Holey Socks!

Pink and purple socks.  This is how the story begins.

I had to start buying socks with pink and purple words on them. Why? Because there is a sock swiper in my midst and he happens to occupy the drawer right next to mine.  I'm letting this secret out there.

My husband wears my socks. He has bigfoot feet and I have little short person feet.  Truly, I s'pose a size 9 foot on a 5'3" lady isn't so small, but compared to bigfoot I'm quite dainty.  In order for his longman toes to stretch he has to put holes in my socks rendering them unwearable for my uberfeminine feet.

Ugh! So when doing laundry I tossed all of his socks into a basket so he could sort out the ones to take on his trip and I made sure to place mine completely separate so they wouldn't get confused with his.  Ahem--personally I think the pink and purple would give it away, but apparently sock swipers aren't into the details. I wake up the next morning, get ready for the gym and can't find my socks.

Oh no, he didn't! Swiper no, no swiping!
He did.  But you knew that already.

I guess that's my line.  Everyone has a line you don't cross, I didn't realize mine would come down to footwear, but I found my line nonetheless.  I called him all in a grouch demanding he admit his sin.  He did--but with a shrug.  No. Big. Deal.
What?!
I'm sorry, but socks ARE a big deal.  At least NOW they are, because I was grouchy and wanted to go to the gym and now I'm left for the week with no socks.  His shrug-off was the fuel to my fi-ya! Now I'm not grouchy I'm flaming mad!  "Oh the man thinks he doesn't have any socks?  I'll show him not have any socks!"
So I did.  I picked up his rather full sock drawer and threw them all in the garbage.  Now he doesn't have socks.  That'll teach him.

I know.  Yes, I realize I am not in middle school (now at least).  I called him and confessed, and he laughed at me. I wanted to downplay it, but I couldn't even pull out the girl logic on him.  You know, the "it's not really about the socks, it's about. . . "  Because really, it was about the socks.  I wanted some, didn't have some, he did have some, and that made me grumpy.

So now I have to buy the man some socks too.  Lots and lots of socks.  So he doesn't steal mine.  But c'mon, what kind of man steals a woman's socks?

Who knows?  I do know who won't try to pull that trick again though.  Because the truth is, it was about the socks.

It Was a Dark and Gloomy Night. . . .

Jack: Mom, can I tell you a spooky story?

 Me: Sure!

 Jack: Okay, okay. There was a guy and he runned away, and then a bad guy came and then he runned away again, and then a scary guy came and then, it turned off.

*chills* I have chills.

Zoe Jayne Reid. . . 6 months!

It was her half-year birthday yesterday! Love that sweet little face!  If you're curious, here's a link to Jack's 6 month pics

The Truth Will Wiggle Free

You know what the worst thing about being elderly is?  You don't get to have fun like when you're young--like your twenties or younger.  You don't get to just display your raw emotions out there for anyone to see.  Why?  Because I'm sure my college professor wouldn't just softly tell me to use my words if I just up and chucked a stick at her in the middle of her lecture (like Jack). and no one wants to be the  checker who has to check out the crazy middle aged Mom who skipped through the entire grocery shopping trip (ala Sydney).  It truly is unfair.
That's what I love about Zumba.  Not only do I get to wiggle and jump I also get to shout Whoo! whenever the heck I feel like it and nobody wants to have me committed.  It's the only place a grown woman can randomly shout WHOO! in public and it's acceptable.  There should be more Whoo! opportunities dangit!  Like if I'm dropping off my kids at school and we are all on time PLUS I had a good hair-day. . . that should be an automatic wiggle, jump, and whoo! moment.  But I'm afraid it won't be so.
What's unfortunate about Zumba is that it's a lot of hip action.  And by-golly my hips don't lie.  Like ever, but I really wish they would.  If they would fib a little maybe I wouldn't look like such a fool out there and people wouldn't be giving me extra space so that my hips don't poke out their eye.    My hips don't sway, but they are reliable little truth tellers.  They shout  their testimony of truth right out over my jeans every day. The truth is out there, everywhere: my right side, my left side, my backside. Before you go thinking I'm knocking myself down, I'm not.  I'm a fan of honesty, so therefore I love my cute little truth-handles.  They've really grown on me.
Look where this post went!  It turned into babble about flubber--love it!  Seriously though, love me some zumba no matter how rough I look doing it.  I have a bit of an addiction, but how could I not?  I've lost 16 lbs of baby weight in 16 weeks so far, and since starting have never "not felt like going".  I love having people come and shake and shout with me, so if you're looking for a exercise partner, let me know!

I Hear Dead People

I do.  It's my sixth-sense. But only their feet so I must not be crazy.


You know that floating wave you get on when you are trying to fall asleep?  That one where your brain suddenly starts to mush over to sleep mode?  There's that weird space-void right in between.

Oh, I guess I could have just said when you're not quite asleep, not quite awake. You get the idea.

That's when I hear them.  It doesn't happen during the mush-void all the time, but every once in a while it happens:  I'm just about to nod off when I hear footsteps down my hall, feel like someone is checking on me, then its like the footsteps fade away.  Then I sleep shake out of the void and I'm awake because I can't tell if it really happened or not.


It probably doesn't.  But last night there was an added bonus: a door shutting and then a squeal.  The squeal ended up being the guinea pigs (dang pigs), but I can't tell you what the door was.

Weird, right?  No I don't really think it's dead people, but it sure isn't alive people either.  It's just a weird trick my brain likes to play when it's in swimming mode. Isn't he funny?

I sure thought so at 3:00 am last night.

So let's talk brains.  What kind of games does yours like to play when you're starting to zonk?
Also, can you tell I wrote this on 3 hours of sleep?  Yes, I think so.

Big Brother Will Help

Zoe is screaming.

Jack-boy to the rescue:

"Awe, Zoe, don't cry. . . hey Zoe, wanna see my butt?"


Suprisingly, it wasn't helpful.


Seriously I think someone else is raising my son in secret.  Where does he come up with this stuff?
Last night before bed I asked him to go potty before getting in his Jammies.

"I already did."

"When?"

"In the grass."

"Ah."

Why did I even ask?  The problem was he just came in from playing in the FRONT yard.

"It was funny Mom"

Hmmm.  I bet he thought so.  My plants and neighbors. . . probably not so much.

I was drunk.

So last week I was in a drunken stupor.

 Except I wasn't, so there is no explanation for my impulsiveness.

Sometimes I just do things.  I wish I could say I got bees in my bonnet, but I don't wear bonnets, and even if I did wear floppy hats with unflattering chin grippers and use them to collect bees at least I would end up with honey.  Instead I just end up with guinea pigs. Two of them.  

I didn't go out trying to get guinea pigs or anything, I don't have some weird fascination with fuzzy rodents who do not in fact resemble anything close to their piggy names.
 I was just sitting there, minding my own business when the stupid idea cloud flashed a bolt of lighting from the sky, through my bedroom window, and hit me smack in the back of the head sending me right off of the couch I was sitting on and onto the floor. 

There was nothing I could do because my mouth has absolutely no defense against super lightning idea clouds. So I just spblurted out "Hey kids, if you get rid of half of your toys, I will help you buy those guinea pigs you've been saving up for f-o-r-e-v-e-r!" 

The problem was, they heard me.

The other problem was, I didn't yet realize that super-lightning-idea-cloud is an idiot. So I didn't even have the opportunity to throw out a big 'ol "just kidding" . 

Truth is folks, they stink.  The guinea pigs.  Just like every rational thinking person told me they would.  

It's not the first time this has happened.  Once upon a time this summer I was knocked off the couch with the notion that I might want to go to college.  So here I am, in my first semester of college, trying to figure out homework again when I could just be enjoying my daily hair/nail/massage/eyelash/moisturize/shoelace/glitter/zumba/knitting/bon-bon appointments I was so used to before.  

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A diagram:

ME THREE MONTHS AGO:  pet free, non smelly house, & leisure time

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^------------------------>*@* (ideacloudlightningstrike)

ME TODAY:  stinky pigs, stinky house, stinky homework, & no leisure time stinks.  Like stinky stinks.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm sure they will have some diagram classes in school if you found this one rough to follow.  

I had no choice.  

It was the drunken stupor.

Except it wasn't.

<----- Not a Guinea

First Day of School

There is NOTHING quite like starting your morning by hauling all your kiddo's to the car and sidestepping the badger sized beetle to get in your car only to end up crunching your flip flop right on top of his smunchy-gooey buddy a second later.  Ack! I'm going to have the eeby-jeeby's all day.

Oh, you wanna hear about the first day of school for Sydney's first grade, yes?  I know it will suprise everyone, but I don't have pictures of it--yet.  ***SCHOCKFACE****

But I will get pictures when she comes home and her hair is a mess and her face and dress are covered in her school lunch.  That should be a great shot!  She's stinking cute no matter what, I think anyway, and was way excited to start first grade today. She's going to do awesome.  Skye started last week, but I wasn't allowed to make a big deal because "I hate school, they have too many rules."  Hmmm, I think we will have to come up with more rules at our house because Skye claims we only have "like five". 

 In other news I found out today that we barely missed out on a rockin' name for Zoe. (By the way readers. . . we also have a baby named Zoe, ha!).

Jack: Mom, I'm glad I named her Zoe because it's a cute name.

Me: Yeah, me too bud, good choice.

Jack: I know, I almost named her Concentrate, but decided to with Zoe.

Wow, had I known about the other option, that would have made my naming experience much, much harder.  Unfortunately, the papers are signed and she will forever be named Zoe.  I hope she forgives us later for passing up a gem, but if not I can just tell her it was all Jack's fault.

Boogs

Me: Jack, get a tissue, you've got a booger in your nose.
Jack: why mom?
Me: why what?
Jack: why do I HAVE to get a tissue?
Me: Because its socially unacceptable to use your finger, bud.  You won't keep any friends that way.
Jack: No why do I have to use a tissue?  Boogers are supposed to be in your nose. That's where they come from.

He has a point--I guess.


Me: alright buddy, I guess just carry on playing then.


I'm still not sure about how this will go over with his friends, but Sydney eventually learned to wear pants, so maybe Jack will learn to love tissues.  Should be interesting to watch.

Math Rules, Summer Drools

Skye (after first day of 3rd grade): Mom, there's a test in math tomorrow and I'm afraid I lost my mind over the summer. I don't want to be in the easy levels, I want to be in the middle levels!
Me: It doesn't matter what level you're in, you just find out your level, work hard then move up next year, no biggie.
Skye: But Mo-om! I've been trying to practice math all summer but people keep coming and asking me to play!
Me: You've been trying to do math ALL summer, but people have been asking you to play? Hmmmm. . . I don't know. When were you trying to do math this summer again?
Skye: I would think of equations in my head, but then someone would knock on the door and want to play.
Me: uh-huh.
Skye: Yeah Mom, and like you would always say, lets go swimming at the rec center or whatever, so we would have to go.
Me: So I wanted to go swimming at the rec center, but you wanted to stay home and do math. . . . am I getting this right?
Skye: yes, that's right.



Uh-huh.

I've spent the entire summer trying to have as much fun and experiences as we can, packing several outings into a week and all my daughter wanted to do was stay home and do math.  Makes me wonder how that conversation with Skye and her teacher is going to go. Hmmmm.

I'm thinking my next summer is going to be A LOT easier on the gas mileage. Mwahahahaha!

Put My Cap & Gown On, I'm Ready!

I'm starting school this month.  Real school at a real college.  It's the community college, but seriously folks, let's not go all crazy here.  I'm excited because now that I'm old and thir----well, you know, that one age, I have a much better perspective on life and know what I want to learn and since I've been a stay at home mom for so long I don't really care about how much money I'm going to make when I'm done.  I just want to go.  N-E-V-E-R thought I would say that.

So I tell my daughter Skye my school starts soon and she says, "Mom, why are you going back to college again?!"
"I've never gone to college honey, it's my first time."
--Super Serious Face "But mom, I hope they don't kick you out because you're so smart and you already know everything!"

Me too Skye, me too.

And that friends, is why she's my favorite.

Still a Cool Dude

Let me introduce you to a member of our family.  He is one that doesn't get a lot of love and I'm really not sure why.  This is he:




Our fridge Ol' Trusty.  You must not adjust your color monitors, yes that is 70's almond folks.  I would remove the random picture clusters and magnets, but I am convinced it actually looks better with them in place.

We call him our Dave Ramsey fridge and anyone who has read the Dave Ramsey books knows exactly what I'm talking about.  We have had Ol' Trusty for as long as we have been married.  We acquired him when we purchased our first home--amazingly he came with the house! They didn't want to take him with them. Imagine that? But we weren't about to give him up when we moved, no way Jose. Can't leave a gem like this behind! Anyway, we are coming up on our 10 year anniversary pretty quick here so that makes our time with Trusty roughly 10 years, which is great because I imagine he has been a staple for a lot of other 10 year anniversaries.

He is not pretty.  He is not large.  He does not come with an interior light.  But none of that really matters. You know why?  Because guess what is the ONLY appliance that still works in my otherwise stainless steel kitchen.  That's right.

So laugh all you want, but Ol' Trusty is here to stay, much to my Mother in Law's chagrin (kidding Lori).  At least until I feel like forking over the $2000 cash for a brand new shiny one, or when the other side of his only freezer shelf finally falls in, whichever comes first.

So what's the point of this post?  There isn't one.  That's what's great about not blogging in for-ev-er, no one reads your posts anyway so you can blog about whatever you want!  Or maybe I just needed to find some more self restraint to stop from getting the eyesore out of my kitchen.  Your guess is as good as mine.

One Foot In

I thought. This day. Would never come.  And well, it did. And I'm flaming mad about it.  I've tried not to be, even tried gearing myself up for it, but now that it's here I just feel a whole lot of grouchy.  Kind of like Eeyore even.  It is my birthday--that birthday that everyone dreads because you instantly go from care free twenty something to thirty and well, thirty.  Just plain thirty.  Ew, what a dirty word.
Really, I don't know how to BE thirty.  I've never even learned how to knit!  I don't own a single doily, and nobody is complimenting my baking skills.  Maybe that was Eeyore's problem, maybe he was just thirty and upset about it.  I never saw Eeyore use a doily or even a coaster, and we all know he couldn't knit or he wouldn't have kept losing that darn tail of his!
The most frustrating thing about this is I'm turning thirty alone.  My electric muffin doesn't turn the big *cough* three-oh until next month so I have to hear about how old I am for the next thirty two days. That's right, I'm a cougar. A lady in her thirties after that hot catch in his twenties.  ACK! Being thirty means I can call myself a cougar!!! Noooooooooooooooooooooo!
Say it isn't so!
But it is.
I'm old.

I guess it's only fitting that thirty rhymes so easily with old wrinkly lady.



It doesn't?
Well it might as well.

There better be cake today.

You're turning Violet, Violet!

Ahem. I'm pregnant. In case you didn't know. And this is the first pregnancy out of 4 that I have actually fronted the money for a maternity swimsuit. Usually I think it's a waste, but since we purchased a year pass at the rec center, there was no waiting from my kids until I was back to a svelte frame. (right?) And, as it turns out, they do allow giant blueberries in the pool so there ya go.

We went last week. Picture baywatch, (any of those blondes gliding down the beach plus a cute little half-basketball belly) running to save children from the whale that had beached herself and is flailing to get back in the water. That's me. Not the baywatch blonde--that was the pregnant girl who got in the water right before me in her cute little Down East swimwear. I was the beached whale. Well, technically not beached yet, I hadn't slipped or anything before entering the pool, but my balance can't be trusted lately so I always have a plan. Not that I would be flailing around like flipper had I fallen and beached myself on the pool tiles; please! If this situation arose I had already planned my course of action to include waiting patiently for one to three nice gentlemen to come rescue me by rolling me over onto my side so that I could roll to my hands and knees and then get one knee up and push off of that into a squat-stand then full-stand position like a normal classy pregnant woman.

I almost ordered a blue suit. Ha! But realized feeling like a buoyant blueberry was enough. With my short sausage legs, and the waffle in my step I felt like looking the part of grandma's best homemade breakfast walking into the pool was a little much. So black and white polka-dots it was. You know, like free Willey.

I have around 6ish weeks left. 6 more weeks to weigh down one side of the pool, so we are going again tonight. It's nice because once in the pool you feel lighter than air rather than full of air/people so it's a good way to spend the last pregnancy weeks I suppose. I'm just looking forward to being able to see my cute baby, and also my feet again without feeling like I am actually retaining a whole dang pool.

But I feel comforted because everything I read about tells me that pregnancy is a beautiful thing--so I guess that means I'm still hot. And even though I might cry over the milk being all gone from the fridge when I am severely craving cereal, my husband is still happy to rush to the gas station to grab me some. Or maybe he just has a thing for blue fruit.

Stuffed Pink

What would you do if you found out your best friend had the stuffin's kicked out of him?

You would abandon him and find a new and cuddlier best friend, right?

Exactly--at least that's what Jack-boy has done.

He and his pink bear have been pretty tight for as long as he was able to toddle. Not wanting my son to get the stuffins' kicked out of him when he reaches kindergarten, I even once tried to replace the bear with a more acceptable brown bear. He did okay for about 6 months, until his sister found the "pink puppy" as Jack had named him and gave it back. It was a wonderful reunion. Most mornings we found Jack followed closely by pink puppy with a leash around his neck and being dragged across all sorts of surfaces, both wet and dry. It was pure love.

Today, I had to wash pink puppy after an unfortunate encounter with our slobbery k9. When he came out of the drier he looked like this:

I tried to set him up to welcome Jack after he got out of his shower, but he sadly just slumped flat like this:

Thinking Jack would be devastated, I thought the best route was to pretend it didn't happen and hide any evidence that pink puppy's insides were now very much on his outsides. Jack hugged his best buddy once:

Then, realizing his pal had been overdone, very non-dramatically just replaced him with this:

I wish there were a happier end to this toy story. Really, really, do. But then again, I guess brown puppy works just as well.

Man vs. Widow

My husband is a stinking hero. He is, and he doesn't even try to be. It's just in his nature--he was born this way so after a day of busting the bad guys, he just goes and takes a nap like it was no big deal. Or, NBD for you young'n texters.

If anyone recalls his mouse-pants-dance, my knight-in-shining-under-armor, or the day I posted on FB about him saving my face from an attack by a big hairy black spider, you know how fabulous he is at rescuing his damsel. Well, this day was no different.

Back story: We had a huge (this time no exaggeration) black widow make camp outside our back door in her equally huge web. The web was several feet long and place just above the top of our back door so when I placed my dogs food dish outside and stood up I was darn-near face to face with the evil non-insect.

Realizing I was alone (no knight at home) I knew I was going to have to take care of this on my own so I backed slowly inside so I could grab everything I needed. Thankfully all went well and I was able to reach the phone to contact the Knight and alert him to the battle that awaited him when he got home. Phew!

He gets home, and attacks like Legolas charging into Mordor(slightly less hair, just as handsome in action). The widow had no chance.

Fast forward two days, the widow is back! Same place, new huge web, different black widow. What does this mean? He came at it angry this time. This widow showed no fear. The spider, who spread out is about the size of my palm, thought nothing of Pete's size and slowly lowered herself halfway out of her web. She then swung herself out of his way and then came back straight at him just a swingin'! This black widow came within an inch of my knight, barely missed, then came back swinging for round two! Now, this is the time where if I were in battle I would throw my weapons, call for a retreat and move the family to Idaho. Not my man. He saw it through to the end. For I minute, I wasn't sure who would survive when the battle ended up underneath the deck, but when the victor emerged, it was Pete. I think he raised his arms and flexed his bicep a little bit in celebration. A Hero once again.

Clearly, this story may not be over so Idaho has not been ruled out. However, if you have a recommendation for a great pest control company we would be happy to consider it.

Looth Tooth

At the very end of first grade she has finally lost her first tooth. She is so excited because apparently she was THE ONLY one in the WHOLE FIRST GRADE who hadn't lost a tooth yet! My oh my, how embarrassing.

When Mom's Away. . .

Dad will confuse a quiet house with one where everyone is doing what they should be--like sleeping.

Custom Toilets by Jack! On order now!

Yes, it's sharpie. And no this wasn't the only place he expressed his artistic abilites. He let loose down the hallway, into the master bedroom where we found several sharpie spirals and roads across every wall. He wandered into his bedroom where he markered almost every surface of his bedroom, ending, of course, with his own body.

Can I just say I LOVE Magic Erasers?!!

Beauty Rest

My gentle princesses, after a long day on vacation, lay sweetly down for a long peaceful slumber:

In one bed we have the graceful Princess Sydney:







In another the poised and gentle Princess Skye:







And notice who actually wins the Beauty Rest contest--The Jack.

Our No Video-cation

I have no video footage of my son from age zero up until now—age 2 ½. If we’re being honest, I don’t have any video footage of my second daughter for the last half of her 5 year life either. I am afraid that my children will hate me for this when they grow up.

In an effort to get more than a Christmas card during their grown up years, I made a (justifiable) impulse buy as I walked passed the electronics counter at Wal Mart: a shiny new video camera—small enough to fit in my purse and carried with me wherever we went. Now, not only will I have video footage of my kids dance recitals and kindy graduations, but I will also pick up scenes of them running happily through the sprinklers or laughing on the park swings (at least, that’s what the advertisement showed).

I get home with the camera and immediately try it out in the kitchen. My son is of course cute no matter what he is doing, so I shot a few minutes of him chomping his waffle. We could work on the laughing/swinging combo later.

Later that week, we follow my husband out of town on a work trip. I have yet to buy a purse so the camera proudly rides along in my puffy coat pocket. The ride up there gets warm, so when we make it to the hotel room and the kids are having a blast turning on and off the fireplace and jumping on the beds, I realize that the video camera is in the car with my shedded coat. I make up for this by getting back in time to snap footage of my daughter watching T.V.

The next day we head to an arcade/climbing gym where the kids run wild laughing and having a good time. As they laugh, I remember the camera is sitting back on the hotel room kitchen table—so I wouldn’t forget it on my way out the door. I make up for this by getting a good shot of them tiredly playing a game of cards in the hotel room.

Later that night, my husband takes the girls swimming in the hotel pool. I follow them down—video camera in hand—and my girls jump right in. My five-year-old is just learning to swim across the pool and is in the middle of a crazy-cute dog paddle when I whip out my video camera. I aim it just right to capture this epic milestone in my daughter’s life. I push the big red record button and it doesn’t turn on. It’s dead.

So far, I have footage of my son chowing down a waffle, my daughter zoning in front of the t.v., and a not-so-mean game of cards. This was looking less like a vacation and more like a particularly long wait in the doctor’s office.

We left the next morning, so I made up for this by forgetting the whole darn camera when we checked out of our room. I am now anxiously awaiting my first Christmas card.