UPDATE: He's trying to kill me for sure now.

Last month, I told you about Dorkfish trying to 'off me'. It started out as a joke; a bit of a 'har-har' but the gloves have come off. I believe we are in full-on WATCH. YOUR. BACK. mode now.

He has been on vacation for the past two weeks and has been happily pointing out how effortlessly he keeps the house clean, puts food on the table, entertains the kids, and is now befriending my neighborhood posse. Honestly, I should have seen that one coming when he brought a box of donuts to the bus stop last fall... I generally only bring a beer, and the funny, of course. Don't get me wrong, I certainly appreciate a man who can do all these household chores with such ease and I am grateful that he comes home and picks up my slack. But the 'little comments' pointing out how effortlessly he manages to take on these tasks makes me a little concerned...

For example, last week he looked at me from the kitchen where he was washing dishes and said, "You know. If you were to die right there in that chair and no one came to check on you for a couple of weeks, our dog would eat you."

I'm not sure exactly what he meant by that comment, but I can tell you that the smirk said it all. The dog doesn't seem to be in on his plan yet, but I am watching them both pretty closely. Well, I was until I got sick. I'm not sure how he managed this one, but I have contracted mono. I have to admit, he's good. Real Good.

Ironically, it is damb difficult to sleep with one eye open when you're constantly exhausted...

So It's NOT Everywhere I Want to Go

Conversation with My Bitch last week:

Me: "So, my bank is forcing us to switch to Master Card."

My Bitch: "And..."

Me: "I really don't want to switch; I like Visa. Not to mention, Master Card isn't accepted everywhere."

My Bitch: "Like where? Where do you go that doesn't accept it?"

Me: (Trying to think up a quick example.) "Well, you know, like the Dollar Tree. They don't accept Master Card."

My Bitch: (Not even bothering to hold back the laugh.) "Could you repeat that, please..."

A Simple 'Thank You' Will Do

At the end of every day is this time I lovingly call, "The Witching Hour". It comes after dinner and before bed and is characterized by my sons acting as if they were possessed. Generally there are ridiculous fights, an ungodly amount of screaming and it ends with me threatening to run away from home.

Last night was no different.

They boys are in the tub and I had resigned myself to just mop up what ever amount of water gets poured out of the tub rather than sit in there with them. Sipping a glass of wine and looking at everyone's embarrassing photos on facebook that they wish someone hadn't tagged them in ,pondering world events, I hear Bonus scream in a panicked tone.

"Momma! My tooth fell out!" he shrieked.

Mildly concerned as we have spent enough money on his teeth already, I go to the bathroom. Bonus is holding a teeny tooth in one hand and a pool of blood in the other.

"Honey, it is a baby tooth. It fell out. That is what they are going to do for the next few years."

Analyzing the tooth in greater detail, he says, "Yeah, but it wasn't loose! Deuce knocked it out! He yanked a washcloth out of my mouth and the tooth came with it!"

A little surprised, I turn to Deuce to hear his side of the story and he responds with a smirk, "Yeah, and he didn't even thank me."

Evidence

Lately, I've been getting the sinking sensation that Dorkfish is trying to 'off' me. It's nothing big, like changing a life insurance policy or anything, but it's the subtle things that I am finally noticing. Small, incidental things such as leaving the glass shower door open, so when I get up in the middle of night to pee, I run into it. 'Misplacing' my wine bottle opener so I am forced to use a knife and screwdriver, which is no simple task when one has a tremor. Suggesting we trade in my Volvo (the safest car on the road) for something less expensive. I think the cleaning ladies may be in on it as well as they somehow accidentally put furniture cleaner on my floors...

But today's conversation with Deuce finally gives me concrete evidence and I am sharing it with ALL OF YOU for my safety.

Setting: In the car, driving Deuce to preschool. I take a sip of my coffee when he says...

"Momma. Did you know that if you get married and your wife dies, you can get married again?"

Me: *cough, choke, cough* "Um, no. I hadn't been told that. Where did YOU hear that?!"

Deuce: "Daddy told me."

So now you ALL KNOW that if I 'disappear' you have concrete evidence from a four year old...

And if he gets remarried, none of you better laugh at her jokes.

Preserving the Past: She Shot the Dog

I've always had a fond appreciation for listening tentatively to the stories of previous generations. I feel strongly that to be a good steward, we must record these stories to pass on to future generations for the purpose of learning valuable lessons from our wise ancestors.

It is because of this obligation that I am sharing this family story with you now.

But if you know my grandmother, don't you DARE tell her! Afterall, she doesn't even really understand 'the interwebs', let alone know I'm talking about her on here...

"Last night, I was sitting on the couch next to Papaw and when I got up to leave, he shuffeled his feet to the side in a funny way. Now he's done this a thousand times, but this time it just struck me as funny. When I laughed, a little wind slipped out. You know, when you get older those things just happen. Anyway, it was so loud that the dog jumped off the couch and ran off, scared to death. Papaw looked at me in complete surprise and said, "Well, Cotton, you shot my dog!" Honey, I have laughed about that harder than I've laughed in years!"

And now you understand where I get my sense of humor...

A Bright Future...

On Thursday, I told you about Bonus' little 'incident' in the cafeteria and how they apparently don't take kindly to the deafening sound that is made by crushing a milk carton in the cafeteria.

Seriously, they should live with him. That. Is. Nothing.

His teacher had already warned me that he hadn't returned the Here's-How-Screwed-Up-Your-Child-Is note, so I was completely prepared when he got off the bus.

Me: (In my most obnoxious mom tone.) "Hey Babe! How was school?!"

Bonus: (Staring at the ground.) "Um, good. It was a good day."

Me: "So, no problems we need to talk about?"

Bonus: "Um, nope. Not a thing. Nothing. Nope. Not at all."

Yeah, the kid can't lie to save his life. So we came home, I showed him his NEW! SHOES! I had purchased him since he'd had such a GREAT! WEEK! AT! SCHOOL! He did his homework so he could get ICE! CREAM! for being SO! GOOD! THIS! WEEK! Yet not once did he crack. He's either got a future in the CIA or he'll be in prison...

In fact, he even made it all the way to the car (where he spilled a milk and blamed it on Deuce even though he wasn't even IN THE CAR YET) before the game ended. By then, my patience had grown thin and I sent him to his room where I proceeded to lay it on thick.

Me: "Bonus, you know that when you LIE you get in MUCH WORSE TROUBLE than when you tell the TRUTH. Right?!"

Bonus: "Yeah."

Me: "And you LIED to me about spilling the milk. Didn't you?"

Bonus: "Yeah."

Me: "So if you have LIED about anything ELSE, I would suggest you tell me about it NOW because if I find out LATER it will be BAAAAAAAD. Is there anything you want to TELL ME NOW?"

Bonus: "Um... Nope."

Me: *sigh*

So I left him in there for a few more days, er minutes, and he finally caved.

He walked out with this:



My favorite part is the false start on the A.

That kid has a future, I tell ya...

Instilling Guilt is Apparently My Parental Gift

First grade has brought with it a few challenges to say the least. We've had a lot of new 'slams' thrown toward Deuce, some fancy eye-rolling when asked to do something and a frightening amount of lying. Considering Bonus received the Integrity Award last year for being the ONLY child in class to never tell a lie, this is quite a disheartening change.

I realize every kid lies. I know I tried to pull a few fast ones over on my parents a time or two but we have a zero-tolerance policy on lying.

Today I received a call from his teacher.

Yeah, those are always fun. There is nothing heavier than the weight in your stomach when you see the school name on your caller ID.

Apparently, after finishing his milk yesterday in the cafeteria, he proceeded to stomp the carton flat causing a sound so loud the entire lunchroom fell silent.

Yes, I laughed out loud when she told me this.

He was written up for this little stunt and was told to bring home the note for me to sign. Naturally, I never saw this note.

When the teacher asked about it today, he told her I hadn't seen it. (Which is the truth.) But when she explained that I had to sign it and he had to return it, he apparently went pale.

Bonus: "What does she need to write on it?"

The teacher: "She has to sign her name."

Bonus: "You mean, A.M.Y.? Because that's how she spells it..."

*You can smell the smoke from there, can't you?*

He has yet to mention the note and every question about school has been returned with a 'yeah, I'm doing GREAT!' response. So this evening I have been instilling as much guilt as possible; because that's what moms do best.

Right now we are going for ice cream because he has had such a GREAT! WEEK! and because he is such a GOOD! BOY! and because he hasn't had ANY! PROBLEMS! AT! SCHOOL!

But tomorrow morning, when I'm putting him on the bus and kissing him bye, I will whisper in his ear, "I know about the note from your school..."

And it will be a loooong weeeekend.

Dambit, I say...

About a month ago, Dorkfish sent me an email and in it, he spelled 'damn' as 'damb'. Being the astute journalist I am, (snort) I picked up on it immediately but decided it was because the 'bad word' filter at work was too stringent. (Yes, I completely made up this scenario to put my mind at ease over his typo.)

Then he did it again.

And again.

Finally, after the third 'damb' I asked him over dinner why he was spelling it that way. He put his fork down, looked at me with a perplexed expression, and said, "Because that's how you spell it."

*blink, blink*

Oh yes, my friends. My husband who is one of the smartest people I know had decided that 'damn' was actually 'DAMB'...

So of course I decided to let that one go. I certainly would never tell all of our mutual friends, make jokes on facebook, or use 'damb' in a sentence so frequently that it has become part of my vocabulary.

Never.

*snicker*

So now, almost every mutual friend is saying, "Damb" or "Dambit" on a daily basis. But what I wasn't prepared for was the reaction from our own two 'filters' at home.

Driving home from dinner last week, Bonus says, "It's already bed time?! Dambit." After I choked on my gum, I said, "Shhhhh, we don't say that word!" to which my very astute six year old says, "But I put a B in it."

Yes, I may have peed a little.

But yesterday is when it all came to a head. While being forced to clean their room, Deuce mumbled something under his breath. I turned the corner just as Bonus was preparing his speech to throw his brother under the bus, "MOMMA!!! Deuce just said a bad word!" Expecting another 'dambit', I sighed and said, "Okay, Bonus, what did he say?" Bonus looks at me with excitement knowing he gets a free shot at repeating it and says, "Fuck." Stumbling back, I glared at Deuce and said, "We don't use that kind of language, young man!" That's when my sweet, little, doe-eyed four year old looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, "But I put a B in it..."

Clip-ons Are for Wimps

It would seem that I have a complete mental block on most school-related urgencies in regard to my children. (You may remember a few months ago, we had the where-in-the-hell-does-all-your-lunch-money-go epiphany.) Yes, I thought you might...

Well now Deuce has started preschool and it would seem that my complete lack of regard for all things date related applies to his preschool as well.

On Friday, we were walking out the door when I finally noticed how homeless the child looked. His 'Harleyson David' (Harley Davidson for the grammatically correct reader) t-shirt that his grandfather has graciously supplied him with for the past two years, was apparently one of the first he received. All that kid needed was a pack of candy cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve to complete the look. But the t-shirt was only part of the story, sadly. The hair, which I choose to keep long because he has an awesome 'surfer guy' look, was in desperate need of a brushing. There was a cowlick in the front and an 'Alfafa' in the back. But naturally, we were running late so I assured myself that the teachers had seen him looking cute before, so we could pull it off just this once.

That's when it always happens, right moms?!...

We walk in the classroom and apparently every other mom remembered it was picture day.

(Ofcoursetheydid.)

All the little girls have bows in their hair and dresses on; the boys are sporting gel in their unmanageable hair. Hell, I didn't even recognize most of these kids! Then Deuce immediately spies some asshole wearing a tie and begins to pout.

Me: "Baby, what's wrong?!"

Deuce: "He's wearing a tie, mom. I wanna tie!"

Me: "But honey, you don't own a tie....and that's a clip-on anyway. No one likes clip-ons... How about we go home and I iron you a nice shirt for you?!"

Deuce: "No. I want a tie. Can I wear one of Daddy's ties?"

Me: "Baby, if daddy hadn't given away all of his old ties, I would go home and put one on you! But we don't have a tie. So how about the Harleyson David shirt?! It looks much tougher..."

Deuce: "Yeah, I guess the tie looks dumb on him anyway."

*WINNER!*

I've never been happier to hear my child chastise the clothing options of another.

Yet I don't think the teacher believed me when I lied and said he chose that outfit for picture day...

My Neighbor Called It 'Darwinism'

This morning's pee was interrupted by the sound of blood-curdling screams coming from the driveway. Barely getting my pants back up and not bothering with the button, I sprinted out back to exactly what I expected to find. Deuce had gotten in the fire ant nest for the THIRD DAY IN A ROW and had already received four bites.

Coming to the rescue was Bonus...with a water hose.

Because apparently soaking your brother whose shoes are still covered in ants will solve the problem.

Or make mom's head spin in circles.

Either way, I give up.

Two...sometimes it is the loneliest number.

I woke up yesterday morning and my first thought, which is generally, "What was that thud?!" was instead, "Two years ago today was the last time I spoke to you." I have to admit, that might be the worst wake-up I've ever experienced. I guess I had assumed that the first year without you would be the hardest, but it would appear that this two-year anniversary of ours is proving to be the most difficult.

Words cannot express the emptiness I feel when the memories grab me. The pain is almost as fresh as the day I found you. Although in truth, this pain must be greater, as I have now grasped the realization that you are gone. I fight to keep these memories with me, but sometimes they hurt too much. Some days, like today, I want to forget, if only for a moment, so I can enjoy watching Deuce try and ride his bike without training wheels. (I hope you watched that hot mess from heaven. I know you would have laughed if you had been here.)

I do cherish these fleeting memories that sneak in when least expected. This morning, I suddenly remembered the picnic we shared at Norris Lake, sitting on a red and white table cloth. I believe I was about six. If I close my eyes tightly, I can still see you pulling the fried chicken out of the antique picnic basket you had gotten from your grandmother; a leg for each of us. I can feel the warmth of the sun; see the yellow marks on our hands from pressing the dandelions into our palms. I cannot remember the conversation we shared, but I'm sure it was hilarious. We always had a well-matched wit.

I think that is what I have missed the most these past two years. I miss our laughter. I miss our inside jokes that would anger Mams to the point of calling us "Assheads"...and the giggles that we shared for years over that. I miss being able to tell you the profanity that my sons were spouting and admitting that I told everyone they learned it from you. But I can still hear you say, "Dammit, Amy. Now I can never go to grandparents day!"

On my last trip to Knoxville, I stopped by your grave. I laid a rose there since I always brought you flowers.



The boys watched from a distance as I spoke softly to a piece of granite of how I miss you. They danced around the headstones, as kids do, to give us space. When I had said my peace, with tears streaming, Deuce came over and sat on my knee.



"Momma," he said in the softest voice a four year old can muster, "Do you miss Nana?" Looking him in the eyes, I said, "Yes, baby. I do miss her so very much." He looked down at the rose and said, "Momma, I wish I could bring Nana back." "Deuce, I would love to have her back, but she is in a much better place," I told him with my voice cracking. He put his soft little hand on my cheek, brushed a tear away and said, "Momma, I miss Nana more than you." Smiling, I asked, "Baby, do you remember Nana?" Deuce grinned and said, "Nope." Then ran off to play.

It was at that moment I realized, thankfully, that Deuce has our sense of humor.

I love you, forever.

Send your donations for the basement fund now...

Setting: The kitchen. I'm cutting an apple as Deuce aka "Coopy" starts his 20-questions routine for the evening.

Deuce: "Momma, how does a hot air balloon go the direction you want it to go?"

Me: "Do you know what altitude means?"

Deuce: "No."

Me: "At different heights, or altitudes, the winds go in different directions. When you're flying the balloon, you can sometimes ascend, or go up, and go in one direction or you can descend, or go down, and go in a different direction. But you can't really control your direction, only your altitude or height. Does that make sense?"

Deuce: "No."

Me: "Okay...what part didn't you understand?"

Deuce: "What does 'sense' mean?"

Me: *sigh*

Deuce: "Momma, did you know that two plus two equals seven?"

Me: "Yes, Deuce. That does make sense."

Coopy the Turtle

A few months ago, Deuce "officially" changed his name to "Coopy". No, he doesn't play with any kids named Cooper or saw it on TV. He chose to name himself "Coopy the turtle" because that is what he wanted to do and when a four year old sets his mind to something...well, you know the drift.

At first it was kind of funny. We'd all joke and laugh about "Coopy" doing this funny little thing or he'd be curled up in a ball and say he was in his "Coopy shell". Surprisingly, it took a few weeks before any children bellowed that Coopy rhymes with poopy, even though Cameron pointed it out immediately. (And I am thankful for his immediate grasp of the childhood taunts as this saves me from explaining my own behavior...) Heh.

Recently, "Coopy" has turned into "Coopster" or just simply "Coop". It has become so common that he responds to it now and we interchange it with his real name at will. However, we hadn't taken it publicly (IE: outside of our circle of friends and family) until last week. I took the boys to karate and this lesson was on confidence and respect. When the children came up to introduce themselves with the adults, Deuce was introducing himself as "Coopy". I paused, and looked at him and said, "Dude. You're name isn't Coopy."

Deuce: "Yes it is, mom. My name is Coopy."

Me: "No, that's your nickname."

Deuce: "No, mom. *sigh* My name is COOPY."

Bonus: "No, mom. His name is COOPY."

At this point, I was tempted to whisper, loudly enough for the other adults to hear me, "No, boys, remember what the policeman said? Your OLD name was Coopy," and then rush them out the door before the confusion wore off. But realizing that I had spent too much on this sport to never return, I sheepishly smiled at both of my sons, shrugged my shoulders at the confused adults and silently vowed to spend the next class waiting for them at the brewery next door.

On a positive note, Bonus told Dorkfish last week that he likes it when we call Deuce "Coopy". When Dorkfish asked why, Bonus said, "Because it's cute and makes me want to hit him less."

Yeah...I know.

Yes, I'm writing, but thought you might like this intermission...

The past two weeks have been crazy busy with two trips to Tennessee, a wedding in Maine, several dog fights between the boys (and some neighbors) and a few hilarious one-liners from my famous-only-on-my-blog-that-she-doesn't-know-about-because-she-doesn't-get-the-internet(s) grandmother. (Yes, it's plural to her. Hush.)

However, while I'm writing all that up and adding PHOTOS!, I thought I would share with you all the moment I just had in the bathroom....

Setting: Master bathroom, me on the toilet:

Me: "Hey, dorkfish. (Yes, I do in fact call him that at home.) I'll give you one guess as to what I forgot to tell you what to pick up at the store!"

Dorkfish: "Bread."

Me: *blink, blink* "Let's just hope you keep your looks."



And now, back to my writing...after a half a bottle of wine to wash that moment out of my mind. Hey, one positive is that now all of you know he can NEVER say Deuce isn't his son!

Sigh.

Two Weeks of Grade One and One Eye Patch...I WIN!

We're finishing up our second week of first grade and so far I have to admit that I think we may survive it.

Maybe.

We've finally solved the great "Where the hell is all your lunch money going?!" mystery from kindergarten. Bonus came home one afternoon and said, "Momma, why haven't you ever made me sausage on a stick wrapped with a pancake?!"

Me: "Because I care about your arteries. Where did you have such a thing?!"

Bonus: "At school."

Me: "They served you meat on a stick, wrapped in a pancake for lunch?"

Bonus: "No, breakfast."

*LIGHT BULB*

The kid has been eating breakfast at home, riding the bus to school, eating breakfast in the cafeteria, having snack, eating lunch, having another snack, then coming home STARVING. I swear I am not going to be able to afford to feed him much longer...or we need to get the 'lunch money protection program' up and running again. (Last year, he came home with a Ziploc baggie with three dollars in it and his name written on the outside in a woman's handwriting. When I asked where the money came from, he shrugged his shoulders and slipped it back in his pocket. I decided that somethings, like magazines under the bed in teenage boy's room, were better left alone.)

So, for all those neighbors who watched my kid get off the bus almost daily with what we lovingly call "The Sticker of Shame" (a sticker on his shirt that says "I need lunch money") almost DAILY, this is why. See?! It's not only my crappy parenting!

Speaking of crappy parenting...yesterday morning was a fun one. We were walking out of the garage just as the bus was pulling up. Fortunately, the bus stop is at the end of our street, so I yelled to Sheshe to hold the bus. She yelled back, "You've got a runner!" and I turned just in time to see Bonus stealthy backing up into the garage. I was stuck between that, 'Do you scar your child for life and force them to run for the bus KNOWING they will always remember this moment and will forever hate you for it?!' and 'Would you survive the embarrassment of having to sprint for the bus yourself there, little Missy?!' But yes, I did it. I drug a crying child to the bus and put him on it. Normally, I would have just waved the bus on and driven him, but we were running late because of him, so I decided he should learn the lesson of 'now means NOW' and if it meant running for the bus...then so be it.

However, today I made up for that by driving him. More importantly, when we were late today, (hush) I walked him into the office and when the secretary looked at me and said, "You know, he has a minute until the bell, if he runs....." I cut her off mid-sentence and said, "No ma'am, we will take the tardy," and I walked him to class.

Because I don't always suck at this job.

I say that, but then Deuce just walked in like this:



So maybe this day isn't going in the 'win' column after all....


*Yes, Deuce is FINE....He just likes to play with bandages. No, it did not hurt coming off. No, I do not know why he has the sad panda look but I PROMISE he is fine. Honestly, the look goes quite well with the eye patch and I'm really hoping for a career path here....

Dare to Repeat It

Last month, my neighborhood book club read Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood by Alexandra Fuller. I had a busy month and had missed the previous meeting, so I hadn't read the book. I went to the meeting regardless because I wanted back in the loop (and let's be frank, it's an opportunity to have some adult conversation with some well-educated women, rather than the usual blather from two irrational bosses.)

At one point in the evening, the conversation turned to whether our past dictates our future. Granted, it wasn't as clear-cut as this, but in the essence of privacy I'm going to paraphrase. The mother in the story had become an alcoholic and the concern was that the daughter was doomed to have the same fate. Being the smart ass Southern Belle that I am, I raised my Riedel, holding approximately half a bottle of cabernet, and toasting the air proudly stated, "Being raised by an alcoholic mother, does not make one an alcoholic mother."

The room politely chuckled, used to my quips by now, and moved on, but something about that night stuck with me. In many ways, we spend our lives struggling to be the polar opposites of our parents. There are the occasional situations where children are raised by The Brady's and that's just swell, but honestly wolves would have a better sense of humor...

Like most, I have spent the better part of my adult life and most of my adolescence, striving to be a better person than my mother. The more time that passes since her death, the softer I've become toward her memory and the pain of the inferred inadequacies lessens. I will always catch myself and wonder if I am destined to be 'just like her' as some would claim. I look in the mirror and contemplate the similarities in our faces. There will always be a part of her living in me and I am tempering my rebellion towards it.

The irony of life is just when you feel certain that you have a handle on your life, reality has a way of seeking out your arrogance in the form of a phone call from the power company that employees your husband to let HIM know that your power will be shut off TOMORROW because your dumbass wife doesn't know the difference in the gas company and the power company and has been paying the wrong bill SINCE MARCH and therefore will have no POWER....eventhoughyouworkhere,sir.

And it's times like that when you raise your Riedel, take a big swig and toast the air toward heaven; because, yes mom, I dare to repeat it...but it will not become me.

The Green Mile (or the last day before First Grade)

Bonus' first day of first grade was Friday. In anticipation of this BIG! DAY!, I had asked him what he wanted to do all week so that we could spend the day before focused on doing whatever he wanted to do on his last day of being a 'little boy'.

"I want to make Jello and do something that doesn't suck."

*blink, blink*

So I took him to the planetarium and bought him gelato.

What?! He's a smart kid. He likes science stuff. His brother is still fascinated by the shiny so I figured he'd like seeing stars and crap. Gelato kinda rhymes with Jello and no one has to complain about the whole 'waiting for it to set up' part. Done. Sold.

In all it was awesome! Well, until I embarrassed the family when we were watching the moon phases in a time-lapse thing and they asked home much time had passed and like a dumb ass I yelled out "A YEAR!" and it had been a month. Before I could pat Deuce on the back and say, "It's okay, sweetie. Good guess!" Bonus put his arm around me and said, "It's okay, Momma. Good guess."

Sigh.

Safety First, Kids!

Last week Dorkfish was on vacation. Typically, our vacations involve a trip SOMEWHERE, ANYWHERE and we play hard, barely sleep and return home absolutely exhausted and thankful to still be speaking to one another after a week straight of me yelling at all three of them.

Naturally.

This time, we decided to stay home and save some money as the Mazda hasn't sold yet. (As an aside, who isn't waiting with baited breath to pick up a sweet little ride like that?! It's a sedan, people! Think of the great gas mileage!!! My next tactic is "Buy this car or we'll shoot this dog"... Wonder if PETA checks Craigslist? Hmmmm.)

Anyhoo. So, Dorkfish in his typical Type-A fashion decides we need to spend some time working around the house and tries to force me to organize the boys room...

*blink, blink*

For those of you who don't know me in person, let me just explain something. I am one of those people who considers "organization" synonymous with "being able to get the closet door closed even if you have to use all your body weight". So when my husband lovingly suggests I go through my sons dressers and pull out the clothes that no longer fit and put the in the attic, I was suddenly hit with amnesia...or was it the flu. I can't remember.

Fortunately, I couldn't remember where the knives were kept either.

But he did wise up and give up on that plan and suggested a day trip to the beach would be more appropriate. The boys had more fun than they have ever had and not once did anyone complain about sand in crevices. (Except me. Naturally. Not a beach girl.)







Ah, the shorts. My latest comedic GOLD. No, dear reader, your eyes are not deceiving you. THAT, is Dorkfish with Deuce in that last photo and he is wearing his new prized possession.... You see, the boys and I were shopping when they picked these out. Normally, I would convince them that 'daddy wouldn't like them' or something along those lines, but these were just too obnoxious and I just could not help myself. So I grabbed them and agreed to let them be a Father's Day Surprise for Dorkfish. Oh, were they a surprise. *snicker* I assumed he would thank the boys, hide the shorts in the closet and I would return them the following week. However, once he tried them on (with his black work socks, I have to add) the boys thought they were AWESOME! So being a good dad, he actually wore them TO THE POOL THAT NIGHT. I would say thank God the pool lights were off, but it wouldn't have mattered; these things are day-glow. My friend Cameron nailed it when he asked if you could play games on them. His wife, T-Racy had to look away as she snorted and mumbled something about Mike Brady wanting his shorts back. She-she tried to make him feel a little better by saying that they wouldn't look so bad once he tanned the other eight inches of his leg. (She's also the one who nicknamed them the 'Safety Shorts' because of their color.) However, that is a two-inch inseam, my friends. Let me just say that there is NOTHING safe about that...

I have to say, the amount of entertainment I have gotten out of these shorts has FAR outweighed the money paid for them. Not to mention the boys are really proud that daddy wears their shorts EVERY! TIME! WE! GO! SWIMMING! *snort* Honestly, Dorkfish is THE ONLY man I know who would proudly wear these and not care who sees him in them because his sons chose them. (Although, he did actually wear them to the grocery store which leads me to believe that he secretly likes them...)

**As a disclaimer, I have to tell you that Dorkfish approved me sharing these photos with you and as long as I said that he is a GOOD MAN for wearing the gift that his sons picked out. Since I have always been honest with you all, I have to admit that I might have persuaded Bonus and Deuce to choose this pair of shorts... But in all fairness, they did have a white pair picked out first and I do love him more than that.

Because sometimes tucking them in isn't enough...

Dear Bonus,

I was more proud of you today than I have been in a long time. Today, you showed us your compassionate side while standing up for your beliefs. It took a lot of strength to tell that older kid he was doing the wrong thing and I am proud of you for doing so.

But just in case you don't remember what happened by the time I actually get the nerve to tell you about this blog, here's the short of it:

Your father and I took you and your brother to the beach today. You found a decent size crab in a tidal pool and were so proud. It was about the size of your hand. You scooped it up in a sand pail and drug it up and down the beach in that bucket of water on your boogie board to share with all the other kids while Dorkfish and I sat on the beach towels and watched proudly.

A little while later, you marched back up to us and announced that you were very angry because the big kid had killed your crab with your bucket. He had squashed it and then laughed when you told him that was wrong and you weren't going to play with him any more. You were so upset over it, but held it together so well. You didn't shed a tear, though you wanted to so badly. (So did I.)

Your father and I stumbled for the right words to tell you to make it better. We wanted so badly to explain that it would be okay and that things like this happen. But really, there was no fixing it and you knew it. Being the strong boy you are, and realizing that your father and I were grossly inadequate for the job of candy coating this issue, you changed the subject and suggested we investigate the lifeguard tower instead.

Son, I just want you to know that later when that same kid came up and wanted to play with you and you looked him in the eye and told him to get lost...my heart swelled. I have never been so proud. Because despite the "forgive and forget" attitude that I am expected to teach you, the truth is, some people (kids included) are just assholes sometimes and there is nothing we can do about it. I'm sorry he killed your crab. I wish I could have done more for you. I wish I could have marched over there and dunked the little jackass in the ocean and shoved the blue bucket over his head. I would have loved to have at least been able to have a 'nice little talk' with Johnny about disrespecting animals and how they come back to haunt us...jackass.

But your mother did the right thing. I did the thing that you will do one day when your son comes crying to you when another kid is mean to them. You will hug them, you will kiss them and you will remind them that kids like that end up in prison one day.

I love you, Bonus.

Momma

You Probably WOULD Understand...I hope.

Every couple of years, Dorkfish decides to reinvent the wheel, and by 'reinvent the wheel, I mean grow his hair out until it gets Jon-Baker big:


and it stays like this until he gets tired of it and gets a flat top. Generally, this period coincides with him being stressed at work and needing some sort of adventure. (He doesn't grow well under florescent lighting.) He has always done well with venting his 'wild child', so I generally send him off with his kayak, mountain bike, parachute or toy of choice and wish him well. However, things in the current job have been a bit more stressful and time consuming, thus prohibiting the opportunity for such an escape.

Being the wonderful, lovely, understanding wife that I am, I heard his cries for help (in the form of empty bottles of leave-in conditioner and hair gel) and found him a new toy. But this is one he has been begging for since my mom passed away when he went through his 'life is too short phase'. So, I went on craigslist and found him a Jeep Wrangler.

To say he was 'giddy' was possibly putting it lightly. "A kid at Christmas" would have been a more accurate description. Fortunately, the boys were equally amused and now it's a new family toy. The part I underestimated was how much fun I would have in it... Somehow, I found myself being convinced by a six and four year old that 'taking it in the mud' would be a good idea. (Could have something to do with my heritage.)


*Everyone knows one must wear a cowgirl hat to go mudboggin*

(Oh, and for the record, I was also wearing my new favorite Yee-Haw shirt.)

The boys had an absolute blast and Dorkfish returned home to this:



Sadly, he didn't seem to see the humor in it. Much like he didn't see the humor in my craigslist ad I wrote to sell his car, "We are selling it because we only have room for two vehicles at our house and my husband's need for a Jeep Wrangler outweighed the necessity for a dependable, fuel-efficient vehicle."

I think he's just sensitive because the dirt clods are still falling off the axles days after washing it...oops.

Stay tuned, I'm sure there will be much more drama to unfold on the next CHiPs episode!

*snicker*

The First Day is Generally the Longest...

Yesterday, Bonus completed his first year of school. He has officially finished kindergarten. Aside from a few 'punching Jack in the junk' issues, it went reasonably well. He finished at or above grade level in every area with the exception of one. Apparently he is above a first grade level with creative writing.

Weird.

The perk to our school system is that it is year-round. Meaning, that he is in school for nine weeks and out for three to four, depending on the break. Today officially starts his summer break, so he is out for four weeks. Four. Long. Weeks. I realize that for parents in traditional school, having a four-week break is nothing. Trying to find something to entertain your child for a month in the summer is a drop in the bucket compared to months on end. However, once you have become accustomed to the peace that is the walk home from the bus stop in the mornings, planning your day in your head and not anticipating the "I'm booooooorrrrrred" that is inevitable from a child that is entertained for eight hours a day; four weeks is a long, damn, time.

So as I type this, I have officially thrown in the towel. It is 9 a.m. and the boys are in the bathtub with all of their favorite stuffed animals.

It is going to be a long track out, my friends.....

The Official Biscuit Fest (NPC) UPDATE

Disclaimer: This post is an update on my last post. It will make absolutely no sense if you haven't read (and possibly re-read) the last post. Also, "NPC" means "Not a Porn Convention". That will save you some time. You're welcome.


So.....Biscuit Fest (NPC).......

Where do I begin.....

Let me give you the back story by saying that I feel pretty certain that ever since Knoxville secured the 1982 World's Fair, the city has had an inferiority complex and has convinced it's self that every event will be a complete failure.

Take Bacon Fest for example. Last fall, they hosted the event and only had four vendors supplying bacon.

Four.

For a city of approximately 183,000 people, they thought four restaurants would be plenty. *sigh*

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when I showed up at Biscuit Fest (NPC) only to be told that they were SOLD. OUT. OF. BISCUITS.

*blink, blink*

Come on people. It's the SOUTH. How in the hell do you sell of out of BISCUITS?!

ANYWHERE?!?!

I called my friend She-she to lament the fact that I had completely missed Biscuit Fest (NPC) and she said, "So let me get this straight. It was BYOB, bring your own biscuit?"

At least someone could find humor in it, I guess.

However, don't think I didn't find the irony in the shirt sizing. I bought a large Biscuit Fest shirt and let me tell you...people who attend Biscuit Fest (NPC)and like to eat biscuits, DO NOT appreciate a shirt that is sized small.

I now have to remove the NPC to wear the damn shirt.

Get Yer Biscuit On

Sometimes it takes moving from a place to realize how much of it has become you. You can live your entire life in one location and never know how the people or the place has impacted you or shaped your personality until you leave. You find that you are taking with you much more than you had anticipated and you treasure those memories, the people, the places and how you have been shaped by each.

Since our move to North Carolina, I'm the only one I've seen in our neighborhood wearing cowboy boots and a belt buckle. I own a hound dog. My dear friend and neighbor, She-she, calls me "Tennessee" and has a ringtone for me that is "American Woman". My favorite shirt says "Knoxville Girl" and was handmade at Yee-Haw Industries. I find myself saying things like, "Well that's about as useless as a gun-shy coonhound" and I show up at the morning bus stop drinking coffee out of a beer stein and wearing a holey 1982 World's Fair t-shirt. But the irony in all that is that I was raised a city girl. Fountain City, to be exact. It wasn't until I received my Knoxville Girl t-shirt from Jae that I embraced my heritage and found my true love for that place. (Despite the fact that I will forever be indebted to the University of Tennessee for my degree. Literally...)

It is with great pride that I can say that I have forced, er, positively influenced all of my new friends and neighbors with the "Tennesseeisms" that I feel are necessary to understand me. They have come to terms with the understanding that when a sentence is started with "God Love Em" it is going to be interesting and seem to have no problem with asking me to repeat myself when I get carried away and 'my old accent gets the best of me'. My current obsession, or, "enlightenment project" is to help them all to understand the beauty that is Yee-Haw Industries. (Go to their etsy store and check out their wares.)

Greeted by this picture upon walking up to the door, only ads to the charm one finds on the inside...



*snicker*

(I have put my favorite photos from the trip on my flickr page, so you can go view them there, if you'd like.)

They look like this:

While I was wandering around Yee-Haw and shooting some pictures, I noticed they were printing posters for the First Annual International Biscuit Fest. Intrigued, I came straight home and began researching the event and immediately informed all my neighbors. She-she may have been the most excited. She coined what has now become the catch-phrase (NPC), which stands for "Not a Porn Convention".

SNORT

I must admit, we have really enjoyed giggling over this until both of my sons began yelling NPC every time I mentioned Biscuit Fest. I'm not sure if, much like Deuce quoting Beastie Boys lyrics, this makes me an awesome mom or a horrible influence... The jury is still out on that one.

So, dear reader, if you happen to be in K-town this weekend, please come find me at Biscuit Fest (NPC). I shall be sporting my Knoxville Girl t-shirt and taking pictures of all things biscuit. Who knows, I may even rustle up a new shirt or two at Yee-Haw to help culture ya'll.


But, if my kids ask you, "NPC" stands for "copyright infringement".

Captain Obvious

I've noticed more recently that parenting is full of those 'duh' moments. Originally, I assumed it was because I didn't have my mom around to teach me the 'here's-how-it-works-as-a-mom' sorts of things. (Although, looking back on it, I distinctly remember a time when I ran to the store and left Bonus, who was about three months old, with my mother. Upon returning, I walked in as she was trying to heat a bottle and yelling to my screaming child, "I'm coming, you bad baby you!" From then on, Bonus was our "bad baby".)

Ah, the memories...

Lately, I've found that my "bad baby" has been surprising me with his understanding of things. Part of it is just being six, but I'm worried that most of it that he's smarter than me.

A couple of nights ago, I was playing on facebook  cleaning the house and heard a loud noise out back. Apparently, the piece of mulch that I so ingeniously used to wedge the downspout against the house had fallen out and the wind was making it rattle again. I went outside, repaired the downspout and returned to the porch feeling vindicated for winning the battle and proving to myself that I can handle any sort of household responsibility while Dorkfish is traveling.

Apparently, checking to see that the door isn't going to lock behind me, doesn't fall into the 'household responsibility' category.

Finding only the bathroom window unlocked, I texted my neighbor, Cameron, in hopes he still had my key and was up facebooking cleaning as well. Fortunately, he was and I was able to make it back inside.

The following morning, I recanted this story to Bonus. Feeling quite pleased with myself for solving both the problem of the gutter rattling and being locked out, I may have made my journey sound much more dangerous. (I think there was a loose tiger in our neighborhood...) At the end of my story, Bonus looked at me and said, "Momma, why didn't you just knock on my window and wake me up?"

"Well, actually, I had considered that option,but couldn't get the screen off your window to knock on it."

"Momma, why didn't you just ring the doorbell?"

*blink, blink*

This doesn't make him smarter than me, does it?!

Deuce's "Birfday Week"

Deuce finally made it to four and we've always had a 'birthday week' rule around this house. (More specifically, my father spoiled me by insisting we celebrate the week leading up to my birthday and so now I not only expect it from others, but have passed this narcissism on to my children. I love you, dad!)

Unfortunately, this is one mandate that Dorkfish has refused to acknowledge. So we keep it on the downlow....

We celebrated birthday lunch with which ever fast food establishment Deuce chose, which sadly was Scottish food every time...thank you golden arches. We enjoyed ice cream breaks between meals. There were bike trips around the neighborhood and vanilla milk at Starbucks. It was lovely, and according to my thighs, successful.

In preparation for his actual birthday, I'd ask him every single day, "Deuce, are you ready for your birthday?!" To which he would respond with something equally as ridiculous as the question, "I'm ready like a pineapple."

(That one might rival me in absurd retorts.)

*****

My dad came over for the weekend to help us celebrate. I don't think he had any idea what he was walking into... The boys have gotten, let's say, a little more rowdy lately with Dorkfish working a lot and me giving up the will to live and all. But it was "birfday week", so I tend to overlook the lunacy for a bit.

All Deuce asked to do for his birthday was go to the circus. Of course, there isn't one in town right now. (Naturally.) So Dorkfish convinced him that bowling was the NEXT! BIG! THING! My dad agreed to join us even though it had been 'thirty-five years' since he had last bowled. Never mind the fact that got a spare in every frame.... I'm thinking there was a "King Pin" story in his past that he's refusing to share.

After two frames, Deuce was done. I tried to get him to finish his game, but he insisted, "Bowling wasn't my idea, you know."




(Dorkfish loves this picture... Heh.)


In an effort to make the next day more enjoyable, I convinced him that the zoo would be a good "birfday week" event. Little did I know, it had to have been the busiest day of the year...and there must have been a coupon in a WalMart somewhere. It was ridiculous. We spent three hours in the car to fight with thousands of tourists for the chance to see an orangutan scratching his ass. (And it was one of those that look like their ass is on fire from hemorrhoids. Ick.) At this point, it was impossible for me to even fake enjoyment. The "I wanna go home" started about an hour into the trip and the whining about the crowds and pollen continued until my dad and Dorkfish got me into the car.



But Deuce enjoyed it for a little while...

*****

For his actual "birfday party", we had all our neighbors and friends come to the park in our neighborhood for cake and ice cream. It was so amazing to see that many kids playing together and having so much fun. Not a single fight broke out and only once did I threaten to choke Dorkfish.

I think that was a win.

In all, the only casualty of the day was the turtle piñata.




The noose was the only option as it was too heavy to hang by the hook. (Sorry PETA!) But it was pretty damn funny to see it fall every time a kid hit it and one little piece of candy come rolling out. All 30+ kids would go running for it in a mad dash and one would walk away, victorious, with their Reese's while the others looked on in jealousy.

In all, I'm pretty sure the party made up for the crappy bowling and over-crowded zoo.



I believe the duck hat says it all...

A day in the life of the Deuce

Today Deuce and I went shopping. He was okay with it for the first few minutes, but by the time I had him carrying around swimsuits in Banana Republic, the demasculinizing had set in...

"Momma, I don't wanna carry your panties any more."

"Deuce, those aren't 'panties'. It's a swim suit."

"Whatever they are, I'm tired of carrying them." And he began hanging them from every mannequin in the store...

It was at this point the sales clerk started dieing laughing and had to run to the back room. I tried to explain to him it was no different than what he wears to the pool, but the glare he gave me with one eye brow raised was just all too close to home.

So we left.

On the way home, he fell asleep. When he abruptly woke, he said, "MOMMA! I KNOW HOW TO RIDE A BIKE NOW!"

Just imagine my confusion when I'm taken from enjoying classical music and being lost in my thoughts to that statement...

"Momma, I had a dream that I was learning to ride a bike and now I know how! Let's go home and take off my training wheels!"

My neighbor, the one I lovingly call The Bitch, tried to convince me that my son may very well be some sort of prodigy who could will himself to learn to ride without training wheels unassisted.

So when Dorkfish came home from work, he removed the training wheels, put on the kid's helmet and helped him balance. Slowly, he removed his hands from the seat of the bike and with a huge exhale, sent our youngest bear off into the wilderness...

Where he promptly fell off the bike and cried.

So, the lesson to learn here is that when your child dreams they can do something, you should do everything in your power to assist them in their goals. Just make sure you hold back the laughter when wiping their tears.

Honestly, I'm just thankful he didn't have the 'naked' dream.

Thank goodness she's not a runner...

After the Great Mams Adventure where she came to visit and was stuck here for a month, she finally volunteered to return. Yes, I fully took advantage of her senility and never mentioned it had only been a couple of weeks since I had taken her home.

Hush.


However, once we got to Tennessee, Mams decided she would just enjoy our visit there and not return back to North Carolina after all. Surprisingly, duct tape is more difficult to get off of 84-year-old skin than one would imagine.

But she's really enjoying her visit with us this time! She's helping the boys learn their words by making these big signs of the 'word of the week' and pasting them in her bedroom window. Apparently, the word of the week is "HELP". She's also been insisting on trying to get the mail so she could 'make friends with the mail lady', but I've been keeping her in the house so she doesn't fall down the front steps. I'm sure my 'assisting elderly' badge will be here any day.

I do have to admit that I'm tired of untieing the bedsheets. Although, she is getting good at making rope ladders out of them! Who said little old ladies only crochet?!

The Truth Fairy

Bonus finally lost his first tooth.

Well, technically, he didn't "loose it" so much as I convinced him that my friend Carrie was a dentist and therefore was fully trained on the fine art of tooth removal.

He did look a little concerned when she shoved a paper towel in his mouth and considering she had just been holding rabbits in the back of her pickup truck, I didn't blame the kid. (Yes, I miss my Tennessee life...)

In researching the current compensation for a tooth, I've found that you people are crackers. There is no way my kid is getting up to $10 per tooth. Hell, I'd already decided he was lucky if he got more than that handful of change I dug out of the couch last week when he thought dumping his piggy bank out on was a good idea...

(And yes, I fully planned on using his own money for the tooth fairy crap as I have been the one picking up coins for days.)

But then I came up with a great idea.... I wrote a letter from the tooth fairy to go under his pillow:

Dear Bonus,

I am so proud of you for being such a big boy and loosing your first tooth! Congratulations! The current rate is $1 per tooth, despite what your friends may tell you. Also, your girlfriend who said that 'when you loose your first tooth you get the Barbie you always wanted' was lying.

I have heard that you are trying to save up money right now to replace your bike tire that you flattened with a drill bit "just to see what a flat tire looked like". Considering you haven't been doing the chores your mother requested in order to earn that money back, I've decided to just give the dollar to your mother to help offset the cost of this new tire.

Maybe by the time your next tooth falls out, you will have worked that off and will actually get the dollar yourself. (You know, your mom only got a quarter when she was a kid...)

Best wishes and happy dental health,

The Tooth Fairy



Genius, right?! It's all sorts of parenting gold. Aside from keeping the fantasy going, he's getting a little lesson in the process!

Dorkfish refused to let me do it. He insisted it would 'scar the kid for life' or something.

These people just don't get my humor...

She likes the booooys in the baaaand....

Straight out of The Never-Ending Vacation, my grandmother is here for yet ANOTHER week. This weekend it snowed for the third weekend in a row in a city that rarely sees any of the white stuff. Not only is she insisting that she will never return in any cold season, she's pretty convinced that this might be a sign of the apocalypse. (And she says she's being punished for some bad deeds of which she will not speak.)

However, in the car today, she asked to hear the song I had played yesterday, "Super Freak" by Rick James. Her favorite line is "The kind of girl you don't take home to mother". Not only does she sing the chorus, she giggles at the same time...

Heh.

I'm starting to see a connection here; maybe she IS being punished.

Either way, she's my all-time favorite.

It's all about the magic.

Two days ago, I woke up with an incredible soreness in my gums, behind all my teeth. After consulting Dr. Dorkfish who diagnosed it as eating soup that was too hot the night before, I inspected them in the bathroom mirror. Just a little redness, nothing serious.

The next day, they're worse.

And there were red and white patches.

And I started feeling achy.

(Just to clarify, I've never even had so much as a canker sore in my mouth so this new revelation took me back to a conversation with a friend my freshman year in college which involved a "what does this look like to you" discussion. Poor, dumb, girl....ahem.)

So I call Dorkfish home from work and make him take me and our three year old to the doctor. Deuce had been complaining of an ear ache for three days now, so I figured we'd make it an all-skate.

The doctor looked all inside my mouth and asked me if it hurt to pee.

*blink*

Seriously, did it hurt to pee?! Listen here, Jackass, if it was THAT, I wouldn't be sitting here with my husband AND kid nowwouldI?!

He decided it was a mystery virus. Nothing they can do for it, but come back in five days if it's not better. (Google could have done that for me and the co pay would have been much more reasonable.)

So he sends me home with a prescription for a numbing mouthwash called, "Magic Mouthwash"....

The directions on the bottle say, "Swish and Spit".....

I'm now wondering how much that little bottle would go for on the local college campus?

By the way, Mams keeps calling it "Trench Mouth" which is not at all helping the pain....

There's a short line between 'smart' and 'dumb'.

Thanks to the Great Snow Storm of 2010, mams has stayed an extra week with us. She wasn't exactly pleased with this plan, but never the less, she's here. This weekend, they are predicting MORE SNOW! FREEZING RAIN! AND ICE! To an 84-year-old woman this is like a run in her favorite panty-hose on the way to church... completely unacceptable and a true sin.

Today, I fully planned to rush her home and come back tomorrow in an attempt to please her (so there would be a little hope of her returning at some point) and to beat the bad weather home. After all, the only way I'm getting trapped in a snow storm is if Jim Cantore is keeping me warm...heh.

Ahem.

So, she broke down and decided to stay another week with us. As a thank you, I drove her back to the mall (for the second day in a row) to purchase a skirt she had seen on clearance yesterday. F0r those of you who don't know me well, a pointless trip to the mall is about as close to torture as I can imagine. However, when your grandmother offers to stay, you'd drive her to the moon to keep her happy. (But I may have considered leaving her when she criticized the size of my rear in a pair of jeans.)

When we got back, she began feverishly cleaning the house in an attempt to get it all 'tidied up before Dorkfish gets home' because apparently, 'a man likes his home neat and clean when he gets home'...

*blink, blink*

Yeah, there might be a little bit of a generational gap there...

But I will hand it to her, the place is pretty spotless. Although when I called her a smartass for making fun of my lack of cleaning abilities, she said, "If I was a smartass, I'd be sitting in there watching TV. It looks like I'm a dumbass to me."

(smartass)

There's just no pleasing some people...

In only the second time since I've lived here in North Carolina, we got a decent-sized snow storm. It wasn't quite the snopocolypse that everyone on twitter was forecasting, but the inch of ice made the seven inches of snow a bit more treacherous.

I was pretty excited as this forced my grandmother to stay another week. She, on the other hand, was none too pleased to be stuck here. Despite my attempts to make her stay as comfortable as possible, she's already hitting up my friends of a ride back to Tennessee. I'm kind of at a loss as to how to please her... We moved the TV into her room (along with the children that watch it), I've only let her cook meals that she's insisted upon making, (yes, she DID insist. It's the sink that she's chained to, not the stove), she's called all her old friends who she can't call from home since it's long distance from her house and she's even had time to work on her medical degree, (she's diagnosed my oldest son with ADD and my dog with diabetes.)

Overall, I would have assumed it was a great trip! That was until we had this morning's conversation as she was unloading the dishwasher and I was sipping my coffee:

Mams: "There must be a reason I'm stuck here because I've been praying for the Lord to find me a way out of here for days now and he's just not doing it."

Me: "You're praying to go home?! Is it really that bad here?"

Mams: "Well, it's one of the things I pray for. You know, world peace and do get back to Knoxville."

*sigh*

Look out Erma Bombeck! Here comes Mams...

Last Saturday, I went on my epic journey to bring my grandmother here to visit for a week. She was chomping at the bit to get home by Tuesday. Fortunately, Mother Nature had other plans and dumped five inches of snow and an inch of ice on our little town today. Mams, though not pleased, decided it was in everyone's best interest if we didn't go skidding of the side of a mountain driving back to Tennessee. (It was surprisingly difficult for her to agree to this...)

In my best 'I'm-sorry-to-disappoint-you' tone, I agreed that she should probably stay another week. Not only is she the best baby sitter, she's been cooking, cleaning and ironing and, AND! only drinks one beer at night. (It's the cheap beer at that!) But little does she know, I've been recording some of her best quotes all week just for you.

Let's just say that it's a good thing she can't "call online" in Knoxville...

Mams: "You know, I never worried about Papaw when he was at work. Sure, there were plenty of women who would have taken him in a heartbeat, but I knew he was good."

Me: "Yeah, I never worry about Dorkfish either."

Mams: "You think he's a good boy?"

Me: "Well, yes. I'm pretty sure he's not leaving me."

Mams: "Maybe he just hasn't found the right one yet."

.......

Me: "Mams, are you warm enough at night here?"

Mams: "Well, sure, honey. I have an African in there keeping me warm."

Me: "An African? Don't you mean an afghan?"

Mams: "Well, there's one of those in there too."

.......

Deuce: "Mams, can you fwoat in outer pace?"

Mams: "Well why are you asking me that? I don't fart anywhere. Ladies just don't do that."

.......

"Your friends sure were nice, but I was just out of place. They're all buying cars and things and I'm at an age I don't even put things in lay-away."

......

"I'm sure going to try and see that model train exhibit again next year. Well, if I'm living and there's a parking space."

......

And this was just her first week here....

Bad Math

Yesterday morning, I woke up with the great idea to get my grandmother over here for a week. I haven't seen her since Christmas and she complains DAILY that the boys will grow up and never know her/the neighbors see her boys more than she does/we never call anymore and every time she goes a day without a phone call she just KNOWS it's because something bad happened and I don't want her to know. (Your pick.)

So I called my dad in an attempt to sweet-talk him into meeting me in Asheville so I didn't have to make the seven-hour drive back to Knoxville.

He had to work.

Pfft.

So I told Dorkfish, "I'm just going to drive over there, spend the night and bring her back with me tomorrow. I'll be fine. It's just fourteen hours, round trip, no biggie. I know you're going to worry, but I promise it's not a big deal."

Secretly, I'm practically giddy over the thought of spending that much time in silence.

Before I could assemble my playlist in my head, Dorkfish says, "That's fine. Just take the boys with you."

OH.

NO.

HE.

DIDN'T.

(Ohyeshedid.)

Apparently, his new promotion at "The Harris" from Safety to Performance means that he has a lot of homework to do. I can only assume he's now having to make sure the bag boys no longer put the beer on top of the eggs.

Sigh.

So I loaded the boys up and drove fourteen hours to spend twelve in Knoxville. Twelve. TWELVE.

This means that in a twenty-seven hour period, I spent fourteen in a car with a six year old and a three year old.

This? This is a nomination for sainthood.

The real shock was that I came home to a spotless house, clean sheets, flowers, dinner cooking, candles burning and was told to go take a hot bath and relax. I haven't figured out what he did wrong in those twenty-seven hours, but it might be worth it.

However, my grandmother saying, "I don't know what he did either, but you're going to be paying for this later," made the entire trip worthwhile. Heh.

The Stronger Sex

I am realizing fully why God made women able to put their own illnesses aside to take care of their family. In times of need, we mom's are able to put aside our own aches, pains, sinus infections and annoyance with the fact that the Christmas tree is still standing AND LIT UP, ahem, to make sure that our patients are comfortable and without want. But occasionally, we have to leave a few tasks up to the other parent such as packing the toddler's lunch so he could go play at a neighbor's house while you accompany a friend to the doctor.

I give you the lunch that Dorkfish packed for Deuce:

It's the perfect lunch box for the three-year-old junkie. Hidden under the drugs, is a bag of goldfish, some cheese crackers and a hot dog.

You know, for the munchies.

The House of the Infirmed

Bonus started back to school on Monday. (It was all I could do to not end that sentence with "!!!!1!!!!11!!!!!") Seriously, once you have tasted the beauty that is your child being gone all day to school without you having to pay out the ass for it and thus feeling guilty that you're not being productive...yeah, it's a beautiful thing.

He was sick by Wednesday.

Sigh.

It was Deuce that was the first patient. He was diagnosed with an ear and sinus infection. Great! Antibiotics! Bring. It. On. At least we can fix this! The best part about that kid is that when he's sick, he sleeps like he's been bricked. It's a blessing.     For me.

Bonus came home the next day complaining. Truthfully, 'complaining' isn't strong enough. He was raising ten shades of hell about anything and everything. I took him to the doctor yesterday and he has Strep. STREP! Let's let that sink in for a moment, shall we?

Okay.

So now we've got one who only wants to sleep and another who only wants to scream despite the fact that his throat is bleeding. (According to him.) The sound of me slamming my head in the door is apparently annoying him as well.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I would do anything for them and to make them well. I would take the sinus and ear infections, I'd take every case of strep they'd ever get in order to make them better. But the screaming at me to get them MORE JUICE! and MORE APPLESAUCE! and MORE BEER! (Oh, wait, that might have been me) is enough to make you contemplate driving your car into a bridge abutment. Thank God for Volvo's and their safety ratings...

I guess it could always be worse. My oldest girl, Dorkfish, could be sick as well. But if he so much as sniffles, I swear I'm leaving. I hear there's an island somewhere with my name on it.

Catch Up!

I completely realize how horribly I've neglected you wonderful followers and for that I'm terribly sorry.

In fact, I love you so much I refuse to recap each and every day with an enormously long post about my whereabouts. Instead, I'll give you the quick and dirty... (But it will still be enormously long simply because it's been too damn long.)

~ Thanksgiving was a good time; the whiskey helped.

Although, I probably should have admitted to my cousin that it wasn't really the dog under the table licking her foot, but rather my three year old, Deuce. (Sorry, Mel! We're putting that 'college fund money' you gave him toward his therapy instead.)

~ Dorkfish managed to talk me into loading the car with both kids and the dog and driving ten hours to Crystal River, Florida. (I blame the tryptophan-induced coma for that lapse in judgment.) That place is like the land of rednecks and retirees; nothing but big wheels and Buicks as far as the eye could see. Which was oddly like my last trip to Wal-Mart; terrifying and fascinating at the same time. Ironically, my car was the victim of a hit and run in a parking lot...just like that Wal-Mart trip.

~ They serve you a bottle of beer in a paper bag AT A RESTAURANT in Crystal River, Florida. (This was preposterous enough that it deserved it's own point.)

~ I turned 30 on December 11th. That was, um, cool... Ahem. MOVING ON.

~ Bonus turned six on December 12th. That brought back fond memories of Dorkfish saying, "Buck Up!" during child birth. The way I see it, me not shanking him right there is a perpetual birthday gift to my son. You're welcome, Bonus, happy birthday.

~ For Bonus' birthday, he wanted to go on an air boat ride. Fortunately, being in the land of rednecks, there was an abundance. Naturally, we went with WILD BILL'S because they sounded experienced. We had the pleasure of flying through the bogs under the careful steerage of "Captain Duke" who had alligator claws on each of his zipper pulls. Nothing says classy like alligator toes, my friends. Nothing.

~ Christmas was pretty eventful as well. Santa brought Bonus a guitar and Deuce a keyboard. Not only are both of my children completely tone deaf, but Santa is getting special cookies next year...

~ We drove up to Northern Ohio to visit the in-laws the day after Christmas. My brother-in-law has taken to raising chickens and there was a rooster running around the living room when we arrived. There's really nothing I can add to that to explain the awesomeness of this experience... But let me say this, THERE WAS A ROOSTER. IN. THE. LIVING. ROOM. (Exhibit A on why I love my in-laws.)

~ We spent New Year's in Knoxville. Dorkfish forgot to kiss me at midnight and will be hearing about it until next year...or until I find someone else to. Heh.

~ Speaking of Dorkfish, he turned 41 on January 7th. (Please note the drastic age difference and remind him of his great fortune every chance you get...) *snicker*

~ Now it is January 13th and we still have our tree up, lights-twinkling. At this point, I'm refusing to dismantle it due to my tree-allergy and propensity to loathe anything Christmas related after December 26th. However, I am going to greatly enjoy the chagrin of all my neighbors as it sits by the street for another few weeks until the leaf collectors come again. Merry Christmas from the Davis Family!

~ Bonus has started back into kindergarten and that is more levels of awesome than mere words can explain. Honestly, it deserves a toast. Which I am going to go do now as he trudges through yet another ridiculous homework assignment involving me calling out words and him spelling them. Hope the slurring doesn't affect him....heh.

But I promise I'll be back much sooner than my track history would portray!

Maybe....