Before you start to think that this topic is anything short of BP-G (Blog Post rated for General audiences), let me assure you that it is as salacious as Mr. Rogers changing out of his sport coat and into his sweater. Dang, dontcha miss Mr. Rogers? *sigh*
The issue at hand is that the three people with whom I share a last name (one by marriage and the other two because they took up separate residence in my uterus until each was forcibly evicted when their lease was up) would love nothing more than to share my bed on a regular basis.
I can understand because my bed is a haven of comfy coziness. Plush Sealy posturepedic mattress, 600 thread count pima cotton sheets, down comforter, six pillows (not including the ones for decorative purposes only) and an electric blanket that could thaw an ice sculpture in ninety seconds. Just talking about it is making me want to go and get back in it even though it's 10:00 in the morning.
In an ideal world (for them anyway), we would share a family bed with all four of us snuggling and slumbering blissfully together all night long. The reality is altogether different. Let's start with the Boy Child.
BC sleeps like a PRCA competitor taking down a calf in a tie-down event. He's flipping, he's flopping, he's got his feet wedged in your spine and his fingers up your nose. The kid is seven, and for his own safety, he still has a bed rail on his bed. I foresee packing it alongside the requisite dorm fridge and twin XL sheets when we send him off to college. And he's a sleep shouter. Nothing like being deep in peaceful slumber, only to have the person next to you scream out, "Grab the Legos and the unicorns! I'm on deck, so STINGRAYS ON THREE!" Regardless of what the ump says kid, when it comes to MY bed, you're out!
The Girl Child is a teeth grinder. All. Night. Long. Nuff said.
To say that my Handsome Husband is a snorer would be a complete understatement. The noise that emanates from him comes in on the decibel scale somewhere between a blender crushing ice and a plane taking off. Think I'm exaggerating? We had friends over for a movie night once, and everyone had to leave early because HH fell asleep watching it, and even at full volume, no one could hear the audio. True story.
I, on the other hand, am a silent sleeper. I've shared a bed with Moms and a friend or two on a girls' trip, and they will back me up. I curl up in my little corner of the bed, fall right asleep, and you are hearing nothing out of me until after I've awoken and had at least one cup of coffee. And yes, I am a very light sleeper. A moth could break wind in the room, and I would wake up.
Blame it on the Uterine Tenants, neither of whom slept for more than two hours straight for the first six months after they were evicted. I never needed a baby monitor because I developed a preternatural sense for when they were awake. This sort of thing is a great gift if you're a vampire. A mom trying to grab four or five consecutive REM cycles? Notsomuch.
But despite my waking every weekday morning at 4:45am when the guy six houses down fires up his car to leave for work (seriously, what is he, a baker?), I challenge anyone to sleep restfully with the Shouting Thrasher, the Teeth Grinder or the Extreme Snorer. I guarantee you will find yourself seeing your bed as the goal, yourself as the goalie, the fam as the pucks and end up slashing every single one of them back into play. A woman's gotta defend her right to restful sleep. And trust me, the world is a better place for everyone around me if I get it.
Sparkly Sandman Kisses,
D
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
My Thoughts on: My BFF Clarence
Clarence and I go way back. Twenty years at least. Been a part of my life forever thanks to Moms, but we really didn't become BFFs until I got my first job at sixteen. Pretty much everywhere I go, Clarence is there to put a smile on my face and get my heart pumping.
Now if you haven't spent any time living in the South, you probably wouldn't say "Clarence", but instead would pronounce the name as "Clearance". And maybe you don't get as excited as I do when saying it and shorten it down. Simply put, I. Love. Me. Some. Clarence.
Now just to keep things straight, 10% off at "Anyone Who Makes < $100K/yr Can't Afford Our Stuff" doesn't rank on my bargain scale. You can keep your Nordstroms and your Pottery Barns. And even though it's more affordable than those two stores, please, DO NOT get me started on Kohl's. Okay, fine. In a nutshell...
Anyone with savvy shopper sense (read: cheapskates like me) can see that they jack up their prices so that when they give shoppers an extra 40% off their "everyday low prices", plus an extra 10% off if they use their Kohl's card, plus an extra 15% from a scratch off card, plus an extra 5% off if they go through the store singing a jingle they wrote about how much they love shopping there, the stuff adds up to exactly what it would be if I walk into one of my fave bargain stores and buy it right off the rack. Moving along.
The Clarence that I know and love is the one that has me paying somewhere between 80-90% off of the actual retail price. In my and Clarence's world, full retail is for suckers. In most stores, I don't buy anything off the regular racks and shelves but head straight for Clarence for some quality time together. One of my fave times of year to do this is after holidays.
Post-holiday, I'm usually not able to get my preferred discount rate of 80-90%, but if you wait until the seasonal merchandise hits that Clarence rate, you would be buying chocolate Easter bunnies that have turned white and Christmas ornaments with no glitter left on them. I shouldn't have to tell you how seriously I take my chocolate or my glitter.
So I suck it up and buy at half off with the rest of the shoppers as I'm using my pace cart to "accidentally" bump the carts that they leave straight up in the middle of the aisle. Rookies. What's a pace cart? Try and move around me sometime as we're both walking the main aisle of a store headed for Clarence, and you'll get schooled real quick.
I've already been out this morning and done my after Christmas shopping in a few quick stops. Among other delights, I scored a Christmas gift for my niece for next year and a Father's Day gift for the Handsome Hubby. Yes, Clarence and I are together year round while shopping for any and all occasions. The holidays and birthdays don't change from year to year, kittens.
In the interest of full disclosure, I also come home, wrap whatever I got with the appropriate paper/gift bag, record it in my gift notebook so I remember what I bought and for whom, and store them in tubs. Does that stick in your craw? Have a glass of Haterade, and we'll resolve to be friends anyway.
So if you see me out and about, and I have a glazed look about me, chances are I have either just come from being with Clarence, or we are about to spend some time with one another. And lest you think I'm selfish, I will happily make introductions, and you can even feel free to see Clarence on your own time. Just play it safe and don't ever try and come between us on mine. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Now if you haven't spent any time living in the South, you probably wouldn't say "Clarence", but instead would pronounce the name as "Clearance". And maybe you don't get as excited as I do when saying it and shorten it down. Simply put, I. Love. Me. Some. Clarence.
Now just to keep things straight, 10% off at "Anyone Who Makes < $100K/yr Can't Afford Our Stuff" doesn't rank on my bargain scale. You can keep your Nordstroms and your Pottery Barns. And even though it's more affordable than those two stores, please, DO NOT get me started on Kohl's. Okay, fine. In a nutshell...
Anyone with savvy shopper sense (read: cheapskates like me) can see that they jack up their prices so that when they give shoppers an extra 40% off their "everyday low prices", plus an extra 10% off if they use their Kohl's card, plus an extra 15% from a scratch off card, plus an extra 5% off if they go through the store singing a jingle they wrote about how much they love shopping there, the stuff adds up to exactly what it would be if I walk into one of my fave bargain stores and buy it right off the rack. Moving along.
The Clarence that I know and love is the one that has me paying somewhere between 80-90% off of the actual retail price. In my and Clarence's world, full retail is for suckers. In most stores, I don't buy anything off the regular racks and shelves but head straight for Clarence for some quality time together. One of my fave times of year to do this is after holidays.
Post-holiday, I'm usually not able to get my preferred discount rate of 80-90%, but if you wait until the seasonal merchandise hits that Clarence rate, you would be buying chocolate Easter bunnies that have turned white and Christmas ornaments with no glitter left on them. I shouldn't have to tell you how seriously I take my chocolate or my glitter.
So I suck it up and buy at half off with the rest of the shoppers as I'm using my pace cart to "accidentally" bump the carts that they leave straight up in the middle of the aisle. Rookies. What's a pace cart? Try and move around me sometime as we're both walking the main aisle of a store headed for Clarence, and you'll get schooled real quick.
I've already been out this morning and done my after Christmas shopping in a few quick stops. Among other delights, I scored a Christmas gift for my niece for next year and a Father's Day gift for the Handsome Hubby. Yes, Clarence and I are together year round while shopping for any and all occasions. The holidays and birthdays don't change from year to year, kittens.
In the interest of full disclosure, I also come home, wrap whatever I got with the appropriate paper/gift bag, record it in my gift notebook so I remember what I bought and for whom, and store them in tubs. Does that stick in your craw? Have a glass of Haterade, and we'll resolve to be friends anyway.
So if you see me out and about, and I have a glazed look about me, chances are I have either just come from being with Clarence, or we are about to spend some time with one another. And lest you think I'm selfish, I will happily make introductions, and you can even feel free to see Clarence on your own time. Just play it safe and don't ever try and come between us on mine. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
My Thoughts on: Christmas Enchantment
If you have young kids in the house, you are probably in a pretty warm and fuzzy place as I type this on Christmas afternoon. Of course, some of you were woken up by your darlings at 5am after going to bed after midnight, so you're probably just pretty much in a fuzzy place.
I'm blessed in a lot of ways, one of them being that my kids are (and have always been) late sleepers. I think the earliest they have both been up and ready to open presents is 7:45. I am always up first, have at least two cups of coffee in me, the Christmas music on, the camera and camcorder on stand by and am waiting for them to wake up so the fun can start.
Now before you go thinking unkind thoughts about me, it's Christmas, so just share in my blessing of having slumbering children past 7am. If you can't, go take a nap. Your kids are probably in a toy/electronics gift coma anyway, so this is the one time of year you can slip off unnoticed for a midday snooze.
I think we can all come together on the notion that it is beyond wondrous and exciting to see Christmas through your child's eyes. Christmas started with a miracle, and all of its enchantment ever since is most fervently felt by children and by those of us who get to see its magical effect on them.
The Christmases of our childhoods have left us, and many of the people, warmth and traditions from those days are long gone as well. I think of my own girlhood Christmas Eves, Christmas days and Holiday travel to see family, and besides the memories being full of love and laughter, they are marked by many faces who are no longer celebrating with us at Christmas but who are in eternal celebration with the King.
So we create traditions for our kids from our memories and put our own hand print on them, hoping they will also leave a hand print on our children's hearts as well. As parents, we need to stop for a few moments each Christmas and let them leave one on ours too. Of the days when our kids are small, and they believe in all of the magic of the Season. And while they're young, we need to teach them that its magic started with the birth of a baby who brought the promise of unending love, eternal peace and infinite joy into the world.
The world Jesus was born into was uncertain and full of darkness. It is even more so today. We need to hold tight to our kids and seek out for them spaces of warmth, hope and light. And then while trying to teach our kids to live in them, on days like Christmas, we really need to stand still in those spaces and take in every bit of the spirit of them. Because long before we are ready for it, the day will come when the children are grown and gone and are making traditions of their own with their families.
So please, take a moment in the chaos that may be swirling around you today, and stop. Breathe it all in, taste it, feel it, see it, and imprint it on your heart and in your memory. And today and every day, be grateful and be blessed for the many intangible gifts of the life surrounding you and for the greatest gift of the Saviour, whose birth and promise is the truest form of Christmas enchantment you can ever know.
Sparkly Kisses from Under the Mistletoe,
D
I'm blessed in a lot of ways, one of them being that my kids are (and have always been) late sleepers. I think the earliest they have both been up and ready to open presents is 7:45. I am always up first, have at least two cups of coffee in me, the Christmas music on, the camera and camcorder on stand by and am waiting for them to wake up so the fun can start.
Now before you go thinking unkind thoughts about me, it's Christmas, so just share in my blessing of having slumbering children past 7am. If you can't, go take a nap. Your kids are probably in a toy/electronics gift coma anyway, so this is the one time of year you can slip off unnoticed for a midday snooze.
I think we can all come together on the notion that it is beyond wondrous and exciting to see Christmas through your child's eyes. Christmas started with a miracle, and all of its enchantment ever since is most fervently felt by children and by those of us who get to see its magical effect on them.
The Christmases of our childhoods have left us, and many of the people, warmth and traditions from those days are long gone as well. I think of my own girlhood Christmas Eves, Christmas days and Holiday travel to see family, and besides the memories being full of love and laughter, they are marked by many faces who are no longer celebrating with us at Christmas but who are in eternal celebration with the King.
So we create traditions for our kids from our memories and put our own hand print on them, hoping they will also leave a hand print on our children's hearts as well. As parents, we need to stop for a few moments each Christmas and let them leave one on ours too. Of the days when our kids are small, and they believe in all of the magic of the Season. And while they're young, we need to teach them that its magic started with the birth of a baby who brought the promise of unending love, eternal peace and infinite joy into the world.
The world Jesus was born into was uncertain and full of darkness. It is even more so today. We need to hold tight to our kids and seek out for them spaces of warmth, hope and light. And then while trying to teach our kids to live in them, on days like Christmas, we really need to stand still in those spaces and take in every bit of the spirit of them. Because long before we are ready for it, the day will come when the children are grown and gone and are making traditions of their own with their families.
So please, take a moment in the chaos that may be swirling around you today, and stop. Breathe it all in, taste it, feel it, see it, and imprint it on your heart and in your memory. And today and every day, be grateful and be blessed for the many intangible gifts of the life surrounding you and for the greatest gift of the Saviour, whose birth and promise is the truest form of Christmas enchantment you can ever know.
Sparkly Kisses from Under the Mistletoe,
D
Monday, December 24, 2012
My Thoughts on Facebook: Part 2-The Nitty Gritty
So now that we got through the preliminaries, (if you don't know what I'm referring to, see yesterday's blog entry) we can get down to what Mark Z needs to not do with FB that he's doing and what he needs to do that he's not.
Please don't think for a moment that I have to put much effort into not being an idiot. I realize that these days, Mark isn't sitting behind a desk and regulating much of anything regarding FB. He has people. He's probably off in Belize or something for Christmas, counting his pocket change (20, 40, 60, 80, a hundred thousand....) and not giving any thought to what the hoi polloi has to say about FB.
So really, I'm posting this not in the hopes that he will read it and say, "This is completely on target! I should have been doing this all along! I'm going to call my people at FB HQ right now and tell them to read this genius of a woman's blog, oh, and while I'm at it, I'll call my people in D.C. and tell them they really ought to add her face to Mount Rushmore!" I'm posting it to just get it out of my system.
Let's start with a person's News Feed....
1. If I bestow upon someone the High Honor of becoming my FB friend, I need options to pop up as soon as I accept their friend request and vice versa regarding how much of their life I want to see in my feed. Now if you and I are FB friends, of COURSE I want to see everything you post on FB, and I'm certainly not talking about YOU! ;-)
These options should range from "I want to know everything this person posts on FB, and in fact, if you could install some spyware on their account that gets me unrestricted access to their private messages as well, that'd be great!" to "I accepted their friend request because I know they are a few sandwiches short of a picnic, and I figured turning down the request would result in a dead bunny on my porch, so restrict their view of everything I post, and please Lord, don't show me ANYTHING that they post" And about six different options in between those two.
And while I'm on the subject of FRs, if you send me one, and I have to send you a message back asking you how we know each other, you have as big of a chance of me accepting it as my kids do of me ever accepting anything of the canine variety into our family. This also includes the men my daughter potentially dates.
2. Showing ads in my news feed needs to end NOW. Now I'm not talking about those little things on the side of your news feed. I get that Mark has to pay for FB somehow because it's free, despite what the Panic Button Pushers post on FB every six months or so. (These, by the way, are the same people who think they can find out who's viewing their profile.)
So I'm generally able to ignore the little side ads, except for that one they had for a loooong time about a gout study. (We'll skip the diatribe regarding my feelings about the feet of anyone over the age of one. I will just tell you. I. Hate. Feet.)
What really starts me on the express train to Freak the Freak Out Land is the "suggested posts" that turn up in my feed. "Suggested Post" is FB-ese for "Annoying Ad". I "hide" every single one of these, which leads me to another option to "hide all posts from (insert Annoying Ad's page name here)". I click on that as well.
FB then reassuringly tells me that Annoying Ads from ___ "will no longer appear in your news feed" Horse puckey. I have "hidden" many of these same Annoying Ads more than the average amount of times that Boy Child gets back up out of bed after bedtime on a given night. (Which is anywhere from three to nineteen depending on how many it takes to cause me to finally freak the freak out and send him scurrying back into his bed for the final time to fervently pray to God that his "real" mommy at last comes for him.)
3. Dump the "chat" feature. People don't IM online anymore, they text. Nuff said.
4. I need more options to what people post than "like", "comment" and "unlike". Some suggestions: "love", "dislike" and "this is so funny I peed a little when I read it"
Moving onto my personal home page....
1. Any pictures I post or that anyone posts of me need to come with another option besides tagging me or someone else in it. Depending on the closeness of the zoom or the angle of the shot, it needs to have a "take off 10 years" or "take off 10 lbs" option as well.
And don't give me a bunch of hooey about how everyone needs to be keepin' it real on FB anyway. What you get on FB is not the real backstage action of someone's life Honey, it's the highlight performance. Don't believe me? Go through your friends' profile pictures, and if you look close, I guarantee you'll discover that half of them are at least five years old. Mine may be only a month old, but you'd better believe it was taken by a pro and retouched! *sparkle snap*
2. Ask my permission before you post any of my activities or anything that someone tags me in to either my personal page or my friends' news feeds. I can guarantee that what someone else thinks is a "great" picture of me won't necessarily get that kudo from me. As a general rule, if I have food in my mouth, look like I'm intoxicated (which I can guarantee you I'm not), or you took the pic of my right side of my face (any girl with a nose the size of mine knows her best side!), don't tag.
Also, if we are at, say, a restaurant together, and you go to "check me in" there with you but discover in your search of nearby places that there is a XXX place of some sort close by, and you think it would be funny to "check us all in" there instead, leave me out. As a mom, the PTA president at my kids' school and a teacher in kids' church, the idea of me hamming it up at a porn venue might not go over well with some of my FB peeps.
3. Everything I post/is posted on my FB stays on my home page unless I delete it. You don't get to randomly pick and choose what gets saved. Since I am a FB addict, I like looking back at the end of the year over EVERYTHING, from my status updates to pictures and what people posted on my wall. No touchy!!
I could go on even longer than I already have with more stuff that Mark and the Geek Squad need to tweak. But most of you fell asleep before I got to number three on the News Feed suggestions, and the time is also drawing nigh to when I need to go start on Big Hair for the Christmas Eve events we are attending.
I will wrap up by saying that even though Mark and his squad don't always get it right, I will still be on Facebook unless the day comes where the PBPs have their "I told you so" moment, and Mark does start charging for it.. Because I know I have as much hope of breaking my FB addiction as I do the one I have to Words with Friends. Speaking of, I really gotta go now and catch up on my games while the curling iron heats up...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Please don't think for a moment that I have to put much effort into not being an idiot. I realize that these days, Mark isn't sitting behind a desk and regulating much of anything regarding FB. He has people. He's probably off in Belize or something for Christmas, counting his pocket change (20, 40, 60, 80, a hundred thousand....) and not giving any thought to what the hoi polloi has to say about FB.
So really, I'm posting this not in the hopes that he will read it and say, "This is completely on target! I should have been doing this all along! I'm going to call my people at FB HQ right now and tell them to read this genius of a woman's blog, oh, and while I'm at it, I'll call my people in D.C. and tell them they really ought to add her face to Mount Rushmore!" I'm posting it to just get it out of my system.
Let's start with a person's News Feed....
1. If I bestow upon someone the High Honor of becoming my FB friend, I need options to pop up as soon as I accept their friend request and vice versa regarding how much of their life I want to see in my feed. Now if you and I are FB friends, of COURSE I want to see everything you post on FB, and I'm certainly not talking about YOU! ;-)
These options should range from "I want to know everything this person posts on FB, and in fact, if you could install some spyware on their account that gets me unrestricted access to their private messages as well, that'd be great!" to "I accepted their friend request because I know they are a few sandwiches short of a picnic, and I figured turning down the request would result in a dead bunny on my porch, so restrict their view of everything I post, and please Lord, don't show me ANYTHING that they post" And about six different options in between those two.
And while I'm on the subject of FRs, if you send me one, and I have to send you a message back asking you how we know each other, you have as big of a chance of me accepting it as my kids do of me ever accepting anything of the canine variety into our family. This also includes the men my daughter potentially dates.
2. Showing ads in my news feed needs to end NOW. Now I'm not talking about those little things on the side of your news feed. I get that Mark has to pay for FB somehow because it's free, despite what the Panic Button Pushers post on FB every six months or so. (These, by the way, are the same people who think they can find out who's viewing their profile.)
So I'm generally able to ignore the little side ads, except for that one they had for a loooong time about a gout study. (We'll skip the diatribe regarding my feelings about the feet of anyone over the age of one. I will just tell you. I. Hate. Feet.)
What really starts me on the express train to Freak the Freak Out Land is the "suggested posts" that turn up in my feed. "Suggested Post" is FB-ese for "Annoying Ad". I "hide" every single one of these, which leads me to another option to "hide all posts from (insert Annoying Ad's page name here)". I click on that as well.
FB then reassuringly tells me that Annoying Ads from ___ "will no longer appear in your news feed" Horse puckey. I have "hidden" many of these same Annoying Ads more than the average amount of times that Boy Child gets back up out of bed after bedtime on a given night. (Which is anywhere from three to nineteen depending on how many it takes to cause me to finally freak the freak out and send him scurrying back into his bed for the final time to fervently pray to God that his "real" mommy at last comes for him.)
3. Dump the "chat" feature. People don't IM online anymore, they text. Nuff said.
4. I need more options to what people post than "like", "comment" and "unlike". Some suggestions: "love", "dislike" and "this is so funny I peed a little when I read it"
Moving onto my personal home page....
1. Any pictures I post or that anyone posts of me need to come with another option besides tagging me or someone else in it. Depending on the closeness of the zoom or the angle of the shot, it needs to have a "take off 10 years" or "take off 10 lbs" option as well.
And don't give me a bunch of hooey about how everyone needs to be keepin' it real on FB anyway. What you get on FB is not the real backstage action of someone's life Honey, it's the highlight performance. Don't believe me? Go through your friends' profile pictures, and if you look close, I guarantee you'll discover that half of them are at least five years old. Mine may be only a month old, but you'd better believe it was taken by a pro and retouched! *sparkle snap*
2. Ask my permission before you post any of my activities or anything that someone tags me in to either my personal page or my friends' news feeds. I can guarantee that what someone else thinks is a "great" picture of me won't necessarily get that kudo from me. As a general rule, if I have food in my mouth, look like I'm intoxicated (which I can guarantee you I'm not), or you took the pic of my right side of my face (any girl with a nose the size of mine knows her best side!), don't tag.
Also, if we are at, say, a restaurant together, and you go to "check me in" there with you but discover in your search of nearby places that there is a XXX place of some sort close by, and you think it would be funny to "check us all in" there instead, leave me out. As a mom, the PTA president at my kids' school and a teacher in kids' church, the idea of me hamming it up at a porn venue might not go over well with some of my FB peeps.
3. Everything I post/is posted on my FB stays on my home page unless I delete it. You don't get to randomly pick and choose what gets saved. Since I am a FB addict, I like looking back at the end of the year over EVERYTHING, from my status updates to pictures and what people posted on my wall. No touchy!!
I could go on even longer than I already have with more stuff that Mark and the Geek Squad need to tweak. But most of you fell asleep before I got to number three on the News Feed suggestions, and the time is also drawing nigh to when I need to go start on Big Hair for the Christmas Eve events we are attending.
I will wrap up by saying that even though Mark and his squad don't always get it right, I will still be on Facebook unless the day comes where the PBPs have their "I told you so" moment, and Mark does start charging for it.. Because I know I have as much hope of breaking my FB addiction as I do the one I have to Words with Friends. Speaking of, I really gotta go now and catch up on my games while the curling iron heats up...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Sunday, December 23, 2012
My Thoughts on Facebook: Part 1-In the Beginning
You may ask yourself why there has to be more than one part to my thoughts on Facebook. That's because I have a lot of them, and a blog entry really should be a length that is somewhere between the five paragraph essays you used to write in elementary school and the shortest book in the Bible. (Quick, name it! It's 2 John. Boo-yah! Yes, I was a regular "quiz out" in bible competitions as a kid. Believe me, this doesn't get you anything other than mocked by your "unchurched" peers.) Anyway....
Facebook creator Mark Zuckenheimerschlammer is not a friend of mine. Which should be obvious for three reasons. First, I can't ever remember his name correctly. I admit, I'm terrible with names. Anyone in my closest circle of friends can tell you that I can mess up names as simple as "Holly" and "Juan". I could also Google Mark Z's name to get it correct, but if I have to copy and paste your name into something because it's so long or so complicated I can't remember it, it's not happening.
Bravo for the world being a diverse place with John Smith living next to Adolf (insert 24 middle names) Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, Sr. Adolf holds the world's record for longest name. And I can't get over the fact that he's a "Sr", which means he passed that name onto his kid. Jr. must have legally dumped most of it since der Vater made the Guinness book and der Sohn did not.
But I live in 'Merica, and freedom of speech gives me the right to rechristen anyone with any name I want, especially in my own blog. Trust me, I'm not naive enough to think there aren't people out there who have given me their own personalized "nickname" that I would probably prefer not be repeated in front of my children.
Reason two Mark Z isn't my friend. (Admit it, you already kinda forgot what the subject of this post was.) I am a few hundred million bucks short of sharing his expanded zip code. Enough said. Reason three is because he does not seek counsel with me over any and all things related to a person's Facebook account. Really, this is just a dumb move on his part. Why? If you're FB friends with me, you know that I am all over FB like ants on a dropped ice cream cone.
Long before I became addicted to Words with Friends (see separate blog entry), I heard about this FB thingy, had some time when the Boy Child was napping (dang, I miss the days when my kids napped), and checked it out. BAM! Instantly hooked. FB is the ideal way for Socially Awkward False-Positive Introverts (SAFPIs) like myself to interact with others. That, and blogging of course. :-)
Don't go looking in the American Psychiatric Association's upcoming DSM-5 for a description of what a SAFPI is. That's cuz I made it up. What makes me a SAFPI is that I'm really only 100% comfortable in a social situation that involves my cozy little home, my jammies, my Handsome Husband, the Girl Child and the Boy Child. Any other scenario requires a level of extroversion that takes me out of my ideal comfort zone. Sure, I have family and friends that I like to hang out with, but most of the time this takes me away from my home, requires real pants, and often the HH and/or kids aren't all there.
And when I'm at events where I know small talk and full undergarments are required, my discomfort level goes up exponentially. Unless you know me really well, you wouldn't even notice. I cover pretty well. The trick for successful conversation with most people is to fire off a few questions about what's going on in their life and get them talking. Most people love to talk about themselves, and the burden of conversation is taken off the SAFPI.
Not only that, but by asking a lot of questions, the SAFPI creates an illusion that they like to talk and are therefore, an EX-trovert. When in fact, we are really IN-troverts, hence the "false-positive introvert" diagnosis. (Yes, I know it's all really very brilliant of me. I really should charge by the hour. And obviously, being a SAFPI doesn't affect in the slightest one's ability to have an over-inflated sense of confidence.)
So I joined FB and figured out I can have a little window into peoples' lives where they tell me stuff about their lives without my having to put on pants and ask. I can also reconnect with people who knew me back in the days when I was waaaaaay backslidden and give testimony to them that Jesus truly forgives anyone of any sin, even the doozies that I committed. And no, I'm not listing what they were. If you knew me then, you know, and if you didn't, you don't need to. Instead, spend a little time watching this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLY7yI1xV-M and stop being so nosy! (See, SAFPIs, do NOT like a lot of personal questions.)
On FB, I can also (depending on one's privacy settings) cyber-stalk pretty much anyone without them knowing I viewed their profile. Two points: just because I'm no longer backslidden, it doesn't mean I'm perfect. Secondly, if you believe that "you can see who viewed your profile" spam garbage, you've got bigger issues than me stalking your FB page, I'm telling you right now.
So now that we've covered "Facebook Part 1-In the Beginning" and a whole lot of other intriguing (granted, maybe only to me) social psychological things as well, I will wrap up with the promise to bring you part two tomorrow. This is where we will get into the heart of what Mark Zuckenheimerschlammer needs to be consulting me on. Believe me, it can only serve to benefit Facebookers and social media as a whole.
In the meantime, please, try not to flood my inbox with all of your demands to know what time tomorrow I will post it. I have a very full morning planned of sitting around in my jammies and drinking coffee. I also need this time to memorize my flash card questions that I will ask the seventy-five people I will be encountering at the annual Christmas Eve family gatherings tomorrow night. And to put on an extra layer of my Rx anti-pit sweat roll on.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Facebook creator Mark Zuckenheimerschlammer is not a friend of mine. Which should be obvious for three reasons. First, I can't ever remember his name correctly. I admit, I'm terrible with names. Anyone in my closest circle of friends can tell you that I can mess up names as simple as "Holly" and "Juan". I could also Google Mark Z's name to get it correct, but if I have to copy and paste your name into something because it's so long or so complicated I can't remember it, it's not happening.
Bravo for the world being a diverse place with John Smith living next to Adolf (insert 24 middle names) Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, Sr. Adolf holds the world's record for longest name. And I can't get over the fact that he's a "Sr", which means he passed that name onto his kid. Jr. must have legally dumped most of it since der Vater made the Guinness book and der Sohn did not.
But I live in 'Merica, and freedom of speech gives me the right to rechristen anyone with any name I want, especially in my own blog. Trust me, I'm not naive enough to think there aren't people out there who have given me their own personalized "nickname" that I would probably prefer not be repeated in front of my children.
Reason two Mark Z isn't my friend. (Admit it, you already kinda forgot what the subject of this post was.) I am a few hundred million bucks short of sharing his expanded zip code. Enough said. Reason three is because he does not seek counsel with me over any and all things related to a person's Facebook account. Really, this is just a dumb move on his part. Why? If you're FB friends with me, you know that I am all over FB like ants on a dropped ice cream cone.
Long before I became addicted to Words with Friends (see separate blog entry), I heard about this FB thingy, had some time when the Boy Child was napping (dang, I miss the days when my kids napped), and checked it out. BAM! Instantly hooked. FB is the ideal way for Socially Awkward False-Positive Introverts (SAFPIs) like myself to interact with others. That, and blogging of course. :-)
Don't go looking in the American Psychiatric Association's upcoming DSM-5 for a description of what a SAFPI is. That's cuz I made it up. What makes me a SAFPI is that I'm really only 100% comfortable in a social situation that involves my cozy little home, my jammies, my Handsome Husband, the Girl Child and the Boy Child. Any other scenario requires a level of extroversion that takes me out of my ideal comfort zone. Sure, I have family and friends that I like to hang out with, but most of the time this takes me away from my home, requires real pants, and often the HH and/or kids aren't all there.
And when I'm at events where I know small talk and full undergarments are required, my discomfort level goes up exponentially. Unless you know me really well, you wouldn't even notice. I cover pretty well. The trick for successful conversation with most people is to fire off a few questions about what's going on in their life and get them talking. Most people love to talk about themselves, and the burden of conversation is taken off the SAFPI.
Not only that, but by asking a lot of questions, the SAFPI creates an illusion that they like to talk and are therefore, an EX-trovert. When in fact, we are really IN-troverts, hence the "false-positive introvert" diagnosis. (Yes, I know it's all really very brilliant of me. I really should charge by the hour. And obviously, being a SAFPI doesn't affect in the slightest one's ability to have an over-inflated sense of confidence.)
So I joined FB and figured out I can have a little window into peoples' lives where they tell me stuff about their lives without my having to put on pants and ask. I can also reconnect with people who knew me back in the days when I was waaaaaay backslidden and give testimony to them that Jesus truly forgives anyone of any sin, even the doozies that I committed. And no, I'm not listing what they were. If you knew me then, you know, and if you didn't, you don't need to. Instead, spend a little time watching this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLY7yI1xV-M and stop being so nosy! (See, SAFPIs, do NOT like a lot of personal questions.)
On FB, I can also (depending on one's privacy settings) cyber-stalk pretty much anyone without them knowing I viewed their profile. Two points: just because I'm no longer backslidden, it doesn't mean I'm perfect. Secondly, if you believe that "you can see who viewed your profile" spam garbage, you've got bigger issues than me stalking your FB page, I'm telling you right now.
So now that we've covered "Facebook Part 1-In the Beginning" and a whole lot of other intriguing (granted, maybe only to me) social psychological things as well, I will wrap up with the promise to bring you part two tomorrow. This is where we will get into the heart of what Mark Zuckenheimerschlammer needs to be consulting me on. Believe me, it can only serve to benefit Facebookers and social media as a whole.
In the meantime, please, try not to flood my inbox with all of your demands to know what time tomorrow I will post it. I have a very full morning planned of sitting around in my jammies and drinking coffee. I also need this time to memorize my flash card questions that I will ask the seventy-five people I will be encountering at the annual Christmas Eve family gatherings tomorrow night. And to put on an extra layer of my Rx anti-pit sweat roll on.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Friday, December 21, 2012
My Thoughts on: Power Trips of the Adolescent & Septuagenarian Variety
So I bet you never thought that teens and senior citizens could have anything in common. Guess again friend. Just put them in a position of authority over others, and you will see the two groups bear striking similarities.
Now don't misunderstand me. Teens in general crack me up, and I have mad respect for my elders. My own dad is a senior citizen, and if she can work the discount to her advantage, Moms will admit to being one as well. Those over the age of sixty-five are truly old school and from the days where your toys were made of metal, as were your constitution and your character. Bottom line, old people rock, and I hope to be one myself one day. Because that's when you can truly get away with saying and doing anything, and everyone just thinks you're charming.
But back to the subject at hand. I'm talking about two specific groups of teens and seniors with authority. Teen lifeguards and senior citizen polling place workers. Give teens a whistle and a tall white chair or seniors an "Official Poll Worker" badge and a few crowd control stanchions, and the power trippin' is ON!
Let's start with the lifeguards and a caveat to please spare yourself some torment by never, I mean NEVER, bringing up the subject of teen lifeguards with my Handsome Husband. This would be akin to asking most Americans to give you their opinion on the Westboro Baptist Church, and you are probably going to be left wishing you'd never brought the subject up to the HH at all. (You and I can have a sidebar instead regarding HH's idea of appropriate behavior in the pool vs. that of the majority of the western world.)
Suffice it to say that it is HH's opinion that all lifeguards are put in place to ensure that they get the patrons to comply with the #1 Pool Rule & Regulation, which is "NO FUN ALLOWED". Granted, this rule is not posted anywhere, but it does not stop his fervent belief that it, in fact, exists. While I don't share his opinion about the No Fun rule or even his definition of what constitutes "fun" at the pool, I do think that if given a smidgen of authority, the teenage lifeguards do tend to take it over the top.
It's really not the teens' fault, as the Stanford Prison Experiment in the 1970s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_prison_experiment) effectively demonstrated that when given authority, most people tend to run with it. Teens are on the cusp of new discoveries such as driving, gainful employment, and other things that as the parent of a tween, I don't even want to contemplate yet. Throw a whistle and some hormones into the mix, and all bets are off!
When we are at the pool, I try and be respectful of these pups' authority as they sit in their big white chairs. I even overlook the fact that when I was (yet ten years older than) their current age, they were still sitting in chairs, albeit the kind their parents fed them strained peas from. I remind myself that I am leading my kids by example. While they may turn deaf and dumb most of the time when I am, say, giving them a "procrastination intervention", the second I do or say anything that strays from a positive "WWJD?" outcome, you know my little darlings are going to be all eyes and ears.
But really, teens, when you are whistling at my kids for hot-footing it across the 350 degree pool deck concrete, whistling at them for putting their feet in the gutter during Safety Check, whistling at them for hooping and hollering in the pool and denying my vertically-challenged seven-year-old (who can swim the length of the pool and has been going off the high dive since he was five) admission down the slide because he is 47.8" tall and not 48", you're pushing it Missy/Young Man.
Still, with the aid of some deep Ujjayi breaths, I will let it all go. Except the slide thing. Which really, really makes me want to freak the freak out. But never fear, I will not bawl out a teenager. I will ask for the inevitably college-aged "manager" and speak my piece to him/her instead. I will then get fourteen "ma'ams" and "I'm sorry"s from them and not actually any resolution. Please, my dear sweet Jesus, get the Boy Child AT LAST to 48" so I can be a better Christian. Amen.
Moving along to the seniors. I can see why Official Poll Worker is a great gig for the over seventy crowd. You're up at 4:30am anyway, so the 6:00am opening at the polls isn't an issue. You can always DVR The Price is Right and all four networks' broadcasts of the noon news, so why not make a hundred bucks being a poll worker? Given the average age demographic of the people who actually show up to vote, most of your friends are going to be there anyway, so you can socialize and supplement your income as well. BRILLIANT!
When I turned up for advance voting for the November elections this year, I started pit sweating with my first encounter with one of the OPWs. They immediately started barking at me after I came through the door. I was momentarily confused as to whether I was joining the queue at the advance polling place or the line to go through security at the airport. I'm telling you, the TSA has nothing on the OPWs when it comes to instilling fear in people.
I felt like if I turned in the wrong direction or said the wrong thing, Secret Service agents were going to swarm me and take me in the back for an audit with a contingent of IRS accountants followed by an interrogation by a platoon of Army Rangers. (I may have dated an Army Ranger or two back in the day, so maybe that wouldn't be so intimidating, but I is flat out skeered of the IRS. Not because we cheat on our taxes, but because I have reached the point where I am sometimes now referring our fifth grader to her dad for math homework help.)
I kept my head down, my mouth shut and my arms at my sides (to minimize the display of pit sweating that no Rx roll-on was going to slow down) as I moved through the line and past the posts of the Geriatric Gestapo. In all fairness, I did think that I encountered a smile or two, but I was concentrating hard on minding my Ps and Qs, so it could have just been someone reworking their dentures.
Having said all of that, I will not be dissuaded from patronizing the pool or exercising my right to vote. Because despite my having a little fun at the lifeguards' and the OPWs' expense, I really do love teens and seniors. I've been a teen, and I lost my head (way) more than once when taking on all of the new experiences those incredible and overwhelming years can throw at you.
And with God's grace, I will be a senior some day and have earned my right into being exactly who I am, and I'm sure I will not apologize for it either. So if you see me in thirty years clearing tables in the Hy-Vee cafeteria (not because I work there, but because I have nothing better to do) and barking at people while wearing my bra on the outside of my shirt, don't be afraid to come over and say hi. I would be crushed and tell anyone and everyone who would listen if you didn't.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Now don't misunderstand me. Teens in general crack me up, and I have mad respect for my elders. My own dad is a senior citizen, and if she can work the discount to her advantage, Moms will admit to being one as well. Those over the age of sixty-five are truly old school and from the days where your toys were made of metal, as were your constitution and your character. Bottom line, old people rock, and I hope to be one myself one day. Because that's when you can truly get away with saying and doing anything, and everyone just thinks you're charming.
But back to the subject at hand. I'm talking about two specific groups of teens and seniors with authority. Teen lifeguards and senior citizen polling place workers. Give teens a whistle and a tall white chair or seniors an "Official Poll Worker" badge and a few crowd control stanchions, and the power trippin' is ON!
Let's start with the lifeguards and a caveat to please spare yourself some torment by never, I mean NEVER, bringing up the subject of teen lifeguards with my Handsome Husband. This would be akin to asking most Americans to give you their opinion on the Westboro Baptist Church, and you are probably going to be left wishing you'd never brought the subject up to the HH at all. (You and I can have a sidebar instead regarding HH's idea of appropriate behavior in the pool vs. that of the majority of the western world.)
Suffice it to say that it is HH's opinion that all lifeguards are put in place to ensure that they get the patrons to comply with the #1 Pool Rule & Regulation, which is "NO FUN ALLOWED". Granted, this rule is not posted anywhere, but it does not stop his fervent belief that it, in fact, exists. While I don't share his opinion about the No Fun rule or even his definition of what constitutes "fun" at the pool, I do think that if given a smidgen of authority, the teenage lifeguards do tend to take it over the top.
It's really not the teens' fault, as the Stanford Prison Experiment in the 1970s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_prison_experiment) effectively demonstrated that when given authority, most people tend to run with it. Teens are on the cusp of new discoveries such as driving, gainful employment, and other things that as the parent of a tween, I don't even want to contemplate yet. Throw a whistle and some hormones into the mix, and all bets are off!
When we are at the pool, I try and be respectful of these pups' authority as they sit in their big white chairs. I even overlook the fact that when I was (yet ten years older than) their current age, they were still sitting in chairs, albeit the kind their parents fed them strained peas from. I remind myself that I am leading my kids by example. While they may turn deaf and dumb most of the time when I am, say, giving them a "procrastination intervention", the second I do or say anything that strays from a positive "WWJD?" outcome, you know my little darlings are going to be all eyes and ears.
But really, teens, when you are whistling at my kids for hot-footing it across the 350 degree pool deck concrete, whistling at them for putting their feet in the gutter during Safety Check, whistling at them for hooping and hollering in the pool and denying my vertically-challenged seven-year-old (who can swim the length of the pool and has been going off the high dive since he was five) admission down the slide because he is 47.8" tall and not 48", you're pushing it Missy/Young Man.
Still, with the aid of some deep Ujjayi breaths, I will let it all go. Except the slide thing. Which really, really makes me want to freak the freak out. But never fear, I will not bawl out a teenager. I will ask for the inevitably college-aged "manager" and speak my piece to him/her instead. I will then get fourteen "ma'ams" and "I'm sorry"s from them and not actually any resolution. Please, my dear sweet Jesus, get the Boy Child AT LAST to 48" so I can be a better Christian. Amen.
Moving along to the seniors. I can see why Official Poll Worker is a great gig for the over seventy crowd. You're up at 4:30am anyway, so the 6:00am opening at the polls isn't an issue. You can always DVR The Price is Right and all four networks' broadcasts of the noon news, so why not make a hundred bucks being a poll worker? Given the average age demographic of the people who actually show up to vote, most of your friends are going to be there anyway, so you can socialize and supplement your income as well. BRILLIANT!
When I turned up for advance voting for the November elections this year, I started pit sweating with my first encounter with one of the OPWs. They immediately started barking at me after I came through the door. I was momentarily confused as to whether I was joining the queue at the advance polling place or the line to go through security at the airport. I'm telling you, the TSA has nothing on the OPWs when it comes to instilling fear in people.
I felt like if I turned in the wrong direction or said the wrong thing, Secret Service agents were going to swarm me and take me in the back for an audit with a contingent of IRS accountants followed by an interrogation by a platoon of Army Rangers. (I may have dated an Army Ranger or two back in the day, so maybe that wouldn't be so intimidating, but I is flat out skeered of the IRS. Not because we cheat on our taxes, but because I have reached the point where I am sometimes now referring our fifth grader to her dad for math homework help.)
I kept my head down, my mouth shut and my arms at my sides (to minimize the display of pit sweating that no Rx roll-on was going to slow down) as I moved through the line and past the posts of the Geriatric Gestapo. In all fairness, I did think that I encountered a smile or two, but I was concentrating hard on minding my Ps and Qs, so it could have just been someone reworking their dentures.
Having said all of that, I will not be dissuaded from patronizing the pool or exercising my right to vote. Because despite my having a little fun at the lifeguards' and the OPWs' expense, I really do love teens and seniors. I've been a teen, and I lost my head (way) more than once when taking on all of the new experiences those incredible and overwhelming years can throw at you.
And with God's grace, I will be a senior some day and have earned my right into being exactly who I am, and I'm sure I will not apologize for it either. So if you see me in thirty years clearing tables in the Hy-Vee cafeteria (not because I work there, but because I have nothing better to do) and barking at people while wearing my bra on the outside of my shirt, don't be afraid to come over and say hi. I would be crushed and tell anyone and everyone who would listen if you didn't.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Thursday, December 20, 2012
My Thoughts on: Snow Days
If you're the type of person who, upon hearing there is a 5% chance of snow in the forecast, piles the snow gear by the front door, waxes the bottom of your kids' sleds, puts the weather radio on the nightstand and posts relentless FB statuses updating everyone on the impending "storm", today's blog entry is NOT for you. Anyway, you're probably outside anyway and have been since 6am when you drank your first cup of coffee sitting in your neighbor's frozen bird bath.
This entry is for those of us who, upon getting the pre-dawn text from the school district saying that school is canceled, immediately go into prayer to avoid saying a word that rhymes with "duck" that the Lord would most certainly frown upon the use of.
For some of you SDHs (Snow Day Haters), having one means you have to figure out what the heck you're supposed to do with the kids because, unlike the school district superintendant, your boss doesn't believe in snow days. So you are forced to either play a lightning round of "I can't stay home from work with them, YOU'RE going to have to stay home with them" with your spouse or to start waking up everyone you know at 5am to ask them if they can keep your kids.
Thanks to the hard work of my Handsome Husband, I am very blessed to be a SAHM, so why should I be a SDH, right? Let's break it down. Our school district builds like two snow days into the calendar. After that, we have to make them up. Now it becomes a math equation. Snow Days > 2 = Pool Days < 80. Yes, I have counted out the pool days between the last day of school in May and the first day in August. Don't get me started on how much I love the pool and summer in general. Another entry, another day.
Plus there's the fact that snow days start all blissful and fun and end up with my HH coming home from work to find both kids banished to their rooms and Mommy sitting in the car in the garage with all the doors locked and in a chocolate coma.
It all begins when the kids wake up, get over their momentary panic that my alarm clock had another Epic Fail (see my blog entry on Parenting) and that they are late for school, and it quickly turns to hoops and hollers that there is No School. They high five and hug and bond and make plans for a day of playing games together, playing in the snow together and playing like it's really going to go down that way.
I start out cautious and optimistic, like a thermonuclear physicist working with unstable nuetrons. Okay, science people, maybe that's not the correct anology. I would read your blog to find out what is, but zzzzzz...Hoo! I fell asleep just thinking about it! ;-)
As the hours tick by, the bliss quickly turns to boredom, then the game becomes "515 Ways to Annoy Your Sibling", which turns to "515 Ways to Get Mommy to Freak the Freak Out". And yes, in a Norman Rockwell, Pinterest-y world, we would be happily and peacefully crafting, cooking and singing show tunes together all day, but you know what Norman Rockwell pictures and Pinterest have in common? THEY DON'T SHOWCASE REAL LIFE!
Now mind you, our day does not go down like this in the fall, spring or summer. Ah, the summatime.... No, I won't start writing about summer, otherwise I'll never wrap up this entry. I'll just say that in the two other seasons and in summer, we're all outside together even on the hottest of days, whether that's at the pool or just chilling with the neighbors in our front yard. Everyone's happy, no one is yelling "Stop touching me!" or "Mommy, (s)he's looking at me!" or anything else that after hearing it 79 times causes me to freak the freak out.
So SDHs, let's all raise a fistful of Hershey's kisses in solidarity over our disdain for those pre-dawn texts and all of the chaos and calamity that ensues as a result of them. We will do what we can to make it through the winter, and when the end of May finally arrives, I will giddily save you a chair next to mine at the pool.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
This entry is for those of us who, upon getting the pre-dawn text from the school district saying that school is canceled, immediately go into prayer to avoid saying a word that rhymes with "duck" that the Lord would most certainly frown upon the use of.
For some of you SDHs (Snow Day Haters), having one means you have to figure out what the heck you're supposed to do with the kids because, unlike the school district superintendant, your boss doesn't believe in snow days. So you are forced to either play a lightning round of "I can't stay home from work with them, YOU'RE going to have to stay home with them" with your spouse or to start waking up everyone you know at 5am to ask them if they can keep your kids.
Thanks to the hard work of my Handsome Husband, I am very blessed to be a SAHM, so why should I be a SDH, right? Let's break it down. Our school district builds like two snow days into the calendar. After that, we have to make them up. Now it becomes a math equation. Snow Days > 2 = Pool Days < 80. Yes, I have counted out the pool days between the last day of school in May and the first day in August. Don't get me started on how much I love the pool and summer in general. Another entry, another day.
Plus there's the fact that snow days start all blissful and fun and end up with my HH coming home from work to find both kids banished to their rooms and Mommy sitting in the car in the garage with all the doors locked and in a chocolate coma.
It all begins when the kids wake up, get over their momentary panic that my alarm clock had another Epic Fail (see my blog entry on Parenting) and that they are late for school, and it quickly turns to hoops and hollers that there is No School. They high five and hug and bond and make plans for a day of playing games together, playing in the snow together and playing like it's really going to go down that way.
I start out cautious and optimistic, like a thermonuclear physicist working with unstable nuetrons. Okay, science people, maybe that's not the correct anology. I would read your blog to find out what is, but zzzzzz...Hoo! I fell asleep just thinking about it! ;-)
As the hours tick by, the bliss quickly turns to boredom, then the game becomes "515 Ways to Annoy Your Sibling", which turns to "515 Ways to Get Mommy to Freak the Freak Out". And yes, in a Norman Rockwell, Pinterest-y world, we would be happily and peacefully crafting, cooking and singing show tunes together all day, but you know what Norman Rockwell pictures and Pinterest have in common? THEY DON'T SHOWCASE REAL LIFE!
Now mind you, our day does not go down like this in the fall, spring or summer. Ah, the summatime.... No, I won't start writing about summer, otherwise I'll never wrap up this entry. I'll just say that in the two other seasons and in summer, we're all outside together even on the hottest of days, whether that's at the pool or just chilling with the neighbors in our front yard. Everyone's happy, no one is yelling "Stop touching me!" or "Mommy, (s)he's looking at me!" or anything else that after hearing it 79 times causes me to freak the freak out.
So SDHs, let's all raise a fistful of Hershey's kisses in solidarity over our disdain for those pre-dawn texts and all of the chaos and calamity that ensues as a result of them. We will do what we can to make it through the winter, and when the end of May finally arrives, I will giddily save you a chair next to mine at the pool.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
My Thoughts on: Pit Sweating
Sorry, is my title offensive to the delicate sensibilities of some folks out there? You need something a little more watered down? (Pardon the pun.) How about excessive underarm perspiration? Forget it, that takes to long to type. Pit sweat it is.
For those of you who battle this issue, you're feeling me right now. There are other kinds of sweat that plague me as well. Boob sweat is particularly annoying. But in the interest of not turning off any male readers I might have, we'll skirt that topic. I also know that sweat in the nutty fudges area is an issue for the fellas, but we're not going there either.
Pit sweating is something both sexes can equally bond over. Now I'm not talking about underarm sweat that occurs when you're working out or standing in the direct sun on a 100 degree day. Your body needs to cool itself, so duh, you're gonna sweat everywhere. I'm talking about sweat that occurs just because. Your heart rate isn't elevated, you're not anxious, you're just moving about your day. And sweat rolls down your armpits like condensation on a steam room window pane.
If this is too much for you, we can break right here. Come back tomorrow, and I promise I'll post about something more germane to your reading flava. But I kinda have a rep for keepin' it real, so I have to talk about whatever is randomly on my mind.
*pausing to let the squeamish head to another site*
Okay, let's talk prevention. I've done a lot of research, and I've tried a lot of suggestions I've read about, so let's go through them.
1. Buying a deodorant with a higher percentage of anti-perspirant than the amount in most brands. Over the counter, this would be "Mitchum". Now I'm smelling like my dearly departed grandpa, and while I loved him to pieces, when an aspect of him is called to my mind, I don't want it to be his armpits. Moving on.
2. Drinking coffee in the morning elevates your core body temperature throughout the day and can cause excessive sweating, so stop drinking coffee. *crickets* Get real.
3. Limes have some property in their juice that prevents sweat glands from secreting, so rub a cut lime under your armpits before bed. And then what, sprinkle my pits with salt, do a tequila shot and call it a night? NEXT!
4. A prescription roll-on that you put on at bedtime. This one is the only one I've had success with. Now what they DON'T tell you beforehand is that the active ingredient in this stuff is muriatic acid. You roll it on, everything's cool for a few minutes, and then it happens. A burning and itching feeling in your delicate pit skin that feels like you are being branded like a longhorn, while simultaneously being stung by a swarm of wasps AND a school of jellyfish. Whatever you do, DON'T scratch because it makes it 20x worse. The only thing I have found that works for a little relief is hopping around my bedroom while slapping my pits. Granted, this makes me look like an insane Sioux warrior, but at this point in the evening, the only person who's going to see me is my Handsome Husband. Trust me when I tell you that this will not affect the way he views me in any negative way. In fact, he will just misinterpret my dance as some sort of a mating ritual and think he's getting lucky.
So for me, it comes down to just two choices really. Stick with remedy #4 and its side effects, or let pit sweat, along with my usual sparkles and bling, be an accessory to my outfit. I opt for the insane warrior dance. Because really, what's a little private late night hopping around the bedroom in pain when compared to being publicly known as "Sweaty Sparkle Girl". Nothing fabulous about her. "Sioux Sparkle Girl" on the other hand is kinda boss.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
For those of you who battle this issue, you're feeling me right now. There are other kinds of sweat that plague me as well. Boob sweat is particularly annoying. But in the interest of not turning off any male readers I might have, we'll skirt that topic. I also know that sweat in the nutty fudges area is an issue for the fellas, but we're not going there either.
Pit sweating is something both sexes can equally bond over. Now I'm not talking about underarm sweat that occurs when you're working out or standing in the direct sun on a 100 degree day. Your body needs to cool itself, so duh, you're gonna sweat everywhere. I'm talking about sweat that occurs just because. Your heart rate isn't elevated, you're not anxious, you're just moving about your day. And sweat rolls down your armpits like condensation on a steam room window pane.
If this is too much for you, we can break right here. Come back tomorrow, and I promise I'll post about something more germane to your reading flava. But I kinda have a rep for keepin' it real, so I have to talk about whatever is randomly on my mind.
*pausing to let the squeamish head to another site*
Okay, let's talk prevention. I've done a lot of research, and I've tried a lot of suggestions I've read about, so let's go through them.
1. Buying a deodorant with a higher percentage of anti-perspirant than the amount in most brands. Over the counter, this would be "Mitchum". Now I'm smelling like my dearly departed grandpa, and while I loved him to pieces, when an aspect of him is called to my mind, I don't want it to be his armpits. Moving on.
2. Drinking coffee in the morning elevates your core body temperature throughout the day and can cause excessive sweating, so stop drinking coffee. *crickets* Get real.
3. Limes have some property in their juice that prevents sweat glands from secreting, so rub a cut lime under your armpits before bed. And then what, sprinkle my pits with salt, do a tequila shot and call it a night? NEXT!
4. A prescription roll-on that you put on at bedtime. This one is the only one I've had success with. Now what they DON'T tell you beforehand is that the active ingredient in this stuff is muriatic acid. You roll it on, everything's cool for a few minutes, and then it happens. A burning and itching feeling in your delicate pit skin that feels like you are being branded like a longhorn, while simultaneously being stung by a swarm of wasps AND a school of jellyfish. Whatever you do, DON'T scratch because it makes it 20x worse. The only thing I have found that works for a little relief is hopping around my bedroom while slapping my pits. Granted, this makes me look like an insane Sioux warrior, but at this point in the evening, the only person who's going to see me is my Handsome Husband. Trust me when I tell you that this will not affect the way he views me in any negative way. In fact, he will just misinterpret my dance as some sort of a mating ritual and think he's getting lucky.
So for me, it comes down to just two choices really. Stick with remedy #4 and its side effects, or let pit sweat, along with my usual sparkles and bling, be an accessory to my outfit. I opt for the insane warrior dance. Because really, what's a little private late night hopping around the bedroom in pain when compared to being publicly known as "Sweaty Sparkle Girl". Nothing fabulous about her. "Sioux Sparkle Girl" on the other hand is kinda boss.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
My Thoughts on: Swimsuits in the "Off" Season
I live in the midwest. This means that the peak months for swimsuit wearing occur between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Most of us midwestern chicks do what we can to prepare for this. Long about April, we start making more of an effort to put down the cookies and pick up the exercise routine.
Now before anyone starts getting their sports bra in a knot and accusing me of not keepin' it real, yes, I do work out rather consistently year round, and yes, I generally watch what I eat. But I am a lot more consistent during the off-peak months about watching chocolate go into my mouth after the kids go to bed than I am about exercise and diet.
Which brings me to a rare occasion that falls between September and May that will send most midwestern women scurrying faster than a cat that knows it's about to get a bath. This occasion is an event where there is an expectation we *might* have to put on a swimsuit. It could be a gathering at an indoor pool, a family trip to an indoor water park or what have you.
Please ladies, do NOT come crying to me about swimsuits if you are taking a trip to Mexico or some other tropical paradise in the winter. This is something you have planned months in advance, and you've had plenty of time to get buff and tan, so just hush up already and take your trip, and I'll pray extra hard to be happy for you and to even "like" your vacay pix on Facebook, k?
Those of you who know me in person may be asking yourself what I'm complaining about because I'm a single digit size, and I work out. Please. I'm over forty. NOTHING is as firm and tight as it used to be. Recently during a yoga practice, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror when I was in side angle pose, and I thought I must be having a stroke because all the flesh on the right side of my face was hanging down. Think I'm exaggerating? Those of you over forty, go try it, I dare you. You might want to knock back a couple of stiff cocktails first, I'm just sayin'. Also, just because you may think I'm driving a compact model over here, it doesn't mean she doesn't have hail damage on the trunk. That's genetics there Love. Cellulite's got nothing to do with how much you exercise. You either be havin' it, or you don't. I be.
Now if you're under thirty, have never had babies, and your butt is smoother than a freshly buffed gym floor, enjoy it Honey! Keep a bikini in your trunk for any excuse to throw it on. Pools, pageants, parties, sporting events, whatever! Because as a chick who once had all the curves in the right places and everything stood at attention, I'm telling you right now, those days are fleeting.
In another five or ten years, you will be with the other forty-somethings and me in your street clothes sweating it out at the indoor pool or water park and watching the kids and the dads frolic in the water. (Let's face it, unless they're a single dad, most men over thirty don't care whether they're built like Hugh Jackman or Archie Bunker. There is not one ounce of swimsuit fear here, even if there reeeeeally should be!) Or you'll be one of the women in the "mom"suit who have no choice but to get in to keep after a tiny tot. And we won't stare or make judgments. I promise. We'll just lock eyes with you and smile in Sisterly Solidarity. After all, midwestern chicks got to stick together!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Now before anyone starts getting their sports bra in a knot and accusing me of not keepin' it real, yes, I do work out rather consistently year round, and yes, I generally watch what I eat. But I am a lot more consistent during the off-peak months about watching chocolate go into my mouth after the kids go to bed than I am about exercise and diet.
Which brings me to a rare occasion that falls between September and May that will send most midwestern women scurrying faster than a cat that knows it's about to get a bath. This occasion is an event where there is an expectation we *might* have to put on a swimsuit. It could be a gathering at an indoor pool, a family trip to an indoor water park or what have you.
Please ladies, do NOT come crying to me about swimsuits if you are taking a trip to Mexico or some other tropical paradise in the winter. This is something you have planned months in advance, and you've had plenty of time to get buff and tan, so just hush up already and take your trip, and I'll pray extra hard to be happy for you and to even "like" your vacay pix on Facebook, k?
Those of you who know me in person may be asking yourself what I'm complaining about because I'm a single digit size, and I work out. Please. I'm over forty. NOTHING is as firm and tight as it used to be. Recently during a yoga practice, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror when I was in side angle pose, and I thought I must be having a stroke because all the flesh on the right side of my face was hanging down. Think I'm exaggerating? Those of you over forty, go try it, I dare you. You might want to knock back a couple of stiff cocktails first, I'm just sayin'. Also, just because you may think I'm driving a compact model over here, it doesn't mean she doesn't have hail damage on the trunk. That's genetics there Love. Cellulite's got nothing to do with how much you exercise. You either be havin' it, or you don't. I be.
Now if you're under thirty, have never had babies, and your butt is smoother than a freshly buffed gym floor, enjoy it Honey! Keep a bikini in your trunk for any excuse to throw it on. Pools, pageants, parties, sporting events, whatever! Because as a chick who once had all the curves in the right places and everything stood at attention, I'm telling you right now, those days are fleeting.
In another five or ten years, you will be with the other forty-somethings and me in your street clothes sweating it out at the indoor pool or water park and watching the kids and the dads frolic in the water. (Let's face it, unless they're a single dad, most men over thirty don't care whether they're built like Hugh Jackman or Archie Bunker. There is not one ounce of swimsuit fear here, even if there reeeeeally should be!) Or you'll be one of the women in the "mom"suit who have no choice but to get in to keep after a tiny tot. And we won't stare or make judgments. I promise. We'll just lock eyes with you and smile in Sisterly Solidarity. After all, midwestern chicks got to stick together!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Monday, December 17, 2012
My Thoughts on: Christmas Decorations
Like most people, I love Christmas. I maybe don't love it as much as my friend Lori, who starts counting down the days to it long about the time roadside fireworks stands start popping up in June. Lori puts her tree up when I am finishing dividing up my kids' Halloween candy. (Girl Child's bag, Boy Child's bag, Mommy's bag. Shhhh!)
I manage to wait until Thanksgiving week to start getting out our trees. Yes, that's right, I said trees. We have three. Okay, five if you count the trees in the kids' rooms. Okay, seven if you count the one in the backyard playhouse and the kids' favorite, the one with the.....(insert positive adjective, you can do it).....*bright* multi-colored lights and all the homemade ornaments that I keep (hide) in our finished basement. But those other four don't count because they are four foot trees, and a tree has to be at least a six-footer to count, right? Fine, we have seven trees.
So there's the "Gold tree", the "Silver tree", the "Family tree", "Barbie tree" (GC's room), "Sports tree" (BC's room), "Playhouse tree" and "Hideous....er, I mean....Basement tree". If you have to ask what's with all the trees, you won't get it even if I try and splain it.
You also won't get the garland over the archways and doorways, the candlelit wreaths in every window, the icicle lights on the house AND the playhouse, the collection of thirty nutcrackers (which by the way, I do hereby bequeath to my friend Julie-who is terrified of nutcrackers-in the event that I precede her in death), the family of reindeer in the yard and the jingle bells on every door.
Goodness knows even my own Handsome Husband doesn't get it. He made some noises here and there when he got sucked into the Christmas vortex ten plus years ago, but time and the futility of protest have resigned him to bobbing along the sea of lights and garland from mid-November through the first of the new year.
The process of setting up all of the magic takes about three days and twenty (wo)man hours. I'm the first to admit that each year I have to give myself a little internal pep talk to get started. I head to the storage area of the basement, survey the forty-odd boxes and tubs and pause a second waiting for the phone to magically ring.
If it did indeed ring, it would be the producers from HGTV's "Celebrity Holiday Homes" calling to say, "Hey! This year instead of showcasing the homes of three celebrities who could hire our designers in a hot minute to do all of the thousands of dollars of decorating that we do for them for free, we are featuring three average American homes of people who couldn't afford to pay any of our designers to spend five minutes spinning one of their $40 spools of ribbon into a bow! And you're one of the winners!!"
And then reality snaps me back from that fantasy faster than Sabrina Soto's glue gun working on a pine cone wreath, and it's just me and the tubs and the boxes. But sometime between the first tub and the fifth, I throw the Christmas music on, and I come alive. I'm hanging and fluffing and tying and singing, and Christmas decor starts to fill the house and the Christmas spirit starts to fill my heart.
Now please don't ruin all this magic and cheer by asking me what I think of houses with blow up lawn decor and Christmas lights kept on until spring and beyond. I don't want anyone throwing shade on my decorations, so I am not throwing any on theirs. Decorate the way that makes you happy, happy, happy as Phil Roberston would say. Do yo thang. Jack it up, rev it up, light it up, blow it up, dress it with some sparkles, spray paint and even that canned fake snow if it makes you stand back and say, "MERRY CHRISTMAS!! GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!" or something a little more low key, but just as heartfelt.
This is the one time of the year when more than 11% of the people you encounter out and about are in a good mood. Foster it, grow it, spread it. Tell people "Merry Christmas!", smile at little kids (which you should be doing anyway BTW) grab your girlfriends and go caroling. If you can't sing, rap! Nothing better than a group of middle-aged white girls trying to put their back into rapping "Twas the Night Before Christmas". See, you're picturing it, and you're smiling!
Find your Christmas spirit however you can, whether it's through decorating your house, baking cookies with your kids, or picturing childhood Christmases with people you love who are now long gone. Grab it when and where you can, and then hold onto it. Let it whisper to you after the decorations are down, through the cold winter months, growing again in the spring, and carrying you throughout the year.
Even the Scroogiest of Scrooges can find a little Christmas cheer if they try and also realize that in one way or another, most of us are very blessed. I'll bet if you even asked my Handsome Husband and got him to admit his deepest and truest thoughts, he'd tell you that despite my procrastination interventions (which he sometimes oddly calls nagging), once all the lights are lit, he likes coming home to our own version of the Grizwald Old-Fashioned Family Christmas. I know I do.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
I manage to wait until Thanksgiving week to start getting out our trees. Yes, that's right, I said trees. We have three. Okay, five if you count the trees in the kids' rooms. Okay, seven if you count the one in the backyard playhouse and the kids' favorite, the one with the.....(insert positive adjective, you can do it).....*bright* multi-colored lights and all the homemade ornaments that I keep (hide) in our finished basement. But those other four don't count because they are four foot trees, and a tree has to be at least a six-footer to count, right? Fine, we have seven trees.
So there's the "Gold tree", the "Silver tree", the "Family tree", "Barbie tree" (GC's room), "Sports tree" (BC's room), "Playhouse tree" and "Hideous....er, I mean....Basement tree". If you have to ask what's with all the trees, you won't get it even if I try and splain it.
You also won't get the garland over the archways and doorways, the candlelit wreaths in every window, the icicle lights on the house AND the playhouse, the collection of thirty nutcrackers (which by the way, I do hereby bequeath to my friend Julie-who is terrified of nutcrackers-in the event that I precede her in death), the family of reindeer in the yard and the jingle bells on every door.
Goodness knows even my own Handsome Husband doesn't get it. He made some noises here and there when he got sucked into the Christmas vortex ten plus years ago, but time and the futility of protest have resigned him to bobbing along the sea of lights and garland from mid-November through the first of the new year.
The process of setting up all of the magic takes about three days and twenty (wo)man hours. I'm the first to admit that each year I have to give myself a little internal pep talk to get started. I head to the storage area of the basement, survey the forty-odd boxes and tubs and pause a second waiting for the phone to magically ring.
If it did indeed ring, it would be the producers from HGTV's "Celebrity Holiday Homes" calling to say, "Hey! This year instead of showcasing the homes of three celebrities who could hire our designers in a hot minute to do all of the thousands of dollars of decorating that we do for them for free, we are featuring three average American homes of people who couldn't afford to pay any of our designers to spend five minutes spinning one of their $40 spools of ribbon into a bow! And you're one of the winners!!"
And then reality snaps me back from that fantasy faster than Sabrina Soto's glue gun working on a pine cone wreath, and it's just me and the tubs and the boxes. But sometime between the first tub and the fifth, I throw the Christmas music on, and I come alive. I'm hanging and fluffing and tying and singing, and Christmas decor starts to fill the house and the Christmas spirit starts to fill my heart.
Now please don't ruin all this magic and cheer by asking me what I think of houses with blow up lawn decor and Christmas lights kept on until spring and beyond. I don't want anyone throwing shade on my decorations, so I am not throwing any on theirs. Decorate the way that makes you happy, happy, happy as Phil Roberston would say. Do yo thang. Jack it up, rev it up, light it up, blow it up, dress it with some sparkles, spray paint and even that canned fake snow if it makes you stand back and say, "MERRY CHRISTMAS!! GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!" or something a little more low key, but just as heartfelt.
This is the one time of the year when more than 11% of the people you encounter out and about are in a good mood. Foster it, grow it, spread it. Tell people "Merry Christmas!", smile at little kids (which you should be doing anyway BTW) grab your girlfriends and go caroling. If you can't sing, rap! Nothing better than a group of middle-aged white girls trying to put their back into rapping "Twas the Night Before Christmas". See, you're picturing it, and you're smiling!
Find your Christmas spirit however you can, whether it's through decorating your house, baking cookies with your kids, or picturing childhood Christmases with people you love who are now long gone. Grab it when and where you can, and then hold onto it. Let it whisper to you after the decorations are down, through the cold winter months, growing again in the spring, and carrying you throughout the year.
Even the Scroogiest of Scrooges can find a little Christmas cheer if they try and also realize that in one way or another, most of us are very blessed. I'll bet if you even asked my Handsome Husband and got him to admit his deepest and truest thoughts, he'd tell you that despite my procrastination interventions (which he sometimes oddly calls nagging), once all the lights are lit, he likes coming home to our own version of the Grizwald Old-Fashioned Family Christmas. I know I do.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Sunday, December 16, 2012
My Thoughts on: Words with Friends
If you don't play, there's probably no point in reading this post. If you do, you know that the game is to word dorks like me what the VIP room at a trendy L.A. nightclub is to Lindsay Lohan. You know you shouldn't even go there, but you have to. Once you're there, you know you should leave, but you just can't. There are all these people there who want you to throw down with them, and some of them like to talk smack, and so you just GOTTA show everyone what you're made of.
Word dorks love the puzzle section of the newspaper. We DVR Wheel of Fortune. When our kids get a placemat at a restaurant with search and finds and the like on it, we offer to "help" them, then end up giving them money for the candy machines by the restroom so we can finish it up on our own.
These days the Girl Child just asks for an extra place mat and gives it to me to do so I leave hers alone. I play it up to the hostess like I have no idea why the GC wants two, but let's humor her and give her an extra one anyway. Then I happily scamper off to our table to break open my fresh pack of crayons and get started.
So back to WWF. I am so addicted to this game, and I won't even try and deny it. I set the alarm in the morning so I have exactly five minutes to lay in bed and catch up on all my games. I play if I'm in between tasks on the computer, waiting in line at a store, at a red light, in a meeting (and can get away with playing under the table), at the doctor's office in the waiting room, in the exam room (really ladies, do you WANT to try and make small talk with the OB/GYN while you're in the stirrups?), pretty much anyplace but during church and funerals.
If you currently play me, you rock. I use the word "currently" because there are about twenty of my FB friends and countless random opponents who will no longer play me. I guess there are only so many beatdowns some wimps can take. Yes, I am ruthless, and I DO NOT cheat.
If you do play me, and you win more than 15% of the games we play, admit it, it's because I schooled you in the game. Right? RIGHT? That's what I thought. And if you do play me, and I routinely kick your Blessed Assurance, yes, I am quite capable of losing. The WWF computer from time to time thinks EIEIOOO is a good tile selection to give me and not just the chorus of "Old McDonald Had a Farm", and I get my own hind end kicked.
Oh, and hey, if we do play each other, please don't send me any of those pesky little reminders to "make my move". I spend waaaaay too much time playing this game as it is, and I don't need anyone encouraging me to play more. And while we're discussing gaming etiquette, the IM feature is to be used to discuss the game ONLY! Don't ask me about an email I sent you recently or when the next PTA meeting is, k? MUAH!
Oooooo, and don't play me if you use word helper apps. I'm onto a couple of you who already play me, and I know you use them, mmm hmmmm. ;-) So long as my word skills, strategy prowess and stubborn will to try 254 random word combos to hit that TL/TW score beat out your helper app, I will still play you, even though you're just a Big Fat Cheater. :-p And just so you know that my own house is not above reproach, my Handsome Husband is a BFC himself, and once I called him out on it, he quit playing me too. (Sorry Babe, gotta keep it real over here!)
So if you're feeling froggy and want to test your WWF skills against mine, jump on over and challenge me to a game. I won't say I'll never lose, but I will fight unto the death, and I'll never quit playing you until the inevitable day when they create a rehab for word game dorks and cart me off. Then I will leave you with a "GG" IM, XI, clear my QI and resign myself to my fate.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Word dorks love the puzzle section of the newspaper. We DVR Wheel of Fortune. When our kids get a placemat at a restaurant with search and finds and the like on it, we offer to "help" them, then end up giving them money for the candy machines by the restroom so we can finish it up on our own.
These days the Girl Child just asks for an extra place mat and gives it to me to do so I leave hers alone. I play it up to the hostess like I have no idea why the GC wants two, but let's humor her and give her an extra one anyway. Then I happily scamper off to our table to break open my fresh pack of crayons and get started.
So back to WWF. I am so addicted to this game, and I won't even try and deny it. I set the alarm in the morning so I have exactly five minutes to lay in bed and catch up on all my games. I play if I'm in between tasks on the computer, waiting in line at a store, at a red light, in a meeting (and can get away with playing under the table), at the doctor's office in the waiting room, in the exam room (really ladies, do you WANT to try and make small talk with the OB/GYN while you're in the stirrups?), pretty much anyplace but during church and funerals.
If you currently play me, you rock. I use the word "currently" because there are about twenty of my FB friends and countless random opponents who will no longer play me. I guess there are only so many beatdowns some wimps can take. Yes, I am ruthless, and I DO NOT cheat.
If you do play me, and you win more than 15% of the games we play, admit it, it's because I schooled you in the game. Right? RIGHT? That's what I thought. And if you do play me, and I routinely kick your Blessed Assurance, yes, I am quite capable of losing. The WWF computer from time to time thinks EIEIOOO is a good tile selection to give me and not just the chorus of "Old McDonald Had a Farm", and I get my own hind end kicked.
Oh, and hey, if we do play each other, please don't send me any of those pesky little reminders to "make my move". I spend waaaaay too much time playing this game as it is, and I don't need anyone encouraging me to play more. And while we're discussing gaming etiquette, the IM feature is to be used to discuss the game ONLY! Don't ask me about an email I sent you recently or when the next PTA meeting is, k? MUAH!
Oooooo, and don't play me if you use word helper apps. I'm onto a couple of you who already play me, and I know you use them, mmm hmmmm. ;-) So long as my word skills, strategy prowess and stubborn will to try 254 random word combos to hit that TL/TW score beat out your helper app, I will still play you, even though you're just a Big Fat Cheater. :-p And just so you know that my own house is not above reproach, my Handsome Husband is a BFC himself, and once I called him out on it, he quit playing me too. (Sorry Babe, gotta keep it real over here!)
So if you're feeling froggy and want to test your WWF skills against mine, jump on over and challenge me to a game. I won't say I'll never lose, but I will fight unto the death, and I'll never quit playing you until the inevitable day when they create a rehab for word game dorks and cart me off. Then I will leave you with a "GG" IM, XI, clear my QI and resign myself to my fate.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Saturday, December 15, 2012
My Thoughts on: Counting Blessings
My blog is all about finding the humor in life, but obviously there is not one bit of humor in what happened to twenty innocent children and seven brave adults yesterday. As a parent and a child of God, I sat in front of my computer yesterday like you in horror and disbelief and grief crying my eyes out for twenty-seven families for whom life was forever changed in an instant when evil crept into it.
The parents of those children did the exact same thing I did yesterday morning before they went to school. A hurried morning of breakfast, getting dressed, finding coats, loading into the car, joining the drop off line, quick kisses, telling them, "I love you", "Have a great day", "See you after school", all the while taking for granted that those words would come true, and never imagining for a moment they could be my last ones to my precious kids.
I, along with all of you, was blessed enough that those words came true. My kids, blissfully unaware of what happened at an elementary school in CT, came tumbling out of their elementary school with smiles and chatter and excitement that it was Friday and a weekend full of Holiday fun was in store. I soaked in every bit of their exuberance and innocence.
I was keeping a friend's kids after school as well, and I took all four of them to the local convenience store for a junkfest. Ice cream cones, donuts, slushies, whatever they wanted. Then after dinner, my kids and my daughter's friend, who was sleeping over, crammed into my bed for a "Duck Dynasty" marathon. What would pass for a normal Friday night at our house yesterday became extraordinary to me.
Twenty sets of parents and seven families of teachers who would never again have a "normal" Friday night. For them, "who we are" became "who we were" in an instant. Eventually, they will find a way to go on, but they will never be the same.
I don't have the answers to all of the questions that are being asked right now. I don't know why. I don't know how. I don't know what can be done. Evil has existed in this world since the beginning of man. But so has hope. And faith. And love. These three things can triumph over evil every time.
If you let what happened make you bitter and unforgiving, evil wins. If you let it make you combative and turn the events into a political argument, evil wins. If when your kids ask questions about the shooting, you shut them down and refuse to talk about it, evil wins.
How do hope, faith and love prevail? You start by counting your blessings. Every day. Big ones, small ones, unexpected ones, long-standing ones. You understand in your heart and teach your children that while evil things are done, they don't change who we are and what we believe. We know that we aren't supposed to have all the answers because we are not omnipotent. God is. We are supposed to lean on Him in times of sorrow and confusion and when we're angry.
Our kids are watching us all the time. They do think we have all the answers. While it's okay to let them know that we don't, it's also paramount that we let them know that they are safe, they are loved, and they are precious. And we need to do it every single day.
I could go on for days with all of the thoughts I have regarding the evil in this world and how good God is and how in our family, we will always believe that He has a better place prepared for us that evil cannot touch, and how ready I am for His Son to return and bring us there. Hallelujah! But I'll go ahead and close with something I wrote, which was my Facebook status yesterday.
"Christmas presents already bought that will now never be opened. Holiday travel plans that will now become funeral plans. A parent's focus on dreams of their child's future that will now become a focus on precious memories of their child's past. Men and women whose dedication to educating children turned this morning to defending and protecting those same kids as they sacrificed their own lives to do it. There are no answers, there is no reasoning it out. Life is random and brutal and precious, and every moment of it is a gift. When you can't make something right in your head, make sure you are right within your heart. May God comfort the children, staff and families of Sandy Hook."
Sparkly and Blessed Kisses,
D
The parents of those children did the exact same thing I did yesterday morning before they went to school. A hurried morning of breakfast, getting dressed, finding coats, loading into the car, joining the drop off line, quick kisses, telling them, "I love you", "Have a great day", "See you after school", all the while taking for granted that those words would come true, and never imagining for a moment they could be my last ones to my precious kids.
I, along with all of you, was blessed enough that those words came true. My kids, blissfully unaware of what happened at an elementary school in CT, came tumbling out of their elementary school with smiles and chatter and excitement that it was Friday and a weekend full of Holiday fun was in store. I soaked in every bit of their exuberance and innocence.
I was keeping a friend's kids after school as well, and I took all four of them to the local convenience store for a junkfest. Ice cream cones, donuts, slushies, whatever they wanted. Then after dinner, my kids and my daughter's friend, who was sleeping over, crammed into my bed for a "Duck Dynasty" marathon. What would pass for a normal Friday night at our house yesterday became extraordinary to me.
Twenty sets of parents and seven families of teachers who would never again have a "normal" Friday night. For them, "who we are" became "who we were" in an instant. Eventually, they will find a way to go on, but they will never be the same.
I don't have the answers to all of the questions that are being asked right now. I don't know why. I don't know how. I don't know what can be done. Evil has existed in this world since the beginning of man. But so has hope. And faith. And love. These three things can triumph over evil every time.
If you let what happened make you bitter and unforgiving, evil wins. If you let it make you combative and turn the events into a political argument, evil wins. If when your kids ask questions about the shooting, you shut them down and refuse to talk about it, evil wins.
How do hope, faith and love prevail? You start by counting your blessings. Every day. Big ones, small ones, unexpected ones, long-standing ones. You understand in your heart and teach your children that while evil things are done, they don't change who we are and what we believe. We know that we aren't supposed to have all the answers because we are not omnipotent. God is. We are supposed to lean on Him in times of sorrow and confusion and when we're angry.
Our kids are watching us all the time. They do think we have all the answers. While it's okay to let them know that we don't, it's also paramount that we let them know that they are safe, they are loved, and they are precious. And we need to do it every single day.
I could go on for days with all of the thoughts I have regarding the evil in this world and how good God is and how in our family, we will always believe that He has a better place prepared for us that evil cannot touch, and how ready I am for His Son to return and bring us there. Hallelujah! But I'll go ahead and close with something I wrote, which was my Facebook status yesterday.
"Christmas presents already bought that will now never be opened. Holiday travel plans that will now become funeral plans. A parent's focus on dreams of their child's future that will now become a focus on precious memories of their child's past. Men and women whose dedication to educating children turned this morning to defending and protecting those same kids as they sacrificed their own lives to do it. There are no answers, there is no reasoning it out. Life is random and brutal and precious, and every moment of it is a gift. When you can't make something right in your head, make sure you are right within your heart. May God comfort the children, staff and families of Sandy Hook."
Sparkly and Blessed Kisses,
D
Friday, December 14, 2012
My Thoughts on: Shopping with Nana
Nana is my mom. She's not who you generally picture when you hear the word Nana. She does sew and bake, but she also plays a mean game of Twister and rocked some black leather pants at her 50th high school reunion. And she also likes to shop like no one I have ever met or will meet.
Some of my most prevalent memories of my mom from my childhood aren't of us going to the park, the library or the zoo but of going to Kmart, Venture and JC Penney's catalogue store. Kmart and Venture weren't too bad, unless she had a return to make. (I'll get to returns in a minute.)
Kmart meant a drop off in the toy department while she shopped (it was the 70s folks) and an Icee on the way out if we were "good". Which I guess meant my older brother and I didn't shoplift or spill each other's blood all over the Weebles display.
For some reason Venture (just like Kmart for those of you not familiar with that particular retailer) did not include a drop off in the toy department, but it DID include a few donut holes (they had a bakery right at the entrance) that my mom doled out along our way to my brother and me through the store if we kept our hands on the cart and off of each other.
As an aside, if you've met my older brother Hotay (his childhood nickname and pronounced HOE-Tay), you will know that all fighting was instigated by him, and I was always just defending myself. We'll save Hotay for another blog as well.
Anyhoo, like I said, Kmart and Venture were cool so long as Moms didn't have a return. If, when we got out of the car at either place, she said, "Deborah, I have a return", I automatically got a twitch in my right eye which would not stop for days. We would enter the store, she would hand me the return, and I would trudge off to the customer service counter like someone who cheated on Weight Watchers all week about to step on the scale for their weekly weigh in. Moms and Hotay would then merrily go along on to do the shopping.
Since, as I have stated, Hotay is my older brother, you may wonder why she didn't send HIM to make the return. Let's clear something up right away. Adult Hotay is an organized, methodical, meticulous dude. Kid Hotay was a hot mess. If given the bag to make the return, he would have ended up sitting in the automotive department chewing gum he got off the floor and with the bag over his head.
As if the return line weren't bad enough at those stores, then there was the JC Penney catalogue store. It was located in the same strip shopping center as TG&Y, a/k/a the "dime store", so that was a kid mecca. We would silently pray as we turned into the center that Moms pull in front of TG&Y and not JCP.
Now you have to remember that back then, there was no internet. JC Penney and Sears put out catalogues each season that doubled as booster seats for the little kids at the dining room table and a weapon if someone broke in your house, and you didn't have time to load your gun.
But even though Moms was on the mailing list for both catalogues and had them at home, did that mean she had made a final decision on her particular purchase that day prior to our arrival, and she could place her order on the little rotary phone at the in-store kiosk, and we could go on our way? You must be kidding.
The saving grace for Hotay and me was that the little kiosks were next to the bath department. We would move the bath mats and towels around on the shelves until we had little cubbies of comfort to nestle into because we KNEW we were going to be there for hours while Moms perused the catalogue trying to make the agonizing decision between the tangerine curtains and the avocado green ones.
If didn't matter if we were hungry, thirsty, had to go to the bathroom, nothing was moving Moms until her order was placed. For hunger she would hand out half a stick of Juicy Fruit gum or a Tic Tac from her purse, for thirst she would direct us to the water fountain, and for the bathroom, she would send us to the restrooms. Me on my own, or with Hotay if he had to go.
I had to stand outside of the men's room door to listen and be The Informer if he started to mess around. Let's face it, putting Hotay in a room without adult supervision and with running water, soap and that cloth towel thingy that looped around and around back in the days before paper towel dispensers and air dryers was just asking for trouble.
To say that all of this had an impact on my shopping rituals and practices as an adult is an understatement. Don't misunderstand, I love clothes, shoes, accessories, home decor, all of it. And I like to shop for it. But I go into any store with a specific purpose, and I can be in and out in thirty minutes. I don't do fitting rooms, if there are more than three people waiting at the check out line, I'm likely to put back whatever I have and leave, and I'd just as soon keep whatever I bought that didn't work out as opposed to having to return it.
So fast forward from my shopping as a kid with Moms to my shopping as an adult with her. Now she's a Nana, and she comes to my town in the burbs of KC from her town in the burbs of Indianapolis to visit the granddarlings about every six weeks or so. And she comes to shop.
Everything is a shopportunity for Nana. Need a belt? She'll shop for it. Need a house? She's on it. Need a pie keeper in red for an 8" pie plate? She's got a coupon for it. She shops in the morning, she shops in the afternoon, the evening, early bird sales, night owl sales, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Just Because it's Friday.
I admit. I'm an enabler. Don't judge me. If you were raised under the influence of a woman with two jewelry armoires and 300+ pairs of shoes, (no, I am NOT kidding), you would know from knee high how to feed a junkie's fix. When I know she's coming for a visit, I start saving the ads for her fave stores that we have in KC and she doesn't in Indy.
Once she's here, we set out. My kids won't go with us anymore. For years they were forced to go with us because they didn't have a choice. Now that they do, as soon as I start a sentence with "Nana and I are going sh...", they cut me off in unison with "No, we're good, we'll stay home, thanks". Such a pity. Too many years of exposure to Nana's shopping excursions have left them jaded and scarred at such a young age.
So Nana and I head out, usually to her Ultra Supreme favorite KC store, the JC Penney Outlet. Now I love me some JCPO as well, but my love is much more efficient. I can do the whole store in thirty minutes, forty-five if I get caught up in a baaaaad line. Yes, the over three people "put the stuff back and leave" rule still applies here, but if you've been to JCPO, you know that three people in line there can be checked out in anywhere from six to eighty-three minutes, depending on how much stuff they have, how many different credit cards they have to try before they have one that isn't declined, and how long it is until the cashier's next break.
At any store she goes to, Nana has to look at everything. Ev-er-y-thing. If she doesn't have a need for something in one of the departments, she knows someone who does. Case in point:
"Mom, why are you looking at pet stuff? The cat's been dead for over ten years"
"Well, I was at Barb So-and-So's house, you know Barb, she was at your brother J's high school graduation open house....(my younger brother J is now in his 30s, married and has a kid, but for the sake of not slowing down the point of the story, sure, I know Barb)....and I noticed they had this tacky plastic water bowl for their dog that had dog paw prints all over it, and these nice stainless steel water bowls are only $2.99, so I thought I'd get it for her dog"
*crickets*
So I hang tough for about an hour, and then I call her (because at this point I've quit tagging along with her around the store and am sitting on a couch in the "Catalog Returns" area of the store with old men dozing on either side of me) and tell her I will be in the car. This spins her into panic mode because she hasn't even been to the fitting room yet, and she needs me to check in with her items that exceed the ten item max and also to be a Clothing Runner.
If you've ever worked clothing retail, you know what this job is. As she tries each item on, one by one they come over the top of the door with comments like, "I need this in a four instead of a six", "I thought I wanted the black, but can you get me the grey instead?" and "See if you can find me such-and-such pants to try on with this blouse. I can't get a feel for if I like the blouse or not in these pants I have on"
As I conclude what is probably the longest blog entry in history, you are probably asking, "Why on God's green earth would you go shopping with her if it involves all of that and if it drives you nuts?" The answer is because I love my mom. She's not going to be with me forever, and there will come a day when she's in heaven, and I'm still here. And I'll drive by one of her favorite stores, and I'll think "I miss her". I don't want "I wish I had spent more time with her when she was here" to be a postscript to that thought.
So when she comes for her next visit, I'll fuel up on caffeine, load my purse with snacks and settle in for a few days of shopping with Nana. And that will be exactly where I want to be.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Some of my most prevalent memories of my mom from my childhood aren't of us going to the park, the library or the zoo but of going to Kmart, Venture and JC Penney's catalogue store. Kmart and Venture weren't too bad, unless she had a return to make. (I'll get to returns in a minute.)
Kmart meant a drop off in the toy department while she shopped (it was the 70s folks) and an Icee on the way out if we were "good". Which I guess meant my older brother and I didn't shoplift or spill each other's blood all over the Weebles display.
For some reason Venture (just like Kmart for those of you not familiar with that particular retailer) did not include a drop off in the toy department, but it DID include a few donut holes (they had a bakery right at the entrance) that my mom doled out along our way to my brother and me through the store if we kept our hands on the cart and off of each other.
As an aside, if you've met my older brother Hotay (his childhood nickname and pronounced HOE-Tay), you will know that all fighting was instigated by him, and I was always just defending myself. We'll save Hotay for another blog as well.
Anyhoo, like I said, Kmart and Venture were cool so long as Moms didn't have a return. If, when we got out of the car at either place, she said, "Deborah, I have a return", I automatically got a twitch in my right eye which would not stop for days. We would enter the store, she would hand me the return, and I would trudge off to the customer service counter like someone who cheated on Weight Watchers all week about to step on the scale for their weekly weigh in. Moms and Hotay would then merrily go along on to do the shopping.
Since, as I have stated, Hotay is my older brother, you may wonder why she didn't send HIM to make the return. Let's clear something up right away. Adult Hotay is an organized, methodical, meticulous dude. Kid Hotay was a hot mess. If given the bag to make the return, he would have ended up sitting in the automotive department chewing gum he got off the floor and with the bag over his head.
As if the return line weren't bad enough at those stores, then there was the JC Penney catalogue store. It was located in the same strip shopping center as TG&Y, a/k/a the "dime store", so that was a kid mecca. We would silently pray as we turned into the center that Moms pull in front of TG&Y and not JCP.
Now you have to remember that back then, there was no internet. JC Penney and Sears put out catalogues each season that doubled as booster seats for the little kids at the dining room table and a weapon if someone broke in your house, and you didn't have time to load your gun.
But even though Moms was on the mailing list for both catalogues and had them at home, did that mean she had made a final decision on her particular purchase that day prior to our arrival, and she could place her order on the little rotary phone at the in-store kiosk, and we could go on our way? You must be kidding.
The saving grace for Hotay and me was that the little kiosks were next to the bath department. We would move the bath mats and towels around on the shelves until we had little cubbies of comfort to nestle into because we KNEW we were going to be there for hours while Moms perused the catalogue trying to make the agonizing decision between the tangerine curtains and the avocado green ones.
If didn't matter if we were hungry, thirsty, had to go to the bathroom, nothing was moving Moms until her order was placed. For hunger she would hand out half a stick of Juicy Fruit gum or a Tic Tac from her purse, for thirst she would direct us to the water fountain, and for the bathroom, she would send us to the restrooms. Me on my own, or with Hotay if he had to go.
I had to stand outside of the men's room door to listen and be The Informer if he started to mess around. Let's face it, putting Hotay in a room without adult supervision and with running water, soap and that cloth towel thingy that looped around and around back in the days before paper towel dispensers and air dryers was just asking for trouble.
To say that all of this had an impact on my shopping rituals and practices as an adult is an understatement. Don't misunderstand, I love clothes, shoes, accessories, home decor, all of it. And I like to shop for it. But I go into any store with a specific purpose, and I can be in and out in thirty minutes. I don't do fitting rooms, if there are more than three people waiting at the check out line, I'm likely to put back whatever I have and leave, and I'd just as soon keep whatever I bought that didn't work out as opposed to having to return it.
So fast forward from my shopping as a kid with Moms to my shopping as an adult with her. Now she's a Nana, and she comes to my town in the burbs of KC from her town in the burbs of Indianapolis to visit the granddarlings about every six weeks or so. And she comes to shop.
Everything is a shopportunity for Nana. Need a belt? She'll shop for it. Need a house? She's on it. Need a pie keeper in red for an 8" pie plate? She's got a coupon for it. She shops in the morning, she shops in the afternoon, the evening, early bird sales, night owl sales, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Just Because it's Friday.
I admit. I'm an enabler. Don't judge me. If you were raised under the influence of a woman with two jewelry armoires and 300+ pairs of shoes, (no, I am NOT kidding), you would know from knee high how to feed a junkie's fix. When I know she's coming for a visit, I start saving the ads for her fave stores that we have in KC and she doesn't in Indy.
Once she's here, we set out. My kids won't go with us anymore. For years they were forced to go with us because they didn't have a choice. Now that they do, as soon as I start a sentence with "Nana and I are going sh...", they cut me off in unison with "No, we're good, we'll stay home, thanks". Such a pity. Too many years of exposure to Nana's shopping excursions have left them jaded and scarred at such a young age.
So Nana and I head out, usually to her Ultra Supreme favorite KC store, the JC Penney Outlet. Now I love me some JCPO as well, but my love is much more efficient. I can do the whole store in thirty minutes, forty-five if I get caught up in a baaaaad line. Yes, the over three people "put the stuff back and leave" rule still applies here, but if you've been to JCPO, you know that three people in line there can be checked out in anywhere from six to eighty-three minutes, depending on how much stuff they have, how many different credit cards they have to try before they have one that isn't declined, and how long it is until the cashier's next break.
At any store she goes to, Nana has to look at everything. Ev-er-y-thing. If she doesn't have a need for something in one of the departments, she knows someone who does. Case in point:
"Mom, why are you looking at pet stuff? The cat's been dead for over ten years"
"Well, I was at Barb So-and-So's house, you know Barb, she was at your brother J's high school graduation open house....(my younger brother J is now in his 30s, married and has a kid, but for the sake of not slowing down the point of the story, sure, I know Barb)....and I noticed they had this tacky plastic water bowl for their dog that had dog paw prints all over it, and these nice stainless steel water bowls are only $2.99, so I thought I'd get it for her dog"
*crickets*
So I hang tough for about an hour, and then I call her (because at this point I've quit tagging along with her around the store and am sitting on a couch in the "Catalog Returns" area of the store with old men dozing on either side of me) and tell her I will be in the car. This spins her into panic mode because she hasn't even been to the fitting room yet, and she needs me to check in with her items that exceed the ten item max and also to be a Clothing Runner.
If you've ever worked clothing retail, you know what this job is. As she tries each item on, one by one they come over the top of the door with comments like, "I need this in a four instead of a six", "I thought I wanted the black, but can you get me the grey instead?" and "See if you can find me such-and-such pants to try on with this blouse. I can't get a feel for if I like the blouse or not in these pants I have on"
As I conclude what is probably the longest blog entry in history, you are probably asking, "Why on God's green earth would you go shopping with her if it involves all of that and if it drives you nuts?" The answer is because I love my mom. She's not going to be with me forever, and there will come a day when she's in heaven, and I'm still here. And I'll drive by one of her favorite stores, and I'll think "I miss her". I don't want "I wish I had spent more time with her when she was here" to be a postscript to that thought.
So when she comes for her next visit, I'll fuel up on caffeine, load my purse with snacks and settle in for a few days of shopping with Nana. And that will be exactly where I want to be.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Thursday, December 13, 2012
My Thoughts on: Duck Dynasty
I wanna be a Robertson. If you haven't seen DD on A&E, then as Uncle Si would say, "You missin' out Jack!". I hadn't even heard of the show until recently. This isn't surprising, as 75% of the shows on TV I've never heard of, and there are a lot of shows I still try and find on TV that, unbeknownst to me, were cancelled years ago.
This isn't because I don't watch TV. I grew up on TV, and most of the lines you hear me quote are from 80s movies and 90s TV shows. You can throw all of the arguments out that you want about TV rotting your brain, making you fat, blah, blah blah, but I've been underweight all my life, and scored a 32 on my ACT (98th %ile TYVM!), so take that logic to the outhouse. Granted, that was over twenty years ago, but there isn't much standardized testing done on forty-year-old housewives.
Back to the Robertsons. I cannot impart to you how much I adore these rednecks. It's not because I want to make fun of them, it's because I GET them. You're probably saying, "Huh? How can she get them? She's a suburban housewife who's into bling and running the PTA". Trust me, if you shove aside the big hair and CZ hoop earrings, you will find that the back of my neck is indeed a little red.
I'm not all 5" heels and party planning. I like to shoot and fish, and I've been rootin', stumpin', clogging, to turkey shoots, hollerin' contests, redneck races (these involve lawn mowers instead of cars) and more pig pickins that I can count. Rednecks rule, and these guys are a great representation of true country boys.
Rednecks get a bad rap. They're actually ingenious, God-fearing, fun-loving and family-oriented people, and the Robertsons are no exception. Thanks to editing, the show doesn't display much of their faith, but they are solid Christians who founded their duck call business on Christian principles. Yes, they've amassed a lot of wealth, but that's no crime in the Bible if you work hard and honest for it, give God His portion and use it for good, all of which they seem to do.
I'm envious of Korie Robertson. She's married to a redneck and gets to partake in the culture and traditions of redneckdom while living in a 10,000 square foot house in suburbia. She truly has the best of both worlds. She can do some shootin' with the boys in the morning, watch the kids play at the Redneck Water Park in the afternoon, and then put on a dress and some Louboutin heels for dinner at the country club. That's the heat right there!
I'm not naive enough to think that everything on this "reality" show is real. I get that producers manipulate scenes and circumstances, but you can't change who these people truly are. They are all about serving their God, loving their family, hard work and having fun, country-style.
So the next time I find myself down Lou-siana way, I am headed to West Monroe. I hear tell that Duck Headquarters is now the home of a Duck Dynasty gift shop as well. I am going to do my durndest to find some duck bling to take home with me and wear with pride.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
This isn't because I don't watch TV. I grew up on TV, and most of the lines you hear me quote are from 80s movies and 90s TV shows. You can throw all of the arguments out that you want about TV rotting your brain, making you fat, blah, blah blah, but I've been underweight all my life, and scored a 32 on my ACT (98th %ile TYVM!), so take that logic to the outhouse. Granted, that was over twenty years ago, but there isn't much standardized testing done on forty-year-old housewives.
Back to the Robertsons. I cannot impart to you how much I adore these rednecks. It's not because I want to make fun of them, it's because I GET them. You're probably saying, "Huh? How can she get them? She's a suburban housewife who's into bling and running the PTA". Trust me, if you shove aside the big hair and CZ hoop earrings, you will find that the back of my neck is indeed a little red.
I'm not all 5" heels and party planning. I like to shoot and fish, and I've been rootin', stumpin', clogging, to turkey shoots, hollerin' contests, redneck races (these involve lawn mowers instead of cars) and more pig pickins that I can count. Rednecks rule, and these guys are a great representation of true country boys.
Rednecks get a bad rap. They're actually ingenious, God-fearing, fun-loving and family-oriented people, and the Robertsons are no exception. Thanks to editing, the show doesn't display much of their faith, but they are solid Christians who founded their duck call business on Christian principles. Yes, they've amassed a lot of wealth, but that's no crime in the Bible if you work hard and honest for it, give God His portion and use it for good, all of which they seem to do.
I'm envious of Korie Robertson. She's married to a redneck and gets to partake in the culture and traditions of redneckdom while living in a 10,000 square foot house in suburbia. She truly has the best of both worlds. She can do some shootin' with the boys in the morning, watch the kids play at the Redneck Water Park in the afternoon, and then put on a dress and some Louboutin heels for dinner at the country club. That's the heat right there!
I'm not naive enough to think that everything on this "reality" show is real. I get that producers manipulate scenes and circumstances, but you can't change who these people truly are. They are all about serving their God, loving their family, hard work and having fun, country-style.
So the next time I find myself down Lou-siana way, I am headed to West Monroe. I hear tell that Duck Headquarters is now the home of a Duck Dynasty gift shop as well. I am going to do my durndest to find some duck bling to take home with me and wear with pride.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
My Thoughts on: McDonald's
Generally speaking, I'm not a fan. Except for their fries. And egg nog milkshakes. And $1.99 Happy Meal Nights on Tuesdays. Because that makes it just a dumb idea to cook dinner at home when you can feed the entire family at Mickey D's cheaper than you can if you cook. Well, if the Hubby were to skip dinner. And you're willing to choke down a Happy Meal yourself and listen to your kids argue over who's going to get your toy. But I digress.
Here's what I mainly can't stand about the Home of the Golden Arches. Their drive "thru". First of all, the name itself is a complete misrepresentation of what actually goes on. You never "drive through". You drive up to the order speaker and slowly and carefully request two Happy Meals. Here's how I do it:
"I would like TWO Happy Meals. *Long Pause* The first one is chicken nuggets, *LP* NO sauce, *LP* ALL fries, NO apples, *LP* chocolate milk, *LP* and a GIRL toy.
*Extra LP*
The second one is a hamburger with MUSTARD ONLY, *LP* ALL fries, NO apples, *LP* chocolate milk, *LP* and a boy toy"
Now you can make little snarky judgments about the nutritional content of what I ordered, but a) I'm at McDonald's. If I were concerned about clearing out my kids' colons, I would make 'em a bowl of Kashi for dinner and call it done. And b) my kids have about 11% body fat between the two of them. Childhood obesity will never be an issue in our home. Moving on.
The order seems pretty simple and straight forward, right? Notsomuch. Nine times out of ten, I am handed two chocolate milks and asked to pull forward and park. Park? Wait a minute. It's the DRIVE THRU, not the Drive & Park. If that's what I were looking for, I'd go to friggin' Sonic. And I only ordered two Happy Meals, not dinner for a football team. What's the dealio?
So the passive-aggressive chick that sometimes drives my car pulls up just far enough for it to be considered "pulling up", but not far enough so that any cars behind me can get around. Why? Why would I do that? This is not my first rodeo folks. If I pull up far enough so that the drive "thru" line can keep flowing, my car becomes invisible to anyone in a McDonald's uniform, and I'm not getting our food until the Boy Child is old enough to drive us home.
If you block the drive thru, NOW you're going to see some hustle! And the hustle doesn't stop when they dash the two bags of food out to you. Here is the critical play; take only ONE bag of food from the food runner, not both. If you take both, they will dash back inside, and when you look in the bag and see that they screwed up the order (because 88.6% of the time they will), you are forced to go inside after them. By taking only one bag, you look inside, spot the mess up right away, and send food runner back inside to correct it.
Now they are moving in triple time because people behind you are becoming apoplectic and honking their horns. I just turn up the radio and start to sing along. If the kids ask why people are honking, tell them that at 6:12pm on the second Tuesday of the month, everyone is supposed to honk their car horns to simulate a traffic emergency. Then honk your own horn while talking with your kids about what you would do in the event of an actual traffic emergency. By this time, your order is fixed, and you're finally on your way.
Why do I bother? Is it really worth getting a cheap dinner for the kids and not having to cook? Yes. Because when I say that they are getting McD on any given Tuesday night, I am hailed as a hero like none other. There is jubilation in the halls of our home, and I am showered with hugs and kisses and praises of being the "best mom in the whole world".
Some moms earn this distinction because they have really done something extraordinary. My kids are easily bought, and I'm milkin' that ride for as long as I can. So I'll see you in the McD drive "thru" lane next Tuesday.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Here's what I mainly can't stand about the Home of the Golden Arches. Their drive "thru". First of all, the name itself is a complete misrepresentation of what actually goes on. You never "drive through". You drive up to the order speaker and slowly and carefully request two Happy Meals. Here's how I do it:
"I would like TWO Happy Meals. *Long Pause* The first one is chicken nuggets, *LP* NO sauce, *LP* ALL fries, NO apples, *LP* chocolate milk, *LP* and a GIRL toy.
*Extra LP*
The second one is a hamburger with MUSTARD ONLY, *LP* ALL fries, NO apples, *LP* chocolate milk, *LP* and a boy toy"
Now you can make little snarky judgments about the nutritional content of what I ordered, but a) I'm at McDonald's. If I were concerned about clearing out my kids' colons, I would make 'em a bowl of Kashi for dinner and call it done. And b) my kids have about 11% body fat between the two of them. Childhood obesity will never be an issue in our home. Moving on.
The order seems pretty simple and straight forward, right? Notsomuch. Nine times out of ten, I am handed two chocolate milks and asked to pull forward and park. Park? Wait a minute. It's the DRIVE THRU, not the Drive & Park. If that's what I were looking for, I'd go to friggin' Sonic. And I only ordered two Happy Meals, not dinner for a football team. What's the dealio?
So the passive-aggressive chick that sometimes drives my car pulls up just far enough for it to be considered "pulling up", but not far enough so that any cars behind me can get around. Why? Why would I do that? This is not my first rodeo folks. If I pull up far enough so that the drive "thru" line can keep flowing, my car becomes invisible to anyone in a McDonald's uniform, and I'm not getting our food until the Boy Child is old enough to drive us home.
If you block the drive thru, NOW you're going to see some hustle! And the hustle doesn't stop when they dash the two bags of food out to you. Here is the critical play; take only ONE bag of food from the food runner, not both. If you take both, they will dash back inside, and when you look in the bag and see that they screwed up the order (because 88.6% of the time they will), you are forced to go inside after them. By taking only one bag, you look inside, spot the mess up right away, and send food runner back inside to correct it.
Now they are moving in triple time because people behind you are becoming apoplectic and honking their horns. I just turn up the radio and start to sing along. If the kids ask why people are honking, tell them that at 6:12pm on the second Tuesday of the month, everyone is supposed to honk their car horns to simulate a traffic emergency. Then honk your own horn while talking with your kids about what you would do in the event of an actual traffic emergency. By this time, your order is fixed, and you're finally on your way.
Why do I bother? Is it really worth getting a cheap dinner for the kids and not having to cook? Yes. Because when I say that they are getting McD on any given Tuesday night, I am hailed as a hero like none other. There is jubilation in the halls of our home, and I am showered with hugs and kisses and praises of being the "best mom in the whole world".
Some moms earn this distinction because they have really done something extraordinary. My kids are easily bought, and I'm milkin' that ride for as long as I can. So I'll see you in the McD drive "thru" lane next Tuesday.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Random Reflections on: Life in General
If they don't have the presidential election called by midnight Eastern time, all votes are thrown out, and we go to the lightning round. They use real lightning, and the last one standing is president. Seriously. I think it's in the constitution. If not, it should be. And the electoral college is stupid. Just putting that out there.
-Three hours into deep cleaning my house, and it occurs to me that Glade needs to give up on scents like "Hawaiian Rain" and "Sunrise Meadow" or whatever. What moms really want is one called "Clorox and Pledge" so folks think we just finished cleaning. That way we are spared the time and trouble of actually doing it only to, within two hours, have the house looking again like a campground overtaken by raccoons.
-It will forever remain a mystery to me why three people who sleep like they are in a medically induced coma bother setting alarms. From 6:00 AM to 7:00 AM each day, it sounds like I have a fleet of construction vehicles backing up around my house.
-In case you haven't been on FB today, let me catch you up...
-Midwest meteorologists have been diligently checking their Magic 8 balls all day and now know with a degree of certainty that there WILL be an ice storm sometime between Sunday morning and the end of winter 2018.
-The Chiefs game was changed to Sunday evening, and everyone you know who gloated about having tickets is now selling them for $3 and will take cash, a bad check or some Great Clips coupons in trade for them.
-Kansas City is out of bread, milk, generators, chips and beer.
-Everybody thinks everybody else in this town is crazy.
-Everybody in warmer climates thinks we all are.
-They are right.
-Target is giving out five dollar coupons this week if you try on one of their swimsuits. All I can tell you in hindsight is that it should've been a shot of Fireball instead.
-When you're trying to get excited about Valentine's Day, but you're not so much hearts and flowers as you are chips and queso.
-When you're fasting dairy, sugar and alcohol, the devil don't need to take you to the desert to tempt you, honey. Sam's Club will do the trick all by itself. I would also like to publicly apologize to the nice lady in the bakery department for knocking that sample of French silk out of her hand, making the sign of the cross with two baguettes, and telling her, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" In my defense, it was National Pie Day, and I was feeling an added layer of pressure.
-I have to put it out there that if you text me, and I immediately respond, and you don't respond right back, I'm going to be concerned about your fate. You've now got me thinking that:
a) You've been abducted, and your initial text contains some sort of a clue to your whereabouts that I can't decipher, and now your captor has taken your phone away.
b) You were texting while driving and one of your kids called you out on it and has taken your phone away.
c) You ate a ham sandwich when you were texting me, the dog smelled the meat on the phone and has taken your phone away.
-Three hours into deep cleaning my house, and it occurs to me that Glade needs to give up on scents like "Hawaiian Rain" and "Sunrise Meadow" or whatever. What moms really want is one called "Clorox and Pledge" so folks think we just finished cleaning. That way we are spared the time and trouble of actually doing it only to, within two hours, have the house looking again like a campground overtaken by raccoons.
-It will forever remain a mystery to me why three people who sleep like they are in a medically induced coma bother setting alarms. From 6:00 AM to 7:00 AM each day, it sounds like I have a fleet of construction vehicles backing up around my house.
-In case you haven't been on FB today, let me catch you up...
-Midwest meteorologists have been diligently checking their Magic 8 balls all day and now know with a degree of certainty that there WILL be an ice storm sometime between Sunday morning and the end of winter 2018.
-The Chiefs game was changed to Sunday evening, and everyone you know who gloated about having tickets is now selling them for $3 and will take cash, a bad check or some Great Clips coupons in trade for them.
-Kansas City is out of bread, milk, generators, chips and beer.
-Everybody thinks everybody else in this town is crazy.
-Everybody in warmer climates thinks we all are.
-They are right.
-Target is giving out five dollar coupons this week if you try on one of their swimsuits. All I can tell you in hindsight is that it should've been a shot of Fireball instead.
-When you're trying to get excited about Valentine's Day, but you're not so much hearts and flowers as you are chips and queso.
-When you're fasting dairy, sugar and alcohol, the devil don't need to take you to the desert to tempt you, honey. Sam's Club will do the trick all by itself. I would also like to publicly apologize to the nice lady in the bakery department for knocking that sample of French silk out of her hand, making the sign of the cross with two baguettes, and telling her, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" In my defense, it was National Pie Day, and I was feeling an added layer of pressure.
-I have to put it out there that if you text me, and I immediately respond, and you don't respond right back, I'm going to be concerned about your fate. You've now got me thinking that:
a) You've been abducted, and your initial text contains some sort of a clue to your whereabouts that I can't decipher, and now your captor has taken your phone away.
b) You were texting while driving and one of your kids called you out on it and has taken your phone away.
c) You ate a ham sandwich when you were texting me, the dog smelled the meat on the phone and has taken your phone away.
Unless you are Marty Keaton-Ferren texting me. Then it is always:
d) You noticed when you were texting me that a picture was crooked and, while fixing it, decided that the whole wall needed a new look and left your phone behind when you went to IKEA.
d) You noticed when you were texting me that a picture was crooked and, while fixing it, decided that the whole wall needed a new look and left your phone behind when you went to IKEA.
-What if you were to get hot walking to Target, so when you arrived, you unzipped your hoodie and started to take it off. And remembered you didn't have a tank top on. And were wearing a nursing sports bra. Because it's laundry day, and it's the only one you had left that was clean. And you're not sure why you still even possess it since you have not nursed a child in over 10 years. I'm not saying this happened to me. I'm just stating that, hypothetically, that would really suck.
-So the question of the weekend seems to be, "Get any water in your basement?" Honey, please. I live in a house that is almost 70 years old with a stone foundation. Somebody dumps a cooler in my front yard, I got water in the basement. You want a house with history? At least five fans and a dehumidifier gonna go along with that package. It's how we do.
-Front yard kid baseball is 20% batting, 20% pitching and 60% looking for the ball in the bushes.
-You might have OCD too if you totally get why I bristled with pride when the cashier complimented me on how well my items were sorted, organized and aligned on the check out conveyor. If you think that's odd and a little sad, you most likely don't. And yes, I probably was the one who rearranged your medicine cabinet without your knowledge when I used the restroom at your house
-It was pointed out to me that 2015 is year twenty-five since I graduated from SMN. It's also year twenty since I walked the hill at KU (I was on the five year plan), my eldest will become a teenager this year, my youngest hits double digits, and I am spending more time each month on gray hair plucking and goatee prevention. (My dark haired sisters over forty are raising their tweezers in solidarity with me on that one.)
BUT. I can plank for two minutes, go from headstand to pike (Google it) like a boss, still outrun both of my kids (and my hubby, for that matter), and I got hit on by a 22 year old this week. (Yes, he was sober, and yes, I asked him how old he was. Freely disclosed that I am married, but not that I am old enough to be his mother. Oof.) The important thing to remember is that age ain't nothin' but a numba, my friends. Forty-somethings can still be fabulous, and none of the extremely dumb crap we did in our teens and 20s will EVER end up on the internet. Unfortunately though, the crap OUR kids pull will. (Maybe if we don't put on our readers to be able to see it, it never really happened?)
-Proofreading before you hit "post" on Facebook is always a great idea. When you're the PTA president, it's essential. By doing so, you are less likely to invite impotent men to the dads' breakfast at school.
-A huge mouthful of cobb salad + a monster sneeze you couldn't stop = something that shouldn't be seen outside of an autopsy suite.
-It may be seventy degrees outside, but I still turn on my heated seats when I get in the car. Part of it is because my butt is cold, but it's mostly just cuz I can. I hated them when I first had them on a car. Made me feel like I was peeing myself. But that was before I had kids, and if you've pushed a couple of pups with heads the size of melons out of your hoo-hah, you kind of unintentionally pee yourself sometimes anyway. Overshare?
-By "Helmets and Shoes Must be Worn At All Times in Batting Cages", I will assume that a fedora and bejewled flip flops are acceptable. Gotta do batting coach for my boy with my own personal sense of style.
-Whenever I'm at the DMV, I always hope that people around me realize that me mumbling to myself is not the rant of a crazy person but the prayers of a woman trying desperately not to be the lead story on the news.
-Saw a guy at Wal-Mart rocking cowboy boots, a toque and a full length mink coat. You're just not going to get that kind of a visual feast outside of NoJoCo kittens.
-One of the upsides to picture perfect weather: eating dinner on the new outdoor patio set. One of the downsides: the assorted neighborhood kids and dogs that can now come right up to your table to see what you're having.
-When I filled out my 2010 census, I managed to fail both the "last name first, first name last" and "how to fold and place census in the envelope" portions. Surprised I never got a follow-up call from the Bureau on how many mentally challenged people reside in the home.
-Had a random dude snap my picture as I was getting a cart at the store. I was left wondering, "Does he think I'm good lookin', or am I about to hit cyberspace on "People of Wal-Mart?"
-I totally support the U.S. Olympic athletes and all their Olympicking, and gosh, well done kids! I also have no shame in admitting that I have not watched ANY of the coverage of the games. Not one minute. Unless you count the GIF of the gymnast girl's parents cringing with anxiety in the stands while she did her routine. Surely someone could cough up a gold medal for THOSE two. They were hilarious and really, waaaay more composed than I would be if my kid were competing. My seat would have to come with a built in potty chair and a flask-shaped cup holder and be between two priests. And I'm not even Catholic.
But don't think for a moment that just because I don't watch the Olympics, that doesn't make a proud American. I have mad respect for how hard those kids train to achieve their dream of competing and repping our country. That's as American as it gets. So get after it y'all, go for the gold, and I'll catch you soon on "Dancing with the Stars". THAT I never miss. Hey, you gots to own who you are.
-Once when it was nine degrees outside, I saw a middle schooler at the bus stop in a hoodie and shorts. Guess it's a good thing Bush didn't make common sense a requirement for No Child Left Behind.
-For anyone who thinks 4" heels are impratical, wear them to Lowe's, & three sales guys will load your cart, your trunk, & one will offer to unload it at your house
-I have noticed that Facebook status updates really slow down when it's rush hour. People really need to do a better job of keeping up with FB while they're driving.
-I am always grateful for my salvation. An additional reason: I have found that besides to giving pedicures to the elderly and caring for vomiting children, cleaning up drywall dust is the third thing I would be forced to do in hell.
-Love that we seem to be on everyone's birthday party guest list, but when you are invited to four parties in one weekend, the party budget is effectively blown for the month. After that, we will be gifting rain bonnets and toothbrushes with our dentist's name on them until the next month.
The Girl Child: Random Reflections Regarding & From
-Giving the Girl Child some lovins before she heads off on a sleepover. She says, "You smell good. You always do when you kiss me goodnight". I ask her what it is that I smell like. She says, "Home".
-If you have/had a teenager, then you get why sometimes it seems like the very act of you breathing is offensive to them. So you can understand why the following exchange with the Girl Child blew me away.
Last night as we are waiting on our ride to her Back to School Night, she randomly says, "You know how a lot of kids feel like their mom, like, yells at them all the time? And, like, doesn't get them and stuff?". I say, "Yes, they probably do". She says, "Well, I think you're really nice and you make me feel like you care about me and that I do a lot of stuff right and make good decisions. So I wanted you to know. Oh. My. Gosh. And now you're crying! See, this is why I can't tell you stuff like that".
I have a feeling the kid's going to hire private security to keep me 100 ft away from her when she graduates to spare her the mortification of being seen with an emotional train wreck. That's okay. The "I Loveheart emoticJulia" t-shirt emblazoned with her senior picture on it that I will be wearing will get the word out. wink emoticonJulia" t-shirt emblazoned with her senior picture on it that I will be wearing will get the word out. Blessed every day to be her mom.
-The Girl Child emerges from her room this morning in a pair of hip hugging shorts and a shirt she has folded under to be a crop top. There is about six inches of midriff showing. I somehow resist my first impulse to rip a living room curtain from the rod and throw it over her. This is our exchange:
Me: "That is not going to work. You need to go back into your closet and try again"
GC: "But I have to wear this. All the 8th grade girls are having a protest today"
Me: "What are they protesting? Pole dancing not being a unit in P.E.?"
GC: "I don't even know what that means"
Me: "Which tells me that Daddy and I are effectively doing our job. Go. Change."
Pardon me whilst I go and pluck 26 newly sprouted grey hairs.
-There are an infinite number of reasons why I admire the Girl Child, and the fact that she has 100x more self-confidence that I did at her age is just one of them. Now that she is in middle school, I asked her if she wanted to learn how to put on make up and shave her legs. She declined both offers, saying she doesn't need make up, and her blond hairy legs don't bother her a bit. I told her the decision was totally up to her and that I only started doing both when I was her age because I was getting interested in boys. Her reply? "Yeah, well, they must have been a lot more mature in middle school back in the 80s because there is no way I'm going out with any of the boys at my school". Love. Her. Guts.
-Waiting for the kids after school in the circle drive, and I have the music in the car cranked up to match my ebullient mood. The Girl Child is the first to arrive and says, "OH. MY. GOSH. You need. To turn. That down. RIGHT NOW!!!". (My experience with having a tween thus far is that they believe their parents are both hard of hearing and incapable of digesting spoken sentences more than two words at a time.) I refuse, and she exits the vehicle because, although (as I point out to her) no one can see her through the tinted windows in the back, "EVERYONE knows. That you're. MY MOM!!". She tosses, "You. Are. So. EMBARRASSING!!" over her shoulder as she leaves. And so it begins...
-A sign that your sixth grader (along with the rest of the fam) needs to up their game now that Mommy has gone back to work:
(entering the Girl Child's room)
Me: "Jules, good grief, why don't you run the vacuum in here?"
Girl Child: (stares blankly at me) "I don't know where we keep the vacuum"
Clearly, we have a ways to go here.
-At age ten, the Girl Child has beauty, brains, and many talents and abilities. One of them is signing "The Star Spangled Banner" in seven different keys. At the same time. Loudly.
-Listening to the Girl Child proudly play her Beginning Strings pieces on her violin for me warms my heart. It also reminds me that a good parent can keep an encouraging smile convincingly plastered on their face even while their ears are bleeding.
-The Girl Child came home from school one day and proudly announced, "Today at school, we created class jobs for ourselves. I am The Organizer. I make sure that everyone puts everything away EXACTLY where it is supposed to go on the shelves and in the cubbies, and I keep everything organized and neat". If you know me well, you know why this made my uterus ache with pride!
-Answered the phone earlier to hear a fourth grade boy's voice say, "Hello Mrs. Rushing! May I speak to your daughter please?" My whaaa? Who? I stammered something along the lines that she "wasn't available". He has called back four more times in the last two hours. Apparently I needed to clarify with the lad that she is not available for at least SIX MORE YEARS! I am soooooo not ready for this.
-Challenge of the day: replace one of the Girl Child's pet mice that is now running on the big wheel in the sky, and hope that she doesn't notice the difference when she gets home from school. Anyone want to place odds?
-GC: "We made gingerbread men ornaments today at school, but I made a ginger-fashionista instead. She has high heels, a pink dress and is covered in glitter" *mommy sparkle tear*"
-Snippet of convo from the family at dinner:
GC: "And then on Victorious, Tori blah blah blah, and on Ant Farm blah blah, and on Austin and Ally..."
Hubby to me: "I think she's watching too much Disney Channel"
Me: "It's 5 degrees outside. What do you want from me?"
Hubby: "Good point. Carry on."
-Quite the moment of maternal pride. The Girl Child has been under my careful tutelage for years honing her bargain-hunting acumen. Took her to one of my fave discount stores in search of a blouse for me. She asks the specs of the hunt, prowls and comes up with a blouse in the exact shade I want with the dept. store tag still on it: $100, our price: $3 *sparkle tear* Well done young samaurai, well done!
-Girl Child told her dad she wanted to see a movie that was scary. He turned on "Poltergeist" for her. He doesn't see a problem, and was fairly amazed by my ability to run the 18 ft from the kitchen sink to the TV in three steps.
-GC helped BC do his math homework and reading, signed his homework sheet, and put everything back in his backpack. Man, I love that girl.
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