Bladder Busters and Life Lessons

Dang, it's been a minute since I've blogged. Y'all were probably (not) wondering what was going on and why I stopped. I'd rather eat a pinecone wrapped in fire ant-chovies than lie, so here's the scoop:  the $20 I made from my self-published book went to my head. 

Naw, that ain't true! It was only $18.36.

Life just started happening, and other things seemed to be more important. Feeding your rug-rats is no longer optional, and coffee hour with Kelly & Michael no longer qualifies as an internship. What can I say...things are complicated.

The past few months have brought a fair dose of changes, and with change comes knowledge. I graduated from college, not that it made me any smarter or dumber. In life's cookie jar, experiences are what allow you to nab the last Moon Pie when all the other kids are pilfering through the pantry. I may not be able to calculate the rectabular circumference mass of a Chilean aardvark, but I sure as hell know how to stretch a half-pound of Clara Belle into a 24-inch meatloaf. Book knowledge? Nope, that's life knowledge.

Just this past weekend, I figured out something that I'm pretty sure ain't even made it to Wikipedia yet. Ever been nervous and felt like there was a bulimic gopher in your guts?  Well, it turns out that when that ravenous rodent gnashes on your belly buffet, there's a positive correlation between the size of his butt and the pressure exerted on one's bladder.

I always pictured the graduation walk as a regal moment filled with accomplishment, a sense of finality, and a swell of pride. Y'all, it wasn't my pride that was swelling. I started having PTSD flashbacks to when I was pregnant with Emma. This trailer dwelling, baby poppin', human answering machine at the sonographer's office said to drink 40 ounces of water before coming in for the gender reveal.

Do you know how much 40 ounces of water is, when consumed at one time? Enough to plague Egypt with water toxicity.

40 ounces. The 40-day flood in the Bible. Coincidence? I think not. You can put all your eggs in one dream basket, but nothing compares to the urgency of a full bladder when doing the pee-pee dance in front of a thousand people.

The kids have been their usual selves lately:  lovable, funny, and as ornery as three-legged pitbulls at Casa de Vick.

The past few weeks, these parietal lobe puzzlers have had them at each other's throats.

• Do carrots have riboflavin?
• The color of their Poppa's truck (This one will usher in the Apocalypse.)
• "Why won't (insert child) give me hugs and kisses? You butthole, I just want to love on you!"
• "If I'd been born first, would there still be three of us?"
• After watching 'Night at the Museum 3' with Robin Williams, one precious child asks, "Did he die before or after they made this movie?"
• "Is butt wrench a bad word?"
• "Valentine's Day is for loser babies wearing diapers. Mom, what if Darryl (Dixon) was the Valentine's baby and he shot real arrows?" (What if, indeed....)
• "Mom, I thought you said the Super Bowl commercials were funny." (Sorry, honey. Let's go play in traffic together.)

And in honor of Valentine's Day, I'd like to send a shout-out to a special someone....that pissed me off RIGHT QUICK AND IN A HURRY this morning. (No, not my husband or kids!)

So, to you, you knuckle-dragging, Slothra humping, hairball eating, nut shredding, sludge pudging, cognitively anemic, heap of soul vomit, bless your heart...you're an asshole.

To everybody else, have a blessed day. Hug your loved ones tight, and your enemies tighter....around the neck.

Books Now Available!

Dear Bloogers,

Momma's book, 'Bless Y'alls Hearts', is now available on Amazon for Kindle! You'll recognize some of your favorites from Semantic Sister as well as some stories that were just too hair-silvering for a blog. If you've ever enjoyed, smiled, chuckled, or even READ my blog, please support my writing by getting the e-book. Thanks so much for your support through my infant writing career, and God bless y'all!
Here's the link to Amazon page.

It Takes A Village to Raise It's idiot

God bless the USA. Yep, I said it. I'm not ashamed.

What's the best part of being blessed by God?

Knowing that He will bless us when we're at our worst, our most stupidest, our 'I-forgot-to-take-off-the-falsies-last-night' morning after's.

In case you live in a missile silo in Uzbekistan and didn't hear, yesterday was the anniversary of 9/11. Hubs and I watched a special on the History Channel about it last night with a surprising amount of film footage from Ground Zero.

"Sir, how does this make you feel?"

Yes, while people were taking their last breaths and praying for a merciful homecoming, this leach with a microphone asks an onlooker how he feels.

His response? "Wonderful. The World Trade Center just fell. Really? How do you think I feel? Get lost." 

This morning, I made the mistake of turning on the news.

The story du jour is a rerun of the domestic abuse case involving NFL scumbag Ray Rice.

Not the death of a good, Christian man that donated more than $100 million to family preservation through marriage enrichment, camps, and foster care. Not a word about the same man that gave away $24 million of his money through college scholarships. Not as much as a second of silence for the man that put his money where his mouth was and refused to open his restaurants on Sunday to allow his employees to spend time with their families.

The reporter on HLN were seeking the public opinion from women on the street.

  ...D...
  ...I...D...
 ...P...I...D...
...U...P...I...D....
...T...U...P...I...D....
...S...T...U...P...I...D...

(That's the stupid creeping in.)

Several comments grabbed my attention...Solange Knowles style.

"The public doesn't know what happened before that video was shot."
 
And exactly what could she have done that earned her a TKO from Rocky?

"She married him anyway!"

She's stupid. Stupid is not a justifiable excuse or consequence for domestic violence.

"The real tragedy is that we all assume he's guilty."

Well, call me crazy, but a live recording of the incident goes to show that the real tragedy is being an idiot.

What is wrong with our country?!

Go in any daycare in the country and see what happens when little Johnny slugs Ludmilla in the cheek with a Fisher Price concrete mixer.

There are consequences! Not serious ones at that age, but their soy-nut Fluffer Nutter is not going to be de-crusted today.

Since when is it alright for a grown man to pitch a temper tantrum on another human being's face?

Apparently, Rice's father was killed in a drive-by shooting when Rice was a young child. His mother is a special needs teacher. This doesn't exactly set the scene for grooming a violent thug, does it? He was a kid with goals and, from what I've read, a respectable work ethic.

So, what went wrong?

This country is what happened to this guy. This country convinced him that he is on a higher plane than the little people because he's good at playin' the foosball. This country turns young men into their own personal Jesus's by lavishing attention and TV love on them while completing ignoring what kind of person they are. This country convinces young people that who they are isn't as important as their first contract. This country has promised them that everything acceptable if you make enough money. This country has taught young women that they need to check their self-respect
at the door in the quest for getting their pre-surgery faces on TV...which will allow them to 'get their faces did'.

How about we knock some of these disgraceful He-wolves off of their Super Bowl podiums? Why not challenge the media to glorify athletes who are stepping up to the plate as role models, instead of celebrating those who have to be buzzed into their next phase of life?

If you put any human on a pedestal that high, they're gonna fall off. Nobody's perfect, and if you think anybody is...well, do us all a favor and hold your breath till they show up. That said, look at the whole picture.

Let's replace the Ray Rice's with Doug Flutie's. As far as I know, Li'l Dougie hasn't knocked his soul-mate unconscious and he's raised over $13 million to help families of autistic children.

Let's replace the Rae Carruth's with Derek Jeter's. Derek Jeter may have involved in the big steroid craze of yesteryear, but his foundation has also distributed over $12 million to encourage children to excel in academics, leadership, and character.

Let's replace the OJ's with Jeff Gordon's. He may not be the King of racing, but I'm pretty sure he's never killed anyone and, after a crew member's child was diagnosed with leukemia, he created a foundation that grants over $1.4 million per year for children's oncological care, partnered to create the Jeff Gordon Children's Hospital, and has repeatedly worked with the Make-A-Wish foundation.

Today, I challenge you to reallocate the 5-10 minutes normally spent listening or reading about the latest tabloid disaster. Take those few minutes, and read about the positive things people are doing! You'll have to dig for them as being respectable doesn't make the headlines much these days.

Athletes for Hope:  http://www.athletesforhope.org/

The NFL Foundation:  http://www.nflfoundation.org/

The Tony Gonzalez Foundation:  http://procause.com/tony-gonzalez-foundation/

Tim Tebow Foundation:  http://www.timtebowfoundation.org/

Look to the Stars:  https://www.looktothestars.org/

Make-A-Wish Foundation:  http://wish.org/

These aren't sports specific, but we won't hold that against them!

http://philanthropistlist.com/2014/05/famous-philanthropists/

School Expulsion and Bearded Lunchroom Ladies

Last year, Bubby was almost kicked out of school. No, he didn't go timpani diving through the ceiling tiles of the band room. (Not that I know anyone that's done that...*wink wink*.)  He didn't smuggle peanut butter over to the 'allergy table' like a Mexican drug lord. He didn't even crash the morning announcements in an effort to save the North Dakotan Howling Salamanders from certain annihilation.

Would you like to guess what he did?

His immunization records weren't on the right form.

That's right. The state form from the doctor's office, while up to date, was not on the form they wanted. Now, I've done my fair share of secretarial work, and I know that the ladies answering the phones are only doing what they're told, so my beef is not with them. But my child could've divvied out Cocaine Krispie Treats at the homecoming dance and stayed under the radar longer than he did from this contraband medical form.

But, not wanting to cause a raucous, we take him in and get his bicep plugged full of that mystery juice that prevents birthday-induced, spontaneous combustion. And we're good....right?

ERRRRRRNNNNTTTT!!! No. Of course not.

The doctor's office didn't change the date from his last immunization, so the form is still not right. The Earth's rotation is shifting by the moment, and we're three bottles of beer on the wall away from the Apocalypse.

I'm pretty sure it was Joe Biden that called the next time. "This is a big (*@&#^* DEAL!"

Back to the pediatrician's office to slip a few bucks under the table and get his new identity in witness protection...I mean, his piece of paper.

Hop in an armored truck, turn off all of our GPS tracking devices and haul butt to the middle school. Squeal in the parking lot on two wheels, and I'm smuggled in the back door like a Cuban cigar on the SS Cracker Jack.

PHEW! Looks like the kid will make it to his next birthday.

******TIME WARP******

Last night, at curriculum night at the middle school, Bubby says "Oh yeah, Mom, I have to get my shots, or I'm gonna get kicked out of school."

Oh, hells bells, you've got to be kidding me.

But it's about to get real...you see, they sent home a piece of paper with his name filled in the blank and everything this time...IN AN ENVELOPE.

I break out in a cold sweat. My son's life hangs in the valance.

Do I still have the after hours number for Black Market Betty at the ped's office? For $7 and a six pack, she'll make this pesky little problem go away.

I open up the Inspector Gadget envelope to see my child's bleak future in a mundane form letter.

"As of July 1 2014, all students born on or after January 1, 2012 who are entering the 7th grade must have a valid Form 3231 which meets the following requirements:
(Blah blah blah)

"To avoid asphyxiation, mutilation of his meningococcals, and eternal banishment from his happy place, please get him shot and send us indisputable video evidence of the procedure. Place $38 in non-consecutive, unmarked bills in a paper sack and deliver it to the lunch lady with the longest beard between 2nd and 3rd periods. This message will self-destruct in 14 seconds."

Needless to say, I've spent the morning on the phone with the school secretary and the pediatrician's office. I dial up Funtastical Family Farts & Fixer Uppers, MD and tell them I need to make the dreaded appointment.

"Ma'am, he's up to date on his vaccinations."

The hell you say! Would you mind leaning in for the mike and smiling for the camera while you say that?

Ok...fine...I'll call the school back.

Google....google....find the office number, call the 7th grade office.

I explain the letter and the situation to the sweet lady on the phone. (Really, she is.)

"Is your son a student here?"

Why, heavens no! He's doing his graduate work at Yale.

"And, you say you got this letter from us? Is he in 7th grade?"

No ma'am. He's retiring from Lockheed in April. I was just testing your underground networking abilities.

I explain the situation AGAIN, and I'm to the point of fasting and praying. If this don't work, there may be a laying on of hands.

"Well, it may be that it's just not on the right form. He probably has the 'ok for 6th grade' form, but we have to have the 'ok for 7th grade' form. If you'll hold on, I'll pull up his records." I'm starting to hear the voices of angels! I feel a warm, tingling sensation covering my body, and I know I'm getting somewhere!

"Ma'am, we have a record for him, but the system we use to pull up the records isn't working, so I can't see it. Can you have the doctor's office fax over an updated form?"

Sweet baby Jesus....

Long story short...Funtastical Family Farts will be faxing over another form today.

And do you want to know the kicker? Bubby won't be eligible for another well child/ immunization visit until October because he was in there last September, and they only get one per year.

Do you know what that means? We'll be Groundhog Dayin' this in about a month...when his current shot record expires.

Lord love a duck, can we get some common sense up in here?!

A Kindergarten Cleopatra in a Kaleidoscope World

I think it's pretty common knowledge that boys and girls are different. Not just innies vs. outies, but we're wired differently. If you ask a little boy what he wants to be when he grows up, he'll probably say one of three things:  a professional athlete, a fireman, or....just like daddy. If you ask my daughter what she wants to be when she grows up, she'll say one of these:

• A mermaid gymnast
• A teacher
• An upside down dancer
• A baker so she can "do the fondant and make delicious treats" all day
• A ballerina
• The lost princess

I'm good with most of those options. As long as she works hard, is happy, and is doing something to make the world a better place, I'm fine with it.

Despite her tiny packaging, she has a strong foundation in leadership and is developing her authoritarian voice exponentially with each passing day. (Did I pull that off?)

We're one week into school, and she has already made her mark on her school. The other morning, I dropped her and Rae-Rae off in the morning, and the famous Mr. T. (the coolest teacher in the universe according to my kids) helps her out of the car. Now I don't know what kind of happy juice this guy has in the mornings, but somehow, he makes the kids feel like they're stepping out of a limo at the Academy Awards instead of out of Bessie behind the school. He helps Emma out and walks her to the sidewalk, where she latches onto his finger and won't let go. So what does he do? This tall-as-a-Redwood P.E. coach lets himself be drug down the sidewalk behind a 3-foot nothing ball of assertiveness donning a twinkly Frozen backpack and seizure-inducing strobe shoes.

On the first day of school, apparently not all the children in her class were as confident and prepared to learn as she.  I expected as much as during the Assemblage of Supplies Pertaining to the Health, Artistry and Literacy of Tomorrow (ASPHALT) (a.k.a. school orientation), one child was doing the baby monkey grasp of terror, one was doing a headstand in his cubby, and a small cooperative of young girls may or may not have been reenacting 'Frozen'  in the book nook.

(Let me preface this by saying that we are still working on our 'r' pronunciation. I'm not making fun of my daughter by any means, but to grasp how difficult it is to keep a straight face sometimes, I will be writing the following recollections in Emma-nese).

My daughter comes home the first day, and says, "Mom, we have a wunnah in our class. Every time my teachah walked away from the dah, this little boy would twy to wun away and find his mommy. Do you know what my teachah said? She said 'No sah! No sah! You cannot wun away!' And she had to put the twash can in fwont of the dah so that he couldn't wun away. And do you know what I said? I told hah that he's childish."

Since then, I've learned quite a bit about her classmates.

• Some little girl's poor father has staples in his belly. The reasoning behind the staples is still under investigation... as is whether or not the poor man lived... as is the name of this newfound best friend.
• 99% of children in the class are juvenile delinquents and will surely be on "Beyond Scared Straight" by Labor Day. 
• Another interesting fact....apparently, if there are two children in the lower 48 with the same name, they will be placed in the same class. Yes, Sasquatchetta Smith of Kansas City and Sasquatchetta Goldbloom of the Bronx will have to be bussed in to make things as confusing as possible for their teachers. Seriously...in a class of about 20 kids, there are 3 sets of name twins! C'mon, random class generating app, give the teachers a break!

It's been a great start to a colorful year, and though I'd rather wash down some kimchi with Tabasco than second guess authority, I do have a minor complaint. I pack my children's lunches each day, and have found these nifty little divided containers with fitted lids. As the lids are fitted, they are a little tough to remove. My daughter asked the lunch monitor at their table to help get the lid off, and was told that she needed to bring something she could open herself...that it's not the monitor's job to open her lunch.

Wait a minute, back that Twinkie up! YOU WORK FOR A SCHOOL. YOUR JOB IS TO HELP CHILDREN. But that's not the part that bothers me the most.

What kind of people do you think these children will grow up to be, when during the first week of school, they're told to stop asking for help and do it themselves? I understand that Ms. Lunch Lady Monitor Gone Rogue doesn't want to open 20+ lunch containers, but are you kidding me? Would it kill you to be nice? Not for the whole year, as that would probably cause cancer, but at least for a week or two? How about you help show her that she can do it if she tries, instead of condemning her choice of lunch containers and making her cry?

Well, guess what, Corn Dog Commandant? I hope you have a blessed day anyway, though I may or may not have wished for your keys to get locked in your car. Just call the police or a locksmith, right? Oh, wait, I also wished that they would tell you "It's your problem. Fix it yourself."

I hope your applesauce gets ALL UP IN your cracker compartment.

Momma's Fantasy Football

It's getting to be that time of year. Carefully prepared meals are exchanged for cheese fries at the ballpark concession stand. Saturday hikes are traded in for 6:45 a.m. report times for a 10:30 game, which is conveniently an away game in Reykjavik. Your daughters trade in their princess gowns for  cheerleading uniforms and jersey dresses. That's right....it's almost football season.

I miss our days of spending 16 hours at the NYSA park, believe it or not. Our Saturdays are now spent either watching foosball on TV or with at least part of the family in A-town for the game.

But pro ball? Not so much. I haven't been excited about pro-ball since the XFL rose like Dean
Winchester from Perdition, christened with the testicular fortitude of such heroes as 'Hehateme'. Seriously...football and wrestling combined? Yes, please! They gave us empty promises of skull crushing and microdermal annihilation, but they didn't deliver...and now we're stuck with the wussies of the NFL again.

We sat watching a pro-football game a while back, and I swear, there were 57 personal fouls in the third quarter. (No, I don't know who was playing. One team had orange, and the other had dark pants.) 

"Personal foul...#46 on the defense...15 yards of emotional consolation, chest to chest bro-ffection, and post-game cuddles. 1st down. Wait--the play is being reviewed." Great, another long commercial break while Peyton orders his Broncha-mocha-soy-boy, post-game Starbucks. 

It didn't use to be that way. Back in the glory days, those men went out there and knocked the stank off of each other. 

 "Momma, didn't that left hash mark's name used to be Reginald?!"

"Why, yes it did, son, but he got Herscheled."

They were allowed to hit like men back then, and it was awesome. 

I know this probably ain't a good Christian attitude, but when I watch a football game, I want to see some noggin' knockin'.

(**Let me clarify...ONLY in college and professional games. My son was concussed a couple of seasons back, and it was really scary. His verbal abilities digressed by about 5 years, and it was like the lights were on but nobody was home. It was like watching Obama without a teleprompter...completely helpless.)

I want to see guys getting hit so hard they go airborne and the only question on the play is how many points the other team gets if he clears the uprights.

I want to see kickers line up, give the 'ol pigskin a whack, and take off running like his hair's on fire because he's got two metric tons of testosterone coming to shove his kneecaps through his voice box. 

Don't get me wrong, I don't want anybody to get hurt. But dang it, if this bunch of meat heads is gonna get paid bazillions of dollars to play a game, they best be puttin' on a show. And for the college guys playing, if they act like a meat head, they get treated like a meat head. Think Sugar Bowl meets Gladiator...with a splash of Braveheart. 

Picture it...the opening kick-off. Well, not exactly.

There's not enough action in that. In my fantasy football league, the opening play is combined with the coin toss. The refs stand on the 50, and toss the ball up in the air. The teams run in from the goal lines, and whoever gets to it first, well, gets the ball. Full body contact, serial assault football. 

If it goes to overtime, we can fix that, too. A tie at the end of regulation means coaches suit up. No pads, just helmets to protect their plugs and make-up. If your coach goes whining to a ref, you lose. (Sorry, Bama, you'd probably lose every OT.)
 

When Quantaviation Jones gets caught with a weave full of weed the week of the big game? He gets to clean up the stands after the game. 

When Kruex de Champipple assaults an officer? He gets to hold the ball on the 50 to begin the game. Oh, and did I mention the fans in the high dollar seats are provided semi-automatic, paint ball guns for a more inclusive game day experience?

What's that? Spam Pootin got caught stealing....again? No problem...and no helmet next week! Headgear is a privilege, not a right.

Say again? The coach tried to cover up what? How many kids?! Death penalty...and I ain't talking about for the athletic program. 

Both of our boys have played football, and I think it's great for kids...other than the concussions and broken bones. They get banged up, they recover, they have war stories to tell their first girlfriends. 

"Yeah, I was carrying the other team's offensive line to the end zone when a rabid Great Dane ran onto the field with a baby in it's mouth. I rescued the baby, but the dog and the line were too much. In a cloud of sweat and slobber and farts, my leg was ripped off, flung into the press box...and ran up the flag pole by the opposing team. I climbed the flag pole with one leg, punched the other coach in the face, and walked three miles in a hurricane to the nearest soup kitchen, where I served 200 meals before making my way to the emergency room where they reattached my leg after they refused my offer to donate it to some poor, unfortunate uniped. I got to keep the leg, and I did three open heart surgeries and 17 circumcisions while I waited, so all in all, I'm just lucky, I guess."

If you really want to add some fuel to the fire, sneak some women with PMS onto the field....as referees...

Which came first, the head or the headache?

I've recently come to a troubling conclusion:  my brain makes my head hurt. Not in an 'overworked-woman-changing-the-world-one-organic-goats-milk-cream-filled-pastry-at-a-time-while-weaving-hemp-into-dolphin-thongs-and-raffling-them-off-with-all-proceeds-benefiting-orphans-in-Africa' kind of way. Don't get me wrong. That's fine and dandy if you're a soy nut munching momma that recycles toilet paper to pay homage to Mother Earth. It's just not me.

Do you have frequent headaches?  I do, and while Doogie can't seem to figure out why, I've turned to depsychologicizing myself in an effort to reveal the true source of my pain. I'm narrowed it down to a few contributing factors that I'll be disclosing in no particular order.

Being Straight as an Arrow

I'd better clarify that one lest I get myself a reputation as a round-heeled Roxanne. My neck don't curve. I've got the x-rays to prove it, but due to the commanding presence of other mitigating circumstances, I'm not asking the FBI Barbies to close out my list with a soul-stirring quote from Angela Lansbury just yet.

The last time I went to a chiropractor, he really helped me. I was without pain for the first time in weeks, and there was nothing illegal involved! He told me some exercises to practice (laughable, I know) and told me that I needed to practice "wearing my princess tiara" in an effort to restore order to the universe. You see, with him being a highly paid medical professional and all, his wife apparently lives in a world where being slouchy is near the top of the doo-doo list, sitting just below eating cheesecake in your underwear as the young'uns run through the sprinklers naked...during your neighbor's outdoor wedding. But I digress...

This dude has no idea who he's talking to. Do you know the last time I wore a tiara? Probably at a Phi Mu Alpha party...in college...in northern Alabama. That's all I have to say about that. Nowadays, my tiara more closely resembles this little gem right here.    As much good as Dr. Snap-Crackle-Pop-Guy's-Fixed-Me! did, I still have headaches all the time.

Lingering Effects of Fast Food Addictions

As hard as it is to believe, I didn't get this smokin'
hot bod by eating tofurkey wraps. As a teenager, I
ate copious amount of poverty level tacos. I'm not
talking about fish tacos with garden fresh salsa and
organic lettuce sprigs. I'm talking Taco Bell in all it's goopy cheese, imperishable mush meated, same-in-same-out goodness. (Don't act like you don't know what that means.)

Or perhaps it's a backlog of pink slime in my spleen. I don't know, but thinking about the things I used to consume makes me marvel at the fact I'm still walking upright. I'm surely a Darwinian nightmare.

There are a couple of food facts that make me feel like a unicyclist with vertigo stuck on a merry-go-round. (Insert best quote from our vacation this year:  "Whoa! A black dude on a unicycle! That's straight up gangsta!") Take a look at a McDonald's french fry...from 1982. It still looks exactly the same now as it did then. Why doesn't it do the same for people?

Second of all, if they can add all of these disgusting fillers and additives to the pink slime to make their chicken nuggets taste so damned good, why can't they make vegetables taste good? My God, have you ever eaten a beet? I tried sneaking some into some baked goods once upon a time, and I swear on the First Baptist's cookbook that someone snuck into my kitchen, consumed the aforementioned cornucopia of tacos, and proceeded to take the Browns to the Super Bowl in my best cake pan. So the additives aren't good for you...but asparagus infused with yummy toxic goo is better than pink slime with yummy toxic goo, no?

Children

God knows I love my children more than Disney World, but children do, in fact, make your head hurt. My three children have never misbehaved, so that's not what I mean. For pete's sake, I have to beat them off of each other or the hugging never stops, and if I have to tell them one more time to stop cleaning or reading in their rooms for countless hours, my head will surely explode. (Yes, the penultimate head pain goes full circle.)

It's the nonstop noise that puts me on the one way bus to Shady Pines.

"Momma, he called me a butthole! I tolded him I don't like him, and he said he's gonna put me in the toilet and AAUGH! There's a spider in the bathroom! Don't put me in the toilet with a spider! Mommy, can spider's swim? Can they jump? Can they bite you on the booty? If you get a spider in your butt, will you die? Will it die? If you poop on a spider, will it drown?"

"I did NOT say I was gonna put her in the toilet! I said she's being a terd! Hey...wait a minute...maybe I would put her in the toilet. Hey, Emma, you know who else lives in the toilet? Ana and Elsa. They sing about it all the time!  LET IT GO! GOT TO GO! CAN'T HOLD IT IN ANYMORE!"

"MOMMY!!!! HE SAID ANA AND ELSA LIVE IN THE TOILET, AND HE THINKS MY FAVORITE SONG IS STUPID! BUBBY! FROZEN IS NOT ABOUT POOPING IN THE POTTY. YOU'RE A POOPY HEAD AND I'M A PRINCESS."

(She suddenly switches personalities.)

"I'm the lost princess, aren't I?" (Said child proceeds to lift their leg and annihilate an army of barking spiders in one fail swoop.)

But anyway...if you can think of any reason my head still hurts, please let me know. As my gangsta child used to say, "pea soup, A-town."

God's Perfect Timing

As a Christian, I know we are supposed to always trust in His plan and wait with a knowing....but I am not only a Christian, I'm also human...and I DON'T LIKE TO WAIT!!!

Seriously. Send me in a restaurant giving out free cheesecake with a line out the door, and I'll go next door to buy a piece for $5 with no wait. If you want to see smoke boil out of my ears, make me wait on you...that's a real quick way to get on the "Tainted Taco Bell Buffet" list. (By the way, would anyone like to come over to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with some local Mexican cuisine? I know it's the 8th, but I've been waiting on you since the 5th.)

I've never told my whole story on here, and I won't get to all of it today, but there are some things on my heart that I've got to get out before it explodes like a Crohn's patient after said buffet.

But for now, look at the outline of how God has put things together. It's truly amazing.

1997- I graduated high school and went to college.
1999- Ended a long term relationship with an amazing guy...and couldn't tell you why. I just knew that we weren't supposed to be together anymore. I decided that for the first time in a long time, I wasn't going to be tied down to anyone. I refused to enter into another serious relationship. After all, it's college, right? Time to have fun!

1999- 6 weeks later- I met my husband. I wanted to enjoy being single for a while, but God had other plans. Yes, I fought Him for a little while, but thank goodness He kept his hand on me.

Feb 11 2000-  My better half asked me to marry him, and I said...."get up". Not "yes", but "get up". (And no, I'll never live that down!)

Feb 25 2000- The man I've just agreed to spend the rest of my life with is diagnosed with lung cancer.

After a few insane weeks, his diagnosis is changed to lymphoma, and he begins chemo. So, he and I (equipped with all of my wedding planning magazines) take up residence in a chemo ward in Atlanta for a while. The Jewish doctor in the Catholic hospital tells us that there's a very good chance he won't be able to father children. (Keep in mind, I've been given a similar report for different biological reasons.)

March 2000- We learn of a church meeting in a little community center in Cumming, GA, and decide to try it out. Let me tell you...GOD LIVED THERE! I know that God is everywhere, but in that little community building, we had His direct number and, honey, He answered our calls!

April 2000- The Mr. goes up for prayer, and all heaven breaks loose. When we leave church that morning, we know what He's done.

April 2000- Dr's appointment. Pablo tells the Jewish doctor treating the Pentecostal young man in the Catholic hospital that he's seen the great physician, and will no longer be needing his services. The doctor's response? "You'll be dead in a year."

(Picking up the pace here...)
December 2000- We're married.

2001- We decide that we're going to start trying to have a baby.

A couple of weeks later, we're pregnant. <3

2002- We have a beautiful, healthy baby boy.

2004- We shared a Coke at McDonald's, and God gives us another butterbean!

2005- Our second son arrives.

2008- We passed each other on the sidewalk one day, so God gave us another butterbean!
(If you haven't noticed, God healed both of our fertility issues!!!)
Dec 2008- I finish my Associate's Degree. It wasn't much to me, but it's progress, right?

2009- Our little princess arrives.

Things begin to get a little messy here. Jobs are lost, vehicles are downsized, utilities are barely staying on, but we're surviving.

2012- Due to unexpected professional circumstances, we leave behind the area, family and friends that we love to move.

2013- I'm doing an internet search one day, and I come across a school where the tuition is a flat rate per term. The cost is the same whether you take 5 hours or 50. I've never done it before, but I pick up the phone and call the '800' number to speak to a counselor. A month later, I start classes. A few of my earlier credits transferred, but I still have a long way to go.

2014- My husband is sent to work 8 hours away for a span of several months. For three kids who worship their daddy, this is unbelievably hard on them, but we manage to survive. (Thank God for video chat!) While he's gone, things change....a lot. Suppers are sandwiches or cereal. (Why cook when nobody eats it?) The laundry piles up all week, and Saturday is marathon laundry day. There are usually dirty dishes in the sink, and I put on make-up and fix my hair MAYBE 10% of the time.

May 5, 2014- God finally flips a light switch for me. I talk to my advisor, and she is floored by what she's looking at. Since my husband has been gone, I've completed 36 hours in one term. I have 60 hours of classroom observation, and then I will begin student teaching.

What's so amazing about this? Think about it. I began college 17 years ago, and somehow, it falls into place that my observation and student teaching will take place when "the baby" starts kindergarten? The third of three children that man said we would never have. The third of three miracles that GOD said we should have.

I never really understood why it never worked out for me to finish school, but I finally do. You see, I was looking at jobs the other day, and I saw one that caught my eye.

"Certified Oncological Social Worker". Um, why have I not heard about this before?

I used to think I wanted to be a nurse so that I could help cancer patients, but our family dynamics and schedules never allowed for nursing school. What's the chance that, as I draw closer to finally finishing my Bachelor's degree, that I would run across this field of work that I've never heard of?

I've always been drawn to people affected by cancer. I love doing what I can to help them, and if I ever win the lottery, I will spend my time and money doing just that. But for now, I'll work toward a career in it to ease my family's burden and hopefully make the way a little smoother for them.

So, that said, DON'T GIVE UP ON GOD! Like the words from one of my favorite songs by the Crabb Family, "He never promised that the cross would not be heavy or the hills would not be hard to climb".
School is why I don't blog much anymore. It turns out that doing two years of school in two semesters takes up most of your time. =)  But, that said, please keep me in your prayers that I would keep my nose to the grind stone, finish up my undergrad in teaching, and then move on to grad school. It's time to turn one of the darkest times of my life into a resource and a blessing for those wading through it now.

I'm finally starting to see His plan for me, and wow, it feels amazing.

If you're interested in helping others but have limited resources, I invite you to check out www.chemoangels.net. I've worked with them for several years, and it is one of the most rewarding things you will ever do. They also have a "Senior Angel" program where you participate as a pen pal for senior citizens who may or may not be invalids.

Well, that's all for now. If I don't go finish my last two papers of this monstrous term, I won't be moving on to anything! Be blessed everyone.

2014: Just Another Kick in the Bass Fishing Tournament

Hey everybody! I didn't realize it'd been so long since I whined blogged. No, actually that's a lie. I know exactly how long it's been, but 2014 ain't exactly had humor juice in it's watering can. It's been more like the spit bottle of that tobacco-spittin' man of mine. It stinks, it ain't real pretty, and if you accidentally take you a swig thinking it's Coke, somebody's gonna be worshiping the porcelain prince.

It's about 6 weeks into this glorious gumbo of gerbil guts, and unfortunately, it's too late to turn back now.

But instead of sitting here griping about it, I'm going to turn it into a learning activity. Granted, no kids will learn from it unless it's on Youtube with "Let It Go" blaring at 18,000 decibels. (No, I haven't seen Frozen. Yes, I've heard it's wonderful. My daughter has been shrieking the song since around November, and it has completely destroyed any desire I ever had to see these two Disney poopsicles floating around throwing 3-D glitter in my face.

Speaking of throwing stuff in your face, we've had two pretty good snows in the past month. The first resulted in a bad case of whiplash, no lie. Apparently the speed and velocity reached by the time your feet go higher than your head are enough to bring out the whistling birds put a serious hitch in your get along. The second snow? We went out some, but the lingering ringing in my ears and stabbing pain in my neck seemed to damper the festivities.

But anyway...a play on letters addressing the shove-itness of 2014.

A is for the alcohol used for cough syrup for my son, who was one game of hopscotch away from an iron lung.

B is for the butt I busted on the ice, leaving me unable to do the Macarena...or mop, apparently.

C is for the 50 cheese sandwiches Rae-Rae has eaten as he's still boycotting anything with more than 2 ingredients.

D is for "dammit", which has officially been the word of the year.

E is for Emzilla and her newfound love of snorting and doing that little girl scream that makes you want to go buy them a pair of nads at the local animal shelter.

F is for Frozen....the worst, most torturous movie I've never seen. According to Facebook, everybody short of Helen Keller has made "Let It Go" their own, and all I can do is beg that they, in fact, let it go.

G is for my sweet Granny that went to heaven in January. She was a real woman, and I'm so thankful that I got to spend her last day on earth with her.

H is for "How was I supposed to know that we had homework? Well, yeah, she told us, but I thought she was kidding."  Three guesses which kid this one's for.

I is for "If one more thing tears up, I'm gonna start blowing stuff away with our shotgun." No, it's not irrational...it's called taking control of the situation.

J is for 'just keep swimming.' I love Dory.  She's my favorite character of...wait, what were we talking about?

K is for Kenmore, the brand of the dryer that I disassembled in an effort to fix it. It's still not fixed, but I'm so proud that I got the non-working parts put back into place, I'm leaving it for the time being.

L is for Lester, my alter-ego who gets me in so much trouble. I promise, if I piss you off with anything I've done or not done, it was clearly Lester, and I cannot be held accountable for his actions.

M is for "Momma, make it stop!"  2014, that is.

N is for 'Nsufficient funds. Why does nobody have money anymore? Me thinks Obama's been fueling Michelle's pond hopping excursions by seizing and burning Hamilton's and Washington's.

O is for "Oh my goodness, Russia is finally doing something that makes you proud for them!" Seriously, the opening ceremonies were beautiful.

P is for Putin....and Putin's games. I'm 35 years old, and I still can't say his name without snorting.

Q is for "I Quit!"  If anyone can find the address for the Stay At Home Mom's Human Resources Division, I will pay good cash money for it.

R is for "Rarely will my truck crank on the first try." It needs tires and probably a battery, but why pay to let a murderous hooker on the Green Mile get new acrylic nails? Some things just don't make sense.

S is for shit. Pretty self-explanatory, even if offensive.

T is for "Tell me why the heat in our house makes it colder except for in the master closet. It's nice and toasty in there."

U is for Under God, I swear I'm getting a hybrid tank for my next vehicle. Cut me off  again, Ms. Suburban Driving, tennis visor-wearing, mom of 17 perfect kids that volunteers at Trader Joe's in her spare time, and you'll understand why I'm getting the tank.

V is for victory! No matter how many kids puke, how many bones are broken, how many Ramen noodles you eat, you will survive. And according to the owner's manual, that's a victory.

W is for "We're gonna play a game of sit-down-and-shut-up-while-mommy's-in-her-school-webinar."

X is for Xpect. I expect that by the time my husband finishes his stint working in Virginia, my grey temples will make me bear a striking resemblance to Grandpa Munster.

Y is for YOLO, a term that I detest. The words are "Carpe Diem", you illiterate twits. Yolo sounds like Rolo, and every time I hear the word, my hopes are dashed as I still don't have any damn chocolate.

Z is for Zeus, Ziggy and Zhwang, the possible identities of the ghosts in this house. Since the weather has become so erratic, we are apparently hosting a paranormal hopscotch tournament in the upstairs bathroom. As I sit hear in what should be silence, avoiding doing my school work and putting up the load of clothes that took 18 hours to air dry yesterday, it sounds like somebody lubed up the bathroom floor for an intoxicated Limbo contest of the spirits.

So there, boys and girls. And ode to 2014.

Ode.
Commode.
Come on.
Rally on.
Rally's.
I want a cheeseburger.
Rae-Rae won't eat burgers.
Make him try a bite.
Gags, gonna hurl.
Rally round the 'ol white throne,
The 'ol white commode.

See? It's all about the crapper.

Say a prayer that I can keep juggling everything. It's about to break me...kind like that piece of ice that turned me into the elephant man for a week.

Steel Magnolias 2: The Real Housewives of Chinqapin Parish

Do y'all remember when Truvy said "there's no such thang as natural beauty"? Little did we know that in 1987, Dolly was setting us up for a good twenty years of women stuffing junk in their trunks, Jell-O in their hell-OO's, and bionic Tupperware into their kiss holes. I wish Dolly would've kept her mouth shut.

Just look at the men in that movie! You had Tom Skerritt and  Sam Shepard as the patriarchs of their families. Do you think for a minute Drum Eatonton or Spud Jones would'a had anything tucked, besides their boots in their britches legs? Now, Jackson Latcherie? There's a good chance he might've headed down the plastic highway in the future, and I think that's why M'Lynn didn't like him:  she knew he was a skinny jean wearin' girlie man on the inside.

Yo Shawdy, It's My Birfday...

What does every Mom look forward to on their birthday? Spending time with the family, taking a bubble bath sans the world heavyweight title holder, and eating cake. Today? Check, no check, and oh yeah....check.

I'm in job-induced, single parent mode this week. No, I'm not really a single parent, but I'm the only one around with beating privileges, and the iPad can't call 911 should the short stacks seize control. I'm hoping this explains my daughter's message to me for my birthday:

"Mom, you're the best mom I ever had. You're just so nice and you let me eat cake for breakfast, and your big, squishy belly makes me want to snuggle. But I wish dad was here and you could go away for work sometimes. I really love him a lot, and sometimes he's my favorite."  Thank you, my dear. However will I fit my big head through the door come morning?

Then there was my greeting from Morgan Freeman.

"Hello there, I'm Morgan Freeman, and it's your birthday. You should party like it's your birthday, watching evil farty like it's your birthday, and you know I don't know the words because I'm Morgan Freeman, you're just some old white lady that fixes me cereal."

I didn't--and still don't-- know how to respond to that, so...there. I was hoping I'd get an encore of the performance of "Shawdy got them Morgan Freeman jeans..." from last night, but no such luck.

Then there was Larry King. "Happy birthday, Mom. Can you fix supper now? I want tacos."  Yes, because I definitely want to be sharing a bed with a bunch of taco-stuffed wind bags tonight. I suppose it would make me feel less lonely. Sorry, but if I want a shot in Hades of making it till 35 and a day, I ain't loading this bunch up with Mexican again. I thought dear 'ol Morgan was gonna blow the freckles off his shmeckle after El Mocha Jeters Friday.

We had to do our obligatory milk-and-bread run earlier, so we stopped by Aldi. I know, I know...they sell horse meat lasagna. But it's really cheap!!! And it smells better than Wal-Sharts produce department. So I get the kids bundled up and herd them to the truck like a six-pack of ADHD kittens.

"Hey, I'm in the front, butt hole!"

"NO! You were in the front yesterday, baby rump sniffer!"

"MOM!"

"MAMA!"

"Hey! Why don't I get to talk?"

"Alright, alright! Larry, you're in the back this time. Morgan, you're riding shotgun."

I swear Bubby transformed into a 90-year old white man before my eyes, peering over his invisible glasses as he mumbled "It's cuz he's black, ain't it?"

All I could think to say was "Well, Larry, I ain't ever seen you up front with Miss Daisy."

Apparently, it's supposed to be colder than a gravediggers butt in Fargo over the next couple of days, but no precipitation yet. I even did the good mom thing and sprayed our back patio down with water to try to make a miniature 911 magnet, I mean, skating ring, but we haven't had so much as vulture spit so far.

I just want them to call school off...before bedtime. I want to delay that sorry-I'm-late-but-my-mom-overslept excuse for one more day. Not to mention, I think it'd be really fun to play with the boys new paintball/dart guns in ice and snow.

So, today has actually been really fun. I crunk up the fire place, put on my fuzzy pj britches, burned a hole in said pj britches, and have repeatedly questioned why I haven't taken my vacuum cleaner to audition for the lead in a Lifetime movie. It really sucks, and apparently that's the only requirement.

I took them out in public....again.

Never thought we'd go to Wal-Mart, did ya? Friday, I took the kids to get some food because we were gonna go crazy in the house.We haven't been out too much lately, and while cozy, I break down and

give in to the crazies. I figured I'd take them out in public for their teachers' sakes...just to help them,
you know, smooth down the weird edges. I could've stayed at home where it was warm, but I picked
up, and braved going out while outnumbered 3-to-1.

Never in my life have I laughed as hard as I did on our little lunch and shopping outing! "Y'all, we are 

gonna get kicked out of this restaurant if y'all don't calm down!" Rae-Rae's decides he's gonna 

let his name be Morgan Freeman. Believe it or not, this is a normal part of our day. If you're there,

you are laughing your butt off right along with us! We went to this Mexican restaurant, 'El Molcajete.' It's down the street from our house, and their food is cheap and good. The kids love the cheese dip, and I 

never turn away from a place that the kids can actually agree on. They seat us, and we decide we're 

gonna do our own orders. (Meaning, I don't order for the kids...they do it.) So I glance down and  

run my finger down the menu, and decided on what I want, when Rae-Rae speaks up to the waitress.

"Around here, my name's Morgan Freeman. I'd like some chicken fangers with barbecue sauce, fries, 

and a Co-Cola. And, pardon me for asking, but what does 'El Mocha Jeters' mean? Is if french? You have

dessert here? I like them cinnamon thangs at Taco Bell. Do you like Taco Bell? You're Mexican, aren't

 you? My mom looks Mexican sometimes, but she's not. She's just from Georgia."

Never again, I thought to myself. Bubby decides that if Rae-Rae is Morgan Freeman, then he's just

gonna be Larry King. (I know, what the heck?! It goes back to an old dance move he used to do that would make Larry King dance like Steve Urkel. I can't explain it...we're just freakin' weird.)  But anyway...

You wouldn't believe the chips and cheese they put away, and this is not including making Rae-Rae

cry about the cheese he dripped down his shirt. But they all ate a good lunch, and we, of course, could

never go to town with going to Wally-World. In my New Years effort to become more organized, we were gonna go get some crates to help the kids keep the stuff they play with most, cleaned up. We get there; I say we won't there but a minute, but that means an easy hour and a half until we tell all these Walmartians goodbye. We're strolling through the storage stuff, and the crates are nowhere to be found. Now I'd have never imagined that storage stuff wouldn't be in the storage department. Please tell me that I am not 

gonna have to ask. Why wouldn't the crates be in the storage department? Guess that's why I don't

tell Wal-Mart how to organize stuff. We finally find them, and we wind up folding up Miss Nacho Diva,

a farting, giggling bundle of Mexican aftermath by this time, into two of them inside the buggy.I won't lie...she's dropping chimichanga bombs at every corner. We're heading through books when Bubby
and Rae-Rae see Nelson Mandela on a magazine cover. "Hello, I am Morgan Freeman, and it should

hurt my feelings that they keep calling me Nelson. I'm pretty famous. Today I am with Larry King, and...

you have GOT to stop, Emma! They're gonna call me Morgan Stinky Cheeseman."

******To Be Continued******

Sunday (1/5) is my birthday, and I'm thankful that I'm not celebrating like last year:  with the flu, double pneumonia, and a double ear-infection. I'll take freezing my butt off at home any day of the week. Since it's my birthday, I'd like to let you know that I just gave you a little birthday surprise. 

#rickroll

New Years Revolutions

It’s about that time! Time to make all kinds of promises to yourself that you’ll be breaking by the time January’s rent check clears, which will have you drowning your self-induced heart break in Ben & Jerry’s by MLK day. That’s right…it’s time to make useless New Year’s resolutions.

Well, I’m boycotting it this year. I’ve been pretty successful in carb-loading since Thanksgiving, but I really don’t wanna make any more empty promises to myself. I don’t like lying to me.

So this year, instead of resolutions, why not try an “(Ain’t Got A) Bucket List.” Instead of telling yourself what constraints you’re going to place on yourself and how you’re going to be miserably better for it, why not plan a list of things you’d like to do this year? I’m up for it!

The list of years past would look something like this…

• Lose 20-30 pounds
• Eat vegetarian one day a week
• Walk or exercise every day
• Stop eating fast food (yes, this means Hardee’s biscuits!)
• Save $4 billion by couponing

Well, guess what? This New Years will find me fat and sassy, but it’ll find me happy in so many ways.

My 2014 “(Ain’t Got A) Bucket List” is going to be a fun list…things I WANT to do, not things I'm gonna kick my own Irish and German arse for not doing.

• Start a fire without matches or a lighter (Yep, we watched Castaway this weekend.)
•  Go fishing with the kids.
• Visit my friends in Navarre
• Not go to Wal-Mart for one month
• Find a huge hill, and roll down it like my hair is on fire.
• Participate in some sort of redneck outdoors event, whether it be hunting, performing stupid tasks involving ropes and tires, or anything else fun like that. (NO wheelbarrow races. I once broke my butt in a most unfortunate accident involving a wheel barrow and an attempt to break the sound barrier.)
• Volunteer somewhere.
• Go hiking. (And by hiking, I mean casually stroll through some place with pretty hills that has plenty of places to sit down along the way.)
• Do at least 5 stupid things that I'm dared to do.
• Develop an invisible spit shield for Lou Holtz on ESPN. That guy drivesh me nutsh.

If you haven’t made your bucket list, you’ve GOT to do it. And the bigger, the better!

I made mine a few years ago after my best friend was killed, and I can’t even believe how many things I’ve marked off! It’s not necessarily earth shattering stuff, but stuff that has made me genuinely happy for a little while! I put 100 things on my first list, and I’ve crossed off about 25 of them in four years. So do I go ahead with the next 75? Nope, I add 25 more and keep going!

No, I haven’t been to Europe or Italy yet, and that’s okay. I’ve always wanted to see them, but I’d much rather see my kids faces light up in Disney World than see the Louvre light up at dusk. If they happen one day, that’s great, but I’m okay if they don’t.

I guess if I had to make one resolution for this year, it would be to be happier with what I have, with who I am, and with the opportunities that God has given me.  And if our next family reunion should turn into a virtual redneck edition of non-lethal Hunger Games, then it might just be the best year ever!

Make 2014 the year of truth. Don’t pretend to be a vanilla cupcake with freshly whipped butter-cream if you’re really a fruity-pebbles-and-french-onion-dip kind of girl. Men, don’t pretend to be what you think women want. Be who you are, and even if you don’t find the soul mate you’re looking for, you’ll be happier. The real magic happens when you live as the person you really are.

On December 31, 2014, I want to look back and say I’ve earned my certificate of authenticity. No faking and no camouflaging:  all me, all the time.

If you're looking for somebody to have good, clean, stupid fun with in 2014, give us a call! I'm in no way committing my betrothed to such acts of tomfoolery, but I can guarantee that he'll laugh at whatever I try.

I'll leave you with a few memorable quotes from our joyous Christmas season.

“Momma, your face is as big as daddy’s belly…bigger than the universe.” –Emzilla

“Daddy, I love you more than mommy because you’re my favorite.”

“Mommy, you’re just so big and squishy!”

“Mommy, Chwis Wock died. He was my boyfriend, and he died and now we have to put him in a hole. He died yesterday, too.”

“MOM! I’m supposed to get mawwied today! I’m gonna mawwy daddy because I love him and he’s not yours anymore so you’re gonna have to leave.”

“You and dad are, like, the best parents I’ve ever had.”- Bubby (Wow! Considering those couple of years when we secretly rented him to the Vanderbilt's, this is uh-mazing.)

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had, but you’ve done a lot better. It’s okay…you can try again tomorrow.” –Rae-Rae

When You Ain't Got A Pot to Pee In Or A Window To Throw It Out Of

We’ve all heard rich people say that having a bunch of money doesn’t make you happier. Well, first of all, they’ve obviously never had to choose between toilet paper and a jug of peanut butter.  Second of all, I don’t believe it. Let me walk a mile in your Choo's, and then I’ll deliver my verdict. 

Yet, somehow, I think they’re right.

We’ve all fallen on hard times, and we know what they’re like. If you haven’t, then let me paint a starving artist's Polaroid for you. In the heat of summer, you turn off the air and sit in the dark to try to keep your power bill down. During the dead of winter, you sleep in sweats and wool socks so you can leave the heat shut off. You borrow money from piggy banks until your paycheck hits.

You feel like you’ve won the lottery when the landlord offers to renew your lease. You sit up at night wondering if things will ever get better. You see a change in your kids that even though it hurts like hell to see, it makes you so proud of them you feel like your heart’s gonna explode. Y’all, that’s when character is born.

After our oldest son, was born, we were beyond broke. I’d gone back to school in Alabama, my husband was working a maintenance job for the apartment complex we lived in. We barely had enough gas money to get me to school. But what I remember most are the holidays from that year. Being in a college town, we had several friends that either couldn’t afford to go home or didn’t have a home to go back to.

So we talked about it, and we decided to fix a Thanksgiving dinner in our apartment for our friends in town. Notice I didn’t say feast, I said dinner. Most of it was vegetables straight out of their dented cans. We couldn’t afford a turkey to go with the cornbread dressing; all we could swing was a marked-down pack of chicken legs that I boiled and put in the dressing. We sat our buffet up on the metal table that served as our dining room furniture, and we were more thankful for that meal than we’d been for anything in a long time.

At Christmas time, we got a $5 tabletop Christmas tree from Dollar General, which we decorated with two $1 garlands, two strings of leftover lights, and a box of candy canes. And guess what? We talk about it every Christmas, and there’s no doubt we always will.

Even Santa was struggling that year. Our son, the first of three miracles we were told we would never conceive, woke up on Christmas morning to a little red wagon, a dancing Elmo doll, a children’s Bible, and a coloring book with four crayons.

And guess what? He looked at and played with everything he got. And stranger still, we remember every gift he got that morning. The Hokey Pokey Elmo doll? We were at the store the night they were putting the unpaid layaways back on the shelves. God had somehow come through for us, and we finally had the $20 it took to bring Elmo home.

My heart hurts thinking about how tough those times were, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. We’ve had ups and downs since then, and while it never gets easier to tell your kids ‘I’m sorry, we just can’t afford it,’ you’d be surprised how much they understand. Kids don’t lose respect for you when you go through

hard times. 

They may get their panties in a bunch when you feed them instant mac-n-cheese (made with water since you can’t buy milk right now) for the third time this week, but they can get glad in the same pair of drawers.

So what if the cable got shut off and they can’t stare at the t.v. all afternoon? Again, they will survive. Make up games with them.  We made one that is probably gonna make us famous one day:  Balling Bowl. It’s kind of like Skee-ball, but requires bouncy balls and mixing bowls.

Yeah, it sucks like a Kirby when the year you said you’d go to Italy, you’re doing good to get to Olive Garden.  Yes, it blows like the hair dryer at the beauty shop when you can’t go on vacation because even if you got a free place to stay, you couldn’t afford the gas to get there.

But y’all, it’s just money. It’s not losing a parent. It’s not a cancer diagnosis. It’s not losing a best friend. It’s not being homeless. It’s not crying a hungry baby to sleep. It’s….just….money.

Today, I am thankful that even though God ain’t shown me the winning Powerball numbers yet, He’s shown me something more important:  how to be happy with what I have. I don’t sit back and pout when we can’t go out for dinner and a movie. We’ll go pick up a $1 movie at the Redbox, and we’ll have “Popcorn Movie Night” in the living room.

I wouldn't trade the blanket-fort-days with our kids for anything. Even if we had the money, we wouldn't buy my kids everything they asked for. Kids that are given everything grow to be adults that expect to be given everything. These people that leave work and run to the school because little Bobbie Sue doesn't like the school lunch that day are creating monsters. It's one lunch, not her last meal on death row! 

Sure, she'll pitch a fit, but guess what, Mommy dearest? You made 'em that way. I feel sorry for my kids because they'll be the ones working alongside your 30-going-on-3 year old brats. But don't worry...when you're used up and can't manipulate the world for them anymore, your butt will be in an old folks home faster than you can say "please pass the oxygen."

But anyway...when life hands you lemons and you ain’t got the sugar for lemonade, don't stand there and tell them they deserve to have lemonade. Teach 'em how to juggle them bad boys, and see if they can't earn enough spare change to go buy some! When you ain’t got a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, don't run to the government housing office and get one off of somebody else's dollar. I'm not talking about people that need help getting back on their feet. I'm talking about people that turn welfare into a career. Have some self-respect, people!

Do what you can, don’t give up, and thank your lucky stars you didn’t choose the Hokey Pokey Elmo. If you’re struggling and at the end of your rope, tie a knot in it, climb on that bad boy, and gimme your best Tarzan yell. After all, it’s hard to be down in the dumps when you’re the king of the jungle. 

Christmas Shopping: Transforming Good, Christian Women into Sailor-Mouthed Buggy Assassins

Normally, on Black Friday, my husband is the one to get out and about early, and I sleep in. This year, things worked a little bit differently. He did his shopping online, and in turn, I got $45 Kohl’s cash to spend. Woot woot!

So last night, since he’s out of town, the kids and I headed to Kohl’s to do some shopping for cousins and friends. I triple check to make sure I've got my phone so I can access the Kohl’s cash e-mail on it.

We were there almost two hours. When I look back on it, it will be easy to remember the significance of the trip:  A REMINDER OF WHY I DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE WITH THREE KIDS BY MYSELF. I always imagine it being the like Brady bunch going to serve cupcakes to the poor. Instead, it more closely resembles the house drop scene in “Wizard of Oz”, my kids being the house and me being a flip-flop wearing witch.

Bubby, who’s 11, is the kind-hearted shopper. He wants to buy the moon, Saturn’s rings and Elvis’s jacket from the '68 special for everybody he’s ever met. Don’t get me wrong…I’m so thankful that he’s loving and generous, but having to tell him 3,000 times that his substitute teacher from 1^st grade doesn't need a dog-walking, brow-tweezing, Cappucino maker makes shopping a little tiring.

Then here comes Rae-Rae, who is just dumb-founded at how much Chinese crap costs. I’ll put it this way. When we were shopping for Emma’s birthday last summer, I took them to Toys’R’Us. I knew it was expensive, but we were looking for ideas. She was big into Despicable Me then, and they had this minion toy that talked...for the bargain price of $59.99. 

Rae-Rae was absolutely disgusted by this. This poor sales lady comes over and asks us if we need help, and he guts her like a fish. “Y’all are not gonna sell these. When I come back in a few months, I bet they’ll be at least 50% off ‘cuz nobody’s gonna pay that. I mean, really? It’s plastic! Would you buy this for $60? Is there a manager I can talk to?”

EIGHT YEARS OLD.

(Just yesterday he brought home this shopping list from the Santa Store at school. When I asked him if he wanted to buy everything he wrote down, he said "God, no! Their prices are ridiculous!")

But on this particular Kohl’s trip, he wanted to find a coffee cup for his coffee-addicted teacher. (Well, she tells them its coffee. I've seen these kids in action, and I’m telling you, there’s got to be a little bonus in that cup every morning…bless her heart.) He wanted to get a Georgia mug but was deeply offended at how much NCAA junk costs. After doing his little cost-benefit analysis, he decided to go with the black, red and silver mug that was 1/3 the price. Good call, my boy.

Then you’ve got *shudder* Emzilla. She’s decided to provide the soundtrack for this joyous excursion.

“JINGLE  BAH, JINGLE BAH, JINGLE BAH WOCK…”

“Emma, you can sing, but please whisper; the mannequins are starting to twerk.”

“It’s da white time of da night time to knock yer wights away….”

Sweet baby Jesus, please get me to the check-out.

After being mowed down 27 times by the hatchet-faced, old woman stalking the Christmas villages, I’m pullin' a Flo Jo to the check-out.

“Here, Bubby, push the cart while I open my Kohl’s cash, please.”

OF COURSE it won’t open. I’ve got my weekly check-in from Prince Hubbida Bubbida in Nigeria--just checking on my bank transfer-- and a declaration of love from my Farmer soul mate, but the Kohl’s e-mail has disappeared. 

At this point, I’m convinced that these jerk wards have put up an impenetrable force field to block electronic signals and, consequently, e-Kohl’s cash. I’m standing here, all three kids acting a complete fool, and here comes Granny Hatchet again. It was all I could do not to tell Rae-Rae she stole a quarter from him just to see him bring back some of his football skills.

Fine, Mr. Kohl, I may be the loser here, but you’re gonna lose right now. I’M BLOWING THIS JOINT!

*stomp stomp stomp SMACK!*

Great…Emma has run into yet another glass door with her face. Fortunately, she was still rehearsing for the Christmas play so she just stutter-stepped and kept on singing.

“Woo-dolph the wed-nosed, weindee-ah, had a bewwy swimy nose…”

Fast forward…we plow through fogpocalypse and make it the 5 miles home…in 15 minutes. We get home, and of course, the garage door won’t work. @(#$*&!

We get inside, I throw dinner in the oven, and I go online to pull up the Kohl’s cash on my computer so that I can order the same Chinese crap online. Three of the five items I had in the store weren’t available online, so I have to pick substitutes. AWESOME!

I finally get the five gifts picked, and I go to check-out. All over their website, it’s screaming at me to use the promo code “CYBERSAVE” to save 20% on my order. Thank God! That almost makes up for the incident in the store.

Total up my order…$44.55 (phew, that was close!). I enter my Kohl’s cash code, and sure enough…with free shipping my balance due is $0.00! 

This is the only reason I’m buying from you, Kohl’s. You’re going on the poop list as soon as I get my free crap.

*Click, click click….enter code “CYBERSAVE”.*

“THERE WAS A PROBLEM WITH YOUR ORDER. PLEASE ENTER YOUR CARD INFORMATION.”

Are you kidding me? I have a $0.00 balance due with free shipping, and you STILL want my credit card information? Jerks.  I hope you spend Christmas in a small hotel room with Archie Bunker and Al Sharpton.

Fine…I’ll put it in. 

*Type type, clickety-click, CONTINUE…*

“THERE WAS A PROBLEM WITH YOUR ORDER. PLEASE ENTER THE CIV NUMBER FROM YOUR CREDIT CARD.”

I did, you spawn of Satan, dog licking, butt sniffing, monkey seducing son of a ...! Bless your heart.

*Enter card information for the 64^th time, enter promo code CYBERSAVE.*

“INVALID COUPON CODE:  THIS PURCHASE DOES NOT QUALIFY FOR THE PROMO CODE YOU ENTERED.”

I hope somebody superglues a rib-eye to your a$$ and brings Cujo over to frolic in the Autumn mist...and the pants you just pissed. I’m a Christian woman, but you have pushed me too far. 

So, three hours after leaving for a simple, fun shopping trip, I’m throwing stuff at the Christmas tree, popping chocolate-covered espresso beans like breath mints, and shooting at my laptop screen with a laser-scoped Nerf gun. I’m blowing off some steam, trying not to strangle the young’uns, when Rae-Rae comes up behind me and says “Mom, are you sure you got a good deal on that stuff?”

Father, forgive me for what I'm about to do. Can somebody gimme a "bless your heart"?