The Demise Of The Kitchen Lizard

I had the exciting opportunity to teach my child a lesson in nature.  Never mind that it was because a reptile had made its way into my kitchen.  We will simply sit in awe of said exciting opportunity and ignore the aching question that lurks in the back of our minds.  What other sort of should-be-outside  things will find their way into your kitchen?  Blech.  Don’twanttothinkaboutitdon’twanttothinkaboutitdon’twanttothinkaboutit.

Last Sunday morning, Mere and I were fixing breakfast when I stepped behind the kitchen table to reassemble the vent register.  (Chris unassembles them to allow maximum force of air conditioning to enter the room without any disturbances or annoying obstacles.  Like vent covers.  With holes in them.  To let the air through.)  As I pick up the cover, a quick little salamander scurried across the floor.  At first I went all batshitcrazy because for a flinstant I thought it was one of those eight-legged, multiple-eyed spawns of Hell.  Luckily, I realized my mistake before I made it to the top of the curtain.

World Crisis aside, I decided to be the All American Mom and seize this profound opening of the metaphoric door to give Mere a lesson in Things That Are Cute And Touchable Versus Things That Are Hairy And Eight-Legged And Could Potentially Kill You In A Fanged Frenzy.  I urged her to come see the lizard.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”, she screams as she backs away.

“It’s okay!  Look how cuuuuttteeee he is!”

“Cute” is the magic word in these here parts.  “Cute” gets automatic interest no matter what.  I’m about to start calling the Potty “cute” to see if that makes her want to pee on it.

“Aww, how cute!”, she agrees.

Cute and quick.  I wanted to catch him to demonstrate how unharmful he was, but the little bugger had me tripping over my own feet.  We decided to go tell Daddy about it so that maybe he could catch him, allow us to love on him, then release him back into the yard so he could go find his wife and children and the camera crew that was waiting for him to finish his coffee run and film the rest of the commercial.  I’m pretty sure all lizards have British accents, by the way.  Anywho, Daddy was awake, but still laying in bed, probably trying to enjoy a little lazy rest on a Sunday morning.

Oh, no, Buddy.  We don’t do that around here.  Nope.  Around here we hunt British lizards and color on the t.v. and chase grizzly bear-sized dogs who have jumped the fence for the eleventeenth time.

Daddy humored us, though, and came to see the lizard.  Mere and I were beaming with anticipation and her excitement made me giddy.  We waited for him to catch it and were a bit amused at his catching tactics when…….boom.  Fate and all her suckiness dropped the bomb.  As Daddy was trying to corral the lizard with the trash can, it moved left, the trash can moved left, it faked right, then left, then…….oops.

Our lesson quickly turned into an explanation of life and death and lizard-murderers named Daddy.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I almost got teary-eyed at the sight of our newfound little buddy no more than a four-legged pancake with a tail.  A very smooshed, oozy tail.

And so, life happens and little girls are left to ponder what these things mean.  And mommies are left to stew over whether lizards eat spiders or not.  Cuz, if so, Daddy just slaughtered the miracle of my existence.  Ya know, except for Jesus.  Cuz I’m pretty sure (at least I hope) you can’t smoosh Jesus with a trash can.

When The Going Gets Tough, Eat More Fiber

I don’t know what I want today’s post to be about.  I only know that I want and need to write.  Perhaps to provide myself some clarity.  Maybe to pass the time.  Ultimately, it is to figure out what is on my mind and……get it off.

Could it be that work has me stressed?  That I’m already doing the job of three people isn’t enough.  They give me half of a fourth job because the person for whom it is intended has a lazy streak longer than the River Nile and an attitude to rival The Cryptkeeper’s.  Why that person is still employed is beyond me.  Seeing as I’m the freakin’ HUMAN RESOURCE MANAGER I would assume that I have the power to oust her Righteousness, however I do not.  And the two people that do conveniently left their balls in the pockets of the pants they wore back in 1977.  And so, as it goes, the HR Manager is now also the PART TIME RECEPTIONIST because, apparently, benefit administration, payroll, safety management, workers compensation, first aid and event planning isn’t enough to fill my plate.  Wait, did I say four jobs?  I meant SIX.

No, I’m not bitter.

Maybe my two year old is the culprit of this restless mind of mine.  I can’t possibly imagine why, though I have a sneaking suspicion that it could be slightly due to the temper tantrums that seem to chase me around from the time her precious little feet hit the threshold of her daycare to the time they are buried in blankets, silent for the night.  Or her digression from potty training and losing the Binky.  Or attempting to knock off her baby sister.  Yes, that might be a contributing factor.

Or I could be in my Early Life Crisis.  As in I want to go back to school.  Or start my own business.  Or finally record that demo.  Or be a Stay-At-Home-Mom that has dinner on the table by 5:30 every day and makes pies and cakes and never sets her eyes upon a whole entire load of unwashed laundry and fits in a three-mile jog around the park on each and every sunny day or frequents the gym to keep her curvy physique in check.

Physique!  HA!  The “D-Word” issued a Cease and Desist order approximately 3 months ago and, while I’ve managed to maintain the loss of poundage that I did get around to, I haven’t progressed in a very long time.  I know. I know.  YOU think I’m gorgeous just the way I am (and I love you for that) but YOU don’t see me nekkid every day.  The mirror is a dark, dark place.

I find myself lost in thought a lot of the time.  Thoughts of what COULD be.  Then I feel guilty and try to concentrate on what IS.  Because what IS are the little joys that get me through the days.  My children, tantrums, getaways and all, are my refuge.  They are my refuge and my husband is the fort.  Together, they protect me and ward off the armies of pessimism that knock at the mighty gate of sanity.  They are the blessings that I count and reflect on when I’m wishing for one, big, giant, walk-in closet.

Like today.

Polyethylene Enhancements

I know we’re trying to go all “Today’s Woman” and “Fat Is The New Thin” and get away from the stereotypical anorexic model-type and, believe you me, nobody appreciates it more than me.  Cuz if “Fat Is The New Thin”, then tell Glamour I’m available for the January cover.

See.  Here’s the thing.  When I think of anorexic model-type, I think of this

OBVIOUSLY altered but publicized all the same.

“Today’s Woman” makes me think of something like this

Healthy.  Super cute.  Like me!

Well, today I found out what Amazon’s version of “Today’s Woman” is.  Feast your eyes upon this

Same Barbie-sized waist.  New and improved Dolly Parton boobs.

Still anorexic.  Just Polyethylene Enhanced.  Complete with headlights that could be mounted atop the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse to warn sea captains of the forthcoming rocky shoreline.

REALLY?!

So instead of advertising the clothing that you’d like me to purchase on a plastic body that somewhat resembles mine so as not to send my psyche plummeting into the abyss of depression because my body fat exceeds 2%, you put it on a mannequin who has boobs the same size as mine but still yields the chin, neck, waist and thighs of an 8 year old?

Well, Mr. Marketing Exec, I have just one very important question for you.

When will the new, enhanced boy mannequins be on display?

In Which Child Protective Services Is Probably Just Around The Corner

Dood.

The brownie points on my mommy skills just got knocked down a few hundred notches.

I could blame it on Meredith.  We’re pretty sure she did it, albeit accidently.  The casual staring at the floor while wringing her hands at chest-level is pretty much her dead giveaway.

But still.  I’m the mommy here.  I take responsibility.

It began with good intentions.  A healthy walk around the neighborhood (healthy = about two miles – I know right?!) with toddler, baby in stroller and two dogs on leashes.  Yes, we were outnumbered, but we’d done it before with no problems to speak of.  This was the first time taking Luie, however, so I wanted to be sure he and all of his 110+ pounds of massive cementdom were secured with no availability to slip the collar and cavort with the juvenile gangbangers and slutty bitches (really!  bitches!) that troll our neighborhood, overturning garbage cans and making Whoopee in the street.

I strapped Madelynn into the Cadillac of strollers (Hello, Graco!) and positioned her at the starting line (open garage door), strategically placed Meredith beside her, on foot, and secured the brake.  Then I turned to tighten Luie’s collar.  About two seconds minutes later (that stoopid adjuster ring would. not. budge.) Chris appears with GiGi, ready to go, and says, “Where’s the baby?!”

“What do you mean where’s the baby?  She’s right th…….”

Dood.  She wasn’t.

SpazzDaddy unearthed himself and as I turned the front hedge, I realized it was with good reason.

My baby was upside down.

In the ditch.

Seriously, like you can totally mail me my sentence to Hell and some rotten cheese now, if you want to.  I’ll be over in the corner saying 250 Hail Mary’s and 1000 Our Father’s.  And I’m Presbyterian.

The boys who ride their bikes were wizzing toward our house, yelling to get our attention because they watched her roll away while my back was turned.  I can imagine what they think of me now.  If they never wave at me when I drive by again, I won’t blame them.  Hot MILF (humor me) just turned into THAT MOM that lives down the street.

Miraculously, she didn’t have a scratch on her.  The two ends of the stroller had straddled the ditch so she just hung freely in the space between, looking quite confused and all “WTF is this?”  She didn’t cry until I cried.  She stopped way before I did, though.

When Chris asked Mere if she pushed Sissy down the hill, he got a low, barely audible “Mmhmm”.

She didn’t know.  I can’t give her the fault in this.  I should’ve been paying better attention.  I should’ve kept the baby in the garage, on level ground, until we were all ready.  I should’ve padlocked that sucker the the back bumper of the car.

Lesson learned.

Whisker Nazi

Jen and I were nonchalantly driving down the road one fine day, set off to find grub/inhale grub/spill gossip in our alotted one-hour time frame when, thanks to the tiny ray of sunshine seeping in the car window, she spied an infiltrator on my face.  And this is no zit we’re talking about here.

Jen:  “You have something on your chin.”

She reaches for it.  I lean toward her, my first thought being “EWWW BUG GET IT OFF GAH!”

Jen:  “It’s attached!”

Me:  “To what?”

Jen:  “To YOU!”

Thank Jesus for flip-down mirrors.

Me:  “OH MY GAWD!”

Jen:  “What?!”

Me:  “IT’S A HAIR!  A WHISKER!  ON MY CHIN!  OH. MY. GAAAAWWWWDDD!!!!!”

Jen:  “Haaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Me:  “Shut up, you Hussy!  I have a whisker on my face!  Like a man!”

Jen:  “Haaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Me:  “IT’S NOT FUNNY!  Have you ever had a hair on your chin?”

Please say yes.

Jen: “NO!  Haaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Did I mention she’s a Hussy?

Yes, that’s right, Folks.  I had a whisker.  And not just any whisker.  The recurring whisker!

I’ve had to remove it from its cosmically precise place on my chin three times since then!  I am, forcibly, a Whisker Nazi!

Pretty soon I’ll look like this!

 

There will be sightings!

I have accepted the droopy boobs, the muffin top, the lack of sleep.

But this!  I did not sign up for chin whiskers!  I barely grow hair in my armpits!

(That’s a lie.  I shave them every day, so I wouldn’t know if it actually grows or not.  It probably doesn’t now, just by default.)

ANYWAY, me + hair is not good.  I’ve shaved my arms since I was 11, just because I couldn’t stand the sight of hair on them.  As soon as I got the go-ahead from Mama to start shaving my legs, I started shaving everything.  Slick as a baby’s butt, that’s me!

(That’s a lie.  I only shave my legs for special occasions in the winter-time.  When it gets really bad, Chris will raise his eyebrows and proclaim, “You shaved your legs!”  Nope, Honey.  It’s just so long now that it’s smooth again!)

But, dammit, this just gives a whole new meaning to BEASTY!

@#$!*&%$!

What is wrong with me?!  I’ve been sitting here for days trying to get a light bulb to appear over my head regarding a good/funny/witty/totally-worthy-of-an-Emmy post idea but I CAN’T!  It’s like the Wit is taking a Shit!  Hello, Brain?!  Are the neurons firing?!  For the love of all things caffeinated!  IDEAS, ALREADY!

SO.  Let’s take the road less traveled, shall we?  Can I get a little help from my Nekkids?  Any ideas?  Stuff you’d like my gloriously inquisitive opinion about?  Anything?  Maybe a short essay on the pros and cons of Colace vs. Enemas?  Perhaps a full explanation on the diversity of poop in infants?  Even a little documentation on the Rise and Fall of The Perks a.k.a. My Boobs Before and After Childbirth?

I’m digging here, People!  Get a shovel or a backhoe and introduce yourself to this black hole otherwise known as my Creativity.  Maybe all the coffee has turned to sludge and is now compensating for all the intellect it accidently let pass through the loopholes over the last several months.  Or maybe I need to quit reading Twilight.

Read: Twilight = Post-Ideas-That-Solely-Revolve-Around-Glitter-And-The-Many-Ways-It-Can-Be-Adhered-To-The-Body-Of-A-God.

The worst part of all this?  It’s Friday!  The word “Friday” alone should be enough to induce tsunami-sized waves of passionate sarcasm and giddy laughter.  As a blogger, I’m left feeling relentlessly inadequate.  My bottom lip is sticking so far out that a bird’s gonna come along any minute now and wallop an egg-sized pile of poo on it.

… — …                <——Morse code for SOS.  Send ideas.  Or money.  Either is good.

Ergodic

I was totally haunting Dictionary.com and wanted a synonym for “Random”, hence “Ergodic”.

So smart, I is.

Blogger’s Block has consumed me and so I have sifted through my library of useless photos and concocted this fine specimin of visual pleasure.

You’re welcome.

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 As we were driving back from lunch one day, we took notice at the license plate on the Chronic Caddy that was trolling along in front of us.  I was waiting for billows of smoke to pour out of The Herb’s windows.

 

(Insert Drowning Pool song – Let The Bodies Hit The Floor)

In high school, my sister participated (and rocked!) in Marksmanship.  Before competition, her coach insisted that she sleep.  Anywhere.  So you get to sleep and then shoot at stuff.

I totally missed my calling.

 

 This is my Dad.  Complete with pink shirt, floppy (ladies’) beach hat and banjo.

So, yeah.  There’s that.

 

 Jen, Michele, Amy & I were graced with Lady GaGa, who opened up for NKOTB at last fall’s concert.  Yes, she really did have that on in true GaGa fashion.  (This was right before she blew up – we were all “WTF is she wearing?”) I was in the fifth row and watched her get ready for her performance off-stage.  She wore a pleather body suit and the skirt was velcroed to her waist.  And she had a sceptor with a giant ball of light on the end.  Apparently, THAT’S what a disco stick is.

Duh.

 

This.  This! was at the Ft. Fisher Aquarium.  I’d just like to point out that this is like a spider times 100.  Again, more legs and eyes than me = spawn of Satan out to get me.  There’s no shoe in this world big enough.  And my daughter was standing right in front of it.  With her nose pressed up to the tank.  I may have briefly hyperventilated until Chris reminded me that there is 3-inch reinforced glass between her and it.  Also, it is quite tasty when steamed and served with melted butter.  Ya got me there.

I won’t touch you nor come near you within a 20-ft. radius, but I will eat your butt.

 

Happiness Is…..

Some of the other blogs I read have been hitting on a trend of what happiness is.  So I thought I’d share some of what MY happiness is.

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Happiness is a giant bag of Stouffer’s Chocolate Animal Crackers and a 1 lb. tub  of Cool Whip.

Happiness is finding a $20 bill I didn’t know I had.  In the back pocket of my skinny jeans.  That I was able to put on.  And button.

Happiness is a BOGO sale.

Happiness is finding your ex-boyfriend from your college years on Facebook and seeing the pictures of his girlfriend.  Who is fugly.

Happiness is running a cake business and managing to not gain any weight in the process.

Happiness is buying a hot new pair of pumps that don’t make your toes numb when you wear them.

Happiness is a Frappucino.  A vanilla one.

Happiness is riding the Carousel with Mere and seeing her face every time she recognizes her Daddy standing on the sidelines as she whirs past.

Happiness is a size 3T tutu, a headband and a bowl full of chicken nuggets.

Happiness is that stage of babydom right before the mobility kicks in.

Happiness is a second pot of coffee in the morning.

Happiness is a Friday.

Happiness is having your mom with you to watch your kids open their presents from Santa Claus on Christmas Day.

(ahem.  Hint. Hint.)

Happiness is knowing your husband thinks you’re the coolest wife in the world because you love UFC as much as he does.

Happiness is knowing that, through the good and the bad, divorce is not an option.  A promise is a promise.

Happiness is knowing your best friend will always be your best friend.  No matter what.

Happiness is singing at the top of your lungs in the car.  And smiling back at the weird glances at the stoplights.  Then continuing to sing at the top of your lungs.

Happiness is three of your closest friends, window chalk, and a NKOTB concert.

 

Happiness is knowing what happiness is.

Girls’ Night In, Assplosions & HotLights

Girls’ Night In was a success.  We have all officially seen Pearl Harbor in its entirety.  We have all officially cried because of it.  Some of us *coughMichelecough* wept like babies.

And speaking of babies!  I did promise pictures!

Behold the product of a return from a New Kids On The Block concert.

Madelynn, Ava, Madison and Lucas

Well, actually, we just like to say that.  I was 5 months along with Madelynn when we went (Hello, Men-I-Have-Loved-Since-Elementary-School!  No, I’m not fat!  Just pregnant!  Heh…he….ugh.)  Maddie and Lucas were conceived, literally, the night before we left for the concert, and Ava was made a month later.  Because Jen was smart and planned her pregnancy around the concert so that she could be all skinny and seksi and take-me-now when she met them NKOTB Heaven.

Anywho ~ Aunt Amy got to love on all her babies and they got to love on her.  They love Aunt Amy.  She smells good.  And her necklace jingles.  Hot commodity, she is.

 

Madelynn and Aunt Amy

Lucas and Aunt Amy

We made sure to rub lots of babydom on her so that she can quick have one of her own too!  So we can be outnumbered!  Oh, wait.  We already are.  Let’s see…..I have two, Jen has three, Michele has – whoa – four.  That means….wow.  I didn’t realize we were that outnumbered.  Ah, well.  The more the merrier!

Also in attendance in all her cutedom:

Little Maddie with her gorgeous mama!

AND!

Ava Lou with her gorgeous mama!

That ceiling was fascinating!

And finally……

My little AdieBug!  Who wouldn’t go to sleep!  Until midnight!  With her gorgeous flushed-looking mama!

We didn’t get to talk about all the stuff we usually talk about because we were engrossed in the movie, the history behind the actual Pearl Harbor attack, pizza, subs and pasta and the debate over whether sugar free caramel sauce is as good as sugar packed caramel sauce on an ice cream sundae.  Important business we conquered, hear?

Also, ice cream is slippery.  Especially when Michele is scooping.

Oh, and when McDonald’s tells you that their “drive-thru is open ’til midnight”, what they really mean is “we will throw at you the leftover burgers and fries that have been sitting under the warming lights since dinner rush was over 6 hours ago.”

Just so you know.  Hungry Husband should have gotten food at a better hour.

So that was Friday night.

Saturday was all about Meredith.  Who has grown.  Considerably.  And needs new pants.  Unless she’s expecting a flood or a chance to go clamming or wants to be Urkel for Halloween.

Off to the mall we went.  As we’re getting the kids out of their carseats, Chris says, “I think Adie needs her diaper changed” at which point he lays her down in the back of the truck (it’s an SUV, not a real truck.  So, no, we didn’t lay her down in the back of a truck.)  to find poop all over his shirt.  And her shirt.  And pants and legs and feet and everything else that she could possibly touch, including her carseat and OMG!  blankie.  15 minutes, two hundred wipes and a new outfit later, we were off to the Great Shopping Mecca.

Ed. note:  We made a quick sidetrip to the cologne counter to “test” some of the fragrances to see if they matched our pheramones covered the poop smell.

We browsed the shoes in about 5 different stores, not really finding anything that we both liked, when we came upon the HotLights.  We didn’t have a choice once Mere realized that they light up.

“Wow, Mommy, look!”

And so we bought the Sketchers HotLights because what two year old shouldn’t be able to walk around with strobe lights on her feet?

The rest of our afternoon was spent stomping around the Food Court and Carousel so we could watch our feet light up.  Mere forgot about everything else.

Even the walls.  Which jump out at you if you’re not careful and are staring at your strobe-y toes.

 

I Totally Jumped On That Wagon

Hello.  My name is Liz.  And I love Twilight.

*Hi, Liz*

I have a fierce obsession with Edward and secretly haunt internet pictures of Robert Pattinson.  Because he’s hot.  Like, chili-pepper-doused-in-jalapeno-sauce-tossed-in-a-blazing-inferno hot.

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So, yeah.  There’s that.

I’m addicted.  Counting the days ’til New Moon releases, contemplating Round #2 of reading the entire series, wishing my husband were pale and cold and stone-like, addicted.

And I might want to be a vampire.

For one, they don’t have to shower or sleep or pee.  They just…….well, fight masses of evil, romp around with hot Indian werewolves and have lots of mind-blowing Whoopee.  Apparently.  Because, ya know, Stephanie Meyer didn’t exactly pound out the details of each scene of passion.  Dammit.

So, yeah, this Twilight/New Moon/Eclipse/Breaking Dawn thing kinda goes hand in hand with New Kids On The Block in my book of Things I Don’t Tell Everybody Wait Yeah I Do I Put It On The WORLD WIDE WEB Because I Heart Them.  My perfect threesome:  Jonathan Knight and Edward Cullen and Me.  And I don’t think Jon would mind.  *slap*  Oh, you NKOTB fans know exactly what I’m talking about.  (Jen, Amy and Michele, I know you’re on this here wavelength, yep.)

And for my lovely Nekkids who don’t know who or what I’m talking about, I have compiled a small visual for you:

+

+

(I know, that’s, like, the coolest bed EVER!)

=

Well, I think you get it.

SO!  The girls and I are having Girls’ Night In tonight and I’m sure this post will be hot topic of discussion for at least 30 minutes.  I’ll take pictures to chronicle the intensity of it all and we shall recommence on Monday to further divulge important, personal information confessions.

 Oh, and HELLO, AUTUMN!  Thanks for coming!  Since I recently found out that yes!  I do sweat under my arms, I am pleasantly aware that Summer is making an exit.  And so are bathing suits.  Thank you, Jesus.