Trip Tales, part 2

The second day of our trip, we went to the Astronaut Hall of Fame and the War Birds Museum. I found all the astronaut stuff to be really cool, and there were plenty of simulators and interactive displays, so the kids were entertained as well. That's the best kind of learning, you know. They thought they were just playing, but now they can tell you about mission control and how to land a space shuttle.

(If I could find the mini-USB cable, I'd upload some pics for you to see.  But that's what you got for reading an ADD blogger. Hundreds of great photos, not way to share even one. My kids are cute, and you'll just have to take my word for it. Maybe my husband will help me with that tonight, and I'll post pictures next.)

I'd like to say that my mother-in-law enjoyed the day, too; but I have no idea. Her tantrum wore her out, so she decided to stay in her hotel room all day. Before we left, she was searching for Xanax, Benadryl, and some other anti-depressant. She must have found them, because when we got back, she looked rested and acted like a normal person again. Well, semi-normal; she still refused to eat dinner with us. I think she did walk around the hotel and even wandered into neighboring hotels, though, just to look around. I guess when you're 80, maybe that's exciting enough.

The third day was Get On The Boat day. We could see the Disney Dream from the bridge as we approached, and the kids were thrilled. The MIL even looked pleased.

I've got to admit - Disney has got their act together. That concourse with thousands of people in it ran like a well-oiled machine. TSA should send their staff to be trained by Disney, so people would be okay with getting frisked at the airport because the TSA agents would just be too dang happy  and friendly for passengers to get mad at them.

We signed in, signed up the kids for their activities, saw Mickey & Minnie, and got honest answers from staff about which play room to put the autistic 14-year old in. I appreciate that. Too many people act like a special-needs kid should either be treated like he's got the plague or like he's royalty. He's just a kid - treat him like any other kid, just one less mature than his actual age. There is a "clubhouse" for kids up to 11, one for 11-14, and one for 14-17. I expected to send him to the 11-14 room, but they told me he'd have to be allowed to come and go as he pleased, then they told me what would be in the younger kids' room that he might enjoy. They had computer games with pirate ship battles that he'd probably like. The staff was very gracious in letting me know that he was welcome in whichever clubhouse fit his needs best, and that they want every kid to have a great time while we're confident that he's safe.

So, being he gets lost on a walk around the block, but will happily play computer games all day, he got signed up for the same clubhouse as the three little kids. And it worked out great.

The kids each got a wristband that would be scanned as they went in and out of the clubhouse so that their computers always showed what room they were in and who signed them in and out. I like that. Everyone got a personalized "Key to the World" card that is the key card to the room as well as a charge card at any of the stores.

And that prompted the MIL's first hissy fit of the day. She didn't hear that kids couldn't buy stuff without their parent present. And since my kids are, apparently, wild hooligans who think they can do and have anything they want, she had a fit that "those kids don't need those cards because they'll charge hundreds of dollars to my account!" I told her I'd take the cards after we got on, but they would need them to get on and off the ship. She sneered. I ignored her.

For the record, the kids didn't ask for anything the whole trip. Even when we walked through the shop with the intention of buying one thing for each of them, they played with lots of stuff, got excited about lots of stuff, and all picked out ONE thing they really wanted. It was awesome hearing the 7 year old girl tell her 5 year old sister, "That's really pretty, but it costs a lot. Let's try and find something you'll like just as much that's a better deal." And they put everything they played with back on the shelves where they belonged. I was so proud!

We embarked, explored the ship, got fruity mixed drinks (then remembered to ask about the price - $10 - oops), and headed up for lunch. The waitstaff was amazingly friendly, and the food was delicious. Every employee's home country is on their name tag under their name. Mostly poor, Caribbean countries, with the occasional Brit or Canadian thrown in. The British & Canadians all looked like college students on summer break, while all the others looked like this was their full time adult job. I wondered if they left families behind because there wasn't work on their island.

The ship itself was a stunning art deco work of sculpture. Every tiny detail was looked after in the design. Simply gorgeous. Plus, it even had an art gallery. It was beautiful. I wondered if they pay their employees well, or if they're supposed to feel privileged to work for beans because they get to do it in such a nice place. Of course, Disney could pay them in magic beans.

They met Princess Tiana from The Princess & the Frog, Peter Pan, and Pluto. They checked out the clubhouse, which was amazing.

I almost hugged Tiana on the second day on the ship, because, after all day of trying to figure out foreign accents while trying to watch the kids and MIL interrupting complaining about the foreign accents and a bazillion other people laughing, talking, and yelling... Tiana is from Louisiana. And I don't know if the young lady playing Tiana was actually Southern, or if she just did the accent really well. But...

She said, "Hey, y'all! Are y'all havin' a good time?" The girls nodded yes and hugged her. And I said (perhaps too excitedly), "Aah, finally, an accent I can understand!"  I almost hugged her. She laughed at me.

We got dressed for dinner (our bags were at our door when we got there), where the MIL complained that she didn't want to dress up. I told her that was fine, but we go to a casual church, so we don't get the opportunity to dress up often. So we were going to dress up. Just because I wanted to. She didn't have to.

So she put on a skirt and then headed to the restaurant.

Our servers introduced themselves - Palmer and Sweetie - and said they'd be our servers every night. They'd change restaurants with us, that way, they'd already know what kind of drinks and salad dressing and food allergies without us having to tell a different server every night. Palmer is a tall older African man, and Sweetie is a short Pacific Islander young lady. She smiled constantly, and my five year old son fell in love with her. At the buffet breakfasts & lunches, he asked where Sweetie was. Of course, they didn't know, and her real name was Angkhana, so they may not have even know the nickname she'd introduced herself to us with. But he kept searching for her. "Where's Sweetie? Do you know where Sweetie is? Have you seen Sweetie?" Adorable!

The walls and ceiling glowed to look like you were outside. The furniture looked like frilly garden furniture. The light fixtures looked like flowers, and they opened as the walls and ceiling shifted from blue to pink to purple, looking like sunset. And it didn't shift evenly- it changed slowly from one side of the room to the other like a real sunset. It was very cool.

And we were wiped out. So we took the kids to the clubhouse and went to see a play. It was Broadway-quality and had bits of The Lion King that was pretty badass. I never thought I'd say that about a musical, but it was! And now I really want to see The Lion King. I'll have to figure out a way to make that happen.

Then we were really wiped out, gathered up kids, and crashed.

I'll try to be less detailed in the next post, but since y'all don't comment (except Mary - thanks Mary!-), I don't know if this is too much or if it's good. I want you to enjoy what I write, so please give me some feedback!

Trip tales, part 1

OK, so after we drove from central Alabama to Cocoa Beach, Florida in one night, we couldn't check into the hotel until after noon. So we stopped at Denny's for breakfast then found our hotel so we wouldn't be lost, went on in the lobby restrooms to freshen up, then headed on over to the Kennedy Space Center.

It didn't open for another two hours, but there was a beach nearby, so what did my husband choose to do? "Let's drive around and see what there is to see."

Seriously?

So we drove back to Cocoa Beach and rode around. His rationale was that the kids would get all wet and sandy if we went to hang out on the beach, but we had been driving since 8pm, and this made the drive time continue to 10am. I was feeling stabby.

Then we went to the space center. I thought it would be terrible since no one had slept, but it was actually pretty awesome. My husband can be a real butt nugget when he's tired (I may have pointed this out while planning the trip), so he worked hard to be nice even though he was exhausted. Thank God! We saw all the exhibits and a 3D movie made from Hubble images - that was really cool - and the kids had a great time... although they fell asleep during the bus tour of the launch pads. We got to hear a 4-mission astronaut talking about how to take a dump in space ("Gravity doesn't work, so there is no separation. You get a glove to aid in that.") and how Coke syrup separates from the carbonated water to make a weird separated floating liquid glob that you just jab your straw into as it floats by(even though Coke wasn't allowed on the shuttle - they snuck the McDonald's cup in inside a jacket) and other various quirks about being in the shuttle.

All in all, I'd say that was my favorite day of the whole trip. Partially because there was no drama, but mostly because I'm a dork and the space stuff is fascinating to me. The only way it could have been better was if they'd had some sort of homage to space sci-fi, specifically to "Firefly." Really, I couldn't give two farts about any other sci-fi show (I know, I know! That  totally kills my dork street cred!), but the 7-foot Lego model of the Serenity is pretty dang awesome. I need a Captain Mal minifigure. But I digress.

The Saturn V rocket is unbelievably huge, and just, it's just too rad to describe. All the computers of the entire space program combined had less capability than my laptop, and they put men on the moon using slide rules and tin foil. That's crazy brilliant. And the Mars stuff they've got in the works now? GAH! Too cool.

Finally, all worn out and ready for bed, we headed back to the hotel to decide on where to eat dinner. And that was when it started going down hill.

My husband parked and decided to go get us a cart for the luggage. Unbeknownst to me, he sat the van keys on the console. I was looking for something & didn't notice. Aaannnnnd I sat something on top of the keys. We got the cart, unloaded the luggage, then allowed the kids out of the van. Shockingly, they were behaving like angels up until that point. But the luggage cart looked too much like monkey bars for the sleep-deprived and hungry little things, so they started to get wild. But I calmed them down pretty quickly and herded them inside.

We got to the rooms, divided up who would take which room, then were ready to go eat. But the husband not only left the keys on the console, he also locked the van.

He tried to find them, but they couldn't be seen through the window, so we searched all over, hoping they'd been dropped. My MIL kept letting the kids into her room, where, being five years old, sleep-deprived, and starving, they jumped on the bed.

I mean, come on! What kid doesn't jump on the bed when they get to a hotel room?

She didn't say anything to them. She never says anything to the kids, just lets them behave like banshees on acid then gets mad because they misbehaved. I walked in the room and started to speak, and she yelled, "You're just going to let them jump on the bed like that!?" At this point, I haven't even registered that they were jumping, because they had just Supermanned from one bed to the other and landed in a belly flop, so it looked like they were laying down when I came in.

I ordered pizza to be delivered to the room, and my mother-in-law yelled at me. See, it was all my fault that the keys were locked in the van. Not my husband's for putting them down or for locking the van. But because the kids climbed on the luggage cart and distracted him, and if I wasn't such a bad mother, I would have had controlled them. (Even though the luggage cart jungle gym thing was after he'd locked up the van.)

(No punching old ladies. No punching old ladies. No punching old ladies.)

With the biggest fake smile I could muster, I said, "Well, it is after 9:00 at night, the pizza I ordered won't be here until almost 10, they've been awake for 24 of the last 26 hours, and they're little bitty kids."

Oh. My. Gosh. I deserve a medal. Because she said, "Well, I haven't slept either, and I'm old! And you saying that is just making excuses for them, and they'll never grow up to be anything if you keep making excuses for them!"

I gritted my teeth and left the room. She went back to her room, where my 14 year old stepson "G" would be sleeping in the other bed. She told him to come with her. But then she didn't watch him. (Remember, he's autistic, severely ADHD, and refused to sleep the night before on purpose.) So he left her room and hung over the balcony rail - fifth floor - to yell and wave at random strangers.

So a random stranger came up and yelled at my mother-in-law for letting him.

So my husband comes up after the locksmith has opened the van, and she yells at him because his special needs, sleep deprived, starving kid acted irresponsibly. (As if her letting him out of the room wasn't irresponsible.)

The pizza arrived, and I told my husband to tell his mom she could have some (I couldn't be cordial to her just then, as I was feeling very stabby), but she yelled that she was just going to have some water and slammed the door in his face.

So we ate, got the kids settled for bed, let G's sleep meds kick in, and let him into the MIL's room to sleep, and  then we all finally crashed.

The next morning, as we got ready, my MIL came in, sounding apologetic. "I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings with what I said last night. I don't want to make you mad... but... if you did a better job of controlling those kids, none of that would have happened last night. That's why nobody likes them. That's why I don't ever invite them over to my house."

Why, F you very much for that almost-apology. I thought you just didn't invite them over because you have all those porcelain dolls on the floor at kid-level (cheap ones, mostly from the Dollar Tree)  but you don't want the kids to play with them; but you'll invite G over because you can put him in the garage with some Tonka trucks and let him do whatever he wants. Like that time he'd almost passed out from heat exhaustion because you locked him out and forgot, and he didn't know how to open the garage door, but it was July, and he'd been banging on the door to be let back in for twenty minutes by the time I got there, but you're deaf and went to sleep. So now, if he comes over, you just stick him in from of the TV since he's afraid to go outside again, and you have the Military Channel, so he's happy. And you think you're being a good grandma. Yeah. You're friggin awesome. And you wonder why he never gets to come visit anymore. Frackin nutjob. And, FYI, everybody loves my little ones, because they are hilarious and beautiful and smart and generally well-behaved. But how many people came to the last party you had? You invited 80, and three showed up. No joke. Nobody likes you. But I'm still tired and maybe I'm being petty.


I turned around and walked away again instead of answering her out loud.

I really hoped the rest of the trip wouldn't go like this. Thankfully, that was the low point. For me, anyway. I wasn't present for her major melt down a few days later. That was special for her son, and was rolled up in far more insanity than this little exhaustion-induced tantrum.

But cool things happened before I get to that lovely event.... (To be continued.)

Who's the Adult here?

I was reading The Bloggess's latest post about her new dead pegasus when my seven year old daughter walked up. I covered up the cuss words and let her see the pictures. Her response was, "Huh. When the dog dies, can we get a kitten?"

Seriously? You see a picture of a pegasus with a kitten riding on its head and you focus on the kitten?

I looked at her blankly, so she asked, "Is that a real pegasus?"  There's the normal response I expected. As if there is a "normal response" to seeing a real pegasus with a kitten on its head.

"No, it's a zebra colt with goose feathers sewn on. But it looks pretty real, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. So? The kitten?"

"A pet pegasus would be way better than a kitten."

She rolled her eyes at me. "You'd just go flying around everywhere all the time."

Well, no duh. "Yeah, and it would be totally awesome."

"I guess. It could fly G to school so we wouldn't have to drive him. That would be great."

Why on earth is my little girl so dang practical? It's weird. If she hadn't squirted out of me and if she didn't look like my little clone, I'd swear she wasn't even mine.

xxx

I know I owe you stories from my vacay (travelling circus asylum). I'm just having trouble writing right now. Sorry. Responsibility overload.

I Am Sick As A Dog (a Daschund, not a St. Bernard)

I'm sick. And my four kids are just getting over being sick. Yee haw. Good times. Not.

I haven't been able to pull my big butt off the couch long enough to come tell y'all about my insane vacation. Oh. My. Crap. It was so full of crazy!

But I've managed to read Let's Pretend this Never Happened by Jenny Lawson (the Bloggess) and The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and let me tell you - those are some awesome books. Two special kinds of crazy there.

Being inside Jenny Lawson's head is like giving rabid raccoons crystal meth and laughing gas. It is hilarious.

And the insanity of racial/ class/ gender discrimination described by Stockett borders on ridiculous. It made me cry several times, and I'm not a crier. I still see it from time to time, mostly among older generations, and I can't fathom how they don't recognize the crazy as it comes out of their mouths. But it's far worse in the places I've visited up North, for the record.

Anyway, I got on here to let you know that I'll be able to think coherently again in a few days and will post about the trip with my psycho mother-in-law. And I'll post more on my fiction works that I've abandoned for weeks.


(Crappiest blog post ever. Sorry.) Much love!

Road Trip Day 2

Awesome things we saw today: alligator, manatee, pod of 12 dolphins, humongous double rainbow over the ocean, Astronaut Hall of Fame, space shuttle Inspiration, & War Birds Museum.

Awesome things we saw yesterday: 9 foot alligator, 10-foot-wide 40-year-old bald eagles' nest, space shuttle launch platform, rocket launch pad, 5-story-tall garage for shuttles, talk from an astronaut, humongous Saturn 5 rocket, the lunar lander, a full-size moon buggy made out of legos, Apollo command module, Apollo mission control, a Mars rover, & a 3D IMAX movie from the Hubble telescope. They played on mission control simulators, flight sims, and lunar lander sims, and we touched a moonrock.

Crappy things today: Mother-in-law & husband fighting, me telling husband that her attitude must be where he gets it from, 14 year old acting like a turd (I guess that goes without saying) but off meds and paranoid, kids running off at the beach, rain while on a beach walk in normal clothes, finding out that my husband & son didn't follow the packing list & brought half the clothes they need, husband locked the keys in the van (no biggie, but it made dinner late & the MIL freak out like the Russians were invading), and the MIL acting like my kids were terrible and I'm a bad mom because at 10pm they were out of control because they were just getting dinner and were awake for 23 of the last 26 hours.

But the Kennedy Space Center is pretty dang cool! And tomorrow, we get on a Disney Cruise Ship.

Road Trip

We just drove 9 hours to Orlando. Me. My husband. Our four kids. My mother in law. (Sigh.)

We drove through the night. I objected, saying that it was a bad idea. They didn't listen. They didn't get packed and ready to go until 8 pm. 'They' being the other two adults.

The idea was that the kids and the crazy old lady would sleep.

(Sigh.)

But no.

The three youngest got a grand total of 3 hours sleep. They were miserable.

The 14 year old got 30 minutes. I might punch him in the face if he's a jerk today, since he intentionally refused to sleep.

I did threaten to punch my mother in law, but she's deaf. Every time everyone started to fall asleep, she would start talking. About pollops. And dia-rear. (She can't pronounce diarrhea.) And vomit. Please, God, this would be a good time for the Rapture.

The adults may have each gotten 30 minutes. Yay.

We're supposed to tour the Kennedy Space Center today and the Astronaut Hall of Fame tomorrow.

But right now, I'm sitting in the fine dining establishment Denny's (yick) with four hyper, exhausted kids that just ran out the door with the grandma. Gotta go!

Who need monsters?

We had a great day at the lake for Independence Day. My family joined my sister's family and our parents at my sister's cabin (bigger than my house) for a cookout and boat ride.

My 14 year old special needs boy tried jumping off the dock for the first time ever. He was thrilled. He kept yelling, "Cannonball!" then leaping with his arms and legs straight out like he was doing a jumping jack. He didn't quite get the mechanics of it. But he was having fun. And he rode the tube behind the boat, also a first. He loved it. (I'm so proud, but also a little frustrated that it takes him so long to try things. All those inspirational videos you see of special needs people doing something successfully don't show all the frustration and heartache that come before the success.)

My 5 year old boy was afraid to get on the boat. He's typically shy and cautious until he's really comfortable, then he's full-throttle. He's hilarious and awesome and so very adorable. But he was afraid when it was time to get on the boat. So I held his wrists and acted like I was going to toss him on to boat. "One... just kidding baby, I'm not going to throw you." My mom was mortified. My dad and brother-in-law thought it was funny. I am definitely my father's child. He was the guy who would quietly walk outside in the dark while I was playing in my room as a little kid and bang on the window just to scare me. I thought it was funny. I still do. But, perhaps my little sweet boy doesn't find the humor in getting scared a little. I guess I'll have to quit that.

On the other hand, his twin sister is fearless. She wanted to hang over the side of the boat to see the water better. She got mad that I held her in my lap. But when her cousins and big brother and sister went tubing, she wanted to try it, too. (It was the first time for my 7 year old girl, too!) It's the kind of tube that has the fabric bottom so kids can sit inside of it, but bigger people have to lay on top. So we decided to go together, with her sitting and me hanging on behind her.

It was a bad idea. Bad.

It started out great. She was a little frightened, but still laughing. She gave a thumbs up, so we went a little faster. She was still laughing. We got a few minutes in like this, and she was having fun. Then the boat turned. I shifted so we'd go outside of the wake. Fun for me, not for her. She wasn't laughing anymore, and did a thumbs down. But the boat driver didn't see, so he didn't slow down. Then we hit a wave and bounced. She sounded like she was crying and tried another fast thumbs down. He still didn't see. Also, I slid back some when we bounced, but I couldn't pull myself back up since she was right there. my triceps were screaming. My baby was crying, and no one on the boat seemed to notice.

So I let go. Easiest way to get my child back on the boat and not scared anymore, right? Wrong.

I didn't think to warn her. She thought I drowned.

As soon as I dropped off the tube, she shrieked, "Mommmmyyyyyy!!!!" and looked like she was about to try and jump in to save me, but the boat was pulling her away too fast and I could see the horror on her little cherub face as she turned to scream at the boat to stop. My family, of course, saw, and immediately slowed and turned the boat around. She was hysterical and I could hear her over all the sea-doos and jet-skis and boats, and all I could do was float there with my hand up in the air to try and be more visible.

My mom and sister, however, were trying to comfort her by yelling, "She's okay! She right there in the water, waving at you! She's fine! We're turning around to get her, see? Look!"

But she didn't look because she'd buried her face in her little hands to sob uncontrollably. And they were laughing at her. My mom and sister were laughing their butts off at how upset she was. And they think I have a sick sense of humor?

So the tube pulled up beside me and I hugged my little girl and reassured her that I was fine, I was just swimming, that I'd let go so they would stop the boat, then I helped pull the rope in to get her on the boat faster. Tears were still streaking down her cheeks. She snuggled in my lap, wrapped in a towel, then looked me in the eye and said, "Mommy, next time be more careful. That totally fweaked me out."

I really felt bad about scaring her that time.

I didn't feel any magic.

I just got home from girls night out, where a church friend and I went with some of her work friends out to dinner and then a movie. The hibachi was awesome, thanks for asking. Magic Mike... eh, not so much.
I was expecting maybe a story with the mindless fluff of cheesy dancing & some lovely muscles, but life-altering revelations changing Mike fundamentally and seeing him become a better man and fall in love and make a plan to change his life, and for it to all be awesome and fun and maybe even uplifting. Yeah. Uplifting, with male strippers. Yeah. I was being naive.

Like Michelangelo's David (or pretty much anything he painted - that dude was into naked guys), the human body is a beautiful work of art. We are God's masterpiece. Chicks are different than guys in that we can sit there and ogle a set of ripped abs and say, "Wow, that is beautiful." Much like a sunset. Or a mountain lake. Well, not exactly like that, but in the same ballpark.  Whereas guys will fantasize about doing very naughty things to the woman they're checking out (even days later, when they're not even intentionally thinking about it), we just don't. It's not how we're designed.

(Did that paragraph make me sound less hypocritical? I hope so. Because I'd totally flip if my husband went to see a stripper movie. And I know Jesus totally does not like this movie. I'm sorry, God. I disappointed you tonight. But I really am sorry. I'm disappointed in myself. I really didn't think it would be that bad!)

*spoiler alerts for the movie, but you should read it anyway*

So Matthew McConaughey in assless chaps and Channing Tatum in nothing and Matt Bomer in a cowboy get up was a sight to behold.

I guess that made it worth the $10 ticket... I guess.

I heard the plot sucked, but I was like Plot? What plot? Who is going to see a story with a plot? They don't even have to talk. I have seen Matt Bomer's torso and arms on White Collar, and I want to see them again. A piece of friggin' art, that man is.

But they devoted a LOT of the screen time to the plot. And lemme tell ya... bring a book. Or wait for the DVD to come out so you can skip half the movie. It was that bad. I mean it made me uncomfortable to the point of not even enjoying the guys' final act, because by that point, I was ready to leave. If I had driven my own car, I probably would have.

So much time was spent on showing how pathetic and shallow the guys' real lives were with all the drugs and sport sex, that Channing Tatum's character (Mike) hated it by the end as much as the audience did. And he'd brought a 19 year old boy into the life, who immediately got royally screwed up with drugs, while Mike was wishing he was respectable enough to date the kid's sister. The kid gets sucked in further, thinks he's having the time of his life, and Mike leaves. The end.

What?! Um, redemption story or something, please? No, they leave it with Mike telling the kid's sister he wasn't going to keep stripping & she's all take me to bed even though he just ruined her brother's life. As if.

EVERYBODY was like, "What? That's the end?!"

There's kind of the theme of drugs-are-bad, but they show lots of drugged-out sex and pathetic, stoned, barely legal girls with weird fetishes... and I just kept thinking, This is so so sick. And there are people really like this. What a horrible excuse for a life. What happened to these people to lead them to make such terrible decisions?

It was gross. And graphic. Porn-level graphic in my opinion. I don't know how this got an R rating, but it should have been NC-17.

And maybe that was their goal? Maybe their point was that drugs and wild sex F up your life. Period. You might think it's fun while you're doing it, but look! It's terrible!

Then, you look at them doing their act on stage, after seeing their life, and you're just like, Hmm, well, they've got nice bodies, but I can't enjoy it because they're so damn depressing.

Plus there was the ick factor of them making sure you knew that the kid was 19, and EW! He's a fricking kid! I don't care if he's all muscley and can serve in the military! He can't even legally have a margarita; why would I want to see him take off his clothes! He should be playing video games and bagging groceries, not dry-humping a fifty year old! Ew, ew, ew ew ew!

Channing T, Matthew M, and Matt B, on the other hand, all perfectly legal, all my age or older, all perfectly doable. I mean watchable. Like looking at sculptures that dance. (Matt B even wears a Neal Caffrey hat at one point - nice.)

Seriously, though. Bring a book for when they're not stripping. Or don't bother wasting your money. I honestly feel more guilty about watching the non-stripping parts of the movie than the stripping. It was that raunchy. Just, ick.

Maybe it's leprosy.

I'm not pregnant. So I'm a little scared since I don't know what's going on inside my own self. And I'm not a fan of going to the doctor.

Last time I went to the asthma doctor, he scolded me because he had to put me in as a new patient since it had been so long since my last visit. For the fourth time. Seriously. I've been a new patient four times with this one doctor. And I wasn't even cheating on him with other doctors.

The last time I went to a general practitioner, I complimented him on his new office. He looked at me weird and said, "I've been here for three years. You've seriously never been to this location?" I told him I was Wonder Woman. (Or something like that.) Then he looked at my stats that the nurse took like there was something wrong with them. I believe the look was Why did I hire that idiot? She can't even take vitals. Moron. So he took my vitals again.

And then he took them a third time.

Then he said, "Did you drive yourself here?"
Me: "Yeah. Why?"
Him: "I don't know how. I don't know how you're even sitting up. Are you lightheaded? I don't know how you're even conscious."
I shrugged. See? Wonder Woman.

So he wrote orders for IV fluids and told me to go to the hospital across the street's ER immediately.

But, see, I had the van, and my husband had the kids and the little car, and if they needed to go somewhere or if there was an emergency, they wouldn't have a vehicle. The ER is a joke for people in a hurry; I knew it would probably take like 6 hours.

So I drove across town back home, told my husband most of what the doc said, got in the car, and drove myself to the hospital near our house. And the ER didn't disappoint. There were tons of people in the waiting room, most of whom looked like they had nothing more than a cold. Half the doctors are sicker than these "patients," but they come to the ER? What is that?! The triage nurse looked at my doctor's orders, looked at the waiting room, and said, "You'll get faster service if I admit you. You'll get a private room, get your fluids, then can check out. Is that good with you?"

Heck yeah, that was good with me. I went on back, settled in a bed, turned on the Monk marathon on USA, and got ice-cold fluids pumped into me. And it was quiet. Aaahhhh.

Problem: I was dehydrated because of a stomach virus. I'll spare you the details. I believe my actual words to my doctor were, "Give me a shot or something and stop me up, because I don't have time to be sick."

But my doctor's orders didn't have any liquid cork written down, so the nurses couldn't give me any. I was begging for some Pepto, and they said, "You'll have to ask the doctor when he comes in."

Hours pass. No doctor. They've changed my IV bag three times. But they're still not happy with my vitals. So I'm freezing, bored, hungry, sick, and they won't let me leave.

More hours pass. I ask the nurse for some food. Maybe just some crackers and Sprite. She says the dinner cart will be around soon.

I see the cart pass by. No one brings me food. No broth. Nothing.

Um, nurse? Can I go home?  "Not without the doctor signing off on your chart, or insurance won't pay. He's doing rounds. He'll be in soon." I call home and tell my husband.

A nurse still says my blood pressure is dangerously low, and not to expect to go home until morning. Great. I call my husband again.

The doctor never showed. I complained. Nicely. That was my problem: I was nice.

I should have been that screaming crazy chick that the nurses will do anything to get rid of, but I didn't have the energy. I also had two just-weened nearly-one-year-olds, a three year old, and a severely undermedicated ten year old at home. So I was thankful for the break, despite the fact that it was in a hospital. You know your life's batshit crazy when you're grateful for the peace and quiet of a foodless, doctorless hospital room.

By lunch the next day, I was begging for food. And a nurse finally listened. "Wait, what? You've been here since 11am yesterday, and you haven't gotten food? Your doctor should have signed you up with meal services."

"But I haven't seen a doctor. The triage nurse checked me in since I had orders from my GP."

"What doctor did you see in the ER?"

"None! The triage nurse checked me in with only the orders from my doctor. I didn't see a doctor in the ER. I came straight in here."

"You didn't see an ER doc? Then who has been treating you up here?"

"Just the nurses. With my General Pactitioner's orders. I haven't see a doctor at this hospital at all. And I haven't eaten in 28 hours."

"What? Really? Your doctor didn't sign you up for meals?"

I didn't hit her. See? I'm nice.

I explained again. Very slowly. In an even voice. Even though I wanted to put her head in a vice and squeeze - but it wouldn't hurt since her head was obviously empty.

She smiled and said, "We'll see about getting you some food, honey, even if we have to sneak it to you."

"What about a doctor, so I can go home?"

"Yes, we'll find you one of those, too."

...

I was there for THREE EFFING DAYS. The nurses stole food off the cart from patients who were too drugged to wake up and eat. They snuck me some meds for my stomach. I got better. The Monk marathon was really getting old, though. The third morning, a doctor finally showed up and deemed me healthy enough to go home.

...

The time before that that I went to the doctor (before he moved to his new location, so this was seven years ago) was for a rash on my finger. It felt like a swarm of fire ants were feasting on my flesh nonstop. It was excruciating. I'd gotten pricked by a rose thorn on that finger, so I thought it could have come from that, since it appeared the same day.

The doctor said, "Well, you're definitely the most interesting case of the day." He prescribed some ointment even though he couldn't figure out what it was. It didn't look like anything he'd ever seen.

Yay for me.

It got worse. It covered half my hand, three fingers, and looked as horrific as it felt. And it was spreading.

So I went back. He looked scared of it. You know it's bad when your doctor is afraid of you. He took a biopsy & then sent me to a dermatologist. The dermatologist didn't know what it was, either. He sent me back to the general practitioner.

And the GP jokingly said, "Maybe it's leprosy. We could cut your hand off, that would make it stop itching & burning."

Yay. I got the funny doctor.

Hydrocortizone and peroxide was the best I could do for it. It was awful.

Months later, I took my baby to her dermatologist (whose waiting list for new patients is over five months long) for her eczema, and showed my hand to him. "I know I'm not your patient, but I might gnaw my arm off if I can't make this rash go away. Do you know what it is?"

One glance, and he knew exactly what it was. He told me the progression of the symptoms, asked if that was right, and said, "It's just an adult-onset form of eczema. No big deal. I've seen it a few times. The ointment that should work on it will also work on the baby's, so I'll just write out a prescription for her with lots of refills so you can use it, too."

"You're my hero." I almost hugged him.

I saw my GP a few weeks later at church. He asked about my hand, and I told him I got a diagnosis and medicine that was helping. He looked, shrugged, smiled, and said, "I don't know. I still think it's leprosy. Give me a call when you're ready to saw that thing off."

Ha ha.

...

So, I'm calling for an appointment tomorrow. Yee haw.

Gregory House is in charge of WebMD

Well, I go in in just a little while to get a blood test. So, in the meantime, I thought I'd see what WebMD would say that I have with their symptom checker.

**For the record, I think WebMD is fabulous when you have a diagnosis and want to know what to do about it.

My symptoms:

• Aunt Flo is nearly three weeks late for her monthly visit. Last time she visited, she was a few days (maybe a week, I don't know) late, packed light, and didn't stay long.
• I feel like I just received the worst titty-twisters on the planet...
• Then got punched in the boobs.
• Lower abdominal cramps.
• Hip bone is sore.
• Lower back is achy.
• Holy crap I can't stay awake.
• Jeez, I could eat a cow...
• Unless I smell food, then I want to hurl. At the same time every day.
• What was I saying? Oh, I can't focus or remember stuff.

I'm still convinced I'm pregnant & the test was wrong. Because the alternative is something like ovarian cancer. So I guess my WebMD search was an exercise in self- um, what's the word? Freaking the shit out of myself. (Figuratively. If you're a literal thinker, that phrase is disgusting.)

So there were about 100 results of what could be going on inside me. Guess where pregnancy was. At the bottom of the list. What? These are the same symptoms I've had with all my short people.

There results were, in order of likelihood (omitting a lot because you would get bored and I don't want to type that much) (This whole list makes me doubt the credibility of finding medical advice on the internet.):

• muscle strain
• menstrual cramps
• heat exhaustion
• irritable bowel syndrome
• pulmonary embolism
• panic attack
• UTI
• breast cancer
• a virus
• lead poisoning
• acute kidney failure
• ectopic pregnancy
• labor
• colon cancer
• sinusitis
• diabetes
• pseudohypoparathyroidism
• henoch-schonlein purpura
• tick bite
• bruise or contusion
• cocaine withdrawal
• postpartum depression
• exercise
• lack of exercise
• hepatitis
• mumps
• narcotic abuse
• restless legs syndrome
• sarcoidosis
• tuberculosis
• bird flu
• pregnancy
• throat cancer
• cat scratch disease

I shit you not.
So, I have a bruise, bird flu, cat-scratch fever, irritable bowels that aren't actually irritated, cocaine withdrawals, breast & colon cancer, ticks, and a baby that may or may not be alive.
And sarcoidosis, to make the list even more like Dr. House's white board. If only the list had said tuberous sclerosis, then it would have been JUST LIKE  House's board.

I guess I should put a bra and some shoes on and go get the blood test now. (Yes, I already have on shorts and a t-shirt.)

Maybe you could pray for me? Thanks.

I peed on a stick

I went to the neighborhood drugstore. The one that's locally owned and has a little gift shop in the back. So while you're waiting on your meds, you can look at overpriced Trapp candles and embroidered baby bibs and hand-painted trays that you can't actually carry stuff on - it's all very cute, but they have such fantastic customer service that my meds are always ready in 10 minutes or less, so I don't even get the chance to have the conversation in my head about whether or not I should buy that cute little thingy I like. That internal debate usually takes at least twenty minutes, and it's the reason I don't go shopping for clothes. It's so frustrating to find something I like, have it fit my monkey arms, then walk around browsing, trying to justify spending the money on clothes that will most likely end up with clorox or paint spots on it, and then end up hanging it all back on the rack. Damn waste of time, then I end up pissed instead of relaxed. But at least my husband doesn't have to deal with a shopoholic. No comfort shopping for me.

Give me a beach and a book, and I'm a happy girl. I love the beach. And kayaking. But my kayak got stolen. Thieves are a-holes.

(I'm ADD. Have you noticed? And I'm even more ADD when I'm pregnant, because babies suck your brains out.)

So, I go into the drugstore and the perky cashier offers to help. I was about to say no, but she looked bored out of her mind and eager to help for something to do. That's the manager's secret to great customer service: there are always six people working, but rarely more than two customers at a time. So I simply say, "Um, pregnancy test?"

And she walks me right on over, says all the brands are equally good, and picks up the "Good Neighbor Pharmacy" brand and takes it to the register. She rings it up, asks if there is anything else (no stick candy this time), and says it's $4.95.

"What? It was just four and a half dollars?" Which means I still have money for a movie ticket. Magic Mike, here I come!

But, yeah, the generic brand was on half-price sale, even though it was already half the price of the EPT. Sweet.

So I went home & peed on it. I didn't read the instructions, because, let's face it, I've done this way too many times in my life.

Then I waited. LONGEST. TWO. MINUTES. EVER.  Every time.

And a minus appeared. Not a plus.

I must have done it wrong. So I pulled out the instructions and actually read them, but I did do it right. The little test stripe appeared in the other window proving I had done it right.

It says it's a negatory on the baby-growing.

So now I have no idea what is going on inside me.

Psych!!!

When we were kids & pulled a fast one, we said, "Psych!" but didn't know why, and we spelled it "sike" on the notes we weren't supposed to be passing at school. Kids these days are missing out on the joy of note-passing since they just text instead. I don't think kids should have phones. They don't need them. When my kids get a job & can pay for them their selves, they can get a phone. However, I will still set rules & boundaries for them.

Jeez, just the title distracted me! That's not what I meant to talk about. My OB-GYN's office tricked me. I went to their website to see if my doctor was still practicing there, and I saw a tab that said "Request an appointment." Well, cool. That's easier than calling during business hours, which invariably makes my children want to scream at the top of their lungs.

So I clicked it, but of course you have to sign in. Okay, so I fill out the registration form. It's long; it requires insurance information, emergency contacts, basically everything that would be filled out on paper forms once you get to the office. So maybe it takes the place of all those paper forms? I hope so.

Done with that. I click "request an appointment" again.

No, I've got to also fill out the privacy policy form, which is just as long as the form I just filled out and asks for almost identical information. Shouldn't their computer program automatically fill out both?

Allrighty, I try again. Click "request an appointment." Hey, good. It works.
Click which doctor you'd like to see (the one that delivered my short people),
what day you prefer (the day of our standing playdate so i can drop off kids somewhere else - they don't need to see me in stirrups),
AM vs. PM (AM for the same reason),
and which is more important - seeing the doctor you want or getting the time you want? (the doctor, - I don't need strangers looking up my cooter)
And would you be willing to see the nurse practitioner instead of the doctor? (sure, she's already seen my vagina)
Also, is there a special concern for this appointment?

I had to filter myself for this answer. I wanted to answer, Of course there is. People don't go visit the gyno for fun. There is always a special concern. Either a tiny person is growing in them, sucking out all their energy and making them incapable of remembering anything for more than two seconds and giving them gas that could float a friggin zeppelin; or their girlie parts are trying to kill them (which you would refer to an oncologist anyways); or it's time for a scheduled but hated checkup. Like a mammogram. As if anyone wants their titties smashed into pancakes so you can check them out. Or a pap smear. Just the name of that is revolting. But no one would choose to have salad tongs jammed up in their lady garden so you can go spelunking if they didn't have a "special freaking concern."

I think the humor would be lost on them. So instead, I wrote, "Had tubes tied, but I feel pregnant. So if I'm not, then something else is wrong."  That's clear & to the point, right?

Click submit.

This took at least half an hour to fill out everything.

Check back a day later to see if they had set up an appointment for me. There was a response: Please call our office to have the nurse work you in. You need to be seen ASAP.

So, that whole online appointment making thing... PSYCH!!!
Also, that whole 'tubal ligation is permanent birth control' thing... PSYCH!!! Hahaha! After 5 years, 13 out of 1000 grow back together - that's a worse failure rate than condoms! Hahaha! And you had twins while using condoms! And that was 5 years ago! I'm going to hyperventilate here! Hahahahahaha! I bet you're going to have triplets this time!  (Gasp!) HAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!!!!!!  Awww, dude, we got you good. Whew.

So, um, yeah. I think I'm pregnant. This was not in the plan. Either that... or something else is very wrong.


***UPDATE - I just called and said to the girl that schedules appointments that I feel pregnant, but I've had my tubes tied, and they said online I should come in ASAP. She asked if I had taken a home pregnancy test, and I told her, "No, but it's been 5 years since I've been in, and something's going on in there, so I figured I needed to come in anyway."

She tried to mask the you're-an-effing-idiot-for-calling disdain in her voice, but kinda failed, and told me, "Well, you should take a pregnancy test and call us back so I know how to schedule it."

And since I'm nice, I sighed and said, "Okay, thanks," instead of, "Look, y'all will just give me another one when I get there, which insurance will cover; so why not go on and schedule it and save me the 20 bucks that I don't have to waste right now. I need that 20 bucks to go see Magic Mike with the girls next weekend. It's freaking Matthew McConaughey and that guy from The Vow and the guy from White Collar as STRIPPERS. Don't waste my $20 pleeeeeheeeeeheeeeease!"

Because that might have sounded pathetic. So now I've got to wait until my husband gets home and go to CVS alone. Otherwise, the rugrats will be asking, "What's that?" and "Why are you buying that?" And I'm not prepared to answer that yet.

Not feeling it

I like to write for y'all. I like seeing that counter tick up the page views. It makes me feel good. But I've been feeling angsty lately instead of funny. So give me a moment to work through my funk. Maybe it's just PMS again (for the third time this month).

Hang on, I'll be right back.

...

Okay, I wrote a terribly angsty chapter of fanfic, then I read "Jen"e Sais Quoi and Bloggess, and then I pooped, so I'm ready to make you giggle now.

(I don't know why that's making me laugh. I'm weird.)

...

So, we've got this new chick in my gymnastics class who, like half the class, has never done gymnastics. She's maybe 28 years old, and the coach isn't exactly comfortable telling older women what to do. Our last coach - no problem - he'd leave bruises that made our husbands jealous from grabbing us to help us do tricks until we could do them ourselves - but not this guy. No, he just tells us what to do, then we have to figure out the mechanics of how that motion should feel.

So the new lady was trying to do a basic front flip into the pit (that horrible thing I blogged about in my very first post), but she couldn't quite get all the way over.

The coach tells her to "throw harder." If you don't know how to throw harder, then that advice doesn't help very much. I want to tell her to imagine a pinata hanging from the rafters that she has to break... with her butt. Sling that thing on up there, and gravity will take care of the rest!

But she's new, and I don't want to scare her off by saying something that odd, so I guess I'll let her keep tucking and leaning forward and kinda falling in a flipping motion.

And now that it's summer, the adults don't have the gym to ourselves. The competitive team is practicing at the same time. Oh, if we didn't feel old and out of shape before, we do now. These lithe little things with elastic bones jumping and turning like friggin Flipper the dolphin put us to shame. At this point in our lives, we're a little more like Shamu. (Or, at least, we feel like it.)

But them being there has made me try harder so I don't embarrass myself. It's so much easier when the beginners' class is sharing the gym, because they think we are badasses. "Wow! Did you see your mom flip? That was cool! What was that?!"  "That was a 'full,' son: a layout with a full twist." And everyone's all smiles and pride, even if my full was loose and sloppy.

But when the Team is the peanut gallery, we hear, "Ooh, she needs to pull harder to tighten that up," or "Wow, I bet that hurt." Kid, I don't know you, but I am dadgum Superstar, and it's loose because I'm just here for a fun workout, and it didn't hurt one dang bit. Nyah.

Of course, if I do a great one, the coach is like "wow," and I glance at the Team kids (whose opinions I DO NOT care about), but none of them see it. None. Dang it.

Phoning it in

Yesterday, I felt like crap.

In addition to PMS (which I may or may not claim to have three or four times a month, don't judge), it was rainy. And I always want to lay around and watch TV or read fanfic when it's rainy.

But I've got four short people who require some semblance of parenting, so I made the effort. I got our gymnastics mat out of the carport (our make-shift playroom) brushed the pollen and dirt off, and dragged it into the family room for the rugrats to tumble so I could do something useful. (I will not waste my day on the internet. I will not waste my day on the internet.)


Is she wearing a Jayne Cobb hat?



Then I rubbed my eyes, without washing my hands after wiping the mat.

OH. FRIGGIN. JOY.

So, you know how you're not supposed to toss rice at weddings because it'll expand inside the birdies and make their bellies explode? My eyes ballooned like that. Swollen, nearly exploding eyes, and even more swollen eyelids.

My left eye looked like I got hit by a punk who kinda sorta knew how to fight. My right eye looked like every freaking hornet on the freaking continent took turns gang-stinging my eyelid until they got tired of sloppy seconds. (Dang, that was gross. I'm usually not that crude in my analogies.) (Analogies has both the words anal and log in it. Hehe.)

So, even though it was only 9:30am, I had a bad case of the screw-its and snuggled up with my laptop.
The kids had a movie in and a tumbling mat and a bucket of Thomas train track pieces. They were set for a while. Oh, and I gave them some disinfectant wipes to clean the mat so their eyes didn't swell shut, too.

"Look at my eyes. Does it look like they hurt? They hurt! So I don't want to hear fussing of fighting or anything breaking, okay? Just be good so I can lay in my dark room until my eyes are better. Pleeeease."

"Okay, Mommy."

I read the Bloggess's archives - how on earth have I missed her for the last five years? Oh my goodness, I have missed out on so much laughter! - for a while (not 3 hours, no, that would be bad). Then I pulled my mostly-blind tail off the bed and checked the kids and loaded the dishes. I opened windows because somone had opened a can of tuna, drained the juice in the sink, and hadn't rinsed it out, leaving behind a lovely smell. (Lovely like a cheap bordello, that is.)

I told the shorties what chores to do and went back to my room. It was raining so hard, there were puddles in the swings outside my window. So I turned on Andrew Belle youtube videos and tried to rest. It was nice.

Lunch? I wandered into the kitchen, saw the open bread and nutella and banana peels out on the counter, hollered, "Did y'all eat?" heard a chorus of "Yes ma'am," and that was good enough for me. I took a shower, hoping to rid myself of any residual pollen-dirt-hornet combinations then went back to my room, still only able to see out of one eye.

The twins went out to play in the rain at some point, so I figured they could hear me from the open window calling them back in. So then there were puddles on the kitchen floor.

As soon as it stopped raining, they  ran back out to jump on the trampoline, because a wet tramp is the most fun!

But the teenager broke the wire on his braces again, so we were due at the orthodontist at 4:00. We're in there once every two weeks (no joke) fixing whatever he's messed up. I think he's just trying to spite us. I hate braces. And 14-year old hormones. And ADHD. And Autism.

So, 3:45, I go tell the kids it's time to get in the van. And the five year old girl pops up covered in mud. I mean leterally covered, head to toe, clothes and hair and all. And she clearly didn't roll in it; she smeared it on like lotion. A mud bath. Fan. friggin. Tastic.

Peeking from the one eye now halfway open, and the other finally beginning to kind of open, I grab the water hose and just spray her off. "Hey, take off your clothes. Those things are NOT going inside." So then I've got a naked, muddy little girl running around the yard (yes, there's a privacy fence), being sprayed with water, screaming, "BEST. GAME. EVER!"

She's totally a nudist.

Once she's rinsed, I give her clothes, because we don't have time for a bath. The orthodontist visit goes well, and I'm quite sure we'll be paying for the doc's college with how often we're in there.

We get back home, and they all run out back, and I think, "Holy, crap, they've destroyed the house. Like that joke about the husband getting home & the kids are in their underwear in the yard, the sink is on & overflowing and the house looks like a tornado went through; then the wife is in bed watching TV & tells the husband, 'You know how you ask every day what I did? Well, today, I didn't do it.' That's what this is like. I should really clean this mess up."

So... I went and laid back on my bed and pulled up ParentsShouldntText.com and laughed for a while.

Until I heard my husband walk in.

Ruh-roh, Raggy.

Let me put away the laptop and lay here like I'm sick. I mean, I am sick. I feel terrible. My eyes are swollen.

I hear him walk through and look in the backyard, where the little girl is completely covered in mud again and the others have neighbor friends playing with them. I can hear his head about to explode.

He comes in and, though he's obviously completely pissed off, asks how I'm feeling and offers to grill so I don't have to cook. He also wants to make all the kids come in & clean up, but I convince him they need the exercise for a while.

Of course, his version of grilling out still includes me cooking the veggies inside. So, I grab veggies in steamable bags and stick them in the microwave and pull out raw broccoli and ranch dressing and call it done. And I go back to bed.

He was so mad he didn't even eat with us. Oh well. I'm can only be Supermom for so long before I crash & burn.

I've even been to the doctor in the past (um, maybe 3 years ago, now) hoping for a shot so I could keep going, and he said, "How are you even sitting up? How are you even conscious?! Did you drive yourself here?" Yeah, yeah I did. He wrote some orders for IV fluids and told me to go across the street to the hospital. But I didn't know how long it would take, and I had the van. So I drove home to switch cars in case the husband had to take the kids somewhere. I thought it might take a few hours. They kept me there for three friggin' days. Days!!! The triage nurse thought I'd get faster service if he admitted me than if I stayed in the ER, then they wouldn't let me leave until I was well!

So, maybe I push myself too hard. But not yesterday. Yesterday, I totally phoned it in.

Lessons for Men #2

I want to punch my husband in the face for suggesting something. But I also want to do what he suggested. Is that bad?

Fellas, "Hey, you want to get a tummy tuck with that extra FLEX account money before it disappears?" is not a nice question.

You may mean, "You're beautiful and I love you, and I want you to be more comfortable in your own skin; and I want you to see in the mirror the same person that I see when I look at you. Since we've got a little unallocated money, I'd love for you have it to do something just to make you feel better,"

but that's not what you said.

Men, if ever you choose to suggest lipo to your lovely wife, those are the exact words you should use. Memorize them now.

Because what I heard was, "Hey Michelin Man, do something with those eighteen spare tires around your midsection, will ya? And make sure you don't waste any of our budgeted money while you're at it, you lazy slob."

I don't have major body image issues, but I am female. There will always be room for improvement. I will never be truly happy with what I see in the mirror. I try to see the post-four-humongous-kids belly as a testament to the wonderful blessings God has given me, but I'd be lying if I said that's what I actually see. I try to see the not-quite-small-enough-for-a-tank-top arms as strong and healthy, but I see floppy things that would make me look like an appetizing first-kill in the Hunger Games.

I don't look like a narwhal in a swimsuit, but I'd still like to be rid of 20 pounds. (Honestly, 40, but I don't want you to think I'm a hippo.)

I remember, when I was a kid, seeing moms in ugly mom-jeans that went above their fat rolls and wondering why in the Hell they would wear something that made them look like they had a butt in the front. But, jeez louise, there's not a chance in Hell I'm going to wear a girdle, not even control-top panty hose, so I guess you've got to deal with whatever I manage to put on. And don't you dare say anything about my tank tops. They're cute, and it's friggin' HOT in Alabama.

So, unless someone decides to nominate me for "What Not To Wear," (which I would TOTALLY do), then I think I'm going to take him up on the offer. Maybe I'll update soon about the new, slimmer me. Maybe.

Cha cha cha

It's kinda sad: I opened up the Netflix disc that arrived and got excited because it was The Backyardigans. I love this show. My seven year old says it's a baby show, but still sneaks in to watch it with the five year old twins. I love it because they don't have annoying voices and they have good music. The kids go into their normal neighborhood backyard playground and make up fantastic adventures. They don't get bored. They don't whine or tattle or make fun of each other. They don't use potty humor (so they differ from me there - I love a good fart joke). They think creatively and keep themselves entertained.

I have found that most kids these days don't know how to do that. Helicopter parenting has killed the creative juices in little ones by telling them over and over, "Don't do that. Don't go there. You might get hurt." I've had other moms act like I was a terrible parent for letting my kids climb trees and jump on a trampoline with no net. (Pffft. Who needs a net? When I was a kid, you would have been laughed into hiding for having a net... or a bicycle helmet. Sissies.)

I'm the kind of mom that watches from a safe distance to stop them if they're doing something really dangerous, and I'll even warn them if they're trying something risky. But it's not because I want them to stop; it's because I want them to figure out the best way to do it. To have fun without an ER trip.

I was the kid who was afraid of heights (well, no, I was afraid of the inevitable abrupt splat at the end of a fall), so I wouldn't climb up on the roof, take a running start, and leap over the patio into the pool like the other kids. That eight feet of concrete between the house and the water was scary. So I pushed the trampoline onto the patio so I could jump from the roof to the trampoline and bounce into the pool. See? Creative thinking made it more fun and no one broke any bones.

I was the kid who fell out of a tree house (er, tree platform) and got knocked out, so I said, "Hey, lets screw on some rails." No adult had to tell me that it wasn't safe. Figured that one out on my own.

But kids will come over to my house to play and not know how to climb a tree or anything, because their moms have kept them "safe" inside, watching TV and playing video games. These are kids who don't know what to do with themselves if someone is not entertaing them. And they irritate the crap out of me. They stand there and talk to me like I'm supposed to talk back! Like they're there to be entertained by me! Pshyeah, right! Go outside and let me watch Nathan Fillion interviews on Youtube!

So, I love the Backyardigans. I wish kids would see that and then go immitate them. Go outside. Pretend it's an ocean. There are pirates and mermaids and whatever your mind can come up with. Just because you're a kid doesn't mean you're not capable of thinking for yourself! (Another thing helicopter parents disagree with.)

Something else I love about this show: the music and dancing. They play music of all types from all different eras. It's awesome! And the characters sing and dance. Now, I hate musicals like the Kardashians hate respectability, but these characters are awesome. They were doing the Charleston. And the waltz. I just got to teach my 5 year old how to do the cha-cha.

This is the child who cried during YMCA because she couldn't do the hand motions fast enough to keep up. But she was just doing the basic cha-cha!

I love ballroom dancing (I've got some kick-ass 4" Beckett heels for dancing), and I think this is so cool. Even my 5 year old boy got up and tried it. 1-2-1-2-3.

Fun stuff all around.

(And I probably would have watched it even if the kids weren't home.)

My funny kids, part two

My little boy still has trouble saying some words. Last night, he  said, “Larry is a goom-campuh.”

The only Larry we know is the green parrot that lives at the pet shop at the edge of our neighborhood.

“What?”

“Larry is a goom-camper.”

I giggled. “What is a goom-camper?”

“A goomcamper. He’s green.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Try to say it in a different way.”

“LARRY IS A GOOMCAMPER!”

I laughed. “Yelling it doesn’t help. Explain it with different words.”

He laughed at me for not understanding.

“Larry was at the li-bary.”

“What? No. Larry’s at the pet store.”

“NO! Not Larry the parrot. Larry the goomcamper! At the li-bary!”

I kept laughing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bob is red.”

“What?!”

“Bob is a red tomato, and Larry is a green goomcamper.”

Understanding dawned. He smiled when he saw me get it.

VeggieTales. Larry is a cucumber. And he and Bob were at the bookstore, like, a year ago.

So we practiced pronouncing “cucumber” until he got it.

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Crazy Nasty

Oh, my dear sweet Lord, forgive me for this post!

My mother-in-law just came over to check on her dog that she abandoned at our house.

Then she proceeded to tell me her next stop on her schedule was the dollar store to buy some “jockey itch ointment that men put on when they get itchy down there.”

Because she’s really dry and itchy down there.  She held her crotch when she said it. In my front yard. In front of neighbors.

“Sometimes I have to put ice on it because it hurts, it’s so itchy.”

I choked on my coffee. I might need to go puke now.

And I wonder why I'm tired

8pm - I laid down with the 5 year old twins. (girlA & boyA)
          7 year old M laid down in her bed.

8:30 - gA decided to lay with M.
          I laid with bA so he'd be still & go to sleep. Plotted story points for my newest fanfic.

9:30 - Husband & teenager got home from Bible study. They may have woke me up.
          I moved gA to her bed.

10:30- Went to sleep in my bed.

2am - M woke up & got in my bed too. Took a while for me to get back to sleep.

4:30 - It's too hot. But it's too close to morning to move M without waking her. I caferfully left my bed, got in her bed, & went back to sleep.

6:00 - Heard husband in shower. I went back to my room, crawled in his side of the bed.

6:15 - M wakes up, goes to her room.

6:30 - bA wakes up, comes to my bed, snuggles up, and goes back to sleep.

7:00 - gA and the teenager get in a screaming match in the kitchen - the opposite side of my bedroom wall.

I'm up, dangit. I'm up. Give me coffee.

A Hot Mess

So, my mother-in-law has a house out in the country, built during the Great Depression, covered in asbestos siding, lead paint, and 70 years of insect poisons. (Carpet cleaning? No, she's not uppity like that.) I'm not sure how my husband managed to grow up there and not grow an extra ear or something. Well, about ten or twelve years ago, when she married her second husband, she moved to his house and basically abandoned the old country house. The entire extended family now uses it as a storage building for crap we don't use but aren't willing to part with yet. (Dadgum spoiled Americans.)

My brother-in-law lives in a town about 45 minutes away. And he's about as crazy as a circus clown on crystal meth. He hordes, but he had to move a couple of weeks ago. To a smaller place. They moved what he needed & told my mother-in-law to have someone move the rest of his stuff. So my husband drove down there in our van, all of the seats removed, and packed it full of his brother's junk. The man had a wardrobe big enough for 4 people, and that was just what they left behind! Then the hubs took it all out to the country house and unloaded it all. It took like 6 hours.

Did his mom or brother thank him? Ummm, no.

His brother wasn't happy that he didn't have all his stuff. And my MIL wanted all the stuff brought to her house so she could sort through it. She wants to donate some, but she really wants to put most of it in her guest room so it's there when her son visits. Not because she's being nice, but because having two loonies under one roof is guaranteed to be too much fun. (And by "fun", I mean clinical insanity sprinkled with dangerous threats and loud fights.) His stuff distracts & calms him so they don't actually have to deal with each other.

Did I mention she didn't tell him where to take the stuff before he unloaded it all? The storage house seemed like the logical place.

So she started calling our house three times a day to fuss at him for not bringing the junk to her house. Every day. For 7 days straight. Saturday after he unloaded to Friday morning. In addition to all her random other calls. Because she has to tell me, tell him, and tell our voice mail in case we forget. And if I answer when she's intending to leave a message, she keeps calling back and tells me about random bullcrap (like her latest racist observations) until I stop answering.

He finally relented and told her he'd get what she wanted from the country house on Saturday when he was off work. So Friday, she got tired of waiting and went out there herself.

There's no power or water, so it's reeeeeally hot in that house. She got a few things, then decided it was too hot, she'd just let the hubs get the stuff as planned.... after she did one last thing.

Once she got home, she called me (again, for the 3rd time that day, and it was just 10:30am) to tell me she'd only gotten a few shirts. It was too hot. And she had to use the toilet. In a house with no running water.

So she took a dump and left it in the 110 degree house. Then she called me to tell my husband  (and I'm quoting exactly here), "to take a bucket to flush it. There's a big mess."

Seriously. Have you ever gotten a phone call telling you to go flush someone else's big hot mess for them? That's why she left, I bet. She didn't want to smell it. The heat was secondary.

And, God love him, he did it. He rolled his eyes, filled a bucket, went & flushed her giant poo, and moved much of his brother's junk to her house.

And she still didn't thank him.

Lessons for Men #1

Why women have three wardrobes:

We have clothes that fit. We like them well enough. But they're never good enough. They taunt us with what we are and what we think we should be. We can look at every scrap of fabric in this section and say, "I have NOTHING to wear!" Because, next to this section of the closet is the second wardrobe:

The clothes we used to fit. Before marriage. Before kids. Before knowing that we'll still get a little sumpin-sumpin even if we never get rid of those last few "baby" pounds. (Even if the baby is now ten years old, it's still that kid's fault that we're soft in the middle.) We keep telling ourselves that we'll fit into those clothes again. We'll lose those last few pounds one of these days. We'll be hot again. Soon. But if we get rid of those clothes, we won't keep trying to lose the weight, because if we did, we'd have to buy a new wardrobe. And that would just be too expensive. So, if you want us to keep working on whittling away at that baby weight, don't complain about all those clothes we haven't worn in years.

Then there's that smaller section in the back of the closet. The clothes we loathe with a burning passion. They make us feel like ogres. They might as well be covered in pickled pigs' feet. The section that's smaller than the other two because we like to pretend we don't need it. Because those clothes are the next  size up. Uuugh. And, for some reason known only to God Himself, we balloon at certain times of the month. We feel like we'd be better off attaching a super soaker water gun up to our porky midriff and spraying all that excess water out all over. Perhaps we could assist the fire brigade like that? For real, WHY on earth do we retain water? Some kind of cruel cosmic joke?  Like God & Jesus said back in Genesis, "Let us make man in Our image, and let's make woman in a funhouse mirror image that changes as she walks around, just to keep her humble. Look, she's fat! Look, she's skinny! Now her belly's big! Now her thighs are! Wheee! This is fun! Because you know, as shallow as we're making these guys to be, something's gotta keep the girls from just treating them like annoying drooly puppies. Every 28 days or so, she's just going to get huge and feel like crap. That should do it. Remind her she's not actually a goddess. Can you imagine how she'd turn out if she thought she was as great as she really is? So this should do the trick and keep her from totally being in love with herself."
Well, maybe it didn't go down like that. I don't think God is all that vindictive. But it does seem to work that way, huh?

So, fellas, don't whine that your lady's got too many clothes. She can only wear a third of them, but she needs them all.

Isn't it ironic, doncha think?

My stepson's got Asperger's syndrome, ADHD, CP, and some other mishmashed letters of the alphabet. We got him tested again recently, and insurance covered it. The shrink recommended a certain type of therapy. We took him to the evaluation for it. Insurance covered it. He fully fit the criteria to receive the therapy.

But insurance won't cover it.

Why? It's a mental health issue, and they don't cover mental health. They knew he had an Autism Spectrum Disorder before they paid thousands in testing. But they won't cover the therapy because he's on the autism spectrum.

And what kind of insurance offers this crack-pot coverage? Viva, provided by my husband's place of work. And where does he work? A center for the physically & mentally handicapped.

Yeah. The place that provides mental health therapy doesn't cover mental health therapy for its employees.

I'm feelin' the love. You feelin' it? It's a big ole love fest goin on here.

A worldwide 'hood

Have you ever watched "The End of the Spear?" It's a movie about the missionaries in 1956 who went deep into Ecuador's rain forest to make contact with a warrior tribe so effective at revenge spearings that they had nearly made themselves extinct. They made peaceful contact, but a fight within a tribal group had gotten to the point where they were about to spear each other, so they killed the missionaries instead. The story made the worldwide news and the cover of Life magazine. The book by Steve Saint, is WAYYY better. Steve is the kid in the movie, the son of one of the missionaries.

See, the five men were killed before they had a chance to talk about God. In the Waodani culture, the families of the slain missionaries should attack and kill the family who killed their men. Instead, the widows and children moved in with them and brought medicine. They brought healing and the message of forgiveness. They presented the Gospel over the years and changed the culture enough to end the way of the spear.

But the book is incredible. It goes into so much more detail. The movie does a two-sentence voice-over with Steve saying he spent lots of time with the Waodani growing up, but the book tells what that was like, as well as the rest of the story.

They changed some stuff in the movie to make it fit into the 2-hour story frame, having to combine events and people to make a simpler story and character list.

Once the widows' stories started being told (and their books published), people worldwide wanted to help the "poor" indigenous people. That's great. But Steve tells us how much our help hurts people who are so culturally and technologically different. Once they started being given things that they couldn't repair or reproduce, they became dependant on outsiders. Once they tasted food that they couldn't grow, they required outsiders to provide it. Once missionaries built a church with more urban materials, they couldn't repair it; but they also thought they shouldn't build a different one, so they just quit having church. Also, since the missionaries built it, they didn't consider it theirs.

Steve Saint took his wife and three teenage kids to the jungle where he grew up (to his Wao family) to teach the Waodani how to build and maintain an airstrip and fly and maintain a plane for medical emergencies. They set up medical clinics and trained women how to be nurses. They built a house as a community center/ church. He refused to do any of this for them; instead, he demanded that they do it so they would own it. He insisted that his family would only stay for a set amount of time, then go back to Florida.

He and the man who speared his father, Mincaye, had developed a father-son bond as he grew up. Mincaye and some other Waodanis have come to America and Europe for speaking engagements, giving their testimonies. They tell of how Waengongi (Creator God) changed their hearts and now they follow His trail.

And they only listened to Steve's family because they came days after the brutal murders, ready to forgive, and became family.

There's a mission organization out of Nowhere, Alabama (actually, Lineville, but it really is in the middle of nowhere) called SIFAT. Servants In Faith And Technology. They bring tribal leaders from around the world to train them appropriate technology, and how to couple using it with sharing the Gospel. By appropriate, I mean water filters and 16-brick stoves and fisheries and simple irrigation. Things that don't Americanize them at all, just plain make their lives a little healthier.

I went to the top of the Bolivian Andes for a month with SIFAT to serve the Quechans there. But that was August of 1999. This past weekend, I took my church's youth to SIFAT's headquarters. There, they have built a Global Village. (As tribal leaders come in from around the world, they built a replicas of their homes. Their real homes that their families live in.)

So our boys slept in a woven stick hut from Liberia, and we girls slept in a glorified cave from Nepal that had a teeny (like the size of the rug under my chair right now) house for cooking above the roof of the cave.

We made fire in the sprinkling rain (it took nearly two hours), cooked rice and beans for dinner and oatmeal for breakfast. The size of the meals was what Americans would consider two servings... but that was for all ten of us. And we had no dishes. Have you ever tried to eat oatmeal with no bowl? One of the girls found some flat rocks in the creek and scrubbed them off to make plates. The boys worked on setting the foundation for another tribal hut.

We got a tour of the whole village, too. Eight countries were represented, including an urban slum.

Did you know that HALF of the world's population lives in poverty? They didn't ask to be born in a slum or war-torn country or secluded jungle. Just like you didn't ask to be born where you were. You had no choice in whether your parents could find work or not, or whether they stuck around at all. So, the SIFAT guy's main message to the youth this weekend was not about guilt, but about responsibility.

One thing I noticed in Bolivia was that the people were happy. They had only one or two outfits to their name,  and a few dishes, a musical intrument they'd made, and maybe a tapestry that could be used as a tablecloth or backpack or blanket or baby carrier. That's it. But they loved each other, and they were happy. And we were there to help them with building a school (using their construction methods and sun-dried adobe brick) and add a windmill to their clinic so they could generate power to treat their sick.

A Nigerian man at SIFAT a few weeks ago looked at an American staff member and told him that we Americans are poor. We surround ourselves with meaningless stuff and big houses. But we don't know our neighbors. We say "Hi," to people we know then just keep walking. We don't stop and talk, don't build relationships, don't care about people, and don't know how to love selflessly. We're fat and depressed. So, though they have no material things, they are rich, and we are poor.

So here's my takeaway: There is one race. There is one family. We are the children of God. We are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. No matter what difference -  language, culture, money, status, religion (or lack thereof), sex, age, odor, or anything else; we are to love others above all else. We are to lift them up so they can stand up high enough to see God. We are to not be blinded by our blessings and think that our things make us better than anyone else. We are to be family, no matter our differences, and offer love and reconciliation and the Good News. As Steve Saint's family put it, Waengongi had a son, and he was speared; but he let his enemies spear him so that those enemies could have a better future. It really is that simple.

I could go on and on, but please go check out http://sifat.org/stories.html. It's awesome.

Share the love, y'all; share the love.

How Algebra Should Be Taught

How it's taught now:  x(2y)=z

Explanation: If you have an unknown number of oranges (x) and an unknown number of apples (y), but a total number of 30 pieces of fruit (z), how many apples and how many oranges do you have?

How a teenager answers: Why do you have 30 pieces of fruit? Those apples are gonna get mushy. You're stupid for buying so much fresh fruit all at once. I'm not eatin' that crap. Bring me some Doritos.

How it should be taught:

Example 1. x(2y)=z

Explanation: x= how much time your mom says you have to get ready and get out the door
y= how much time you decide to actually take
z= how big of a $#!tfit she's gonna have when you don't get your lazy adolescent butt out of bed

How a teenager understands it: Oh. That's why she flipped out? Really? How much time I take ticks her off double the amount of time I was supposed to take? Hm. Well, there's a proportion that's good to know.

Example 2.

Normal:  A population of rabbits triples every month. Assume we start out with 100 rabbits.

a. How many rabbits are there after 4 months?

b. How long until there are 50,000 rabbits?

Teenager thinks:
 Bow chicka wow wow! Those bunnies are gettin' some tail like cray-cray! Dang! I wonder if I'll get any at prom?
 

Should be:
If you cave in to the pressure from the guy you like to text him a naked picture of yourself, taking 2 seconds to reach him, and he forwards it to three of his friends five seconds later, and they each forward it to three friends in five seconds, and they each do the same,

a. How many people will think you're a skank a$$ ho after two minutes?
b. How long until the entire population of your school has seen your embarrassing sext?
Bonus: Explain why you can go to jail for this. Hint: Child porno.

See? Make it relevant, and kids will understand math with no problem!

Smokin' Hot

How to apply "smoky" eye makeup:

Step 1. Make sure kids are in bed so you don't have to explain yourself.

Step 2. Apply eye shadow, making sure to use all three different shades for highlight and shadow so your eyes really pop.

Step 3. Decide that the eyeliner you bought like eight years ago is too chunky and throw it out.

Step 4. Attempt using the tip of the mascara wand to smudge on some make-shift eyeliner.

Step 5. Look in the mirror an frighten yourself with the jagged, gross looking smear around your eyes.

Step 6.With ONE drop of water on your finger, smudge the mascara around right eye to actually look half-decent .

Step 7. With TWO drops of water, smudge the mascara on your left eye into wet goo that smears all over your eyelid, making you look like you just got beat to Hell and back.

Step 8. Clean off all makeup off left eye.

Step 9. Notice that when you blinked, your right eyeliner that looked good transfered to the middle of your eyelid.

Step 10. Clean off right eyelid, trying to not remove decent eyeliner.

Step 11. Re-apply mascara to left eyelid as jury-rigged eyeliner.

Step 12. With ONE drop of water on your finger, smudge the mascara around left eye to look half-decent enough to match the right eye.

Step 13. Force eyes to not blink so it doesn't smudge onto middle of eyelids again.

Step 14. Hope husband is still awake & hasn't fallen asleep waiting for you to finish getting prettied up.

Step 15. Realize that he's managed to get three children to sleep, and shower, and shave, while you haven't even finished getting eye make up on.

Step 16. Re-apply eye shadow, making sure to use all three different shades for highlight and shadow so your eyes really pop.

Step 17. Apply mascara to eyelashes as intended.

Step 18. Add a second coat of mascara to lashes. Go all out. Hope you look more like Stana Katic than Tammy Faye Baker.

Step 19. DON'T BLINK!

Step 20. Move on to lipliner and lipstick. Nah. Screw it. Smudge on a little tinted lip gloss & be done with it.

Google Autofill. It's like Catnip.

Do you ever start typing something into the google search bar and it automatically fills in what it thinks you're going to ask with something truly bizarre?
Type "wha" and it fills in "what does yolo mean?" So I think, "Huh. What does it mean?"


*** There was a lot more to this. It was funny. But it disappeared. Cyberspace voodoo, I guess. But I'm not retyping it. Sorry.

Wake Up!

To everyone, Happy Easter!

My 5 year old girl came in my room just after sunrise & snuggled up. She fell back to sleep, but soon, I was ready to get up. I whispered to her, "Do you know what today is?" (We've been going through what happened each day since Palm Sunday.)

She said, "Is it Easter Day?"

I told her it was, and that Mary went just before sunrise on Sunday morning to the tomb, where she found it open and Jesus was in the garden. Then she went to tell the disciples that he was alive. They were still asleep, and she woke them up with the exciting news.

Then I asked if she thought they celebrated. She answered, "Yes! They probably went on a pony ride! Can we go on a pony ride! That would be a great celebration! Maybe even two ponies! Can we get two ponies?"

I laughed and said we had little baskets of treats as our celebration. So she asked, "Well, after we get our basket, can we get some ponies?"

"Where would we put them? Our back yard is too small."

"Oh. Maybe we can find some very small ponies."

Hehee.

"Do you want to go wake up your brothers and sister?"

She jumped up with a smile and ran out of my room. I heard little feet & her shouting, "Jesus is alive! Jesus is alive! Wake up everybody! Jesus is alive!"

***********

My computer has been wonky, limiting my posts lately. But my husband not only got it fixed, but also got me a laptop this week! So, expect to hear from me more frequently. I know you've missed me. 
;)

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

So... I'm typing with sore fingers... Because I worked in the garden today without gloves. Scratch that. I mixed quickrete in my kids' green turtle sandbox with my bare hands because I couldn't find a trowel and built a garden wall out of marble & granite chunks mortared together with the quickrete.

When I was done, I got up to make sure it looked right (though, who was I kidding? It's not like I was going to change it at that point.) and found the trowel in the grass about eight feet away. Huzzah!

I washed the dirt and concrete off my hands (I say dirt. I mean composted manure, peat moss, and dog crap. Because my dog decided that one foot behind me was the perfect place to drop a turd.) and showed the scrapes to my husband. He said, "Why didn't you wear gloves?" It was one of those questions that instantly make you feel like a complete moron. I didn't even think about walking over to the storage shed to get gardening gloves.

So I told him, "Because they're dirty and would have irritated my hands anyway, especially since I was working with wet concrete." Which was totally true, and I'm sure that somewhere in my psyche the thought of getting gloves was evaluated and dismissed for exactly that reason. (That sounded convincing, right?)

Anyway, my garden's a little bigger now, so I can have four varieties of tomatoes, grapes, berries, squash, cucumber, watermelon, potatoes, stevia, and even more herbs. (My garden can kick your garden's butt.)

Right now, I should be writing out what I'm teaching this week or loading the dishwasher. Instead, I've been laughing at funny pictures on George Takei's facebook page, chatting with a high school friend, and now blogging. I haven't typed anything in over a week, so now I choose the night that I've got my fingerprints scraped off to peck at the keyboard. Yeah, I'm a smartie.

So, as I wasted time pecking because I can't type properly for my hurting fingers, I found this article: http://www.educationnews.org/education-policy-and-politics/dinosaur-among-words-thought-controversial-by-new-york/  Go ahead, it's just three paragraphs long.

In a nutshell, people in charge of public education are complete chuckleheads. How on God's green earth did "dinosaur" make the list of 50+ controversial words banned from New York's standardized tests? Idiots.

Meanwhile, here in Montgomery, a lunchroom worker brought a gun to school, hidden in her Bible (what?! Her Bible?!) where she'd cut out a spot in the pages like in an old movie, so she could threaten another lunchlady. In a room full of knives.

I sit here tapping my thumb (because the other fingers are beginning to really sting) and ponder why she didn't just pull a knife. I got nothin'. Solomon, she's not. Yeah, Montgomery Public Schools iz where itz at, yo. Our elementary school lunchladies beez strapped wid a heater.

Where was I? Oh. Right. We'll use the garden in science lessons for home school, too. Like watching seeds sprout, cutting apart a bloom to see what the inside parts of a flower are, and seeing if the dadgum dog can outrun me when I try to hit her with a shovel for digging up my garden again. (Of course I'd never actually hit her. She's too dang fast.) So maybe next we'll study why four-legged creatures are faster than two-legged creatures. And perhaps a lesson on why we wear clothes, shoes, and bike helmets to protect us... and garden gloves.

Hands Off!

So, my stepfather-in-law passed away this morning. He was 96 years old, but was in such poor health for the last two years that death was merciful. It was a relief to let him go, ending his suffering.

He was a three war veteran (both Army & Guard), was on the team that grew to become NASA, advised presidents, was the president of a College, and was an officer and a gentleman. He had the most interesting stories & a great sense of humor.

And he was a butt toucher. Whenever I hugged him, I had to angle it so that his arm was trapped. I'm not the only one, either. He liked touching younger women's booties. I guess he totally knew he could get away with it because he was so old. He could blame dementia. He didn't care if he got caught.

There's a man at church who does it, too. He cops a feel when he can. He's somewhat mentally challenged, so he gets away with it as well. But I've never noticed him "accidentally" touching a man's butt, and even if you move his hand, if drifts right back down there. So I'm quite sure it's on purpose.

This makes me wonder... would all men do this if they thought they could get away with it? I hope not, but it's highly likely. They wouldn't just think, "Hmm, nice butt." They'd reach out & touch someone. Let their fingers do the talking.

When I was in ninth grade, this group of guys would always walk by me while I was at my locker, & one would grab & squeeze. After almost every day for several weeks, another girl noticed and gasped, "Oh my god! Did he just grab your butt?!" "Yep." "And you're letting him get away with it?" I looked at the group of six guys, all big tall athletes, and asked, "I can never tell which one did it. What can I do?" She looked at them and shrugged, "Nothin', I guess."

Concerts, parties, etc.... guys think it's fine to play a little grab-ass. One time in college I turned around to the drunk guy who was the obvious culprit and bowed up and challenged, "Touch me again." He acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. But I'd been taking Tae Kwon Do for a year, so I was feeling brave. He skulked away.

So here's my proposal. Girls do the same. In a crowd, where you won't get caught, preferably somewhere darkish without cell phone cameras rolling video. We can play the same game.

"Oops! I tripped." "Oh sorry, I didn't see you standing there."  "My bad. Misjudged your height." Or just squeeze and keep walking.

I guess the only problem (as if there's only one problem with this suggestion!) is that the guys would like it. Yeah, that's right. They'd be proud, stand taller, preen like a peacock. They'd tell all their friends, "Hey, that chick just grabbed my butt!" They'd get high-fives all around.

This supports my theory that men don't mature past the age of 17. They just pretend to be more mature so women will sleep with them.

So I guess this is a no-win situation.

At this point in my life, if you're a stranger, I might break your hand if you grab my butt at a concert.

But I also wonder if the age is approaching when I'm saggy enough that I'll take it as a compliment?