Say It Ain't SO!

I'm posting this while still roaring with laughter. I can barely type. This 30 seconds will have me bustin' a seam throughout the day. The big question is: are we women born this way? I'll let you decide but please swallow your food and put down all beverages. Hahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahaha!!!

P.S. This'll be the only time in her life she will be able to talk THIS much and have a man enjoy it! Live it UP, darlin'!

Thank you for the link, my dear Sass!! Helen sent this to me. :)

I Can’t Hear You

I was an excellent parent before I had children.

My theories were sound and my rhetoric plentiful. I knew exactly what you should do with your children and why. Your missteps were easily identifiable and with simple grit, determination, and sage advice from me, all could be rectified in short order.

Mothers who allowed their children to run the grocery store aisles confounded and irritated me. More baffling still was the mother who refused to answer her demanding, persistent, or wailing offspring.

One of these moments is burned into my brain. I was standing in a Von’s supermarket trying to make a decision about a product when a persistent three-year-old began to harangue his harried mother.

“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy”……..for Five. Whole. Minutes., all the while alternately yanking on his mother's shirt, shorts, hair, face, and possibly eyeballs.

She never changed expression. She continued to gaze vacantly at the store shelves. I wanted to look into her hanging eyeballs and inquire, “Why don’t you just answer him!! Say ‘Yes!’ or say ‘Mommy has left the building!’ but say something!” This is because I presumed she heard him.

Then I became a mother.

Slowly dawn broke, or fractured, in my psyche and I knew that if I answered every single “Mommy!” I would cease to have one nano-second for a quiet thought within my head. I would never make decisions or know what I thought because there would be no time for thoughts. Cue the birth of selective hearing.

It is based in pitch and tone, and has little to do with volume. We mothers make symphony conductors look like wimps. We can detect the slightest variation in our precious progeny’s modulation and multi-layered rhythms. We know what sounds signal impending disaster or genuine need. Our ears are unaffected by run-of-the-mill keening. It’s not that we ignore it willingly. We simply do not hear it. We can’t, if we are to remain sane. And sanity is a nurturing benefit in a mother.

Maybe we are being cruel to be kind. In the right measure.

Now, you might say, manage your child so they don’t DO all this whining and haranguing. And your theory would be correct. And you would be right to say so. The problem is, we can’t hear you. (You just have to watch this. It's only about 45 seconds but sums it up perfectly.)

Be sure to visit 30 Day Throw Down! for healthy eating and to join us on our journey. Monthly contests. :)

Copyright 2009

Grizzly's Asian Twin

This isn't in english but it doesn't need to be. Vigilant fathers everywhere speak the same language. It takes less than a minute but is even funnier the next time you watch it because you know EVERYTHING. I'm STILL laughing. :)

New post up at 30 Day Throw Down! Recipes, photos, and derangement await you. Don't forget to sign up to follow (and comment, letting me know) if you take part in the 30 Day Throw Down! challenge. It's your ticket to a chance at a $100 Amazon Gift Card!

Tooth Update and a Plea……

After heading south with this infection yesterday and getting really sick, I had a Waterloo moment with my tooth and served it eviction papers. I’m done pledging my troth to one so unfaithful.

I did some research on troublesome root canals and they can continue to infect your body through tiny things called tubules even after retreatment. This is what you come to me for: cutting edge dental lingo. These tubules can allow infection to do what my infection has done – travel around your body, especially nearby structures, and they can be hard to get rid of. I’m on my second round of antibiotics and you know me and medicine. We’re like….

THAT

We stay away from each other if we can. We fight. It tends to win.

So, rather than plunk down hundreds this morning for a mere chance at success, I said good-bye to the first of my errant teeth for a $50 co-pay. With any luck, it’ll be the last. I believe you should hang on to friends and teeth until they absolutely prove rotten. But when you finally accept reality and let go, it’s a relief.

Bo drove me – it’s so nice to let yourself be pampered a little and not have to show up and drive yourself to everything, like heart surgery. Well, okay. It wasn’t heart surgery but I did drive myself home from major breast surgery. I had a duct removed (all men turn away here and throw up……). I was bleeding from a nipple and they had to lay me open, remove the duct, and stitch me up. They said it was a precancerous condition and couldn’t be ignored. Now, if you can imagine this, they shot me up with Versed which is supposed to knock you out and make you remember nothing. It does NOT have that affect on me. I talked like a magpie through the whole surgery. The last thing I remember was the surgeon telling the anesthesiologist, “For the love of all that’s decent! Shut that woman up and give her more!” Some people just CAN’T appreciate a good conversation.

Then they woke me up and made me prove I had a ride home. They made me give them a visual. They told me not to drive for a few weeks (breast movement and all that.) However, I had driven myself there and now there would be a car left and that seemed to be a problem so, I did what we women do. I got in the car and drove home.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, milking my tooth removal (all references to milking and breasts is purely coincidental – no animals were harmed in the making of this sentence.) I told Bo the oral surgeon said I require six weeks of bed rest, excessive milk shakes, and no lifting for at least a year. Bo added that she felt I should even demand complete control over the remote. It brought a tear to my eye. I raised her right…….(sniff……).

So, here’s where you come in. My little follower button? The one over there? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->? It has been stuck. Am I boring? (Don’t answer that.) Does no one new come here? I see names I don’t recognize in my comments so I’m thinkin’ maybe you just haven’t thought about signing up. Now that I’m desperately injured and laid-up, it would bring me great cheer if you would de-lurk, as it were, and sign up to follow. It's inCREDibly easy if you already follow other blogs or have a Google account. If not, you have to sign up for one and create a password. I guess that can be a pain in the posterior but consider me and my pathetic plight. Go ahead, make my day. Or my dinner. Or my massage appointment.

P.S. Sheryl asks: "Was it a front tooth?" That picture would kinda make you think so, huh? No, it was the last one in the back, on the bottom. I'm sure no one will notice but me. This picture is false advertising. I'm bling-less!

Copyright 2009

Paddling Down the Old Root Canal

Today I will lay in a dentist chair and envision the canals of Venice. It’ll take plenty of imagination. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m on a cruise and fording the Panama Canal level-by-level. That would definitely be cheaper than the canal I’ll be exploring.

The ear ache, jaw ache, and infection have all added up to this vacation buster. They THINK (operative word here) that I may have an infection under an old root canal due to a crack in a root. This is when you curse your British roots – literally. We just don’t have the best teeth. Every time the family is watching a program and someone appears with crooked, widely spaced, or browning teeth, Grizzly looks at me, laughs, and says, “Must be British!” Mind you, he isn’t exactly a perfect-toothed Osmond brother himself. I could throw a rock at Ireland from my British shore and hit him squarely between the eyes. I’m quite sure the DNA tests would show that we’re actually related. Too many similarities.

By God’s good grace our children will not have to bear the brunt of our inbreeding. Thousands of dollars and a miracle working orthodontist have spared Bo from bearing the family crest. The Wild Man is fast on her heels. Fortunately, his adult teeth were on a world tour and have shown up VERY late to the party. This has allowed us a small respite between orthodontia mortgages.

But Grizzly and I were born in the era of braces being only for the rich and privileged. In fact, only a few of my friends sport those expensive pearly whites that are as straight and even as piano keys. It just wasn’t done. Unless you could look down your nose and see your two front teeth sticking straight out, you were required to get over yourself and move on. I never went to the dentist until I was 13 and my mother got dental insurance through her job. By then I had eight cavities, not counting the vast one between my ears. I took the bus downtown to the dentist by myself. My mother was working. Eight shots and eight fillings later, I rode the bus home and decided this was one luxury I wanted to live without. Had I known to brush my teeth more than once a week I might have avoided the whole affair. Nutrition could have helped, too, but nutrition was expensive and would have required food knowledge. We lived on canned vegetables, Green Goddess and Thousand Island dressing, iceberg lettuce, Wonder Bread, and Velveeta. Honest-to-goodness I never knew there was any other kind of veggies or cheese until I left home.

I decided to do things differently with my kids. Don’t most new mothers? I nursed them endlessly and started brushing their teeth before they HAD teeth. I was determined to overcome nature with nurture. It has been largely effective as they’ve only had one tiny cavity between them in 18 years. But I was unable to influence tooth placement and jaw structure. Fortunately, our orthodontist is not so constrained. Unfortunately, our budget is horribly constrained. Parents get in line behind children and a root canal for the mother does not factor in. My endodontist says if the root is too badly cracked he will not redo it but will pull it instead at a greatly reduced cost.

Come on British roots, don’t fail me now. Crack wide open and make your cheap escape!

Copyright 2009

Things You Don't Say to Your Wife

Oh, I just love you guys. I went and read some of your comments again and you are either too good to me or you downright split my seams with the things you say! And I'm feelin' pretty happy, and silly, and generally willing to laugh over anything stupid so I dare NOT look in the mirror!

I get to see an old, funny, wonderful, and very best friend and her hysterical husband this weekend and when we get together, I am always in danger of hospitalization from laughing so hard. They're coming in tomorrow from out of town and J'Nett and I have been friends since we were four-years-old. She used to beg me to let her play with my waist-length hair and braid it while we sat staring at the tv. Back then I didn't want ANYBODY messin' with my hair - and it looked like it. Now, I'm a much more grateful woman. Do you want to play with my hair? Do my nails? Rub my feet? I'm there. And I'll be there for you, too.

On the Fourth of July we were at a party where a dear friend had a bad headache. I rubbed her neck and shoulders to try and help and gave her some tips on how she could sit in the tub relaxing, while working on her neck. Someone said, "That's pretty hard to do to yourself." I replied, "Not nearly as hard as gettin' your husband to do it!" and then we all agreed and had a good laugh at our husband's expense and they were all sittin' 10 feet away and having a good laugh at our expense. Good times.

So in honor of good times, good friends, and good marriages that let you poke good fun at each other - isn't good a good word?! - let me share a good video with you (from Tim Hawkins) that should give you a good laugh. It's short, so don't be scared. I'm leaving to go shopping and I'll take my thesaurus to bed with me tonight so I can come up with another good word.

Have a good weekend! Good-bye!

Welcome Back My Friend to the Show that Never Ends!

I have so many useless fascinating things to tell you that I absolutely couldn't get started. Pay attention now. Raptly. Pay rapt attention. What a weird word. Where the heck does THAT come from?

Hold on.....I'm looking it up........okay, here it is....."from the latin 'raptus'.....to carry off, seize......synonyms: ecstatic, spellbound, bewitched. Also having to do with a gift giving tradition: 'I rapt your presunt cuz I coodnt find a gift bhag.' Additionally, has been used to describe a mind-numbing form of lyrical quasi-melody - Rapt Music - most glorified through massive misogyny, i.e., 'I get my kicks from beatin' chicks, but only those with a great big booty, who think I'm fine though I got no looty.' "

I may have mixed some usages as well as spellings. Disregard the former directive to pay attention. Do not pay anything in the way of attention. You would be wise to click over to the other blog you wanted to read now.

Do you see how troubled I am?

First, there was the little fact of leaving paradise at 7500 feet in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Remote camping, no one around for miles, days of 65-70 degree weather, pristine air, crisp nights. And then there was driving down the mountain and descending into Hades, aka as Fresno, average summer temperature: 158 degrees. We came in on one of the cooler days at only 108.

After that came my directive to everyone to put everything away that didn't need to be washed.

One sock went into one drawer.

I have four hundred loads of laundry to do. Well, that's a lie. I've done four loads. That makes 396. I'm more encouraged now that I see it in print. Every sleeping bag - and we took eight because there are four of us - and all blankets we've ever owned (and a few I could swear we were only considering at the store) must be de-dirted, de-smoked, de-haired, and de-sapped. De-sgusting. But wait! There's no time for all THAT......hurry and get your daughter to her de-tooth appointment!

But not before you turn in final transcripts to the college! Yes, that's right! How did you forget THAT little tidbit? What? The transcripts I turned in don't include her graduation date? Do you think she did this complete four years and 28 college units just for fun? Doesn't it LOOK like she would have graduated? But of course, we would love to resubmit them in the corrected form, you darling, you (truly, couldn't have been sweeter about it, darn it).

And oh yes!! What was I thinking?! How in the WORLD did I forget to fill out the FAFSA (financial aid) even though we won't qualify for grants and subsidies for college? We are the working middle-class. But I have exactly 12 hours to get it done before the cut-off date for the entire year (and possible exclusion from other scholarship opportunities, you Raving Robynn dunder head!) and I am so happy to sit down and look at financial information for several hours because it's actually my hobby. I love numbers. That's why I'm a writer.

And oh, thank you! A flaming arrow to the eyeball from someone who not-so-subtly criticizes the amount of time I spend writing. To some, it's kind of a useless hobby unless you get paid a gazillion dollars. And you can't get paid a gazillion dollars unless you hone your craft. So I write and duck. Encouragement! It's a gift!

And what's that daughter? But of COURSE we must go shopping for special food you will need for your non-chewing recovery. How did I forget that? This will undoubtedly disqualify me for that "Mom of the Year" award I was coveting.

And yes, you smart-alec dentist billing diva tersely informing me the bill will be more than you originally advised. If you use the term "We alREADY have to write-off our NORMAL charges" one more time, I may remove YOUR teeth without the benefit of anesthesia. Your use of the word "write-off" represents a poor command of the English language and reveals your loose grip on reality. It is, in fact, what you agree to with our insurance company in order to get the business they send your way. It is actually the amount you will receive for doing thirty minutes of work - $1800. That's right - start to finish - anesthesia to empty sockets - thirty minutes - I couldn't believe it when they called my name to collect my daughter. That's $3600 dollars an hour to you and me, Mr. and Mrs. Average Person. If you do not feel $3600 dollars an hour is adequate compensation, please take it up with your boss, the DEVIL. And do not attempt to further admonish me. I am a dangerous woman with 396 loads of laundry waiting at home.

And what? Now? My back goes out? Ice-heat-ice-heat-ice-heat. Housekeeping going rapidly downhill.

And poor daughter! In pain, throwing up, miserable. Ice-ice-ice for daughter. Call the doctor at 11:30 p.m. He is very nice and has no tone. He KNOWS he makes $3600 dollars an hour. He is a happy man.

Of course, my son! Let me drive you to your sleepover! I'm sorry I'm an hour late in delivering you. What was I thinking, doing, annihilating? Let's go! Isn't life exciting?!!! I'm so sorry you can't take the X-Box 360 with you. It costs a lot of money you cannot afford if you should drop it. And your dad and I don't want you playing video games for the ENTIRE visit like you did with your friend at our house last time because you couldn't walk after attempting to remove your complete knee-cap in a wondrous boy adventure! Wasn't that fun?! I sure hope you have ANOTHER one of those marvelous male moments! LOVE YOU! Bye-Bye!!

What daughter? Are your teeth (well, sockets, to be exact) okay? Are you ill? Why are you calling while I'm taking your brother? Oh? We have company coming by? Oh, isn't that just the best? Oh, no really! She's a darling girl and we love her and it is so sweet of her to think of you. But did you buy mommy an hour so I could hose out the house? What? You didn't? Oh, that's alright. Nothing bothers me. I'm so easy-going. I still feel like I'm on vacation!

There you have it. We're all "rapt" up in life just now. And I've been a tad crabby in the sense that an alligator can grow slightly impatient if you continually pull his tail, gouge his eyeballs with a stick, and remove steak from his mouth during the chewing/swallowing process . But I'm moving out..................................OH! of it, OF IT! (sorry I was daydreaming there for a second), and feeling positively effervescent. And I KNEW you'd want to share in my ebullation. Is that a word?

Hold on, I'll check.

Observational Twitter 17

Adage:

"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." Benjamin Franklin

Epigram:

"A pound of prevention isn't equal to an ounce of really good chocolate." Robynn




Copyright 2009

Breaking News!

Mrs. M at I've Changed My Name to Mommy just notified me this late night (which is actually early morning - party preparations and all) that an interview she did with me last week is up and posted on her blog today! I can't believe it but it's there. I hope you get a chance to pop over and check it out and peruse her blog as well. You'll like her. And if you follow her, you will be entered in a drawing to be featured. Isn't that the most generous thing? I LOVE her blog and she is quite the interviewer as well as writer. I hope she teaches a class. I'll take it! THANK YOU MRS. M!! You are gangs of fun!

(My regular post appears below - don't miss the Fuplers!)

The Fuplers Kick off the Party!

Tonight is graduation party night. Rock on. It's time for luau and karaoke and scores of friends. Bo here, and Miss Maddie, are making a night of it by combining parties. Should be a great time!

But, parties put me in a silly mood and I'm thinkin' by the time midnight rolls around, I'm gonna be pretty hysterical. I'll be laughing at everything and nothing. And I want you to be laughin' with me. So I just HAVE to share the following video. Oregon cousins brought this to us and well, we've been tuning in regularly just so we can split seams all over again. If teenage boy descriptions of a body part everyone possesses offends you (no swearing involved), then I advise you not to watch. But if you are in possession of children, especially siblings, you will find this tame (unless yours are completely unlike mine, never fight, and always say only the sweetest things to each other.) That ain't life around our house and I think this may feature my mom mojo, especially the five-o'clock shadow.

The funniest thing is one guy plays the part of mom, dad, teenage brother, and little sister. Do yourself a favor and put your coffee down.

(P.S. Video run time is actually two minutes even though it says two-and-a-half.)

Dearly Departed......

And then there were none.

The last of my visiting cousins left early this morning to head back to Oregon. That group comprised Joey, his wife Laurie, and their girls, Elizabeth and Ashley, the 19-yr-old twins, Katie, The Wild Man's age and in full possession of a sensitive and curious mind, and Julianna, 11, the spitfire. We got to keep Elizabeth for the night on Monday (she is at college so she and Bo had a lot to talk about). And most came for lunch yesterday as we hung out and had great laughs. Ashley had to miss out on this part because she headed for Ukraine on a missions trip.

On Saturday night we hosted the Illinois/Iowa cousins. Kristen (on the left here) and Stasha (on the right) came rolling in for dinner and stayed into the wee hours of Sunday morning. I had never met Stasha. She moved to California in 1993 and, being the functional family we are, no one ever told us. The fact is, no one really has much of a relationship with anyone else and truth-telling is at a minimum. (If the craziness on both sides of this family tree gets any deeper, the Grand Canyon will look like a mud puddle in comparison. Ah, Egypt....I do NOT long for you. I LOVE the Promised Land!) In fact, she never knew she had family in California. And Kristen we saw, for the first and last time, once, when she was 15.


So here we are, the remnant, the truth-tellers. Some of the cousins and one Aunt, from both sides of my family, willing to look the facts in the eyeball and move forward. Willing to do the hard work of changing family legacies, by God's goodness and grace to us, and then gladly Lampooning everything within range, for sanity's sake. No "Leave It to Beaver" here. In fact, I think most everything must have gotten left to Beaver. Except the humor - who has more fun than a bunch of refugees from wacked-out families? And what we lack in family numbers we make up for in the largest and most supportive group of true friends - some of them refugees themselves. And the best thing about friends is you get to pick them. O yea, O YAY!

So goodbye, family. Thank you for the reconnect. I hope it grows and blossoms as we've all headed down our different paths of reconstruction. God bless us everyone. Especially the goofballs like Junlianna here with as many grapes in her mouth as she can shove in.

Copyright 2009

Whatcha Been Chewin'?

Minky and JoJo would like to bring you today's update. It's a good thing, too. I'm still just a little spittin' mad at Blogger. It's better this morning but not fully fixed yet. (The dogs had to create this photo post backwards because nothing can be rearranged.) So I'm leaving now to assume my position on the fainting couch and sending this post to the dogs.



Hello!! MInky here, with news from my beautiful self. Look how the sun highlights my eyes in this remarkable photo. And do you see how I have my two front socks pulled up just perfectly so they match? I amaze myself. I am 8-months-old now and looking for ways to "go greeen" by composting the trash, recycling, and down-sizing. If I find it, I chew it.

Here's a small sampling of some recent work:

That red thing in the middle is actually supposed to be for dogs to chew on. Every time I chewed it, it got smaller and smaller. It’s kinda freakin’ me out. Pieces of it are showing up when I go outside to do my business. That’s not right. It seems to be following me.

(Oh my good grief. Could I BE any more bored? JoJo here. If you’ve been puttin’ off a root canal, now’s your moment. It might be more entertaining. Minky's probably gonna drag on and on about this piddlin’ life of hers and makin’ a big deal outta nuthin’. She’s never faced a bear or caught a cat by the tail. You know, the stuff REAL dogs do. I’ll just keep sittin’ here prayin' an anvil falls on my head.)

Anyway, look at these! These gloves are made out of Kevlar. My dad got some for work and they worked out great so, he got some for me, too. He thought we could wrestle and they would save him from my shark-like teeth. He was wrong. I found where he left the gloves and finished ‘em off.

Underneath that red thing below is my chipmunk. You might wanna look away if you’re squeamish. I pulled all of his guts out and I think those plastic things on either side might be his bowels. Yeah, I think I disemboweled him. When I bit down on him they made squeaky noises. I have that problem once in awhile with my digestive system. So does JoJo. Hers are loud which I think is AWESOME. It happens when she flops down on the floor.

Here’s me in mid-flight catchin’ the chimpmunk carcass. If you look right in the middle of that gray SUV behind me, you’ll see if heading right for my open jaws.

(You did NOT TELL THEM about my personal issues…..what a rat fink. You must work for the Enquirer. I have no dignity left.)

Well, I could be a professional journalist, I'm sure. And every good reporter needs a few pencils, some gum to work off the energy of waiting for that breaking story, and a comb to maintain a good appearance. That's why I hunted these up:

So then, in the spirit of journalism, let me ask you Madam JoJo, what have you been up to?

Well, finally a subject of interest to your readers. I haven’t been chewin’ stuff up all over the house like someone whose initials are Minky. I bark when I need to, like when people we know come over. And I generally maintain my happy-go-lucky attitude when you’re not buggin’ me, which leaves me precious little time for happy attitudes, I can tell you. But here's a shot of me in one of those rare moments:

Okay, well that’s enough about you. Now let’s get back to me.

Here’s another GREAT action shot of me on the fly. Check out that hang time and the air I got!

I look kind of chubby, but I'm not. I'm really just fluffy. My mom says she looks kind of fluffy, but she's not. She's just chubby.

So that's the latest from the home front right now. Happy tails to you from me and Happy Jo!!

Copyright 2009

O Great Medicine Woman!

Had I been born in an ancient place or time, when you didn't have to go through all these bothersome years of medical school and voluminous dry tomes, I would have been a great doctor. Through my own research I could have analyzed you way before Freud (and I would have known the true things you envied and those you did NOT), developed a method of treatment for PMS by gender - you know, Pre-Menstrual Syndrome or Petulant Male Sickness - let's face it, crabbiness is not limited to only those possessing uteri - and then whipped you up a dandy herb concoction as treatment.

Nowadays, you are required to know where the amygdala is as well as what a pre-frontal cortex does. If you actually want to buy a stethoscope you have to define occipital lobe and limbic system. It is no longer good enough to point to someone's cranium and say, "That's where yur BRAIN is, Jethro. If you don't believe me, well, let's just crack that thing open 'n have us a look see!"

Personally, I believe I would have fit right in with the likes of these guys:

I love color and big bangly jewelry so I could see myself workin' the whole outfit thing. But then my obligation as a purveyor of health would have kicked in and I'd be advising that guy on the right to lose the cigarette. At that point, of course, they would have held out their grateful arms for a big group hug, snapped my neck, and boiled me in the over sized communal stew pot.

However, I was born in this place and time and so must practice medicine on my family and friends in my own version of a village healer. This works out even better because they are not nearly as free to uh, liquidate me, as it were, with impunity.

Learning is my thing and I'm happy to share and help whether I am needed or not.

I enjoy knowing what makes people tick; why we do what we do; how what we eat affects our whole sense of well being; and how our second brain, the digestive system (which actually has nearly as much serotonin as our brains) impacts our mood through its complex systems. This is the type of late night reading I enjoy:

I even like to know what made Jane Austen do what she did, as in, entertain me MIGHTILY. (Okay. I don't think this has anything to do with the subject. And I may or may not have a shrine erected in my home to honor her.)

One thing every good healer knows is she practices medicine on herself first. If she does not die or have body parts fall off, then she is free to help others. I am the one people call for advice and come to for over-the-counter medicine when we're at functions together. I always carry Advil and Sudafed for Grizzly's sinus headaches, Excedrin for migraine, and Tylenol for those who can't take anything that might upset their stomach. I get a good ribbing about this occasionally but everyone keeps coming for relief. I have even been known to leave in the middle of church to hunt down Benadryl for a friend having an allergic reaction. I liken it to getting the donkey out of the ditch on the Sabbath. Some things simply must be done.

But I have made mistakes.

There was the time I put ear drops in my son's eyes. The bottles looked nearly identical. When he told me they felt "burny" I told him he was overreacting. But when he looks at you intently now and says, "I hear you," believe him.

Or the time I told him to take a big sniff of Zi-cam when he squirted it (because Grizzly said that's what the direction were). Note to all medicine women: Never trust anyone not highly skilled in the healing arts, i.e., men, because they never read the directions to anything. This was the exact opposite of what was prescribed on the package and had the resultant "MAJOR burny" effect. Lesson learned the wrong way: on someone else. That's bad medicine.

But probably my biggest error occurred on myself - the way it should be. It is the reason I am suspect to any and all when they get injured and I advise ice. I'm really not good with ice. It's probably because I'm a throw back to before they had ice, unless you lived in the glacial regions. Personally, I like the stuff and think it's good for just about anything, except migraine - which requires 3000 degree hot packs to the pre-frontal cortex.

My problem seems to arise in the theory that if a little is good, cryogenics is better. I have burned my back numerous times with ice packs applied to bare skin for well over an hour. But oh, what blissful, pain-free hours they were. Until later.

And then there was the time I froze my finger. Solid.

I had been washing our SUV and needed the ladder to get to the top. When I popped it up, I trapped my baby finger in the latch that forces the ladder open and it was caught there. I frantically tried to pound up on the mechanism to free my finger while simultaneously wailing and jumping up and down. The kids ran around frenzied not knowing what to do. I managed to extricate my digit as I called for ice and dashed into the house. My daughter moved rapidly to comply but came back with ice-cubes.

"No, no, honey. Mommy needs the soft ice pack!" I advised through gritted teeth, flinging meat pies and orange juice from the freezer in my desperate pursuit. I spotted my frozen deliverer and hurriedly wrapped it around my finger. The pain was still intense so, with the instinct that makes you stand on a badly stubbed toe and stop the throb, I put a couch pillow over the ice pack and then laid down on top of the whole thing. Slowly, the pain began to wane and I started breathing. Ahhhhhhh. Ice.

I savored my semi-pain free interval until I felt a shift of some sort and decided to investigate. I extricated my finger from its packaging and discovered it was frozen solid. Just like a T-Bone from the deep freeze. I was awed. I had no idea such a thing could occur. Every good healer should know these deep secrets hidden in the magic of ice. I called the kids.

"Look!" I said with wonder. "My finger is frozen! Feel it! Tap on it! Isn't that amazing? It's just like meat!" We all enjoyed the fascination of the moment. Then I had a second thought. "Uh, I think I have to thaw this out right away," I announced. I was pretty sure this qualified as frostbite. My first-aid training came back to me and I figured cool water was better than hot. I shoved my hand under the bathroom faucet and began the process. I found myself longing for the pain of the ladder.

I discovered that thawing out frozen body parts is painful to an exquisite degree. And I've given birth. I fell to my knees with my arm still draped over the sink and there I supplicated, minus the humility part. I wailed and moaned and carried on to epic degrees. When I finally dared to analyze my former barbecue candidate, it had thawed but had no feeling on the outside. I wondered, would it fall off? I eventually learned the answer was no. It simply turned hard as the layers of skin died. A few weeks later my finger lost its exoskeleton and revealed new and baby pink skin, with nerves intact and no other damage. I was happy and still fascinated by the whole process.

Unfortunately, the incident lost me my icing privileges and I couldn't practice them in any other state, either. Now, when I head for the ice-packs to halt bruising or swelling, everyone runs from me. Okay! I was wrong about this one thing. I've learned. They should trust me even MORE because I am now fully aware of the pitfalls!

And I learned them on myself. That is loaded with credibility. What doctor do YOU know who's willing to subject himself to his own medicine? Sounds like a true healer to me.

Copyright 2009 - All Rights Reserved

Time for a Giveaway!

I am overdue.

For a giveaway, not for a baby, although by the looks of my stomach some might be planning a shower. If you are, please cancel and just send the money you would have invested. I'll put it to good use. Maybe I'll buy more aprons to dress my stomach in. OR maybe I'll pay for gas to haul it over to the gym and sweat and work it into submission. That's what I did last night. I'm going again today. Is two times to the gym enough or am I gonna have to keep this up?

I am allergic to working out. I have an anaphylactic reaction. Every time I think about 30 minutes on the StairMaster I can't breathe. Then 20 minutes in the sauna to sweat out the impurities. Do you know how impure I AM? I think you'd need to leave me in there for a couple of months.

The only good part is the jacuzzi. I don't get all the way in because I'm not putting on a bathing suit in front of ANYone but my family and God, and I apologize to God. My family - well, we all have to put up with each other and torture builds character. We're a bunch of characters so I figure we've tortured each other a lot. But, as I was saying, I don't get in the jacuzzi all the way. I just put my feet and legs in to try and help with the nerve damage. There is a sign, though, and it says, "No Shaving Your Legs." If this sign is necessary because people actually do this, then there are GREAT and COMPELLING reasons to not immerse your body in there and they far supersede bathing suit reluctance.

I'm also writing down everything I eat now. It's the only thing that works for me - writer's cramp. When my hands freeze into gnarled claws then I can't feed myself. I think it's effective.

So is this book. (I took the picture in my garden because I really need to get outside more or I might be nominated for a Vampire award next.)




And I'm giving away three (3) brand new copies, one of which is autographed (I'll draw among the three for that one)*. It's by the same author who wrote "The Maker's Diet" which some of you might be familiar with. I had a chance to meet Jordan Rubin when I was working for a raw milk company. He came through last year on the kick-off of his campaign, "Perfect Weight America" and started out with a seminar at the dairy. He gave us some extra books if we promised to give them to people who would really use them. I gave out a couple but the other friends had already purchased them at Costco. So, here they are and they should go to anyone interested in eating for optimum health and the right weight for your body. Like ANYthing, they only work if you put the principles into practice. That's where my breakdown is.

I do try to eat organically and buy locally. And we are still raw milk drinkers. But I also love my sugar and sweets and loathe the exercising thing. BUTT (yes, I MEANT to use the extra "T" so I will remember yet more reasons I can't ignore certain facts), I need to quit pretending all is well and make myself do the right things.

If you need a similar kick in the pants or just good information on optimizing your health, then I believe you would enjoy this book.

Jordan Rubin is a guy who, as a young man in college, nearly died from health complications no one could address. His parents spent huge amounts of money trying to save his life. He addresses this in "The Maker's Diet" and also (to a limited degree) in "Perfect Weight." He is definitely inspiring.

So, here's what you do: Signing up to FOLLOW (see the little button over the follower pictures? Just click that) will automatically give you two entries. If you are already one of my wonderful followers I THANK YOU and, you can get two entries by leaving me a comment (FOR MY BODY'S SAKE) offering any tips you might have about your own journey in the weight wars. (If you never struggle and have a perfect body, please do not tell me this. Just recite poetry or quote a line from your favorite book about plumbing and drywall repair.) If you blog about this contest (with a link) simply leave a comment saying so and you get five extra entries.

*I apologize to my international friends but shipping is SO expensive on this OVERWEIGHT book, I will have to limit this to shipping in the U.S. only. I promise to give away an Amazon.com e-gift card next time so it can go anywhere!

DRAWING WILL BE HELD: Friday, May 22nd. Contest closes at midnight on that day, Pacific Standard Time.

Here's a Shocker!

My sweet friend, Debbie, over at Jadehollow, made this little button for me.

Why? Well, because she is caring, thoughtful, and wonderful, of course, but also because she selected me for this award:


It's from a blog party she participated in and it could only be given to one person. And she chose ME! And she did a whole write up on me and linked people to different articles and even included some of YOUR comments. I was floored. When I popped over there for my usual read I just merrily scrolled down to see who the lucky person was going to be and - I'm dead serious here - I wasn't crossing my fingers, or legs, or eyes that it would be me because it honestly never even dawned on me to consider it.

So, when I saw my name and this darling button, my eyes did that thing where they pop out and lay on my chest. (I'm sure you've heard me mention that attractive talent I have. Once in awhile they roll right down on the floor and peer around corners and that's how I know what my kids are up to.)

I could not believe she selected me. A Mothering Award? I tried to tell her she really might retract her selection if she knew the whole story and I tried to give her some insider information, but she still hasn't pulled it down.

Maybe I should have shared more, like:

• It takes dynamite to blast my kids out of bed. I am a failure at discipline.
  
  
• Most days the answer to the query, "What's for breakfast?" is met with, "Can you not see the cereal box, bread, toaster, etc.? Are you unable to scramble eggs?
  
  
• I let my two-year-old son ride a skateboard naked down the street. Yes, I have video.
  
  
• I rant and rave about the exact same issues and always receive the exact same results. I do not know why I have not recorded these sessions and simply hit the "play" button. I could nap during presentations. Someone once said, "Yelling at your kids to make them behave is like trying to drive your car by honking the horn." Yeah, well, when you're locked in traffic sometimes that horn feels like just the thing!
  
  
• My kids once got into a fist fight over control of the television. They broke the tv control button to the tune of a hundred bucks and gave each other a good thrashing before I could get to them. Bo had a huge bruising bite mark on her arm and TWM had such a perfect, bright red slap impression on his back you could have framed it and used it for a hand print for Mother's Day. And this is one of their fondest memories.
  
  
• I can burp like nobody's business. It's a gift born from years of tummy issues. I once read a little book to my kids about helping them form memories of their favorite things. It prompted them with questions like, "When you go to bed at night, what things do you hear in the house that comfort you?" Now, I am NOT lying here when I tell you I have spent countless hours reading to and singing to my children. They know every lullaby that's ever been written and could quote chapter and verse from the volumes they've heard. This was to be my hour of appreciation. My heart filled to the brim as I awaited my longed for response about the joyousness with which I'd filled so many end-of-the-day moments. They looked at each other and almost telepathically responded in unison, "Your nighttime burp." "What?!" I asked, incredulous. "Yeah," they happily replied. "When you wander around the house putting stuff away or starting laundry after we're already in bed, you always have one big burp and it's so comforting. We know everything is just like it should be." I told you I channel a fifth grade boy. I just didn't know he visited every night and they'd like him better than me. It's good to know the stories they'll tell THEIR children.

(How I see myself)

(How my children see me)

That's just a small sampling of my mothering skills and the loving and gentle way in which my children are guided daily. I would tell you more but they are having a knock-down-drag-out over who should have to wash the pans and who got out of it last time. This seems like a good time to push that "play" button.

I leave you with these thoughts:

"It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge." Phyllis Diller

"Parents often talk about the younger generation as if they didn't have anything to do with it." Haim Ginott

"You don't really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around - and why his parents will always wave back." William D. Tammeus

I am so blessed by all of you and I wish you the most wonderful of Mother's Days. May your children rise up and call you "Blessed!" And these are for you. :-)

With Love,

Robynn

Copyright 2009

Let HER Entertain You.....

Alright.

You deserve a laugh. I can't do better than this today. I think she captured childhood and maybe even humanity. Mind you, same mom, same exposure to God and church for both kids. Here ya go: Why We Scratch Our Heads as Parents.

"Something Wicked This Way Comes........"

In case you're wondering what to do today and just can't come up with anything, let me offer you this advice: Do anything except hold a snake right after it eats. I know the risk of this is high. I'm here for you.

I offer this tip from first hand experience. They don't like it.

I have learned quite a bit about feeding snakes. And I have also learned quite a bit about snakes that have been fed. You should probably stop reading at this point.

Goodbye! Have a nice snake-free day!

(Elevator music here.....................)




You're still here aren't you.

Suit yourself but I will not be responsible for the violent illness you are about to experience. Please keep all arms and legs inside the ride until it comes to a complete stop.

Several years ago, being the demented homeschoolers we are and having a sickening and morbid fascination delightful and childlike curiosity about nature, we decided to buy a snake. We had been to the fair and seen ball pythons, and, discovering they rarely bite and don't have big fangs (they're constrictors) we figured this was the three-foot-long, two inch diameter reptile for us.



Twenty bucks later we were picking ticks off a snake.

Yes, that's right dear reader. Did you realize not only dogs get big, fat disgusting ticks but so do snakes? Aren't snakes, in their own dear way, gross enough already?

Well, the answer to that silly query is no, they are not. They can, in fact, become much grosser for a variety of reasons.

We learned about snake ticks through vast internet searches. We always search endlessly about whatever new endeavor we embark upon so we may never have to do actual housework or yardwork again be good and trusted guardians of anything we acquire. Upon discovering snake ticks we also learned how to remove them. You must inspect millions of snake scales while looking through a magnifying glass and checking for little black things attached under said scales. If you are cursed and reviled among women lucky, you will find them. You then use tweezers to pull them off. You must do this for a SNAKE'S comfort and health even though you might be tempted to let your best friend die of tick poisoning before combing through her entire body hunting for ticks.

The next adventure will be getting your snake to eat. Yes, snakes, just like everything else, must take in nourishment. Purina does not make snake food for you to put in a cute little bowl with your pet snake's name emblazoned on the side. (Our snake's name was "Max." My apologies to our wonderful HUMAN friend, Max. It was before we knew you. He was nothing like you. I have never even known you to have fleas, let alone ticks.)

Back to feeding your snake. Where snake food comes from is from rats. That's right. Rats give birth to other rats and, before they are fully grown, you feed those rats to your snake. So, you will have to go to the pet store to buy what they call "feeder" rats. You may feel somewhat squeamish about this but it is, after all, what snakes do: keep rodent populations down. But, occasionally, in the feeding process, problems arise. Some snakes can actually be fearful of live rodents running around their cage and so develop eating reluctance. They can even die if they wait too long to eat. You, therefore, as the pet owner, must take them to therapy where they will lie on very long, narrow couches and tell their therapist about how having ticks picked off of them has made them afraid of EVERYthing. The therapist will admonish you and then advise you to kill your snake's food before you offer it.

That's right. In order to become a qualified and caring snake owner, you may personally, with your own personage, in person, have to kill rats, or at least knock them out. This is simple, the websites all say. Simply grab them by the tail, give them a swing, and bop their heads against something hard. This will knock them out kill them instantly. At that time, lay the soundly "sleeping" rat in the snake's cage and, if given ample privacy, he will consume them without terror to the rat or snake. They claim this is the most humane way rodents are eaten in captivity or in the wild. This seems to make sense and you hate and loathe your husband for ever bringing this stupid thing into the house appreciate the man you've married when he offers to take care of this unpleasant business.

Once your sleepy-time rat is safely ensconced inside your snake's cage, you may find your snake still won't eat. Eating is a very private snake activity, and just as we, as travelers, may experience that uncomfortable feeling of, how shall I say it, public bathroom reluctance, so, in the almost same way, your snake won't eat because then people might actually KNOW he eats and that would be so embarrassing. If this goes on too long, sometimes help is necessary. For your snake, this means using forceps to hold your peacefully dreaming rat, prying open the jaws of your snake, and forcing the issue, as it were. This may be unpleasant but will result in severe trauma for women, children, rats, and snakes successful nourishment for your snake and establish you as a responsible pet owner.

Eventually, our snake began to eat on his own and we no longer had to resort to these draconian measures. But we also needed more rats. Thus, we purchased Jack and Jill. Jack was a pleasant fellow and became our pet. Jill, his brawling wife, chose never to make nice and bit me heartily the first day we brought her home. However, she was prolific. So much so that we sold her offspring back to the pet store on occasion. Rats give birth to LOTS of rats. She often had litters of 14 or more. Max could never keep up. Snakes typically eat only once every week or two. Consequently, Jack and Jill had separate bedrooms.

We came to be quite fond of Max. Love is perhaps too strong a word but we enjoyed his wrapping himself around our arms and moving, seemingly without effort, up our shoulders and around our throats. We tried not to take this personally and only disengaged him when we were in danger of blacking out. Bo was very good with him and "wore" him frequently around the house. The Wild Man was still too young for snake handling or charming (unless snakes are charmed by putting them in your mouth which he tried to do) but found Max's company fascinating. I came to like feeling Max draped over my shoulders and around the back of my neck as I sat typing at the keyboard. (Of course, people thought we were brave and clever incredibly stupid and moronic and we may have lost friends we actually liked.)

And it was in one of these tender snake/owner moments between Max and me that I learned a cardinal rule about snakes: They must have time to digest.

Max had just finished a particularly successful feeding session a few hours earlier when I decided we should have some warm and fuzzy bonding time together. I had work to do at the computer and thought the company would be nice. I picked him up, everyone had a look and some touching and handling, and then I placed him in his favorite position draped lazily dangling around my neck. I took my seat. I wasn't typing very long when I felt him begin to move. This wasn't all that unusual as he wasn't always stationary. In fact, his moves frequently felt almost massage-like and I reveled in the relaxing effect taking place in my shoulder muscles. I smiled. His movements seemed to become more pronounced. More than I had felt before. He seemed to be lurching, in fact. I became paralyzed and stricken dumb with the horrifying realization that this snake could hurl on me concerned.

"Grizzly!" I screamed as though my underwear had suddenly become consumed in an all out conflagration called out. "I think Max is going to throw...............................up."

And at that moment, there for me to behold in all its slime covered rat glory, was our snake's breakfast - every last dead nose, feet, fur, and tail of him - laying on my lap in one whole and intact package.

There really aren't words to describe this particular situation. You can't move or the thing will slide down your legs, and you can't simply sit still with a dead, slimy rat in your lap and a retching snake around your neck. So you just continue to shout out, "Ewww, EWWWW, EWWWWWWWWW!!! while your husband dashes in and hoses down your underwear with the fire extinguisher. Eventually you know he will discover the truth and bring you a paper towel because HE sure as heck isn't grabbing that dead slimy thing off your lap.

Thus, when you are tempted to buy snakes, kill rats, and allow serpents to encircle your throat, refrain gentle reader. Oh, not from the purchase. Ownership is delightful as you can see. But do wait a proper period of say, thirty years or so, before holding your resplendent reptile after he has dined.

Don't say I didn't tell you so because I guarantee you: you heard it here first.

"I'm not about to go out and buy a snake for a pet. I mean, I may have faced a few fears but I'm not insane." Kristen Davis

Copyright 2009

*Photos are stock imges from the internet but are very like our snake.

Pig Deal

I have acted like a pig.

I have eaten like a pig.

I have EATEN a pig.

I like Miss Piggy.

I have an all-time favorite movie about a pig.

I have an all-time favorite book about a pig.

I've been to football games where they toss around a pig skin.

I used to be married to a man who behaved like a pig. (Sorry, pigs everywhere, that wasn't fair.)

(Not my actual first husband. This guy looks much nicer, is a snappier dresser, and probably never held a loaded gun on his wife - and that's not even what I divorced him for!)

I have wished we had a store named "Piggly Wiggly" just because it's fun to say.

I have even played, "This little piggy went to market" (but I didn't actually eat the toes).

However, I have never, nor do I now, want anything to do with THIS pig.

Seriously....This is a Disease

Just one more and then really, I have so many other things to do. And tell you. And show you. But I just had to run this one past all y'all. Isn't that irritating when people from California say "y'all?" And I'm not even from Bakersfield.

So last night, I got out the DVD series that my dear friend, Teresa, loaned me. (Sorry Teresa! I know it was only TWO MONTHS ago but I had to read those books you loaned me first!)You've seen Teresa's name pop up here if you read comments. She even actually KNOWS me so right there is proof I have friends in real life. And she still comes around here. Which also shows you my friends might be as mental as I am.

Bo had been away for four days at Disneyland/Huntington Beach on her senior trip - with hey! Teresa as one of the chaperones and planner/coordinator extraordinaire - and now she was home and I was glad because I was MISSIN' her. I let her sleep until 1pm, then The Wild Man and I hunkered down to listen to all the fun details of her trip. Afterwards I paid bills, ordered a year book for her, shopped graduation announcements, worked on plans for her graduation party, sent out save-the-date emails, blogged, and then at some point, drew a breath and had an epiphany (it's like a baby but it hurts a lot less): "We gotta watch 'The Waltons' or Teresa's gonna kill me!" I mean, I'd been wanting to watch it but couldn't figure out when.

My kids have never seen it so I envisioned this tender family moment wherein midwest, depression-era values, and bonding, and all things good would be emulated and modeled for us on screen. From a writer's perspective. With Richard Thomas playing "John Boy," the writer/narrator. Bo wants to write. This would be so meaningful to her. I could feel the mother/daughter bonding being born at that very moment from my own body. It was so real I nearly nursed it, diapered it, and stuck it in a crib.

"Doesn't that sound good?" I inquired of my dual progeny. The hairy-legged child had to be pulled off "Guitar Hero" with the Jaws of Life and the girl who had just arrived from "The Happiest Place on Earth!" wasn't all that happy. She was missing her fun friend time and unbridled freedom. The bosom of her family was a poor second to the thrill-a-minute world from which she had recently transported. She also wanted to read a book while we watched. It's good to be loved.

And then there's me with possible ADD issues. (Thank you, Sharon, my dear follower friend. Your check for analysis is in the mail. You may be on to me.) The very second Richard Thomas's face loomed onto the screen I started doing it. "Look at that smile........who IS that?" This one didn't take me long. Hands down, it was Scarlet Johanson. Is Richard Thomas her father, Luke?

Again, I say, YOU be the judge.

Look at the TEETH! The nose! The shape of face! Okay, so she plucks her eyebrows. Work with me.


Alright, that's it. I'll leave you alone now. It may be that you actually have to see the lift of his head as he smiles over the pool table at Ike Godsey and the Sheriff. You might have to rent the very first episode of The Waltons. You might have to take an Excedrin after reading this and wonder what in the world you were thinking when you decided to hang out with me. Go back to your lives as they were before I tried to infect you. If you haven't caught it, run away. It is terminal. I'll live with it until I die. If I bug anymore people, that might be sooner rather than later.

Copyright 2009

Twins? YOU Be The Judge.

I have one television program I watch. That's it. I used to have two. Then I started blogging. Now any media time I have is spent here. But I do watch it, religiously, if religiously means most of the time I forget it's on and then I have to watch it through my cable company. My program is "LOST." I've been watching from the beginning and I still don't know what's going on so if you want to jump on board now, just remember: they don't call it "LOST" for no reason.

Maybe my problem is I can't focus. You know how I shared about our family affliction of morphing names? And a whole bunch of you said you have this same condition? Well, I have another problem. I can't help making face associations. I will watch a program or movie and keep thinking the whole time, "Who the heck does this actor remind me of?" And then I'll ask my family why I can't understand what's happening in the show or movie and they always say the same thing: "Aren't you WATCHING?!"

Well, uh, sorta. I'm watchin' that face.

I think I should work for the FBI or CIA or something. If some known criminal tried to slip out of the country in drag, I'd spot 'em immediately. I wouldn't necessarily crack the case but I'd say, "Hey! Stop that guy! He reminds me of somebody!" And then I'd spend my whole lunch hour replaying the tape and buggin' other agents who were watching security cameras by saying, "Can't you see it? Look. Look over here at MY monitor. See? Now who does that remind you of? What? Madea? Hey, you're right! That's Tyler Perry!"

And then they'd fire me.

But maybe I could draw my pension until I drop dead. That's what our senators and congressman get to do. They just have these short jobs and then we pay their pensions for the rest of their lives. Oh for pity's sake, how did I climb up on THAT soap box? I really should wear a seatbelt and stay in it.

Where was I? Face recognition, that's right, and that program I watch, "LOST." The actor who kept reminding me of someone is Josh Holloway. He plays a character named Sawyer, or James, depending on who's talking to him.

Another favorite actor (or actress, if you will) is Jodie Foster. And one night, after reliving movie scenes in my head, I saw it. And I exclaimed, "That's IT! That's who Sawyer reminds me of! It's Jodie Foster! They even have a similar way of talking!" No one really caught my excitement. They kept telling me to watch the program. I WAS watching and I still have no idea what's going on.

But I decided to look up those famous faces online and compare them. You tell me. Separated at birth? One very busy actor? Swimmin' in the same gene pool?

I have this affliction when we go places, too, and sometimes tell people, "You look just like my Great Aunt Gertrude." (And I don't even HAVE an Aunt Gertrude.) My husband wants to kill me or pretend I'm a vagrant he's never seen before. (That probably tells you more about how I dress than it should.) I guess it is embarrassing when the person I'm telling is the 18-year-old produce guy. I try to refrain. No really. I'm so much better than I used to be.

I have to be. I can't afford to get fired from this wife/mother job. Gotta keep workin' for life cause there's no pension whatsoever. Even though I was voted into office.

Copyright 2009