so what are you waiting for?

The Storm's A Comin' and Facebook Can't Help You Now

2011-04-15T11:03:00.001-05:00

It is April and I live in Oklahoma. This can only mean one thing: I live in a perpetual state of heightened meterological awareness. In other words, I am absolutely cuckoo bird crazy and carry my NOAA weather radio around petting it lovingly and calling it "My presshhhhhhhhusssss" and never take my shoes off and when I hear an actual train I am convinced it is indeed a twister coming down the plains until I hear it blow its horn.

Yeah.

I am not frightened of these storms, no. I am obsessive. There is a difference. The main one being: I probably need medication.

For two days now I have been checking the NOAA website many, many times a day, watching The Weather Channel expectantly like I was expecting eaglets to hatch (Why yes, I have been watching those Illinois eagles hatch their baby birds, why do you ask?) and gathering a small pile of irreplaceable items and papers to stash underground in the cellar. Yesterday morning I woke with this feeling in my guts, like I was suddenly seven years old again and it was Christmas morning and I was absolutely certain that Santa had indeed brought me a Malibu Barbie just like I had asked.

The casino was scheduled to begin their weekly employee golf outings that evening at 5, but Paul moped around while getting ready for work because I kept hollering from the bathroom things like, "WOOHOO We're up to a SEVEN on the Tor:Con!" and "BASEBALL SIZED HAIL, PEOPLE! BASEBALLS!" and "Kids! Do you have your electronic devices charged and ready to go? Because we are going UNDERGROUND TONIGHT, BABY!" I don't know why he felt so blue about his much-anticipated golf plans....

After everyone left for school and work I turned the TV to channel 214 because that's where Dr. Greg Forbes lives in magical TV land and he and I? Yeah, we be buddies and all. I can't tell you what any of the other channel numbers are, but TWC I have had memorized for years. Sometimes the TV just goes there on its own out of habit. They had us shaded in red, had the words "tornadoes", "very large hail" and "severe storms" emblazoned on every graphic and every commercial break faded from a graphic telling all us Okies to abandon our double wides and never, ever try to outrun a tornado in a car. I'm sure the car warning was because they knew TBS had played the movie Twister all weekend and Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt made it look so easy.

Then some time around 3pm while trying to update my Facebook status from my phone I discovered the error message "Invalid Destination". Say WHA?? I have used FB Mobile texts for over a year and suddenly the destination is invalid? No, this was some cruel joke the universe was playing on me and haha, guys, that's real funny, now FIX IT, you heartless universe! I tried and tried and tried again to send a message and the same nasty message popped up. Invalid. Destination.

Grr.

Then in a moment of sheer and utter stupid, I deleted my phone number from my Facebook account. In my brain it made sense: delete and re-install. It works on my iPod when an app isn't working right. You just delete, re-install and all is right with the world again. Except in this case remember MY PHONE WAS TREATING THE MOBILE NUMBER AS INVALID. Instantly I was alone and helpless in the vast wasteland known as OH HOLY CRAP I CAN'T UPDATE MY FACEBOOK FROM MY PHONE ANYMORE AND THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT! Yeah, it's a mouthful to say, but it's real, people. Very real.

I searched the help pages on Facebook for anything, something, a tidbit about this. Nada. When Abby got home from school I had her try and hers was giving the same message: Invalid destination. Ugh. I warned her to not do anything rash like delete anything and then I placed a call to US Cellular. The friendly fellow named Mark didn't even laugh at my panic-edged voice as I pleaded with him to FIX THIS PROBLEM because there were people who were depending on me to keep them updated on my whereabouts and silly antics my children did and if the twister was tearing through my yard at any given moment. He actually sounded somewhat geeky and I figured he probably knew that feeling of desperation when suddenly you can't communicate with all 415 of your closest friends or harvest your lilacs and feed your poncho llamas. He came back on the line and informed me that Facebook had made some changes that very day and they were the cause of the problem, not US Cellular, and to just log on to a computer and click on the Mobile tab and the solution would be there. I was skeptical since ya know, I'D ALREADY TRIED THAT, but I thanked him for his help anyway. Then he thanked me for being a US Cellular customer since 2002 and asked if anyone had talked to me about one of their new Belief plans. I told him that I had looked at them some online, but couldn't find one that seemed to fit us. He then started to try and sell me a Belief plan! I politely stopped him in the midst of his script-reading and said, "Mark, I appreciate your desire to help me make the most of my US Cellular plan, but right now there are storms getting ready to hit here and my children are on the trampoline and they haven't packed their "'nader bags" yet I just really don't have time to discuss my mobile plan right now. PLUS I really have to get this Facebook thing lined out before a tornado wipes me off the planet." He matter-of-factly informed me that he was in Tulsa and the storms had already arrived there.

Well, whoop de doo. I didn't realize we were trying to one-up the other there, Mark-o my buddy.

The storm was rather boring if I may say so. Well, at least here it was. To the west and to the south of here it was quite exciting and probably not at all that much fun. It was so anticlimactic here we ended up just turning the TV off altogether when some friends dropped by to visit. The NOAA radio would holler at us occasionally and we'd listen, but it seemed that once again someone had sprayed Bubba's Tornader Repellent all over Ottawa County and we avoided any hook echoes, bow echoes or rotations. Our friends would've stayed longer had the NOAA radio not informed us that the storm was 9 miles south of where they lived. They decided that a nearly-16 year old and a 12 year old probably needed some adults at home with them if a storm was that close, so they high-tailed it outta here.

Shortly after that we sent the kids on to bed, Paul fell asleep in the recliner and I started nodding off watching Jim Cantore and Dr. Greg Forbes misprounce the names of numerous Oklahoma towns. I took the NOAA radio with me, tucking it in gently next to me, giving it a kiss good-night and drifted off to dream land where I didn't even have my usual tornado dreams.

I blame Facebook.

Emo Before Emo Had a Name

2011-03-31T10:56:00.000-05:00

I am a complex individual.

No really.

Seriously. Stop laughing. It's not nice.

As I was saying, I am a complex individual. I am incredibly emotional, largely territorial, non-confrontational, passive-aggressive, day-dreamy, grumpy, not-so-much romantic, but highly sentimental and most of the time, antisocial. I am a conformist, but only on the outside. On the inside I'm all screamy and covered in tattoos and my hair is black and I have on an indordinate amount of black eyeliner and I probably don't return library books on time or rewind VHS tapes before I return them to the video store. Wait. No one rewinds their VHS tapes anymore because it's a dead technology even though I got in a huge argument with my high school boyfriend and swore that I would forever and ever use cassette tapes and VHS because I was resistant to those evil silver disks of doom and we nearly broke up over the fact he told me I was an idiot for thinking cassettes would make it to the next century.

Okay....annnnnnyway.

In grade school I was a dork. A nerd, if you will. I was reading well beyond my grade level from Kindergarten on. I absorbed everything there was to learn and only wanted to please my teachers. In First grade Mrs. Pirrong told me to quit talking in class. After the third time she told me to stop talking she made me sit in the corner. I sobbed the entire time I was there and continued sobbing after I went back to my desk. I was crushed. I had disappointed her and myself and I was certain my mother was going to shun me like an Amish with a iPod. In Third grade I vurped (you know, when you burp and accidently puke a little?) and politely raised my hand in class and said, "Mrs. Elliott, I vomited." (My friend Stacie still laughs at me over that one.) What nine year old says "vomit"?? I was a chunky kid and unfortunately my last name was Bass. I still hear "Kristin Bass has a fat a$$" on those dark and lonely days. I had a mullet. I wore glasses AND braces.

Seventh grade was a time of remaking for me. I got my braces off in November of my first year of Junior High. I grew out the mullet and started using a curling iron. I had a pair of those wonderful flowered denim jeans. I popped my collar. I had a Michael J. Fox poster in my locker. I was in the Pep Club and while yes, I was in the Band, it didn't carry a huge stigma back then. Or if it did, we were all oblivious to it. I got my first kiss at 14 1/2. I loved everything about diagramming sentences.

High School was hard. I started dating at 15 1/2. Lost my virginity at 16. Had two pregnancy scares before I graduated. I dated one boy steadily for two solid years. After he dumped me (over the phone) (jerk) I went into a serious depression. My parents were convinced I was suicidal and anorexic. I starved myself in an effort to lose my "birthing hips" as my Biology teacher so lovingly told the class I posessed. I wanted so badly for someone to love the real me that I used sex as that magic potion to open the portal of acceptance. I wore a lot of black. I wrote a lot of dark poetry about death even though I've never had a suicidal day in my life. I cried daily. I maintained perfect grades through it all, still trying to please everyone around me. I had no desire to go to college, yet teachers and the guidance counselor told me I had to lest I risk wasting my potential. I missed my boyfriend and would have done anything to get him back. I dated a few of guys, I slept with a lot more. I was trying so desperately to find myself.

It wasn't until a few years ago my friend Stacie and I had this epiphany that we were emo before emo had a name. We were ridiculously emotional, tumultuously moody, desired things we didn't seem able to attain, we were obsessed with the dark, depressing side of everything, we cried a lot.....

If we were in high school now we would both totally look like this:

Okay, she nearly does. I envy her. Even today at 37, she has had green hair, pink hair, a fauxhawk and has her nose pierced. I just turned 38 and have gray hair and wear cardigan sweaters. She and I both sport a variety of tattoos, however all of mine are hidden because of some twisted fear I offend someone or be judged. I don't have my nose pierced because my husband says no. It's ridiculous. I'm a closet emo now. I've sold out.

When Abby was in Sixth grade and part of Seventh, she went through an emo phase. She was continually brooding and nearly broke the bank buying black eyeliner. My mother was convinced she was going to have a lazy eye because of her bangs covering one side of her face. Her father was bound and determined to "break" her of her hibernating in her room. I assured him she was fine. He said it wasn't normal to spend that much time alone in her room listening to loud music. I told him she was just figuring herself out.

Now as Eighth grade winds down, the brooding, angry emo-child has given way to a self-confident young lady. She is 100% perfectly fine. She wears a standard amount of eyeliner now. And she doesn't have a lazy eye. She likes to test boundaries and push limits, but she respects them when she finds them to be unmoveable. I love everything about her.

Sam is 12 and in Sixth grade. He's growing his hair out right now. He asks daily if he can dye it black. He writes in a journal. It is driving his father absolutely and swiftly UP THE STINKING WALL. "If I wanted three daughters I'd have had three daughters" is his standard quote. I usually don't point out the obvious flaws in this statement seeing as how he didn't actually choose the sex of his children by merely pushing a button and ordering them. I just assure him that Abby turned out fine and so will Sam. Sam is figuring out who he is right now and that's tough when you're full of emotion, go to a school full of country kids, have already surrendered to preach and yet still want so badly to wear your pants on the ground and use a skateboard as a mode of transportation. When Paul jumps on his back for being moody I occasionally drag out one of my very favorite pictures of he himself at age 15. He was a freckle-faced punk-looking kid with the wildest red LONG hair. I'd have so had a crush on him then. You know, if I hadn't been in Kindergarten and .....FIVE. But what I'm saying is, he had long hair. He intentionally broke the rules just for the sake of breaking them. He was mouthy. He was rebellious. He stole a stop sign. And look at him now. He is a responsible redneck adult. Wow. Talk about an oxymoron.

Kady is nine. She is me all over again. I see a lot of me in Abby, but Ab is an equal balance of her father and me. Kady? ALL ME, but with a princess diva flair. She desires and expects perfection from herself. A B on a report card sends her into a spiral of self-loathing. She wants to please every adult in her life. She wants to be everybody's friend and when they don't reciprocate it crushes her very soul. She cries almost daily.She sweats glitter. I said back when she was in First grade that I have been down the path she is on and I know what lies ahead for her.

I'm stockpiling journals, tissues and black eyeliner already.

Spring Break 2011 or When Leslie Blair Saved My Daughter's Life

2011-03-22T14:57:00.000-05:00

Last week was Spring Break. Ah....glorious Spring Break. This was the second year the kids and I spent the week in Yukon, OK, visiting my sister. Last year Mom spent the whole week with us and Paul and Pops stayed home. This year Mom, Pops and Paul all came down mid-week. Tuesday and Wednesday Sis and her husband had to work, so it was just me and the five kids. Tuesday we vegged out, played Wii and didn't do much of anything until Sis got home, then we went to the mall. A mall where they have a Lego store. Did you get that? THE PENN SQUARE MALL IN OKLAHOMA CITY HAS A LEGO STORE [insert 600 gazillion exclamation points]. Just reiterating it to you in the exact style my son announced it to me oh, about five bazillion times. The boy does love his Legos.

Toward the end of the excursion Sis said, "Come on, kids. Aunt Kiki is going to the Pandora store. Alone." Be still my heart! She sent me into the Pandora store to shop alone! I was a little light-headed walking through the door. While I would've like to have bought one of nearly everything I was a good girl and only bought a clip for my bracelet, or as I so redneckedly callled it to the clerk "a stopper". She didn't find me as charmingly backwoods as most.

Wednesday after lunch I took the kids to the park and worked on my savage flip flop tan, then we went to Sonic for free WiFi. Never have five kids and a redneck diva been so happy - half-price Sonic beverages and super fast internet. It was divine. We hogged a stall for nearly an hour.

Oh and? The Homeland off Mustang and Reno in Yukon, OK, is mega friendly. You should go sometime.

That evening when Mom, Pops and Paul got there we ate dinner and visited while the kids played in the street. See, we live on a dirt road. No street. Sis lives on a cul de sac and the kids found it insanely irresistible to play in. Even the two semi-morose teen and nearly-teen cavorted merrily in the street. I didn't get it, but I guess I didn't have to.

Thursday morning Dad had to have some tests done at the VA in the City so we did some shopping that afternoon and that evening while Sis worked at her second job, my brother-in-law took us all down to Bricktown. We visited Bass Pro because I think it's in our redneck contract somewhere that we cannot be in the vicinity of one without going inside and paying homage. All it took was a tweet that we were in Bricktown to prompt a query from one of my favorite OKCitians, Leslie Blair. She met us at Marble Slab where she partook of some amazing ice cream with us and while she says we didn't frighten her and that redneck is a language she fluently speaks, I still worry we scarred her for life.

She did save my youngest child's life, though, and for that I thank her. She also said in exchange for her heroic actions she expected a blog post about it. I splurge and included it in the title. Leslie, you are very welcome. See, a car full of punks came speeding through a parking lot looking for a rumble (ooh I just had a Happy Days flashback) just as Kady stepped from between two cars. Leslie heroically grabbed my child and pulled her from harm's way. Moments later, after I could breathe again, I looked ahead of the group to see the two of them holding hands like they were BFF's. Leslie said Kady looked up at her and said, "So.....you wanna hold my hand?" I guess someone saving you from being a pavement pancake will make you want to hold their hand. Yeah, my heart melted. Or maybe that was the after effects of it having stopped mere moments before. As we were heading back to the cars to trek to the OKC Memorial, I hopped in Leslie's car and said, "Meet y'all there!" Paul didn't think much of it, but I'm pretty sure my brother-in-law thought I was either running away from home or was being abducted. Bless his heart.

The OKC Memorial is a great experience when you're with someone who works for Oklahoma Tourism. Just sayin'. (Okay, gratuitous Leslie adoration completed.)

Friday Pops had to have one more test back at the VA, but when that was done we all caravanned to Arcadia via THE EXPRESSWAY AT 4:30PM ON THE FRIDAY OF SPRING BREAK. Yeah, the heart-stopping the night before when Kady nearly became roadkill? NOTHING compared to the panic attack I fought off all the way through the City. Boy howdy, I am very spoiled to my little town and its little traffic. We visited Pops on Route 66 and it was great, though. I began to feel my fingers again by the time we had picked out our sodas and went to pay. I got a Hot Lips blackberry soda which gave me heartburn, but it was still divine. Paul and Kady each chose brands of root beer they had never tried before. Abby got a Jolt. (A 14 year old on Jolt -- think Tigger. On meth.) Sam has given up soda for Lent, so I may have told a little fib when I told him that cream soda isn't technically a soda really. ("Yes, it has "soda" in its name, but it's really not soda. Really. Sure I'm sure, son.") I mean, I wanted the kid to get a soda from Pops' for cryin' out loud. God won't hold him accountable. God will hold Sam's lying mother accountable.

We got the round barn in Arcadia 15 minutes past close, but the kids weren't broken-hearted. Abby looked at it and said dryly, "Wow. A barn. A round barn. Whoopie. Can we go home now?"

And home we went.

Life is back to normal again. Conner is back here with his Kiki after having spent a week at the beach. The kids are back in school. Abby is back with her boyfriend again. Sam is still soda-free. Kady is still a drama queen. Paul is still a redneck. And I need a nap.

Pretty much status quo.

2011-03-16T14:03:00.001-05:00

Man, I wish I'd brought my laptop on vacation. I have blog fodder for weeks right now! Spring Break with my family is always interesting. Check back next week!

Because I'm Still a Grammaric

2011-03-04T10:02:00.000-06:00

I saw on Facebook, courtesy of Melanie, that today is National Grammar Day!What with me being a Grammar Nazi and all, this day is worthy of my celebration. I'm by no means perfect in all things grammar, but I do try. I try hard. Texting has created an entire generation of grammar sloths (as well as spelling nincompoops, but I shan't digress on that right now - I'll wait until International English Spelling Day on October 9th) and it is a HUGE pet peeve of mine.

Since I have a barfing nine-year-old on my couch right now I don't have time for a lengthy tirade of all the things that bother me when I read blogs, status updates, tweets and text messages, so instead I'll just quote from a post I wrote two years ago on National Grammar Day. Also, you should know that when I wrote this I had no idea it was National Grammar Day. Yeah, that's just how awesome I am.

A person who is addicted to alcohol is an alcoholic. Correct?

If someone declares themselves to be addicted to chocolate they call themselves a "chocoholic", right? Or if they say they are addicted to shopping they say they are a "shopaholic", right?

IT IS WRONG, PEOPLE.

The "ohol"in alcoholic is from the word ALCOHOL. According to Wiktionary the suffix "ic" is "used to form adjectives from nouns with the meaning 'of or pertaining to'". If someone wanted to declare themselves addicted to chocolate they would be a chocolatic. Or perhaps a chocolic. A person who likes to shop is a shoppic.

Make note of it.

That being re-posted and off my chest yet again, I bid you a Happy National Grammar Day.

Now...where's my Lysol?

Oh look. It's snowing. Again.

2011-02-08T23:18:00.000-06:00

A week ago Sunday Paul, Sam and Kady stayed home from church, mainly because Paul wasn't feeling very well and Kady was kind of coughing. After church, though, we needed a few important things before The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 hit the next day. We went to Walmart and bought toilet paper, bacon and laundry soap. You know, the really important stuff. When I got home from church Kady had complained of a stomachache. Not nausea, just pain. I told her to take a Maalox because I figured she had gas. By the time we got done in town she was in tears and when we got home she promptly curled upon the couch and couldn't stop kicking her legs and essentially writhing. I loaded her up and took her to the ER. I had felt her belly and determined she likely wasn't constipated (because we moms think poop is the root of all evil when it comes to our kids) and I knew it wasn't her appendix because it was on the wrong side. I was thinking kidney stone. The evil things run in our family like water runs downhill. When we got there the nurse thought the same thing and immediately ordered a UA. In the meantime the Nurse Practitioner came in to examine her. She poked and prodded her belly and decided the pain was from a pulled muscle, possibly from the beating she had taken on the basketball court the day before, but in a nine year old, who knew.

As she was walking out of the room, Kady coughed. It was the same cough she had had for days and it didn't startle me in the least. It did, however, make the NP turn around the ask, "WHAT was that?" She then carefully listened to Kady's lungs, ordered a chest x-ray and said the pulled muscle was from coughing, not basketball. She ordered a breathing treatment to be done as soon as the chest x-ray was complete. After two hours in a freezing isolation room in the ER the UA came back clear, the chest x-ray came back negative for pneumonia and the official diagnosis was: Bronchiolitis due to chronic asthma and exercise-induced asthma. We left with a prescription for six days of steroids and orders for breathing treatments every four hours for 24 hours, Tylenol/Motrin for the muscle pain and the use of the inhaler before practice and games. She was deemed non-contagious and as long as she felt like it was cleared for school. Knowing that The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 was coming I figured she might as well go that one day of school because who knew when she'd get to go again.

Monday I wasn't supposed to have Conner for the day, so I took the kids to school and headed for town to run some last-minute errands before The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 hit that night. I went out and got my monthly supply of free government cheese like a good little economically challenged Native American and then got the call I was indeed going to have my Conner for the rest of the day. I picked him up and headed for the Walmart where I did not get bread because they were out, but that's okay, I had gotten some the day before. I didn't really need a whole lot, but did stock up on very important things like chocolate chips and sugar. Had I been thinking I'd have gotten about four dozen eggs because they had them then and they didn't by that afternoon. And they haven't since. We went to the school for Kady's noon breathing treatment, I speculated with the teachers and staff about the impending doom and then came back home to finish laundry before my washing machine drain froze up for who knows how long.

Monday night we sent the kids to bed with nary a flake of snow in sight. Paul and I laid in bed and watched a beautiful lightning show, listened to some thunder that rivaled any we've heard in a Springtime storm and went to sleep around Midnight. I got up at 1:30 to check on the kids and saw that the world had turned white - but it wasn't snow at that point. It was sleet. I heard it pinging the windows, shivered and crawled back in bed. Upon awakening again at 4 our world was encased in a coccoon of white. When I got Paul up at 5:30 I begged and begged for him to stay home because given the looks of things and the forecast for 20 inches before day's end I had no intention of riding out the storm alone with three kids, one of whom was sick. He assured me he'd be fine, he'd be home and his 4WD would get him back here. He kissed me and left.

They had not one single guest in the casino all day. By 1pm they officially closed it. Since he was running the vault by himself he had to balance out, inventory and do whatever else those magical vault folks do. By the time he left he was pushing a wall of snow with his big ol' gigantic truck. He heard highway 60 had been closed by the sheriff, but he wasn't letting that stop him. My pleas and whines in the phone and reports of his youngest child running a 102* temp filled him with determination to get home. He made is halfway up 60, called his cousin who lived about 1/4 mile off the highway and said, "If I can make it to your house, can I stay the night?" His cousin said, "If you can get here, you can stay." He made it. They watched the weather reports and decided, given the reports of below zero temps for the night and that sick child of his, he needed to try to get home. He bundled up in his coveralls and took off up the dirt road. He made it 1/4 mile before he sunk and was stuck. His cousin pulled him back to his house with the tractor and there he stayed. He was three miles from us, but he might as well have been in California. I called my mother bawling from the bathroom so as not to scare the daylights outta my kids that I was terrified to be snowed in without him. She told me to stop crying, it wasn't changing anything, to pray and everything would be fine.

Kady burned up with fever all night. Her breathing was horribly labored. I didn't sleep much. Usually when Paul's not here I don't sleep well because I hear noises and end up convinced we're being stalked and are about to be broken into. That night I just listened to Kady wheeze and cough and laid my hands on her while I prayed that we be safe, that Paul would be safe, that I wouldn't have to call 911 for an ambulance that couldn't get here.

On Tuesday all three kids were sick, two with fevers, one with a sore throat. Around 2 that afternoon we saw a pickup go past our house. I was on that phone so quick to Paul telling him that if that truck could make it so could he. Two hours later he came sliding into the driveway with the finesse of a Duke boy from Hazzard County. He ended up stuck, had to dig his way out of his truck and walked the 1/10 mile driveway in 20" of snow. It was like a dadgum episode of The Waltons when he walked through that door. John Boy was home!

He spent Thursday home with us. Mainly because his truck was still stuck, but also because I wasn't letting him out of my sight again. Also by Thursday Kady had run a fever nearly nonstop for four days. Friday she didn't run one.

Saturday, after having not done a single stitch of laundry since Monday, we loaded up hampers and baskets of clothes and headed to my mom's. My washing machine drain freezes up at the mere mention of the word "winter", so laundering comes to a screeching halt when the temps dip too low. The kids played on the computers, Paul, who himself was now sick with bronchitis, slept most of the afternoon in a recliner in front of the TV and I visited with my momma. Paul and I made a quick run to Walmart for toilet paper, sugar, shampoo, cold medicine and milk, then headed back home. By the time we got to Mom's Kady was running a fever again.

Sunday I took her to urgent care where the nurse took her temp and it was a toasty 103*. Her bronchiolitis had turned into bacterial bronchitis. A test for strep came back negative. Then a doctor who looked old enough to have treated Moses for gout gave her the most thorough once-over she's had in years. He was great with her. And me. He sent us on our way with antibiotics and prescription cough syrup. She hasn't run a fever all day today. Praise God!!!!

And now it's Tuesday night. We are once again under a Winter Storm Warning and awaiting anywhere from six to eight to ten inches of snow. No one can seem to agree on an amount. Paul is still sick and refuses to see a doctor. Kady is better. I have PMS and my two oldest kids are begging to go back to school, however we received a call from the principal's office today letting us know that just in case we do have school tomorrow the bus will not come down our road. Considering their daddy leaves the house at 6:15am for work in the only vehicle with 4WD and my van will not navigate on the sheet of ice that disguises our road, I checked to make sure their absences will be excused. They will. Whew.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost looking forward to summer. And I hate summer.

The Will is Strong with This One

2011-01-25T11:28:00.002-06:00

As most of you know, I have three kids - Abby is 14, Sam is 12 and Kady is nine. Abby and Sam are probably two of the most compliant kids you will ever meet. Kady is not.

When Dr. James Dobson wrote The Strong-Willed Child he had Kady in mind, I'm sure of it. No, it does not matter that it was published in 1992 and she was born in 2001 - I do believe her stubbornness and strong-willed attitude was legendary even before she was born.

When I was 28 weeks pregnant with her she decided she wanted to come out RIGHT THEN. I ended up on strict bed rest trying to keep the little bug inside where she needed to be. They gave me steroids to strengthen her little lungs because they were fairly certain that given how dilated I was she was making an early appearance. Thank God she listened to her mother (for once) and stayed put. After I had reached the point where she could come safely I was taken off bedrest and told to go about my business. At that point, dilated to a six - and no I am not kidding - my only business was having that baby. I ate spicy food, we had a lot of sex, we rode bumpy roads....I just wanted her out.

Guess who decided to grab hold of my spleen, dig in her heels and stay put.

I'm telling you, people, the child has been stubborn since forever.

She didn't want to nurse. Probably because she knew how badly I wanted her to nurse; she was my last baby after all. She didn't want to sleep. Probably because she liked seeing me cry.

She was the child who refused to say please to my sister one day after demanding a cracker. Her sweet, precious, utterly indulgent Auntie was not about to be bullied by a toddler and said, "No cracker until you say please."

Guess who fell asleep in her high chair without a cracker.

When Abby was born, my sister insisted on being called Auntie. Abby learned to say Auntie; so did Sam. Then along came Kady who refused to say Auntie. She was just give my sister a blank look of borderline hatred and boredom when Heather would spend half an hour going, "Saaaayyyyyy Auntie! Say Aaaaaaauntieeeeeee." One day, probably after way too much Auntie Emersion Therapy, she looked my sister square in the eye and without emotion said, "Yaya." Heather would say "Auntie", Kady would counter with "Yaya." Over time Abby and Sam started calling her Yaya as well.

Guess who now calls my sister Auntie.

She used to scream thinking she could get her way. When she was a toddler I would take a spray bottle of water and spritz her in the face every time she spewed forth a violent blast of high-volume toddler screeching. She was too young to spank and the water wasn't harmful.

Guess who spent many a toddler afternoon soaking wet, drippy and pouty.

My friend Stacie held my beautiful, teeny tiny infant daughter and with a smile looked up at me and said, "You do know that you will end up having to build a moat full of alligators under this child's bedroom window when she's a teenager, right?" I laughed and said, "Yeah..."

HOW DID SHE KNOW?

Will you think me silly if I say I've looked into alligator farming and backhoe operation?

Kady is one of the sweetest kids on the planet. Her teachers have all loved her and all speak of her compassion toward other students, the way she never allows anyone to be left out and her willingness to help anyone in need, be it teachers or students. They always give me strange looks when I sit at a miniature desk at parent-teacher conferences and anxiously ask, "So she doesn't refuse to put on her coat? She doesn't stomp and pout and whine when it's time to go somewhere? She doesn't ignore you and consider all requests for compliance to be merely suggestions? Seriously? She doesn't do that to you?" And they all shake their heads no. I even had one ask, "Are you Kady's mother? Kady Hoover? Sweet little Kady Hoover? Why would you think she would do that? She's an angel!"

How on earth did I get two compliant children and one mule?

It's me. I've figured that much out. She doesn't test anyone but me. She'll occasionally test her father, but it's rare - probably because he has a much shorter temper than I do. She never tests her Grammy and Pops. Her Yaya is wayyyyyyyy too stubborn for her to even attempt to lock horns (remember the cracker story above) with her. She doesn't test her teacher or her principal or her basketball coach.

But me? I get it daily.

And would you like to know the corker of it all? The real icing on the ol' cake? The rub, as Shakespeare would say?

SHE DOESN'T GET HER WAY. I always win! I never let her! Yet, still she tests me and challenges me and tries me. Oh, she always ends up doing what she's told to do, she just likes to take the scenic route to get there.

The other morning she simply stated, very matter-of-factly when I woke her up, "Oh, I'm not going to school today," like she was informing me prefers Froot Loops over Frosted Flakes. I said, "Uhh....yeah, no. You're going. Get up." What ensued was her stomping around for 20 minutes while I told her to get dressed. Then came the tears. Then me speaking through clenched teeth at her continued belief she wasn't going to school. But she went to school, by golly. It doesn't matter if it's clothing, shoes, school, food, breathing - I win. Does she keep doing this on the bizarre off chance that one of these days she will? And God help us all if I ever give in. Her worldwide takeover will be soon after.

Mom has said since she was a baby that the child will end up being a politician. Or a lawyer. I'm leaning toward prison warden, drill sergeant or lunch lady - those people dole it out and don't care what you think. Much like my third child.

I will not give in, even if it means both of us end up in tears. I do not let her win, but man, she makes me work for that victory. There's a lot of yelling and speaking through clenched teeth done by yours truly. I'm not proud, but I'm also not letting her win.

She doesn't test her teachers because she is a complete and total pleaser. She wants to impress them infinitely. They are the givers of praise and adoration and grades.

She doesn't test her Gram and Pops because they are her grandparents and therefore are magical. The givers of ice cream and limitless computer time.

She doesn't test her daddy because he has a fuse about *this* long. (Imagine my fingers about 1/8" apart. Then divide that by two.) He is the giver of spankings. And that look.

But me? Well, I guess I am the giver of chances.

*sigh*

I think they refer to this as "spoiled".

But how did my other two not get spoiled in the process? I don't love any of them more or less than the others! Is it because they are just easier to discipline and, for lack of a better word, control? If she wants to please her teachers so badly, why does she not want to please me as well?

I try so very hard to accentuate the positive. The other day I told her one time to do something AND SHE DID IT, even saying "Yes ma'am" as she put down what she was doing to go do it. I thanked her for doing it so quickly and told her how happy it made me. The praise did not affect her in the least. She didn't light up like her sister and brother do when they get praised. It's like she doesn't want my approval and praise.

I love her with all that is in me. She makes me laugh like no one else can and can curl up in your lap and love on you like no one else can. She's smart, funny, beautiful and was the child we didn't know we needed until we had her. I never dreamed I would be fighting these battles with her.

I know for a fact I was not like this as a child. My mother has even marveled at how unlike me she is in this respect. Now, the crying, oh yeah, she's my mini-me on that, but I was not a stubborn child. Heck, I'm not even all that stubborn of an adult. You know me and my whole "I hate confrontation, it gives me diarrhea" thing I have goin' on - confrontation and conflict just don't thrill me.

So, now that I am standing emotionally naked and vulnerable as a mother, I'm asking you, Constant Reader, do you have a stubborn child? What do you do? Have you found the trick to peace and harmony with your own mule-child?

And by the way, does anyone know where one can get a few alligators? Cheap?

I'm asking for a friend.

The Ghosts of Sleepovers Past

2011-01-21T14:35:00.000-06:00

Since today is my 38th birthday I thought it would be fitting to post some pictures of sleepovers through the years. Starting when I turned 11 I had one every year, although I may not have had one my Senior year, considering I found no photographic evidence of one. Regardless, here are a few year's worth of birthday slumber party goodness.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

This was my 11th birthday. In case you hadn't figured it out, I was wearing a flannel nightgown.

A. Flannel. Night. Gown. That was buttoned all the way up to my chin. And I had a mullet.

Good grief.

Also note the taper candle shoved into my cake. This totally looks like something I would do now that I am a mom. I guarantee you Mom had spent so much time cleaning house and running the PTO and being a Girl Scout leader she totally forgot to buy birthday candles. We also ate off Smurf plates left over from my sister's party the previous summer.

My mom was and still is the coolest.

This is DeLisa. She was 10 1/2. Yes, she is wearing a baby bonnet and has a bottle in her mouth. Apparently, we all were given the "special" birthday cake and got some wacky idea to drink soda pop "suicides" out of baby bottles, wear bonnets and carry around blankets and dolls. To this day I have no idea what prompted it, but it became a hard and fast tradition until we were probably Sophomores. I guess we abandoned it when we had all finally been kissed by boys. Thank God.

This is Stacie and Necia at my 12th birthday party in 1985. Drinking out of baby bottles again. I'm also pretty sure that's the year we decided we needed more bottles and begged my Mom to take us to Walmart so we could buy more. This was also the fated trip that is still brought up by my mother when she decides to lay on the maternal guilt -- I asked her to sit in the car while we went in. I have tried to explain to her that it wasn't an embarrassment issue, it was simply that we were twelve years old and apparently thought going into Walmart alone was some huge rite of passage.

(Hey Mom. I'm still sorry.)

Ahh...1986. As you can see 1986 was obviously The Year of the Mullet, seeing as how three out of four of us in this picture had them. Chloe's (the blonde closest to the camera) was by far the most rockin' of all. However, I had some amazing "feathers" in mine. Perfect, feathery layers. Feathers that went down nearly to my chin on the sides. And when the wind blew they would blow up in layers that stood straight up. It was kickin'.

(l to r: me, Stace, DeLisa, Chloe)

There's nothing like sitting around the kitchen bar doing bottle shots with your homies.

And note the 10lb bag of sugar in the middle of the bar. Apparently we were going to snort some later.

This was 1986, but this was not my birthday sleepover. Since we were 8th graders we handed out programs and were errand monkeys for the 9th grade graduation. Afterward everyone came back to the house to .... drink out of baby bottles yet again.

I am wearing a negligee.

Good grief.

This is DeLisa and me at a sleepover at Stace's. This was an epic sleepover because her parents had a travel trailer that we hung out in until the lack of air conditioning ran us to the house. Then, because Stace's mom is a hair stylist, she had wigs and all sorts of fabulous makeup. And mega cool hats and furs. Soooo....De and I dressed up as hookers.

Classic.

Who knows why we posed for this picture my keyboard? Who really knows. DeLisa's angsty rocker look and clenched fist, though, is utterly priceless. This wasn't my birthday, but apparently a spontaneous rock band practice. Or something.

This wasn't my birthday party in 1989, but one for the foreign exchange student (far left) we were hosting that year. Notice the lack of baby bottles. Duh. There were upper classmen there. Gah.

This is 1990, my 17th birthday. My mom entered a contest in order to win a "Maalox Moment" t-shirt for me. I used to say "I'm having a Maalox moment!" all the time, so again, coolness points for my mom.

We just happened to be in the cake decorating chapter in Home Ec, so that year I made my own birthday cake. Note the wideness of my hair: it is almost as wide as my shoulders. Thank Heaven for Aqua Net.

This is the party we broke out the video camera and did an episode of "Wilma's World", our version of Wayne's World. Stace (far left) was a "slutty cheerleader" and her answers to Wilma's questions were HILARIOUS. I was sitting next to her with the hat on my head. I was Mrs. Tukwilla, a hairpiece sculptor. My character was taken off of SNL and a skit where John Malkovich was on a talk show as Len Tukwilla, driftwood sculptor. Sitting next to me was our foreign exchange student who was Miss America. She wore a bathrobe and the Belgium and US flag stuck in her headband. On the far right was Cyndi who played Wilma. She strummed the guitar and interviewed us all, randomly shouting "EXTREME CLOSEUP" and other random phrases through the show.

Later that night Stacie taught us a cheerleading routine then we all stuffed blankets and pillows in our shirts and acted out a workout video. She was the peppy instructor cheering us on to victory, but as soon as she turned her back to us fat girls doing the workout, we grabbed cake and chips and stuffed our faces while she danced and sweated.

Best. Sleepover. Ever.

I'm not celebrating this year's birthday with a sleepover, but instead Paul and I are going to see The Green Hornet and hopefully True Grit. Sans kids. Hopefully there will also be a steak dinner involved.

Happy birthday to me. :)

It's shockin', y'all. Literally.

2011-01-17T15:18:00.000-06:00

The day after Abby got bit by The Spider from Hades, as we so affectionately call it, I got sick with a sinus-y, cold type affliction that made me run a fever, which made my skin hurt, which made me whiny, which made my husband banish me to the bedroom. I was in bed by 8:00 that night, shivering under about six blankets, wearing sweats and a sweatshirt. I'd have worn a sock hat, too, had I remembered it before I got in bed, but as it was I wasn't getting out from under those covers unless I had to pee and I was going to have to be at emergency level then.

Abby was still feverish from the bite, had a horrific headache and her joints hurt. Even though I was at Death's door (ha.) I had her sleep with me that night so I could keep an eye on her. She was watching TV while I laid under my mountain of blankets, occasionally whining or moaning just so the world would know I was still alive, when my phone rang. It was my momma. I answered with a pitiful, "*sniff sniff cough* hello?" and was greeted immediately by both parents going, "Awwwwwwwwwwww! Poor baby!" I guess the text I had sent about an hour prior to their call worked in letting them know I needed sympathy.

After I was properly babied Mom then proceded to tell me about a thing she read online where this doctor was tasering spider bites and having amazing results with it. I'll be honest, my initial reaction was that there was no way in hecky darn I was going to have my daughter tasered. I mean, we try to reserve that for bad grades and overages on cell phone minutes. I thanked Mom for the research but in my mind I dismissed it due to the extremeism of the whole ideal. When Abby asked what she wanted I non-chalantly said, "Oh, Gram heard about a doctor who tasers bite victims and thought it might work for you." Her eyes got big as dinner plates and she sat straight up in my bed and said, "You grownups are smoking dope if you think I'm gonna let you TASER ME!" I laughed and assured her there would be no tasering. As long as she kept her grades up.

Fast forward one week to when my daughter then had TWO! BLACK! SPOTS! on her leg at the site of the bite, the red area around it was increasing and it just generally looked bad. I Facebooked that it wasn't healing and sent the same message to Twitter. Within a few minutes a gal from OKC tweeted back and asked for my email address because she wanted to share something with me about a guaranteed (!) remedy. I happily sent it on because I was at the point where I was going to believe in unicorns and husbands who don't leave their short little shaved whiskers all over the bathroom counter providing someone used the word "guaranteed" when they mentioned them to me. She emailed me about the doctor in the practice she works in who is shocking spider bites and having 100% positive reactions to the therapy. Most within 24 hours from what I gathered.

When Paul got home that night I had already prepared a speech for him about why we needed to pull her out of school and make a trip to the City to let a doctor essentially taser our daughter for the sake of healing up the cavernous rotting hole in her leg. He listened and kind of grinned. I only hoped the grinning meant he was on board for a trip to the City for tasering and a visit with my sister and her husband. But no, instead he just spit in his spit cup and said, "You know we've got a shocker thing here at home, right?"

And it hit me - his mom was on a herbal/homeopathic/alternative medicine kick a few years back and after I made him quit chelation therapy because it made him smell like creamed corn, she bought him the shocker thing for here at home. It's supposed to balance the body, remove heavy metals, kill germs, bacteria, viruses, worms, parasites, bring Mars out of retrograde, allow Roscoe P. Coltrane to finally catch those Duke boys for good and rid the world of jeggings once and for all (and I'm pretty sure the informational flyer also said cure cancer, but I wasn't quite believing that claim) (the jeggings we can only hope) all from the comfort and privacy of your own home. But all I could think was THIS THING IS CAPABLE OF SHOCKING! HERE AT HOME! SHOCKING! IN OUR LIVING ROOM! and while I miss my sister desperately, I just kept thinking it was going to save us a lot of money on gas, food and an out-of-pocket doctor visit if it actually worked.

And then we had to get Abby on board the whole shocking issue.

Fortunately, she is 14 and all I had to do was explain that a little minor discomfort while being shocked was better than PERMANENT! DISFIGURATION! via the rotting holes in her leg.

She hitched up her pant leg, flopped down across the chair and said, "Let's get this over with. I want to wear shorts again someday."

From what I've read, if you get shocked or tasered in a medical office it's one big whopper of a shock and it's done and within 24 hours you see dramatic results. Since the shocker we have here at home isn't quite that powerful, we've been administering the electricity to the area around the bite for 10-15 minutes at a time and we've been doing it since Friday. The redness is going away and the skin has a generally just better appearance all around. I don't think it's coincidence, considering these bites take so long to heal - it's not like we just happened to start shocking when the bite was already healing. I honestly think there is really something to it.

And on the positive side, Abby can make a grilled cheese sandwich in her bare hands now.

******************

I know y'all are probably a bit disappointed that here I've taken all these months away from the blog only to come back now and every stinkin' one is about this spider bite, but just hang with me. I have the worst case of writer's block right now (and have for awhile) and I'm slowly breaking through. Right now I'm baby-stepping back into it and unfortunately, you get to read about The Great Spider Adventure of 2011.

Hang in there.

It's spider-rific! NOT

2011-01-14T14:49:00.001-06:00

Abby's leg is still trying to rot off. I am so sick of dealing with this stupid spider bite I could scream. I hate spiders, have since I was a teenager and this just fuels my loathing of them even more. Over the past week and a half I've heard just about every comment under the sun:

"It's probably not even a spider bite. Most 'bites' are actually MRSA." I agree, most "bites" probably are, but dude, we had the spider. I carried it in a Dixie cup in a ziploc bag IN MY PURSE to the doctor's office. It's definitely a brown recluse spider bite.

"Well, when my uncle's brother's cousin's friend who works at the CoOp with a gal he graduated from trade school with got bit the doctor put him on high-powered antibiotics and steroids IMMEDIATELY! Tell your doctor that's what you want." Telling her doctor that's what we want and him actually doing it are two different things, friends and neighbors.

"You need better insurance." Yeah, well, you pay the premium, bucko, and I'll be happy to sign the kids right up. As it is, they pretty much treat us the same as someone coming in with no insurance. We get the bare-bones treatment. Talk about making you feel super special and making you feel like they don't value your child's health one bit. It is a warm, fuzzy feeling, lemme tell ya.

"Try [remedy X]. When I got bit I [soaked my foot in gasoline] [peed on a gerbil] [walked around my house 12 times while playing the kazoo] [sucked the venom out like they show 'em doing to snake bites on old episodes of Gunsmoke] [dug it out with a spoon]." *sigh* Sorry, I'm probably not going to soak my daughter's leg in gasoline no matter how it worked out for you. And we are definitely not bringing a gerbil into this house. It would probably bite someone.

"Pray." Oh, we are doing this. Fervently. I don't think it would be doing as well as it is if we weren't. But God also gave us doctors. And herbs.

And believe me, there are more. I appreciate everyone's honest, good intentions, but you can only hear "When my brother got bit..." so many times before you start to chuckle.

That all being said, we are taking her to some random, total, complete stranger tomorrow afternoon - a random, total, complete stranger who apparently makes a wicked herbal poultice that will heal the bite up in two weeks, she says. How did we hear about this random, total, complete stranger? A lady at church was at the beauty shop and someone there had a family member who this woman helped. Folks, I couldn't make this up if I tried. I believe in herbal remedies, I really do. Otherwise I wouldn't be taking my daughter to a random, total, complete stranger.

If I don't see intensely real, true results from the herbal treatment by about mid-week next week I am making an appointment with a doctor in Oklahoma City who is having amazing, guaranteed results with "zapping" spider bites, mainly brown recluse and black widow bites. He uses a low voltage charge, similar to what a chiropractor uses to stimulate muscle contractions and shocks the bite. It changes the molecular makeup of the venom and the zap stops it from poisoning the tissues. From what I read, healing - visible healing - begins within 24 hours. So why am I waiting on this one? The one that seems the quickest and most sure? Well, mainly because Abby has already missed two days of school this semester, she gets behind very easily (especially in math) and I just would like to not have to drive to the City in the middle of the week, although the thought of seeing my sister does make my heart go pitter patter. I miss her something awful.

I never dreamed a stinkin' spider bite would get this involved and cause this much turmoil in my brain!!

In a positive development, she isn't checking her bed quite so obsessively anymore. It was at least a heartbreaking 15 minute ordeal involving her pulling back every blanket and me shining a flashlight on every square inch of blanket and sheet, her throwing each and every pillow onto the floor where she would then proceed to stomp the living daylights out of each one, then finally, before actually getting into the bed, she would bounce on it repeatedly to scare any little buggers out, then one more pass with the flashlight and she would finally get in bed. Now we're just down to shining a light down at the foot of the bed, fluffing the pillows and bouncing once or twice.

She's just dadgum disappointed that she can't shoot a web out of her wrist. Peter Parker totally got the best deal around.

Aaaaaand....we're back

2011-01-09T17:56:00.000-06:00

Christmas was hectic and fabulous. We managed to get where we needed to go, see who we needed to see and do all the hullaballoo involved.

New Year's Eve Paul and I ran away to Branson for our 18th anniversary. We certainly did not party like it was 1999 or even 2009. As soon as we hit the motel room we were sprawled out on that big ol' King-sized bed watching a show on NatGeo about the fascinating sting ray trade in Singapore. We were asleep by 11:15 and 2011 slipped right past us without so much as disturbing our exhausted snoring.

The next day we spent the day shopping at the craft stores in Branson, acting like two goofy love birds and enjoyed being together. We came through Joplin, MO, on the way back toward home and were going to see True Grit, but the line at the box office was out to the edge of the sidewalk and Mr. Grumpy Anniversary Pants didn't want to stand outside in the cold to wait our turn. I was kind of pouty and asked him to just drive me through Starbucks so I could spend a ridiculous amount of money on a coffee, something I just don't do very often. I told him to order me a "Grande Caramel Brulee' Latte". He gave me a sideways look and said, "Ooooookay." He rolled the window down and when the chipper voice on the speaker asked what he'd like he said, "Uh, yeah....Gimme a grand-ay goo-lay car-mel hoo-lay lot-tay....or something like that....I think." I busted out laughing and said, "No! A grande caramel brulee' latte!" He again started speaking a hillbilly form of Pig Latin into the speaker again and this time my laughing was so loud the chipper gal taking our order started laughing, too. She finally said through her chuckles, "Sooooo....a caramel latte'?" I said, "Close enough!"

About five miles down the road I offered Paul a drink. Without taking his eyes off the road he said, "Nope. I cain't drink somethin' I cain't even pronounce."

And that is just one of the many reasons why I am so thrilled to have been married to him for the past 18 years.

*********************

The kids got up last Tuesday morning to go back to school after two weeks off.

And Ab got bit by a brown recluse spider while putting on her jeans.

At 6:15, mere minutes after the bite, I called the Nurse Advice Line through their insurance and she said to keep an eye on it and monitor her for breathing difficulty or severe allergic reactions. I then called my mother who freaked me out by saying, "TAKE HER TO THE ER IMMEDIATELY." So then I called the hospital and had them page her PA. I didn't feel so bad because chances are the dude was probably already up by 6:30am anyway, right? He gave me the same info the advice line nurse did which didn't settle well with me. She was feeling fine and only complaining of the bite itching like a mosquito bite. I drove to the school during her lunch hour and checked it and frankly, could hardly see the bite at all, however by 3:45 when she walked in the door off the bus she was chilling, her joints ached and was complaining of severe abdominal pain. I loaded her up and hauled her - and the dead spider in a Dixie cup - to ExpressCare where the PA looked at the bite and very unsympathetically dismissed us and refused to give her antibiotics, steroids or a pat on the back, much less some compassion. I took my crying teenager home, fuming all the way.

She missed school Wednesday, fighting a fever and joint aches the entire day. I got her an appointment with her PA when the bite started looking like a bruise, something the ExpressCare PA said would happen if the bite was going to necrose. I don't like the word necrose, much less the actual act of necrosity....uhm necroseness.....necrosing.....oh, you know what I mean. He looked at the bite and said as far as bites go it looked really good and he felt pretty certain it would not necrose. I asked about a thousand questions, most of them worst-case-scenario and he tried his best to lay them to rest. He assured me repeatedly that antibiotics and steroids are not standard protocol for recluse bites these days and time was what it needed.

And now today, five days after the bite happened, there is a divot the diameter of a pencil lead in the center of the bite and it appears it is indeed going to necrose. She is still easily tired out, still achey and has a nearly continual headache. Her body has reacted so violently to this bite I am very frustrated with the medical community. I'd like to bring both PAs into her room every night and spend the 15 minutes it now takes for her to get ready for bed, let them hold the flashlight while she obsessively checks the bed sheets and pillows for spiders, let them sleep with her because she's so achey she's crying (and Ab is not a cry-er), let them reassure her that yes, she will be able to wear shorts again and no, she will not be a freak of nature with a hole in her leg. Yeah, that's what I'd like to do.

*****************

Yesterday was Kady's first two basketball games of this season. On the way to the gym I gave her my usual pre-game pep talk. I reminded her to dribble low and close, elbows out, head up, be aggressive and tough. She rolled her eyes at me, but listened politely. Then Paul said, "Alright, are you done with your pep talk?" I nodded that I was. He said, "Good. Daddy's turn. Bug, go out there and kick some butt." I broke back in with, "Oh yeah, and K? Most importantly? Play like a Christian. Okay?" Kady grinned from the back seat and said, "Uhm....I'd rather play like Daddy said."

Game one was ugly. The team she is one is comprised of two 3rd graders (she being one of them) and the rest are 2nd graders. It's a very inexperienced team full of teeny tiny little girls who are just learning the game and frankly, having a blast out there. Their coach is a patient woman trying to teach the girls fundamentals and sportsmanship and discipline. Unfortunately, the two teams they played yesterday have fiercely competitive coaches and the girls are downright mean. Our girls were elbowed, scratched, tripped and generally annihilated. Kady got so upset after one girl shoved her friend in the chest then tripped her she was crying hard enough to go into an asthma attack. The assistant coach ushered her off the court and as she disappeared through the doorway I noticed she had her arms over her head. It hit me she can't breathe! I grabbed her inhaler and ran out the gym doors where she was trying desperately to breathe the cold air. After three hits off the inhaler she finally got her air again and went back in. We never managed to score that game.
Game two was uglier. And the fans were uglier than ugly. When Kady made a basket we all cheered. The other team's fans behind us started making fun of us. I asked Mom if it was Christian-like to punch someone and enjoy it. She just patted my leg and said, "Probably not, dear." We managed that one goal the entire game and the other team never got nicer.

I do not understand why you'd want your children to play that way. Granted, at one point I marched over to the bench where my nine-year-old was sitting and said, "Honey, now it's time to get mean. You have to play ugly. Now." I'm not necessarily proud, but since most of the team was crying at that point I felt it had to be done. I don't want these girls to think this is how good sportsmanship goes. I am appalled that parents and coaches think it is acceptable to make fun of seven-, eight- and nine-year-olds on the basketball court AND their parents who are congratulating their children for the small victory of a basket.

I just don't get it.

And I haven't ruled out the punching either. I guess I need to talk to the pastor. And Jesus.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-24T17:10:00.001-06:00

This is where most bloggers get on their blogs and leave a post saying, "I'll be taking a much-needed break from the blog during this most blessed of holiday seasons. Please browse around some of the older posts and most of all, have a Merry Christmas!"

But in case you hadn't noticed, I have kind of been on a break for awhile now, so yeah, no need to tell you I won't be around here for a few days.

However, because it's some unwritten law that bloggers must post family pictures on their blogs at Christmas, here you go:

I love this picture most because it's us. It's perfectly imperfect. The morning we took these (after a previous failed attempt) the wind was blowing like crazy, giving us about a 24* wind chill. Between the hypothermia and the wind-blown hair it's a wonder we got any good pictures at all. It's not one that would make the pages of a magazine, but it seems to project us just the way we are.

(Big huge thanks to my friend Brittany from Studio 215 for freezing her tushie off with us that frigid morning. She made me promise her that next year I won't procrastinate.)

This Christmas has been the best one we've had in many years. We are closer as a family, keeping our focus on God and what He has done in our lives -- and is still doing. I am so thankful for the gift Jesus gave us all those thousands of years ago, leaving the glory of Heaven and taking human form, knowing that He would die for us though we'll never deserve it. It brings tears to my eyes when I think about it.

Thank you for sharing my sporatic posts this past year. One of these days I'm going to get back into the swing of things......I think.

Merry Christmas!

An Adventure in Monster Pie Cake

2010-12-09T09:38:00.001-06:00

Just before Thanksgiving I heard about this thing called a "Cherpumple", otherwise known as a monster pie cake. Basically, it is a cherry pie baked into a white cake, a pumpkin pie baked into a spice cake and an apple pie baked into a yellow cake. Get it?

Because it isn't every day you make a cake of such epic proportions, I decided to photojournal the whole affair. Not to mention it took five hours from start to finish - that alone is worthy of documentation. Also, big thanks to Abby who took pictures every time I hollered. This meant tearing herself away from a Bop magazine, her iPod and the bazillions of text messages she sent her friends during the five hour ordeal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's the whole shebang; all the ingredients used to make the behemoth.

I am normally not a supporter of store-bought pies, but for this recipe you need to use them. Use the store-made ones from the grocery bakery because they are smaller. The frozen Mrs. Smith pies are as big or bigger than what you'd make yourself. They have to be small to fit inside the cake.

Okay, whoops - I left the butter and milk for the frosting out of the picture.

Oh well. Pretend they're there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Start with three greased and floured 9" cake pans.

The greasing of cake pans is why I had children. Sticking my hand in a vat of fat is enough to bring on the gags for me. Now I have children for this disgusting task and they think it is AMAZING.

I recommend having children for this purpose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First layer: Pumpkin and spice. Prepare the cake mix as directed on the box. Pour some batter in the pan, plop the pie on top and cover with more batter.

You'll have some batter left over, but it's okay - make cupcakes!

(I actually did not make cupcakes from this layer because spice cupcakes sound nasssssty.

Then again, I'm not a fan of the spice cake to begin with.)

This layer was doomed from the start. For one thing, I put the pie in right side up and it should have been upside down. Note that this quite possible was a fatal error for layer #1.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is the completed spice cake layer.

If the batter runs over the edge of the pan - which it likely will - just trim the edges when it's cooled

For the sake of time, I cooled my layers in the freezer. I wholeheartedly recommend putting a layer of parchment or wax paper between the cake and plate when they cool.

Mine stuck to the naked plate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is layer number two: Cherry and white.

Note I put it in upside down this time. Also note it cracked when I did.

This may have been because I was all full of myself and tried to entertain and impress my teenager who was photographing for me. She was, however, unimpressed and I just ended up with a cracked pie.

Fortunately, when you're baking an pie into a cake, cracks matter not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To keep this photoblog from being 17 eons long (as opposed to the 14 it already is)

I didn't photograph the finished other two layers.

Just use your imagination.

The recipe I found online called for canned cream cheese frosting, but

I am a frosting purist and always make my own frosting.

When it comes to cream cheese frosting I especially don't like using canned.

It just seems ..... wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is where I unveil the disaster of the pumpkin spice layer.

Kind of gaggy, huh?

We have all theorized and here are our two possible conclusions:

1) Putting the pie in right side up make it too hard for the pie to bake around the cake.

2) Because pumpkin pie is a custard and therefore has to set up, by re-baking it inside the cake it liquified and basically turned into a pool of mushy goo.

I'm going with the second one.

It was no major disaster for me that it didn't end up in the cake.

To me it seems out of place to stick a spice cake and a custard pie in the midst of two fruit pies.

Next time I'm going with peach in a white cake instead of pumpkin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While it looks like I am praying over my monster pie cake, perhaps asking that the soul of the deceased spice cake layer be safe in Heaven, no, I am not praying over pastry.....

I was tweeting.

~~~~~~~

Here is the finished product, a Cherple.

Kind of like a two-layer train wreck of delightful baked confection.

It was also heavy as all get out. As in, heavy to carry.

I think I pulled a muscle between the van and Mom's house.

Oh, the taste?

One word:

Amazing.

~~~~~~~~~~~

And apparently, besides tickling your taste buds, it also has powers we knew not of beforehand.

It has the ability to make grown men wear silly hats and hair accessories while they play Guitar Hero.

Hey, it's a rule that when you play Guitar Hero you must wear something on your head.

The men were not about to let the kids and teens beat them at video games, so

they donned fedoras, African animal ears and farm animal sock hats in order to participate.

I think it was all because of the Cherpumple.

Errr.....Cherple.

Ahhh......Thanksgiving.

A Post of Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T07:43:00.000-06:00

It's 6:36am, Thanksgiving morning. I've been sick since Sunday and have wanted so desperately to sleep in all week, yet here I am wide awake and writing on a sleeping-in holiday. It's so rare that the inspiration to write hits me anymore I figured I should really take advantage of it. Because I'm all responsible like that. Yo.

I'm on my second bout of a wicked cold. With the first round about six weeks ago I had a cough, but the main complaint was the body aches and head congestion. This particular bout started in my chest and within 24 hours of the first tickle in my throat I was wheezing and crackling. Now it's migrated to my head, but I haven't run a fever. And the only body aches I have are the ones in my abdominal muscles (which I wasn't even aware I had anymore) from coughing so much.

Yesterday I had a Well Woman Visit scheduled at the Indian Clinic and considered canceling it because I was scared to death I'd get laid down on that table and have a coughing fit and things would go flying, if you know what I mean. And don't pretend like you don't. If you are a woman you know exactly of that which I speak. Yeah, thought so. But I forged on simply because I dread this visit like I dread ..... well, for the life of me I can't think of anything I dread as much as a pelvic exam. I figured I might as well get it over with while I was already miserable and halfway prepared for it.

I had dropped the kids off at Mom's office before my appointment and as I was headed back to pick them up afterwards, my phone rang. It's one of my girlfriends who I love dearly so I answered it with a smile on my face because, seriously, I love this woman to pieces. She said her husband had been trying to get hold of me and I needed to call him. Frankly, it puzzled me because, while I think her husband is the bomb diggity, I have never had occasion to call him up and chat on the phone. I asked her if everything was okay and she assured me it was.

Now, let me take a moment to digress, if you will. We here at the Redneck Diva household are not a rich family and even though on paper it looks like we're poor, we are indeed extremely blessed. We don't have a lot of money, but we get by. The bills get paid (when I don't just flat forget to pay them) and the kids are clothed. There's always an excess of food in the pantry and fridge and none of us are shoe-less. Yes, I had to cancel a hair appointment awhile back because there just wasn't any leeway in the budget for gray-hair-camouflaging procedures, but in the grand scheme of things I'm fairly certain I'll survive. I really don't like the grays that have taken over my head, but other than my vanity being a smidge dented, it's all good.

Every year we bale the hay on our property and sell it. We don't make a huge profit off of it, but the money we make is our Christmas money. This year, the hay hasn't sold. The guy who usually buys from us backed out. We found two other buyers. They backed out. Now, a year ago this would have had me running around pulling my hair out, crying, snotting and fretting, but this year, while I've been a little worried, I haven't gotten upset. By this time I normally have my shopping about half done - this year I haven't bought so much as a candy cane. Yet my peace about Christmas has been unfathomable. After the second set of buyers backed out I literally laid my concerns over money at Jesus' feet. I laid them there and left them. There is literally NO money for Christmas, but I have known down deep in my heart that it's going to be okay. God will provide. It may not be the most extravagant Christmas we've ever had, but I have known it's going to be okay.

Then Saturday night, while driving 77 mph on the turnpike headed for Joplin, one of my van tires blew out. I was driving. I was in the inside lane when it blew and as soon as we realized what was happening, Paul said, "Get to the shoulder NOW!" Looking back, playing it all out in my head again, God had the blueprints laid out in a cosmic way. Traffic had been close the whole trip, not the usual spacing you find on the interstate. We had driving from one cluster of cars and trucks to another the whole way, but at that moment, when my tire blew I was the only vehicle for a half mile either way. (I've got goosebumps just thinking about it!) I got the van to the shoulder, looked at Paul and remembered to breathe. Realizing the tire that blew was on the highway side sent ice water shivers through me because my husband was going to change that tire. I got out of the van and followed him to the back and said, "We have roadside! Let's just call a tow truck! Let's call Dad, Mom, the President, SOMEBODY. Please don't change that tire. We have roadside!" From halfway under the van, trying to release the spare, my precious redneck husband looked up at me and calmly said, "Sweetheart, you are not helping right now. Please get in the van and shut up." I got in the van, looked back at my children whose eyes had suddenly grown to the size of dinner plates and said, "We need to pray." Three little hands found mine and I prayed for protection, prayed that the semis whizzing past us at 80 mph would see us and avoid us, prayed that Paul would be safe, prayed that we would be safe, prayed that the spare wasn't flat. People, I just prayed.

I am telling you, my husband changed that tire with the speed and agility most pit crew mechanics don't have. He showed me the tire later that night and said, "There is absolutely no reason whatsoever why you didn't lose control of that van tonight. The speed you were going and the way it blew, we should've lost control." I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought, but he finished with, "God was protecting us." Enough said.

On the way home from dinner the worry started creeping in. Where we were going to get the money for at least two new tires when we only had money for bills and didn't have money for Christmas? Paul was beside himself. I nearly was. Then again, that peace just flooded over me and I knew it was going to be okay. I wanted to worry, but it was like I couldn't. Friends, my sister, my daughter, were sharing scripture with me that just calmed me down in a way I can never describe and do it adequate justice.

So now back to yesterday. I hung up the phone with my friend and called her husband. He said, "Kristin, you have a set of tires out here at Walmart." I said, "Excuse me? I what?" There was a lot of stammering and stuttering as I tried to figure out what he was telling me. He explained that someone had bought a set of tires for my van and I just needed to make arrangements to come out and have them put on.

I couldn't talk because I was crying so hard. Bless his heart, it had to be awkward for him sitting there on the phone, listening to me blubber. I managed to choke out a thank you and hung up. I dialed Paul's work number and told him. He didn't believe me. By that time I was at Mom's office, so I hung up with Paul, marched in there and said, "Mom, I am asking you right now to be 100% honest with me. Please, if you love me, do not lie."

She said she was certain at that moment that I had gotten horrible news at the doctor and that her heart was resting somewhere around her toes when she answered, "Kristin, I will not lie to you." I think she was sincerely worried I was going to ask her to take care of the kids when I died or something. Between sobs I managed to ask the question, "Did you and Dad buy me a set of tires?" She assured me she did not. She called Dad. He did not. What followed was about 15 minutes of me sobbing uncontrollably in my mother's office.

I was floored. I was stunned. I was overwhelmed. I was so completely mystified. Who? Why? WHY?

I have personally gotten to participate in giving money to someone who desperately needed to buy groceries to feed her babies. I didn't give the money from my own wallet, but I was the go-between, the person asked to deliver. The relief, the complete release of worry, in her eyes is something I will never forget as long as I live. She was, in that moment, absolutely certain that her babies would have food and being a part of seeing her blessed that way was unfathomable.

I felt that feeling yesterday. In the exchange of a few words "You have a set of tires" my whole outlook changed. The worry I had been pushing back, the question of "How?" was instantly gone. For the next two hours just the mere thought of the incredible act I had just been a part of brought me to tears. I had to put my makeup back on twice.

Psalm 52:8 says, "But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever. I will thank you forever because you have done it. I will wait for your name, for it is good, in the presence of the godly."

"I will thank you forever because you have done it" - this part stands out to me so very distinctly. He has done it. God has done it! God gave his Son for our sins. God gave us grace when we didn't deserve it. God gave us life everlasting if only we accept it. God gave someone out there the financial means to bless a family in need of tires this holiday.

When Paul got home from work last night he checked out my new wheels, the wheels my friend Natalie calls "Heavenly tires that will never go flat because they came down from Heaven and nothing from Heaven is flawed" and that is why I love my Natalie so. He squatted down and looked one over and when he stood up tears were in his eyes. "Why, Kristin?" Well, then of course, I started bawling again. He took my hand, led me into the house and said, "Now, look at this," and handed me a sheet of paper.

The casino he works for has partnered up with Sam's Club to give employees a shopping spree at the Joplin club where we can charge up to $700, interest free, and pay it out of his paychecks for the next six months.

Christmas is taken care of.

Mom hugged me last night and said, "Oh, baby girl, God just keeps smiling down on you today!"

Oh, yes. Yes, He does.

And whoever out there bought a set of tires for a very grateful redneck family yesterday, if you are reading this, thank you. There are no words to adequately describe the blessing you have given us. God used you, my anonymous friend. And I thank you for being open to it.

~~

A happy, happy Thanksgiving to all of you out there reading this.

May God bless you in ways you never dreamed.

It's the Most Tacky-ful Time of the Year

2010-11-16T19:55:00.001-06:00

I am a member of one of the tackiest families in Ottawa County.

And when I say that, it is totally a compliment. Ask any of them.

If you're a veteran reader you are aware of our wacky Festivus tradition. If you're new I'll explain.

Our family, which has never been traditionally normal or known for following traditional rules (probably because we are about as dysfunctional as you can get), decided four years ago to take Thanksgiving and Christmas and turn the gatherings into something a little more....us.

In November 2007 we had our first "Glenn Family Official Festivus Planning Meeting". The purpose, besides eating potluck until we were miserable, was to plan the upcoming Festivus celebration and future Festivuses to come. We gathered on the couch, recliners, ottomans, folding chairs and the floor and proceded to draw up a set of by-laws for ourselves and future generations to follow. The result was a ridiculous set of rules and official-sounding names, fines, penalties and various other silliness.

The gist of it is this: We gather as close to Christmas as possible (2009's Festivus was held in March of this year because of the Icepocalype and Snowmageddon) and exchange tacky gifts. The competing is done only by family members by birth, adoption, step- or marriage who have reached the age of 16. No girl/boyfriends, fiances or kids. The gift-giving preparation is done with much secrecy, husbands and wives sometimes keeping the secret of their gifts from each other. The blinds and curtains at the place Festivus is held (we Hoovers were voted in as the Official Host Family last year) (lucky us) must be drawn so that guests arriving can place their gifts in the "Official Gift-Holding Recepticle" in complete anonymity. If two guests arrive at the same time the latter-arriving party must avert their eyes while the former party places their gifts, lest they be considered a "cheater cheater pumpkin eater." Yes, the by-laws actually say "cheater cheater pumpkin eater". Gifts can be handmade or store-bought, however the total cost of the gift or materials to make the gift cannot exceed $8.18. If the gift is less than that amount the difference is to be brought in cash and placed in a fund that will someday be used to buy pencils for the great-grandchildren when they graduate high school.

There is a President, Secretary and Sergeant-at-Arms. The Sergeant-at-Arms is responsible for goosing family members who get out of line at any gathering. My cousin Keith wanted to add a new official office this year - the "Official Leg Humper". He was voted down. Thank God. My sister's new husband, poor fella, was elected President, I remain the Secretary for All of Perpetuity (because no one else wants the job) and because his leg humping dreams were dashed, Keith was voted in as the new "gooser".

The winner of the Tacky Gift Competition is voted upon by secret ballot and the winner gets to proudly display the Turkey Plaque in his or her main bathroom for one year. If the Turkey is not displayed and another family member discovers the infraction they can steal the plaque and the violator is fined $8.18. So far only one winner was caught without the plaque on his wall, but considering he was in the middle of a home renovation he was allowed to keep the Turkey. It was that year the fine was implemented.

There are oh so many more clauses, rules, sidenotes and facets to the hilarity, but those are the main points. This year we have added a Tacky Apparel Competition. Everyone competing in this competition must bring an item purchased in the checkout line at their local Walmart or grocery store. The winner, chosen by secret ballot, will receive the donated prizes. I can hardly wait to see how many tiny cans of Lysol, Monster energy drink and Bic lighters are part of the prize this year.

This year my cousin Ben and his girlfriend, Amy, flew in from New York to be a part of the Planning Meeting. It was decided that all attempts would made to Skype Ben in from NYC for the Tacky Apparel Competition this year. Considering they both dressed as bedbugs for Halloween this year, we may regret letting them compete from afar. They may kick our butts. Poor little Amy was incredibly quiet through the meeting, only getting excited when we told her it wasn't too late to get in on the action -- if only Ben would propose to her. We even offered to gather with them at LaVerne's, the local wedding parlor, but no such luck.

Oh and something new this year? For Festivus it is "encouraged but not required" that all food brought for the potluck be in the shape of balls. This could get very, very interesting.

When this year's meeting was adjourned everyone went to the front yard and participated in an acorn and hickory nut fight. Nearly to the death. It didn't take long for most of us to go straight back inside. The kids took Ben to the hay bales* where they began jumping and cavorting merrily, thus nearly giving me a heart attack. Any time I see them jumping around out there I can only envision broken legs. And necks. The merriment only increased when Amy, a true city gal, a working actress in NYC, climbed up on the hay bales. And she wasn't even wearing flannel. When they came in, pink-cheeked and covered in bits of hay, she just kept saying, "I jumped on hay bales in my Steve Maddens!"

When my friend, DeLisa, came by later to deliver my Avon I said, "And she jumped on the hay bales in her Steve Maddens!" De gave me a blank look and I breathed a sigh of relief as I said, "Oh good, you have no clue what that means either!" The only Madden I've ever heard of has something to do with football and a Playstation game. I think. I didn't see that sweet girl holding a Playstation game while she jumped. I think she was referring to her boots.

Paul has his Festivus gift already. Courtney says she's going to win this year. Sis, who was last year's winner, says she is not giving up the plaque willingly.

I am open to suggestions. If you have any ideas for gifts tacky and completely lacking in taste please email me. Keep in mind I have made angel tree ornaments out of tampons before, so you gotta really deliver, folks. If you come up with something amazing, though, and I will totally mail you a loaf of Amish bread. And possibly a Sonic gift card. And if you're lucky, a picture of me blowing you a kiss. I'd offer to name my next child after you, but 2011 is the Year of the Vasectomy for us, so you'll have to just accept the loaf of bread and be happy.

* The hay bales are for sale. Desperately for sale. If someone doesn't buy them soon, y'all will able to adopt my kids from an Angel Tree in a Walmart entrance and just buy them presents directly.

It was a dark and stormy night and the damsel cried out in distress...

2010-11-10T12:21:00.000-06:00

Okay, so it's really just a cloudy, gloomy, windy afternoon, but go with it. I'm sitting at my dining room table eating half a garlic bologna, cheese and mustard sandwich and drinking a sweet tea, brainstorming about an upcoming event. Yes, the damsel has garlic bologna breath.

Actually, the eating is going better than the brainstorming.

See, this weekend our church is hosting a ladies' conference and I am the emcee. I have been in prayer about it since I was asked by the pastor, but as of yet I haven't gotten this big lightning bolt and thunderclap epiphany about how to go about my business.

Brother Clint said, "Introduce the speakers and also....be funny."

AGH!

That's about as specific as well....nothing.

So here's where you come in, oh great and mighty Constant Reader. I need your opinions.

When you attend a conference where there are multiple speakers what preferred role does the emcee play for you? Do you want them to put on a red clown nose and play a ukelele, lightening the mood and breaking down anyone's reservations?

(I can't even begin to tell you how disturbing it was to me to do a

Google search for clowns. I will likely have nightmares over this.)

Do you want them to tell a few jokes, a cute story, maybe tie it all to the speaker they're getting ready to introduce? Or do you want them to be more of a Ben Stein fella who says, "Up next is Suzy Jones who will be speaking about missionaries in Guatemala. Hang on your seats, ladies. She has a slideshow."

(By the way, it bothers me immensely that Bueller is spelled wrong in that picture. Just so you know.)

Do you want someone to just get it over with, introduce and get the heck out of the way or truly be a segue between topics and speakers?

Am I putting wayyyyyy too much thought into this?

So make sure to leave a comment and let me know your honest opinon. Please. I beg.

And also, if you're local we would LOVE to see you at the conference on Saturday at Bar-None Cowboy Church. The conference goes from 3-6pm and dinner will be served at the end of the conference. There is no charge, but if you think you're going to come please let me know because we need a headcount for the dinner since it's catered. Our church is very casual and if you want to come in your bluejeans and OU sweatshirt then please feel free. If you want to come in your OSU or Texas sweatshirt ..... that's between you and God. :-)

Clowns and Gypsies and Country Stars - Oh my!

2010-10-30T15:58:00.000-05:00

I spent one evening last week at Mom's looking through old pictures, hoping beyond all hopes I could find the ones of when I dressed up like Dolly Parton. I ended up finding many, many more and thought I'd share. (If you scroll straight to the bottom you are totally going to miss the cuteness, so you might as well take your time.)

First shot of adorrrrrrrrable!!!!

This is 1974, my 2nd Halloween. (I have no idea what my costume was my first one - there were no pictures of it.) Mom made this costume because she has seriously mad sewing skills. The man in the picture is my Poppie. He died when I was three. I have few memories of him and this is the only picture I or Mom have of the two of us together. I like to think I got my love of tattoos from him. Notice his Navy ink. :)

1975

My father, Momma and me. I'm preeeeety sure this is where the redneck began,

I just suppressed it until I got married.

This was probably 1976 or so.

I was a gypsy. All I remember about this costume was that my

Aunt Shirlye let me borrow her GIGANTIC hoop earrings and I was in awe of them.

I'm going to guess 1977.....

I never took dance.

1984

Sis was a mummy. I think if you embiggen the picture you can see the spiders attached to her. They were made out of walnut halves and pipe cleaners. Oh and of course, googly eyes.

We were two delicate little flowers, my sister and me.

1985-ish

Sis was WAY into Smurfs. Her bedroom, her clothing, her school bag....

and she couldn't even be a regular witch, she had to be Smurfette Witch. You can see

I put a lot into my costume. I was ya know, getting all cool and stuff.

The dog was in a lot of Halloween pictures, too.

2008

This was my work costume and also what I wore to Paul's work party. I really stuck out like a sore thumb next to slutty nurse, slutty cowgirl, slutty witch, slutty cheerleader and Flava Flav.

OH MY GOSH, IT'S DOLLY PARTON!

....uhm......driving a 1986 Chevy Cavalier? Say wha?

Oh wait. It's just me. With bath towels stuffed in my shirt and wearing enough blush to scare a clown.

What, you don't think I'm serious about the blush?

LOOK!

Tell me there's no resemblance to me and the lead singer of Twisted Sister.

That's what I thought.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, Y'ALL!!!!

I Am Diva, Hear Me Squeal

2010-10-26T21:31:00.001-05:00

While I pride myself on my redneck-edness there is also that "diva" attached to my name and I'll be honest, sometimes I really am a diva. Not often, but yeah, it's there. Mainly when there are bugs. And critters. And other squirmy, wiggly, creepy things.

I had to run errands this morning and I had made my post office stop, library stop and Walmart stop. The only thing left to do was drop a payment off at the utilities department. Our house has rural electric, but I had to drop a payment off at the city and since it was the day the bill was due there was a line at the drive-thru. Since I had Conner in the backseat getting out was not high on the want-to-do list -- so I sat.

It got kind of warm sitting there in the sunshine, but was too chilly for the AC, so I decided to roll down the window. I looked to my left and there was the most gigantic stinkbug I have ever seen, just sitting there on the inside ledge of the window, and trust me, I grew up in the country - I know stinkbugs. It was HUGE. So I hit the button to roll the window down and my plan was to shoo him out the window so he could go home to his stinky little family. Except when I shooed him with the check in my hand.... instead of flying out the window to freedom he flopped onto my leg.

I screamed. Loudly. And I screamed, "OH MY GOSH! STINKBUG!" Conner said, "Oh my dosh! Stinkbug, Kiki!" But his cute reply barely registered because I was doing something akin to a sitting-down version of the Funky Chicken right there in the seat of my van. I was flapping my legs like there was no tomorrow in an effort to make Stinky McStinkerton get the heck OFF OF ME, but instead? He fell off my leg and INTO MY CROTCH.

Okay, now here is where I COM-PUH-LEET-LY freaked the heck out. The check in my hand was transformed from a check to a bug whacker-away-er, except I was still doing the Funky Chicken and the stinkbug was just hiding his stinky self down where I personally don't want anything stinky. No offense. But I speak the truth, people. I'm sure you feel the same.

So anyway, I am still screaming and OH MY GOSH-ing and Funky Chicken-ing right there in my seat and I realized later I was holding my breath because I was pretty sure all my flailing and screaming (Do stinkbugs have ears?) was making him go all stinky and stuff. The lady in the drive-thru window could see me and in the midst of my seizure I noticed her leaning over to look at me. It was then I decided I had to get out of my van. Right then.

I jumped out and did a crazy ittle hopping move on the concrete as I dusted my booty with my hands, shook both legs like a cat with tape on his paws and for good measure, dusted off my arms, neck, hair, chest and back to ensure the bug was not on me anywhere. The capris I was wearing have big turned up cuffs so I unfolded the cuffs and batted at them with my hands, still clutching the check in my hand, by the way. Convinced the bug was nowhere lurking on my body, I leaned inside the van to see where he was lurking in there. Conner, seeing me stick my panicky face back in, said, "Kiki? You okay? You see stinkbug?" I said, "No baby, not yet, but he's somewhere in here...I'm sure of it." And I punctuated every syllable with a smack on the seat. I guess I thought I was going to rustle him out or something.

I never found the little fella, so he either escaped during my very public, very graceful, sidewalk dance on city property or he found a safe place to live inside my van. Either way, out of sight was good enough at that point. I got back in the van, rolled the window down - you know, so he could fly if he wanted - and soon it was my turn at the window. The lady only gave me a couple of sideways looks and I tried to really appear normal. I'm sure the vein bulging in my neck and the messed up hair helped.

Now, fast forward to this afternoon just before the kids got home from school. I was walking out to my room to get the cord for my iPod when I felt an itch. On my rear-end. And, because I am a stay-at-home mom I am at liberty to scratch whenever I feel inclined - because 2 year olds don't judge. I reached back to give it a little scratch and felt something. Something hard. ON MY BUTT. As in STUCK TO IT.

Yep, I did the Funky Chicken again. Right there in my bedroom which was much more private than the front sidewalk at City Hall, thankfully. And, because I just knew the stinkbug had somehow found his way into my pants and into my underwear I just reached in to feel. Don't tell me you wouldn't have. I totally know you would have done the same thing.

The first dive into my pants was over the underwear. Yep, what I found was something hard alright. And it was in a square-ish shape. SORT OF LIKE A STINKBUG. I immediately envisioned the stinkbug had latched himself to my hiney and was sucking my will to live. Nevermind that stinkbugs aren't parasites and don't suck blood, much less a person's will to live. So there I was, at a place....a very precarious place. A place where I was going to have to touch the life-sucking stinkbug in order to remove it from my body so I could live to raise my children, maybe go to Disney World again and possibly learn to play the fiddle. But see, even if it's attached to my body, I loathe the thought of touching a bug. But I really want to go to Disney World so I made the decision to dive again - down the underpants.

I found the hard, square-shaped object attached to my booty, pinched, took a deep breath....and pulled. I moved my shaky hand to where I could see it, expecting to see a fanged stinkbug, licking his chops, possibly with little bits of my tushy skin dangling from his jaws. But instead I found one of Kady's fake, stick-on fingernails.

Complete with glitter.

Because I am truly a diva. Right down to my core.

Or my rear.

However you want to look at it.

Offended

2010-10-19T14:08:00.002-05:00

It's been a long time since I've broken up with someone. Paul and I will be married 18 years this coming New Year's Day. I didn't even break up with the guy before him - that jerk dumped me. But I recently broke up with a TV show -- Glee.

If you've never watched the show I can give you a rough synopsis: It's about a glee club in a high school. Now, if you were ever a Band Geek, a Choir Nerd or a member of the Chess Club you can probably relate to the characters who join this glee club. They are the misfits, the quirky ones, the ones who don't seem to fit in anywhere else. The first season was all about the kids, the teachers, the combative and eternally unhappy cheerleading coach and the trials and tribulations they experienced. It was full of great music, funny one-liners and ohhhh, the angst.

Even my redneck husband developed a love for the show.

It generated a huge following right off the bat. People all over America, dare I venture the world, loved them some Glee. We all were proud to call ourselves "Gleeks". We all sang songs a capella even if we were really bad at it. A TV show, "The Sing Off" was spawned because of Glee, for cryin' out loud.

I think I can safely say Glee was doing something big and doing something right as far as TV shows go. Right here and now I will admit that there were a few episodes that had a few themes that walked close to the edge, but I censored where I felt I needed to (Oh, how I love my DVR) and we discussed with the kids some of the themes as needed.

But from the very beginning of Season 2 just last month something has been.... off.

Oh Glee, why did you feel like you had to start trying so hard? You had us from the very first "bom bom bom". You captured our hearts with the football player who can't dance worth a lick and looks like he's constipated when he sings. You made us cry when the character Kurt came out. You even made us like the bossy, obnoxious diva who has grand dreams of Broadway the whole time she pushed and shoved her way to the top of the nerderarchy. (Yes, I just made up a word. Hush.) I bawled when the cheerleader, fallen from the top of the popularity pyramid and straight into stirrups, had her baby - and I bawled harder when she gave that baby up for adoption. Honestly, Glee, you sang your way into our houses and our hearts .... but now it's time to say good-bye.

The relationship has gotten toxic. It's unhealthy, it's gone beyond fun and entertaining to uncomfortable and well, frankly you made me angry.

You forced the breakup when you blasphemed my God.

I am not an idiot - I know that life is hard for teenagers these days. I know that drug use, alcohol abuse, sexuality, homosexuality and bullying is sometimes a part of daily life for kids in high school today. My own daughter has experienced bullying by a herd of "mean girls". A close friend of mine has a 14 year old family member who is experiementing with the "popular" teenage drugs. And as they have for years, there are babies having babies in high schools all over the world. I rebelled as a teenager. Most kids do. They experiment, they test, they try to see how far they can go without getting caught. Sometimes we do it as adults.

Please know I am not judging. If you know me personally in any way I hope beyond hope that you know I make a very concerted effort to not judge others. I do not have to agree with you, you do not have to agree with me, but I will not judge you. We all make our own decisions, we all make mistakes, we thrive, we fail, we live, we learn. I have made my mistakes and I have asked for forgiveness, made my peace and moved on. I am not judging anyone. I will receive the only judgment that matters when I stand before God, as will you. It is not my place to judge you here on this earth, nor is it your place to judge me.

But I will not stand for a show that blasphemes God the way Glee is. God will not be mocked. The "Grilled Cheesus" episode of Glee was absolutely more than I could handle. I was so convicted during the entire 60 minutes I was sick to my stomach. Yes, I am serious. God is not "Santa Claus for adults", as one of the characters in the episode stated. He is my Creator, my Most High. He has loved me and forgiven me when I felt unloveable and unforgiveable. What kind of a child of His would I be if I watched a show that belittled and made fun of Him? I wouldn't let someone talk bad about my momma. I won't tolerate someone talking bad about my God either.

We have had a serious spiritual renewal in our household. We are trying as hard as we can to live our lives according to God's will. We are kinder, gentler, more patient, more giving, more loving. We laugh more. We see more. We share more. We pray more. We have eliminated virtually all secular music from our home - not because all secular music is bad, but because we feel more positivity and have a far more uplifted attitude when we are in a near continual state of worship through the music we listen to. It's not for everyone. I won't judge you if you listen to country music. Okay, let me rephrase: I won't judge you for listening to secular music. I don't know how anyone listens to country. (That was a joke. Seriously. I just don't like country music.) As a kid I heard the phrase "Garbage in, garbage out" so many times I can't count and now my husband, my kids and I are trying to live that kind of lifestyle the best way we can. It is spilling over into every aspect of our lives - from the way we dress, to the way we eat, the way we talk, the way we interact with others, the music we listen to and yes, the television programs we watch. And it's not just Glee we have stopped watching. There are others. But Glee went where no one should go. No one.

I think the folks at Fox messed up big with Glee. They had us at the opening of the first season and could've had us for the long haul, but for a lot of people, it's just too much to take now. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord and are choosing to elmininate Glee from the lineup.

You reap what you sow. (Galatians 6:7)

Gone but Not Forgotten and I Might Still Be a Tad Bitter About It

2010-09-28T12:21:00.002-05:00

This morning while checking in on my Twitter BFF's I found a link to a post by Crash Test Mommy about the childhood toys her momma sold in a garage sale. And posts like that, steeped in nostalgia with a tinge of "MOM? WHY?" always get me *right here*. And what woman in her late thirties doesn't have a few of those toys she wishes were still sitting around rotting in the attic? None I know personally, so it might really just be me and Crash Test Mommy.

Like all moms, my mother had to weed out the toys from time to time. It was - and is - a task better done on days when the kids are at school, otherwise the day is filled with whines and cries, wailing and gnashing of teeth, as the child vehemently pleads for the life of their toy, all the while exclaiming, "But it's my FAAAAAVorite! I'll play with it EVERY DAY! I promise!" Oh yes, it's ages old.

I bear no ill will towards my mother, whatsoever. I'm pretty sure my girls are going to be very upset someday that I boxed up all the Barbies last year and shipped them off to a friend down my Oklahoma City. Oh well. They can disappoint their children in the same way someday.

So without further ado, the toys I miss the most from my childhood are:

1. The Tree Tots - As the box so boasted they were "Your friends from the magic forest". Heck yeah! Any family that could make a home as 1970's luxurious as that one certainly had to be magic. they had an ELEVATOR, people! That's pretty high-tech for forest friends.

And weren't they just the fanciest dressin' group you ever saw? Dad in his striped shirt and polka dotted tie....Momma in her apron....*cough cough gender sterotypes cough cough* And what do you want to bet the dog's name was Spot?

2. The Tree Tots Amusement Park -- Because you can't stay in the magic forest forever. You have to come out occasionally and go partake of fried cheese on a stick, ostrich burgers and other carnival food. Now, one might think I'm still a little hung up over the Tree Tots and one might actually be correct, but I just don't think you're grasping the awesomeness of this playset. For one thing, what kid hasn't envisioned themselves living in a tree - especially a tree that's whole top lifts up and exposes your house to the world! I mean, it was probably our introduction to the voyueristic society we live in today. The Tree Tots might possibly have been the gateway toy to reality TV. Just sayin'.

Sis and I LOVED this amusement park because you could reconfigure the thing in as many ways as you could possibly imagine. The possibilites were limitless! One crank ran the whole thing and there was a charmingly annoying bell that dinged while you cranked. I remember the airplane swings being my favorite part because I'd turn that crank as fast as I could and make those planes stand straight out, hopefully giving those tree-dwellers the time of their plastic lives. It was my first lesson in centrifugal force.

3. The Disney Romper Room Mickey Mouse Club FOR WEEBLES!!!!! -- It had lights! and a camera! so you could shout "ACTION!" and pretend that you had creative control over Mickey and the gang while they romped about all Romper-Room-ish. And the bleachers! Just like the real Club members sat on! The club house came with a mat and because of my early compulsive tendencies the house had to sit exactly in the spot it was supposed to. Sis could play with the mat on her stinkin' head or in the next room, but man, for me the house had to be in the right spot for the universe to not be thrown off-kilter. And I really liked the flag pole seat thing - you put a Weeble in, let go and it would shimmy down. Pluto went down it best.

4. A Metal Dollhouse - Now, I have talked to both Mom and Sis this morning and none of us can remember exactly whose dollhouse that was. We all seem to remember it coming at Christmas and it made it's appearance at Nan's house, but who was the recipient we have no idea. Sis and I both remember playing with it and fighting over it, but then, we did that with everything - including air. Regardless, the thing was magical. No, not like Tree Tots magical, but more like metal dollhouse magical. The furniture was very "fancy", four-poster beds, armoirs, claw-foot tubs....it all seemed so regal. However, the folks who lived in the ol' metal dollhouse pretty much looked like hobos. I think someone shaved a mouse and then Elmer's glued the fur to their plastic heads. The dad's hair looked like the guy's in Dumb and Dumber. (Jeff Daniels, not Jim Carey) Their clothes looked like someone had wrapped scraps of material around various body parts and hot glued it together. I don't think their clothes were actually constructed as like a dress or a suit. They were white trash rednecks living in a victorian house. Don't you know the neighbors were livid? I'm sure the Tree Tots loved them because they were all hippie and stuff, but I'm pretty sure the Weebles and Barbies thought they were better than them.

5. Baby Alive -- How could you not love a doll that poos and pees? Well, I mean when you're six. When you're 37 it just isn't quite the same, but man, when you're six a pooin' and peein' dolly is just the ultimate in mommy-ness. I loved her so much. I loved feeding her, burping her, rocking her, changing her......and then she broke. I don't know if her gears stripped, her bolts broke or maybe I just fed her too dang much, but for whatever reason Baby Alive quit eating. And if she quit eating she would soon be Baby Not-So-Much Alive Anymore. I was devastated. Then one Saturday morning I found my father in the office/utility room sitting at the big desk at the end of the room (the desk where his CB radio sat) (I had a handle - did you?) with the light shining over something he was working intently on. He turned around and held Baby Alive out to me and joy flooded my little six-year-old heart! She wouldn't become Baby Not-So-Much Alive Anymore after all! Granted, she now had a big black button on top of her head - a big black button like you would push if you were in a game show shouting "NO WHAMMIES!". Yes. Seriously. From then on you would plug a spoonful of "peas" in her mouth, then push the button on her head to make her eat. She still pooped like a pro, though, without any mechanical aid whatsoever.

I'm pretty sure that one didn't make it to a garage sale. No one could've loved a doll with a big black button her head as much as I did.

Let me take a moment here to praise my mother, though. Mom did save my Barbies, My Little Ponies and Strawberry Shortcakes. I'm sure she did that because those were the toys Sis and I played with most and she knew held the most memories. HOWEVER, I don't think any of us knew that some day in the far off future those Barbies, colored plastic ponies and fruit-scented dolls would be essentially rendered useless and downright gross because eventually the plastic in those things breaks down or something (probably leaking out carcinogenic slime and toxic residue because we all know the 70's and 80's should've killed every single one of us). My Barbies all have hair that is no longer luxuriously blonde tresses, but instead is one big melty-looking tress. As in singular. It's like someone held Barbie's head over the stovetop and well, melted her hair. The My Little Ponies also have the melty hair and their bodies are slimy. Like someone dipped each one in a vat of vegetable oil. All of my Strawberry Shortcakes appear to be going through chemotherapy - they're all going bald. When Kady gets the box out to play with them occasionally I find her standing over the trashcan shaking gobs of plastic doll hair into it.

Ahh....Memory Lane.....littered with broken plastic doll limbs, egg-shaped characters who wobble, ponies with tattoos on their flanks and hippies who live in a tree.

*sigh*

Help Wanted

2010-09-27T14:45:00.000-05:00

A little over a month ago I came about as close to desperation as I have ever been in my life. For two weeks prior I had been having an irregular heart rhythm that wasn't painful, but just there. I'd be going along fine then instead of the usual "thump thump thump" my heart would go "thump thump THUMPTHUMPTHUMP". It was certainly enough to make me notice. And the longer it went on the more I noticed it and the more I was convinced I was dying. Like, literally dying.

See.....I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Of course, I didn't know that then. I just thought I was dying.

I know I've joked around on here probably since the birth of the blog about how I alphabetize my canned goods and books and eat my M&M's by color and number, things I've done since childhood, but there's more to OCD than having a neat pantry and a spotless house. (By the way, I do not have a spotless house. Just in case you were wondering.) The alphabetizing is the "C" of it. The "O" part is the obsessiveness, the inability to stop thinking about something once it's wormed it's way into your mind. It's horrifying. It's paralyzing. It's cruel.

My little sister was diagnosed with OCD several years back when she was having obsessive thoughts that something was going to happen to her kids. She was completely convinced she would lose them, that something bad would happen to them. My cousin laid in bed one night and convinced herself she had bone cancer. Another night she was 100% positive she had a blood clot in her arm. These two women are very close to me and as they told me these stories I was sympathetic and said, "Oh honey, bless your heart," but .... until you have laid in the dark at 3am and planned out your funeral, have started writing letters to your children so they won't forget you when you're gone, have envisioned in your head the Highway Patrolman coming to the door to tell you your husband was in an accident and didn't make it. Or had the recurring thought that because you looked away for 30 seconds and didn't see your kids step onto that bus that morning you have somehow caused the bus to wreck on the way to school ..... you cannot for one second be as sympathetic as you need to be.

I hate going to the doctor and because I use the Native American Tribal Healthcare System for my medical needs it is sometimes a crapshoot getting in to see a doctor unless you have a severed limb or chest pains - and believe me when I say I was considering telling someone, anyone who would listen, that my chest hurt. I needed to see a doctor and I needed to see one soon.

I managed to be the first one through the door on my second attempt at an appointment. That was totally a God thing - He knew how badly I needed to see someone. The RN who triaged me was concerned at the heart rhythm and got the doctor to order an EKG immediately. It showed nothing abnormal whatsoever. I kind of knew it would. See, I did this same thing roughly 17 years ago - irregular heartrate, elevated blood pressure, crying jags, etc. - and after an EKG and an echocardiogram was told I had a healthy heart, was suffering from panic attacks, was given a prescription for Xanax and sent on my not-so-merry way. Eventually life evened out (ie, we got pregnant) and I was fine. I never even refilled the prescription. So even though I was conviced I was dying, I knew the EKG would be normal. Because I knew what this was - anxiety.

The doctor came in, listened very intently to my ramblings and said, "We got this. This we can handle. You knew when you came in that OCD runs in your family. You are experiencing an undue amount of upheaval in your life right now. You not only have OCD, but also Situational Anxiety which gangs up on your General Anxiety Disorder. Now, here's what we're going to do for you..."

And right then I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. He didn't think I was a nutjob. He didn't think I was insane. He didn't even think I was weak. His words were, "You're not broken. You just need some help right now." Those were the exact words my sister comforted me with days before - "You just need some help right now."

I struggled for a few minutes with the diagnosis of what is a "mental illness", but I for once didn't dwell on it. I knew I needed help, know I still do and I'm going to be okay. I'm not insane, I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that needs some balancing. In order to be a better wife, mother, person in general, at this point in my life I need help.

My help right now comes firstly from my God who is strengthening me daily. He is the Great Physician and I know He will see me through. My second help is in the form of a daily medication (an SSRI used to treat depression and also OCD) and an additional one for the attacks that creep up on me out of nowhere. I feel so much better. I was worried the medicine would disable my ability to feel anything and I'd be an emotionless zombie, but now I just feel life. I can still cry. I can still laugh - in fact I laugh so much more than I did. I don't walk around with my fists clenched and my jaw locked. My teeth don't hurt from being gritted continually. My blood pressure is lower. My husband is happier. My kids are happier.

I am happier.

She's Nearly Nine

2010-09-10T23:54:00.001-05:00

I've been sick the last couple days and have pretty much sequestered myself to the bedroom away from the rest of the family. This is hard for me since I'm usually all up in everyone's grills and stuff, telling them what to do, cooking for them, ~~making them cry over~~ helping them study spelling words and other "momma" type stuff. The first night I laid out in the bed and in my feverish haze would holler instructions and orders interspersed with pleas for ice water and Tylenol.

So since my fever broke this morning and I felt like a human again, albeit a human with a nagging cough and a minorly sore throat still, I came out of hiding and spent the evening with my family. I didn't cook. In fact, I'm pretty sure Abby had potato chips for dinner and Kady had popcorn. I don't have a clue what Sam ate. We watched Valentine's Day first and after it took a break to go play in the yard with the dog. Then we all met up again in the living room and decided to break out a vintage movie I recorded off of The Movie Channel quite awhile back, Mask. You know, the one with a very young Cher and a smoking hot Sam Elliott and Eric Stoltz, about the boy with the rare disease that disfigured his face. Yeah, that one.

Normally, I'm a cry-er, y'all know that, but I'm taking some medication that is well, making me less of a cry-er these days. (Yeah, there's a big ol' blog post a'brewin' about it, trust me.) I'm not sure I like it, but it sure does make watching sappy movies easier on my sinuses and my eyes are far less puffy the next day. Kady is my partner in cry - if I bawl during a movie, she will crawl up in my lap with a box of tissue and we'll sniffle through the final scenes, making all the rest of the family members roll their eyes at us. We are cry-ers. Just like Truvy said in Steel Magnolias, "I have a strict policy - no one cries alone in my presence."

Tonight I did cry, but not my usual sobbing, hic-hic-hic, snot everywhere kind of cry, just a few sniffles and some tears. Kady, however, bawled her little face off. It has been a long week, our schedule has been off because I've been sick and it was after 10. She was absolutely exhausted, which only added to the drama in her crying. She finally calmed down only to say, "And you know what? (hic hic) We watched a stupid STUPID movie today in school!"

Well, of course, I had to ask what on earth kind of movie would merit two stupids in the description and she answered, "It was about that day. (sniff sniff) You know...." Her voice got quieter. "....you know.....that day." I didn't know what day she was talking about, actually, so I asked her to clarify. "You know, Momma....September 11th. When those towers fell." And the crying began again in earnest.

I patted the couch in front of me and opened my arms. She barreled off the chair she was in and dove into me, sobbing. I smoothed her hair and wiped the tears and said, "I do know that day, actually. I remember it very well. Wanna know why?" She looked up and nodded. "I was sick. I had four -itises!"

"You had four what?" She giggled and sniffed, wiping a tear on my shirt.

"I had otitis." I pointed to her ear. "I had sinusitis." I pointed her her nose. "I had pharyngitis." I tickled her neck. "And I had bronchitis!" and I tickled her chest. When the giggling subsided she said, "Wow. That is a lot of -itises!" I answered, "Yeah. And? I was pregnant with you! So I couldn't take a lot of medicine. I pretty much just laid in the recliner all miserable and let your brother and sister go wild." She laughed.

Pushing her hair behind her ear I said, "And we were watching Blue's Clues when the towers fell." She looked up at me, one tear threatening to spill. "I sat in my chair and rubbed my belly, where you were, and hugged your brother and sister a lot - and I cried a lot, too. And it's okay to cry now, too. Sissy, in the midst of all the bad that happened that day, there was good, too." She looked up at me, cocked one eyebrow up and said, "Huh? There was no good in that video, Momma. None."

I answered, "That one day brought all of us together. There were no rich people, no poor people, no black people, no white people. We were all just people. The people in New York were covered in ash that day and no one could tell what color anyone else was. No one saw anyone else's clothes. People helped other people. People saved other people. Peopled prayed. People died, but....people also lived. We weren't just people that day, we were Americans."

She looked up at me and said, "You mean there weren't Democrats and Republicans?" I laughed and said, "No, Sis. On that day, the Democrats and Republicans got along and it didn't matter who was who." Leave it to her to bring politics into any conversation.

She put her arms around my neck and said, "Momma, I know every year you read us Bravemole* on September 11th, but maybe this year.....maybe we should skip it. I'm not sure you and I need to cry that much tomorrow. You know that one even makes Abby cry."

"Oh honey, this story should make us all cry."

*If you have never read the story of Bravemole you need to find a copy. It is a fabulous way to talk about 9/11 in a way children can understand..........Well, as much as anyone can understand.

Cherishing on Labor Day

2010-09-06T12:53:00.000-05:00

I have the day off today. So do the kids. I slept until 9:30, made French toast then retired to my room for what I thought would be a quiet day of blogging, writing and picture organization. See, my husband, in an effort to cheer me up out of the blues that had threatened to overtake me lately, bought me a gorgeous new quilt for the bed, new shams, sheets and pillowcases. My bed has eight pillows on it and it beckons to me constantly. I really do *heart* my bed. I go to it often.

But instead of a day of peace and pillow-filled tranquility, my daughters have decided to be all up in my business. I keep telling myself to cherish these moments because all too soon they'll be gone, grown up and married with annoying children of heir own. Yep, I keep on telling myself that. A lot.

Just a few minutes ago Abby took a kleenex from the box and said, "OooooOOOOoohhh! Do you want to see my magic trick? Dooooooo youuuuuuuu?" Without looking up from the computer I said, "Uhm....no. No magic trick. Go away." Then she waved the kleenex in my face and said, "I'm going to perform my magic trick annnnnnywayyyyyyyyy." Then, using her kleenex covered hand, she took my glasses off my face and said, "OooooOOOOoooooh! I made your glasssssssessssss disappeeeeeeeeear! Wherrrrrrre areeeeee theyyyyyyyyy? No one knowwwwwwwwwws!"

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+

Kady just announced, "Hey, Mom. Mom! When I grow up I'm going to be a weather girl."

I said, "Well, then I hope you like math because your Yaya was going to be a meterologist and she had a LOT of math classes in college."

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Okay then. I'll be a blacksmith."

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+

Cherish?

Oh, I'm cherishing.

Two Truth and One Lie - The Answers!

2010-08-24T11:39:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's MckLinky with all the lying and truthing business was pretty fun and I loved reading y'all's comments! So now it's time to fess up. Here's the real deal. No lie.

I have been contacted by two separate production companies and was asked to apply/audition for two separate reality TV shows. I was "too normal" for one and "not redneck enough to eat possum" for the other.

This one is true!

Several years ago I was contacted by a production assistant from ABC and asked to send in pictures, essays and forms because they thought I would be a great character on the reality show "Wife Swap". Turns out, they found me quite boring. And really, I pretty much am. I don't dress up like a princess and LARP, I don't rule my house like a dictator, I don't have freaky routines and beliefs. I'm just me. Boring, normal me. I like me that way.

Two years ago I was emailed by a production assistant from Pink Sneakers Media and asked to interview and send in audition tapes for the show "My Big Redneck Christmas" which airs on CMT. We ended up sending in two tapes, did several phone interviews and made it down to the last two families in the running. The family that won, though, I guess shot light-up deer off their roof, ate a deep-fried possum and really took the term "redneck" to heart. We just exchange tacky gifts and celebrate Festivus. We just shoot possum, but we don't eat them afterwards. It probably worked out for the best.

My claim to fame is that, in college, my sister went on a date with Joe Don Rooney from the country group Rascal Flatts. They went to Jim Bob's Steak and Ribs for dinner and two-stepped in the parking lot after they ate.

This one is true as well!

Joe Don is from Picher, OK, and we actually grew up separately together. Our schools were the same size so between football, Speech and Debate, Band, etc. we occasionally would run into him. I knew him because Joe Don, my cousin Ben and my sister are the same age. When Joe Don and Sis went to NEO together in 1994 they joined the BSU (Baptist Student Union). To raise money the BSU held a date auction. Sis and her friend "bought" Joe Don and his friend, took them out for a steak dinner and, because Jim Bob's always had a line out the door on the weekend, country music was piped outside. The couples two-stepped in the parking lot. Then Joe Don went on to fame and fortune and a Playboy Bunny. Sis went on to have kids. And I tell everyone I know this story.

When I was 19 I was arrested during a traffic stop due to a case of mistaken identity. America's Most Wanted had just aired and the license plate had been put on the air incorrectly - the incorrect number being mine. I was cuffed and put in the back of the Highway Patrolman's car and very nearly taken to jail before it was cleared up and I was let go with apologies.

This one is the lie.

I've never even gotten a traffic ticket. Remember when I said I was boring? I kinda meant it.

But I can tell you about my one brush with the law: When I was a Sophomore a group of us girls "went uptown" to drag Main and beforehand had Cyndi's grownup, married sister buy us wine coolers and cigarettes. Cyndi's car had t-tops and because we wanted to be uber cool we pulled into the Civic Center parking lot to take them out. As we were taking them out, a car full of our friends, also Sophomores, also 16, pulled in beside us and proceeded to drunkenly scream, holler and just generally cause a ruckus while waving their bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 around. Oh and did I mention that the Civic Center and police station share a parking lot?? We were so busted by Officer Dan Dorey who made up dump the wine coolers and break every cigarette we had. How none of us got arrested is beyond me. He didn't even take our names or anything. Retired officer Dan Dorey now substitutes occasionally at my kids' school. I doubt he remembers me.

Thank God.

.

MckLinky Monday: Two Truths and a Lie

2010-08-23T13:41:00.000-05:00

Oh, that Mrs. Priss over at The Real Housewives of Oklahoma....she's playing games again. Today's game is "Two Truths and One Lie" where apparently we all forget what our mommas taught us and well, we tell a lie.

Basically what I'm going to do is tell you three things, two of which are true and one of which isn't. You decide which is which and leave your answers in the comments. I guess I'll come back like, one of these days and tell you if you got them right. Or something.

Here we go:

1. I have been contacted by two separate production companies and was asked to apply/audition for two separate reality TV shows. I was "too normal" for one and "not redneck enough to eat possum" for the other.

2. When I was 19 I was arrested during a traffic stop due to a case of mistaken identity. America's Most Wanted had just aired and the license plate had been put on the air incorrectly - the incorrect number being mine. I was cuffed and put in the back of the Highway Patrolman's car and very nearly taken to jail before it was cleared up and I was let go with apologies.

3. My claim to fame is that, in college, my sister went on a date with Joe Don Rooney from the country group Rascal Flatts. They went to Jim Bob's Steak and Ribs for dinner and two-stepped in the parking lot after they ate.

So run along now and tell me which one you think is the big fat lie.

And don't tell my momma I've been fibbin'.

You can play along, too! Come on....you know you wanna....

Show Some Love, Wouldya?

2010-08-13T11:14:00.000-05:00

Back when I was in 2nd grade I had this boyfriend named Brian. Now, don't dismiss it because we were eight. I mean, we were married like, 27 times at the school carnival that year. Brian had an older sister who I thought was the bomb diggity. Honestly, I think the light of heaven shone through the Farrah Faucett "feathers" in her hair. I felt so special when Edie paid attention to me and said I was "cute".

Time marched on....Brian left for a few years, Edie graduated high school, Brian came back (with muscles and long hair *swoon*), but the magic was lost. While Brian was off growing muscles, facial hair and a 'do that would make any 80's hair band member jealous, I was working hard to hone my mad nerd skillz. I had become a quintessential geek.

The 27 marriages fell apart.

Fast forward to adulthood, enter email and Facebook. A few years back I got an email from a woman named Beckie who said she was married to my first husband. That kind of took me aback at first because frankly, I had forgotten about those magical 27 moments at the alter with Brian in the corner of the gymnasium back in 2nd grade. She told me she harbored no ill will and was actually a reader of my blog and thought I was hilarious. I met her in a casino one evening and when I heard a little voice ask, "Are you Redneck Diva?" I was shocked, then delighted and I think I scared the poor woman to death when I hugged her neck probably a little too tightly. And then last year Brian's big sister, Edie, friended me on Facebook. Be still my geeky heart! She doesn't have Farrah Faucett feathered hair anymore, but she's still awesome. And she needs our help.

This is where you come in, Constant Reader.

Edie is a finalist in a contest with The Tulsa Dentist and needs your help! If she wins she will get a $50,000+ complete, head-to-toe makeover and folks, that beats out Farrah Faucett feathers any ol' day. She told me the last estimate on her dental work alone was over $10,000 alone. She also informed me she was a breastfeedin' momma for FORTY EIGHT MONTHS and had three C-sections. Girl needs a little lift, methinks. She's deserving, she's a great gal and anyone who said I was "cute" when I was in 2nd grade is going to get my support.

So here's what you can do: If you're on Facebook already, search for The Tulsa Dentist (or just click that link), "like" the page and then click the Photos tab. Find EDIE and leave a simple comment with the word "vote" in her album. That's it! And if you're not on Facebook already.....WHY NOT? I'm there!

I appreciate you, Edie appreciates you and I'm pretty sure her boobs will appreciate you if they get a good hoisiting in the near future.

Thanks for your support. *snicker*

Viewer Discretion Advised

2010-08-09T08:43:00.003-05:00

We have reached a very uncomforable place in our house.

We have satellite TV and the 250-channel package of mind-numbing entertainment on two, count 'em TWO TV's. We have three kids and I babysit my two-year-old cousin during the school year. I don't mind the kids' shows at all. I have an intense crush on Mover Scott from Imagination Movers and I sometimes watch iCarly when the kids aren't in the room. It's also no secret that I think Phineas and Ferb is one of the greatest cartoons of all time. Paul would rather attend a Mary Kay party than watch iCarly. Drake and Josh makes him nauseous. Those two twins that live in a hotel? He considers them boils on the butt of humanity.

Most of the time when Paul gets home from work the TV is off because if I didn't the children would sit there slack-jawed and drooling all day long in the summer. While I enjoy most of their shows I, too, have my limits. I like the sound of a quiet house. Sometimes the TV lends to intense sensory overload for me and I cannot stand having it on one second longer. It's off more than it's on during the day.

But my darling husband comes in from work, sits in his recliner and magically the remote is in his hand and the TV is on the Reality Channel, something I consider a boil on the butt of humanity. He also loves Animal Planet and CourtTV. Typically he's asleep within 10 minutes and the kids draw straws to see who gets to slip the remote from under his hand. Then it's flipped to Nick or Disney. I'd rather watch those annoying twins than anything on Reality. After dinner, though, Paul's after-work nap out of the way, the reality begins anew. I do not understand why watching cops arrest drunken prostitutes and wrestle a gang member to the ground while dodging a spray of bullets is entertainment to him. He gets a kick out of watching those "caught on tape" shows where, for an hour at a time, you can watch people repeatedly fall through the ice, trip over dogs, straddle a hand rail while skateboarding, do backflips off trampolines and break their arms in 47 different ways. I don't get it.

His latest love is Billy the Exterminator.

I am not a fan. I frankly just can't get past the dude's sunglasses. And his hair. And his gloves. And that thing on his chin. I think Billy is a okay guy, don't get me wrong. I think he genuinely likes helping people and tries to capture and release animals when he can rather than kill, but uhm....if Billy can get a reality show why can't I???? Seriously. We made it down to the final two families in the running for My Big Redneck Christmas two years ago, but we weren't trashy enough and the folks that ate possum won. I guess we need to kick up the trashy. And the leather and tattoos.

Forget cowbell, we need more possum.

Paul is constantly imparting wisdom from good ol' Billy to anyone who will listen. He told me the other night that if I will just look at a snake's eye I can tell whether it's poisonous or not and therefore whether I can risk a bite or not.

*blink blink*

Okay, here's the dealy-o, Mister Animal Pants. I will not be getting voluntarily close enough to a snake to see the shape of its pupil, THEREFORE I will not be in charge of judging whether or not a snake is dangerous or not. Snakes are dangerous. Always. And here's why: I will hurt myself getting away from one regardless of the color, shape of it's head, pattern, rattle, tongue, pupils or whether or not it buys its clothes from The Gap or Gap Outlet, thus rendering it dangerous. Snakes are dangerous. Period.

And now our son has jumped on the Billy Bandwagon. I am about to have a Billy Ban in this house.

As we were coming up the drive the other night there was a possum in the driveway. Paul swerved to hit it and succeeded. As we got into the yard we saw an armadillo digging a hole. Paul again swerved to hit it, but missed. Armadillos are far craftier and more agile than their non-armored counterpart, obviously. After we got in the house Sam was sitting in the couch all pouty. When I asked why he looked so angry he said it was because Daddy had killed the possum and had tried to kill the armadillo. I explained that they are nasty, disease-ridden creatures who serve no purpose on our property whatsoever. Unless you consider making my dog bark at 4am a purpose -- which I don't.

Then Sam went into this ridiculous diatribe about how horrible we were for killing them, they didn't deserve to die, why couldn't we just let them go about their merry little animal ways. He got all kinds of fired up. Fired up or a non-confrontational 11 year old, anyway. I told him we're rednecks, we kill the critters that invade and destroy our property and well, he'd better start cleaning his room better, 'sall I'm sayin'. He grinned and eventually gave up, figuring out he wasn't going to win an argument where he was trying to fight for the rights of marsupials and reptimammals everywhere.

Then after he had gone to bed there was a segment on Billy the Exterminator where Billy and his leather-clad brother had to remove armadillos from a prayer garden. Because of the diseases they carry. Even Billy admitted that armadillos are more than just nuisances, they are a health hazard.

And, in a moment of parental surreality, I found myself hollering down the hallway to my half-asleep child, "Hey, Sam! Guess what? BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS ARE NASTY. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR JUST REMOVED ARMADILLOS FROM A PRAYER GARDEN. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS CARRY DISEASE AND ARE HARMFUL TO CHILDREN."

Mmm hmmm. I told him.

Paul just sat there in his recliner staring at me, the TV paused, while I yelled insanely down the hall to where our son had more than likely been sleeping, but probably wasn't anymore. When I was done, I breathed in a heavy breath, feeling satisfied, feeling like I had justified all past and future armadillo issues by ..... *sigh* ...... imparting the wisdom of Billy the Exterminator to my child.

Paul then grinned, pushed play on the TV and said, "Way to go, Momma. Way. To. Go. Now, let's see what Billy says about alligators."

Chasing Lilacs

2010-08-08T19:40:00.000-05:00

Hey, because you are all awesome and stuff you should mosey over to my review blog and check out my review of the book Chasing Lilacs and the giveaway I have going on right now.

Also? The author of Chasing Lilacs, Carla Stewart, is going to be doing a book signing at Chapters bookstore in Miami, OK, on Thursday, August 12th from 3:30 to 5:30 pm. You should go. All the cool kids will be there.

So get to moseying. Seriously. Tell your friends and neighbors, too. Everyone should mosey. It's fun.

Ever Elusive

2010-08-03T12:30:00.001-05:00

This past Friday was my little sister Tater's 34th birthday. Mom, Pops, Tater, her beau and the Tots came out Saturday evening to ride 4-wheelers and whack around on a few golf balls. The original plan had been to play Redneck Croquet and smack around on the golf balls while on the 4-wheelers, but it was so dastardly hot and Abby had been sick and we just didn't put too much effort into the outdoor activities that night. Abby was still pretty weak and she'd have been disappointed if she hadn't been able to play.

(Anyone else think Sam looks more like he's trying out for a baseball team than hitting a golf ball?)

While we were watching Pops and Paul teach the boys how to hit those itty bitty orange balls with those long, skinny poles on the redneck driving range (one flag in the middle of the field, mowed weekly with the brush hog and the kids earn money finding balls by driving the 4-wheelers out in the field - who needs a country club?) one of the adults suggested we take the kids snipe hunting.

If you're from Oklahoma you are probably grinning right now because you yourself went snipe hunting when you were a kid, right? And snipe aren't indigenous to Oklahoma only - I hear Missourians hunt 'em, too.

Instantly the four youngest kids were interested and excited. BJ, Tater's beau, took them out to find sticks to tap together to call in the elusive, mysterious snipe. I grabbed the camera. (Stay hooked. The first part is hard to hear, but it gets louder.)

They didn't rustle up any snipe in that first pre-dark attempt, but they did scare up some chiggers as you can see by the way Sam was digging at his ankles.

Finally at dark BJ and I headed toward the hay bales with four kids and their sticks. He was totally making it exciting for the kids, saying he heard one, whispering, "Was that a snipe? Did you see that?" and I was just praying a possum, raccoon or snake didn't cross my path because it would've been so embarrassing to pee my pants in front of Tater's beau.

After a few minutes BJ grabbed a paper grocery sack out of one of the kids' hands and took off running. He threw himself on the ground and in a flurry of noise, grunting and wrestling, jumped up and declared, "I GOT ONE!" The kids cheered, Tater and I hid our giggles as the kids ran out to see what was in the sack. Pops came out and asked BJ if he could see inside the sack. He instantly withdrew his hand and said, "OW it bit me! Oh wow....I'm bleeding kids. You need to be really careful. It's an angry snipe."

That's when Kady started crying.

Mom came out to see to Pop's "bleeding" finger while Kady all but climbed up my body in an attempt to keep herself off the ground and away from any wandering snipe that might find her toes a tasty snack. After all the grownups looked in the sack it was decided it was a baby snipe and should be let go because the momma might get really mad we'd kidnapped its baby.

That's when Kady's crying turned into hysterical wailing and screaming.

That's also when Abby took Kady inside and assured her that Pops was okay. (Moments after they got inside Abby sent me a text that said, "Please can I tell Kady what's going on. She has a nosebleed she's so upset." Ahh...compassionate big sister.)

BJ "let" the snipe "go" and we were going to go in the house for drinks and air conditioning when Pops whispered to Tater and I that Paul had changed into a dark shirt and had snuck out back to scare the kids. We relayed that info on to BJ who then decided we needed to catch another one. He rallied the remaining troops and off they went again toward the hay bales in the field. We tried a snipe "call" thinking Paul would return the call, but we found out later that while we were calling, he was trying to untangle himself from a batch of blackberry briars out behind the barn and hadn't even made it to the hay bales yet.

Finally after some calling and stick tapping (and wondering on my part if my husband had been eaten by a cougar) the kids, in a tight walking huddle, rounded the side of a hay bale and all we heard over by the fence was RAWR! IIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! and then the sound of six feet running toward us. We were all doubled over laughing and the snipe were forgotten.

Back inside we treated everyone who had chigger bites and Paul put alcohol on his briar scratches and the mystery of snipe hunting was revealed. Unlike all of us grownups who, too, had gone on our own childhood snipe hunts, our children, however, did not laugh when they realized they had just spent over an hour in a field hunting a bird that wasn't there, tapping on sticks, imitating their call and believing they were about to gain a new pet. They sulled up and pouted and one cried. They called us "mean". They said we were "horrible".

We adults were all able to recall our very own snipe hunting experience and told our stories. The children were not amused. They asked how we could lie to them like that.

I shrugged and said, "It was pretty easy, actually. And someday you'll see just how easy when you take your own kids snipe hunting."

They all agreed they would never do such a thing.

But something tells me ..... when my grandkids are about 11 or so we'll hold a new generation of snipe hunting and the legend will live on.

Here's hoping, anyway.

Wowie Wow Wow

2010-07-23T07:30:00.002-05:00

*phhhooooooooo*

(That was me blowing the cobwebs off the ol' blog here.)

I've been kind of scarce lately.

"No, really, Diva? We hadn't noticed. Sitting here, waiting patiently for you to come along and entertain us. In fact, we may have gone looking for greener pastures. Whaddaya think of that, oh absent one?"

Well, I think it's deplorable. Not you. You're not deplorable. Why would I call you deplorable? You're the ones who've been sitting here in this cobwebby mess, probably playing spider solitaire til you're nearly cross-eyed, perhaps a random game of rock/paper/scissors with another pitiful person waiting around....

And I apologize. Sincerely.

But can I give you a run-down of the last couple weeks? Then maybe you'll be more willing to maybe offer me your bosom on which I can lay my weary head and receive the comfort I so desperately need.

Woah. Wait. I just asked you to offer me your bosom. Scratch that. This ain't that kinda blog. No bosoms. Really.

Okay, so here goes. This is my desperate attempt at gaining your sympathy (but not your bosom -- I repeat NOT YOUR BOSOM). In the past three weeks:

* Here at the ranch we hosted 20-some people for the 4th of July, which was actually on the 3rd. I was told by one sister that I am "no fun" as the host and she wasn't going to let me anymore if I was going to be that crabby.

* We hosted a second, impromptu day of shenanigans and holiday overeating on the 4th when my mom and dad, Tater, her handsome beau and the Tots spent the day with us. There was food and fireworks, a rousing game of Spoons in which my tablecloth was ripped, Abby's (now ex-) boyfriend bled and now my spoons are ten kinds of wonky.

* I got to spend a whole week with my niece and nephew, the Tots. That was heavenly.

* My son was introduced to golf and now I have TWO rednecks who look forward to Tuesdays at the Country Club like a couple of little boys hoping for a Red Ryder BB gun from Santa. While Paul is slightly more sedate, Sam bounces around like a chihuahua from the time he gets up on Tuesdays until his daddy gets home from work. Also, there has been a documented event where both of them got up before 7am on a Saturday to go play.

* We have had a big ol' camping party in the living room for a week now. For those of you non-local folks, we here in Oklahoma are in the midst of yet another Oklahoma summer, also known as HELL. Our 1,922 square foot house is cooled by one very brave window unit and does a spectacular job - until the humidity gets as high as it's gotten lately. Last Sunday it got up to 87* in our house with the thermostat set on 67*. So it was either camp out in the living room or go stay with my parents until December. Now there is an air mattress in the middle of the floor, pillows, stuffed animals and sheets everywhere, the blinds stay pulled 24/7 and the TV goes off in the middle of the day because that gigantic thing could probably power a small third-world country with the heat it puts off. Can I just say this? Momma has a slight case of MY CHILDREN ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY.

* I made my very first 911 call.

* I argued with the police dispatcher during said 911 call because when I had made a non-emergency call prior to the 911 call she wrote the address down wrong and sent the police officers a block east. Then when I called and actually had an emergency she argued that I was wrong.

* I was visited by a process server for the very first time in my life.

* During that pleasant process-serving party I received my very first subpeona to appear before a judge. And can I just take a moment to appease my inner 12-year-old? SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA *giggle* It's just fun to say because it sounds kinda dirty but it's not. SUBPEONA.

* I now have a much more sensitive BS detector.

* I have learned to rely on my God, my faith, my family and my church family in the past two weeks. God put that group of cowboys and cowgirls in my life for a reason and I am so thankful, blessed and awed.

* My youngest daughter called me "strong". I have really never thought of myself as strong, but if I can come across that way to an 8 year old who is looking to me in the midst of crisis and upside-down-edness I must be doing something right.

* And finally I have learned that sometimes while you are nervous and anxious and exhausted a late-night phone call from a friend who tells you a story about a flag-stealing midget in a pickup truck will make you laugh until your stomach hurts - and is probably the best medicine out there.

So see? I really do have valid reasons for being slighty....uh....removed from the blog the past few weeks.

Forgive me? Promise to come back if I use the word SUBPEONA more?

SUBPEONA!

Monday MckLinky: I'm a Kitchen!

2010-07-19T15:07:00.000-05:00

What room are you most at home in?

You Are Most at Home in the Kitchen

You're the type of person who finds a lot of comfort in your home.

You love to take care of yourself and others.

Your home is welcoming and open to all.

You love entertaining guests and making them feel a part of the family.

There's nothing like spending an afternoon in the kitchen,

whipping up treats for you and your loved ones.

You believe that the simple things in life can be the most enjoyable.

You like give your time and love to people.

Work is Hard. Time for Blogthings!

Who knew? I'm a kitchen!

It makes sense, though - it's the room I am in CONSTANTLY.

Oh, my achin' feet.

And because it's Monday and it's summer and we're all, you know, busy housewives who are spending inordinate amounts of time in our kitchens, yeah....we did a meme thing.

So sue us.

But before you sue anyone, take the quiz yourself, go visit The Real Housewives and link up there. It's much more gratifying than suing any ol' day.

Sneezing vs. a Tornado

2010-07-13T12:46:00.001-05:00

As you all know, we are a bit.... skittish when it comes to storms. We have a very healthy respect for them and tornados are simply a force not to be reckoned with. That being said, what's the first thing Paul and I do when the weather starts looking bad? We, and every other redneck, go stand in the yard and watch the clouds roll in and hope we see the twister.

Yesterday when Paul got home he said he and a bunch of friends from work were going to go play golf. It was totally fine by me since I had spent the whole day in my pajamas watching DVR'd episodes of "The OCD Project" on VH1 with a few Tosh.0's sprinkled in to make me laugh after having bawled through watching those folks with OCD battle their disorder. I figured if I let him go play golf without batting an eye he would be far less likely to notice the Barbies scattered around the living room, my ladybug pajama pants still on my body and the dishes in the sink.

I was totally right. He came in, changed clothes and left again with nary a harsh word. Score!

Before he left, with our son in tow, I told him there was some stormy weather rolling in and to keep an eye on the skies. He nodded and off they went. He called me about 20 minutes later to tell me that the Miami course was closed and they were headed to Baxter Springs, KS. I wasn't happy about that because the storms were coming in from the north, so again I reminded him to keep an eye on things and keep his cell phone within reach. He agreed and off they went again.

It's at this point in the story I should probably throw in this tidbit of information: A few weeks ago I sent Sam down to get our lawnchairs from the cellar so we could use them at a birthday party. When we unfurled them at the party I thought they smelled damp, like mold. Sam said, "Yeah, it was kind of wet down there..." and that was it. I mentioned it to Paul later that evening and he said that was strange, it had never gotten wet down there before. The next day he called me out into the yard. When I got out there he was standing at the cellar with the door open, a black-ish thing lying in the grass next to him. As I got closer I realized what it was: the mattress thing we had put down there the last time we'd gone under. It was late and the kids were tired so we laid it out in the floor for them to lie on. Paul said the entire floor of the cellar was wet, the mattress had soaked up a ton of water and was covered in mold. Apparently, someone who refuses to confess by the way, put the garden hose to the vent and .... irrigated the cellar. We have no idea who or even why, but I'm not above resorting to bamboo shoots under the fingernails to find out the culprit's identity and motive. Anyway, we left the cellar open for a few days and I kept meaning to bleach it out...."meaning to" being the operative words here.

Now on with the story....

I called Paul when we went under a severe thunderstorm warning and told him the county he was in was under one as well. He said they were on the 7th hole, the owner had already told them that at the first sign of lightning to get off the course as fast as they could and he reassured me they were paying attention to the weather. Sam called me about half hour later and said they were heading home and that daddy wanted me to know "they were right ahead of the storm."

As they pulled in it began to rain and he said he literally drove ahead of the storm. I guess he wanted me to acknowledge his storm-dodging prowess or something. I went out into the yard and immediately came back in and said, "You need to come out here with me. And kids? Find your shoes and pack a bag. We may be going underground." Paul and I went back outside and stood in various parts of the yard to see the storm from different viewpoints. As we were about 50 feet out into the field we heard a sound which caused us to look at each other, stare wide-eyed and then begin running - we heard the tornado sirens from Miami.

We live about 7 miles from the very south edge of town and only one other time have we been able to hear the tornado sirens when they've gone off. Usually the storms come in from the other way and we just don't hear them, but this time we heard them loud and clear. He ran to let the dog off the chain so he could go to the barn, I ran to the house to tell the kids to GO NOW. I grabbed my purse, cell phone and iPod (the essentials you know), decided I didn't have time for the laptop and we were out the door. I think we made it from sirens to cellar in under four minutes.

As we all stood there panting, cleaning the raindrops off our glasses and wringing out our hair, I realized I had forgotten the NOAA radio. I always bring it with us so we have some idea of what's going on in case we lose cell signal, which we sometimes do down there, but not always. I called Cousin Courtney who wasn't even in Miami, but I had forgotten that fact, and immediately felt awful for scaring the snot out of her since she's away on business and her son and husband were here, obviously under the life-threatening peril of an impending tornado. I asked the question on Facebook and Twitter, "Are the sirens going off in Miami?" and my niece and one other person responded that they had been, but they weren't any more. Then it was 9:00 and my mobile notifications go off then, so I was out of the loop from then on.

It was so hot and muggy down there that after we didn't hear from anyone that the sirens were back on, we decided to come out and go back to the house. Where there was air conditioning.

Turns out, Miami never went under a tornado warning. I'm not sure if a clumsy intern hit the switch accidentally or they were trying to be proactive or what, but it was unsettling to not know why they were going off and whether we needed to stay underground or what. Paul said he wondered if someone had called the Psychic Friends Network and were sounding the alarm because they had gotten a tip. Whatever. When it comes to the weather I would always, always rather be safe than sorry. I will take the stinky, damp, hot cellar any day over being whisked away to Oz. I mean, I think Munchkins are cute and all, but have no desire to cavort in a field of poppies with a scarecrow who would inevitably make me sneeze and a lion who would likely do the same.

Speaking of sneezing, while we saw no mold in the cellar last night, about 30 minutes after we got back into the house Abby broke out in hives. It took 50 mg of Benadryl to give her any relief. Sam and I woke up this morning with swollen eyes, a runny nose and both sneezing our heads off. Abby's still hive-a-licious and Kady had to use her inhaler. Methinks the mold was of the invisible variety.

So now....I'm taking volunteer applications from whoever wants to come help me bleach out the cellar so we don't all die from anaphylactic shock the next time we're dodging a tornado. I can't pay ya, but I'll give you some Amish bread and sweet tea. You know how to get hold of me.

Monday MckLinky: What Are Your Strange Remedies?

2010-07-12T12:02:00.001-05:00

When Mrs. Sinclair announced she was using this for a topic I got all kinds of giddy. I love, love hearing other people's home remedies and unusual methods for doing something, more than likely because their momma did it that way and their momma's momma did it that way.

So it got me to thinkin'.....what are some of the things my mom, Nana, Memaw, Granny and other wise sages in my life have taught me...... Hmmm....

***************

When I was a kid I can remember my mom running a diaper pin through her hair before she'd pin a diaper. I thought it was absolutely crazy - until that day I needed to pin a diaper and it wouldn't go easily through the material. I kind of looked around to see if anyone was looking (like, who was going to be spying on me in my living room) and then ran that dang pin through my hair a few times. Voila! Easy peasy.

Of course, no one uses diapers with pins anymore. Even if they use cloth diapers they have those fancy schmancy diaper covers now. Whippersnappers.

***************

My Granny Glenn was a firm believer in the merits and values and absolute healing properties of tea tree oil. If you had a headache you got a fingertip dabbed in tea tree oil dotted in the middle of your forehead. Mosquito bites, rashes, dandruff, athlete's foot, any affliction or ailment also warranted a good dousing in the ol' TTO, as Rachael Ray would call it if she were all into plant oils for something other than cooking.

I always have a bottle of it in my cabinet.

Put a few drops in your shampoo and it will keep the lice away. Seriously. I learned that when I worked at DHS. *shudder* (Anyone else's head itching now?)

****************

Everyone knows about putting a past of baking soda on bee stings, but I think it's an Oklahoma thing to put chewing tobacco on them. Wintergreen Skoal works best. The first time I got stung - and I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday - I screamed, threw myself on the ground and sat on my hand to keep my dad from putting chew on it. I really don't know why. Sitting on it hurt, the Skoal would've felt better. Also, the spanking I got wouldn't have been necessary either.

****************

Papa always blew cigarette smoke in your ear if you had an earache. I'm thinking that 4 out of 5 pediatricians would scream, "OH MY GOSH DON'T DO THAT!" but hey, it worked when I was a kid.

****************

Memaw always said if you stepped on a nail to soak your foot in kerosene. Better hope you don't have an earache while you're soaking that foot...

****************

And finally.....I saved the best for last......

My mother-in-law swears by coffee enemas. Not for constipation, but just for general health. She says they will just make you feel better from head to toe.

Uhm....I can think of one place that would not feel better if I did a coffee enema....

****************

So, because Mrs. Sinclair asked now I want to know, too -- what are your strange home remedies?

Answer in a post on your own blog, then post it in the MckLinky on The Real Housewives of Oklahoma and let us all partake of the wisdom you behold. I mean, I shared with you about a cuppa joe up your old kaboozie, surely you can think of something.

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).

2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!

Humor Me

2010-06-28T17:57:00.000-05:00

I'm a funny gal. I'm not bragging that I have mad comic skillz or anything, but uhm....I won Best Humor Blog twice in the Okie Blog Awards. I don't think they just give those out to the morose and humdrum. As a general rule, anyway. I've always been a bit of a cutup, a goofus and up until a few years ago when the avoidant personality took over, outgoing and willing to do just about anything for a laugh. Now, I tend to pour my humor into writing and save the oral shenanigans for those I love most, those nearest to me, my peeps if you will.

Oh my gosh, I just used the word "peeps" on my blog and I wasn't talking about baby chickens. Heaven help me.

Now, my husband is a funny guy, too, but he is, more often than not, just accidentally funny. He does not share my love of slapstick, sarcastic, off-the-wall stuff, stuff that is so weird and ridiculous you can't help but laugh. Or I can't help but laugh, anyway. When I was rolling on the couch (literally) the first time I watched Napoleon Dynamite he was sitting in the recliner looking at the TV then looking at me and shaking his head. We've watched it so many times now he'll chuckle in a few places, but I really think he's laughing at the kids and me more than the stuff on the screen. We rarely laugh at the same things. Where I was laughing so hard I snorted during Date Night he dozed off and my snorting woke him up. He did like The Hangover, but only because it was raunchy and had lots of cuss words. He does not like Saturday Night Live. I can bust into a loud rendition of Dana Carvey's "Choppin' Broccoli" and giggle at my own self, while he'll look at me blankly and say, "Why are you singing about broccoli? And who is this lady you bought broccoli for? What's broc-o-lay? Is that a kind of broccoli?" And at that point, depending on my mood, I will either bust out laughing at him or just leave the room in frustration to go sing about broccoli somewhere else.

But then there are times he does something like this: (excerpt from this post)

Mom got Paul some flannel pants for Christmas and these are the softest flannel pants I've ever felt in my life. He realllllly likes those pants. The second night he owned them, I was in the kitchen fixing a glass of tea when I heard him holler for me to "comere". Tea glass in hand, I walked around the corner and saw him standing just outside our foyer, with his hands on the banister, his legs about shoulder-width apart. He looked at me over his shoulder and in a thick Mexican accent said, "These are my recreation pants. Do you like them?" Then, just like Jack Black did in the movie, squeezed his buttcheeks and shot me a sexy look and I spit tea across my dining room. Then he took one hand off of the banister, put it on his hip then turned around and sauntered towards me while I was still choking on sweet tea and then he said, "Sometimes you wear stretchy pants.........just for fun."

And those moments are gold, people, pure comedy gold. Because it's so unlike him.

So, knowing our children share the same parents, it was a 50/50 gamble as to whether our kids would have a sense of humor or not.

If I've heard it once I heard it 43, 273 times: "Your mom". And by "Your mom" I mean, the age-old slam. The ones I remember growing up were like, "Your mom is so fat when she sits around the house she sits around the house" and "Your mom is so ugly she makes a mud fence in a rain storm look pretty" and the likes. Well, my children have taken this once-insult to the ridiculous. I can holler from the utility room, "Kids come get your laundry!" and I guarantee I will hear the reply from at least one of them, "Your mom's laundry." Abby is the worst, by far. I asked her if she wanted a slush at Sonic the other day. She said, "Your mom's a slush." When I ignored her and then asked what flavor she wanted she replied, "Your mom's a flavor."

Sigh.

The other day, I kid you not I heard that my mom was:

--a corn dog
--a front porch
--a flappy pappy
--a rotten French fry
--a stray dog
--a pothole
--a Walmart
--a hay bale
--a sofa
--a Vienna sausage
--a spider web
--a dish soap
--a tree frog
--Rice Krispy Treat
--boob sweat

and many, many more.

Okay, to be honest, the last two were from my friend, Stacie, who got in on the fun via text message and nearly made me wreck while driving down Main I was laughing so hard.

Yesterday we were in the van talking about car accidents and how each of the kids are getting pickups for their first vehicles because they can only fit one other person in the cab and not a whole slew of kids, thus avoiding the need for me to get a prescription for Xanax and possibly therapy every time one of my kids leaves the house. The two oldest groaned at the thought of only being able to haul one friend (and of course, I heard, "Your mom's a truck" from the backseat, too) and I said, "Well, I'm only trying to save your lives," and crossed my arms to signal the discussion was over. Then Kady, who posesses amazing butt-kissing abilities, said, "Well, Mom's right. Teenagers acting stupid and horsing around is the main cause of traffic accidents in America today."

Of course, when she said that I chuckled and said, "Thank you, Kady, with that report from the eight-year-old traffic safety commission." Without missing a beat she said, "And now .... back to you, Kristin."

I thought Paul was going to have to pull over to the side of the road he was laughing so hard. She's the one that is funny accidentally, like her daddy.

Sam's my slapstick hero. He's The Three Stooges all wrapped up into an episode of SNL and any movie starring Steve Martin. He can make faces, fall down, run into things and act goofy better than any kid I know. He never fails to make everyone around him crack up.

These past few weeks have been particularly hilarious around here. It seems like daily one or all three of them have spouted off with something particularly hilarious, like so funny the whole family cracks up simultaneously. I'm not sure if it's just my stress level causes me to laugh at things I don't ordinarily find funny, or if it's because the kids have just figured out how to say things at just the right time so they know they'll get a snort out of me. Either way, they are quickly becoming masters at the art of tickling my funny bone. And besides....

Your mom's a funny bone.

Out to RHOK

2010-06-18T09:28:00.000-05:00

Vacation 2010 -- Days 4 and 5

2010-06-08T10:02:00.000-05:00

Blogger was down night before last and then last night I was just ready to fall into bed and not think for awhile, so I'm a few days behind.

Sunday we girls took off for Lake Worth to do some shopping. The boys took off for Cabella's. They were gone a lot longer than us girls. And they make fun of us for shopping like maniacs. After we women-folk got back home we ate lunch and then Tracy and I just visited. The girls played on the computer and iPod, watched TV, Abby texted Chance and it was a nice relaxing day.

Well, relaxing until Abby and I decided to go to Walmart. See, I think our Garmin hates us. She is a British gal named Eleanor and she has obviously decided that we Okies are unintelligent hobknockers or something. I searched for "Walmart" and it found a supercenter 5.9 miles away. I hit GO .... and Abby and I ended up trekking across the Texas grasslands, hills and valleys to visit a Walmart in Nebraska. Okay, not really in Nebraska, but by the time we got there it felt like we'd been gone that long. Getting home was worse because I decided to show ol' Eleanor Biggsby of the Garmin a thing or two and not listen to her. Turns out there is a Walmart about 15 minutes from the house -- Abby and I were gone over two hours. Don't think I didn't get teased to all get out over that.

Yesterday Rick had to go to work and Tracy had a workshop to go to, so after giving us detailed instructions on how to get into Lake Worth they left us on our own. "Don't get off Boat Club Drive" they said many times. I listened intently and took their words to heart because another drive to Nebraska didn't sound like fun to me. My darling Texas friend, Lori, and her crew were driving in to meet us for lunch. She texted me the address of the place we were meeting, I programmed it into the Garmin and we set off. Paul decided to drive since I had taken that jog up to no man's land the day before. The Garmin told us to turn left and I said, "I think it's a bad idea....Rick said to stay on THIS ROAD." But Paul was worried he'd offend Eleanor and turned left. We toured a residential housing addition, got to see several empty industrial lots for sale or lease and when Eleanor said "Arriving at destination!" in her very excited tone we were disappointed to find she had led us to a strip mall. A call to Lori, some driving, turning around and gritted teeth put us in the Albertson's parking lot where my husband told me I could drive from here on out and that he adamantly hated Texas. I then caught sight of the sign to the restaurant and drove us across the street to it. There was a sense of sick satisfaction in that for me.

Lunch with Lori and her crew was wonderful. Just wonderful. Wish we could make Okies out of them.

After dinner last night we went to this amazing, wonderful store full of wonderment and amazing items called Sam Moon. I'm pretty sure it's where Oriental Trading Company meets Big Lots meets Fingerhut. I could've spent seven years in those three stores. Unfortunately, we spent 50 minutes there, then I came back here and penned this letter:

Dear Oklahoma,

Get a Sam Moon. Close to me. Now would be nice.

Sincerely,
Redneck Diva

After that it was swimming and hot tub then ice cream.

Today is more swimming, probably more ice cream and very little else. Today is the day we do nothing. I like today.

Vacation 2010 -- Day 3

2010-06-05T23:25:00.000-05:00

First off can I just say this? I have no idea how on earth my husband gets the idea in his head that when he is cold I am cold, too. The fact that I am lying on TOP of the covers, spread eagle, sweating and panting isn't enough of a giveaway that I am NOT cold? Yeesh. 1:30am, I was having a wonderful bout of hot flash/night sweat and he just cuddled right up like a cold-natured teddy bear. I just don't get how my sweating on him could possibly make him think he'd warm right up.

Okay, that's out of the way.

The morning started off incredibly late and by the time I dragged my weary hind end down the stairs Kady had already managed to get Tracy to fix her some pancakes and bacon and find SpongeBob on TV. She was a happy camper indeed. Around noon or so we all loaded up in Rick and Tracy's car (and I am so thankful we all fit because the drivers here are all certifiably insane) and headed to the stockyards. We ate some BBQ that was sinful, shopped in a candy store where my frugality flew out the window as I paid $1.39 for a Ring Pop for my child and I took the kids' picture in front of yet another abnormally oversized animal statue. Abby literally rolled her eyes and said, "MOM. I don't want EVERY MEMORY from this trip to be you taking our picture in front of a gigantic farm animal!" What? The humongous rooster yesterday and the cow dressed in western clothes were adorable. She's just close-minded.

And after we exited the stockyards proper we realized we had missed out on getting to sit on the longhorn for a picture (this time of a real animal) and instead decided to go check out the mechanical bull. Sam watched a kid about his age ride and decided against it, but Kady? My sparkle princess, diva-in-training? Yeah, she hopped her happy Oklahoma hiney on that big ol' mechanical bull and rode it a lonnnnnnnng time. I have video. I'll post it when we get home since I left the cord at home. Dur.

After that the temps had climbed to a whopping 106* and we decided it was crazy to stay outside without being submerged in water so back to Rick and Tracy's we went, donned our swim suits and spent a ridiculous amount of time in the pool. I did two hours, but the kids did three. Kady has whined all evening about the bottoms of her feet being sore because she wore the hide off those pruny things. Poor baby. Did y'all notice the temp I wrote in that first sentence, by the way? ONE HUNDRED SIX DEGREES. Texas is insane, y'all.

We hit the mall this evening and Kady and Sam blew yet another $20 apiece on another stinkin' Build-A-[insert critter here]. Sam built a panda. Kady built a flamingo. And named her flamingo Diva. After me. I'm honored. I think.

I have no idea the exact plans for tomorrow, but I'm sure there wil be swimming and Abby is hoping for more shopping. I would desperately like a nap some time. Of course, I would also like to sleep through the night without sweating or being accosted by my cold-natured husband. The likelihood of that happening are about as likely as that nap.

Vacation 2010 -- Day 2

2010-06-05T00:17:00.002-05:00

It's hot here. Texas has a whole state full of crazy drivers. The fried chicken is to die for. We're absolutely worn ou....zzzzzzzzzzzz

Vacation 2010 - Day 1

2010-06-03T23:13:00.000-05:00

We left around 1 this afternoon for the big city lights of Yukon, America.

Oh and before I go further - don't try to rob the Diva Ranch while we're gone. We have a house sitter, a big BIG dog and the house is full of guns. Granted, the dog is dumb as a rock, but he's still big. And all the guns are full of ammo. The house sitter is mean, too.

We followed Mom and Pops as we got on the road since they were bringing the Tots down here with them. I quit running over my list after about 15 minutes on the road, telling myself there are Walmarts in Texas. And Yukon, for that matter. My jaws unclenched somewhere past Vinita and I felt myself slipping into vacation mode.

I decided that for the sake of this trip and the boundless fun and merriment to be had by all involved I would lift the Twitter/Facebook reprieve and tweet and update with wild abandon.

I gotta say.....it was nice.

Yukon is a great town and it's where my little sister lives, so I like it even more. We had "oven pizza" (Tot One's birthday request) and birthday cake and took about a gazillion pictures while she beat the snot out of a pinata. A trip to Target yielded an iPod Touch for the world's most adorable 12 year old and we haven't seen her face since I got it loaded and set up for her.

It's 11pm, all five kids are still up, all of the grownups are still up. The kids are having more fun than we are at this point. I'm just ready to slip them all some Benadryl in their drinks and feign innocence.

Make sure you're following me on Twitter if you want the play-by-play tomorrow while we drive to Texas for the first time. It should be interesting to say the least.

Out to RHOK

2010-06-03T04:20:00.000-05:00

When you see this little sign below, be sure to go visit The RHOK --

because that's where I am today!

Vacation Preparation

2010-06-01T21:21:00.000-05:00

By the time vacation gets here I am going to be too exhausted - or insane - to enjoy it.

Today I got the oil changed. I learned last oil change that it's totally worth the extra $5 to go to Lube 'n Go and wait 20 minutes rather than 2 hours at Walmart.

After that I went to the bank and got some money, but turns out we need more, so I guess I'm going back tomorrow.

I wrangled spots for my kids at church camp and nearly had a stroke when the guy told me that fees had jumped from $65 to $100 per kid this year.

I then called the First National Bank of Granny and asked her if she could help pay part of the kids' way to camp. Then I called the Grammy and Pops Bank and Trust Company and basically offered them my children for chores and odd jobs in exchange for spending money for camp.

I handed my son $20 and sent him into the barber shop where he came out with a flat top. I didn't really think he'd do it. He said he was, but I didn't believe him. He got them when he was little, but hasn't had one in years. Apparently even dudes get tired of their hair, too. Mine is in a perpetual pouf on top of my head these days because I just don't think a flat top would look good on me. Plus, I just spent $80 getting highlights. I'd hate to think I'd wasted that money. Abby now says her brother looks like he had head lice so bad the health department lady had to shave his head.

After the barbershop we went to Walmart where I picked up inordinate amounts of sunscreen and bottled water because, after a lovely, cool, slow-warming Spring, Oklahoma has turned into Oklahell. And have I mentioned we're going to TEXAS on vacation, which is one state closer to Hell? I also bought toothbrush covers because there is a monster that lives in our hall closet that eats those little plastic things. And of course, Abby and I were both completely out of makeup and face soap. Of course, everyone in Ottawa County wears the same shade we do (Corpse) and they were out. I also bought Oreos and Advil because you know that the #1 Rule of Vacation is: At least one female will get her period while on vacation.

After Walmart we stopped at Walgreen's to get the makeup Walmart didn't have and scored it buy one, get one 1/2 off. And I also bought Paul hairspray because he likes to spray it into a hard little shell on his head, much like Jim Bob Duggar does. Abby will walk by the bathroom and see the cloud of hairspray and say, "Dad's in there Jim Bobbin' it again."

Then we flew home to finish cleaning up the house because Abby's boyfriend came over this evening to eat pizza and watch a movie.

I spent the entire time of their "not-a-date" in the dining room typing fast and furiously trying to get reviews, posts, and emails caught up before we leave because I'd like to not have to do more than lift a glass of sweet tea to my lips occasionally while I sit by the pool for pretty much our entire time visiting the great state of Texas. Well, when I'm not visiting with wonderful friends who I miss desperately. And visiting the stockyards. I am excited about this actually. Or it may be the Crazy talking now.

And it's 9:16pm. The house is nearly clean. The laundry is nearly done. The kids are bathed and happily watching AFV. Paul has been to golf and is now home. I am getting ready to take off my bra and get comfortable for the evening.

NOTE: Y'all please pop on over to my review blog, The Redneck Review, and see what I've been up to over there. I've had quite a few posts there lately and have gotten to try out some great products and a really neat website with the kids. Just check it out and make me happy, okay?

And while you're popping over places, visit welchOK.com and make my friend, Tyson, happy, too. And if you click on the OpEd section and then "Diva Dish" you'll make me all kinds of seriously happy. Seriously. And leave a comment. I might wet my pants if you do.

Monday MckLinky: Why This Housewife Blogs

2010-05-31T07:02:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Hart at The RHOK is posing the question today: Why do you blog?

Since I'm on the verge of my 6th blogaversary it's a question I ask every year and evaluate my purpose, goal and how this whole thing here is going.

I'm the first to admit this little blog here isn't the same blog it used to be. It's changed over the course of six years, but then....so have I. I don't post as often as I did in the beginning, but six years ago Kady was a toddler, Sam had just finished PreK and was ready for Kindergarten and Abby was a big bad 2nd grader. Strange as it seems, I had more time then. Back then I was just a lonely momma who was drowning in diapers, Blue's Clues and Bob the Builder, concentrating on ear infections and developmental milestones and making sure the kids didn't hit, bite, pinch or pull hair. My biggest excitement was my 2 1/2 year old using the potty and talking my husband into letting me sleep in for an extra hour on Saturday. I started blogging as an outlet, a connection to the outside world. I was logging all the things my kids did and said, while at the same time putting down for all of perpetuity the goings-on inside my head. It kept me sane six years ago.

Now my babies aren't babies at all anymore. Abby is staring 8th grade in the face and will be 14 in a few months. Sam, now 11, just finished elementary school and moves to the big school across the street in the fall. Kady is my lone grade schooler now. Instead of developmental milestones, potty training and teaching them animal sounds and their ABC's they're visiting the orthodontist, having boyfriends, dealing with mean girls and bullies, learning how to be the grownups they'll be in the blink of an eye. Instead of logging all the minute daily details of their lives - and mine - I steal a few moments once a week to jump in here and write something that usually falls short of what I want it to be. I'm working on that.

So why do I blog now? Well, for one thing I bought the domain. Essentially, I'm invested. LOL I'm kidding. I am proud of Redneck Diva and how people still read it, even if I'm not as punctual and routine as I once was. I still need this outlet, just maybe not as much or as desperately. My life runs at a different pace now, but it's so nice to know that when I need it I can find my way back here and just write. I've written some really good stuff over the years. I've written some really bad stuff. I've written WOW, I've written meh. And still y'all read. I guess (hope) the WOW outshines and overshadows the meh. And I do love making people laugh. I'm going to get back to that - to finding the funny in the every day. Just hold on. Loosely. (Ooh, that should be a song....)

Now, in addition to Redneck Diva, I write reviews at The Redneck Review, my not-so-weekly column at WelchOK.com and I collaborate with my girls at The Real Housewives of Oklahoma. I still blog because I want to, even if my want-to is outweighed by my busy kid schedule, neverending supply of dirty laundry and many bazillion other responsibilities. And that occasional stolen afternoon nap.

So...why do you blog? The Real Housewives and I would like to know. So write it on your own blog, put your link in the MckLinky on the RHOK page and tell the world why YOU do this "blob" thing, as my mom used to call it. I'm anxious to see what you have to say, but right now it's a holiday and I think I hear one of my children making noise in the back of the house. I'm shutting down the computer real quick so I can pretend to be asleep before she comes in to ask for French toast.

140 No More

2010-05-27T11:32:00.000-05:00

I don't like change. I like routine. I like normalcy. I like to do things the same way I've always done them. If you throw a monkey wrench in my plans I wig out. I do the quinessential cartoon run around in circles, waving my hands in the air, screaming my lungs out. On the outside I appear flexible and I will more than likely just go with the flow, but my guts are churning and my head is pounding and my heart is beating fast and I am fighting the urge to vomit. But only those closest to me see that ugliness. Everyone else sees me just smiling and saying, "Hey, great! Sounds good to me. You know me, I'm flexible."

But a change has been brewing for awhile now. And I've been sleeping and hiding and avoiding like a mad woman.

For the past few weeks I have been in a nearly constant state of unrest. Sure, the end-of-school activities were crazy and we're leaving on vacation next week, but that hasn't been the cause. I have been borderline mopey even, quick to tears and the main way I know something is wrong way down deep is when all I want to do it sleep. Sleep is escape from the things plaguing me. Some folks get insomnia when they have something on their mind, but me, I just want to sleep until the problem is gone. The problem with that, though, is that it's really hard to solve a problem while you're asleep.

I have been blogging just almost six years here at Redneck Diva. I have been writing for WelchOK.com since January. Last month we launched The Real Housewives of Oklahoma. I have a Facebook page, a Facebook fan page for Redneck Diva and I tweet more than that nest of birds in the oak tree out front. And I'm not doing justice to any of them.

My last article for WelchOK was about my intense love affair with my electronics. I realized the other day that I literally carry my cell phone with me from room to room because I'm afraid I'll miss something if I leave it unattended. I have permanent heat scars on my thighs from the laptop. (Okay, I really don't have scars, but I possibly could in the near future.) My thumbs ache. (Okay, they really don't, but when I'm an old lady I bet that's where the arthritis shows up first.) My husband has told me on more than one occasion he wishes he'd never bought me in iPod and that I'd never bought a laptop. I've been telling myself that at least with a laptop I'm in the living room with the family, rather than out in my office on the desktop, but if you're in the room physically and not there in spirit you're not really there and that's kind of insulting to my family. Recently I find myself giving my kids absent nods as they talk because I'm mid-text, tweet or status update. I should be ashamed of myself. And I am.

I love writing. It is truly a part of who I am. When I write and it all comes out the way I want it to, it is euphoric. It's cathartic. It's liberating, exhilating and I'm proud of my talent. When I write and it doesn't come out the way I want it to, it's a challenge, it's something to tackle, re-work, ponder over and fix until it does come out right. I cannot fathom not writing. God has given me a talent. I hope I don't sound conceited when I say that, but I know I have something here. If a person who has a beautiful singing voice sings in public they're not conceited, they're using their talent. They're not flaunting it, they're utilizing what God gave them. Right now, pretty much all I'm doing with my talent is putting out little 140-character quips. It's all appetizer and no meat and very unsatisfying.

What I'm doing with all of my many endeavors right now is like having a balloon that is fully is blown up with air. It's huge with potential energy. If you let out a little at a time, especially if you pull the opening taut and make it squeak, the results are okay, moderately amusing (sometimes annoying) and eventually the balloon is empty. But if you just let that balloon go and it flies around the room all crazy, bumping into things, making you jump and dodge and giggle, it's more fun. And much more gratifying.

That being said, I have decided to back off the Facebook and Twitter. I'm keeping Facebook because I have a 20 year class reunion coming up next year and that's how I intend to get in contact with the majority of classmates. I am, however, disabling mobile alerts. I will keep the Twitter account for awhile, but it will probably be deleted in the very near future. I'm nervous about this because it's a habit, and a fun one at that. I literally had a moment of panic this morning as I thought, "But how will I know what everyone's doing when they are doing it??" Then I remembered, I don't have to know what everyone is doing all the time. There was a time in my life when I didn't know who had PMS, who was shopping for a swimsuit, who just saw a celebrity in a coffee shop and who is the mayor of what location on 4square. Strangely enough, I survived and was happy living my own life. Now I am obsessively trying to keep up with the shenanigans of the 333 people I follow on Twitter (most of whom are total strangers), the 100 fans of Redneck Diva and 371 friends on Facebook (some of whom I haven't spoken to since 6th grade). It's exhausting. My phone chirps constantly. I'm sure my phone is tired. I'm tired.

I'm using all my potential energy in little blasts all the time and when it comes time to produce something I'm already deflated. I feel like writing these days is homework and who likes that? What I'm producing these days is comparable to essays like "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" and "The Person I Most Admire" assignments from 8th grade English. I miss making you laugh. I miss your comments. I miss feeling proud of what I'm putting out here. I miss using inspiration to create something good.

I love my little blog here and I love all the people who made it what it is. I love writing for WelchOK because it's fun and different and makes me feel all grown up and important and stuff, like the syndicated columnist I someday hope to be. I am thoroughly enjoying the adventure that is the Housewives site and can't wait to see where it takes us and what we can accomlish though it. I have no intention of not doing what I'm doing here and those places (unless the housewives kick me out for being a heinous procrastinator), but above and beyond being a blogger and a writer I am a wife and a mother and a person who needs to reconnect with the four most important people in my life - the ones who live in my house.

And I'm going to do it in more than 140 characters at a time.

Make Momma Proud

2010-05-21T21:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was the last day of school. My 2nd grader magically became a 3rd grader, my 5th grader is now a 6th grader and my 7th grader now and 8th grader. I now have two children in the middle school. My youngest will now fend for herself in the elementary with no siblings. She'll do fine. She's got enough moxy for 15 kids.

I have three kids with three vastly different personalities. I know I've written about this before, but as they get older it becomes even more starkly clear to me just how different they are. I swear they all three have the same daddy. Swear.

Abby is very mature for her age. She constantly has her nose either in a book (usually horror) or focused on her cell phone. She is very self-confident, very quiet, very tough. She rarely cries. It doesn't happen often, but if you hurt her she doesn't cry - she just gets PO'd beyond imagination and she will likely never forget. She likes to get her way. She is well-liked by most and the girls that bully her are the ones that can't break her and they hate her for her self-esteem and pride. She is tolerant of her siblings and very protective of them, although she wouldn't admit it if you asked. She is intelligent, but performance for the sake of a report card is a non-issue for her. She is only now emerging from two years of apathy regarding learning, schoolwork, teachers, intelligence, grades or anything involving a school. 4th grade was rough, 5th grade she gave up, 6th grade she figured out she's not getting out of it any time soon and settled in, 7th grade has been wonderful from this momma's perspective. Learning doesn't come easy for her, but when she's got it, she's got it. She is not a straight A student and probably never will be. She could be and maybe someday she'll decide to be. Right now she is a solid B and C student. I'm okay with that.

Sam is fairly immature for an 11 year old. He posesses so much drama it's sometimes hard to remember he doesn't star in a soap opera. Sam is loud, happy, hilarious, compassionate, sensitive and where his older sister is tough, he isn't. He likes to get maximum results for minimal effort. If it doesn't come easily, he gives up in a fit of anger and frustration. He will give you his last dollar, his shirt, his lunch, his heart. He believes everyone is good and when they prove themselves to be otherwise he is devastated. Teachers love Sam. Kids, sometimes not so much. He can spell much better than he thinks he can. Math is very hard for him. I see him struggle with the same things I struggle with and yet I can't help him because my math shortcuts are mine alone and he'll have to come up with his own, ones that make sense to him. He, too, is a solid B and C student. I'm marginally okay with that. He can do better and he will. He's 11. I take that into account. A lot.

Kady is probably a little more mature than your average 8 year old in some ways, less mature in others. She's a whiz at everything she does. She excels at virtually any task she takes on. She is loved by teachers, loved by students, parents think she's adorable. She is funny, yet intense. She will mother-hen you to pieces. She can talk you into a coma. She is detail oriented and strives for perfection. If perfection is not achieved she is devastated to the point of near hysteria. She is a raccoon disguised as an 8 year old girl: shiny things distract her. She doesn't mean to disobey most of the time - she just kind of forgets she's supposed to be doing it because something else caught her eye and she has to investigate, speculate, ponder and probe. And sometimes it's really just because something was shiny. Kady is a solid A student. She reads well above her grade level. She really likes school. I'm okay with that.

The last day of school means awards assemblies. 5th grade had theirs a few weeks back, which is new this year. They separated them out because they do more in the elementary and their many awards, prizes, etc. made the end-of-school assembly last approximately seven years. Sam read the state required 25 books, got an award for outstanding computer student, a certificate for Student Council and one for theatre.

Yesterday Kady got an Outstanding Owl award which is basically an award for having good manners, good grades, good behavior, good attitude, etc. She also got Star Reader in the Accelerated Reader program. There weren't but maybe four or five kids who achieved that level. Her daddy kind of teared up when she showed him her reading award.

Abby didn't want to attend the high school assembly because she said she knew she wasn't going to get any awards.

Last night as I was tucking the kids in last night I praised them all as I hugged them. I told Sam I was proud of a report card that showcased the first three letters of the alphabet so well. He thought that was funny. I told Abby I was proud of her for doing so much better in school this year and that I was sure her report card would have more B's than C's this year. I hugged Abby tight and said, "I'm proud of you, big girl," and this led Kady, the family busybody and eavesdropper, to exclaim, "But you're more proud of me because I got awards!" She didn't say it mean, she didn't intend it to be mean, she's just proud of herself and knows I'm proud, too.

Abby stiffened a little and I was quick to correct Kady. "I am proud of you all the very same, honey. I'm proud of your reading award, I'm proud of Bubby's computer award and I'm proud of Abby's totally aced Science final.....and her awesome ninja skills." This got Kady giggling and made Abby grin.

I love all three of my children equally, but they all have different strengths I admire and weaknesses I try to nurture out of insecurity. I don't want Abby to ever think that because she has adamantly declared that she doesn't want to go to college that I am any less proud of her. I didn't want to go to college. I tried. I didn't succeed. I'm okay with that. Am I less of a person because I am degree-less? Am I less intelligent than my friends who have Bachelors or Masters degrees? Not at all. Abby has expressed interest in attending Vo-Tech when she's old enough. She wants to be a stylist and own her own salon. I think this is an amazing dream. She could very well be a business-owner in her mid-20's. Sam wants to move off to New York City and attend Julliard. Or, because his parents are poor, maybe a less expensive fine arts school. He proudly declares himself to be a "future actor". Will he leave his momma and move to the big city? If that's what he wants to do, I sure hope he does. Kady is 8. She will be a third grader next year. Many things remain to be seen with her. Will she continue excelling at school? Or will she level off and decide that perfection isn't necessary to succeed?

I don't know what the future holds for my kids. I only hope I can continue to nurture the best things about them, help them work through the things they struggle with and support them whatever they do. Maybe Abby will graduate Valedictorian. Maybe Sam will become a middle school math teacher and never leave Ottawa County. Maybe Kady will be a stay-at-home mom. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they'll get married, maybe they won't. Maybe they'll have babies, maybe they won't. Maybe they'll always do what they love and call their momma every day. Maybe they'll always make me proud no matter what they do.

Yeah. That's my bet.

Monday MckLinky: What Do We Do Now?

2010-05-17T17:56:00.001-05:00

Our oldest daughter is 13 1/2. Our youngest daughter is 8 1/2. Our son is smack in the middle of his sisters, resting at 11 1/2. We run the gambit as far as activities and interests in this family. The boy is into acting and Iron Man. The oldest is into uhm....well, we're not sure seeing as how she rarely emerges from the Bat Cave. We think she might like that thing attached to her hand...what do they call it? Oh yeah, a cell phone. And boys. And our youngest daughter is very into glitter. And drama. And basketball. Depending on the time of year, we have been known to drive over 100 miles in a day just taxiing kids where they need to be at any given time.

Paul and I were married three years before Abby came along. During those child-less years we danced many a two-step, played many a game of cards with friends and bowled our fair share. Looking back, I wish we had enjoyed it more, but truth be told, we didn't even want three child-free years. We just spent most of that time trying to get pregnant.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: We haven't known too many years of just couple-hood. And while we'll always be parents, there's a time in the not-so-distant future where our kids will leave the nest and flap their little redneck wings to parts yet unknown. (However, our oldest says I will still have to be available to tuck her in at night no matter how old she is or where she lives, so let's hope her husband is a very understanding man.) There is a time on the horizon when we will once again be a couple. Alone. In our house. Where no one can hear us scream.

It's funny that Mrs. McGillicutty chose this to be the MckLinky this particular week because I posted this Facebook status just a few days ago:

It's really not too early to prepare for our eventual retirement and I actually have given it some thought. Okay, I've pondered his eventual retirement since I like, uhm....I'm a housewife. Yeah.

I heard a preacher once say that in your life God should be your first priority, your spouse should be second, your children third. I gasped at the spouse's position as number two because as a mom of young children I had concentrated for many years on my children, their upbringing and trying to mold them into people who will not end up making "serial killer" their chosen profession and at times focused solely on them. After all of the mothers in the congregation that night finished their gasping in shock and awe at his declaration that we might possibly stop our world from revolving around our precious children, the pastor went on to explain. He said, "Your children will eventually grow up. They will eventually leave your house. They will leave you and start their own family. Then you're going to be stuck with that man you've been ignoring for 18 the past years. The man you now have nothing in common with."

That hit me hard. I had never thought of it like that and God bless my husband for not getting all bent out of shape by being stuck on the back-burner while I nursed, rocked, potty trained and focused most of my energy on our kids, dropping into bed exhaustedly with nothing left for him. Yes, I am a mother and it is my job, my duty, my obligation to take care of and raise my children, but it's not my job to ignore my husband in the process.

Our youngest child is 8, so theoretically we could be living in a child-free home as early as 10 years from now. I'll be 47, Paul will be 57.

Holy cow. He's gonna be old.

As we get older we are realizing that we like quiet moments together. Driving in the car with nothing but the sound of the road in our ears while we hold hands across the console is actually pretty nice. We kind of just like driving. We don't do the bar scene and I doubt that changes as we approach 50 and 60. We have given up on casinos. (Well, except for the fact he draws an actual paycheck from one right now. That's the only way we make money from one of those things.) While right now we aren't quite ready to join his grandma at her country and western dances we might be ready to scoot boots again in 10 years. I guess it will depend on my osteoporosis. He likes to play golf and I figure he'll continue this newfound hobby on into our empty nest years. Unless his osteoporosis kicks in, too. I may eventually cross over from mommy blogger to grandmommy blogger. And frankly, I miss reading. He loves getting on the tractor and digging up things, mowing things and just riding around pretending he's a farmer. Maybe we'll get a cow. We live on 40 acres and have told the kids that they can each have 10 to build houses on if they want. There's a distinct possibility our kids maybe leave our house, but never leave the property.

For a few years I nearly panicked at the thought of being alone with my husband after our kids left the house, but now, while I'm in no hurry whatsoever for my children to leave, I look foward with a bit of anticipation at what will occupy our time in the next 10 years or so. Of course, if the kids build on the adjacent 30 acres things might not change too much.

So now I pose the same question Mrs. McGillicutty asked today:

Look into the future. You've spent your life taking care of everyone else,

but now the kids are gone and it's just you and your spouse.

What do you do now?

Will you golf, bowl or dance? Will you look forward to grandbabies? Will you travel? Will you keep on blogging like you do now?

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).
2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!