PART 2: The Origami Swan and A Whore Named Gloria

So.  Here we were with a bed we couldn't sleep on.  We actually took it down, leaned it against the bedroom wall and began using the dust mite haven again.  It was that bad.
The $500 origami swan was now wall decor, and it was clear to me that I would not return alive from a solo return mission...so I had to wait for reinforcement. 

When we last spoke, there was scratching of the heads over just HOW one would go about returning a bed that is made of foam.  Attempting to man-handle this bed is much like, well, lifting a tortilla shell with one hand and expecting it to remain flat. 
We hoisted the mattress onto the floor and began folding it up like a burrito.  Sort of.  Actually, it was more like trying to fold a fat Krispy Kreme glazed donut without breaking it.  It didn't really 'fold' persay, it sort of folded then bounced back at you like a fat kid when you toss him into a bounce house. 
Determined to make this happen, the hubby folded said taco in half and had me sit on it.  I could feel this thing rebounding under me, and knew that my weight wasn't really enough to do much.  I thought my biggest 'heavy' thoughts, attempting to will it to stay put.  It was like sitting on a teeter-totter and watching as a kid much heavier than you runs full speed at the empty seat across from you.  You know you're gonna get launched, you just don't know when. 
With no protective head gear in the house, I braced myself for the possibility of injury while the ole hubby went into the garage and returned with tape.  Securing this bad boy as best he could with about a half a roll of tape, Stage 2 of the mission began.
Getting said taped up taco into the box.
Now, remember that this is a queen sized mattress.  We are putting it into a box the size of a bar fridge.  Sure, we could have just thrown it into the enclosed trailer, much like one would wrap a body in a sheet and secure it with tape and toss it into, well, a trunk.  But, I knew we had to have the box to have the bar code scanned.  My mind wandered to the eyes of other Costco shoppers as one of us walked backward, the other forward, balancing what appeared to be a body wrapped in a mattress, taped closed, into the store.  'Clear a path, please, clear a path.  Coming through.'  Then, what would be next?  One of us stays with said dead body, on the dirty floor of the store, while the other goes to fetch the box?  All of this with two kids in tow?
Nope.  Gotta get this sucka into the box. 
Being a strong and determined person, my husband decides he is going to straddle this beast and yank the box toward him.  With some sweating, some cussing and a possible hernia, it was at least looking as if there was a possibility that eventually, in say a couple of hours, we could have this thing whipped.  There was some laying on the floor pushing with the feet, some more grunting and screaming (much like that of reverse-child birth, as this thing was going BACK in...wow, what a thought, right?), and finally, the origami foam taco from Hell was in the box.  Sort of.  It was in the box as far as it would go, so it was a giant bed rolled up and taped, standing out of the top of a box the size of a bar fridge.
It was a sight to behold.

We returned it in a terrential downpour, no questions asked.  (Yay!)

The fuel behind this scurry of sweat and tears was a call from a good friend of mine.  She had a friend who had purchased a new bed recently, and she had heard that the same beds were on sale for Veterans Day.
What's the catch?  Well, the name of the bed threw me for a bit of a loop.  I was sure she had it wrong, but she was nearly certain that this was part of the Whore Collection.  I thought of all the things she could possibly have confused with the word 'whore'.  Door collection?  Floor collection? 
Before manhandling the beast built of foam, I went to the Mattress Source to do some legwork.  Could it be that a store had a whore?  Is that even legal?
I walked in and wondered if I would be escorted out by police.  I had visions of the FBI coming out from the warehouse area and handcuffing me in a sting operation.  I was going to walk into this store and ask about whores.  Now THAT is a woman in a desperate situation. 
Something had to be done, though.  Saturday was approaching and I really, really wanted to sleep past about 6am. 
Thankfully, the salesman knew exactly what whores I was referring to.  It turns out that the Drive By Whore Collection is a name created by a local radio station specifically for this line of beds, which is made specifically for this store.  There are three whores to choose from, each one a little fluffier than the next.  Apparently I like plus-sized whores, because Gloria was my favorite, and she was the fluffiest of them all. 
I would be able to save $500 on Gloria the Whore if I could get the Great Origami Roundup accomplished by the next day.  It was a one day sale, but the salesman, surely feeling sorry for me for the look on my face when I inquired about ladies of the night, said that he would hold one for me and honor the price if I could get everything done by the next day.
So, fade back to the wrangling of the foam mattress, the trip in the rain to return the ole girl and here we were in Whoville.  I mean Whoreville.  Whatever.  Potato, Potahto.

I had to have the hubby try out the whore, in front of the salesmen, which was awkward.  They had the protective velvety pads on Gloria, but it still felt raunchy.  He agreed that she was fluffy, and told me I could choose.  It made me feel a little bit like a swinger couple hanging out in a bar, but he told me I could choose, and I chose Gloria.

Meanwhile, as we were climbing around on the 3 different whores, our children, 6 and 10, were sampling each other mattress in the joint.  You would have thought we were at 6 Flags with all the excitement and giddy giggling that filled the room.  I found them each on a different mattress, both of which had remote controls.  I thought for a minute about the warnings of using remote controls in hotel rooms, and for a second or two I had the willies thinking about the diseases my kids could be getting.  Whores, diseases, it was all starting to wig me out a bit.  But, I was desparate. 
10 and 6 were raising the heads and feet of these mattresses and basking in the glory of a massage option in each mattress.  I found it odd that a mattress would have a massage option, but 10 insisted that I come join her and experience the wonder of it all.  Honestly, it just sort of felt like an itch that radiated from the inner depths of a mattress intended for the elderly, who could not hoist themselves from the bed and needed remote assistance.  Somehow, though, these two beds were the highlight of my children's existence.
So much so that, in the midst of all their glory, they began doing math.  They studied the price tags on the mattresses. They plotted.  They planned.  By the time we left, they both had decided that they were going to save up their money to buy these fantastic remote controlled geriatric containment units.  I'm nearly certain these bad boys come with potty pads to protect the mattress, they are the Rascal of beds.  Like, somewhere out there there's a late night commercial of Edna on this mattress on top of the Grand Canyon. 
They were delighted when I agreed that, as soon as they had enough money, I would take them THAT DAY to purchase these beds.  Their little eyes glowed and danced in the fluorescent lighting.  Yep.  Just $1865 EACH and we could come back and make all of their dreams come true.  And that's for a twin. 
6 was lying on a full size at the store, basking in the glory of all the additional stuffed animals he could fit on this larger bed.  That would be $2500, though.  Better ignore those Child Labor laws and get to work!
A bit of reflection, though.  I have never seen my kids work so hard at home.  They immediately came home and got to work.  10 went through her books and clothes, finding things to take to a resale shop for some cash.  6 created some sort of masterpiece in the garage that looked like it should be delivered in an ACME box to Wile E Coyote, consisting of a remote control for a monster truck, a piece of wood that he had painted and some other miscellaneous items all affixed to it.  He was ready to put that sucker on Ebay, but I had to explain to him that not everyone would understand his form of art, and may not know what to do with such an apparent detonation device.
They have swept the floor, taken out the trash without being asked, and are picking up all the spare change that has been tossed into the playroom floor. 
6 joyfully counts his several times a day.  He is up to $2.09 in his container, which he has labeled Money For Bed in his cute little crooked handwriting.
Seeing him hoist a 30gallon trash bag out of the trash can, which required him reaching well above his head and standing on tip toes, without being asked, and insisting with his hand held out in front of him "Don't help me.  I've got this." made me think....
THIS is all it takes?  The goal of a geriatric bed?  It's amazing!  I'm pretty sure I could get them to do ANYTHING right now. 
Pooper scooper? Sure!  Wax my car?  Of course.  Scrub the baseboards on hands and knees?  Where's the bucket?
So!  All you parents out there, take your kids to the bed store and let em have at it!  Sure, they may catch head lice from the mattresses.  They may catch something that doesn't wash off from the remote controls.  But the joy on their tiny little faces when $1800 bucks for a bed seems attainable?  After referring to whores in public with a man you've never met???
Now THAT'S priceless!

Here's how I picture Gloria:

Santa's Elves, Origami Swans and Menopausal Men....Oh my!

You know what's funny?
KIDS!
Kids are funny.

You know what's NOT funny? 
An 18 year old mattress.
That's not funny at all.

Neither is a wedgie, peeing when you jump, or forgetting why you walked into a room right about the time that you walk into the room...

The last couple months have been an extravaganza of many of those things all rolled into one for me.  Not real heavily on the wedgies, but the rest of them I can pretty well check off of my bucket list.  I'm gonna go ahead and focus on the first two items on the list, though.

Frightened by the thought of just how many pounds of dead skin and dust bunnies and other creepy crawlies were in our old, delapidated mattress, we finally decided it was time to get a new one.  Actually, the process was fueled by the fact that I felt like I needed a walker in the morning when I rolled out of bed twisted up like a pretzel.  It was really, really ticking me off that, even on a weekend, I couldn't sleep past 7am because I'm not a fan of burning throughout my hips and spine from lying on what, for all intensive purposes, appeared to be a bed of torture.  I'm not a character in the 50 Shades, and I don't want to be, either!

Seemed like an innocent enough task...Go find a mattress.
We started at Costco because, well, I'm a tightwad.  I'll admit it.  A 12" memory foam mattress for $500?  Sign me up!  Of course I did my research, finding lots of positive feedback on this mattress.  I stalked it a bit and found out it sells for much more at other stores....YAY!  Bargains, that's my middle name!

When Travis finally had a day off of work, we grabbed the enclosed trailer (thinking surely we would need it) and hit the road to make our way toward sweet dreams and sleeping in on Saturday mornings!  WOOT WOOT!
We walked into that store, heads held high, and I was giddy with excitement about going to bed that night.  Man, I'm gonna sleep like a baby and never want to get up in the morning, I thought.  We wandered around looking for these mattresses, a big display somewhere, with a big snuggly bed and the little velvety mat at the head and feet that are somehow supposed to keep you from catching the funk of 1000 other people who also have dreams of sleeping comfortably...
Nope.  Couldn't find it.
Finally, we found a 1' square display of said bed.  I looked at it.  I studied it.  I sat it on the ground and walked in circles like a cat before it lays down, trying to figure out if I could curl up into a ball small enough to try this teensy weensy display unit.  I could fit one butt cheek on it...would THAT be enough?  Probably not.
The next surprise was that the mattresses, 12" thick mind you, came in a box.  Not a big mattress shaped box..a box about 2'x2'x4'.  WTH?  How did my spa-like sleep experience await me in a box the size of a bar fridge?  I felt like the Cat in the Hat (who knows A LOT about that, by the way) as I pondered this.  Could I , would I, in a box?  Could I , would I, with a fox?  I do not like a bed in a box. 
Well, Hell, we were already here now.  This box actually had wheels on it, and we pushed it up to the register.  I was becoming less enthused about my killer deal as I forked out $500 for something that looked like it should hold Bud Light and Sprite.  The sales lady assured me that we could return it if we needed to, saying "Honey, people return EVERYTHING here.  Don't worry."
As we rolled it, yes, ROLLED it to the parking lot, Travis was disappointed.  Here he had pulled the trailer all the way, thinking he was going to get to man-handle some big ole fluffy beast into it.  Instead, he wheeled his little box into the big ole trailer and looked around like, 'Seriously?  Did I shave my legs for this?'  Okay, maybe that's not EXACTLY what he said, but it was close.  (If you don't know, that's a country song.  Look it up...)
Needless to say, we got this beast home and drug it up the steps and began scratching our heads.  How could a little slice of heaven fit so tidily in a box no bigger than our 6 year old?  We opened it up to find a vaccuum sealed bag like the biggest freakin package of left overs you've ever seen after a night of infomercials and burning up a credit card on the Food Saver Super Saver Special. 
Obviously, Santa's Elves work at the mattress plant.  They had carefully folded the key to our happiness into what appeared to be an origami swan, then sucked all of the air out of it and compressed it into a handy, dandy little bag that weighed about a million pounds.
It looked an awful lot like one of those little sea creatures you find at the checkout counter that say they grow up to 3x their size when you add water.  We cut open the bag, which had sealed in the aroma of the chemicals of the foam quite nicely, I may add, and waited.  Hmmm......how long is this gonna take?  Didn't the elves know I was dreaming of this for weeks?  The moment where I laid down with a glass of red wine, and let my kids jump all around me and it doesn't spill?  The moment where I stand up on the bed and drop a bowling ball and nothing is disturbed?



As we read the instructions further, it explained that it could be hours and hours before our luxurious night's sleep was ready for, well, sleeping.  This thing was all lopsided, kitty wampus and squished until it looked like it had had a run-in with a steam roller.  It's creases from it's origami swan experience had left it looking like the notes I used to fold up in Jr High like a paper football to keep the unintended viewers from seeing the juicy details inside.  What in the world was I gonna do with a giant, $500 paper football?

When it finally fluffed up enough to begin to resemble a mattress, we all gathered around it like a family around the first color television.  We poked it a little, we paced around it, we stared.  The kids were jealous, the grown ups were excited, and I had high hopes for the sleeping on a cloud event that was about to take place.

Little did I know that about 5 minutes in, my dreams would be shattered.  I felt like I was sleeping with a 2 year old who needed to go potty as my husband flipped and flopped all over this bed.  The fitted sheet somehow kept slipping all around with the foam, and was sort of like a DJ scratching a record.  Only it was a pissy husband, not a DJ, and a $500 origami swan, not a record. 

Sadly, I'm married to a freak who cannot sleep with shifty sheets.  He also found himself in a case of the menopausal night sweats from the foam, and for the first time ever, I awoke to find him on the couch.  You know it's bad when a man goes to the couch.  I'm pretty sure I could go have a horrid affair and he would still sleep in the bed to avoid the couch....He may place barbed wire in the center line of the bed to avoid contact, but he does NOT go to the couch. 

Craptastic, I thought.  This is JUST how I saw this going....
NOT!
I do not want this bed, I said.  I do not want it if it's hot.  I do not want it if comfy it's not. 

Fast forward a few more nights, more discoveries of how NOT to get a good night's sleep, and I was mourning the loss of what could have been a beautiful relationship.  Why can't this just work?  Ugh.  The origami swan hurt both of our backs.  It left me sleeping with a man in menopause, AND he whined incessantly about the shifty sheets. 

Fabulous.  Oh well, I thought, at least the lady said we could return it, right?  Yep.  One small catch. 
Getting said origami swan back into said bar fridge box.  Hmmmmm........
This could be tricky. 

Stay tuned for Part Two, which involves some precarious maneuvers, a trip in a terrential downpour, and, um, well, whores.  I can't give it all away now, so you'll have to stay tuned.  The good news is, there's a lesson for all parents on how to get your kids to do more around the house, too. 
Let's be honest, though.  You totally ignored everything else I just said except for the whores part, didn't you?

Brain Sucking Dust Bunnies and an Octo Shot of Espresso

So, I realize it's been a while since I've blogged.
 I realize it mostly with the help of other people who ask me questions like, 'WTH?  Why haven't you
blogged?' 
I typically reply something along the lines of , 'Because I'm a huge slacker....DUH!'  But, today, said people cannot bust my chops.

This may be a quickie, as the only reason I am able to stop in for a quick hello is that I'm an idiot.  As I write, I'm on my second cup of coffee already, and it's 6:13am.  (brief sidebar: When I say 'coffee', I'm really refering to a quad shot of espresso with Pumpkin Spice creamer.  So, yes, My name is Jennifer.  I have an addiction.)

Okay, so anywho, back to me being a moron.  Last night was one of those nights where you toss and turn, fall back to sleep, toss and turn, kid wakes you up, toss and turn, husband goes to the bathroom (actually IN the bathroom, though.  Thankfully we aren't to THAT stage of our lives....YET.)
At what I presumed was approximately 4:30am, my daughter, 10, woke me with a call from the bedroom.  I stumbled in, hair standing on end, mascara under my eyes, and stopped and paused in the dark.  She sits up and reports, 'Something is in my ear.'
Okee dokee.  Something is in MY ear too.  My brain, tiny hairs, some wax.  Get there FASTER!
She then announces a declaration that begins with a brief disclaimer:  "Don't worry mom, I was awake.  I didn't imagine it."  Okee dokee.  This is getting interesting.  What, pray tell, are you doing awake at 4:30? 
She then says that she thinks something fell into her ear from the paper lanterns hanging above her bed.  "It could be a piece of dust, or a bug."  Really?  She then announces that her ear is tickley, but she isn't sure. 
Lord have mercy.  Let me make it clear that we don't live in a meth lab, a delapidated home or a van down by the river.  We aren't overrun with roaches or any such critter.  That being said, what the heck is this kid talking about?  Let's keep in mind this is the girl that, when she has a fever, sees M&M's fall from the sky.  So.....
She sits looking at me, I stand there in the dark with what had to be a super impressive look on my face....and I ask the obvious question.  'Do you hear anything in your ear? Is it moving?"
'Uh.....no.'  Well then.....
I tell her to go back to sleep and let me know if said dust bunny or possible bug attempts to make a move, steal her soul or take over her brain.  I'm happy to report that none of those occurred to the best of my knowledge.  I guess we'll see when she finally descends down the stairs.

I went back to bed and of course couldn't sleep.  Afraid to put a pillow over my head because the possibility of impending doom when said invisible ear-raider made his move, I lay there and tossed and turned.  At some point I went back to sleep, then 6 got up and used the restroom and woke me up again .  Stupid Mom-Sleep!
Dozed off again, looked at clock, 6:00.  Pillow over head this time, at the risk of having my daughter's brain taken over by a mutant dust bunny, I did go back to sleep.  I woke up, looked at the clock,and it was 6:41. CRAP!  Needed to be up at 6:30.

I make my way to the stairs and am shocked that the freak who is my daughter is not awake already.  Typically, she is awake by 6 or so...door closed, light on, reading a book.  Yes, she is a weirdo. 
I've already awakened the husband, advised him he has overslept, and am making my way toward the espresso machine...
About the time I'm pouring in the water in preparation for my cup of heaven, 10 peeks her head around the bannister and asks, "Uh, mom...is it time to get up?"
'Uh....can you read the clock?" is my reply, because I've not yet enjoyed my first cup of liquid gold.  And that's when it happens.
10 says to me, "Yeah, mom, I can.  Mine says 5:41"
SERIOUSLY?  The only clock I didn't change was the bedroom clock?  DAMMIT!

Now, then of course this becomes a game of question and answer with 10, as she is my preparation girl.  She repeatedly asked me previously if I had, indeed, changed her clock.  She was concerned that if she THOUGHT I had, but I hadn't, she would be misinformed of what time it was, and then the entire natural cycle of life would be thrown off kilter. This is the same kid who has to know what time we are going to dinner, even though she does not drive, so that she can be mentally prepared. 

When I reported said mishap to the hubby, who was waiting to hop in the shower, he had nothing but loving support to offer.  It went something like, "You're such a douche..."

It's kind of like that song from The Lion King....'Can you feel the love tonight?'
Yep.  I can.

The Sock Knocker-Offer, For the Girl Who Has Everything!

Do you have a friend who continues to stump you each year at Christmas time?
Year after year, you struggle to come up with a gift that will leave her speechless.

You've tried the malls. 

You've tried late night Home Shopping Network (nobody really wants a Flowbee...learned THAT one the hard way, huh?)

Heck, you even tried the Wal-Martz in a pinch, didn't you?  Admit it! 

Well, ladies and gents, I'm here to save the day.  This holiday season, you can give a gift that kills not one, not two, not three, heck, not even FOUR birds with one stone!


Aide in allergy relief and sinus congestion by promoting cleansing of the tear ducts

Brighten her mood and lift her spirits with immense laughter

Improve her health with Resveratrol (as seen on Dr Oz)

Help her look sun-kissed with a beautiful rosey glow to her cheeks

AND, last, but not least...

(this one's a real kicker, prepare yourself)

Possibly change her ENTIRE life by helping her learn a valuable life lesson.

ARE YOU INTRIGUED?
ARE YOU FISHING FOR YOUR CREDIT CARD AS WE SPEAK?
ARE YOU READY TO SIGN ON THE DOTTED LINE?
ARE YOU LOOKING NOW FOR WRAPPING PAPER????

One-up that pesky sister or BFF on your list today...AND you don't even have to wrap it!

SNAP!

Here it is, folks!

The GIRLFRIEND Gift Basket

It includes:
an AUTOGRAPHED Hardback copy of Sit Down, Shut Up and Let Go
one bottle of wine (we're looking for rosey cheeks, not slobbering drunk, right?)
one fabulous wine glass (this ain't no Red Solo Cup kinda basket)
and, of course, DUHHHHH....
TISSUES!

She'll laugh
She'll cry
She'll get all fuzzy inside (could be the book, could be the wine!)

Here's a couple photos for your viewing pleasure.  More baskets to come...maybe even.....

A MANLY BASKET!
You know, for that guy in your life that really needs to learn to let go of all the crap he can't control, but thinks he can, and it makes him super grouchy when he continually hits a brick wall with that theory?  Yeah....get him a MANLY BASKET and teach him to Shut Up and Let Go and Roll Over and Sit. 
Wait..that's not right.  That's a dog.  Sometimes I get confused, sorry!

Stay tuned for more baskets, kids.

In the meantime, here's the GIRLFRIEND Gift Basket:

Girlfriends, Coffee, Pee Pants and Bail Money

Well, another crazy week has passed.  I sit here on this Saturday morning with a cup of coffee by my side...and with mixed emotions, I admit to you that it is Pumpkin Spice.  I am struggling with the thought of welcoming Fall, as Spring/Summer are surely my favorite seasons.  I resigned myself to getting a darker color on my toes this week during a MUCH needed pedicure. So needed, in fact, that I apologized in advance to the girl for the condition of my feet.
I'm dipping the teensy weensy tips of my toes into Fall, one Pumpkin Spice latte at a time.  Sigh.

What made this week special, though, was something that has had my mind reeling all morning. A discovery of sorts, I suppose...in the words of C + C Music Factory, they are 'things that make me say 'Hmmmmm.'  Yep.  I just went there.  Now that song's gonna be stuck in your head! 

This week, I've been thinking about friends, and the impact they make on our lives.  The way that a friend understands us better than our spouse, better than our mother, better than we do, really.  It goes without saying that, without friends, life is pretty gray.  Friends are the colors that flood our coloring book sheet.  Without them, it's just black and white.

Friends can tell we are pissy by the look on our face, even when we are trying to suck it up like a Ninja.
Friends can tell we are bloated, even though they may not say it for fear of having their jugular ripped out.
Friends make us laugh even we are so pissed off, dammit, that it is the last thing on our mind and we have already vowed not to laugh for at least 24 hours in protest.
Friends force you to participate in things you really try to weasel your way out of, because they know that once you get there, you will have fun, let your hair down and forget that you were being a big baby.
Friends show up for parties, even when they would rather be at home in bed pigging out watching a movie.
Friends listen to you complain about all the things in your life that aggravate you, and know when it is safe to give advice.  They also know how to see the warning on your forehead, written in invisible ink, that is similar to the Surgeon General's warning on a pack of cigarettes that declares that they best not give advice on this particular subject, as to avoid being pummeled to death with a wine glass in their sleep.  This is an ability that husbands seem to lack.  Sort of like when he shops with you and asks if you are SURE the size in your hand is big enough?  Really?  I'll glue your manparts to your belly button while you sleep, bucko.  Do not EVAAAAR ask me that again!

Friends will announce, at a table full of people, in a public place, that you need to get your hair-did again because they can see your gray.  Those same friends' lives will be spared, rather than drowning them in a margarita with a full audience, because you know they said it with love.  AND, because you know that it's always smarter to do said things in the still of the night with no witnesses.

Friends know that once in a while, when you begin to spurt out words so fast that they are completely incoherent and so high pitched that only dogs can hear them; you just need to go put your feet in some hot water and get your toes did.  And possibly consume some fruit that comes in a bottle with a cork.  You know, to meet your daily quota according to the food triangle.  REALLY good friends have a secret stash set aside in the back of a junk drawer that even their husbands don't know about marked 'Bail Money.'

Yep.  Suffice it to say, friends are very important.  Without friends, it's just you and your spouse staring at each other every day asking, 'So, what do you want to do?'  Ugh.  Poke my eyes out.  And, well, if you don't have a spouse....then it's just you making up voices for your cats and sending birthday cards to people that have been signed with your opposite hand as if the cat signed it.  Yeah, we weren't fooled. We know Fluffy didn't grow an opposable thumb.  Stop playin...

So, be thankful to your friends.  They put up with you when no one else in their right mind would.  They probably drink heavily because of it, but that's beside the point.  They dress up in stupid costumes for you.  They put a stupid hat that looks like a turkey on a platter on their head in the middle of a store because you want to see it.  They go to stores they hate because you have a coupon, they do the YMCA in full drag to entertain you, and they tell you when your eyeliner is smudged so badly that you look like you should be lying on a street corner in a puddle of your own vomit.  They love you even though you are a ridiculous pain in the butt.  In some cases, they sit squished between a sweaty guy who sleeps with his head nestled in his chest like Big Bird and a guy that is so hairy his arms look like they are covered in tarantulas...for hours, on a plane, folded up like a damned origami swan as to avoid getting the Cheese Touch from said men, just to come see you for a while and sit around and read inTouch Magazine and gossip like school girls. 

So, to my girls....you know who you are. 
Some have been faithful to me since high school, sharing my biggest life moments like marriage proposals gone a little awry.  (LOL)  So what if they talked through 3/4 of the prayer before dinner at my wedding reception standing in front of everyone at the head table, not even noticing everyone else had their heads bowed; after flying in for said wedding with a bridesmaid's dress that was hoochie mama short compared to everyone else's...all for me.  :)

Some of you have known me through my darkest hours, and loved me through them.  And even though we may not have always been as close as we should have been, we have redeemed ourselves now.  We have been there through the ups and downs of each other's lives: deaths, divorces, drama and dumb ideas.  All of those things have made us stronger, better people.  We can talk about peeing when we jump and keep a serious face because we pick up what the other is puttin down.  We can speak with funny accents to each other, all day, in public, and not really give a crap if someone looks at us funny.  Now THAT is friendship.

And, some of you...well, I just know that you were sent to be in my life at just the right time.  Somehow, mysteriously, we all came together without noticing and then suddenly BOOM, there we were.  We make each other better by looking like idiots sometimes, but we don't seem to mind.  We cackle with laughter, we embarass ourselves in public and we are better because of it. We love each other despite the miles between us, and we always hold a spot at Zumba for each other, knowing that eventually, we will all be back together again.  We do our best to lessen the distance between us when we are apart, and make the best of our time together when it comes.  We nurse each other through injuries, life-changes and drama.  We love each other through pain and fear, all with a stupid smile on our faces and the occasional ridiculous costume.  The best part is that we don't do it out of obligation...We do it because we WANT to.  THAT is what friends do. 

So, in the words of Donkey....'You gotta have FRIIIIIIIEEEEEENDDDSSSSSSS!' 

You guys ARE the Donkey to my Shrek.  The toppings to my parfait, because EVERYBODY loves parfait!  I love you.  Thanks for making me a better person. 

Full Plates, Buffet Lines, Holy Crotches and Hot Pink Toes (don't look at me like that!)

Am I the only one that has those times when you have to stop and ask yourself, "Have I lost my damn mind?"
Seriously, do you catch yourself thinking something, pondering something, and then wonder how that even got into your head?  I mean, I have so many things on my plate that sometimes I feel like one of those really big guys that goes to the buffet in the morning for breakfast and then stays for lunch....like, a SUPER big plate.  You know, the guy who still has morsels of the last plate in his scraggly beard as he goes up for the next round.  Ketchup, mustard and mayo packets shoved in the pocket of his sweatpants.  One plate does the trick as he makes his rounds:  Ribs, mashed potatoes, cornbread, creamed corn, a slab of ham, some eggs, and then piled on top of that (because we don't want to burn too many calories making trips to the table) we balance two crab rangoon, 1 slice of bacon (gotta be careful with the 'ole ticker), a cheese danish, three mini frosted donuts and a small bowl of soft-serve ice cream from that scary machine back in the corner where the kids put their fingers in their noses and then up into the nozzle where the ice cream shoots out.  What?  You don't like beef-based gravy on your cheese danish?  It's all goin the same place anyhow, that's HIS motto!

So, lately I've been feeling like THAT guy.  I'm trying to juggle all the different things in my life.  I'm trying to be the awesome mom that goes to lunch with my kid at school.  The mom that has all the laundry nicely folded and the floor vaccuumed with cute little seashell designs in the carpet, just so they can roll around on it and make it look like we own a herd of inside dogs.  I want to be the business owner that is available to answer every call, and the wife that makes the best dinner and leaves the family looking like a 1971 Hamburger Helper commercial where the whole family looks at mom like she saved the day by opening up that box of so-called 'food' and whipped it up with lightning speed.  (I just gagged a little in my mouth, if you were wondering)

We all want to be everything to everyone.  We have all battled with taking time for ourselves, spending $4 on a latte that may just save the day, literally, and getting a pedicure over  buying our 8 year old her 15th pair of 'Ah mah Gaw, mom, these are the cutest things I have evaaaar seen and I just HAAAAAAVE to have them' shoes. 
What we have to realize, though, is that by taking that $4 and buying that latte, we may just make the day go from 'Someone freakin shoot me' to 'Hey, this day ain't half bad!'
By spending that $20 on a pedicure from a guy that may or may not actually talk to you for an hour thru that doctor's mask may be just enough 'me' time to make you WANT to go home and whip up that dinner that normally seems like too much trouble for a Wednesday. 
And, beyond all of that, doing these things, spending an extra 5 minutes or a spare $4 on ourselves once in a while, rather than always on our kids and family, teaches THEM a valuable lesson!  Someday, when our sons are fathers, they will remember how the scary vein in mommy's temple disappeared after she locked herself in the bathroom for a few minutes.  He will remember the Starbucks drive through lane.  The way that, when the car pulled in, it was like 'The Wizard of Oz' up in there, as the atmosphere felt dense with chaos as the car approached the menu.  How he could feel the seat under his tiny butt begin to actually be sucked like a vacuum up to the ceiling, how dust bunnies and crusty Cheerios were slurped out from under the seat by the scary vortex that was forming...and how they began to swirl like a whirlpool with old receipts and all those loose hairs that fall out of mom's hair into the floorboard.  The car would all but shake as they approached, and he could feel himself begin to levetate as he floated up from his seat and the seatbelt held him down.  He will also remember the feeling of calm that suddenly fell as mom crept forward to that little window, and the feeling of peace when she took that first sip.  She never yelled or screamed, but everyone in the car just knew it was 'time'.  The whirlpool stopped, the calm returned, and mom had 5 minutes of Calgon in a cup. 
Yes, he will remember these things.  And, though he did not appreciate WHY they worked when he was a kid, he will identify it all when he sees his own wife become a mother.  He will recall those days when he came in covered in mud and sand on mom's clean floors, and how he laughed on the inside because it seemed to be no big deal...and he will begin to appreciate the restraint it took for her to not beat the living crap out of him.  He will see these things in the eyes of his wife, and he will have a different seat in the theater for this portion of the show.  He will remember, he will recognize, and he will be a better husband for it.  He will bring her a coffee and say it's for 'no reason', knowing full well that he could feel the tornadic winds of a near freak-out from 3 blocks away as he approached their house, turned that damn car around and drove 10 minutes to a coffeehouse.  He will bring home take-out on the day that he knows she had a big meeting at work, and be sure to be there early enough that she isn't secretly crying into a skillet, still wearing her workclothes and those stupid pantyhose with a hole in the crotch because she won't buy herself new ones, while the kids are fighting like ninjas in front of the television.
He will remember, and he will be better for it.

Her daughter will remember how mom always told her no when she asked to go with her to get a few groceries.  At the time, it hurt her feelings...but mom always said she'd be 'right back,' and she always was.  Somehow, she was usually in a better mood, too, even though she swore she hated the grocery store.  She will understand now that it had nothing to do with her, necessarily....it had to do with mom needing a few minutes to regroup.  Most of all, she will finally realize why mom always had well-groomed feet, even when she was only wearing old flip flops.  She will come to appreciate that 45minutes to an hour spent in a crappy massage chair that has a skip in it and sometimes feels more like someone is beating the crap out of your back with their knuckles.  She will be glad that the man behind that doctor's mask doesn't try to make smalltalk as he scrapes the callouses off of her feet, and the fact that she can get lost in a magazine full of absolute garbage about celebrities that she could care less about.  She doesn't care who wore that $5,000 designer dress best...she just simply needs a little wooooooosaaaaaaah time.  She will take that hour once a month for herself, she will sign up for that water aerobics class at the YMCA, she will do those little things that make the family whine once in a while....
She will do them because she learned from her mother that those things are important. 
If we, as mothers, always give of ourselves but NEVER do anything for ourselves; we are teaching our children that we are somehow less important.  While they are our WORLD, we are what makes THEIR world go 'round.  If WE are exhausted, pissed off, completely disgruntled, sleep deprived and depressed....how much fun is THEIR world going to be?  What good can we possibly do them?

There is nothing wrong with knowing your favorite color.  There is nothing wrong with buying a new shirt...even if it is on clearance and you have a coupon.  And there is CERTAINLY nothing wrong with hot pink toe nails after a long week of shuttling, board meetings, phone calls, soccer games and the occassional glass of wine snuck in after all the tiny toes are tucked tightly in bed. 

LEAD BY EXAMPLE. 

This post is lovingly dedicated to every child whose life was cut short by a mother who had  lost hope, lost sight of what was real and important, and was simply so desperate for an end to her depression that she did the unthinkable. 

May each and every one of them rest in peace, feeling loved each day as they run and play with Jesus.

Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog...(and a messenger, too)

Kids talk alot...
Man oh man.

As I type, I'm hearing the ramblings of 10 about her newest business adventure:  Duct Tape wallets and accessories.  It's gonna be ALL THE RAGE in the Intermediate Building.  Just you wait and see.

Days like this make me wonder how my mother in law survived having 10 kids without suffering permanent hearing loss, brain damage or a drinking problem.
:)

That being said, I sure am glad that 10 and 6 are happy and healthy.  Though sometimes I may truly be in clear and present danger of seeping blood from my large ears (thanks for those, by the way, Grandma), I'm happy to have the noise, as it's so much better than the silence that is the alternative.

It's important to note, though, that even those (like my sweet Ty) who are not here with us anymore can sometimes speak to us as well.  Though it may not be quite as loud, it can be JUST as...ummmm....noticable (noticable sounds so much nicer than obnoxiously loud, right?)
 as the hustle and bustle of a busy household.  IF, that is, we listen for it.

In honor of that, I'd like to share with you Chapter 30 from Sit Down, Shut Up and Let Go.
It details one of my favorite ‘nudges’ from God, and my sweet Ty.

To this day, when I least expect it, this song will creep into my head. I always know it is him, just stopping by to say ‘Hello.’



CHAPTER 30
JESUS’ PHONE NUMBER
After getting some sleep, we got up and tried to figure out what to do with ourselves. It did not take long to realize that Ty was still there, even if I could not see him. I guess the first thing he did for us came that afternoon. I had been upset because of something as silly as a song I had stuck in my head. The verse, ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog’ ran over and over in my mind. “How could I be thinking of a stupid song at a time like this?” Disgusted with myself, I finally said something to Travis. He looked at me and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of that song, too.” How could that be? It was odd enough that a song I never hear, and really don’t even like was playing like a broken record in my mind. Now Travis was doing it, too? I blew it off and tried to keep busy.
That evening, Travis’s parents came over to check on us. They didn’t stay long, but as they left, his mother said something that nearly brought me to my knees. With one foot in the car, she looked over the roof of the car and said “You know Jesus’ phone number, don’t you?” We looked at her like she was crazy, and asked “What do you mean?” She replied, “Well, I’ve always heard that Jesus’ phone number is Jeremiah 33:3. Look it up, you’ll understand.” I nearly died. Did she just say Jeremiah? We told her what we had been experiencing all day, and she proceeded to tell us what Jeremiah 33:3 was. It then made sense.

JEREMIAH 33:3
CALL TO ME AND I WILL ANSWER YOU;
I WILL TELL YOU THINGS GREAT BEYOND REACH OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE.

Once again, I felt peace. I knew Ty was there with us. I knew that this was not coincidence. I believed it then, and I believe to this day…that was the first of many times that Ty would send us a message.

The Kids are Back in School. Where's the Fun?

What possesses our children to do the things they do?  Do you ever wonder this?
Things like peeing on the lid but leaving it there for mom, or not taking your dirty laundry into the laundry room like your told.  These are the questions that riddle me some days.  How does a kid sit AT the table, but wind up with half of their food UNDER the table?  It defies logic! Or chores.....oh, there's a good one.  Why can you not do your chores until you are specifically instructed, under no uncertain terms, that you are nearing the threshold of absolute fury from the maternal unit? 
Sigh.....
I wish somewhere there were answers to these questions. 

As I type, I'm a sweaty mess.  My face is so shiny I'm certain that it could be used as a mirror...or perhaps to fry eggs.  I'm exhausted, my back is sore and I have a headache.

Why?  Good question!

Silly me decided to make good on a threat/promise I made to 10 (my 10 year old daughter) as the beginning of school was approaching.  One night as I attempted to tuck her in, climbing over piles of clean laundry, I told her how disgusting her room was. I advised her to clean it, or else I would clean it when she went back to school and she may not like the result.

The next day.....she cleaned.  Sort of.  Actually, she just piled everything up all the way around her room until it appeared that she had no baseboards.  Then she sort of shoved some stuff under her bed, and between the bed and the wall, and then kicked a few things into the closet.

So, today, I had a near death experience as I attempted to resolve this problem once and for all!

I figure, no wait...I HOPE that I am not the only one who experiences this.  I have a few super anal OCD friends who are going to cringe as they read the following depiction of my day, but this has to be shared.  We, as moms of young hoarders, need to lean on one another as we attempt to navigate this tretcherous journey.

There has certainly been NO NAPPING for all the poor little dust bunnies and old stuffed animals in the closet.  They have not had any peace and darkness in quite some time, because the doors simply would not close because of the avalanche that she called 'order.'  :)
As I delved into the depths of this scary kingdom, I found some pretty alarming things.
I thought it was bad enough when I found a sandwich bag of easter candy.  Wow, that was HOW many months ago?
Yep, thought that was shameful until I found the bag of CHRISTMAS candy behind that!  OMG.  Seriously?
Bags of crumpled papers?  Check!
Old socks and underwear that don't fit anymore thrown in the floor?  Check!
FOUR Build a Bear boxes?  Check!
THREE little paper cars from Cheeburger Cheeburger?  Check!
Last year's school notebooks, random assignments and a coloring book with no uncolored pages?  CHECK, CHECK, CHECK!
Next I dove into the miscellaneous items all over the floor that formed their own sort of 'carpet.'  I found used tissues behind the bed.  I found a sandwich bag with wadded up tissue paper in it.  I found a small shopping bag with tiny pebbles in it.  I found a bowl with acorns in it.  I unearthed enough small beads to make necklaces for her entire class. 

At this point, I had muttered to myself more than once, "My daughter is DISGUSTING!"  I was nearing the point of mental breakdown, and just could not rationalize HOW this had happened.  I found empty bags, tiny scraps of fabric, tiny scraps of paper...tiny scraps of fabric stuck to tiny scraps of tiny paper.  I found shopping bags with nothing but a receipt in them, folded up tidily in her closet.  Why?  Why, I beg of you?  Why do we keep the box something came in, and then shove it under the bed?  What purpose could this possibly serve? And the tiny scraps of fabric.  Not even large enough for a tiny mouse outfit...WHY?  WHYYYYYYYY??????

I wanted to just run away from home.  I carried two full trashbags of trash, a large box of trash, three small boxes of trash....one and a half trash bags full of barbies, a trash bag full of baby dolls and stuffed animals (some naked, some ragged, some I'm not even sure where they came from...perhaps they are multiplying in there, I'm not sure)

After approximately one hundred trips up and down the steps and a good cardio workout, I pulled out the ole vacuum cleaner.  I allowed myself to drift far, far away inside of my mind as I vacuumed.  Suddenly I was surrounded by the sound of winning slot machines.  I could just hear the change crash into that basin, CHING,CHING, CHING, CHING, CHIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!  Suddenly, though, my Calgon moment was over.  I realized that those sounds were not the sound of (in the words of Charlie Sheen) 'Winning'...Rather it was the sound of my vacuum begging for mercy as it tried to grind tiny beads, random pieces of yarn and a few quarters into a fine powder.  I tilted the beast to one side and watched as it puked out a wad of carpet fuzz and several rejected pieces of shrapnel. 

When I was finally done, I looked around and marveled at my accomplishment.  I filled one full extra large super duper rolling trash receptacle...but I was done!

I finished with just enough time to eat a small snack, wipe some of the greasy sheen from my face and go to school and pickup my cute little hoarder.  I told her nothing about my day as we got home.  I let it be a surprise.  I heard the gasp from downstairs when she entered her room to remove the germ infested school clothes she was wearing. 

My high was quickly hampered by the buzz-kill that flowed from 6's mouth.  This would be my son, 6, the artist formerly known as 5.  He just had a birthday.  Stick with me here, would ya? 
I heard 6 pouting from the bathroom upstairs. and was flabbergasted.  It's a common-known fact in our house that 10's room is, at any given time, very similar to that of a war-zone.  6...well his isn't usually too terrible.  I mean, I can always make out the fact that he has carpet, and most of the time his drawers close on his dresser.  Oh, and the closet doors are always able to shut. 

He promptly reported from the bathroom, tears in his eyes, "Mom likes you better than me!  She cleaned your room and not mine!"

Seriously?  I had just come back from the jaws of death, felt the claws of Satan's grip on the back of my neck....and he thinks it was out of FAVORITISM? 

OMG.  I was quick to correct him, explaining that I nearly met my maker cleaning 10's room, and simply had no time left in the day to move on to his.

What does this mean, you ask?  It means that tomorrow...Yep, you guessed it.  I'm cleaning HIS room! 

Sigh.  I thought everyone said when you got all your kids into school, you had so much time for other things like shopping, pedicures and soaking in the tub all day.  Clearly I am doing something wrong?  Do these people have maids or something?  Are their kids really robots? 

THIS IS WHAT I WAS PROMISED:





THIS IS WHAT I RECEIVED:





Now, I'm gonna sit in front of the television until I see one of those commercials with an attorney with a patch on his eye promising to help me because I have been wronged.  :)

BRAVE: Following the Wisps

So.

Over the weekend, I’ve been thinking about how funny life can be.  It’s ironic, isn’t it, that sometimes it takes a little wake up call to really smack you upside the head and make you really stop and think.  Each of us has undoubtedly had enough crap happen in our lives that we should just be able to be HAPPY and THANKFUL without the repeated need for said wakeup call….

But we aren’t! 

Ugh.  No matter what your story is, somehow we all are guilty of occasionally getting stuck in the blah blah blah of life, and totally lose sight of what’s truly important.  Then….

WHACK! 

Wake up call, Party of 1.  Your table is now available.

I told you last week about the death of a classmate of  my husband’s, and how it really made me think about life, death and just enjoying my days rather than worrying about things I cannot change anyway.  This epiphany (one I have had numerous times before, but always fall back into the same ole slump) carried into my weekend.  A weekend that was filled with laughter, friends and family as we celebrated my birthday, my son’s birthday, and silently remembered where we were 11 years ago on August 10^th as we were thrown into a whirlwind when our son died unexpectedly.

So, here I am on Monday, feeling revived emotionally after having a great weekend….and I wanted to share a little something with you. 

How many of you watched the new Disney Pixar film Brave with your kids this summer?  Great, right? 

Independent, stubborn Merida, a fiery red-headed princess, battles her parents through the whole movie for her independence and the right to choose her own suitor.

Perhaps my favorite part, though, was not so much the ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ approach Merida took at defending her own rights.  While that is very important, and a good lesson for young girls; it wasn’t the part that touched me the most.  What I immediately noticed in the movie, and what many others probably didn’t even bat an eye at…were the wisps.

Huh?  No, I didn’t just have a cat walk across my keyboard and type jibberish!  If you recall, in the beginning of the movie, a young Merida was practicing with a new bow and arrow and had to run off into the forest to retrieve an arrow.  There, she encountered a small glowing orb that led her further into the forest.  She followed this orb, referred to as a wisp, and it essentially led her to safety as her father was attacked by a bear.  When she tells her mother about the wisps, she learns that folklore says that the wisps are meant to lead you to your destiny.

Throughout the movie, she comes to rely on the wisps , faithfully following them when they appear. 

Watch a clip of the movie here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_M71lI-0NB8

This really resonated with me.  It occurred to me that if it were this easy in real life to follow our destiny, to see the path chosen for us, we would ALL be so much more likely to arrive at our proper destination!  Wouldn’t we?

I mean, if God gave us little blue orbs when we were in need, and all we had to do was follow them through the forest….seriously, that would be AWESOME!

Like Merida, we all have our own struggles.  We have times when all of the lights go out, and we are left alone in the dark.  We cry, because we are so scared, hurt and alone.  We feel so abandoned, so wrought with pain, and it feels impossible to ever find a way out of that darkness.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a painful divorce, the death of a spouse, child or parent, a battle with cancer or the loss of a job…we all have been there, or will find ourselves there at some point.  How cool would it be for God to just toss us a few wisps to lead us out?  Like Hansel and Gretel and the bread crumbs?

Well….

What if He is doing just that, but we don’t see it?  Sending little blue orbs is a little TOOOOO easy, and we all know He wants us to earn it.  But, what if He was speaking directly to your heart, but you were too caught up in your own plan to hear His?  What if He were offering you little signs, little nudges, little sparks inside of your soul to encourage you to get up and follow Him…and the only catch was that you had to be observant enough to catch on, and courageous enough to follow Him?

You see, that’s the thing.  Sometimes His route is different than the one we had planned.  So when we run into a brick wall following our own path and doing our own thang, we get pissed, right?  We can’t find a solution, we can’t seem to get over the hurdle, and we are too stubborn to turn around and start over.  So we pout.  We cuss.  We scream, we cry, and we get downright ugly.  The whole time, He is there, and undoubtedly laughing at the hissy fit that we throw because we  absolutely refuse to admit defeat. 

All the while, He is standing there holding the map with the big giant X on it that marks the correct spot.  He has the plan, He knows how we can get there, and He has the best route all mapped out.  We have to earn it, though.   We have to be patient enough to wait for Him to offer the solution, and then brave enough to actually follow Him despite the fact that His route doesn’t match the one that was in our head. 

He DOES, indeed give us wisps…they just aren’t little blue lights that light the way.  Instead, they are gentle nudges that many people blame on coincidence.  Those little things that happen in life, the ones that make you say, “Holy Cow!  I can’t believe the irony in that!”  Yep. What if it wasn’t irony at all?  What if it was YOUR wisp? 

If you could get out your decoder ring, put on your thinking cap and stop for a minute and reassess everything you thought was coincidence and happened by chance….perhaps you could find the X that marked the spot in your own life before God had to whack you upside the skull with yet another wake up call!

Believe me, I know it isn’t easy.  Sometimes He coaxes you out of your comfort zone.  Sometimes He makes you ride with the windows down, hair blowing in your face and getting caught in your lipgloss and He turns up the radio so loud that you can’t stand it.  He creates a diversion so that you don’t get all caught up in the fact that He is driving so erratically that your seatbelt is no consolation, because you certainly do NOT feel safe.  Suddenly, WHAM, He slams on the brakes.  You look around, realizing you are totally NOT where you expected to be.  Nothing looks familiar, this was not the picture you painted in your head, and you are thinking this guy is nuts because surely He has you confused with someone down the street and this is all just a honest mixup.   Electing to NEVER get out of the car, you stay there, buckled up and door locked.  “Uh, uuuuuh.  No way, I’m not getting out.’  You declare.  Refusing to take no for an answer, He calmly gets out and walks around to your side of the car.  He opens your door, and puts out His loving hand.  The look in His eyes is enough to make you melt, and you suddenly feel more at ease. The human part of you wants to think this is stupid, and you are grasping at straws.  It is completely irrational to trust someone you don’t technically know, and surely you must have had a momentary lack in judgment for thinking any of this made sense.  The spiritual part of you, though, knows deep within your heart that this is EXACTLY what you should be doing, but you have to be brave enough to pull the trigger. 

DAMN!  Which one do you listen to? 

If you can just be courageous enough to put your hand in His, and allow Him to lead you….if you can just take off that safety belt that you think is protecting you, and trust that He only has your best intentions in mind….AAAAAND He did NOT confuse you with the person down the street with a similar last name….

You will undoubtedly wind up RIGHT where you needed to be.  Even if it isn’t where you THOUGHT you needed to be!

This, my friends, is the whole point.  He’s not just gonna hand you a golden pass for a free ride to happiness and glory.  You have to work for it!  Like everything else, if you don’t earn it, you don’t fully appreciate it. 

So, if you haven’t seen it yet, go watch Brave.  Let your mind wander enough to consider that maybe we ALL get wisps when we need them most…we just have to LEARN to see them, because ours are a little more discreet than Merida’s.  Then, when you find yourself in the car with that crazy guy driving, and you are scared to death…

Take a deep breath, and TRUST THE JOURNEY.  He’s got this…if you’ll just let Him drive!

Life's Too Short...Live It Up!

You know all that crap you keep saying you’re going to do, but don’t?

Yeah, I mean like the important stuff.  Not cleaning out the closets, or making a donation box, or recycling.  I know we ALL have that stuff. 

I’m talking about the stuff that actually matters.  Like taking your kids on a date.  Or finally finding time to do something for yourself, because you always do everything for everyone else. 

Or how about the things like actually chasing that dream you have, the one you don’t really tell people about because you are afraid they will laugh at you?  Yep, you have one, don’t you?  Why do we do that?  What in the heck are we waiting for?

We all get so caught up in the stuff we don’t like:  work, school, car payments, mortgages…we get all balled up in that wad of yarn that we can’t even find the end to it anymore.  So we give up, stay there, and everyday becomes Groundhog Day!  Before we know it, 3 years have passed, and we are still stuck in grandma’s box of knitting stuff, saying that someday we are going to make a sweater!

TODAY IS THE DAY PEOPLE!  MAKE THE DAMN SWEATER!

Ugh.  I’m not just preaching to YOU, here.  I’m talking to  myself, too.  I actually do that a lot, much to the dismay of onlookers.  Thankfully, the voices in my head are loud enough to distract me from looking at my surroundings and seeing the looks on their faces as I carry on my conversations.  J

Last  night I couldn’t sleep.  I have had this happen in the past, and I would lay there and eventually have an overwhelming feeling that I should get up.  Upon doing so, I would always turn on the television to find that some show was on that seemed to mysteriously have some underlying tone that answered a question I had been having, or revealed just what I had been needing to hear.  Coincidence I’m sure, right?  Certainly not a God thing…couldn’t be!  J

So, last night, I was figuring this was one of THOSE things again.  I still have yet to figure out why God thinks a sleep-deprived me is a benefit to anyone!  I already live on coffee, and I’m still teetering on the edge of what some call sanity and others call grounds for being committed.  Nonetheless, I decided to go ahead and get up.  I stumbled downstairs and rather than turn on the idiot box, I picked up my phone.   I have no idea, truthfully, what I thought I would learn from Facebook at 4 am, but I’ll just blame it on fatigue and move on.

Within minutes I learned that a classmate and high school friend of my husband’s had died.  35 years old.  All of this (and my lack of sleep) got me thinking about how short life truly is.  If I died tomorrow, what regrets would I have?  What would I be pissed at myself about for not doing? 

I can tell you one thing.  I am pretty happy about some changes I have made in my life in the past year or so.  I have much less to be mad at myself about in the event that God decides He needs a nutbag in Heaven!

Have you?

We all go through this mental game when something happens like this.  We tell ourselves we will live life to the fullest.  We try our best to live like that Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You Were Dyin.”

For a while…

Inevitably, we all go back to taking things for granted, selling ourselves short and putting off happiness until tomorrow.

We have to stop.  If you died tomorrow, what would you be mad at yourself for?

WHY WAIT?  Why take a chance?

Personally, I have found myself surrounded by friends again.  Real friends.  Some old, some new… They have my back.  They tell me the truth, not just what I want to hear.  They tell me I have broccoli in my teeth.  They laugh at me when I look stupid.  And when I need them, they are there. 

That wasn’t the case a couple of years ago.  Like many people thrust into grown up-hood, suddenly we find ourselves surrounded by acquaintances and coworkers, but no real, true friends.  Gone are the days of high school when we were flooded with BFF’s and passing notes.   Stop waiting for good friends to find you!  Go find them yourself.  And if you can’t find them, make new ones.   What good is life if, at the end of the day, you’re staring at your spouse saying, “Oh, goody.  It’s you again.  My one and only friend.”  Everyone needs a confidant.  Everyone needs someone to make them laugh. 

I finally stopped worrying so much about what other people thought of me, too.  I mean, why was I trying so hard to hold back my inner dork just to fit in?  I’m goofy.  I’m funny.  I’m silly.  I make funny faces when I tell a story, I talk with my hands, and that’s just the way it is.  I am honest, I am trustworthy, and I am loyal, too.  If you like that, cool.  If not, that’s okay.  But whether you are a family member, or a so-called friend, or my mailman….I’m not going to hold back my inner me anymore.  This is who I am.  Take it or leave it.  That’s up to you.

Finally, I got off my butt and finished the thing that was always gnawing at me.  For 10 years, I had a deep-seeded guilt.  I was so plagued by it that it would creep up on me at night, and tap me on the shoulder.  We all have that.   That ‘thing’ we are going to do, or say, or be….that thing that we put off.  We’re waiting for more money to make it happen.  Or someone to support us while we do it.  Or someone to give us just the boost we need to make us feel like we CAN do it.  Or, we’re waiting until we can no longer ignore it.  Mine was a book.  What’s yours?

Figure out why you are waiting.  Be honest with yourself, and stop putting it in the back drawer of that file cabinet in your mind.  Pull it out of the folder, look at it, and blow the dust off of that sucker.  Then stick it on the refrigerator in your mind where you can see it.  AND MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Because, seriously, life really IS short.  Look at how big your kids are already.  Or how long you’ve been out of high school.  Or how old your parents are getting….

Doesn’t seem like it’s been THAT long, does it?  But it has.  If something happens to you tomorrow…what are you gonna be mad at yourself about? 

Now get up and MARK THAT OFF THE LIST!

J

You can have another cup of coffee first, though.  Let’s not be ridiculous about this!

How The Gap Ruined My Life

Well, it’s official.  I’m old. 

It’s not that I didn’t know it was coming, or feel it staring at the back of my head as I ran full speed away from it….but somehow, I’m still shocked that it’s caught up to me.  I guess, up until now, I somehow thought all of that zumba would pay off and increase my endurance enough that it would buy me a grace period or something.

Sadly, though,  I’ve found myself turning into my mother.  It doesn’t appear to be going away anytime soon, either.

I can remember watching her when she was about the age I am now.  I thought she was as old as dirt, DIRT people!  The only difference between she and I is that when SHE was my age, she had a baby (there goes that gag reflex again, I gotta get that thing checked out!). 

I can remember listening to her as she rambled incessantly about things that didn’t seem to apply to MY life at all, and I thought surely she had become completely senile. 

I can also distinctly remember her going to her 20^th class reunion, and thinking death must be imminent.  How the Hell can ANYONE live 20 years past graduation age?  I mean, GAWD, that’s 38! 

Now, here I am, staring at the big ole 36 that’s about to crash into my windshield like a tire that flew off of a semi up ahead.  You can see that sucker comin, but you can’t seem to hit the median fast enough to avoid it.

CRAP! 

It all started innocently enough.  10 and I were at Target, walking past the girl’s department, and something caught my eye.  I stopped in my tracks, because 10 said something that made my jaw drop to the floor, and I didn’t want to step on and lose a tooth.  That’s all I need to make me feel young is dentures, too!

We saw these shorts that can only be referred to as absolutely damn ridiculous…and 10 says, “Ohhhhhh, mooooooom….those are SOOOOOOOO totally cuuuuuuuute!”  First of all, she was totally valley girl as she spouted this non-sense out her cute little freckly face.  (She has no idea what valley girl means, by the way, which makes it even more fun to tell her that’s what she is!)

THIS is what we saw:

YES, that’s right, the modern version of Umbro shorts over biker shorts.  Can you say, 1989?  OMG, I wore so many pairs of these hideous things through Jr High school….

WHAT were we thinking?  Neon colored slick athletic shorts over the top of black biker shorts that made the corduroy swish sound when you walked.  Was there a purpose to this?  Were we exercising?  Were we getting physical, Olivia Newton John?

I’m pretty sure the only thing we actually accomplished with this style was getting seam-shaped grooves notched into our lower extremities from the skin-tight nature of those ridiculous biker shorts. 

So, I buried these feelings about our Target adventure deep, deep down inside.  I figured if I just hid them, they would go away.  Inside of my heart, though, I could feel the ‘mom-ness’ brewing.  It was bubbling under the lid like my mom’s old pressure cooker, and I knew eventually that sucker was gonna blow. 

I’ve got 8 days of 35 left, and I’m clinging to them like I cling to the last few pieces of chocolate when I have PMS.  Someone could lose an appendage if they make an unauthorized movement, people.

As if it weren’t bad enough already that at 35, I could no longer be ‘early thirties.’  What kind of crap is that, anyway?  MID thirties.  MID…..what is that, anyway?  It only goes with bad things. 

MID life crisis (can you say Camaro and a comb-over?)

MIDriff-baring shirts (I could cause blindness if I tried this after 3 kids) 

MIDterm….(okay, maybe that one wouldn’t be SO bad now.)

Who signed me up for this?  This is CRAP!

Here I am, clinging to my mid-ness, before I change categories again and start the slide toward 40.  I’ve got a few more days of mid before I tumble to mid-to-late….something that makes me want to choke someone.  I started this day with a cup of coffee on the porch swing, and then it happened.  I opened my email.  What was inside was nothing short of absolutely inappropriate. 

I scrolled right past the stuff that was clearly junk:

MOLE REMOVAL (nope.  No hairy witch moles yet.  Maybe next year)

SUBSTANCE ABUSE COUNSELING ( not yet….not yet.  But these birthdays could have me there soon)

CHRISTIAN MINGLE (hmmm….one pain in the butt is enough.  I don’t need ANOTHER man!)

SENIORPEOPLEMEET.COM?  Are you JOKING me with this?  OMG

And then, there it was.  The one that pushed me all the way to the nursing home. 

Gap:  The new ankle zip legging jean

Surely I read that wrong.  Of course, I clicked on this one.  What I saw inside made my butt pucker. 

FINE PRINT:

The following photos are not for the faint of heart.  They are not for those who are teetering on the edge of their youth, those who are subject to depression, or those who are on cardiac medications.  If you take an MAOI Inhibitor, consult with a physician before continuing.

Note the rolling.  These do not appear to cut off circulation to the feet, or leave 1 inch deep dents in the ankles..but they are still rolled.  Wow

But then, there it was.  When I thought it couldn’t get any worse…it did.  The HORROR!!!!!!

An entire page of jeans with ANKLE ZIPPERS! 

Leg warmers were bad enough.  Then I saw a pair of stretch pants with stirrups at the foot at the mall and had heart palpitations.  The off-the-shoulder shirts have been creeping there way back, and Lamaze breathing seemed to get me through that.  Neon colored high top tennies….okay, I’m alright with that. 

But this?  THIS is a crime against humanity.  This is like when the boot cut jean emerged and my mom called them bell bottoms.  This is making my coffee curdle. 

Yep.  It’s happened.  I’ve reached that pivotal moment in life where the ridiculous nonsense you wore as a teenager comes BACK in style.  That point where you find yourself telling your child that you wish you had just kept all of your old clothes because she could just wear them NOW and be cool.  Here I am, world.  Here I am.  I am officially the mom who has watched her youth come full circle and bite her right in the butt! 

Oh joyous day, and just in time for my birthday. 

Someone shoot me.  For my birthday, I’ve turned into my flippin mother.  What’s next?  Menopause?

I’m gonna go write my eulogy…just in case.  And now I’m scared of my email.  Awesome.  Irrational fears.  Doesn’t that come right before dementia?