Thursday, September 30, 2010

If You Give a Toddler a Cookie. . .

He will need a place to sit, so you will get him a barstool. Once in a barstool, he will demand some chocolate milk. After he takes a sip he will decide he didn't want it. He will throw it on the ground. Because it had no lid, you will spend the next few minutes mopping up the milk mess on the floor. And counter. And walls. You will leave the ceiling for later. While you're mopping up the milk, he will climb down from the barstool and disappear. So will the cookies. You will go looking for him and find him covered in war paint. You will learn he likes the colors blue and green across his chest and orange on his nose. You will spend the next few minutes scavenging for the marker lids. And probably the rest of the markers too. Better put away the crayons as well just in case. When you place them back in the office desk, you will find his stash of cookies so you will have to wipe out the drawer. Once done you will find the boy playing calmly in his room playing with his cars. Wearing only war paint. He will probably see the diaper in your hand and bolt from the room yelling, "NO! Poopoo Potty!" He will climb on to the closed toilet and sit demanding that you not touch him because he is busy. You will casually walk to toward the sink like you just need to touch up your face. He will call your bluff and bolt from the room. You will have thought ahead and blocked his path. He will have to be wrestled down and have his wrists pinned to the ground with your hands and his feet pinned to the ground with your feet. You will have to put on his diaper with your knees. When he is done getting dressed he will want to watch Mickey Mouse. You will put him in front of the T.V. believing you have 15 seconds to visit the loo. Once you are out of sight, he will decide to take off his shoes. After he has his shoes off, he will need a place to stash them out of sight. He will probably decide to place them up high where Mom can't see them so he will find a barstool. He will push the barstool toward the counter and climb up putting himself directly in front of the microwave. He will think he has struck gold. He will stash his shoes and then realize they need to be warmed up. He will turn it on. You will come in and find him calmly watching cartoons with the microwave on. You will find his shoes and replace the barstool. Now that the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse song is on, he will want you to do the closing dance with him. He will tell you to sit back down because you butchered the goofy dance. He will finish it alone. When Mickey is all done, he will decide he is hungry so he will run to a barstool. You will probably decide on the one with the seatbelt. Once he's in his barstool-seatbelt, it will remind him of his milk.
And chances are, if you give a toddler some milk--

he will probably want a cookie to go with it.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Would You Like a Spoon With That?

My house is full of smoke.

"oh, is it dinnertime already?"

Yes, thank you for asking. I don't think I'm alone in this, but I may have just ruined our dinner. However, I may be alone in the fact that I ruined 2 dinners at once. That sounds bad. Letme rephrase: I killed two pre-dead animals with one stone. That's a little more cheerful, yes?

I've been doing this program called e-mealz. I signed up for it a few months ago because it took all the meal planning out of my day (or just gave me a meal plan since I can't remember the last time I scratched out a map for my weekly meals). I sign up for the service, they send me a weeks worth of meals, slap it onto a shopping list for me and "Viola!" done. In my case over-done. Hold that thought.

Today I felt like trying my domestic hat on. I do this every once in a while before remembering , "oh yeah. . . nope." I thought before cooking dinner I would quickly cook up some calzones for a weeks worth of lunches. I've made them for dinner several times. Easy shmeasy.

I heated up the oven, which already smelled of smoke since I guess there was some spilled food burning on the bottom of the oven. It was already heated, nothing I can do about it now, so I popped the calzones in, then started dinner. Because I was already smelling smoke, I didn't notice when my calzones switched from golden-delicious to coal-foot until the beeper went off.

Frustrated, I'm opening windows to let all the new smoke out.
I come back to making my meatloaf. I have never in my life made meatloaf because, generally, I'm of the opinion that meat should never be formed into a loaf, but I had my domestic hat on, it was on the list, and was feeling rebellious. It's "Mexican Meatloaf" so I added the salsa. All the salsa. One half too much salsa. The last half was supposed to be added at the end. My meat is not in a loaf. It's in a swamp.

Pete told me before we got married that he was an awesome cook. I thought we were set. Turns out he thought he was a chef because he could make a mean omelet. I don't like omelets.

I'm pretty sure my childrens dinner woes are his fault. Because, clearly, that's false advertising. At least when he married me he knew my main course was toasted o's with a serving of milk, spoon on the side.

Which is what dinner is tonight. I hope he's happy with himself.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The GR8 8 Sickaversary

It's a good thing we've been married for eight years. On your first few anniversaries there is an expectation to do something extravagant like expensive dinners, carriage rides, or big concerts. When you've been married for eight years, stretching out on separate couches while spending the evening comparing sickisms because one of you has the flu and the other has an ear/sinus infection is perfectly acceptable.
Yep that's right eight years. And such a bummer that we were sick so I didn't even notice that our anniversary was extra special this year because it was 8-9-10 so I didn't have time to convince Pete that he should get me an extra present. I know. He'll just have to make it up to me.
I feel like now that we've made it to 8 we are a "seasoned" couple. Not like those newlyweds. Although the butterflies are still there, after 8 years, you have passed the 7-year-itch and now it's just smooth sailing from here on out. (Right?)
I think it's fun to watch newlyweds though. They are still not quite sure how this marriage thing works, and the giddyness is tangible when you're in the same room. A few days ago my newly-married Bro-in-law was saying how he is such a sucker for his cute wife's puppy dog eyes and is willing to get up to get her a bowl of cereal even if she is the one standing in the kitchen and he is stretched out on the couch. He thought it was a little unfair that he didn't always have that same power over her. Me and Pete just looked at each other and laughed our seasoned marriage smile.
Ah, But they are young yet. Pretty soon, Jared will realize that it's a privilege to be able to wait on your wife hand and foot. Just give him time.

Like maybe 7 more years. Then it should stick.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Happy Campers!

My Mother may disown me after this post.

We spent Monday and Tuesday "camping" at Cherry Hill. It's probably the tamest variation on the word "camping" but the kids are in love and there are clean showers and bathrooms, so who's complaining here?
We were completely and thoroughly worn out by the end of day 1 since my kids have absolutely zero need to lay down and recharge their batteries, although we tried to trick them into it several times. After a full day of swimming they finally passed out at 10 p.m. and were little angelic creatures in happy camping heaven. But they are young. They will learn that there isn't really such thing.

Andrew and I climbed in the tent and lay down for a long summers slumber on our comfy cushy air mattress. We knew it was perfectly proportioned with air since the air cradled our limbs up high, but the trunk of our bodies sunk cozily into the rock earth. Perfect. We had only gone through two inconsolable toddler night terrors when the rain started.
That could have been soothing if we didn't feel it inside our tent just as if we were outside. Now we have all three kids awake and crying. Andrew jumps up off the air mattress which of course flops me flat on the ground and he flies out of the tent. In just his underwear of course. I'm whisper-shouting at the kids to take cover under their sleeping bags while their Dad is pantless outside yelling to his brother to help get the tarp on the tent.
His helpful older brother walks by and just pulls down Pete's drawers then continues walking. Let's hope there were no witnesses to that. So then I hear Andrew (re-drawered) flailing outside with the tarp shouting a few random "help!'s" out there for anyone else in the family. You might be wondering why I wasn't outside helping. Clearly I would have been, but the baby needed to be covered with a blanket so as not to get wet.
His bro Adam comes to the rescue and they get it secured within a few minutes. Andrew makes it back inside and falls back on the mattress teeter-tottering me slightly airborne. I laugh at my knight-in-shining-underarmor and tell him thanks. As we settle back into our sleeping bags we look up and notice the tarp is covering everything except for directly over our foreheads.
We spent the next few minutes silently enduring the slow drips above our eyebrows. Then we had a breakthrough:
"Andrew"
"Yep"
"I think I hate camping"
"You know what?"
"what?"
"I think I've always hated camping"

Then the mattress squeaked loudly while he tried to adjust to rolling over, sending me to a rock hard landing.

The relief is tangible. The thought of no more air mattresses and even less tents makes my heart happy. Just glad we found this out about ourselves now. Although there is a big stigma about non-campers. That they're wimpy. This is why it's been so hard for me to come to this conclusion for so long.

It's time to embrace my inner wimp. My name is Jodi, and I hate camping!

The End

Friday, July 16, 2010

Eggo Emergency

I was thinking about getting up this morning, but not really ready to face the already arguing kids in the kitchen when The Boy brought me the phone with dial tone blaring. I turned it off and went back to contemplating the ceiling.
A few minutes later the doorbell rings. I sent the girls to look out the window. Every couple of days my girls have one or another of their friends show up early to play. I assumed this was one of those times. Shea comes back to tell me that it looks like a police man at my door.

I am a little freaked out. Not because I thought it was a cop, but because I assumed she had been mistaken and it was just a man she didn't know. I answered the door and the nice cop asked if everything was okay at our house. ???? They had just received a 911 hang up and wanted to make sure everything was okay.

Ah, the wonderful twos. My happy Boy ran up to the door in just his diaper smiling and jumping. I assured the police man everything was fine and explained the dial tone/toddler incident.

The Boy seemed awfully proud of himself this morning. Lots of laughing and running around after that. There is only two explanations to his behavior. Either he grabbed the phone and completely randomly dialed the three worst numbers to crank call OR the insistence that he have his morning waffles NOW has just become more than an entire family emergency.

I want to believe it's the first, but having seen how crazy/happy he gets about his Eggo's I may be more inclined to think the second.

Either way, I've decided the best course of action is to send him to Grandma's house for a couple of weeks.

You're Welcome Grandma!!

Monday, July 12, 2010

No, He Didn't!






Oh, yes. Yes he did.





When my sweet little electric muffin said he was heading out to spruce up the garage, I was under the impression he meant tidy up and sweep.

It's great because ever since we moved in I've just been so bugged that we had absolutely no trace of ambiance in our garage. He sure took care of that. Hot spark is always looking out for my needs! : ) Now, whenever I pull in, my garage chandelier reminds me of black ties, sparkling apple cider, and garden toilets full of potted flowers. No better way to come home if you ask me.

Now I'm on the hunt for a matching porch couch, so if you get a whiff of any great deals, give me a call!

Friday, July 2, 2010

Magical Moments

Truly, if I were a smart woman, I would never take a shower. I will explain.

Picture this:

A two year old, running rampant while Mom takes a quick 5 minute shower. (okay it's 10 minutes, but seriously, a 5 minute shower? who really does that?).He seems so innocent and so quiet while me or any other adult is within sight; however, Mom steps out of the relaxing shower then into the kitchen where she finds a brand new roll of paper towels. They are still stuck together, but unraveled across the floor. Mom's a little peeved. Mom follows the trail around the kitchen island and over to the end which is a large wad of about 15 still attached towels. It's sort of different than what you find at the end of a rainbow. The trail end/wad is damp and soaking up a pool of abandoned clear liquid. A quick sniff test confirms it's just water (thank goodness), but this is more of a large towel (or possibly one small shammy) type of clean up. Mom see's a little brown eyed, possibly pantless, but diapered toddler walking up and smiling. He gives mom a big hug. Mom is about to really put her foot down to let this toddler know she won't put up with this type of behavior and dang it if he doesn't almost qualify for a time out. (almost because he is awfully cute).
Before Mom can get a word out, little toddler get's a big smile as he looks at his artistic towel expression and exclaims,

"Ta-Da!!!!"


Cute, right? I know. The problem is he knows. He knows that I can't do anything at that point. What do I say to that? And where does this end? I am afraid he is going to have plenty of more magical "tada" moments in the future. He can't just claim "tada" and make everything okay can he? Of course not. And that's what I told him.

Or am planning to tell him soon.

Or maybe will tell him next time

Or when he's like 13, or something.

Because he does have dimples. So. . . . . .

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Flat Iron Suprise

I was getting ready for a friends birthday dinner yesterday. I decided to try something new with my hair. I've seen lots of women do really cute curls in their hair with a flat iron--I've even done it on my kids so I thought it would be easy enough to do myself. Things were going well too until I saw the back and decided I did NOT want to be Shirley Temple today. I'm a little old for that.
No worries. I will just fluff them a bit to loosen them up.

I guess Shirley Temple Curls don't fluff. They frizz. Time was getting away. I was getting dangerously closer to the running late mark. I hate that.

No worries. I will just flat iron the frizz so it's flat.

I guess frizzies don't flat iron so they're flat. They just frizz flatter. I had two options. Hope nobody notices my frizz hair or call in some reinforcements.

I called my neighbor Teah. Her hair is always cute so I knew she could help. I hung up twice before getting up the courage to call her for real. Doing your own hair is just something women are supposed to know on their own, so admitting that the only reason your hair looks the same every single day is not because you love it that way, but instead because you don't have a clue what else to do with it takes you one notch down on the "Real Woman" ladder.

Ugh. I hate being one notch down on the real woman ladder. She came over though and fixed it much cuter than I have ever done myself. I was now past the I'm running late mark and I still needed to finish getting dressed. I headed my kids out to the car 20 minutes before I was supposed to suprise someone who was 40 minutes away.

I wasn't a very good suprise. Once in the car I told everyone to stay buckled while I unbuckled again to run inside to find my blasted keys. After 5 minutes of stomping around fruitlessly Madisen stopped listening and unbuckled because she said she could find them. I scolded her for taking up more time than was needed and she didn't listen. She just walked in looked around for about 30 seconds then found them in my closet.

I love when the kids don't listen.

I was late. Big suprise. I had to meet Hot Spark at the restaurant, who by the way, was there on time for the big suprise. I told him I thought it would be a good idea to try something new with my hair. He told me he thinks whenever I get a new idea I need to call him first and ask his opinion. I told him "but you never like my ideas." He just nodded and said "uh-huh" like I was missing something big. I sort of think that if a Man expects his woman to be on time that somehow he is violating the woman code.

And I hate violating the woman code.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Guy Code

Our ol' trusty van has apparently seen better days. We didn't pass safety inspections yesterday because our sway bar on the passenger side isn't working. Raise of hands of who even knows what a sway bar is?

I hope I'm not the only one. Pete says I violated the guy code. When Jiffy Lube man was listing the repairs we needed to bring our car up to par Pete was nodding his head like he understood everything, and probably even saw this news coming. So I turned to him and asked what the heck a sway bar is.

That's where I violated the code.

He didn't know what the heck a sway bar is either. He looked at me for a few minutes, then back at JiffyLube man before admitting he didn't know. So I asked JiffyLube man what it is. FYI it helps stabilize your car during strong winds. Hmm. Has that ever gone out on anyone elses car? I'm thinking they made that up. Anyway. Turns out you're not supposed to ask a question like that in front of another male. Pete claims I'm supposed to assume my "man" knows what that something is and that ""my Man" can take care of it.
I asked if it would have helped if I would have directed the question to JiffyLube man first so he could have answered it and Pete still could have looked cool (on top of being hot-handsome).
I guess that wouldn't have worked either. The guy code is strict. It was my job to look innocently at "My Man" maybe even with worshipping eyes while he nodded confidently at lowly JiffyLube man so that all the males in the waiting room could see that "My Man" was a M-A-N. (Puff up chest here).

Seems a little tarzan-ish to me. Also, seems a little harsh for the M-A-N who cried with me during "A Walk to Remember". But maybe this guy-code stuff is just way over my head?

Ice Cold Cuppa'

t all started about 3 weeks ago. Well really if you want to start at the beginning you could call it the day they put out the "boil order". Or maybe even farther back into my childhood. But for this story we will call it 3 weeks.

I got a craving for some ice. Seems semi normal right? It's been hot and when it's hot, ice is nice, right? I had Lovetricity stop at the gas station to get me a cuppa'. A cuppa' the little crunchy ice. You know the kind. Like sonic has. The tiny little pellets. Mmm it was good too.

Then I had him do it the next day.
And the next.

Pretty soon, I was leaving the house with all 3 kids to stop at the "Top Stop" for the dang ice. I was even making others stop there with me. Because I felt silly to stop regularly for just ice, I started buying the 44oz size cups filling it full of ice, then pouring in about a quarter full of Diet Coke. That way I could pay for a drink, but really, who needs Diet Coke when you have the cold crunch of frozen water pellets?

?????

I know. It had surpassed my addiction for diet coke. That was my first clue there was a problem. The final straw happened soon after. I stopped after my girls swimming lesson to pick up my usual. I filled my first 44oz with ice then a touch of DC. It wasn't enough for me. I thought about the long night ahead, and how many hours I would be without my precious ice, and I did it.

I double iced it.

A SECOND CUP!! OF ICE!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?????

I've always loved crunching ice, but never needed it. At least not like this. I've been trying to figure out my problem. Maybe I am a little dehydrated? Since the stupid water boil order happened down here I have seriously cut down on my water drinking. Not because it isn't safe to drink still (because it was lifted several weeks ago) but just because I'm afraid it has permanently grossed me out. So maybe that is all it is? I need to come up with a solid reason for this because Andrew doesn't think I'm dehydrated-- just crazy.

What say you?

No Ticket Please

A day in the life! Whoa, and it's been a doozy! You know those dreams where you're in a big fat hurry to get somewhere important, (in my dreams usually to do something fantastically noble like save 100 children from enormous crocodiles, of course) but your feet move slowly and every time you think you can get out the door some new obstacle comes your way and you have to take care of that before leaving?

That was today. Only not in dream life. For reals.

I would never dream of blabbering on for an hour about something (maybe) so I won't bore you with everything, but of all the obstacles to face on your way out the door gum in your daughters long hair has to be one of the worst. I know. But thank you miracle Goo Gone for being you and transforming a sticky scissory situation into a mere gooey hurdle. And thank you Misty for blogging about it a year ago or I never would have known it existed.

So I'm on my way to my destination approx 2hrs after when I should be there. I was just cresting the home stretch when I get pulled over by a dang cop.

Dang Cop: Did you know your reg. is overdue?
Me: ah. Yep.
Dang Cop: Also, you were probably going a little to fast.
Me. sigh* Yes.
Dang Cop: Were you in a hurry?
Me: Nope. I just came from further south where the speed limit was higher, and I was in a rhythm.
Dang Cop: Okay, just give me a sec

He walks back to the car to do cop like things. When he comes back:

Dang Cop: Do you know how to get out of a ticket?
Me: *eyes bright* uh. . . no?
Suddenly Dashing with Mysterious Handsome Eyes Cop: Don't lie--At least with me that always works. Most people try to tell me they didn't know their car wasn't registered, or they were speeding. I'm going to let you off with a warning this time. .
Me: Oh, thank you!!!

I Heart Cops : )

Boy was I happy the wardrobe gods planned for me to wear my cute pink shirt today!! I am too old to believe my looks in any way swayed his decision, but seriously the cute shirt coincidence is there, so think what you will. Everything was looking up Jodi!

I made it to said destination just 2 hrs and 15 minutes after appointed time! At least I made it. In superhero crocodile dreams I never end up making it. I just flop over and I end up awake on my lumpy bed sans hero medal. Nothing's more disappointing than swapping a medal for a drooly pillow.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

I'm Rubber

So we've started a budget. Dave Ramsey says it will make us rich. I now understand why so many people say budget is a four letter word.

1. F
2. U
3. N
4. !

Budgeting is super cool really rad stuff. Mostly I love seeing where all of my money goes. And goes. And goes. It's a slippery little paper. It's hard to hang on to when I see really cool stuff that I need. It's kinda like I'm rubber and cool stuff is glue, and the money bounces right off of me and sticks to the cool stuff. I can't help it. I like things. Being on a budget is kinda like when you go to the dentist and your mouth is numb, so you have to suck your dinner up through a straw. Nothin' get's through.
Not even the cute panels I need for my window. Not even my new couch. Not even Hawaii. Hawaii doesn't fit through a straw.
You know what Hot Spark thinks we should do with our money?

BANK IT!!

I know!! Ludicrous!!


But I didn't marry him for his brains people, just his cute butt. We've been on a "fun!" now for like 5 weeks. I figure we should be at our half-way point for richness. If I'm not rich in the next 5 weeks it may get crazy over here.

To speed up the process I'm starting a Get Me Rich Quick Fund. If you would like to donate just contact me and I will come by to pick up my check. If you donate, you get to be in a raffle for who gets to choose the location of my first of many vacation homes. I will even autograph a post card from said location once we're there.

Don't say I never gave you anything!

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Does YOUR Car Have a Power Box?

Sometimes my keys get away from me. It's very frustrating. They're like a pet that I have to take care of and watch constantly or they will wander away. Like I need anything more to take care of. I do have 3 kids, a hubs, a stinky dog, and my ego to take care of after all.
This morning I was in a rush to get Shea to her dance class. She has a concert coming up so it's crucial she is there on time. Guess what? I was ready to leave on time!! Point for me! You should see the delicious early morning scramble I have perfected and we're not even talking eggs here. I can actually brush my teeth, blow dry my hair, and get the boy dressed at the same time--true story. So we are all headed out to the car and I have my arms full of things for our after dance play date I've set up with several other Mom's. A few minutes later, we were still standing around the car, peering in at my cute little purse, holding my sly little keys, behind the silly little locked door.
"But, I was on time!" ( I may or may not have dropped the playdate things and stomped my foot like a 3 year old, but it's mighty depressing when you make such a herculean effort only to be thwarted by your devious keys).
Being thwarted makes me grumpy. My kids watched my face turn to a bright red while I held my breath so I wouldn't say bad words. They sort of backed away hoping to slink out of sight before mom went off. I was good. I only sad bad words under my breath.
I went door to door asking my neighbors if they happened to have the stick thingy that people use to break into car doors. It's good that it's daylight, and I wear Mom jeans or that could have seemed really suspicious coming from the new lady in town. My cute neighbor Brenda suggested calling the police because they have nothing else to do out here, and apparently her keys run away too so she's had to call them before herself. The convo went something like this
"Dispatch"
"Yes, I was hoping to have someone come and help me unlock my car doors, my keys are locked inside"
"Does your van have a power box?"
"Uh, no, I don't think so, I don't know what that is. . . so no"
"Do you have a button to push that unlocks the whole car?"
"Oh, like my keyless thingy?"
"Um. . . no. Okay, when you open your door, is there like a little button you push that unlocks every door in the van, or do you have to manually unlock each door separately?"
oh, the lady said "power locks." not power box. I just made the poor dispatch girl explain what power locks are to the idiot woman who locked her keys in the car.
"oh, yep. I have that : )"
And she sent an officer on his way to my house. While he was on his way I remembered I had gone to the park the day before and "oh wait? did I put my keys in the stroller?" sure did, so they were right there in the stroller, in the garage, outside the silly locked car. I quick called dispatch back, but I couldn't admit I found my keys outside the car so I just said "we were able to get the door open, so no need for him to come out." We meaning, me and my keyless thingy activated the power box.
After re-corraling the kids I was able to make it to Shea's dance only 45 minutes late to her hour long class. So much for getting ready on time!

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Joe Schmoe Stalker Mosquito

So, I am all happy about summer arriving and all that, but ever since the sun started shining on my house we have been stalked by an overgrown mosquito. Don't get me wrong, I like bugs just as much as the next woman, but this guy is enormous. Kinda like the size of my head, and then maybe even a little larger. I don't like him by my back door, I've told him this, but that's just the way stalker bugs are. They truly don't care about my feelings.
Every time I open my back door at night giant stalker mosquito does his best to flap his eagle wings and get right in my face. Last week, he ended up in the house. What he didn't realize is that I have a secret weapon. . . Madisen is excellent at "shooing" bugs the door. He's getting trickier though. Today it's afternoon time. That's like 7 hours before we even turn on his favorite porch light. That's why I didn't see it coming. I stepped outside without a thought and BAM! Right on my ear. He had me. I could hear him buzzing his "ha-ha's" into my ear canal. It didn't last long though. I couldn't squish this guy, not unless I wanted his gooey bug juice globbering down my face. Thankfully I have been blessed with girly reflexes and my jerky-squeal-wiggle was enough to get him to buzz off--onto my pants. This time it took a little more of the jerk, a little less wiggle, and a mad dash to the house before I lost him. I don't know what to do about this guy. It's obvious one of us has to go, and we haven't even lived in our house a year yet so I think we would lose money if we sold. So that means it has got to be him. If you've ever seen Monty Python, you would say, "obviously Jodi, a machete is the best tool for the job". But this isn't your average Joe-shmoe-mosquito.

The problem is, I haven't been able to find a bazooka on clearance.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Pan Calling the Hot Pad Black

If you were standing in your kitchen facing your oven, approximately how long would it take you to figure out that it's on fire? One second? Two and a half seconds? False. I figured this out yesterday. According to my calculations, if standing in your kitchen, facing your oven, and witnessing smoke billowing from the cooktop it would take 31.4 full seconds to comprehend "uh-oh" and then 2 more seconds before "For crying out loud WOMAN! Take burning pot off the stove before you burn the house down!!" actually registers. Maybe I should back up a bit and really get into the story:
So THERE I WAS: boiling a pot of pasta. When it was done I took it off of the burner and placed it on the burner next to me. I pulled the glass pan of chicken out of the oven and placed the pan on top of a hot pad directly on top of the hot burner. I know, I know. In my defense, it IS a glasstop so there were no obvious visual reminders and I am a reminder kind of personality.
I close the oven and stir the pasta one more time before emptying the water. A smoky smell reaches my cute little nostrils and I realize I've burned the dang chicken. Grr. Wait, the chicken is smoking. . . man, I really burned the chicken! Hmmm, why is the smoke getting worse, I guess I should pull off the aluminum foil and see how bad it's burnt. That's strange. It's not burnt. Then where is all this smoke coming fro-. . . . . . . . . . . . . ."uh-oh". . . . . . . . . . . . "For crying out loud WOMAN! Get the burnin' pot off the stove before you burn the house down!!"
The pot was not on fire, thankfully so I pushed it to the side onto a cool burner. The hot pad (poor thing) was completely black and smoking chimney's. I hate smoke smell in my house so I quick decide to toss it out in the fresh air on the deck. Turns out our sad little pad was, in fact, on fire. Oopsie! What, am I in the market for a new kitchen AND a new deck? So I have to pick it back up, run back inside, and drop it in the sink with some water. My neighbors must have love that: the crazy new lady next door tossing a smoking pad out onto the deck-pausing- then squealing and picking it back up to run back inside with it. Nice.
Madisen walks in, "Mom, are you roasting marshmallows for dinner?" Nope sweetie, just toasting my kitchen fabrics a bit.
Guess what? The pad was not the only casualty. My pan didn't make it either. But on the bright side the chicken DID make it so we were able to have it for dinner. It's unfortunate though, that after all that the dinner was just barely edible. It seems if I'm going to accidentally burn down my kitchen and then rescue it with superhuman zip-speed & precision I should at least be rewarded with a great tasting hunger satisfying meal.

I'll remember that for next time.
Sad little pad now awaiting a final burning in a more appropriate setting

Dead dish.^

Monday, May 24, 2010

Sick for Chocolate

Boys don't do sick well. Okay not that any of us do, but I must say my little guy is awfully pathetic when he is taken over with a fever. But I tell him to buck-up since he IS almost 30 and all : )
No, really, I'm talking about poor little Jack-boy. One little fever and he's in constant need of cuddles. Not that I mind since I am a cuddle kind of woman, but for a little one that is supposed to grow up into a big strong man, well . . . .
The sad thing is, is that when they are this little and sick they can't tell you what is wrong so you don't know how to fix it. It's much better when they are old like maybe 27 and you know that the reason they are feeling so irritable, irrational, dizzy, snappy, fevered, angry, and a little bit nauseated is because they need some chocolate gosh dang it, so you should probably get them some NOW! Thankfully, my husband never has to bring me chocolate because I am rarely irritable and always even tempered. Even when I am texting him the exact isle he needs to walk down to find the cocoa-meds if he wants to even think about crossing the threshold to our serenly peaceful abode. During times like these I usually have to give him directions to find me:
Come through the door, ignore the chorus of "Moms!", jump over the unidentified sticky spot, duck under the monkey in the kitchen, wade through the laundry/lego/barbie trail, hang a right at the stinky-pants munchkin, and you will find me inside the closet, curled up behind the clothing rack in a very, very calm state.

This, my friends, is why chocolate exists. Oh, and the reason Husbands are so wonderful too. Not only because they bring you chocolate, but because they keep your hiding place secret while they battle the pint-size hoodlums solo, leaving you to partake of your melty-sweet life saving sugar rush in peace.

Now, if we could just find a remedy for the after-chocolate guilt. . . is there such a thing?

I Want One !!

When you were a kid didn't you ever wish that you were a hamster?
I know, huh?
But your Mom would never buy you a giant ball that you could roll around the yard in. That's the problem with Mom's--they never think about how they are traumatizing us when they make the decisions to not buy us necessary toys youth experiences.
Thankfully, my kids will get to fulfill my lifelong dream of rodent rolling/running. Because I found this:



Okay, I guess first I need to decide if $60 is too expensive for an inflatable toy. . . but I now know how to buy my kids off if ever needed :)

Monday, May 10, 2010

Dear Nose,

I'm sorry I take you for granted. I do appreciate the gooey reminder I've received. It's hard to ignore you when it suddenly feels like you have grown to take over my entire face. However with the scattering of gunk filled toilet paper tissue wads blanketing every flat surface of our home it's been impossibly hard to find the original source of the roll. Paper towels just don't have the pillowed softness of Charmin.
The gallon of O.J. I drank this morning was a relief thankfully, but I would ask that we can resolve this issue quickly so my Gourmet Mother's day cupcakes will stop tasting like foot when they look so gosh darn pretty. Again, please accept my apologies. I promise to pamper you with exfoliating masks, and never again say, "I would be a lot thinner if I didn't have taste buds".
(I thought you understood it was just a woman's bull-corn way to ensure she didn't enjoy sugared fatty snacks to the fullest).

Faithfully, Wishfully, and Worshiply Yours,

Jodi

P.S. Please be on the lookout for the rest of my head. It swam away yesterday and I have yet to find it.

Mother's Day the Right Way

There's no better way to spend the weekend of Mother's day than by having my mom help me teach my girl's how to do girl's day out the right way--



By fourwheeling and Geocaching of course!



That miniature object in Madisen's hand was one of the cache's we found! I have an amazing eye for this, I tell you what! She found the ginormous gaudy ring on her finger in another cache.


My girls are darn precious. I like to use them to offset my helmet hair and squinty-into-the-sun eyes. They are great camouflage.


These views are why I moved down here ^^

I'm so glad they are getting older and loving hiking. . . it's going to be an awesome summer!

Saturday, May 8, 2010

If Mother's Were Boats

If mother's were boats:

They would fill up quickly with weighty obligations like, feeding, cleaning, wiping, laughing, growling, chauffeuring, homeworking, calm down count-to-ten-ing, shopping, kissing, searching, sighing, running, playing, and loving. At the end of the day the boat would be tipping and a silly innocent observation like "You've been sporting a mini butter handprint on your butt all night" could puncture a hole and the whole darn ship would go down.

That's why Mother's are not boats.

If mother's were airplanes, we would never survive. After all everyone knows that airplanes need two arms to function and no mother of young children I know has ever seen her two arms working together to accomplish one task since the birth of her first child. So alas, the one wing holding up the plane (or child), would be deserted by the other wing that is busy cleaning, wiping, calling, or weeding. The whole plane would quickly tip off balance and spiral down into a wicked crash.

That's why Mother's aren't airplanes

Mother's aren't doilies because doilies don't function right with a snag.
Mother's aren't sandpaper because they need to be soft.
Mother's aren't flower's because flowers are fairweather friends.

Mother's are capable of being split in two accomplishing several things at once and never skipping a beat. They can get their hands dirty sifting through the junk and still have a smile for their children. They are masters of wiggling any situation to ensure the end result can turn out right for their little ones. If it's muddy, wet, cold, or slimy, we've been there supporting our children's new found interests.

That's why Mother's are Worms.

At the end of the day, all that dirt doesn't really matter when we are sought out and wrapped up in the hands of little children.

Have a Wiggly Mother's Day!

Monday, May 3, 2010

Rag Rug Road


I may have been working a little too much. When I got up to take a break from writing I realized my entire house had changed. I felt a little like Dorothy as I stood up and realized I needed to follow the Rag Rug Road out of the kitchen

Into the living room



and skipping down the hallway
and around the corner

and found this waiting for me at the end

"It's a rug party Mom! And you're invited!"

Because I honestly can't remember the last time I was invited to a rug party I was ecstatic to receive the invite to this exclusive event. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to attend a rug party, let me give you a little tip.

You do not jump across the rugs like a road as I embarrassingly thought. The key to a rug party is the approach you take to sitting on the rug. The member only code for this sitting position is "criss-cross-applesauce". You gotta be quick otherwise once you have perfected this position the party is over and you are left alone on your rug, abandoned for a group of barbies who are in sudden need of a new hair style.

Don't make the same foolish mistakes I did.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Six A Stupid-M.

My brain feels really squishy, kinda like mush mud pie and my eyes are filled with a globbery goo.

6:00 a.m. is a fine time, really-- if you're an owl maybe or an insomniac

for me though, before the clock hits seven oh oh, I sorta just wanna shoot the owl and throw a mud pie at the insomniac. Or maybe Pete.

Good thing he was gone when I got up this morning.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Bountiful Baskets

Have you heard of Bountiful Baskets? It's a food co-op run by volunteers so you have to order a few days in advance, but you can get rock bottom prices on produce. I'm talking about .50 cents a pound! The catch is, you don't know exactly what you're getting until you get there. That wasn't a problem today!









I received apples, bananas, blackberries, a pineapple, tomatoes, red potatoes, spinach, celery, baby carrots, swiss chard, and a cantelope. Not a single thing our family wouldn't eat and it's about 30 lbs of fruit and veggies for $15 bucks! Not too bad I'd say! They also have add on's such as mexi veggies, tortillas, and whole grain breads and Peanut butter. I purchased 5 loaves of their 9 grain bread for $10. Not a huge savings if you're looking for cheap bread, but if you love the healthy expensive stuff like this then I saved between $5-8 dollars. Now all I need is a few days worth of meat to barbecue and my groceries are set. I love easy food!

Bountifulbaskets.org

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

"Oh, Hail"

Just when you start settling in for a good rain storm watching, all hail breaks loose.

3 minutes this storm a'brewed, and this is what it left me:




I love watching rainstorms. But I really, really hate hail. Mostly I just hate when my kids cry because its so stinkin' loud, they can't nap, and especially when it leaves creepy clown smiles on my window. I hate that.




Does this not say creepy clown smile to you? ^^^^^^^
It must be intentional because although it isn't a good shot, if you'll notice the window pane next to this one is completely free and clear of any ice, but this one is ice covered except for this mad-happy contortion.

April Creepy Fools everyone! Mwahahaha

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Nope. Not In the Loop

When I was younger my dad absolutely REFUSED to do any sort of errands that weren't "in the loop"
That meant he would plan out a route to do our Saturday or Christmas shopping by driving in a counter or clockwise motion until we had stopped everywhere we needed to. If something was outside of this "loop" it would not be done. If we realized we had forgotten something at a store we had stopped at before, it would not be shopped for. That was it. No second chances.

I grew up very anti "loop". It's very limiting. No woman decides she wants to buy something without checking out at least two other stores first. It's flat out against the woman code. There was nothing more frustrating than knowing that although a store was less than two minutes away, because it was a little too much to the left, I would have to get him to drive me to that store on another day.

Sometimes you are given things you don't want. Such as underwear on Christmas morning. Or a box of used knives for your wedding, or maybe shots at the doctor. Or crazy genes from your Pop.

Confession:

Now that I drive, I HATE left turns. Hate them. When living in Salt Lake, I would do just about anything to get out of a left turn. Even, yes. . . . loop. I know, ridiculous ain't it? But drivers of cars are crazy, and there's lots of them, cars I mean, and they are going both directions, and who really wants to be bothered with looking both left and right before cautiously creeping onto a street? No one, that's who. Especially when it is just as effective, albeit slightly more time consuming, to drive around the block and avoid the left hand turn.

Where I live now is nice. Left hand turns are less crazy. Mostly you just need to watch out for skunks and antelope. They hang around the left and the right sides so, I'm warming a bit to the the thought of going left. It's not like I'm prejudiced about turning left, it's more of an affection for all things right.

I can't help who I am. Genes are genes, loop or not. Grass is greener on the right side of the fence. Just look at my neighbor's house.

Okay I'm babbling now, but I suppose what I'm looking for is a little "I despise left hand turns too Jodi, you're not crazy. . . it's completely normal." Or even, "I don't do loops, but every fourteenth step, I have an urge to hop" or something like that.

Some little words like those would be very welcome.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Jocabulary

I'm writing a book. It's called Jocabulary. I feel it's necessary since I just came up with another brilliant quote, and I feel if this is going to be happening regularly, I better get my copywrites into a book early so no one can steal my stuff.
I was talking to Andrew last night and we were reminiscing and throwing out a lot of "coulda, woulda, shoulda's" . (I think that one is already taken). I finally got fed up with it and demanded:

"You know what?! All of that could have happened and it didn't. Sometimes you just gotta eat what's in front of ya."

It just came out. I didn't even pre-think it or anything.

"You know Andrew, It could have been a cheesecake, but it's just green beans. You have to eat it anyway."

Dead. On.


Sometimes you just gotta eat what's in front of ya
--Jodi Burnett

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

It Isn't Easy Growing Up Green

Me: Shea you are growing up so big!

Shea: Nooo! I don't want to get big!!

Me: Why not?

Shea: Because I don't want to turn green!!

Slightly offended, I started to explain to her that although when I growed up I did lose a lot of my olive complexion and start to turn more of a pasty white/blotchy lavendar color, I was certainly not green. And there's nothing wrong with purple blotches, she likes polka dots doesn't she? There's nothing to be afraid of because I turned out alright didn't I?

She cocked her head to the side, not seeming fully convinced.

Shea: Because when I grow up, a meteorite hits and then turns me green and then I grow up really really tall

Ah, yes. Monsters vs. Aliens. Such a classic. Susan gets hit by a meteorite on her wedding day, turns green, then grows into a not so scary giant. If you don't allow your children the privilege of wasting away in front of the tube and it seems to you that this is obviously a case of too much t.v. for my child, think of this:

Does your four-year old know the word meteorite?

I didn't think so. But more importantly:

Does your four-year old know that when they are hit with a meteorite, they turn green, then grow up into not so scary giants?

That's what I thought.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Blueberry Swamp


Shea is terrified of Shrek. She is afraid of his "green body" so when she sees him on the T.V. she covers her ears and closes her eyes, and gives off this high pitched siren/raptor squeal-scream. It pierces the ear, but is extremely effective since Shrek is swiftly removed whenever the blood curdling banshee sound is released.

Imagine my suprise when the scream normally reserved for Shrek was heard this morning after her seeing the special saturday homemade breakfast I made for her.






(Clearly these are blueberry muffins)

Wooowee kids! We are havin' ourselves a breakfast this mornin'!! Bring out yur spoons, and dig in!!

I think the scream was a bit of an overreaction. The extra burnt sunken in tops just add a fun swamp like twist to breakfast, and they only sort of tasted like fish. Nothing like Shrek. So I told her, if she acts so unappreciative, Mommy's not going make these nice homemade breakfasts from scratch anymore, and then she'll just have to stick to cold cereal.

That will teach her.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Life is Like the Spinny Thingy

I was vacuuming out my car today. Productive, I know. I had the little hand tool attachment out and was on my way to a clean car when I came across some jelly beans on a seat. What's this? My kids know better than to eat candy in the car! They would never ever do that!! Okay, maybe they did. The point is, there was a jelly bean. When using the vacuum hand tool, with the little swivel spinny thingy, everyone knows you shouldn't vacuum up anything larger than a crumb because it will either get stuck and slow down the spin or just fly right back out.

Today I was lazy working very quickly and didn't want to shut off the vacuum, and disengage the hand tool, just to vacuum up the few jelly beans. I also found the garbage can to be too far away to adequately throw them away without completely screwing up my awesome cleaning groove. If you saw my awesome swiping motion with vacuum, you would completely agree with me: not a crumb left.

Anyway, you're leading me away from my point. I decided to seize the moment and vacuum up those suckers knowing full well the risks involved could cause me more time later (I'm such a rebel). You know what?! The spinny thingy got stuck. Made a horrid noise too.

With the vacuum still on full power, I flipped the spinny tool around so I could assess the situation, and make sure nothing was broken. Since the spinner was completely stopped, I carefully lifted it closer to my eyes to peek in. Wouldn't you know it?

The spinny thingy suddenly came full speed ahead and the pesky jelly bean flew straight out and whacked me right in the eye.

That's when it hit me. Both the jellybean and the life changing metaphor:

Life is like the Spinny Thingy.

It goes crazy fast and if you don't take time to slow down and take care of the little things, they may just come back and try to poke out your eye.

Now if I can just copywrite my brilliance so that whenever I see the quote splashed around the internet it can read:

Life is like the Spinny Thingy.

It goes crazy fast and if you don't take time to slow down and take care of the little things, they may just come back and try to poke out your eye.
--Jodi Burnett

I think a byline makes me look so sophisticated. Yes?

Monday, April 5, 2010

A Lecture, a Lesson, and a Tulip

When cooking dinner, I get a lot of "ew, I don't like that Mom!" or "I don't want that!" and sometimes just plain "NOoooo's!" from my kids. Young picky eater's combined with my complete cluelessness with a spatula means I probably hear it more often than most. Today though, I HAD HAD IT! My girl's had been playing with friends for almost three hours, close to one hour longer than was allowed. I finally call over to my neighbor's house and am told they are on their way. I try not to be too hard on them when they are late, after all, they can't even tell time, but they are supposed to at least remember to ask their friends' mom's if they will tell them when it's time to go home. Madisen told me she forgot (convenient aye?), and I give a quick not-quite-lecture about the importance of coming home on time. When they follow me into the kitchen and see I'm cooking dinner, automatically the "I don't want's" and "ew's" come out in full swing.

"Out of My Kitchen!!" I demand. Sometimes it just gets that way right? A mother hen should feel appreciated by her little chicks every once in a while gosh darn it and today they better get ready to appreciate!!

Madisen start's out with a "but Mom, I "
"Nope, out"
"Mom, but I just"
"Nope, you were late, I just spent an hour cooking for you so you wouldn't be hungry, and I am not going to hear it tonight!"
the whine starts---> "No, but, Mom, just, I"
"No, I'm tired of this, you should learn to just say thank you for dinner, and eat it and I'm not going to put up with it tonight, so GET IN YOUR ROOM NOW!!"
tears rolling---> "but Mom (sob) I made this for you (sob) so you would be happy!!"

Do you ever get that feeling like you've been punched in the gut? I look at her hands holding out a little Popsicle stick with a blue construction paper flower and some random thread taped around it with "Mom" written in crayon. Ouch.

She was already running crying to her room when I recovered from the mom-shame. My daughter is forgiving. Thankfully. After a more gentle lecture than originally intended both Madisen and Shea came out to dinner a few minutes later officially humbled.

But not more than me.

Ah, that little one. This must be why the Lord sent me such a loving forgiving child. He knew I would need it when my temper and quick words get the best of me. I taped her flower to the computer monitor in a feeble attempt to make her see I appreciate it. After all, it is pretty darn sweet even if it did come with a hard lesson. Aren't little kid gifts the best?

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Quirky Food Fights

My kids are quirky. It's quite possibly Andrew's fault. They have issues with what they will allow themselves to eat. Pete still does not allow his foods to touch each other on his plate. Maybe he's afraid they will fight. Either way I've decided my next two examples are obviously directly descended from Andrew's blood pool.

I served the boy pizza tonight for dinner. He kept picking up his piece and then dropping it and crying. It almost looked like he didn't like the thought of his hands getting messy in the sauce. He was so frustrated I decided I would help him out by lifting the pizza to his mouth for him. Still he would cry and push it away. Dumfounded, I turn to Pete for help and he looks at me as if I'm missing something big here. He takes the pizza, flips it upside down so the sauce is out of view, and the boy picks it up and happily munches away. "He always eats it upside down, you didn't know that?"

Nope. I'm the idiot.

This next example happened last week in the car, and thankfully you all know I'm not one to pick on Pete or I might tell you, that again , this directly reflects Father parenting. I would never tell you that.

Madisen to Shea:

Q:Why are you're toenails all short and gone away?

A: Oh, because I eated them.

Don't you find it odd that one of my children will happily munch on something he found stuck to the bottom of his shoe and not bat an eye, but cannot stand to place pizza in his mouth unless placed precisely in the right way?

Don't you also find it odd that another one of my children refuses to eat ice cream, but has found a way to become self sufficient by eating parts of her body? I would never point fingers, but for the record, I am decidedly weird-food-quirk free, where Pete is afraid of a battle against lasagna and a cucumber. Just sayin'

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Plunger Promenade

There are some purchases that just shouldn't be made on their own. Sometimes it's necessary to pull random things off the isle and onto the cashier belt in order to cushion your embarrassment. Last night, I didn't feel like cushioning anything. I had no shame. The day was awful, one of those Jodi and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day days. I kicked it off bright and early breaking my dishwasher disposal by bombarding it with leftover stinky potato peels. Turns out disposals don't like spud peels anymore than I do. I call my husband and he asks me to stop at the store to grab a cheap plunger to suck the peels out of the sink. Because I’m miserable with allergies today my eyes were bloodshot and swollen and my nose was full of mucus (stupid pollen), I decided to swallow my pride and buy the darn plunger sans any random item cushion. Let the cashier think what she will. I scoured the store for any sign of a plunger. I didn't dare ask for help; wandering the isles alone with a clearly-sick face and asking for a plunger wasn't really my cup o’ tea. Strangely enough I found them next to the kitchen cleaners in the far back corner of the store. Hmm. With plunger in hand, I wonder how I'm going to make it to the checkout this way without running into someone I know because this is one of the worst possible and therefore most likely times I would. I avoid the isles and skirt through the baby diaper and swimsuit section; head low, object behind back. I appear to examine a tankini while the last person in line finishes up. When I rush forward and place the plunger on the belt, I find I don't know what to do with my hands. I can imagine what she's thinking, so how do I act casual? How do I stop my face from turning so red and for crying out loud, how do I get her to hurry the heck up?! After she rings me up for the $3 vexation, she has the audacity to ask me if I need a bag! Of course! I'm not trudging the rest of the way out to my car exposed like this! I hastily grab the sack and turn to leave. I pass the next check-out over, and see someone who curiously resembles me, awkward stance and all. I pass slowly and peek over at her single item purchase: Pregnancy test-no other items. Our eyes meet after she spots my plunger handle. I give her the courtesy look-away, and keep moving-- cowardly deciding to never again go the brave single purchase route- no cushion.






Monday, March 8, 2010

CSI: Jodi Robs Walmart Checker

It's good that we are all such close friends around here. This way I feel like I can spill my deep dark secrets. Like the fact that by day I participate in thievery. Hold that thought.

It's no wonder I despise grocery shopping. I never make it all the way through without incident. Today was a relatively short shopping trip, I had a list and everything. At about the half hour mark, the poor boy had fallen asleep in the cart seat. We had no jackets with us to cushion his poor little head (darn this warm weather), so in order to lessen the times his forehead clonked on the cart handle, we decided to skeedadle to the checkout.
Now, recently Andrew and I have come across Dave Ramsey and his book "Total Money Makeover". We've been following his wickedly simple advice, which in part involves using envelopes for expenditures like groceries. So on my way out today, I grabbed the little "grocery envelope". In order to head off a tantrum storm, I allowed my kids to talk me into an extra box of plain pasta (apparently the thought of anything but elbow macaroni was just unbearable to Shea). Plain pasta can't hurt, right? It's a dollar a box, Jack's ready to clunk his noggin again, let's avoid the whine/mom explanation/fit fest, grab another box and just get the heck out of here.
So at the check out, get this: I'm $0.73 cents short. Are you kidding me? I do a quick inner debate to decide whether I should use the debit card, or just put something back. Trying to stick to the budget, I grab the macaroni, and ask her to take it off.
The young checker smiles sweetly and refuses, stating she'll just give me a dollar. I try to quickly explain (the line is piling up behind me) that, no in that case I'll just use my card, after all, I have the money, I just didn't want to bother with the debit card when I was so close. To my horror, she pulls one straight from her own pocket, takes my cash, and rings it up.
Here was my dilemma: She looked so happy to be helping me out, that I just didn't have the heart to argue with her. However, I had the money and didn't like the idea that she pulled one from her own pocket when I really didn't need the tantrum avoiding pasta. And the part I'm most unhappy to admit, is that my pride was hurt more than anything. I was so embarrassed knowing everyone in line thought I couldn't pay for my food.
The whole drive home I felt horrible. What if she needed that dollar for her lunch break? Did the fact that I have no backbone mean I just robbed the poor checkout girl?

I've learned a few things from this experience:

If I'm using cash at the store, bring a calculator for crying out loud

There are wonderfully kind people in this world

Always carry coats for the boy to crash on if necessary, and

Pasta is evil.

So, did I just commit robbery? What would you have done?

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

There Once Was a Daddy Who Lived In a Shoe

One time, when I was five years old, I was getting ready for school. I was trying to put on my shoe, but it wasn't fitting. It felt like a sock or something was shoved against the toe. I got my dad to help me, and he couldn't get it on either, which was weird since the matching shoe fit fine. He pulled my foot out and out crawled a ginormous daddy-long-leg.

Creepy eh? Daddy long-legs are huge anyway, but to a five year old ack! He was big enough that I did not squish him when shoving my foot against his body. The creepy bugger held his own.

Yesterday I was putting on one of my shoes and I felt something suspicious when I put my foot in. I jerked it back out and threw the shoe on the ground. Upon close (hesitant) inspection, I found the shoe to be free of any creepies.

I still couldn't put it on for an hour.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Soggy Scone Bandit



The Setup:
A young, vibrant, intelligent, brunette, multi-tasking (yay, mom plug!) mother was readying herself for the shower when the phone rang. Leaving the water running, she steps out of the room to answer it.

The Crime:
Mother notices the pre-made scones for the family's weekly go cheap and easy navajo taco dinner have gone mysteriously missing.



The Evidence:
A chair left carelessly near the scene of the crime, and pulled against the counter indicates the bandit is disadvantaged by an unfortunate lack of height.



The Capture:
Ah, brilliant strategy used by the bandit: ducking into the running shower to throw us off of his scent so he can consume his soggy goods.

Unfortunately for this duck, his number is up.



The Punishment:




Mom's Motto: Go tough or go home. He'll never think of attempting this again.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

This one is for Julie!!




Andrew was really hungry this evening so he decided to grab some pepperoni from the fridge

He started to eat it, but:


Thankfully I was there to stop him.



I almost made this mistake yesterday, but fortunately caught sight of a crucial message printed on the back:



Crucial message ^^^

Whew! That could have been uncomfortable! So thankful for safety messages! So is Pete:










Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Wicked Sugared Conversations

A few of you know about my battles against yummy sugary food. I have a strong opinion that it's of the devil. You may remember my posts here and here, supporting my argument. I know there's some of you who still think I'm some crazy lady who thinks food speaks to her. To prove my point, let's just remember the most evil of them all: Valentine's conversation hearts. Despite their slight chalkiness making most people question whether it's candy or an antacid, I believe them to have come straight from H-E-double-hockey-L's. I've lived almost 28 years, and still have not ever grilled up a plain chicken breast, only to see it embossed with "Kiss Me" across it's flesh. Never has my unassuming green salad spelled out "I love you" in carrots, nor has my rice cake flat out demanded "be mine". However, I have had some squishy green spinach try to come close to "I Do" only to shlop onto my plate, plainly stating to me: "Please Don't".

Hearts. Pictures, Images and Photos



I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Happy Sappy

Get ready to read a pretty sappy post. Remember you were warned.

I saw a friend of mine I hadn't seen since we moved this past friday night. I actually saw quite a few friends I hadn't seen in a while which was super-duper awesome, because they know how to party (can you say Leatherby's?) Anyway, she gave me an awesome compliment, saying how when she's having a bummer day, she comes over to read my blog. I was seriously so flattered, and humbled. When I first started writing, I had no idea anyone besides my mom would even be interested in my stories. (After all, they're usually about me embarrassing myself in some way). I now have several awesome friends who come over to read regularly, some who I haven't even seen in ages. There are even some who I've never met, who read regularly, which, to me is incredible. I'm not bringing this up to brag or toot my own horn, I am just trying to thank every one of you who leaves comments of encouragement, or those who just stop by to quickly read. Your comments have given me the confidence to accept the Newspaper job which was offered to me, and also apply for other writing jobs (one I was hired for so far! ). I would not have any kind of confidence to do the thing I love most if it weren't for your caring words. So please feel comfortable leaving comments, I love to hear from you. To sum up my thanks I just want to say:

Thanks for giving a hoot!! You guys are the best!!

Friday, February 12, 2010

Wonder Where She Got That From?

This past week Madisen has been driving me crazy with the question: "Really?" It seems after every thing I say to her, a "really?" follows whether necessary or not.
"Madisen, I need you to clean up your room before going to a friends"
"Really?" yes really.
"Yes, you will be 11 when your sister turns 9."
"Really?" yes. really
"We're leaving to the store, hop in the car"
"Really?" For crying out loud! Really!!!!
Yesterday I was putting laundry away and she came in and told a whopper of a story, that lasted several minutes about what sort of valentines she was going to make, and who she would pass them out to at school. I listened for a while, but had my mind on other things, and just sort of tuned out. When she was done, she seemed to expect a response. Guess what genius return I heard myself come back with? That's right folks.
"Oh, really?"

Yes, Mom. Really.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Losing it on the Cute Coat


The day started out well. I had plans to go to my daughters school for Parent Teacher Conferences. An outing! A blessed, blessed outing. A reason to don more than a sweatshirt for the entire day (or week as this has been a very "inside" kind of week). To celebrate my coming out of hermitism, I pulled out the cute coat. The only coat that has any shape to it for on this day, my friends, I am driving farther than the bus stop. And who knows, I might see someone! Hurrah! So I hop in the car with my little boy, feeling good, and ignoring the fact I forgot to change my housecleaning, light colored, almost-holey-but-not-in-a-fashion-kind-of-way-jeans(after all I am in my cute-coat and I think they counterbalance to produce some sort of mid-grade hotness right?) and we're on our way. I pull up to the school and debate whether I should park close to the office where I have to check in, or the classroom where I will be leaving from. Office won out, although, close is relative: the only spot open was as far from the office that close could be. The Boy had a mild fever this morning as a result, I believe, of teething. For those of you who don't know him, let me just explain that The Boy is not a small child. He's a thick and tall little eighteen month old. So I'm carrying my chunky, but cuddly, fevery little boy and we tromp across the asphalt to the office. The boy is starting to get heavy, but he's so cute, and besides, genetics from my father's side has equipped me with appropriate Mamma hips. We finally pop in the office only to be told that it was unnecessary and they send us on our way to the classroom. We get to wait outside because Previous Mom obviously has no regard for other people's failing arms. I can't put the boy down because he has now taken a turn for the worse and is obviously feeling pretty crummy. So we stand outside in the frigid weather, me clutching the 30 squishy pounds to my body in hopes I won't drop his hot weight on the frozen concrete. Previous Mom really likes to talk. Ugh. Oh yay! 15 heavy minutes later, Mrs. E open's the door and P.Mom walks out. THEN IT HAPPENED!! The Boy (I'm sorry there's no nice way to say this) lost his breakfast. All over himself, his poor stuffed puppy, and yes cute-coat. Sad.
"Um, I think I'll reschedule. . . " I manage, and Teach laughs and says, " Okay, well, at least you weren't inside! Ha ha!" Hmmph. Cute little joke. She hands us a couple paper towels and takes the next Mom in line. Off comes the boy's coat and into the dumpster it goes. Fortunately cute-coat is not a casualty, so it gets crumpled up into a ball. Now I no longer have a 30 lbs toddler clinging to me, I have a 100 lbs (at least he feels that way now) ticking time bomb, turned outward just in case, and leaning slightly over cute-coat which has now turned pathetically into barf catcher. We get to trek across the never ending lot this way. What do you know? I did see someone today! Lot's of someone's loitering in the massive parking lot who were fortunate enough to see my my ample derriere sticking back at a funny angle so I can lean over ToddlerTime Bomb, who needs to lean over cute-barf-catcher. Thankfully we made it home without another episode. Once we get home, I stick the boy in the bath while I stretch out my gumby arms. When he's dressed, I lay him on the couch for a snuggle with his squishy 30 lbs, and droopy eyes. I decide tonight is a cereal for dinner night, and we both drift to sleep. Him dreaming of Mom of course *wink* and me: dreaming (of course) of a new Cute-coat.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Thankful For Thrones

Shea leaving the bathroom this morning:

"Thank you, TOILET!!"


I've never thought to thank him before. Now I'm feeling so ungrateful.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

It's Name is Freddy

Madisen was completely upset with me when we moved and I had to pull her out of her school. She still talks about her friends at her old school sometimes, although, those times are getting fewer and farther between. Last night we realized why. Madisen was sitting on her Daddy's lap, telling him about her day at school, and her best buddy Freddy. She pulls his ear to her lips and says, "Daddy, me and Freddy are in love!"
I know what you're thinking, but despite all odds, Pete's eyeballs did not fall out when pushed to their maximum capacity.
He picked up his heart, put it back in his chest, and tried his best to just listen to her without demanding Freddy's last name, and phone number. I got to listen to Pete gripe about what a stupid name Freddy is and hear him randomly scoff "Freddy" throughout the rest of the night. I have parent teacher conferences next week, and because Pete isn't able to attend, he's demanding I address this to the Teacher. Short of homeschooling, he doesn't see any way to proceed from here. I am a little less irked by this. Mostly because I was a little girl once and know this is more about the game of "Wedding" than anything else. However, this Friday I am going in to her school. I am only going to volunteer, and observe of course, but if Freddy gets too close, I can't promise I won't accidentally trip him.


yes I did change the name of the little boy. I figure a few years from now, if she reads this blog, she will be happy I didn't post the name of her first love all over the place :)

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Do Mom's Sweat?

I can't stand parenting magazines. They claim to be supportive of stay at home Mom's and yet I've never seen an article about the stay at home Mom who doesn't work from home. Or the Mom, that rejoices if they vacuumed in the morning and it still looks vacuumed in the evening. Or the Mom who figured out how to one up her child over the dishwasher battle. The battle where Mom puts the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, but toddler feels each dish looks best dirty, under the kitchen table. I must say I know a lot of stay at home Mom's, but not a single one who could name what was taking place on any given soap opera. I truly don't know a single Mom who even turns on the T.V. during the day for herself. And while I don't know a single stay at home Mom who wears sweats all day every day, I don't think it's all that impractical of a uniform when part of the job is to be a target for flying snot. I do hate the cliche idea of the Mom who sits on the couch all day eating bon bon's. However, after a particularly snotty-cold week, I've made an appointment with myself, 3 years in the future. In September of 2013, I have made a date with my couch. After I send my youngest off to Kindergarten, I boldy plan to spend that day in my sweats, bon-bon's in hand, and Soap Opera on the T.V. Don't Mess.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

UNUBWG's

I've always been an UberNerdUltra BookWorm Geek. It's cool, I don't mind the title. My husband, rather than try to help me away from my addiction of all things literature, has chosen to feed it. He could do no worse than buy me the heavenly Ultide gift of the golden trophy, nay, the holy grail of all UNUBWG's. The Kindle. INSTANT BOOKS. Have you not heard of the coveted Kindle? I'm your friend, I won't judge. The kindle allows me to download books, wherever I am whenever I want, and have them within 30 seconds. Since recieving the Kindle, I believe I haven't seen my blessed, blessed husband, because my nose has never left the screen. It's my new little buddy, that I simply CANNOT do without. While blowdrying my hair, I'm reading. Walking, pulling laundry out of the dryer- one handed, because I'm reading. Waiting for Madisen's bus: reading. Making dinner: reading. Oooops.
Did I just pull a plastic plate of dinner rolls, out of the oven just in time for the plate to NOT melt onto the rack?
Yes I did.

It was Jane Austen *shrug* you understand. . .

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Shea

Shea: Mom, I have frogs
Me: In your throat?
Shea: Yeah in my mouth
Me: Oh, no! you do sound froggy. are you going to lose your voice?
Shea: Yes. Ursula is going to take it



Shea: When can I be a Mommy?
Me: uh, when you're 27.
Shea: or 28?
Me: even better.
Me: Why do you want to be a Mommy?
Shea: So I can cook dinner.

at first I was flattered that she looked up to me and thought watching me cook looked like fun; but now I'm kinda wondering if she doesn't feel someone needs to take over. . .

Monday, January 4, 2010

MY TREADMILL!!!!!


DEAD
like my microwave

DEAD like my garage door

DEAD like my car

DEAD like the ants.


But I had pizza for lunch!!!?!

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Muddled Hot Husband

Once upon a time there lived a woman. We won't get into specifics, but she was 5'3" with shoulder length brown hair, and 3 children. 2 girls and 1 boy. This woman had just come in from the frigid outdoors with rosy red cheeks after a full day of sledding with the children. Because it is the weekend the New years resolution of always keeping her home spic and span will be put off until Monday in favor of devouring a delicious new book. Time passes. It is now 6:00 p.m. and her middle child (though no less loved for it) came to ask about dinner. Although this child has just turned four years old, it is possible that she managed to come and ask what was for dinner while sporting applesauce throughout her hair on the top of her head. Okay maybe that happened the applesauce --------------------->
next morning at breakfast, the details are hard to say. Anyway, back to the evening and it's late, and this woman decides that her poor, young, starving children should not have to have pb&j for dinner, nor wait an hour for a full dinner to be cooked. She eye's her hot husband sleeping on the couch. The couch where he had been sleeping for just over two hours (after the long hard day on the sled hill). Enter bright, animated light bulb; flashed just above and to the right of the woman's forehead. Woman walks over to wake her hot husband nicely of course by poking him in the ribs. Husband sits up in a flash, looking from the left to right through his squinted left eye, and confused, ultimately grabs the remote and starts flipping through the channels. "No, no" this woman says, "I did not wake you up to watch T.V. I woke you up because you told me you were going to go get us dinner"
"Huh?" his reply
"you said you were going to get us dinner. I will go get your shoes"
"Bring the white one's" he says, and woman pats herself on the back for now it was obvious that her wicked plan worked and in his waking stupor he was unable to recall or not recall stating he was going to pick up dinner. She comes back in the room and he starts asking questions about where he was supposed to be going. This woman puts his coat around his shoulder's and says,"are you serious, you told ME you were going to go get something. I thought You knew where you were going." The eldest daughter say's she wants to come along and the woman replies she can hurry and grab her shoes and go along. He eyes the daughter wondering whether he had also said he would take her along. The man allows the woman to zip up his coat. Unfortunately, at this point the woman was unable to control her laughter after seeing his completely innocent, and muddled face. It made it unbearable how he was still standing up and ready to head out the door. Now further awake, He turns back and asks if the woman is lying to him. She's forced (through laughter) to confess she is. Ah, well, it was a good joke anyway, she says.
The moral of the story: It still holds true that it's best to make the man believe something is his idea. Even better if you wake him up and tell him his idea.
How did this story end? Seeing himself already dressed and ready to go, this man proceeds to go pick up dinner for the family. And they ate happily ever after.
I love happy endings, don't you?
Don't miss the sequil: The Next Morning At Breakfast