Friday, June 22, 2012


Sometimes it’s a little difficult being the only female in the house.

The dog? She doesn’t really count. Sure, she has the cute factor going for her. But she’d turn traitor in a heartbeat for a peanut butter sandwich or a belly rub, so she’s hardly worthy for inclusion on Team Girl Power.

Which means I often find myself adrift in a world full of testosterone and armpit farts.


Yeah, me.


I’m not sure what was worse.

My husband’s trepidation of his upcoming dental visit. Or finding our insurance card for his appointment.

“Where is it?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

And I knew that he knew. Girl. Power.

I smirked, pointing to my bag over on the kitchen counter, and said, “It’s in my purse.”

Four words to put the fear of God into my husband.

Predictably, he shook his head vigorously and muttered, “Nuh-uh. Not going in there.” He reached over, grabbed the handles on the bag and dumped it unceremoniously in my lap.

I rolled my eyes.

Seriously. What is it with guys and purses and the absolute terror that grips their bodies at the very thought of going near one?

It’s like they think we’re hauling around radioactive waste.

Or - EGADS - feminine hygiene products.

(You really don’t get a lot of “egads” these days, but I digress.)

I opened the bag, pointed to my wallet and said, “There it is. Go fetch.”

He jerked back like he’d just realized my purse was nestled among a basket full of spitting cobras.

“Oh, you big baby!” I hollered and reached inside. I pulled out the card and flipped it in his direction. “I think you’d rather have a root canal before sticking a hand in my purse.”

“Darn right,” he answered before tearing out of the room.

Ugh. Men.

Can’t live with ‘em.

Can’t rule the world without ‘em.


“Mom,” our just-turned-7-year-old son quipped from the back seat of the car one day, “what was I wearing when I was born?”

Perplexed at the question, I looked across at my husband and silently mouthed, “What did he just say?”

His only answer was a slight shrug, which in sign language stood for, “I’ve absolutely no usual.”

I turned in my seat to look at my mother, who sat next to the royal heir, then at our son and answered, “You weren’t wearing anything.”

His eyes got THIS BIG and he screeched in horror, “What?! Are you telling me everyone saw my naked body?!”

OK. He didn’t actually used the words “naked body.”

Instead, he used a euphemism along the lines of something a squirrel stores up for the winter.

Which really makes this little story a lot funnier, but, you know, we don’t want to cross a line here.


Moving along....

By this time I notice the car has drifted, and the tires are making that “thrump, thrump,” sound as they tear over the rumble strip on the shoulder of the highway.

Because my husband is no longer in control of his faculties and has lost the ability to safely drive the vehicle.

Instead, he’s having a coronary, trying not to laugh out loud in reaction to his son’s words, if his shaking shoulders and red face are any indication.

And that wasn’t anything compared to my son’s grandmother’s reaction as she comprehended his use of the word, uh, “nuts.”

Trying to keep a straight face wasn’t an option here. I’d have better luck trying to hit a target on the moon with a Nerf gun.

Instead, I chuckled and assured our little guy, “Don’t worry, kiddo. Nobody looked.”

He nodded his acceptance and blissfully let the subject drop.

Bless his heart, he actually believed me.

He’s gonna grow up and make some wife very happy. Sure, he’ll be too scared to go near her purse.

But that’s OK. At least we won’t need to worry about a future career as a streaker. As a mom, sometimes that’s all you can ask for. 

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Bad Mom!

File this one under Bad Mom Department.

I accidentally used one of my son's bookmarks he made for me as a coaster the other night.

As you can tell, it's a little worse for wear.

He stumbled across it, held it up for my review and said in a very, very, very quiet voice, "Is this what you think of me?"

Oh. Dear. God. I shrunk in size and spirit like when the Wicked Witch got the water bath.

So I got a lesson in respect last night...and my son got a lesson in "Moms aren't always perfect."

Monday, June 11, 2012

Fortune 500

Stumbled across this during our trip to Hot Springs, Arkansas. And, no, he didn't wish to be big. 

Go figure.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

I wanna grow up to be a pirate

A vacation isn't a vacation without a cheesy photo.

My son.

The pirate.

Man, am I proud. And there's a good chance this will be our 2012 Christmas card.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Venerable Bead

Not every man walks in and sees his wife with her hand stuffed down the front of her shirt, rooting around in her bra like a raccoon foraging for food.

But then...not every man is married to me.

“What the hell are you doing?” my husband asked when he noticed what I was up to. But I could tell from his deer-in-the-headlights expression he really didn’t want to know the answer.

And, darnnit, I had a really good one this time.

I huffed, pulled my hand from my shirt and instructed, “Hold out your hand.”

He jumped back like I had zapped him with a Taser. Which, in all honesty, was a simple case of mistaken identity the last time.

Man, you’d think he’d let that one go.

Instead, he shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest and stuffed both hands under his armpits. “Nuh-uh, not this time,” he promised.

Rolling my eyes, I taunted, “Come on, you big baby. I won’t bite.”

Then I smiled. The Cheshire Cat had nothing on me.

Completely creeped out and just wishing to get this over with, he slowly slid out an arm and carefully put his hand, palm side up, into the air in front of me.

I reached over with the fist I’d taken from my shirt and gently opened my fingers.

Three tiny, yellow beads dropped into his hand.

He bent over and took a closer look. Then he glanced back at me and said, “I’m guessing there’s a story here.”

I nodded and asked, “Ever had a beaded necklace break on you?”

“Uh, no,” he answered. “I’m thinking if I had, you and I wouldn’t be married and having this conversation.”

I sighed and began my tale of woe.

My day started off innocently enough. I decided to wear one of my mom’s beaded costume necklaces. It was a funky accessory, and I felt like being funky that day.

Sue me.

Anyway, it was a very looooong necklace. With a ton of beads in all different shapes and sizes.

Some large.

Some small.

Some very, very, very small. And there were like a gazillion of those.

A detail that will become very important later in this story.

Due to the necklace’s length, I wrapped it around my neck a couple of times. You know, to be funky, and off I went to work.

All was well until a while later in the car when I noticed the necklace had shifted and felt a little tight around my neck.

Not wishing to find myself on the 6 o’clock news because I stupidly strangled myself and crashed the car in a blazing inferno (not that it doesn’t make for great video), I reached up and GENTLY pulled on the necklace.

I swear.

One gentle, little tug. And all hell broke loose. Literally.

Beads. Went. Everywhere.

Down my shirt and into my bra.

And then there were the few that rolled down my back and into the waistband of my pants.


So there I am. Driving down the highway at 70 mph.

Trying to pick beads outta my pants with one hand, beads outta my bra with the other then suddenly realizing I only have two hands and NEITHER IS ON THE STEERING WHEEL!

OK then. Plan B.

I decided to wait it out. Just 10 more minutes to work then I could park and safely clean up the chaos rolling around in my car and on my person.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

But then...those little beads? The really tiny, tiny, tiny ones I mentioned earlier?

They places the Lord only meant to be treated nicely.

I shifted uncomfortably, hoping to knock the little suckers loose but only succeeded in driving them further into nooks and crannies only my gynecologist has seen.

“It was awful,” I moaned and hung my head in shame. “And then - after I got out of the car - beads kept falling out of my clothes. And every time I stood up, beads fell out of my pants.” 
I looked at my husband and muttered, “You don’t want to know what happened when I went to the bathroom.”

He gaped at me in horror and replied, “You’re right. I do NOT want to know.”

And off he ran.