I Can Love Jesus and Not Hold Your Hand

As I age (and grow a fuller, more luscious beard each week), my aversion to people touching me keeps increasing. There are a few exceptions. I can sometimes tolerate a pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of one of my tight, curly hair ringlets. My kids can hug me, wrestle with me, or sit on my lap. I know they need that type of interaction from their dear old mom and I enjoy it. My husband would love the occasional hug, but I think the “laser beam of love” (my index finger touching his shoulder) is enough. I think of it as a super concentrated version of love shooting out of my finger. He does not necessarily agree. I hug my mom, but she’s put up with so much crap from my sisters and I- she deserves a hug. When we are driving her nuts, I will even go so far as to help her up off the floor from the sitting position where she’s  been rocking back and forth with her head on her knees.

There are many more instances when you do not need to be touching me. Last year I attended a Christian women’s conference for the first (and most likely last) time. I heard some good messages and saw a great Christian comic (who was not quite dirty enough for my liking). I cannot say that I was refreshed or felt anew, but all in all it was a good conference. Except. Except for all the forced hand holding. I do not know what it is about Christian women and hippies, but they love a good hand holding.  During the first two sessions, I spent many uncomfortable minutes grasping strangers’ hands. By the third session, I decided to break Christian Chick Conference tradition because I realized that I could love Jesus and not hold hands. Gripping the germy palm of some other gal did not bring me closer to God. It was, in fact, not helping me with my walk with Jesus. Instead of focusing on the message/song at hand, I was fixated on the sweaty, squeezing-me-too- tightly mitt of Gertrude Myrtle standing next to me. When the next lady tried to grab me I gently declared that I did not hold hands because I had a “thing about germs.” She was a little taken aback, but I stood my ground. I’m sure she and the other ladies from the Third Baptist Church of Mineral Wells had a good ol’ gossip about it back at the hotel. As the conference continued, it got easier to refuse the grasp of Christian love.

My husband and two children do martial arts together. That art has no appeal to me and one big reason is because of all the touching. In his class, I watch my husband get dripping wet with sweat and then roll around on mats as he learns to fall and do cartwheels. The next person then has their face shoved into the moist mat. Some of the martial arts moves require you to shove your butt near the other person’s crotch so that you can flip them. No thank you. I do not want your secretions on me and I certainly do not want your drippy butt or crotch sweat on me. No way, no how.

If you feel the need to hug me, here are some appropriate times. If a friend, family member, or pet dies- you may hug me. It must be within 45 days of said death and cannot last more than three seconds in duration. The maxi hug is not necessary in my bereavement period or in any other period in my life (thank you very much). My current pet is a fish and I do not forsee the need for comfort when he dies. Please take that into account if you hear that my pet has passed. If I see you two years after a death, I do not need a hug. My time of need will be long gone. If I go on a dangerous mission trip, almost die from dysentery, have to spend six months in the care of a tribal doctor, and live in a hut with no running water- when I get back, you can hug me. If I am on fire, you are welcome to knock me to ground and smother the flames with your body. Some may not consider that a hug, but if we were vertical it would definitely look like one.

Hugging and touching is good for some, but I am ok without it. Instead, give me a kind word, give me some chocolate, mow my grass, or paint a room in my house. Maybe I will change some day, but for now- keep your hands off of me.

Clean with Envy

My husband is a clean car snob. He is a stickler for cleaning the truck every time he gets out. If its natural habitat is not a vehicular ecosystem, then it's removed. When we travel in his truck, I always have plenty of room to spread out my magazines, books, pillows, and phone around me in my seat.  Now my car.....completely different story. My husband calls it the "Stank Wagon." Does it stank? Well, sometimes. It depends on how many banana peels the kids have composting in the back. I don't know how he would really even know what it smells like. There is so much crap in the passenger seat, piled up to the dash and into the floorboard, he rarely gets to ride. I guess it might smell like trail mix. Not because we left a bag of trail mix in there, but because of all the raisins, nuts, and Cheerios dropped at different times over the past year. A wisk broom could gather a nice lil' pile of trail mix that would fill one of the many Ziploc bags that have been shoved under the seats. While my husband's truck is always spotless, my car needs a complete interior overhaul. For years we've been talking about getting it detailed, but I have never gotten it cleaned out enough that the seats and carpets are accessible. I am not proud of the condition in which my car constantly resides, but cleaning it out is apparently not a priority. At this point in my life, I can blame the kids and how busy we are with them. Nine years ago, before kids, I guess my excuse for the messy car was laziness. As I drive here and there every day, I see the same year model SUV that I have- same color and everything. However, as I look closer, I notice a few things. Their back seats are raised and there are people sitting in them. You can see the back of the seats because they are not obscured by piled up objects, giant clothes baskets, or reusable shopping bags. A human is actually sitting in the front seat and they seem comfortable. They don't seem to be leaning to one side to sit on one butt cheek. Their legs appear to be fully outstretched, not drawn up to their chests because the floor is filled with junk. My shame grows as I glance around my car and pray that those Cleanies driving next to me don't look into my Crap Wagon. I hate those people because they remind me of my shortcomings. They cruise around with their gleaming consoles. Their carpets are the color that God intended, not dyed with some spilled drink or caked mud from last year's rainstorm. Their side windows are clear, not splattered with milkshake that was spread when a kid slammed the door when the shake was in the door's cup holder. I have, what I have deemed, Clean Car Envy. If only the Envy would spur some action. But it has not. And probably will not. So, at the last minute, don't ever ask me to drive you anywhere. Because it will take me at least 30 minutes to clean it out just enough let you in.

Patience. wisdom, and screwdrivers.

So remember yesterday’s “you suckers” blog where I had nothing to talk about because my brain was empty? And how the soul suckers were pulling all the funny out of me? Well, the blog information bucket started getting filled back up today. It’s almost like praying to God for patience. You NEVER want to do that, because He will give you something that forces you to learn patience. He may not let you win the lottery, but you can bet that He’s got a butt load of things waiting in the wings to help build your patience. Ask for wisdom instead. Look how well wisdom worked for Solomon.

Six A.M. today, my eyes pop open and I ask my husband, who is taking his sweet time getting dressed for work, “Was today the day I needed to take the kids to school?” “Oh crap,” he says, “yes,” and he kicks it into high gear and leaves for a seven o’clock staff meeting. I switch from, “La, la, la, I’m going to work” to “gotta get dem babies ready fer skewl.” And for those of you who don’t know my daughter, she is in a completely different universe, with a totally different time continuum. She has no sense of urgency for anything. Ever. “Tanner Tot, if you hurry I will give you $1000.” Nothing. “Tanner Squanner, if you hurry, you can have 7 books at bedtime.” Nothing. I was fully prepared for her to drag it on as usual, but my son, the smart boy he is, pulled out the donut card. “Mom, if we hurry can we get donuts?” Well, that worked for her today. She got dressed quickly and brushed her teeth on her own in record speed. We were out the door at 20 till seven. As we pulled up to Shipleys, I remembered that part of my duty as dropping-the-kids-off-at-school-parent was to pack lunches and snacks. Dang, in the rush, Momma done forgot dat. My wonderful husband of 15 and half years usually has morning duty while I get to work and bring home half the bacon. The man cannot put double pony tails in my daughter’s hair to save his life, but he can pack a mean lunch for our son, Picky McPickiealot.

My plan was to drop the kids off, run to HEB, come back to school, drop off the goods and be on my way to work. I would be only about 20 minutes behind. In the drop off line at school, Tanner had to take extra long to go through her air hugs and kisses routine, which I then had to reciprocate. Heaven forbid, I did not do it exactly right the first time and had to redo the love ritual. Does it count if there was some angry inside my heart as I redid it? I finally made it to HEB and got the individual servings of applesauce that cost twice as much as the giant jar. Oh, it pained me to buy it. The Lunchable pained me even more. Lunchables make me feel like a bad parent. I did get the turkey and crackers, so did that make it better? Just pretend there is not 300% of the RDA for sodium in it. And since Austin does not have plastic bags anymore, my son got a twenty cent reusable shopping for his lunch box. Bam.

I got back to school and dropped everything off. As I was leaving, the Pledge of Allegiance started, so I felt as a good American I should stop to do it. I was lost during the Texas Pledge and the school pledge. I did know the school song, which ends with a nice coyote howl and coyote hand gesture. As I was leaving, my son’s teacher said, “I’m really glad that you signed up for the field trip next week. You are the only parent that did.” Hmm, I’m starting to second guess that decision. As I left the school, I realized I had to pee. Now that it was already 7:25 A.M., I knew that Austin traffic would be terrible on my way to work. I did not want to pee in my pants in the car, again. I decided to run home and take care of business as I was not in the mood for dirty gas station toilet. As I drove across the bridge next to my house, I felt that familiar thump thump when your tire is going flat. I parked on the street next to my house, knowing that it would be easier to change a tire there rather than on my hilled driveway. I emerged from the car, could hear the air hissing out of the tire, and I could see a screwdriver sticking straight out of the tire. Awesomely awesome. I called my boss to let her know I would be late, but she had not left for work yet and would “be there in 25 minutes.” During the 40 minutes that I waited, I rearranged the 100 pounds of newly placed mulch that had been shifted by the torrential rainfall yesterday. I was able to cover some of the bare spots and I wondered if the other 50 pounds of washed away mulch would be easily accessible if I lifted up the manhole cover next to the drainage slit thingy on the side of the street.  The boss finally showed, and forty minutes later, we made it to work.

Hey, but at least I have my health. Did I just say that? Really? How about I just ask for patience while I am at it. That’ll teach me not to just go ahead and pee in my pants. Serves me right.

You suckers.

I really felt compelled to write today, but as I contemplated the topic, my brain was void of the usual funny. My writings usually consist of something that has happened to my husband and I build upon the scaffolding of his expereince. But, our lives have been pretty Boring lately. I think the problem stems from the soul suckers that we encounter. They are the people drift through life like poisonous clouds, seeping into your space, and melting their drama all over you. Like the Death Eaters in Harry Potter, their influence is hard to resist. As they slink up next to me, I can just feeeeeeeel my insides being sucked out. That's where the funny has gone. Thanks soul suckers.

Drivin' Drama

Over the past 6 weeks, there have been many different vehicles parked in my driveway. In my neighborhood I've become that much hated person that parks across the sidewalk as we've played musical cars and had up to 3 vehicles parked out front. This is a major deal as we have some Olympic speed walkers and mommies with jogging strollers strolling at all hours of the day and night. My house looks like we have at least 3 families living here. This all started when my stepdad died and we started the negotiations with my mom to purchase her truck. Before that could happen, we had to get the truck in her name, sell Ray's 4Runner, and save up some cash so she'd have a nice lil' down payment on a new car for herself. We knew we'd have a delay as the title got switched to her name and all the lawyery stuff was completed. In the middle of all of this, Ray's dad became unable to drive his 5 speed, stick shift, candy apple red Ford F150. Ray offered to help sell the truck in Austin so that Roy could buy something that he could drive. In an offhand comment, Ray mentioned that he would be selling the 4Runner and Roy said he might be interested. While all this was going on, somehow we ended up with my stepdad's Dodge truck in our driveway, too. Don't even remember the reason we took it! Man, did I ever feel like a bad ass driving that loud, growly, dog hair infested rumbler. So, we now had my awesome Pilot, Ray's 4Runner, and the Dodge in the driveway. One Sunday, Ray decided to take the kids over to visit his dad in Marble Falls. When Ray pulled up, Roy was excited because he thought Ray was there to switch cars. That day. Well, that wasn't the plan, but Ray wanted his dad to be able to get around. Therefore, the 4Runner was left in Ol' Marble Falls and the Red Rocket was on its way to our driveway to sleep next to the Hair Wagon. Ray drove the Rocket for about a week, performing his duty of dropping the kids off at school in the morning. One evening, with his eyes closed and right hand across his forehead, Ray told me that he just could not do it anymore. "What, honey? What is it my sweet cheesecake, punkin' head?", I said. "Darlin', I just can't drop the kids off in the Red Rocket. They are trapped in the back since the front door must be opened for them to open their tiny little half door. Without power locks, I get a cramp in my shoulder bending across the passenger seat to open the door so our little prisoners can get out. Without power switches, I can't roll the passenger windows. That means Tanner cannot go through her goodby routine that happens once she gets out of the car. My sweet Amanda, how many more times must I hold up the drop off line as I stop to keep Tanner from chasing me down the sidewalk. The stress of it all! I can't do it anymore!!" Of course, being the caring wife that I am, I offered to give up my comfy Mom Wagon so that he could drop our children off without stress. I thought it would be no big deal. I can drive the truck for a while. Well, that all changed within a few days. First, it's hard to drink a Coke, talk on the phone, change the radio, and eat popcorn when you have to shift through 5 gears. You mean I have to pay attention while I'm driving? What? And 5 o'clock rush hour traffic on I35 on Friday, on a holiday weekend? So.....much.....concentration...... And pulling into the garage at work. The gate I go into is on a hill and you people GOTS ta STOP pulling right up behind me on a hill! I will roll into your Prius. On accident. One day a doctor friend of mine asked me if I was zooming into the garage. No, Dr. I was burning up that clutch trying to get up the hill and not ram into the mini van behind me. The reason, Doc, that it sounded like a zoom is because it's a loud truck that makes the noise of a mad bumble bee. And that sound it makes like four high pitched cowbells in a metal bucket? No idea what that is all about. The echos it produces in our garage is not the type of attention I want to attract. So, the Red Rocket is also the Cow Bell Beemobile. The next week after I acquired the Rocket Bee Cow, it rained. I was excited about it, UNTIL, I turned my first corner, going a normal speed. Red Cow began sliding sideways into the next lane. Hmm, that was scary. I became even less excited as I spun my tires at every stoplight. Somehow, I made it home from downtown where I had to pick up a kid and turn around and drive back up North to a doctor's appointment. Because I feared for my life in the Bee Rocket, I jumped into the Hair Wagon. Even though I had spent 2 hours vacuuming it weeks before, somehow, more dog hair had found it's way to the seats. I was ok with it. Yes, it flew up my nose and stuck to my eyebrows, but I knew it was safer. Yes, it was like a canine fur tornado as I drove, but I was grateful for the forceful, cold AC. I drove to the school and parked in the pick up line. Feeling awesome and bad again in the loud diesel, I almost forgot about the one and a half foot wide hole in the dash. Yea, that year model is known for that. Whatever. Tanner and I rumbled on down the road. After having Hair Rumbler for a few weeks, we finally had time to return it to my mom. Whew. Back down to two vehicles. This week, it rained again. I was that person driving 20 mph down Mopac all the way from downtown. I stayed in second gear all the way home. On the freeway. When I could have been driving 65, No way was I gonna slide into all the other cars. Sorry people. I made it home safe. I've got to keep that pickup intact until the lawyer gets all her stuff done so I can sell that Little Red Wagon and buy my mom's truck (AKA "The Limo Truck"). So, the drama will continue until all the legal battles are won. I just want my Pilot back. I miss you.

Death is not Funny.....or is it?

So my stepdad died. It's tough to call him a "stepdad" because I consider him my father as he was more of dad to me than my biological one was. I'll give you a moment to cock your head to one side, squint your eyes a bit, and say "ohhhhh, I am so sorry." Yep, it is hard and it sure does suck. I've done my fair share of crying, but I hold it together most days. Cry time generally happens while driving home from work as I listen to Chicago and Air Supply on the mix tape made for me in eighth grade by Jimmy Jo Billy Bob. I keep my  double cassette boom box in tip top shape and buckled into the backseat of my Stank Wagon. That boom box is still going strong, just like the day I bought it from Bill's Dollar Store in 1986. I'm sure I'm as sad as I am supposed to be. I'm sure most grieving daughters bawl on Interstate 35 during rush hour. I'm sure most mourners cry over lost deer jerky. Even through all the sadness, my family and I have had lots of laughs. We aren't sure how appropriate it all is, but when have we ever been appropriate? That would be never. Laugh number 1: the day after he died, my youngest sister typed a really nice tribute to him on Facebook. My mom was reading it and on the verge of tears when she got to the last sentence. My sister had typed "I love Jim." My stepdad's name was Walter. Autocorrect had changed "him" to "Jim." Damn you, autocorrect. Laugh number 2: Weeks before his death, I had bought my nephew a Skippy Jon Jones toy from Kohl's. Skippy is a character in a children's book. You should totally read it. Funniest kid's book ever. E-ver. So that my 16 year niece would not feel left out, I bought her a toy from another character in the book. It was a giant, fat, stuffed bumblebee. I presented the toys to my niece and nephew when they got to my mom's house the day my stepdad died. I thought the toys might bring them some comfort in the tough times ahead. I thought the toys might help them sleep at night. I felt really great about being thoughtful Aunt Amanda until, days later, my sister called me in tears- from laughter. She and my niece had been reflecting on the previous days and how they just could not believe what had happened. In the middle of the conversation, my niece said, "And then Aunt 'Manda gave me that STUPID stuffed bee." What I did not tell you in the beginning of this was that my stepdad had died from the sting of an insect, most likely at yellow jacket. The whole time my niece was with us, she  and the bee slept in bed with my mom. My niece, who was extremely close to my stepdad, and my mom were forced to sleep with a stuffed stinging, potentially deadly insect! I just imagine my mom waking at 2:42 am into her life which was like a bad dream, and that bee just staring at her. Mocking her. Boy did I feel like an insensitive witch for not recognizing how inappropriate my gift was. Laugh number 3: At the funeral, programs were handed out. It said my last name was Goring, not Boring. I guess that's an improvement? Or is it? Laugh number 4: CNN picked up an interview I did for a local TV station. Because I did not mention my stepdad's last name in the interview, CNN took the liberty of giving him my last name. Yea? No. Laugh number 5: I'm not sure if larger market newspapers do this, but in small towns, when someone dies, you put a thank you note in to show appreciation for all the thoughts and prayers. I put one in our hometown newspaper, where we all grew up. My middle sister put one in her small town newspaper. When her's came out the next week, we were surprised to see that my husband, Ray, had been listed as Ray Ray. I know many Southern folks have a hankerin' for the double first name. I mean, in my hometown we had Billy Bob, a couple of Jim Bobs, a couple of Joe Bobs, Jim Bill, Billy Mac, Anna Beth, Jimmy Tom- it's just way things were and continue to be. But, I will tell you, I would never marry someone with two of the SAME first names. Nope. No way. Now, 99% of my sister's town thinks I married a Ray Ray. Lots of laughs on that one. The mistakes that happened were public and 1000's of people saw them. Granted, only about 20 people will think all of these things are funny. Yet, I'm still publishing it.

I saw this on the Today show today. Not yesterday. Quinoa is quite the sexy, little food and packed with protein. I love chocolate. Chocolate makes me hungry. Quinoa is loaded with protein and protein keeps me from gettin' hungry. Perfect combination, don't you think?

Recipe: Chocolate chip quinoa cookies
Peggy Kotsopoulos Ingredients

1 cup cooked quinoa1 cup uncooked quinoa flakes (or oatmeal flakes)
1 cup unsweetened, shredded coconut (sweeetened is all I had)
2 tablespoons almond butter (I used natural peanut butter)
4 large VERY RIPE bananas (tons in my freezer)
1/2 cup coconut sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup chocolate chips
Pinch sea salt (regular ol' kind worked just fine for me)

Preparation
These cookies are SOOO GOOD! The are jam-packed with protein, fiber, stress-busting B-vitamins, energizing goodness and deliciousness! They're also gluten-free and will kick your cravings to the curb.

To prepare the cookies:

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, mash bananas in bowl with a fork and add vanilla, almond butter and coconut sugar. Add quinoa, oatmeal, coconut and pinch of salt. Mix until well combined. Stir in chocolate chips. Line baking sheet with parchment paper and drop batter on to cooking sheet. Bake for 25-30 minutes (watch them. at 25 minutes, the bottoms of mine got too done). Remove from oven and let cool.

Serving Size
Makes about 25 cookies that look more like muffin-tops and are chewy.

If it ain't green beans, it's crap.

Yesterday my daughter had a drop to the floor, super freak out because I would not cook asparagus for supper. When the super freak comes out, the kids go to their rooms to defrizz. Since she was little, the best method was to put her in bed and cover her up with a blanket. There's some magical force field under the blanket that sucks out the craziness. Works every time. I am always amazed at how she will go to town on the foul-pee-inducing stalks. I never even heard of asparagus until I was 24 and I never ate it until I was in my 30's. Did Mason even sell it? Why, when I was growing up (had to do it), we ate green beans with every meal. None of those fancy vegetables like aspargus, broccoli, or cauliflower. My poor mom, I bet she dreamed of having meals with something other than green beans or mashed potatoes. If we'd had enough money to have more than 5 channels and had the Food Network, I could see my mom salivating over the meals she couldn't cook. I bet she dreamed of the day when she could branch out with her culinary skills beyond meatloaf and spaghetti. I feel her pain. Hance is a picky eater. He is one of those people that will gag and almost puke if he eats something he does not like. And he doesn't fake it, it's a full on heave. It's the test we use to know if we need to make him finish something. No gag means you like it and you're gonna eat it. I'm sorry mom for being so picky.

Another VERY Interesting farm box blog

To my 4 followers, I do not intend for my blog to become "what I cooked out of my farm box." it's just what's happening now. Got a butt load of tomatoes. I've been wanting to make salsa since I never have. And, because of the extremely complex nature of the task, I thought it would be quite an accomplishment if I mastered it. I mean, the precision cutting and exact measurement of the ingredients- it takes quite a lady to pull that off. As I unloaded my box and packed my fridge, I found 5 beets from the last box. They were a little soft, but I figured I'd roast em up. Got that going and started looking for recipes. Where were we without the Internet? Found lots of recipes. I found a roasted salsa recipe that told how to roast tomatoes and peppers in a skillet. I've done over an open flame, but it was too much work and my hAnd/arm got too hot. With this,you line an iron skillet with foil and put the tomato and peppers on that. It was a lot more work that broiling them with all the flipping, but it best waiting on the beets (which took over an hour. Geez beets, I was tired. Had been up since 3:30a!) the roasting worked great. Oh there was also garlic in there, too. Food processed that up. It was yummy, but pretty dang spicy. Thankfully, I only made Bout a cup and a half. Still had lots of tomatoes and a couple of Peppers along with the overload of onions- so i made some pico. It was friggin' good. The beets turned out great, too. I am surprised I like them. They are weird but good, like my friends.Now I gotta cook a bunch if squash. Please stay tuned for another exciting edition of "what the heck am I gonna cook with this?"

Eggplant Fries

The Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) box of the week has once again forced me to learn to cook something new. This week, eggplant. I cooked eggplant once and something went horribly wrong. It tasted like cat butt. At least, what I think cat butt would be like. That was about 12 years ago. Upon the arrival of the eggplants last Friday, I knew I had to give it another shot. I had already contributed to the compost pile with the parsley and mint that arrived and wanted to use what I paid for. What do humans do with fresh parsley, other than garnish? These eggplants scared me, right down to my core. Since last year, I have grown more brave. After the chard chips and bok choy meals I made, I felt ready to take on the eggplant. My neighbor mentioned eggplant fries last year and that's what I went for. The prep was easy. I overcooked them somewhat. The thinner sliced ones sind of disintegrated on the inside, but the breading stayed intact. They could have used some more seasoning. They were very yummy, none the less. Here's the recipe, which I will probably modify on the next batch!

3/4 cups seasoned breadcrumbs
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground pepper
1/2 cup parmesan cheese
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1 Medium eggplant
1 egg, slightly beaten

Heat over to 425
Mix breadcrumbs, salt, pepper, cheese, and garlic powder on  shallow plate. Beat egg in a shallow bowl. Spray a cookie sheet with non-stick spray. Peel the eggplant. Slice into thick french fry like pieces. Did in egg and then in breadcrumb mixture. Cook for 30 minutes. Check at that time for crispiness. Cook longer as needed. Serve with marinara. Ketchup works well, too!

Hope you enjoy! Don't be scared.

Feet of Craziness

About 10 years ago, I went to a local running store called Runtex to have them tell me what type of shoe I should wear to run. I'd been getting blisters on my arches, so I knew su'mn was up. Mr. Shoe Salesman/Running Expert watched me walk and said I pronated (turned my feet in) when I walked. He sold me the right type of shoe. As I recall, the blisters went away. However, after a few more months, I developed achilles tendonitis. So, I stopped running. A few months back, I took it up again. All was going pretty well, I got up to 4.5 miles. And then, the bottom of my right foot started hurting more (it had been sore for about a year) and my left front part of the ankle started to hurt, too. I started to lose range of motion and my calves were very tight. I finally decided it was time to go to the doctor. The podiatrist diagnosed me with plantar fascitis on the right and anterior tibialis tendonitis on the left. Apparently, the pronation pretty much caused all the problems. Great, if I'd listened to Mr Shoe Salesman 10 years ago, I wouldn't be going through all of this! The podiatrist sent me to physical therapy. Now that you know the background, the real story can begin.

Earlier today, I decided it was time to stop doing this getting well business half ass. I've been going to PT for 2 weeks and sort of doing my home exercises. The healing wasn't happening fast enough and I knew part of the problem was my non-compliance. So after work I went to Runtex to buy the special anti-pronation shoes I should have bought a month ago. The nice, but distracted sales guy wasn't so bad. He didn't think my giant feet looked so giant. So sweet. I trekked down to the mall to buy the podiatrist recommended OTC inserts. Once home, I started the on-my-way-to-PT preparation. Ladies, you know when you are going to see your gynecologist- there are certain "preparations" that must occur before you get there. If you get to go home BEFORE you go- you are set. Shower, clean underwear. The works! But, if you have to go straight from work, man, you have to plan ahead! Clean underwear in your purse and some sort of cleansing cloth/baby wipes. Thorough wipe down in the work bathroom if the doc is close by or thorough wipe down at his office if the drive is too far. You may never have body odor and never have that not-so-fresh-feeling, but you have this sense that on the drive over- your crotch will start to grow some sort of mildew or fungus.With my PT preparation, I wash my feet, change my socks, and put on different shoes. Today, I trimmed up my new inserts, put them into my expensive ass shoes, and put on my clean socks. I strutted around the house in them, feeling quite secure and properly aligned. I noticed that my legs were pretty hairy, so I did a quick dry shave. Bad idea since my legs were lizard skin dry. But, I had to shave. The PT is down there all up in my foot business, so I have to be fresh and clean. The last thing I want, is to be "that patient." The stinky foot cheese hairy leg patient. Yea, I know most of their patients probably have reeking feet, but I wanted to be the exception. When Gerta thinks back about me 8 years from now, I want her to remember me fondly. That cute, big footed chick who smelled like Bath and Body Works. On my drive to see Gerta I had a sudden realization, "oh friggin' no. I forgot to wash my feet." No turning around to go home, I'd be late. Could stop at CVS. Nahh. Too much Christmas stuff on sale I'd want to buy. I decided I'd get to the PT office and go into the restroom and do a quick wash. But, I wasn't sure I'd be able to get into a one holer. The multi-stall bathrooms would be quite tricky. Yea, I could wash in the sink, but the chances of another person entering the bathroom was pretty high. And, with my foot hiked up into the sink, I'd look pretty ridiculous. As I pondered my predicament, I remembered, "hey, I've go hand sanitizer. Hand santizer cleans stuff." Therefore, I removed my shoes and clean socks, slathered on sanitizer, and massaged it into my feet. I wiped it off with the gym towel I had lying in my passenger seat. When I strolled through the office building and into the PT office, I felt fresh and anew. I was ready for Gerta and her 6 foot frame. When I saw her standing there with her elastic waisted khaki slacks, pulled up high on her waist, polo shirt tucked in, broad shoulders, and thick manly thighs- I was ready. I was finally ready to be compliant. I was ready to be putty in her thick meaty paws. Massage away Gerta. Stretch away Gerta. My feet smell nice, my shoes align my bones, my inserts support my arch. I'm ready Gerta. Get to it.

Technology is Shrinking my Brain

Has anyone else noticed that they cannot remember anything anymore? Peers, older friends, young whipper snappers (will need to look up the origin of that later) noticed any changes over the past few years? In addition to having "mommy brain," I think I discovered another reason why I can't remember jack anymore. We don't have to remember anything anymore. Within seconds of something memorable occuring, we can text it, photograph it, post it, or call someone to report it. Remember in olden times (1996) when something happened to you, you had to wait until you got home to call someone- on your land line?. All day long you'd have to continually remind your self of the situation (no, not the Jersey Shore dude. Ahhh, remember those wonderful olden times when crap like that did not exist??) so you would not forget. Remember when you'd have to wait on the pictures to be developed to show such awesomeness as thong man on Lady Bird Lake (haven't seen him personally, but I've heard a lot about him. I am sure he has super tan, leathery buttocks like Leslie Cochran, which I've seen up close. Nayyyastaaayyy!). You'd have to prep your friends with lines like, "dude you will not BELIEVE what I saw in Austin. I can't WAIT until the pictures come in the mail!" When you met someone special, got their phone number on a napkin, and shoved it in your back pocket- you'd have to remember to take it out before you washed. Have you thought about whether the link to your soul mate disintegrated in Tide soup in your water guzzling, energy inefficient washing machine? Are you absolutely positive that you married the right person? What if your destiny was actually to end up with Joe Bob Billy Tom Dean? Ponder that for a moment. Now, rather than remember to take the napkin out of your pocket, when that tight Wrangler, massively starched shirt wearing tall drink of water approached, you could instantly whip out your phone, enter the numbers (listed as "Cowboy Hottie"), and promise to call. So, please be patient with us in the age of instantaneosity. Our brains are withering as technology advances further and further, so take it easy on us.

Another reason not to drive distracted

There are numerous reasons not to drive distracted. Most importantly is not to kill yourself or others. It would be unfair to your family to go and get 'urself kilt by participating in an activity that could wait. And imagine how you'd feel if killed someone else doing something stupid? Really, only damage and destruction can result in distracted driving. With that said, I must admit that I take part in this. However, since I have become keenly aware of it, I have started making the conscious effort not to do anything other than drive. I still talk on the cell phone while I drive, but I think I'm going to take the Oprah challenge and stop. As women, we pretty much do anything Oprah says anyway, right? What I have stopped doing is putting on my makeup when I drive. I didn't do it while the kids were in the car. Of course, why did I think it was ok to make my kids safer by being a better driver but no one else's? Great logic. I justified the makeup application by never taking my eyes off the road. I was like those that say "I drive better when I'm drunk. I pay more attention." I could rummage through my cosmetics bag and find everything I needed by touch. I could curl my eyelashes and apply mascara without wavering my view from the road. I had become quite the makeup artist on my drive to work. And, on top of that, I saved about a whole 10 minutes by doing it in the car and not at home. I'd like to say that my guilt about being an unsafe driver prompted me to stop. I'd like to say that as a responsible Texas driver, I stopped to become a better defensive driver. But, of course, that was not the case. I had to stop because my blush application started to look a little wild. Too many times at work I'd attend meetings and check my makeup once I got upstairs into the locker only to find that I looked like a drag queen. My blush was so dark (and usually only on one side) that I looked like I was on my way to Charlie's for a show. Some days I had evenly dark blush on each side and I looked like Kim Kardashian had applied it for me. Some days it looked like someone punched me in the cheekbones. Other times, the apples of my cheeks glowed like Shirley Temple's. I wonder what my coworkers thought when they saw me. Amanda looks like a Mary Kay nightmare. Amanda's getting her crazy on. So, Texas, your world is a safer place now that I will apply makeup at home.

The Bestest Cookies

I made these for my mom's birthday today. They rival "Mike the Cookie Man" from work. They are so good that I can't even stand it.

Mrs. Field's Cranberry White Chocolate Chip Cookies
1 Cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

1½ Cups light brown sugar
¼ Cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2¾ Cups all-purpose flour
1 Cup rolled oats
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1½ Cups chopped dried cranberries
1 Cup chopped walnuts
¾ Cup white chocolate chips

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter, sugars, eggs and vanilla with an electric mixer on high speed.
3. In another bowl, mix together the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cinnamon.
4. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet stuff until blended. Stir in cranberries, walnuts and white chocolate.
5. Spoon ¼ Cup portions 2 inches apart onto a non-stick surface (parchment paper, Silpat or Release foil) on a baking sheet. Bake for 13 to 15 minutes or until edges of cookies are just beginning to brown. I check them after 13 minutes to see if they are a little brown. Cookies will still be soft in the center and not look done, but take them out JUST as the edges brown a little. Allow cookies to sit for at least 5 minutes before removing and placing on cooling rack.

Living Will for my Hair

I was pondering what would happen to me if I became incapacitated and how my family would deal with my basic personal care. It is odd to think about who (other than yourself) you would want bathing you, wiping your “area,” plucking your eyebrows, trimming your toenails, and waxing/bleaching your mustache. I feel pretty confident that most people in my family could handle any of the described. Mom and Candace have been formally trained in the bathing and personal care of bedridden people. The rest of my family could help deal with the basic care, as most perform some sort of personal hygiene (on at least an every other day basis). What does concern me most about my personal care and who could do it- is the care of my hair. The thought of that task going to someone else causes some anxiety for me. And, I feel sorry for those that may be charged with that task. Therefore, I feel compelled to write down the steps for its care. I will address the care of my hair if I am incapacitated, but still alive AND how to fix it in the event of my passing. The last thing I want people to see when I am in a coffin is some ratty, crazy hair. Not what you really want to be thinking about at age 35, but imagine if you were the person at the funeral home fixing my hair. Wouldn’t you like some sort of instruction on what makes it look best?




In the event of temporary incapacitation where I am either unable to use my arms or intubated, sedated, and lying in the ICU, here are your instructions.

1. As soon as possible after admission or my incapacitation, work with the nurses and let them know you MUST wash my hair. I have never used the no rinse shampoo, so you need to get creative to actually wet my hair and shampoo it.

a. Though you will be upset about my health, you have to know that if you do not take care of this within the first couple of days- my hair will become a big matted mess of hair.

2. Using a WIDE TOOTH COMB and while my hair is WET- start brushing out the tangles

a. You will be amazed at how tangled it is.

b. Start at the bottom of my hair and brush out tangles. Proceed on up the scalp.

3. Brush the hair straight, while still WET, and put it in a ponytail holder. Braid the ponytail.

a. If you take the time to brush it out straight and braid it- the next time you need to wash my hair there will be about 95% less tangles for you.

4. If you are absolutely unable to wash my hair with water- you still need to address the hair during the same timeframe

a. Use a spray bottle with water and wet the hair in sections and brush the tangles out of each section.

b. After all the tangles are out, wet is a thoroughly as possible and follow step 3 above.

5. If I was rendered helpless for days before you found me, yet I survived, my hair will probably already be in the super matted state.

a. After attempting to brush the tangles out, if you find that it is an impossible job- I know that you will have to cut it all off. I will be sad about it when I wake up, but I will understand.



If I am permanently unable to care for my hair or if I die, I want you (or the funeral home person) to know how to make it look the best. I prefer you not pull it up and braid it everyday. On some occasions, I would like for you to “fix it up real purty.” It is easy for my hair to look like a hot mess, so hopefully this will be a good guide for you.

1. The best way to brush my hair out, is in the shower. After washing it with a decent shampoo (I prefer Aveda, but over the counter will do as long as it is not too cheap. Nothing moisturizing, though. The curls won’t work if the hair’s too soft), apply a lot of conditioner. About the palm of your hand.

2. Using the wide tooth comb, brush it out as described above.

3. Rinse thoroughly

4. Gather the hair in sections in the palm of your hand and squeeze it gently up the scalp, gathering (scrunching) it up the scalp. Squeeze out as much water at possible.

5. Using the towel, gently squeeze the excess water out as described above.

6. DO NOT put a brush or comb to the hair after rinsing.

7. Apply Aveda Phomollient mousse (yes, it’s expensive, but it works) in sections using the scrunching method. Make sure all sections of hair get moussed, or it will be frizzy.

a. The trick here is to be gentle with the hair, otherwise you will break up the curls. Don’t flounce it around or stick your fingers up in the hair and shake it around. Hairstylists do this and it really messes it up!

8. Using a hair dryer with a diffuser (key ingredient here), scrunch the hair gently up in sections and direct the air into your hand.

a. Do this on all sections. Be extra gentle with the hair on the top of the head near the scalp. Messing around too much with it will make it get frizzed.

b. If parts start to look frizzy, apply some hairspray to those parts to keep the frizz from magnifying.

c. After the hair is almost all the way dry, if the dryer has a cold air function, do that all over the hair. At this point, you don’t have to scrunch anymore, but don’t let the dryer blow the hair all over the place. The diffuser should prevent it, but sometimes people go a little nuts.

9. Apply hair spray as needed to frizzy spots.

10. After an hour or so, check back on the hair. After it has rested for a while, it sometimes draws up some more and some frizz appears. May need a little more hairspray.

11. If the funeral home is doing this, they need to follow the steps as much as possible so I look nice.

12. That is all there is to it.



Yea, it’s a weird instruction manual, but it’s necessary. It will be a part of my living will someday.

Blog Written By Ray Dec 2009

I have never claimed to be some sort of tough guy. I would like to think that I could take care of myself if it came down to it. I have never been afraid of people or things as long as the sun was up or a light was on. Let me tell you about me being scared. Darkness has never been a close and personal friend of mine. My imagination runs rampant when the lights go out. So when my 2 1/2 year old woke up at 115 this morning screaming for her mother, I was concerned. She will usually lay in bed and cry at times but she is still asleep. My daughter will usually settle down and stop hollering just after a couple of minutes. But, this time rather than going back to sleep she said "don't touch me and leave me alone" and screamed in terror. Upon hearing these words, I just FREAKED! The hands of time instantaneously turned back about 25 years. So there I lay, a 6'1" 245 pound 10 year old with my mind just spinning out of control. I remember seeing all of the horror movies as a kid. All of the spookies and creepy crawlies and things that had no business in my sight or in my mind were making there long absence known. I asked my wife if she wanted to get my daughter and bring her into the bed with us. She said no and got up to check on my daughter. Well my wife got her to calm down and got her settled back in. She told me that my daughter was running a fever and was probably in a lot of pain. I thought all was well but there came the screams again and my wife brought her into our room. She asked if I wanted to go to the other room to get some sleep. I assumed that it was just because my wife does worry about our children when it comes to sickness and this was a way for her to monitor my daughter's breathing patterns while sleeping and make sure that she is OK. I did go to the other room and she slept with my daughter in our bed. I lay there until about 4 am because I am who I am- unable to go back to sleep for the fear of what she saw in her room! The working part of me wishing to fall asleep, the dad part of me wanting to go into my daughter's room and investigate, and the little boy part of me just laying there staring at the ceiling worrying about every little noise that I heard. As though I was not scared enough last night- my wife just called me and told me another detail that was left out of our conversation in the wee hours of the morning (she said she did not want to tell me at the time because she knew I would be scared. The second or third time my wife got up and went into our daughter's room, she said Tanner was in the corner of her bed sitting there crying and pointing to the opposite end of the bed. She mentioned something about that thing bothering her. So all of the screams that I thought were just bad dreams now have a new definition. I am getting goose bumps just thinking about it. If anyone drives past my house tonight, every light in the house will be on. Yea, like I am going to be able to go to sleep. Especially if my wife goes to work. I am such a chicken.

Memories

March 3, 2009 During the summers, my middle sister and I would stay with my dad. Three main things come to mind when I think about our summers with him: Coca Cola, beer, and cigarettes. Besides us (I think) those were my dad's favorite things in life. He smoked like a chimney. This was back when people did not know how socially unacceptable it was to smoke in front of your kids. I remember being trapped in his old clunker of a car (he got about 4 a year and they were always pieces of crap) with the windows up and the whole car filled with smoke. I remember being so relieved when he would crack the window (sometimes the little bat wing window) and the smoke would go rushing out. Man, if it was in this day- my mom could have had him in court ordering him not to smoke in front of us! Not in the 80's. Smoke it up parents, smoke it up. My mom once told me that the minute she got us back home, she would immediately wash all of our clothes because they reeked of smoke. We usually stayed at my grandma's (the Holy Roller I wrote about a couple of weeks ago). Things were always the same when we pulled up. Weeds crotch high in places, a run down chicken coop that may or may not have had chickens, a broken down Gremlin and Pacer in the yard, at least one additional broken down car in the yard each visit, and a trailer house in the yard that my dad lived in on occasions. I remember one year my dad found a baby racoon and named it Rocky. He tied some thick wire between 2 trees, put a leash on Rocky, and clipped it around the wire so he could run back and forth. I have not idea why he kept this racoon. It bit my sister once. Thankfully, she did not get rabies as far as I know. I remember being so dirty during those summers with my dad. I remember before going to bed each night having to dust our feet off before we crawled between the sheets. I am so grossed out by that because I imagine our feet were black as tar and we thought dusting them off was enough! Why weren't we wearing slippers? The room we slept in (called the "back room", which was about 4 feet from the "front room") had 2 old timey iron beds in them. For some reason, they were never all the way up against the wall, so there was about a one foot crack between the wall and bed. I used to make Candace sleep over on that side. She was so scared that something was going to reach up and grab her in that crack. I am sure that is why I did not want to sleep over there either! That room was always packed with crap. The room was about 15 feet wide by 20 feet long and there was only about 5 feet by 10 feet of really usable space because of the clutter. That place would definitely be a candidate for the show Clean House. I am a pretty healthy person, and I attribute my excellent immune system to all those summers in the dirt fest.

When I die, I better not have chin hairs.

03/37/07 Yes, it is 4am. I have been up since 3am. Kid woke me up and now I cannot go back to sleep. I am sure I will be dead later about 3pm when I am supposed to be lively at a party. Anyways, I cannot take credit for the following blog. A lady at work brought it up and I was very moved by it. I wanted to talk about it, elaborate on it, and welcome your comments.We were commenting about seeing little old lady patients that had long, grey chin hairs. We agreed that many of these ladies were either in nursing homes with no family, could not see the hairs, or had no one who cared enough about them to pluck the hairs (we called this neglect). My friend stated that in her will she has already stipulated that if she has a beard or stray facial hairs when she dies- her children will not receive any of her riches. She said that they had to take care of her and assure that she did not have the old lady chin hairs, or they would be written off. When she said this, I thought it was so profound. Now, I know most of my friends are old enough to understand the chin hair dilemma, but for those of you who do not- here is the deal. When you are a teenager, your skin is perfect (except for a few zits). You have no wrinkles, your skin tone is even, and the only thing you pluck is your eyebrows. Here is a quick aside: ladies, do not overdo the eyebrow plucking/waxing. Yes, those superthin eyebrows may be in, but just know that they will not always be. I believe that the cosmetic tatooing and model industries work together on eyebrow fashion. When the tatoo industry starts to feel a drop in customers, they pay the model industry (magazines, runway, etc) to begin flaunting the superthin brow. After about 2 years of this, the tatoo industry pays the model industry to being showing a more thick brow. Now, it will not be a dramatic change all at once. Over the course of a couple of years, the models will begin sporting increasingly thicker brows. Soon, the women of the world will begin flocking to the cosmetic tatoo artists to have their pencil thin brows filled in. I know this is how it happens. Anyways, back to my original story. In your mid twenties, you start to see some uneven skin tones. By the end of your twenties, you have the brown spots- which can generally be managed with makeup. But then. Oh, but then. You start finding------- the old lady chin hairs. It starts out as one that you need to pluck every few months. Then that one turns grey and hard. Then, you find another one, that needs to be plucked every month or so. And one day, you will find 3-5 long, black and grey hairs dangling from your chin. You wonder why no one told you. How could your closest friends not have told you? So, you pluck these hairs and feel relieved that you do not need to worry about this embarrassment for another month. Then, 2 weeks later, some have come back. Then, 2 weeks later, more have come back. Soon, you are having to check everyday since the hairs all grow at different rates. Damn those hair follicles with their different growth cycles!!! What I used to call my weekly chin hairs, are now my daily chin hairs. Since my friends do not have the cajones to tell me when I have a dangler, as we will now call them, my children and husband have inherited that duty. When I die, I WILL not have chin hairs, a beard, or a mustache (don't even get me started on that). I will make sure my lawyer, Howard K. Stern, will contact the appropriate authorities to visually inspect my hair situation upon my death. If anything is awry, my entire estate will be willed to the Aesthetician, Electrolysis, Laser Hair Removal Association of America. I will direct them to conduct weekly educational programs around the country discussing the options for hair removal. Please comment on your personal wants/desires when you die.

Ray + AC/DC= Love 4 Ever

Dec 2008: I wrote this after taking Benadryl, so if the tense is wrong- sorry. My husband love love loves heavy metal music. He is not an angry, black wearing, tattoo covered kind of guy. Just a regular person that likes heavy metal. He has always had a thing for AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne, some guitar player for Black Sabbath, Van Halen (I would not really put them in the heavy metal category, but who am I to judge?), and probably many other gravelly sounding bands. I used to listen to that type of music, back when I lived in Mason and that’s all I knew. I remember when I discovered AC/DC in about 1989. I know they were around much longer than that, but my family was into country music and I was in a private Christian school for 2 years. The only rock I heard when I was at the private school was Whitesnake that Rodney listened to. Needless to say I really loved AC/DC for a few years, too. But I did not know any better. In a small town, especially when I was in high school, we were not exposed to much of anything outside our city limits. Believe it or not, when I was in high school (only a mere 15 years ago), the internet had not gone mainstream. I really don’t remember anyone that even had a computer. The first time I remember touching one was in 1993 when we used it for word processing. I had no earthly idea the world that existed beyond my Word Perfect. So back to Ray, he has been obsessed with AC/DC for as long as I have known him. Recently, Ray’s work friends invited him to an AC/DC concert. Like every concert that Ray has ever attended, he always has certain rituals he must complete. He always wants to take his own car, so the rituals mainly focus around it. Months before the concert, Ray begins the “stereo enhancement” tasks. There always seems to be a new or improved stereo that gets installed in his vehicle within a few months of the concert. In my own car, I can have the same stereo for 10 years, but Ray has to have a new one for one reason or another about every 1.5 years. So, sometime in the summer, he installed another stereo. I am sure that I had to tell him how much better it sounded than the last one- even though I could not really tell the difference. Also this year, Ray had a friend help him build a speaker box for (what I think was) a subwoofer. Ray spent many days and nights carefully crafting this box that had the speaker on one side and storage on the other. What he keeps in that storage, I don’t know. Probably some eight tracks, bandanas to tie around his thighs, a tshirt with rolled up sleeves, some tapered leg pants, some Rave hairspray for his heavy metal hair wig, some spandex leopard print pants, and some kaepa tennis shoes. It was like Santa’s workshop in there- hammers hammering, drills drilling, dust dusting, and spray paint spraying. After the box was completed, Ray would frequently (as he did with all the other concerts recently) request that I take the kids to school or he would offer to run errands. I used to wonder why he did this, but it finally occurred to me one day that during those alone times, Ray could turn up his 1980’s headbanger music, roll down the windows, and relive his teen years---I mean test out his stereo. I could just picture him with his left arm resting on the open window, breathing in the fumes of I35. I could see his (upper arm) hair whipping in the wind, as if headbanging to Highway to Hell. I imagine him thumping and bassing along in his little red wagon- feeling totally awesome. I see him at a stop light looking at some cute chicks with his eyes squinted slightly, pursing his lips, jutting them out, and doing the head nod in time to the music. Once the girls notice him, he sticks out his tougue (like Kiss) and does the rock and roll salute to them. I imagine him in utter bliss feeling like the coolest (old) guy on the street. As with all concerts, within a couple of days of the concert, Ray’s next ritual is the “cleansing of the kids” from his car. All the Hot Wheels cars, board books, diapers, wipes, and cheerios are removed from the Rock Wagon. There is never to be any sign of children. He always works on the MP3 compilation CDs that, surprisingly, are all the songs ever done by the band they are going to see. This year, Ray worked tirelessly on his rituals, especially the speaker box. Oh how I longed for his attention and for his embrace during these times. I missed my sweet natured husband who selfishly devoted his time only to the box. I knew my time would come again, but I also knew that I could not hold him back in these endeavors. To keep him sane, I had to let him have his time. Now that he has kids, I know this time is even more important. I am happy to report that this year, he did not attempt to grow the greatest goatee ever. It is the first time EVER that he has not done this for a concert. I am sure it had something to do with my blog bashing his facial hair. I know I should support the hair, for it provides great material for me, but I can’t do it. But, what he did do this year, that made me chuckle was have a special concert shirt made. He took a cartoon picture of Angus Young and had a guy at this work draw it on a tshirt in Sharpie. The following website should take you to the pic. http://www.amazon.com/AC-DC-Angus-Young-Sticker/dp/B000SJMRVS/ref=pd_bbs_sr_8?ie=UTF8&s=automotive&qid=1229831744&sr=8-8 And oh yes, he wore it. He loved that shirt. It was very well done and I am sure he was the envy of all the other concert goers (probably 98 percent men). I love my husband. He is a real sweetheart and I am very lucky to have him. He cooks, he cleans, he cares for his kids, and he puts up with me. He is just a little crazy in the head (yes, like you Banning).

A note to those WITH children

March 19, 2009 I was with some funny chicks yesterday and one of the girls began to discuss how out of touch many parents were with reality when it came to their kids. She first asked me if I would be offended if she talked about it and, or course, I said no. I told her that I totally remembered what it was like without kids (ahh, sleeping in, drinking at all hours of the day, laying around on the couch watching Price is Right or an America's Next Top Model marathon ALL DAY without interruption!) and how I felt about those parents. Throughout the discussion, I realized that her complaints/concerns/suggestions should not be quietly discussed among those who have not experienced the joys of parenthood. I realized that they should not feel shamed into talking about us in private- their side of the story needs to be heard! So, all you Mamas and Daddies, listen up. I will write as if I am the one without children. First, and probably most importantly- your children aren't as cute as you think. Every little poop, word, gesture, and breath is not impressive to us. Unless you are related to me or live in the same house as me, I really don't care. When I finally get to go out with you after not seeing you for 8 months, don't talk about your kid(s). If you are "sooooo freakin' glad to be out," then don't talk about the kids! When you talk about them, you think about them, when you think abou them, you talk about them more. When you bring your kid to a restaurant, do not let them run around. They need to stay in their chairs. I should probably be concerned about them getting hot food spilled on them, but mainly I don't want the waiter to dump hot food on me after your rugrat tripped him! I mean, come on, I come to Golden Corral for a nice, relaxing buffet experience. Buffet. What can I say. Do NOT let your kid go through the buffet line and get their own food. How many times do I have to see them casually stick the chocolate pudding spoon into their mouths, then put it back in the container?? I am at the Corral (that's what we regulars call it. The senior citizens and I) at least 4 times a months and the pudding incident happens almost every time. And the screaming (kid). Yea, I understand it is going to happen at times, but there is a maximum time of about 15 seconds that the rest of the world can stand it. Just because you have learned to tune out that frequency of shrill, does not mean you should. Take the kids outside, feed them some cheerios and Goldfish, then come back when all is well. We will think your kid is much cuter when they come back and be quiet. Now, onto the Wal Mart crowd (sorry Wal Marters, I go there, but it really gives a good visual for the story). It is not acceptable for you to ever bring your child out in public with only a diaper on. Perhaps if a tornado came to your house and sucked up all the other clothes and you had to drive to Wal Mart to buy new clothes, your kid always needs to have clothes on. You know all of you have seen this scenario- you go to Wal Mart to buy more dog food and contact lens cleaner. The Mama is there in her too tight knit lime green pants. They clearly show her granny panty line and they are pulled up way to high over her waist. The tractor pull tshirt (again, just for the story, I like watching tractor pulls!) has seen it's better days. You can see her pale gut throught the cigarette burn on the front of the shirt. Her flip flops are the $1 type and her calloused heels are hanging off the sides. Her toes with chipped hot pink polish are extending past the end of the flip flop. She has her 4 kids all under the age of 3. Two in the basket, one tugging on her waistband (DON'T PULL TOO HARD KID!) and one in the seat. The one in the seat has only a diaper on that is bulging because it has been on for 7 hours. Mama is yelling at her in a thick East Texas drawl, "Topenga, yeww better git ta drankin' that straaawwwberry melk. Yew know yer doctor woonnts ya start drankin' more nutrishous stuff!" The baby is holding a splintery a popcicle stick, dripping with drool, and she has sticky grape popsicle juice from her chin to diaper. The two kids in the basket are playing tug of war with a toilet plunger and one clearly has untreated pink eye. I notice he rubs his eye, then touches the basket- leaving a little germy present for the rest us. The mama screams loudly every 20-47 seconds at the kids. She says "Wylene, yew better quet tuggin' own ma stretch paaaants. Yer pullin' that eeeelastic down onto ma boil! Now stop it bafooorr I woop yew right heeeerrrre!' I ain't like those faaaancy mamas thet'll put yew in time ooouuuttt! I will poooolllll that wooden spoon outa my purse so faaasstttt!!!" So in addition to always dressing your children, do not wear lime green stretch pants. It makes you yell at your children. I can imagine how upsetting those pants would make you as they cut off the circulation to your brain. So Mama's and Daddies, take all this to heart and when I have kids-- please support me. I will need it if that is how my life is gonna be.