Well Then. SB50 Made Hubs Proud.

So… I guess there was a big game or something yesterday?

Something about… what?  Football?  And I think there were new commercials and Lady Gaga belting out the National Anthem like a boss, and then there was confetti spraying everywhere, everywhere, EVERY STINKING WHERE at the end of the game.


That’s right.

The Denver Broncos won the Super Bowl, and I’m not sure that Hubs’ adrenaline ever reached a low enough point last night that he could achieve a resting heart rate or settle into REM.  I think he was still smiling and cheering and yelling out, “IT’S A BRONCO FIRST DOWN!” while he slept.

We hosted a tiny little party at our house, which involved friends and pizza and chips and dips and sugary drinks and cupcakes and chocolate-dipped pretzels, and then Heather felt like she should bring a veggie tray, which was fine, because we simply dunked all those broccoli florets and baby carrots in ranch salad dressing, so they wouldn’t feel like healthy outcasts.  Of course, nobody could quite figure out why their digestive systems were all tied up in knots and struggling two hours later, or why BLOATED became everyone’s middle name, but so be it.

The Broncos won the Super Bowl, and ain’t nobody wanted to celebrate that with a plate of steamed cauliflower and tofu.  Every now and then it’s okay to completely sabotage your blood sugar levels.

In other, non-football news, the rest of our weekend shook down just fine.

The boy has played the clarinet in the school band since the 6th grade, and he likes it.  He’s musical, times one thousand.  Hubs and I have no idea where he got the gift for playing instruments, considering that Hubs’ only real memory of band in high school was the year he blew box elder bugs out of his trumpet, and the teacher asked him to put it away and GET OUT OF HIS CLASS.  That’s pretty much when Hubs gave up band in school and added another PE class to his schedule.  I played the violin in grade school and junior high.  By my freshman year, I finally admitted to myself that I never did understand flats and sharps.  Like… at all.  I’d been involved in orchestra for five years, and I still couldn’t look at a page of music and know what notes were going to be played sharp-like, and which notes were gonna fall flat.  I felt like this was something a girl should know, if she was going to go on and be in a symphony… so I made a quiet exit from playing the violin in school… and took another English class.

Apparently, Hubs and I were both looking to replace our music programs with an Easy A.

But the boy?  Well, goodness.  He can rock the piano better than Elton John is capable of doing, and he can blast that clarinet like he was born holding it.  He understands sharps and flats and understands what it means when the conductor hollers out that they’re going to dump the augmented seventh chord and go all jazz hands.

Yes.  But can he diagram a sentence, like an old-school pro?

The boy adores his piano and the clarinet, but what he is not overly fond of is pep band.

Pep band plays at the big football and basketball games at the high school.  All of the band members sit together, and they follow the teacher’s lead to whip out small sections of We Will Rock You and Eye of the Tiger and We Ain’t Gonna Take It.

(It’s been difficult for me to admit, but all of Hubs’ favorite songs from high school have become sports anthems; Rick Springfield didn’t end up with a single song that’s belted out between periods at hockey games.)


The boy is not crazy about pep band, because it involves him wearing his band shirt and sitting with… well… THE BAND, when where he wants to sit is in the student section, where he can hang out with his buddies.  We’ve told him to follow Nike’s lead and just do it, but he seems to think flunking band will hurt his chances of getting in to Harvard.

Listen, Son.  Your dad seldom showed up to anything band-related, as he saw the F as an acceptable compromise to taking what you had to take, when you wanted to do something different than what the trumpet section was actually doing.  And yes, Grammy and Papa were probably irritated, but your dad turned out okay.

The boy, who is obviously more mature than both of his parents, just rolls his eyeballs and declares, “Mom, I’m not flunking band to hang out with my friends.  I’ll go play at the basketball game.”

And then I chalk one up for that little gem called Reverse Psychology.

And that’s just a long-winded bit of writing to say that the boy wasn’t keen about watching the high school basketball team take on Rival Town from the band section, but he did it anyway on Friday night.

Harvard will be lucky to have our child.

Hubs and I both skipped the basketball games on Friday, even though… yes!  RIVAL TOWN WAS HERE!!  WHO skips the game when it’s Rival Town?!!  Thing 2 was hot a mess of exhausted, because he hadn’t slept well the night before, and because he and I had pushed our gearshift into overdrive on Friday and played hard together.  Playlands and sweat and also the great outdoors and running were all involved.  By 5:15, Thing 2 had already fallen asleep in his carseat in the Suburban, and I had to work my magic to wake him up while I was driving.

(Oh, people.  It involved pulling over and shaking him awake.  I value my children and never turn sideways in my seat to face the back while I’ve got the gearshift engaged in DRIVE.)

I don’t know how far removed you are from parenting a preschooler, but ain’t no parent out there got time for a kid to nap at 5:15 PM.  You might as well just slap bedtime sideways and give up.

By 7 PM, I had Thing 2 tucked in his very own bed, sound asleep, and Hubs and I were in our pajama pants, watching The Goldbergs on Hulu.  I believe the phrase you’re searching for is WILD AND CRAZY NIGHT.

11949140_650582561745796_9024908321405654720_nOur Saturday was less exciting.

Hubs and I took Thing 2 to see the new Kung Fu Panda movie at the theater.  He was all over his own miniature box of popcorn and tiny 7-Up, and then listen:  The bad guy in the movie was a bull with glowing green eyes that seemed to have a whole lot of evil going on inside of him, and our little man DONE.

He kept hiding his eyes and telling everyone in the theater, “I don’t like that guy!  I don’t like that cow at all!  I want that cow to go away!”

(Yes.  Thing 2 is a disgrace to all the ranchers in our community, as he called a bull a cow.  We’re working on his Animal Identification Program.)

And that is why we walked out of the movie and came home.  Thanks, Kung Fu Panda.  Your pandas were cute and funny; your bad guy was a little too scary for us.

Alright, people.  I think I’m rambling now, so I’ll just wrap things up and put you out of your misery now, but HEY!

DID YOU HEAR THAT THE DENVER BRONCOS WON THE SUPER BOWL?!  Oh, yes,  ma’am… they surely did.  I’ve got the digestive issues from all the junk food to prove it today.


“When the Broncos are in the Super Bowl, Mom doesn’t make us wear jeans and buttons to church.  We get to wear jerseys and sweatpants!”

IMG_8327It’s noon, on Super Bowl Sunday.

Here’s to hoping that everyone at our house is still grinning late tonight!

Boy Moms, Unite!

Being a Boy Mom means that my game plan always needs to consist of DON’T BE SURPRISED AT WHAT YOUR OPPONENT THROWS AT YOU.

Surprise is a weakness.  Moms who widen their eyes and gasp a little seldom become varsity starters.

I’ve found dead frogs in my freezer over the years.  I’ve had worms in my refrigerator.  I’ve found a Darth Vader action figure taped to the inside of the dryer.  I’ve dusted around snake skins, elk teeth and a fully-intact mouse skeleton that was the coveted prize uncovered from an owl pellet.

Just yesterday morning, I picked up a mug off the boy’s bookcase in his room, that seemed to be half full of tea.

It had been there for a while. The tea stains were severe and dust was floating in it.  I threw the sludge down the sink, used an SOS scrubbing pad to get the tea rings out of the cup, and popped the whole thing into the dishwasher.

Last night, the boy came hollering into the kitchen, where I was laboring over dinner preparations, asking, “WHERE IS THE CUP OF TEA THAT WAS SITTING ON MY BOOKCASE?”

As it turns out, that was a private science experiment that wasn’t sanctioned by the school.  I would have hated explaining THAT to the biology teacher.

“Um… yeah… so I threw the science experiment down the sink and washed the mug.  I had no paperwork filed for a permit to turn tea into mold on the premises.”

Every now and then, I run across something that Thing 2 has left behind, as well.

For example, I’m sure that Girl Mothers — who have never had the privilege of sitting at a dinner table to outrageous laughter over escaped gas that squealed across a wooden dining room chair — would look at the shelf in my refrigerator and exclaim, “Goodness!  What on earth do we have going on here?”

I’d be all, “What?  Are we out of milk again?  Dang it!  I JUST BOUGHT THAT CARTON YESTERDAY!”


Because… really?  Other than the fact that the shelf is empty (Get some groceries, why don’t you?), I don’t always notice the issue that mamas of all girls would immediately see.

Sometimes I don’t even notice things until I go to plug the hose on our central vacuum cleaner into the little spring-loaded door in the wall.


If I’m missing my stapler, it’s always bound to show up somewhere in the house…


And… I won’t lie.  We go through lotion at ridiculous rates in this house.  I mean, I KNOW that my winter skin is as pasty as Elmer’s glue and dry as the back of a lizard running through the Arizona desert, but sometimes I have a little help getting to the bottom of a bottle of Gold Bond moisturizing goop.

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Honestly, though, I’d rather run across a tanker truck hauling lotion than a deceased amphibian being preserved in my freezer.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.  The weekend is coming.

The Blizzard Of ’16 Was A Bust

Well, the Blizzard of ’16 didn’t amount to much.

Oh, I suppose if you lived in… say… DALLAS, the six inches of fresh snow that we got overnight would’ve meant something.  Schools would’ve closed, the city government would’ve shut down and everyone wearing pajama pants wouldn’t have been able to make it to Walmart.  Here, however… in Small Town, USA… six inches of new snow just meant that we had to haul the snowblower out before school, and everyone knew to reduce their traffic speeds by approximately four miles per hour.

I believe the phrase you’re looking for is SEASONED WINTER SURVIVOR.

Our poor kids were all greatly disappointed to wake up this morning and not hear the beloved words upon the radio stations:  SCHOOL HAS BEEN CANCELLED.  Our kids are tough, though, and they all know by first grade if you’re going to get a Snow Day, the good Lord above is going to have to pair BIG WIND with SIX INCHES OF SNOW ACCUMULATION.  Without the wind being factored in, even the smallest Honda hatchback can get them to their first-hour class on time.

Of course, the little bit of snow that we did get just assured me that I wouldn’t be trapped at home with drifts over the front door… WITHOUT ENOUGH COFFEE TO LAST BEYOND FOUR DAYS.  If the kids can get to school, I can get to the grocery store for Folgers’ Black Silk in a K-cup.

When Thing 2 woke up this morning and realized that there was new snow to shovel, he was every bit as excited as any other child would’ve been, had school gotten the shepherd’s hook for the day.  Thing 2 LOVES the shoveling.  He loves it like it’s donuts with sprinkles on Christmas morning.  He raced around our house, yanking on his coat and mittens, because LET’S NOT WASTE ANOTHER PRECIOUS MOMENT THAT COULD BE DEVOTED TO SHOVELING!  LET’S GO!

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Of course, sometimes a preschooler can’t resist the song of the snow angel, even if he’s just wearing his Santa pajamas beneath his coat.


The boy was nowhere near as excited about shoveling as Thing 2 was.  In fact, I believe that there was wailing and gnashing of teeth and ripping of the sackcloth when the boy woke up and heard the news:

Snow.  Shoveling.

By the time he had finally blinked the sleepy out of his eyes and made it outside, I was already inside, putting the camera away.  Of course, the boy is fifteen now and avoids my camera at all costs these days, so I have MORE SNOW SHOVELING SNAPSHOTS, from a couple of weeks ago.

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Poor Dallas misses out on so much.  They’ll never understand the concept of wearing thick snowpants (or even just Santa PJs) and digging into the manual labor of snow removal first thing in the morning.


Y’all have a good Tuesday evening.

That Time The Blizzard Was Coming And I Forgot To Buy Coffee

I think this is where the opening sentence would go, if I… say… actually HAD an opening sentence tonight. I’ve just been sitting here, staring at the laptop’s screen, trying to invent something clever to type.  I guess you could say that my efforts weren’t overly productive, because I just realized that I’ve somehow managed to lose nearly fifteen minutes, and I was mentally writing my PE lesson plans for tomorrow, instead of focusing on topic sentences.

(They’re lesson plans that won’t involve dodgeball, because the post-traumatic stress that I feel from all the dodgeball tattlers and cheaters last week is still too fresh in my mind to revisit.)

(I think we’ll run the mile.)

(Or maybe even a 5K.)

(Running always brings children back around to remembering to play nicely with one another.)

Today has been a cold and icy day.  It was a little hard to take this morning, because last week we went through a spell where the weather resembled the onset of spring.  The daily temperatures kept hovering around 55 degrees.  Kids everywhere were tossing their coats into heaps on playgrounds and running wild in their short sleeves, because FIFTY-FIVE!  I know our Texas counterparts were all hunkering down beneath blankets and building fires in fifty-gallon drums, because FIFTY-FIVE.  The birds were out, whistling and contemplating getting nests started, because Mrs. Robin’s biological clock is ticking.  And then boom.  All of our snow melted in the deliciously warm weather this weekend, which froze overnight when our temperatures plummeted and turned the town into an enormous ice skating rink.  The snow arrived mid-morning today, and suddenly Mrs. Robin’s biological clock was telling her she was late for Florida, and that kids could wait.

My biological clock was telling me that, too, as I struggled to push a heavy shopping cart through the rising slop and slush in Walmart’s parking lot, while Thing 2 hollered out his frustrations at having just spent what felt like his entire, formative preschool years strapped into a cart and being told NO!  WE ARE NOT GETTING DONUTS TODAY!  STOP ASKING ME!! approximately four hundred and seventeen times.

Afterward, I had to haul all those groceries inside, in the sloppy snow and the cold.  It’s why Florid was looking powerfully delicious by lunchtime today.

Thankfully, I feel like if this snowstorm turns into the Great Blizzard of ’16, we have enough milk and Keurig coffee packs to last us four entire days.  That would be because my boys drink milk like 400-pound baby calves, and I forgot to buy coffee.  Apparently, all those years I spent in front of Little House on the Prairie after school did nothing to prepare me for heavy snowfall.  Everyone else in Small Town must’ve sat up straight and taken notes when Pa and Ma Ingalls endured the blizzards, because every! single! person! (except for Hubs) was in the supercenter, buying candles and batteries and milk and eggs, and LOOK!  DOES THIS STORE REALLY NOT HAVE THE LIFE-SUSTAINING STAPLE OF INDIVIDUALLY-SIZED KRAFT MAC AND CHEESE CUPS?!  It was true.  There were no “regular noodle” cups to be found.  If I wanted noodles shaped like SpongeBob Squarepants, I was in business.  The only issue with that is the simple fact that my preschooler will not eat noodles that aren’t regular noodles.  SpongeBob noodles and Star Wars noodles and any other noodle novelty will immediately send him into a tailspin that cannot be recovered from… never mind that it’s the exact same recipe, and shape is the only thing separating the cartoon mac and cheese from the generic mac and cheese.

Thing 2 is going to have to knuckle down and survive this blizzard without Kraft’s orange-powdered superfood on his plate.

Hello, food with actual nutrients. 

After Thing 2 and I were back home and unpacked from our grocery-fetching trip, I whipped up a batch of homemade chili and stuffed it into the crockpot.  Nothing feeds the soul at the end of a cold and icy, blizzardy day like your mama’s secret chili recipe.  Also, nothing makes me feel more organized than having dinner inside of a crockpot when 5 PM rolls around.  I feel like I’m a starting center on the All-Star Housewife Team.  June Cleaver would be so proud.

Thankfully, I have one TV Land mother on my side, as Caroline Ingalls is simply shaking her head back and forth with a frown, quietly asking, “How long do you think you can survive without Keurig coffee?  Did I teach you nothing?  Do you not remember how Charles had to tie a rope around his waist to get from the house to the barn, so that he could find his way back in the raging snowstorm?  And do you not remember how we nearly ran out of food?”

Y’all have a fantastic evening.  Stay warm.

And may your pantry be filled with enough coffee to sustain you through this winter storm watch.

The Blog Is Back In Town


It’s all true.

I used to be a girl with a blog, and then I turned into a girl with a broken video card inside of my great big Apple computer, and things went South rapidly, because I didn’t have the strength or fortitude to blog from my phone.  Hubs threw out all kinds of terminology at me, like REPLACE THE VIDEO CARD and BUY A NEW LAPTOP and BUY A NEW DESK COMPUTER and THAT COMES WITH A GIANT SCREEN NOW, FOR YOUR AGING EYEBALLS TO EASILY SEE, but all I heard was DOLLARS, DOLLARS, DOLLARS.

Everyone wants my dollars.

Apparently even the IRS does, because I got a phone call today telling me that I was being sued by the IRS, but if I just stayed on the line and had my social security number ready, an agent could tell me exactly what the claims against me were.  I suspect, had I stayed on the line and waited to speak with a real person, I would have traded my social security number for the conversation that ended with, “We’re so sorry to interrupt your day, ma’am.  We had your number tagged to the wrong person, and you’re not being sued after all,” and then boom!  My checking account would have echoed all the way down to the empty bottom.


Hubs has brought home a laptop from his office for me to use, because they are, after all, a computer company.  If they can’t get a CEO back to work at her blogging empire, no one can.  This laptop is a bit elderly and a bit slow, and I find myself drumming my fingers on the desk as I somewhat patiently wait for things to load, but then I think to myself, “It’s pretty much just like me.”

Because I actually had a birthday yesterday and became a touch older, which now qualifies me as both elderly and slow.  I told all the kids in my PE classes yesterday that I was twenty-eight, and everyone bought it.  To a six-year-old, twenty-eight seems like an age that Medicare would kick in at.  I’m fairly certain that they all believe their grandmothers are twenty-eight.  One of my first graders gasped when I told her that I was twenty-eight. She said, “Oh, man!  I had no idea that you were so old!  I thought you were… like… SIXTEEN!”  She earned herself an A+ in PE for the rest of her stay at our private school, even though she talks nonstop, can’t throw a ball further than four feet, and tells me that PE would be a lot more fun if it was actually called ART.  On the flip side of that, one of my pre-kindergarten boys thought that I was wrinkled enough to be 115 years old.  HE just flunked PE forever.

In honor of my birthday, my lesson plans simply said, DODGEBALL.  Dodgeball for everyone!  You get dodgeball, and you get dodgeball, and we all get dodgeball.  Naturally, this meant that I spent the afternoon listening to, “I hit Timmy, and he’s not going out,” and “I hit Susie, and she told me that I didn’t,” and “Johnny just hit me in the face with the ball,” and “Jane just went back into the game, and nobody on her team even caught the ball so she COULD go back in.”  Listen, people.  Dodgeball brings out the tattletale in every child.

It also brings out the cheating like nobody’s business.  Children are all sin-filled creatures who will shake off a direct hit to the chest and deny that it ever happened in a game of dodgeball.  It all made for a very pleasant day, as we had tears in every single class.  By my fourth class of the day, I was ready to release bees in the gym, just to encourage the kids to scream about something other than dodgeball cheaters.

Anyway, my birthday panned out brilliantly, regardless of sobbing, fighting victims of dodgeball abuse.  What I learned is that you can tell someone you love them with words, or you can show someone you love them with cake and Starbucks.

My birthday was full of cake and good coffee, so I’m going to write it down as a solid win.  Plus, Thing 2 woke us all up early enough to enjoy the sunrise as a family on my birthday.

They were tears of joy that Hubs and I cried.

And now, it’s the day after my birthday, which has got to be the saddest day of the year.  Nobody wants to drop Starbucks gift cards and chunks of rainbow cake in your lap the day after your birthday.  All the fun is over and the birthday train is simply sitting at the station, with no plans of anyone firing up the engine and taking it out for a spin.  Thankfully, Sister kept my birthday rolling just a touch, as she planned an enormous coffee date with a pack of close friends this morning, since I was arguing over whether children had been hit with a ball or not all day long yesterday.  Thing 2 was in preschool and the boy was tucked away in geometry and biology, so I got to sit at a table in a posh little coffee house and have ADULT CONVERSATIONS all morning.  Never once did I have to say, “Stop hanging upside down in your chair,”  or “Put your phone away and visit with the people at our table.”  The girls and I all laughed our way through mochas and chai teas and lattes and cranberry-orange scones, and my soul was refreshed.

Afterward, I picked Thing 2 up from preschool and the two of us came home to a house that looks like a frat party took place here.

And THAT, people, is where we’re still sitting.  I know that I HAVE kitchen counters, but I cannot SEE them.  I know that I HAVE a floor in my walk-in closet, but the dirty laundry denies it.  So… I am off to see what I can do about digging us out of the pit that would red flag us for a DFS welfare check.

Y’all have a very happy weekend.  I’ll be scraping dried food off plates and running my washing machine faster than the speed of rocket launches for a couple of days.

Think of me.

Our Weekend Was Uneventful, But I’m One Load Of Laundry Away From Having It ALL Done.

Well, our weekend wrapped itself up, and I think that you should be able to tell exactly how it went by hearing this one thing:  I was in bed at 8:10 last night.

Eight.  Ten.

My eighty-four year old self just clapped as wildly as her rheumatoid arthritis would allow her to do, while my nineteen year old self just sighed and rolled her eyeballs clear into the back of her head.  I think we can just blame the sleepover for everything.

On Friday night, the boy asked if his friend Eli could come over, which was fine, because Eli is like the cream on the top of the milk.  He’s one of those good eggs that I thank Jesus for a lot, because he never leads my boy into temptation by encouraging him to steal the family car and drive them to the gas station for snacks at 2:00 in the morning.

People, it’s the little things.

Plus, gas station snacks?  I don’t know.  Hubs is all about the gas station hot dogs, and he claims that they’re a perfectly acceptable meal in a pinch, but I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that folks pump their gas with the filthy nozzles, and then zip into the station to pump their cheese sauce onto stale tortilla chips.

It just seems like a flagrant disregard for health codes.


At 4:00 in the morning on Saturday, I woke up and realized that the boy and Eli were still downstairs, laughing their heads off, and then that was pretty much it for me going back to sleep.  I have this disease where ONCE I WAKE UP, I AM AWAKE FROM THERE ON OUT.  It’s also known as the SILENT KILLER, because it can make you bone-weary and wishing you had a bucket of caffeine to soak your head in by 3 PM.

By 5:00, I had pretty much given up on falling back asleep, so I just got out of bed and waited for Thing 2 to wake up.

Which happened at 5:45, because the little rascal decided to sleep in.

And, from there on out, we hit the ground running.  There were errands to run and enough laundry to do, that I momentarily contemplated lighting all the dirty clothes on fire and just hopping online to make some orders to replace everything.

Sometimes, just starting over from Ground Zero is what needs to happen.

Later in the day, we had dinner with Hubs’ parents, and then…

… THEN!…

… the boy drove us twenty miles home in a mini blizzard, which caused me to need the defibrillator a couple of times, even though he did just fine.

And by just fine, I mean he was a little hesitant himself to drive when the snowfall looked like Han Solo flying the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field, so he just kept the speedometer at a lovely thirty-four miles per hour.  This did wonders to alleviate the pressure around my heart that seemed to be saying, “This road trip may actually give you a heart attack, because your baby is driving you home in a miniature blizzard, that’s actually more of a real blizzard and less miniature than you had previously thought.”

We did make it home, with everyone in one piece, and I had to turn to the boy and say, “You did great.  Mama just needed a nerve pill for the PURE IDEA of riding with a fifteen year old in a raging snowstorm.”

And then, because…. ADRENALINE… I didn’t fall asleep as early as I would have liked to, considering that I’d been awake since 4:00 in the morning.

So I finished a Dan Brown book that borderlined on five hundred pages.  I can’t say that this was the wisest choice, either, because reading all about the crazy man who put a virus in a water-soluble bag and then created a map for Robert Langdon to decipher in order to find the plague before it was released does wonders for wooing a girl right back to sleep.

I believe the word you’re looking for is STRESS.

On Sunday morning, Hubs slept in until 8:40, because apparently he thought he was back in college and no longer the father of a three year old who wakes up earlier than the fellow who makes the donuts at Krispy Kreme.  And then we had forty-six feet of fresh snow in our driveway, because of the blizzard that we had driven home in the night before.  Since our driveway is shaped like an Olympic bobsled run, it’s always a good idea to use the snowblower and shovels on it after the snow has fallen, before the vehicles drive out and pack that snow down like a sheet of ice, the likes of which hockey players drool over.

All of that is just the long-winded version of why we didn’t make it to church on Sunday.

Jesus understood.

Later on Sunday, while Hubs was suffering ANXIETY and STRESS over the Denver Bronco playoff game, my friend Heather and I took our preschoolers sledding.  What we imagined happening (a lovely day spent with two beautiful cherubs, sliding down a gentle slope on plastic sleds, while we had real-live, adult conversations at the top of the hill as we looked on) didn’t turn out to be what actually happened (the hill having a layer of solid ice under forty-two feet of new snow, which made The Littles fall down six thousand times, requiring us to ski down the short slope in our sneakers, because we were ill-prepared for the elements, to drag their red-cheeked bodies back up the hill, until our shoulders were pulled out of their sockets, and everyone had fallen thirty-nine times and proclaimed over and over, “I CAN’T AFFORD TO BREAK A HIP AT MY AGE!”).

And that is how we came to find ourselves inside the indoor playland at the local rec center.  We simply gave up on sledding on the snow covered, icy death run.

Later, after the Broncos had managed to pull off a last-minute win to make Hubs breathe a bit easier, we met Heather and her family for Mexican food, and then Hubs and I pulled our boys through Walmart for a big grocery run, while both of our children whined out their irritation at having to be there.

So… you know… RELAXING.

And THAT, people… in a nut shell… is why my bedside clock read 8:10 last night when I slid beneath the sheets and called it a day.

And then, as our luck would have it, Thing 2 slept in until 7:10 this morning.

He’s slept until 7:00 approximately one other time in his entire life.

And he just pulled it off on a Monday morning for us.


And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return the boy’s laptop back to him, because he’s bellowing about HOMEWORK, MA!  I HAVE HOMEWORK!  This is what my life with a dead video card in my big Apple computer has come to:  Fighting over screen time with my freshman son.

Y’all have a merry Monday night.

That Time We Didn’t Win The Lottery, But I Started Blogging Again Anyway

* tap… tap… tap*

Is this thing on?

Um… Hi.  My name is Mama, and I… uh… used to blog here.  And then the video card went out on my Big Mac, but Hubs resurrected it.  The bummer is that Hubs isn’t God, and his resurrection of the monitor on my Apple computer was, apparently, a temporary fix, which all went up in a plume of black smoke the day after I thought everything was fine… just fine.  Thankfully, God’s resurrection of Jesus was a bit more permanent and lasting than what Hubs is capable of pulling off.

And that, my friends, was the end of the Apple that has sat on our giant desk for the past five years.  It was the end, because, if I’m to believe price checks, a new video card costs in the three-digits (THE!  THREE!!! DIGITS!!!), and we did not win the lottery of $1.5 billion dollars last night.

Oh, it wasn’t from a lack of trying, because listen!  We bought a single ticket.  It’s because we’re hardcore gamblers around here, and also because $10 was our entire monthly gambling budget.  Dave Ramsey would’ve been so proud of us.  Hubs let the the computer randomly pick our numbers, leaving the entire gambling attempt up to chance.  That’s not how I would’ve done it, because I would have picked numbers that translated into THIS IS THE DATE HUBS AND I FIRST SAW A MOVIE TOGETHER and THIS IS THE DATE WHEN HUBS FINALLY WORKED UP ENOUGH NERVE TO KISS ME.  I’m fairly certain that had Hubs even known those dates and been able to translate them into numbers, we would now be sitting in the lap of luxury, with an overly-inflated bank account and 300,000 newly discovered friends, inviting us over for dinner.

And then… THEN… I would have bought myself a new video card for my beloved Apple’s dead monitor.  Oh, heck… Let’s tell the truth here:  I would have bought an entirely new Apple laptop, that was paper-thin and able to fit in a fancy, floral laptop bag with a nice, padded shoulder strap, which I also would have purchased with my $1.5 billion winnings.

And then I would have hired a personal chef, who would come over every afternoon about 3:00 to prepare us a dinner that didn’t consist of anything made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup.

Sadly, we were not one of those who held in our hot little hands one of the three winning lottery tickets, which meant, in a nutshell, that Hubs had to go into work this morning.  All last night, he kept declaring, “If I wake up and my numbers were the winners, I will take Thursday off.  And then I’ll take Friday off.  And then I’ll take February through December off.”


I do not have a new video card at the moment, because life has gotten in the way of that.  Primarily, it’s gotten in the way in the form of HERE ARE ALL THE BILLS FROM THING 2’S EAR TUBE SURGERY IN NOVEMBER and HAVE YOU HEARD THE SQUEALING YOUR SUBURBAN IS MAKING RIGHT NOW?  THAT SOUNDS LIKE A DEATH RATTLE WITH THE VULTURES CIRCLING OVERHEAD.  If anything needs a resurrection, it’s  Bubba the Suburban.  She’s old and she’s coughing, and she usually needs a shawl around her cold shoulders, if you want her to take you anywhere.

So, I’m using the boy’s fancy new laptop, but listen:  I’m not famous for my laptop-using skills, and the heel of my hand keeps hitting the little mouse pad below the space bar while I type, and then BOOM!  HELLO, CURSOR IN THE VERY WRONG SPOT!  It’s all just a  headache, because I’m old fashioned, and I like that mouse that is entirely separate from the keyboard.

Don’t judge me.

Anyway, with any luck at all, I will attempt to start blogging at this site again, seeing as how I don’t really know how to crack passwords and access fancier blogs to write at, that pay real dollars to their authors, because those folks actually know what they’re doing.  I’m just a girl, staring at a laptop she doesn’t know how to use all that well, and hoping she can put these words onto your computer screen without too many problems.

So, carry on, y’all, and do have a happy weekend.

Even though I’m guessing none of you managed to win that enormous lottery payout either.

To Every Single Thing, There Is A Solution

IMG_5592THING 2 (as he was jamming out with his guitar):  Hey, Mom?  Do you like AC/DC?

ME:  Nope.  I don’t like them.

THING 2:  Do you like Back in Black, Mom?  Back in Black is my frave-rit!  It’s totally my frave-rit!

ME:  Nope.  I don’t like Back in Black.  Mommy doesn’t like AC/DC.

THING 2:  How come, Mom?  How come you don’t like AC/DC?

ME:  They hurt my ears.


*more silence*

THING 2:  Maybe Dr. V could put some tubes in your ears, and then maybe you could like them, Mom.  Maybe tubes would help you.