Depression or Recession: Mamanomics on the Hill Over Yonder

My husband and I were talking the other night, and he was telling me about a very large, Fortune 500 company that was managing to prosper during this economic swirlie. They recently that they dumped $25 million back into the company for improvements and whatnot. 

In other words, the hard-working men that bust their butts to provide for their families will still make anemic wages, but the big-wigs will no longer have to share the Keurig in the breakroom. They'll each have their own...and a lingerie model model named Svetlana to operate it for them for the bargain price of $50K per year.

I know, it's their money to do what they want to with, but guess what? Without those anemically-paid, blue-collar guys, they wouldn't have jack. Without Terry, Clarence, Jimmy Jack and Bubba, your Liebowitz's  and al Habbudabbi's are drinking Maxwell House out of a styrofoam cup, and Svetlana's putting on her Goodwill clothes for her deportation hearing.

Let's do some mamanomic math. Let's say this company has  7,500 employees. We're gonna knock off 1,500 because their are at least that many overpaid bureaucrats sitting behind Romanian wormwood desks in corporate offices across the country. So that leaves us with 6,000.

If you were to divide that $25,000,000 among 6,000 employees, that would come out to about $4100 per employee. To a family that's hanging on to their middle class status with a death grip, do you know how much that would mean?

I'm not talking about my family here. I'm talking about EVERY family here. Do you know what would happen to employee loyalty and morale if they did this? I don't care if you gave it to every family BUT mine...do you know how much your employees would respect the stuffed shirt, pompous jerk, jelly-of-the-month-gifting apes for doing this?

Some of you are probably thinking "But to grow the company and upgrade facilities and technologies as needed, this money needs to stay within the operations budget." 

But guess what? This $25 million isn't their yearly reinvestment in the company. This was a one time dump. 

ONCE.

And speaking of dump, why not try the same thing with the US economy? I'm going to use the base figure of the stimulus package, which according to the Bloomberg news, was $787 billion. The population of the United States, rounded for mathematical purposes, is 315 million. 

If the entire stimulus package was dispersed to the American people, each person would receive $2500, give or take a piece of gum and a bouncy ball. Call me stupid, but do you honestly think that if the average American family is given $2500 per person, that they're not going to put at least a good chunk of that back into the economy? When they spend that money, it's gonna get taxed repeatedly through income and sales taxes. 

If the federal government were to disperse the funds to the people that would put it back into the economy, there are certain fiscal events that would be unavoidable.

1. Apple profits will explode like a Tums in a Co-Cola.
2. The state of Florida will never again have a budget deficit.
3. Disney theme parks will show record attendance and profits.
4. Everybody's going on a vacation.
5. Bills will get paid.

While that all sounds great, my cynical side is starting to wake up.

According to the Bloomberg news, 7% of US program funds are lost to corruption. Well, ain't that peachy?

So, in terms of the stimulus package, you mean to tell me that $55 billion of that is being stolen or snuck under the table? I hope their momma's find out and paint their backporches red...and then make them return it and publicly apologize. 

You mean to tell me that given our president's open checkbook (printed with your and my account numbers, by the way), they couldn't find the $18,000 a week necessary to pay the seven staff members that facilitated the self-guided White House tours? 

Well, excuse me, but when it's my great, great-grandchildren that are paying your rent and buying your wife's slabs of ribs, I should be able to come in whenever I want. Don't worry...we Southern girls do our own cooking, and we'll even use paper plates.

But onto the budget issues...

First of all, some of the White House traditions are gonna be gone like a fart in the breeze. 

When 11 million Americans are out of work, I think the White house should cut the $250,000 they spend every year of fresh flowers. My kids will cover your entire house in chickweed and daffodils quicker than a six-figure employee can put a muzzle on the first mutt...all for the price of a Moonpie and a Yoo-hoo.

When 11 million Americans are out of work, $270,000 a year to keep three calligraphers on staff seems a little ridiculous. I don't think the fate of the Berlin Wall would've changed had Gorbachev's dinner invitation printed in 14-point Lucida Calligraphy.

When 11 million Americans are out of work, it seems a little snooty to have a $100,000 dog handler on staff. Um...you have two kids. If your kids have a dog, your kids should take care of a dog. What, that's slave labor? Then give them an allowance, not a trip to Europe.

When 11 million Americans are out of work, it seems a little ridiculous that the first family's healthcare costs are $7 million a year. Good lord, Michelle must be getting Starbucks colonics on a daily basis. That'd account for at least half of that budget. And with the White House's own gym, tennis courts, basketball court, pool, and 24-7 gourmet chefs, you ought to be in pretty good shape. 

When 11 million Americans are out of work, it's poor taste for it's leaders to spend $20 million a year on vacations. You have the rest of your life to take vacations!!! For the amount of perks you get on the job, your butt needs to be parked behind a desk until the next inauguration. Oh, but wait a minute...then you'd have to pay for them yourself. Gotcha. 

I'm not just hating on Obama, either. Washington D.C. is a living exhibit of the seven deadly sins, starring Lawyer McGreedypants. The presidency has transformed into a winning lottery ticket, an all-expense paid 4-8 year trip, the ultimate Dave and Busters experience for adults. No matter which stooge wins or what party takes over, they're all the same, and it's a cryin' shame.

Politicians have been taking and manipulating our citizen's money for years and years and have yet to find a winning combination...while being paid ridiculously to do so. 

Trickle it down to the people that earn it. The teachers, the firefighters, the police officers, the cashiers at the grocery store, the young mom working the morning drive-thru, the single dad working two jobs to take care of his best bud....anybody that gets up and goes to work every morning in hopes of a better life. 

Oh....what's that you say? We don't HAVE the money we're spending? Well, that's a shame. Mickey and Minnie were really wanting to see your momma'n'em.

If You Give a Rae-Rae a Limo...

Rae-Rae was all excited when he got up Friday morning. For doing so well on his school fundraiser, he earned a trip to Dairy Queen…during school hours…in a limousine! He got up and got dressed, and even brushed his hair!

This treat is all he’d talked about for the past week, so I knew he’d get up easy that morning.

“Hey, Mom, I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and got my socks and shoes on. I even brushed my hair.”

He’s baiting me, I can feel it. 

“Rae-Rae, is it your day to scrub the toilets at school?”

“No! It’s ice cream in a limo day! Check it out…I even got matching socks.”

Hear that sonic boom? That was my mind being blown.

On  the way to school, the subject rather abruptly changed from Christmas lights to snakes. The boys are fascinated by snakes, so this ain’t unusual.

“Momma, what’s that snake that’s different colors that’ll kill ya?”

“It’s a coral snake, you idiot. Red touching black is a friend of jack; red and yellow will kill a fellow.”

Bubby! Quit calling your brother an idiot.

Some people’s brains resemble hamsters running on a hamster wheel. Rae-Rae’s, much like mine, is more like a roadrunner.

On PCP.

In a food processor.

“Hey, that’s like the Georgia-Georgia Tech game!”

“Rae-Rae, you lost me on that one, bud. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Red touching is a friend of jack. It’s like two Georgia fans hanging out. Red touching yellow will kill a fellow. That’s like when Georgia and Georgia Tech play. When red touches yellow, some dork’s gonna DIE!”

My children are just warped. Emma’s sitting here, as I speak, gluing stacks of paper together for the 218^th day in a row. (She’s at home because she had a bad case of the morning pukey’s.) She puts two quarter-sized puddles of glue on a sticky note, and says “Mommy, do you like my glue boobs? Aren’t they most beautiful?”

Why yes, little princess, they’re the most glorious glue boobs you’ve made since yesterday.

But back to this morning…we’re rolling down the road, and there are some wicked looking clouds overhead. We always play the ‘What is that Cloud?’ game, so we jumped right in. Short of using the phrase bulbous-purple-rhinoceros-'rhoids, which I try to avoid at all costs, I can’t think of how to describe them.

But never fear...Bubby chimes in with a most eloquent description.

“It’s like the grape guy from the underwear commercials got hit by a truck and then started smoking.”

“Wow, Bubby, that’s a good one. I never would’ve thought to put a cigarette in the hands of posthumous produce.”

Rae-Rae looks at me with that smile that makes me wanna curl up in the fetal position, and says “So, you’re saying he’s a better subscriber than you are?”

Yes, he gets magazines out of the mailbox with the greatest of ease, while I stand there like Arnie Grape, cutting the heads off of grasshoppers. “I killed ‘em, Gilbert! I killed ‘em!”

“He may be a better subscriber than me, but I’m the greatest vocabulizer in all the land.”

But my kids didn’t have a snowball’s chance in St. Maarten of turning out vanilla. White, most assuredly or else this Lucy would have some ‘splainin to do, but not vanilla in the list.

The hubbster and I were sitting here the other night, and a show came on talking about a swimmer that was eaten by a shark. I chuckled and said “If it was that Michael Buble swimming, he wouldn’t have got eat up.”

“Michael  Buble?” *He chuckles at me before diving into the conversation like Greg Liberace.*

“No, it was Michael J. Fox.”  *starts shaking his head around like a bobble head*

“No, it was George Michael! Wake me up…and call the po-po…”

“ Hey, joo dummy, it was George Harrison.”

“HARRISON FORD!”

“Gerald Ford….oh, oh, oh….Gerard Butler! This is Sparta!”

“Who’s that Spartan in my teepee? It’s me! It’s me!”

“You have the voice of an angel. Your voice is like a combination of Fergie and Jesus.”

“I bet that woman’s leg was Fergilicious.”

“Yeah…I can’t believe he ate the whole thing.”

And then we sat there for a good 30 minutes in silence...between each other at least. My kids ain't been silent for 30 minutes since we put the boys on horseback for the first time last weekend. (That's a whole other story.)

But Rae-Rae's limo ride went really well. He and 13 kids he didn't know got to ride to the Dairy Queen in a stretched Excursion...that had been t-boned at least three times from the look of it. The kids didn't care, so who am I to complain? According to my son, it had *ahem* "a butt load of seats, a light that changed colors, and a glass of champagne. But don't worry mom, we were too full of ice cream to drink it."

Phew...that was a close one. I'll put it this way...I let him take my phone with him to take some pictures, and this is what I got back.

I think I may have a closet Catholic in my bunch. We'd better find us another church...quick.

And that, my friends, is what life is like in my little corner of heaven..and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Anonymous, Sub-Par, Stewardess-of-the-home (ASS) Syndrome

I was putting some Christmas decorations up outside today when I realized that I was in a terrible mood. I don’t know what made me realize it. Maybe it was when I dropped a string of lights and busted half the bulbs….and laughed. Maybe it was when I stepped in the oil puddle that Bessie left for me in the garage. Maybe it was I chopping kindling and whacked the side of my thumb with a hatchet. I can’t tell you the time, and I can’t tell you the place, but it’s just been one of those days when you feel like punching somebody in the face.

As the guys sat around watching football and playing games today, I decided to clean out My Documents on my computer. I found one I wrote several years ago named “Bucket List”.

I’m big on bucket lists. Maybe it’s because I’m a stay-at-home-mom that, on paper, hasn’t accomplished a whole heck of a lot. In real life either, for that matter. I know, I know, I have three gorgeous, funny children and a great husband….but that’s not me, that’s them.

Like so many other moms, I lost my identity when my children were born. I became the caregiver…the diaper changer…the dishwasher…the toilet scrubber.

I don’t know if you’d call what I’m going through now a midlife crisis or what, but when I look at how little I’ve accomplished, I feel like smashing my head into a wall. I’m 34, and I’m still in college. I’ve just realized what I want to do (be a writer), but that’s not exactly one of those things you just get your degree in and go right to work.

But today, I got on my computer, and I found my bucket list. I wrote it several years back after my best friend from college was killed in an accident. Maybe thinking about that is what put me in such a crappy mood.

As I looked over it, I realized I’d checked off several things.

• ·         Snorkeling
• ·         Going on a girl’s trip
• ·         Horseback riding
• ·         Trying sushi
• ·         Making a quilt
• ·         Making good biscuits
• ·         Trying lobster
• ·         Help someone have a light-bulb moment

There are a few more, but these were some of the more recent ones.

But, being a spoiled American, I couldn’t help but notice the things I’m still nowhere near.

• ·         Taking the kids on a Disney cruise
• ·         Make $40K a year (I shoot for the stars, don’t I?)
• ·         Have a job that I absolutely love (more important than $40K)
• ·         Make a difference in someone’s life

My bucket list has miraculously transformed into a rousing rendition of “There’s A Hole In My Bucket, Dear Liza.” Do you ever get caught up in the vicious cycle that I get sucked into? I guess it’s part of suffering from depression.

The first stage is anger…at anybody and everything. It’s the worst kind of anger because there’s no specific cause or target. You’re mad at everything that isn’t just how you expected it to be. Like today at Sonny’s…there’s this innocent family sitting there that I know nothing about, yet within 10 minutes, I’m ready to shave their heads and put them in a freezer. Why? Because the boy was wearing a sweatshirt from a snotty tennis academy….and his long hair made him look like a sissy….and because the parents were sitting there devouring each other like they were in search of hidden meatball subs. Get a room!

The next stage is listlessness. During this stage, being a couch potato seems like an impossible goal. You don’t want to do anything. You don’t want to breathe. You don’t want to bathe. You don’t want to feel the way you do. You just want to go to sleep to pass the time. You’re tired of answering the same ridiculous questions hour after hour, day after day. Honey, right now I don’t give two rat turds how much a tree weighs, what Tiana’s address is, or why Ursula is so mean. I don’t want to talk to anybody on your princess phone, and honestly, I don’t care how many computer graphics you’ve slain in your quest for fictional world dominance.

The third stage is feeling sorry for yourself. Why don’t I have this? Why can’t we just have an easy year for once? Why did we have to move? Why did God make me leave all my friends and turn back into a recluse? Why did my son’s closest friend (since moving) have to move into an RV in somebody’s driveway and move to a different school? Why can’t my daughter understand that I would feel a lot better if Chris Rock, Princess Tiana and Cinderella would stop telling me what to do? (Thank goodness she's there to deliver the messages.) Why did God put someone who loves to cook in a house with the pickiest bunch of butts on God’s green earth? I love them, but they’ve made me hate my kitchen…and that leads me back to the next step. (Yes, that is written correctly.)

The final step, for me at least, anger…again. But this time, it’s anger with myself. Why can’t I just appreciate what I have? Why is it never enough? Why can’t I cook in a way that they’ll like what I fix? Why do I get annoyed that my daughter wants to talk to me? (Because it’s 23 hours a day, that’s why.)

I’m a stay-at-home-mom, but my house is never clean enough…the meals are never tasty or healthy enough…the clothes are never clean enough.

I’m a student, but my grades are never good enough…I hate the course of study I’m in…I’m never as successful as I should be.

I’m a wife, but I’m never the one my husband deserves…I’m not wearing a dress, high heels, and full make-up when he gets home from a long trip. He’s lucky if I’m wearing anything fancier than pajamas.

I’m a mother, but I’m not good at that either. No matter what I cook, somebody complains about it. No matter how long I search to find decent clothes in their sizes, they’re never what they would’ve picked. No matter what I do with my time, it’s never the right thing. I never do enough…I never do the right things…I never please anybody.

And that’s where I am right now. I know there are people with a lot more serious problems right now, which sends me back to being mad at myself for being so inconsiderate. I guess I’m just another disgruntled (or is it just gruntled?) housewife that’s tired of feeling invisibly inferior.

Last night, I dreamed I was working at K-Mart. They hired me, but wouldn’t give me a name tag because it didn’t matter who I was. I was just another employee. They wouldn’t tell me exactly what my job description was, just complained that I hadn’t done everything I was supposed to. One of the tasks I was supposed to do drive other people’s dogs around this race track in a go-cart. I ripped the governor off of the darn cart and had fun for awhile, but while I was driving, someone stole my flip-flops and threw them in the mud.

Well played, Mr. Sandman, well played. 

It's Raining Wisemen: The Night Jesus Got Here

About the middle of October, the holiday pot starts simmering south of the Mason-Dixon line. You go from having something to do a couple of nights a week to running the Iditarod on your way home from work so that the kids get to the non-affiliated holiday spectacular on time, equipped with 13 dozen pre-packaged, peanut- and gluten-free snacks.

But the most important holiday fiesta of all is the Christmas program at church. Those little candy cigarette-smoking, henna tattoo-wearing rug rats that haven’t been seen since Easter start pouring out of the woodwork, each with visions of being the Virgin Mary or Joseph.

If you’ve ever tried to direct a children’s program, you have a pretty good idea why nobody does it twice. Ms. Linda may have a Ph.D. in Children’s Theater, but she’s still recovering from her last musical production. Most of her injuries were minor, but she’s still got a limp and that fake leg ain’t fooling nobody…not to mention that every time she leans up to the microphone to speak, that metal plate in her head causes interference and the microwave in the fellowship hall starts beeping.

The first year my kids were in it, the original theme was “Christmas Around the World.” The script described children of all races and nationalities being at the stable to celebrate the birth of Jesus and the first Christmas.  

We’d brought in a ton of costumes and decorations, but we just couldn’t find the materials we needed to pull it off. You see, we had a budget of about $13.75 for this masterpiece, and finding 25 costumes and accessories for pennies ain’t easy. But we were committed to putting on a show that the kids would never forget, even if this was the most eclectic Nativity scene since the reenactment by the Village People.

Sister Lois and I started hitting the thrift stores and discount stores for costumes, but weren’t having much luck finding Christmas themed costumes. We got a few donations from the congregation, but we were praying for a miracle here…and that’s just what we got. 

We’d been praying for Starr, a young woman in our congregation, to find a job, and she’d just been hired as a cashier at the local party supply store. The manager was about to throw away a box of discontinued Halloween costumes when Starr jumped in and saved the day…and the Christmas program. Thanks to Starr, “The Night Jesus Got Here” would go on as planned.

Our program was going to be one of a kind.  Except for a few verses of Scripture, the children were telling the Christmas story in their own words. We knew it was a risky move, but the kids were so excited, we had to give them a shot.

So the parents are all sitting in the sanctuary, listening to canned Christmas music, and marveling at the huge Scotch pine at the corner of the choir loft. At 7:12 on the dot, the lights fade, and the spotlights draw everyone’s attention to Mary, who is center stage, surrounded by the toddler barnyard. 

The animals had never looked cuter, and Mary was looking quite fetching in the shawl we’d fashioned out of a burlap table runner and an ivory choir robe that bore some unexplained cigarette burns.

This year, the Virgin Mary was being played by Heather, a 14-year-old girl we hadn't seen hide nor hair of since Easter, but she had an amazing stage presence….and none of her tattoos were easily visible.

From the front of the baptismal, Gabriel, the messenger of the Lord, looked like he was about to toss his cookies as the spotlight shone on his glistening, clammy skin. He lamented his stage fright with tears in his eyes, doing an Academy Award-worthy deer-in-the-headlights impression, but no sound was coming out. 

He shrugs his shoulders, whispers “I got nothing”, and exits stage right in tears.

The lights dimmed as an 8^th-grader named Katie grabbed the mike.

“So the angel told Mary she was pregnant with God’s baby. She didn’t know just what to do, so she asked God to help her. She told him exactly what Gabe told her, but Joey still went from 'In a relationship' to 'It's complicated'. I think God must have tweeted him, ‘cuz he was cool after a while. Mary puked a lot at first, but that’s kind normal. When my mom was pregnant with my little brother, she puked all the time.

“So after a while, Mary got real fat, and her sandals didn’t fit any more. They saw on the news one day that everybody had to go home so they would know how much tax to charge on Caesar salads.“

Out of nowhere, Uncle Sam staggers in on a pair on Folgers-can stilts, chanting “Read my lips: NO NEW TAXES!” At this point, there are smirks creeping across faces and giggles escaping from moms and dads.

“Since Mary was all swoll’ up and moody, Joe let her ride the donkey all the way to Bethlehem, where his buddy David lived.”

Enter stage left:  Joseph.

Now Jacob, our Joseph, was doing alright for himself in his daddy’s long johns and camouflage bath robe, and thank God, he an experienced actor. Jacob had played 9 of the 12 disciples, Santa Clause, and Johnny Appleseed before his 13^th birthday. Surely he could pull this off.

Slowly but surely, Joseph begins pulling a little red wagon that’s carrying the teen bride, a stick horse, and a Coach duffel bag.

“Joseph, you idiot, I told you to confirm our reservations! You can’t just show up at a hotel at Christmas and expect to get a room! I’ve gotta pee, If I don’t get my feet put up soon, they’re gonna explode.”

“NO NEW TAXES!” suddenly interjects from the wings.

Joseph, the human baby daddy of Jesus Christ, suddenly rolls his eyes, and yells “Well, excuse me for livin’ but the graveyards full! Geez, you’re acting just like your mother. “

Oh boy. This was turning south quicker than a redneck at the Ohio state line. All we could do was pray that the scene would finish without major incident.

“So Mary’s all upset, Joey’s sayin’ her hormones are messed up, and their online hotel reservation was clearly a phishing scam. They found a room, but they started fightin’ so loud they got kicked out, so they had to sleep out back with the animals. But while they were getting settled in, Santa Clause dropped off the baby.” The lights fade out, and the childbirth scene begins.

“Joseph, I hate you! Ow, get this thing outta me! YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

“I ain’t done nothin’ to you, woman! NOTHIN!”

 The lights dim as the sounds of childbirth emerge. As if the agonizing screams and colorful metaphors weren’t enough, the AV crew had apparently decided to celebrate the birth of our Lord by reassembling the Titanic.  The sounds of buzzing chainsaws and hammering steel began to feed as the eye-patch wearing, one-eyed Cabbage Patch kid named Jesus began to cry.

“And they had a little boy and wrapped him up in swaddling clothes and put him in manger.” It was then that I saw my precious baby girl waddling down the aisle, wearing a Daisy Duck mask and an antebellum ball gown. I’m pretty sure I teared up as I saw her little butt waddling towards the first Christmas.

“TA-DA! It’s Jesus Christ!”  A 3-foot tall magician in overalls and a black top hat suddenly leaps forth from the shadows with a bouquet of fake flowers. He waltzes across the stage, kneels before Mary, and in his sweet Southern accent, says “You done good, kid! That shore is a purrty baby.”

By now, the animals in the stable are getting a little unstable. The sheep are playing Duck Duck Goose, the camels are caught up in a game of Leap Frog, and the baby Holstein is playing Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Mo with her udders. Sorry, Ringling Brothers, but this has turned into the greatest show on earth!

“And once they got Mary cleaned up, three wise guys came to check it out.” Now, if people were gently chuckling before, they were about to pee in their pants when they say the wise men. I’ve seen a lot of nativity scenes in my life, but this was the first time I’d ever seen the holy family visited by Bob Marley; a six-year-old in a fur-trimmed, purple velvet leisure suit; and the Pope. And to think…I gave birth to two of them!

“They’d come a long way to visit, and they’d brought the baby some toys and snacks and stuff.” At this point, my pancreas falls out in the floor of the church as I busted a gut laughing. Bob Marley kneels down and hands Mary a gold key chain that says “Proud Mary”, the mini-pimp forks over a box of Frankenberries, and the Pope hands Joseph a red-headed mermaid doll after sharing a rather emotional fist-bump.

“They knew that He would be the Savior of the Earth from that day on, and the angels in heaven rejoiced like they’d done won the Powerball. And that’s our story of The Night Jesus Got Here. Please stand to your feet and join us in singing ‘Santa Clause Is Coming to Town’.”

That’s the last spoken line I remember. Apparently, when the cross-dressing flamenco dancers in Rudolph noses pranced out clacking coconut shells together, I lost consciousness. 

*This is not a true story, but just the thought of it is why I seldom volunteer to work with children's programs!*

I miss our answering machine...

Answering machines were the bomb. For you youngsters out there, it was an annoyingly large box that held a tape. When you weren’t home, the answering machine was your voicemail, and buddy, if you got home and had one…no, two….no, THREE blinking lights, you were the coolest kid ever…if just for a moment. 

Looking back on it, you never wanted to get three blinks. One was awesome…it meant that either one of your friends or your grandma called. Two blinks could go either way…it could be your friend and your grandma leaving you messages, or it could be your dentist’s office and the principal. But y’all…don’t ever pray for three blinks.

Wow, three blinks. Three blinks meant you'd better starting worrying yesterday. It sounds so innocent, but it was horrible. Someone had an accident. Someone died. Your principal called….and then you got caught doing something else so he had to call again!

Besides getting to count the blinks when you got home, you had the pleasure of recording your outgoing message. It was like voicemail, but so much cooler because there was a cassette involved. Nonetheless, there were so many different things to consider when planning your message.

Audience- While granny and paw-graw might like hearing where you’re gone, what time you’ll get back, and what kind of gas mileage you got in town, principal’s don’t care, y’all. Back then, if you got in trouble, you didn’t go through a 12-step intervention to ensure that your adolescent needs were being met without causing undue embarrassment. You got your butt busted, and the principal made you call your momma from the office!  So, for your principals, doctors, dentists and other professionals, the Keep It Simple Stupid (KISS) approach worked best. “Hi, you’ve reached the Clemhoppers. We ain’t home, so leave us a message and we’ll call you back. Bless your heart.”

               

Now, if you were a teenage girl and lucky enough to have your own line, your message had to be spot on you risked being ostracized. But it was a fine line because you didn’t want anybody to know you’d practiced it. The proper answering machine message had to be practiced for at least a semester before going live with it…on a tape. The final version usually went a lot like this:
                

“Hi, um, you’ve reached Jessi-CAH. *giggle* Oh my gosh, I totally can’t do this. So, um, yeah, this is Jessi-CAH, and I am—like—so totally sorry I’m not here to take your call. You’re probably gonna, like, hate me forever, and I like totally understand. I’m probably like hanging out at the mall, or shopping with my frands, or oh my gosh, going to the New Kids concert tonight. *squeal* Aw, I really wish you could go….ah, Mrs. Joey Mac…BEEP”… By the time you listened to the rambling greeting, you’d completely forgotten why you called.

Family Style- When it comes to answering machine styles, some families are the Von Traps, and some families are more like the Connors. My friend’s family was of the Von Trap variety. Apparently, they had visions of families crowding around the handset to listen to their recorded greeting like it was “Ellery Queen” on the refrigerator-sized radio.  They would tell everything from which House of Royalty they descended from to when you could drop by to see them performing water ballet in their pool. These ‘State of the Union’ recorders were your uppity people, who thought the world would stop were their noble plans not bestowed upon the commoners.

Other people knew how to work the machine, and I think this clip from Seinfeld sums it up better than I ever could.

Now, my family? We are 100% Connor…Dan and Roseanne…Connor. It used to be the “Hey, you’ve reached the Snodgrass’s, don’t say nothin’, and if I can guess who you are, I might call you back.” When I was little, our phone number was one digit off from the local plumber, and one digit off from the local video store. Their wrong numbers are the only times we ever had three blinking lights. But, it seemed to get daddy’s goat that people would leave a message at the wrong number. At that point, he changed our message to “We ain’t a plumber, and we ain’t a video store. If you’re tryin’ to get a-hold of one of them, hang up and get somebody else to dial for ya.”  That was daddy’s kind way of calling the repeat offenders dumb asses and blessing their hearts.

One year, we got home from vacation and had a proverbial string of blinking lights, and there were some doozies!

“Hey. If y’all wanna come over, the biscuits are in the microwave.”

“Well, I guess y’all must’a done eat. You can still come see me, ya know?”

“Uh, yeah, I’d like to reserve Kindergarten Cop, Smokey and the Bandit, and Jem and the Holligrams for tomorrow night. Name’s Bob. Honey, is that all I need to say?”

“Yes, this is Betty Richardson, and my neighbor, Cheryl, said you’s good. Apparently, my granddaughter flushed her gerbil down our toilet last night, and I reckon I need some help gettin’ him out, bless his heart. I’d shore appreciate it if you could come over and get him out so’s we can give him a good, Christian burial. Tell ya momma’n’em I said hey.”

And we thought the fun ended with the ride home from vacation! Have a blessed day y'all...bless your heart. 

A Christmas Miracle

It's the week before Christmas, and the kids are hyped up 

on candy canes, on brownies, on Coke and 7-Up. 

They haven't bought packages or gift box wrapped toys;

No money this year for the girls and the boys.

The power bill, the cable, and the water bill due...

But the checking account statement shows $12.22. The boys each want bikes, and the girls each want dolls,

But how in the world can they afford it all?

He goes in to work for another day's wage, 

The same old story, just another day's page.

He takes his sack lunch to the bar at the diner,

Sick of feeling like he's wearing life's shiner.

He chats with an elderly man they call Tim,

A quiet, old gentleman sitting proper and prim.

He speaks of his wife and his son with a tear,

His son sent to heaven in Iraq yesteryear.

Mary, his soul-mate, just this last year passed,

Reunited with her son at last.

I guess my problems aren't as bad as they seem;

My family's still here, not just in my dreams.

"Son, why the long face? What's ailing you today?"

I'm so ashamed of myself. "I just can't say."

"Is it money troubles, trouble buying presents, young man?

I remember those years... just do what you can.

My boy asked Santa for a gun one time...

the day after boss man shut down our line."

"Well, what did you do? Did you get him the gun?

Did he have a good Christmas? Did he have fun?"

"Mary washed clothes, and I shoveled snow,

Working for pennies to make Christmas a go.

But no matter how hard we worked and we tried,

We couldn't afford presents...Mary sat there and cried."

He went on to tell him how Santa Clause came.

He didn't know when, didn't know his name.

But that cold Christmas morning when his son awoke,

A BB gun was wrapped up with a bow.

"Son, God sees you struggling, and He'll take care of you.

Just pick yourself up and keep pushing through.

Merry Christmas to you and to yours,

When God doles out blessings, He'll make sure it pours."

He stood and grabbed his ticket to pay.

I quickly grabbed it, not knowing what to say.

"This one's on me; thanks for the talk.

I guess I'm not the first dad to walk this walk."

He saw the old man's eyes moistly glisten,

I'll pay for his coffee.. he didn't have to listen.

He finished his lunch as the old man walked out,

His mind full of questions, his heart full of doubts.

God, how will we make it? What will we do?

I know the real reason of Christmas is you.

But I don't want my kids to do without

Because I've yet to figure it all out.

I know it sounds trivial, God, and not a big deal,

But help my kids know Christmas miracles are real.

And if you could help us buy a gift or two,

we'll make sure all the credit is given to You.

The days passed on, and Christmas drew nigh,

But no presents were bought...the kids wondered why.

No shiny, wrapped boxes, no pretty gift bags,

No Susie or Johnny written on Christmas tags.

Christmas Eve came, and both their hearts broke,

There would be no presents when the children awoke.

Their sons and their daughters were tucked in their beds

As mom and dad sat up, hands cradling their heads.

A soft rap at the door...(a rat-a-tat-tat),

Midnight on Christmas Eve? Who in the world is that?

They quietly opened the front door ahead,

Finding a hand-sprawled note...this is what it said.

"Your young family's story has been on my heart,

Since my little family has been torn apart.

I can't bring them back, but I still want to give,

To spread God's love as long as I live.

"Christmas isn't about buying gifts or things,

But I know the heartache having so little brings.

I picked up some things for your girls and your boys,

Some clothes, each a Bible, and a few Christmas toys.

"Please spread the word that dreams come true

When you believe in Him, for He believes in you.

A very, Merry Christmas to you and to yours,

When Jesus makes it rain, He makes sure it pours."

They couldn't believe it. Right there on the walk

were two boys bicycles and two dolls that could talk.

Gift boxes and bags and books for each one,

Where did all of these gifts come from?

How did this happen? How can this be?

They immediately cried and fell to their knees.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift that you sent.

Your son, the babe Jesus, the gift that I meant.

In the cold, dark, wee morning hours,

amid twinkling stars and flurrying snow showers,

The girls awoke first, soon followed by boys,

The air filled with squeals and giggles and noise.

"Kids, before you open your presents today,

there's something important we need to say.

'Father, we thank you for sending your son,

He's the real Christmas miracle, the only one.'"

Mawwiage: What Bwings Us...Togethah....Today.

Thirteen years ago today, I married my best friend, but it weren't always purty and romantical like that.

We met 15 years ago in a smelly, musty music dungeon known as the basement of Mason Hall. That meeting is a lot like life:  we all thought it was disgusting and stinky at the time, but it's all unicorn farts and flying leprechauns when we think back on it. I miss that smell.

Big Dawg and I were introduced by a guy that was a really awesome friend to both of us. He and his family are still some of our favorite people to hang out with and laugh!  (Waddup, Bumgardners?!)

We didn't have some whirlwind romance where birds chirped, angels sang and our eyes bugged out  like in the cartoons. Over the next few months, we discovered that we really didn't like each other at all. He was an egocentric butt that had to be in the middle of everything. It's kind of ironic that that's one of my favorite things about him now.

But I wasn't the only one being judgmental:  he didn't like me either, and he liked EVERYBODY. I was quiet and kept to myself, so he thought I was a stuck-up biddy that thought myself too good to talk to other people.

God knew what was He was doing when He crossed our paths, though. I'd just gotten out of a long relationship with a guy that I still thought the world of. I'd ended it with him, but I couldn't tell you why. I just had this feeling in my gut that I wasn't supposed to be with him any more. I'd decided I wasn't going to get in another long relationship...I wanted to have fun and enjoy being a single college girl for a while.

Now, to hear him tell it, I was hot on his path asking him out. That's not exactly how I remember it. Actually, my roommates and I were going to a party at a friend's apartment that night, and a friend of ours was getting ready at her dorm. I called the dorm lobby to see if she was ready and to make sure she was still coming.

Well, he answered the phone. We chatted for a minute, and he asked what I needed to talk to Zoe about. I told him we were going to a party, and asked him if he was going. (THIS is where, in his version, I succumbed to the passionate cries of my heart and pleaded for him to make me his one and only.)

He said "Sure, when I get off duty," and the rest is history. Well, not, not just yet. Well, it turns out, the party was so loud that when he asked for my number, either I gave him the wrong one or he wrote it down wrong...I honestly don't remember which one.

But remember when I said I didn't want to get in another relationship? Well, this caused a problem. Once Zoe gave him the right number, he began calling all the time. I suppose he was smitten with all of my marvelousness. ;)  I spent the next 3-4 weeks at Wal-Mart. We didn't have cell phones back then, so if I wasn't at the apartment, you couldn't talk to me. I didn't want to tell him no, because I had started to like him... but I desperately wanted to be single, dang it!

But I eventually answered the phone....we went out to Applebee's in his Sanford & Son pick-up truck, and the rest was history...speckled, coffee-stained, needle-stuck, diaper changin', baby totin' history. This is just a brief piece of our story, which I'll be sharing more of this week. Buckle up and hold on for the ride of our life together... it's been amazing.

To my best friend and my baby daddy x 3, I love you to pieces, and I wouldn't want to be on this ride with anyone else. I love that we laugh when zombies eat people or when evil forces posses movie characters and fling them around like hockey pucks. I love that our answer to every world problem is to punch someone in the liver. I love that we make fun of everything together. I love the life we've made. I love you...like a fat kid loves cake.