Fish In My Hair

The Christmas Ovaries

2011-03-21T12:33:00.004-05:00

I recently had to make another visit to The Land That Fashion Forgot. I was scheduled for an oophorectomy, which is a complicated medical term that means, "removal of the oophs." Knowing I would have to again wear the lovely post-operative footwear, this time I went with a retro '60's theme, sporting flared yoga pants and Birkenstocks.

Turns out there's a reason the mantra went, "Peace, love, and flower power," and not, "Peace, love, and compression hose."

Even the original hippies, who did so much LSD they can't even remember the entire decade, had enough sense not to wear anything like this.

Anyway. The Hubster was his usual compassionate self (and by compassionate, I mean putting his beer within easy reach in the fridge so I didn't have to bend over when I fetched it for him).

I had to have an electrocardiogram prior to surgery, and you can imagine my surprise when the test showed that I had suffered a heart attack at some point in the past. (This is not such great health news, but it is an excellent parenting tool for guilt inducement. "Are you TRYING to give me another heart attack?!") I should have known better to expect concern when I told Hubster about the test. His response to the news was to clutch his chest and yell, "Haht attaak!" a la the late Chris Farley's Saturday Night Live character, a Chicago sports fan having a major cardiac event.

And the tender loving care really kicked in postoperatively. When I put my hand over my lower abdominal incision to splint it for coughing, Hubster asked, "What's that, your Michael Jackson impression?"

My sister wasn't much better. She asked me if I had kept the removed parts for posterity, and that I should have had them bronzed.

No worries. The tradition of the Christmas Pickle is a lovely one, but you'll never come to our house and hear, "Hey, there's a special surprise for the first person who finds TC's ovaries on the tree!"

Maybe we should re-name it "Little Jersey Shore."

2011-01-14T14:33:00.003-06:00

For those who think I make up the stories I tell about this little burg in which my family lives, here are some of the more memorable true crime reports of 2010 from our county. (Locations have been deleted to protect the nimrods.)

A woman called 911 and reported a case of domestic violence after she heard horrible screams coming from a neighbor's house. Deputies arrived to find a man yelling at his television. He was watching a Dallas Cowboys game.
A man in the ____ area said his porch was stolen.
A man reported that he was arrested in [a neighboring town] the previous week. He said the officers stole the "secret code off his cell phone." He also accused them of "farting" in his face as he sat in the back of the patrol car.
A woman reported that her boyfriend assaulted her because she threw his false teeth down a sewer pipe.
An elderly woman was found dead in a car. She had ridden in the car as a passenger with other family members all the way from Illinois, but they didn't realize she had died until they made it to a house in ____ County. It's unknown where on the trip she had died.

Here's the part that keeps me up at night: the local birth rate is on the rise.

"Technology makes our lives easier." PAH!

2010-12-21T23:47:00.000-06:00

I'm percolating a blog post about some recent events, but then I realized I need to import some old posts from 2006 in order to link back to them.... So I spent the better part of this evening copying individual posts because when I tried to use Blogger's import function, I got the dreaded error message, "byz07-51-xp1." Which, in programming-speak, probably means, "WARNING: This blogger is a buffoon and we don't want her blathering on this site. Import aborted! Run away, run away!"

Anyway. I'll get to the recent news another day. In the meantime, if you're new to this blog, just go back and read the stuff from the second half of 2006. Here's a short Christmas entry to get you in the spirit of the season.

Why My Family Will Never Make the Cover of a Homeschooling Magazine

2010-09-29T11:50:00.003-05:00

Homeschooling moms always worry about gaps in their child's education. And sometimes my kids' Facebook posts make me wonder if they're being educated at all.

Well, this explains a lot.

Apparently, we (and by "we," I mean the inmates who are running this asylum) are letting Skippy the Wonder Pug choose the day's curriculum.

Underwear tales

2010-09-21T13:51:00.006-05:00

If you've been reading this blog for very long, why haven't you gotten professional help by now?

No, that's not right. What I meant to say was, if you've been reading this blog for very long, you know I have a long-standing tradition of visiting StuffMart twice a week to pick up milk and to replace my sons' socks and underwear, which disappear under strange and unexplained circumstances. They're the only people I know who, upon walking to the end of our driveway to get the mail, leave fully clothed and return with nothing more than half a t-shirt, the back pocket from their jeans, and two shoes (usually not matching) - and no mail. And that's not even during tornado season.

Anyway. As I tunneled out from under Mt. Laundry lately, I noticed more than the usual number of boys' underwear on the west slope. Unfortunately, nearly every pair looked as though it had been used to smuggle cactus from Brazil to Canada. What's up with that? My girls are still wearing underwear they've had since they outgrew princess panties. What in the world goes on inside a boy's pair of jeans that turns his briefs into shop rags after only one or two wearings?

That was a rhetorical question. I don't think I really want to know the answer.

_________________________________

So I was in Florida last week, and I mentioned to my mother-in-law (who is a 5-star mother-in-law except for when she spoils her son, Mr. TC, and then I have to re-teach him that cold cereal with milk is too a meal and he better be darn glad for it because those boxes of Raisin Bran don't just jump into the shopping cart by themselves, thankyouverrymuch) that I wanted to visit the nearby outlet mall.

She agreed, saying, "Oh, good. I need to visit the Vanity Fair store to get some new underwear. I just don't know where mine have disappeared to."

I swear I am not making this up. And, yes, I'm concerned. Unfortunately, she didn't have any bridge games while we were there, so I wasn't able to sniff the Chex mix.

__________________________________

Do you think it's a bad thing that I frequently get emails that start with, "I thought about you today..." and then end with a story about boxer shorts?

Like this recent message from Brandi:

"So I thought about you yesterday. I found a pair of boxer shorts lying on top of the electric winch in the driveway. I expostulated*, and Daniel picked them up without comment and put them away...on the floor of his bedroom. Well, maybe you had to be there."

(* If you're looking here for a definition of "expostulated," think again. That's what teenagers with cell phones with a Google app are for. Go ask one of them.)

(* Brandi also lives in a small town in Texas. I imagine the folks down at the Piggly Wiggly grocery get all confused when she comes in and starts throwing her vocabulary around next to the Little Debbie Snack Cake display, 'cause the longest word used in rural Texas is "fixin'tuh." As in, "I'm fixin'tuh write a letter to Jerry Jones and tell him my dead coon tick hound could coach the Cowboys better'n that Wade Phillips fella.")

(* Brandi actually talks like this in real life. She's also one of those overachieving people who, every year on her birthday, does a number of push-ups equivalent to her age, is a published writer, and is taking a Master Gardener course. The reason I have not linked her blog here is because I know some of you will want to go and toilet paper her site, and I can't be responsible for that. Besides, I already tried it myself but she distracted me with big words. So I let my dog expostulate on her lawn when she wasn't looking.)

In which I prove conclusively that I am not related to Martha Stewart.

2010-08-30T16:05:00.008-05:00

Taking a break from my mutterings on aging to report on some other recent events....

___________________

I love my church. And I love the ladies in my church, even though they make me feel like a big, fat goober redneck.

Case in point: Every few months, our church holds a lovely brunch for women. Guest speakers bring words of encouragement, nummy food is served, and not one young mother has to get up because her four-year-old sneezed milk out of his nose. One of the features of the brunches is that various women volunteer (and I used the term "volunteer" loosely, as you will soon see) to decorate a table for 6-8 in the assigned theme for that particular brunch. Women bring china and stemware and fresh flowers. The ambiance is feminine and festive and restful. Well, it has been. Until the wrong "volunteer" was selected to decorate a table....

My friend, whom I will call "Carol," because that's her name, approached me a few weeks ago about decorating a table. The conversation after church went exactly like this.

Carol: How would you like to decorate a table for our next brunch? The table themes are either "Summer" or a state of your choice.

TC: No.

Carol: It's easy, you can use paper plates! Just put some pool toys on the table for your centerpiece!

TC: No. I am SO not gifted in that area.

Carol, busy writing "TC" on the list of table decorator volunteers: Okay, I've got you down!

So that was that. But what Darth Carol did not realize is that I do not own a matching set of 6-8 anythings. Well, there might be eight matching socks in our house within a couple of hours after my bi-weekly socks-and-underwear shopping trip to StuffMart. But on any given day, the only things I have eight of are Q-tips and infant rectal thermometers. (Don't ask; I have no idea.) But since the table theme wasn't "Personal Health & Hygiene" or "Orifice Care," I didn't see how that was going to help me.

In the end, I cobbed together some stuff that we had around the house and managed to dress a table for 6 people. Here are pictures of the tables in all their glory. See if you can guess which one was mine.

A pretty "Fresh and Fruity" table.

"Sunflowers and Sunshine"
"A Day at the Beach"
"Picnic in the Park"
"Southfork Ranch"

"Oklahoma Apple Blossoms"
"Does Anyone Else Smell Cow Poop?"

Anyway. At least I learned something from this experience, and it is this. If you can't hide from Carol, the next best thing to do when approached is to play dead.

"I'll have the rhododendron - no butter - with a side of those geraniums hanging by the front door."

2010-08-15T22:20:00.004-05:00

I never watched any episodes of the infamous Survivor shows on TV. I always figured if I really want to see a group of sociopaths pretend to like each other and form faux alliances, I could turn on CNN and watch our Congress in action.

But it dawned on me recently that, as I've gotten older, every day becomes an immunity challenge in which I try not to vote myself off the island. Permanently, if you get my drift.

Take eating, for instance. I mean, you live your first 40+ years pretty much eating whatever you like with no thought for the consequences, mostly because there aren't any. But then you hit a Certain Age, and suddenly your internal organs go all geriatric on you, and you don't dare eat the wrong things lest your gizzards implode in a great mushroom cloud of deathness.

So eating out becomes an additional challenge, because you have to look for menu options that are:

low fat
high fiber
sugar-free
low carb
high in antioxidents
low calorie
organic
packed in BPA-free containers
endorsed by Wilford Brimley, who apparently is eating the right things because he's 175 years old

I don't know why restaurants even bother putting little icons on the menu to mark the least dangerous foods (geriatric organ-wise). Basically, your food choices are 1) shrubbery, and b) green tea (which is, in fact, a liquid made from shrubbery).

That's why I've started choosing restaurants based on the landscaping around the building. That stroll from the parking lot to the front door, past the greenery under the windows? That's the older person's version of the salad bar, buffet table, and dessert cart. Yummo.

I'm pleased to report that the all-shrubbery diet has kept me alive thus far. Showering without my glasses on, however, is another story. Stay tuned.

Your guess is as good as mine.

2010-08-12T11:00:00.005-05:00

I have no idea where my muse went. Maybe took a job as a census taker. Maybe became a nun. Maybe joined up with the roller derby. Maybe became a flight attendant for JetBlue.

Wherever, it was obviously a better paying gig.

But thanks to lots of ~~pressure~~ ~~demands~~ ~~threats~~ concern from my friends, I'm ready to give this blogging thing another go. Well, that, plus I have a lot of stuff to crab about.

________________

I recently perused the May 2010 copy of More magazine. If you're not familiar with More, it's a publication for "mature women," allegedly to encourage them to stay hip and relevant and to celebrate aging. (As if.)

I could take the magazine a lot more seriously if they didn't always feature surgically enhanced 40-year-old actresses who celebrate aging by getting back into their size 2 jeans. Forty isn't even "mature," in my book. If you're young enough that your ovaries are still working and your knees don't look like they've grown an eyelid of thigh skin, you have no business calling yourself a mature woman. More would gain a lot more readers if, once in a while, they featured a 65-year-old woman with a face resembling a Basset hound who gave in and bought bigger size pants because she refuses to give up real butter.

Anyway. This particular issue of More included interviews with some comediennes and female comedy writers, and this statement by Sherri Shepherd struck a chord with me:

"Comedy is an art form where you have to be imperfect. That's what makes you funny. Young and pretty isn't as funny as old and pissed off about it."

Mm hm. Which is why my next post, about the challenges of aging, is going to be titled, "Survivor: AARP."

Redneck vacation, day 2

2009-12-12T15:04:00.002-06:00

You know those couples who say they can't wait to retire so they can travel the world together?

Okay, that's not me and The Hubster. We can barely manage to make the 40 mile drive to church each week without killing each other, and the only reason that in-vehicular manslaughter hasn't occurred (yet) is because neither of us would want to clean out the car afterward.

Here's the thing. I was instructed under the old philosophy of "defensive driving," which taught me to assume that every other driver on the road is an idiot, suffering from dementia, and probably under the influence of illegal substances to boot. On top of that, I grew up in New Jersey, where everyone I knew had burly, hirsute cousins named Rocco and Joey who, if you cut them off on the freeway, would come to your house and do bad things to you or your cat. (I had a very pink cousin named Geoffrey who was into raising African violets and later turned out to be gay, so the most threatening thing he would do was make fun of your shoes.)

So. When I drive, I try to keep a nice space of paranoia - er, safety, between my car and the vehicles around me.

I don't think Hubster's ever heard of defensive driving. His theory is that every other person on the road is there for the express purpose of making his drive utterly miserable. He's convinced there's a vast conspiracy of crappy drivers who just sit in their crappy cars, waiting to hear that Mr. TC has left his driveway, so they can pull out of their crappy garages and then drive on HIS road at 30 miles an hour under the speed limit. Just to piss. him. off.

On top of that, he drives a Ford F350 - an pickup truck that's big enough to house an entire Mexican village. So Hubster doesn't do the whole bubble of safety thing. Quite the opposite. He gets as close as possible to other cars or trucks, because he genuinely believes that his truck has the ability to suck up a smaller vehicle through the air intake system and then poop it out through the exhaust pipe.

Needless to say, we don't do well together in the car, especially when Hubster is driving. I gasp a lot, and end up arriving at our destination with strained forearm muscles from holding onto the door frame. Hubster thinks I should wear a burka with the eye slit sewn shut.

So it was a long 1500 miles from Texas to upstate New York. Even with the burka.

Day One of the 2009 Epic Redneck Vacation

2009-10-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

It didn't start out as a redneck vacation. But we were just a few hours into it when I realized I was actually living a bit from the act of a self-proclaimed "hillbilly comedian." It was too late. The vacation theme was firmly established.

So. There we were, driving through Tennessee, when, as Tim Wilson says, I started seeing mirages and thought I was in Las Vegas. But no, it turned out I was here:

a fireworks superstore.

Not a fireworks stand, mind you. This was a place for serious shoppers.

It had air conditioning.

It had check-out lines.

There were employees with name tags.

There were shopping carts.

And the reason for the shopping carts was quickly apparent. No one walks in a fireworks superstore and says, "I just need to pick up a dozen sparklers and a couple of bottle rockets for the annual hog roast at Cousin Murvil's this weekend."

Oh, noooo. This is bulk purchasing at its finest. At the fireworks superstore, you can only buy cases of explosives that are labeled with names like, "ENOUGH SAID. (CAUTION: SETS OFF CAR ALARMS)," and "WAKE THE NEIGHBORS."

It was obvious that this was a store that catered to men, because 1) there wasn't a public bathroom in the place. I don't know what it is about men, but it's like admitting a gross character weakness for them to have to use a bathroom when they're away from home. My guys would rather ride 150 miles in bladder-bursting pain ("CAUTION: KIDNEYS MAY EXPLODE!") than use a bathroom at a store or service station. Knee-deep in poison ivy and fire ants, fine. Clean restroom at Target, definitely NOT fine.

Anyway. The other obvious sign that this was a guy store was the fine print on every single fireworks package on the shelves:

That's right. It's a warning that the enclosed fireworks "shoot flaming balls." Have you ever known a man who could resist anything that shoots flaming balls? I'd even go so far as to say any guy that isn't a fan of shooting flaming balls is probably unAmerican. He probably drives a Volvo and has a name like Pierre, or Hans. And if Pierre or Hans were to actually purchase a box of fireworks that shoot flaming balls, he would most certainly read the cautions on the back panel, unlike every American guy who thinks cautions are for lily-livered pseudo-men who use public bathrooms. And this reasoning explains why Cousin Murvil no longer has a back porch and his dog is missing an ear.

In the end, we left with a lot of fireworks, and I came away with a suggestion for the tourist industry in Tennessee: Why doesn't someone open a chain of underwear superstores? I bet you could draw a lot of mom shoppers who need boy's underwear in cases of 30 pairs.

Surely I'm not the only mother whose sons have lost their underwear while in the fast-food drive-through. That's right. Somewhere, between hearing "Grouk bub [static] first window [static] vlexd," and receiving my bag of Cholesterol Burgers with cheese, my sons' underwear disappeared. Vanished. Flew off their bodies, out the leg of their pants, and hid in the bushes by the intercom, I guess.

I've always thought that instead of coming with a choice of a toy for girls or boys, kid's meals should come with a choice of underwear or socks. "Okay, that's a 3-piece chicken meal. Would you like underpants with that?"

Oh, and one more request for the underwear mega-store owner: Please, in the name of all that is decent and holy, do not include packaging labels that say, "CAUTION: SHOOTS FLAMING BALLS."

Rodney Dangerfield and me

2009-09-09T20:45:00.003-05:00

One month ago

TC: I think that cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

(For the rurally uninformed, "palpating" involves sticking a gloved arm inside the cow's nether regions. Obviously not a task one knocks off between other household chores. "Hey, while I'm waiting for the socks to dry, I think I'll go palpate that 1200 pound cow.")

TC: Well, I still think she's pregnant.

Three weeks ago

TC: I definitely think that cow's pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

Danger Boy: She's just fat.

TC: No, I really think she's pregnant.

Two weeks ago

TC: That cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

ChopTop: Mom, you think every mammal is pregnant.

Ten days ago

TC: That cow is going to have a calf soon.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

FashionBug: Will you take me shopping?

Sasquatch: What's for dinner?

One week ago

TC: Well, the cow had a calf. Looks like he was born early this morning.

Hubster (after a silence while he picks his jaw up off the floor): What?! She was pregnant?

ChopTop: You mean you were right?

Danger Boy: Huh.

FashionBug: Did anyone know she was pregnant? Wait, we're not going to eat him, are we?

Sasquatch: What's for dinner?

Today

TC: You know, I think that other cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

__________________

Norman, born 9/1/09.

In which Skippy saves the day.

2009-09-04T10:19:00.005-05:00

When one lives in the country, one must realize that, occasionally, one's home will be invaded by a creature that God never intended to be an indoor, domesticated pet. But then one gets used to having a husband around.

Later, one must realize that the ongoing critter invasion problem is compounded when one lives in a home with more holes, cracks, and crevices than a Happy Meal box that's been laying in a roadside ditch since Beanie Babies came with the cheeseburger. Our house's foundation is so decimated as a result of poor construction and the effects of weather, there could be a gang of homeless Amway salespeople living in there.

So we've had our share of crickets, bees, wasps, scorpions, spiders, and mice - the latter being my least favorite, and the animal most likely to get screamed to death by yours truly.

We've also been visited by skunks, coyotes, and copperheads, all of who seem to think they belong inside just as much as the husband and the mice. And these are the animals that make it necessary to have a dog to serve as an alarm system and protector.

Of course, you get what you pay for. Here's the dog we purchased at the StuffMart parking lot:

Skippy the Wonder Pug is cute and all, but I always figured the most he could do to protect us would be to eat crickets and maybe let an ant get lost in his wrinkles.
So you can imagine my surprise when Skippy actually alerted me to The Dangerous Thing that was recently lurking in our pantry.

Skippy's dining area is next to the pantry door, and he was just making a leisurely stroll over to his food bowl, probably hoping that someone had mistakenly dropped a carton of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey into it, when he spotted The Dangerous Thing peering at him with one of its monstrous eyes.

Well. To his credit, he didn't pee on the floor. No, Skippy jumped back several feet (which, in dog feet, was about 9 inches) and let loose with barking loud enough to wake the Pope or make a bear poop in the woods or whatever the analogy is. His call to action brought several of us running to the scene, with Danger Boy hoping that this would finally be the event that would call for him to discharge a real weapon upon said Dangerous Thing.

Our fear as we approached the pantry was almost palpable. And, here, my friends, is what we found:
That's right. Skippy was protecting us from a potato.

At least I can sleep soundly at night, knowing we won't be carbohydrated to death by a rogue spud.

That Y Chromosome

2009-08-26T22:32:00.006-05:00

I just love it when I hear parents of young children say something like, "Oh, we're only going to let Johnny play with gender-neutral toys. We want him to grow up to be a peace-loving, nurturing father." Uh-huh. Good luck with that.

And I'm going to put an apron on my dog so she'll be the next Julia Child. Lord knows, we need someone around here who will cook.

The fact is, boys and girls are just different. And I don't mean in the obvious, he-needs-PeePee TeePees-and-she-doesn't way.

For instance, let's say you give a boy and a girl a plastic straw and a gum wrapper and put them each in an completely empty room for thirty minutes.

When you open the door to the girl's room, you will find that she has spent the half-hour imagining an elaborate story about having been an princess imprisoned in a tower. She will have used the straw and the gum wrapper as props - a magic wand and a precious gem, respectively. She will be eager to have you transcribe the narrative so she can send it to Grandma.

When you open the door to the boy's room, you will first notice, scattered about the room, an assortment of hardware - nails, screws, bolts - that were not in the room earlier. The boy will have no recollection of their appearance. The straw will have become a gun. The gum wrapper will be firmly lodged in the boy's right nostril. His underwear and one sock will have mysteriously disappeared. There will be one muddy footprint on the ceiling, a tuft of cat hair near the electrical outlet, and the boy's other sock will be hanging from the light fixture. The room will smell vaguely of old cheese and motor oil. He will be ravenously hungry. He will not be able to tell you a single thing he did in the last 30 minutes.

And it doesn't change as they get older.

Recently, there was a large assortment of teenage personages at my house. I don't even know if any of them were mine. I'm losing track. Because of increasingly frequent teen invasions, lately I've taken to hiding in the pantry, trying to protect the last of the Ritz crackers and Can O' Squirt Cheese.

Anyway. The girls in the crowd decided it was time for a group makeover. Specifically, facial peels. They even offered an assortment of pink grapefruit, cucumber, and chocolate scented facial products, to be applied thickly and then peeled away ten minutes later. The boys were too besotted with the girls to say no. (I love blogging. Where else can you use a word like "besotted?") Either that, or the food-like smell of the stuff lured them into assent.

Well. I'm here to tell you, teenage boys do not need illegal substances, energy drinks, coffee, or Mountain Dew to jack them up. A smear of a cucumber facial peel will turn them into human pinballs. Sports teams, take note.

At precisely 9:59:59 minutes post-application, the boys were making for the bathroom to remove their beauty products. When they emerged, they didn't look any more attractive to me, but apparently they were feeling a little testosterone deprived, because I heard one of them say, "We need to do something manly. Let's go blow something up."

There was a thundering stampede out the back door as they went to go find some fireworks. From my sentry point in the pantry, I heard some loud explosions, a cow bawling, and possibly the whispered mention of boxer shorts and a fire extinguisher.

A few minutes later, the girls were calmly removing their own facial products. The boys burst back into the house, with one proclaiming triumphantly, "Yeah! Now I smell like roasted cucumber!" I found an empty Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie box and pulled it over my head. I didn't want to hear the rest.

So, yeah, good luck with that gender-neutral plan. Let me know how that works out for you. We can discuss it in my pantry. I'll save a seat for you near the shelf where the fruit cocktail and party peanuts used to be.

Overheard in my minivan

2009-08-23T22:54:00.002-05:00

Danger Boy to Sasquatch:

"Hey! We have a bunch of those packing peanuts at home. Let's put them in our pants and kick each other!"

The Mad Hatter

2009-08-16T23:51:00.006-05:00

Danger Boy has always had a fascination with putting odd things on his head. And, no, I don't think he's got a future as a milliner. I don't know anyone - other than people who live in Hollywood or under the local freeway overpass, I mean - who would sport

the funnel look

or the margarine tub look
or the wet washcloth lookor the turkey killing cone look
or, most recently, the bunch-of-balloons look.You can't blame his parents. We dressed him normally as a baby.
Okay... maybe not.

Bad cow.

2009-07-27T23:37:00.005-05:00

Do not be deceived by the big brown eyes and the long eyelashes.

Note the shifty expression while she appears to be innocently eating grass.

This is not a good cow. This is a bad cow. This is a very bad cow. This is a cow that has earned the new name of She-Devil.

You might remember that she has a history of bovine delinquency (Houdini Cow). We really thought love and a few more strands of barbed wire would cure her of her behavioral issues, but we were wrong.

Recently, she discovered the finch feeder I had hung next to our front door. Apparently being a cow with liberal tendencies, She-Devil decided that the finch food was a federal handout to which she was entitled, and proceeded to use her forehead to throw the feeder off the hook and then gobble down every speck of seed.

But far worse was yet to come. I should have seen the bird feeder incident as a cry for help. I should have known that corn, grown in a vegetable garden for the farmer's personal consumption, is the cow version of crack cocaine. I should have seen the signs, when she started hanging around outside the fenced garden and nibbling the grass down to bare dirt, that she was setting the stage for her biggest crime to date. Scoping out the perimeter, as it were.

Alas, Sasquatch happened upon her just after she had trampled down the garden gate and eaten most of the nearly-ready-to-be-harvested corn. He chased her out, but it was too late. She was high on her cow crack. While he and Hubster were making repairs to the breached gate, she simply vaulted over them, the fence, and the tractor to polish off the rest of the corn, all the cucumbers, most of the squash, and two jalapeno pepper plants.

And here's the thing: how does one discipline an unruly, 1200 pound cow?

- You can't hit her on the rump with a rolled up newspaper. She'll kick you into the next county.

- You can't rub her nose in her misbehavior. She'll head butt you on to the roof.

- You can't shoot her. She's the source of future Junior Bacon Cheesburgers.

- You can't take her to training classes at PetSmart. She'd scare the hair off the chihuahuas.

I blame the whole thing on her first owners. They raised her from heifer-hood to be a 4H show calf. She got a diva complex early on. Once her show days were over, they put her in the pasture with the other cows, but she had (and here I am quoting her previous owner) "socialization issues." Quite simply, she didn't think she was a cow. She refused to hang with the other cows and do cow-y things like stand under a tree for 4 hours with shreds of hay hanging out of the side of her mouth. No, she was always wandering back to the house, and I think it's because she was hoping for the opportunity to make a crazed dash for the kitchen and whatever she could grab out of the refrigerator crisper drawer.

So here's my question: Does anyone know if there's a bovine version of methadone?

Coffee does a body good. If you remember to drink it.

2009-07-08T23:32:00.005-05:00

A few days ago, my sister sent me a link to an article about a research project which claims that daily consumption of three large cups of coffee may slow the progress of Alzheimer's Disease and possibly even reverse it.

Now, if there was ever a human subject to support this conclusion, it should be my own mother. The woman loves coffee. Black - no sugar and no milk. And in quantities large enough to water ski in. The only reason Columbia still exists as an independent country today is because my mom purchased at least 50% of their exported coffee in the 60's and 70's.

She's not picky about coffee, either. When I was a kid, you could count on there being a jar of those Sanka instant coffee crystals in our kitchen. I always thought that the contents looked like that gravel at the bottom of a fish tank, but my mom loved it. I think she might have sprinkled it on her toast in the morning in lieu of cinnamon and sugar. Sometimes even in lieu of the bread.

Not me. I like to dress my coffee with flavored syrups. I studied the differences between coffee presses and drip coffee makers. I grind my own beans. When I shop for coffee, I have to squeeze the bags and smell the aroma that's expelled through the little hole near the top. Other people in the coffee aisle probably think I was a scratch-and-sniff sticker addict as a kid.

But my mom's method of coffee buying works like this: 1. Look through your plastic box of coupons and use one.

Anyway. If coffee really does prevent Alzheimer's, she shouldn't be in the mid-late stages of the disease. In thinking about this, though, I did realize something. Over the last few years, I think she's actually drinking less coffee. In fact, I'm not sure she's drinking coffee at all. It just looks that way.

A couple of years ago, I'd go to her house and open the microwave to thaw hamburger for dinner, and there would be a cup of java sitting on the turntable, stone cold. She'd say, "Oh, that's my coffee from this morning! I guess I forgot it was in there."

Now, I go to her house and open the linen closet, and there's a cup of java sitting next to the pillowcases, stone cold. And she says, "Oh, that's my coffee from this morning! I guess I forgot it was in there."

Apparently, she's been reheating the same cup of coffee for nearly a decade. No wonder the Columbians have turned to marijuana as their primary export crop.

________________

In other semi-related family news, my sister accompanied my parents to do their funeral planning this week. After all the decisions were made, she called me to let me know what kind of caskets they had chosen. Mom is opting for a simple pine design, at a relatively low price of $1800. It's a good thing my sister was there instead of me. I'd have suggested that we have Mom cremated and buried in a Bunn coffee brewer.

'Cause they're just supportive that way.

2009-07-03T01:39:00.003-05:00

Somehow - possibly by a disturbance in the magnetic force in our solar system, or maybe it was just that Orion lost his belt and gave us all a great cosmic mooning - I recently ended up slated to do a stand-up comedy routine for a talent show at our church.

In the days leading up to the event, I was feeling a wee bit anxious, so, naturally, I turned to my family for some encouragement (and possibly some additional joke material). I told my kids I was worried that people might not laugh at my humor.

Sasquatch, who wouldn't know compassion if it walked up and smacked him in the back of the head, was quick to offer his "support."

He informed me that if my punch lines were met with utter silence, he'd sit in the back of the auditorium and make cricket sounds.

Lucy and Ethel take to the road.

2009-07-01T02:09:00.004-05:00

(Note: Long-time readers of this blog know that my older daughter's online persona has changed according to her hairstyle. She started life as Princess Peach, moved through toddlerhood as Princess BroccoliTop, and then spent most of her childhood and adolescence as Princess BunHead. Of late, she has taken to wearing her hair very short and of various fluorescent shades, which has earned her the new moniker, Princess ChopTop. I'm actually kind of looking forward to the day she shaves her head completely, because I have her next name all picked out - Princess Gourdita.)

Back at the end of May, ChopTop and I decided to head off on a little road trip to see some friends in Missouri (state motto: "Branson whups Nashville's butt"). Just the two of us, enjoying the 6-hour drive and having some mother-daughter bonding time. As it turned out, most of the time on the road was a daughter-iPod bonding time. Meanwhile, the mother silently - and somewhat painfully - pondered the mystery that is the Oklahoma tollway system. What kind of sadist creates a highway where coffee vending machines are located at 15-mile intervals, but where the only two roadside restrooms are situated where the state borders Texas and Missouri?

Anyway. I wasn't too worried about the drive itself, because it's pretty much a straight shot on the interstates, until the last 10-15 miles into the small Missouri town where we'd be staying. But Hubster had just gotten a GPS device for his birthday, and I thought it might be a good idea to have it with us, so we packed it into the car and headed north. Neither ChopTop nor I had even turned the GPS on, but if there's one thing the girl and I have in common, it is our certainty that we are smarter than electronic devices. And, more importantly, that we are smarter than each other. One of us would soon be proved wrong.

As we neared the region of Missouri where I thought we'd have to leave the interstate, I suggested to ChopTop that we get the GPS out and input the address of our destination. She agreed, and that's pretty much where the kumbayah portion of the trip began and ended. The next 30 minutes were a seemingly endless variation of the following conversation.

TC: Did you put the address in?

ChopTop: YES!

TC: Well, why isn't it talking to us? Isn't it supposed to tell me when to turn?

ChopTop: It doesn't talk.

TC: WHAT?! It does too talk!

ChopTop: No, it doesn't. Do you see any volume controls on it?

TC: Well, what are those arrows on the screen for?

ChopTop: Those are buttons for the menu.

TC: No, they're not!

ChopTop: YES, THEY ARE.

TC: Well, look here. The back looks like a speaker.

ChopTop: That's not a speaker!

TC: What is it then?

ChopTop: That's for ventilation, so it doesn't get overheated.

TC: I think it's supposed to talk to us.

ChopTop: IT DOESN'T TALK.

TC: Why would it not talk?

ChopTop: It doesn't need to talk! You just look at the screen!

TC: How am I supposed to watch the screen and drive at the same time? It's SUPPOSED TO TALK.

ChopTop: Trust me - IT DOESN'T TALK.

TC: Well, it SHOULD. Are you sure you put the address in?

We finally reached a pause in the, uh, discussion (I think I might have, yet again, been slightly distracted by my bladder, which by this point felt like a 24-cup coffee urn), and were riding along in silence when suddenly we heard

"IN EIGHT HUNDRED YARDS, EXIT RIGHT."

I screamed and nearly drove straight into a billboard advertising several of Branson's butt-whuppin' music shows. ChopTop involuntarily threw herself against the passenger door. We both thought God Himself was sitting in the back seat.

Before I could even compose myself to speak, we heard

"EXIT RIGHT, THEN BEAR LEFT."

There was a brief repeat of the aforementioned screaming, near-crashing, and involuntary throwing of self. Any passersby surely thought our car was being operated by two people with uncontrolled seizure disorders and Tourette's syndrome.

Eventually, I found my breath, and before ChopTop dared utter a sound, I looked over at her and said triumphantly,

"IT TALKS."

In the end, the trip was a great success. We had wonderful time with our friends, ChopTop & I were introduced to Shake's frozen custard (and, yes, I think it's entirely likely that the serpent tempted Eve with a big ol' cone of frozen custard topped with hot fudge), but most importantly, my title of Self-Appointed Genius Know-It-All Of The Family was made even more secure.

But the GPS people really need to program that thing to say, "Caution: You Are Entering Oklahoma, which is an old Native American name that means Land Without Restrooms. State motto: Now You Know Why It Was Called The Trail of Tears."

I went to Florida, and all I got was this...

2009-05-19T00:13:00.003-05:00

When a normal family goes to Florida for a vacation, they bring back normal things.

Like a Disney t-shirt.

Some seashells.

Maybe a bag of oranges.

Not us.

We bring this back to Texas:

Grandma's hip.

Shown here proudly displayed on the table next to Hubster's recliner. And you know what this means.

I have to change my whole decorating scheme from Early Caveman to Contemporary Prosthetic.

Olympic Dangling

2009-03-15T22:27:00.005-05:00

From TC's File of Possibly True Facts:

"Shoulder injury" is the #2 item on the list of Things That Take A Long Time To Recover From.

(The #1 item is "Death.")

______________________________

The upside of this whole broken shoulder adventure is that I found out I'm extremely talented at Dangling. This was news to me. I mean, it's not like Dangling was offered as an elective at my college. Although if it had been, I'd have been on the Dean's List for sure. Well, that, and if they'd just forgiven me for that minor little incident with the guy's underwear in the cafeteria ...

Anyway. My orthopedic surgeon told me to exercise my shoulder by dangling. To help you understand the dangling manuever, I will demonstrate in the following series of photos. (Warning: do not try the following at home without the approval of your physician. Or without a couple of cups of coffee. Whichever is easier to acquire.)

1. The Warm-Up.

2. The Dangle.

3. The Cool-down.

Hint: During the dangle exercise, ignore comments by heathen family members, such as, "Are you getting winded?" and "Do you need a Gatorade, Mom?"

After a couple of days of dangling, it became apparent that I had a real gift. I mean, I have a number of body parts that dangle without my even trying! So now I'm petitioning the International Olympic Committee to make dangling a competitive sport.

It can't be in the Summer Games, though. Think about it. Dangling is a sport for middle-aged women. If we were to show up in an outdoor arena, dressed in spandex shorts and tank tops, with the sun reflecting off our cellulite, the repercussions would be severe and wide-ranging.

Bob Costas would have cardiac arrest.

Broadcasters would be forced to show actual footage of actual dangling competition, rather than Bob's interview with the founder of the Dangling Hall of Fame.

Sports fans would suffer hysterical blindness that would last all summer.

Ticket sales to baseball games would drop.

Major League Baseball would need a 9.7 trillion dollar bailout.

The New York Yankees would need an additional 5 billion dollar bailout to pay Alex Rodriguez's hip surgeon.

The steroid industry would be forced to market itself to pro bowlers.

Some unknown bowler named Frank Murphy would win the Tour de France, becoming the first winner to need an XXXL yellow jersey.

China would produce and sell limited-edition Hello Kitty yellow jerseys.

Nancy Pelosi, unable to locate a limited-edition Hello Kitty yellow jersey for her granddaughter, would propose a 78% tax on all upper-income danglers, bringing the sport to an end.

So I'm thinking Winter Games, where danglers can compete in sweatpants. Besides - I want Apolo Anton Ohno to autograph my "U.S.A. Dangling Team" t-shirt.

___________________________

Next: My Physical Therapist is the Anti-Christ.

The Bounce Has Gone Out of My Bungee

2009-01-17T22:21:00.004-06:00

So I was at lunch today with Danger Boy, and I noticed that he was looking down, texting under the table while we were conversing. I gave him the condensed version of the That's So Rude lecture with some of the Cell Phones Are Of The Devil dissertation thrown in for good measure. He smiled and replied, "If I hadn't been using my right hand to eat, I could have texted without even looking at my phone." I sensed the spirit of Perry Mason come over me, and I could feel myself visibly puffing up with the pride and satisfaction of having a fine closing argument, which was this: "If you can text without looking at your phone, that just goes to show that you spend too much time texting." Danger Boy just says, "You type on your computer keyboard without looking, so I guess that means you spend too much time online."

Dang kids and their logic.

And in retrospect, I think that feeling of being puffed up was actually due to the spicy chicken wings I'd just eaten.

Anyway. I'm not blogging much because I have to type one-handed, pending possible rotator cuff surgery. So I'm just going to copy an extremely funny email I received from my mother-in-law. Enjoy.

___________________________________

This is why women should not take men shopping against their will.

After I retired, my wife insisted that I accompany her on her trips to Wal-Mart . Unfortunately, like most men, I found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out. Equally unfortunately, my wife is like
most women - she loved to browse.

Yesterday my dear wife received the following letter from the local Wal-Mart:

Dear Mrs. Samsel,

Over the past six months, your husband has been causing quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to ban both of you from the store. Our complaints against Mr. Samsel are listed below and are documented by our video surveillance cameras.

June 15: Took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in people's carts when they weren't looking.

July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.

July 19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice, "Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away."

August 4: Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&M's on layaway.

August 14: Moved a "CAUTION - WET FLOOR" sign to a carpeted area.

August 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told other shoppers he'd invite them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department.

August 23: When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and screamed, "Why can't you people just leave me alone?"

September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it as a mirror while he picked his nose.

September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.

October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while loudly humming the "Mission Impossible" theme.

October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his "Madonna look" by using different sizes of funnels.

October 18 : Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled "PICK ME! PICK ME!"

October 21 : When an announcement came over the loud speaker, he assumed a fetal position and screamed, "OH NO! IT'S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!"

And last, but not least ..

October 23 : Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile, then yelled very loudly, "Hey! There's no toilet paper in here!"

You've got questions. I've got answers.

2008-12-31T20:08:00.005-06:00

1. Fractured the head of my humerus.

2. Playing ice hockey.

3. HOCKEY. ON ICE.

4. It was a parent/son scrimmage with Sasquatch's team.

5. Hey! Hey!! Hey!!! Don't start on the age thing!

6. I was making a spectacular diving defensive move.

7. No, I don't know if the guy scored.

8. Well, I was kind of busy flopping around on the ice like a seal with one flipper and a seizure disorder.

9. Not immediately, but I was pretty sure there was a problem when, after the game, my brain started playing involuntary word association when I tried to pick things up with that arm.

sock : vicodin!

car key : demerol!

curly fry : morphine!

purse : general anesthesia!

10. Two weeks.

11. In a New York minute. I had a blast.

A White Christmas - literally.

2008-12-11T14:44:00.006-06:00

Someone (who shall remain nameless) gifted me with this lovely nativity set after the holidays last year.

Now, my first thought upon seeing these figurines was, How is it that Mary always looks so placid and refreshed? I mean, the woman just gave birth - in a barn. To GOD. I've seen women who've just delivered a regular, everyday human baby in a warm, comfortable hospital, and they don't look that serene. Unless the Demerol hasn't worn off yet.

Anyway. My second thought was, Wasn't Jesus Jewish? Maybe his family was from northern Israel. Far northern Israel. Back when it bordered Scandinavia.

Then I got to thinking about how Christmas would be different had Jesus been born in Norway.

Mary would have been riding a reindeer instead of a donkey.
The shepherds would have found the Babe lying in a manger, wrapped in swaddling furs.
The wise men would have brought gold, frankincense, and firewood.
Silent Night would have a line, "Silent night, holy night, all is cold, all is white."
Nativity sets would come packaged with little fake snow drifts to place against the stable, and Joseph would be wearing snow shoes.
Jesus would have been named something like "Bjørn."
We'd be singing "O, Little Town of Brønnøysund."

Then my mental list was interrupted by the intrusion of my third thought. (I know. You're thinking, thank God for that. Me too.) I realized that this holy family looked vaguely familiar. Then it hit me.

The seems that the holy family is related to Conan O'Brien, Late Night talk show host! Who knew?!

I can only conclude that 1) Jesus was an Irish Jew, and 2) once word gets out, that's really gonna put a wrinkle in the Catholic/Protestant conflict in Ireland.

For the mother-in-law who has everything.

2008-12-06T14:49:00.004-06:00

(I don't make this stuff up. This was an actual advertisement from our local Dirtville newspaper.)

And it comes with its own tote bag.

2008-12-01T15:12:00.004-06:00

Okay, I know I said I wanted one of those Smart Cars, mostly because they're just so dang cute.

Well, I've had a change of heart. I want one of these. It makes a Smart Car look like a Hummer.

Disadvantages:

1. Not big enough to bring home a week's worth of groceries for Sasquatch.

2. Any, uh, "emissions" by a male driver could cause the sides to bulge out, making the car appear to be a fluorescent volleyball.

Advantages:

1. Runs on air. Or salad oil. (I swear I am not making this up.) Hot tip: Buy stock in Wesson.

2. Averages 106 mpg. Hot tip: Dump stock in Exxon.

But the #1 thing I like about this car is that I believe it's the perfect vehicle for anyone under 25. Why? Because, 1) as far as I can tell, it accommodates only one person, so there's no room for any va-va-voom, if you get my drift, and b) its top speed is 35 mph, which would eliminate any opportunity for Danger Boy to intentionally go airborne over a hill. Although now that I think about it, he would probably make some "emissions" at the moment of cresting the hill, just to see if the car would bounce when it landed.

Thank you, God, for Hot Pockets.

2008-11-27T09:24:00.003-06:00

Today is Thanksgiving, my least favorite holiday of the year.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I love getting together with family. And I love the eating of the food. Who wouldn't? I suspect that even God eats sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving.

It's the preparing of the food that I dread. My attempts in the kitchen usually fall nothing short of DefCom Five Nuclear Disasters, ending with the placement of a FEMA trailer on our property. In all 50 states, I have been forbidden by law to change my last name to Pillsbury, Stouffer, Crocker, and Mills, lest the association with my cooking causes certain food manufacturing companies to go bankrupt.

In fact, the top three items on my What I'm Thankful For list are

1. take-out pizza

2. the entire cereal aisle at the grocery store

3. crackers

See, if I had been a Pilgrim, this is how the first Thanksgiving would have happened.

Hubster: We have a lot to be thankful for. Let's invite our Native American friends to share in our bounty by sharing a meal with us.

TC: Great! I'll prepare that new instant oatmeal.

Hubster: Hey, isn't that made by those heathen Quakers?

TC: Yeah, but the Native Americans don't know that.

This year, we are celebrating the day with some friends, so I have been appointed the task of bringing the dessert. One would think I could manage a pumpkin pie or two, wouldn't one? One should really get in touch with reality.

Yesterday, I had all the necessary ingredients assembled on the counter. I was sort of hoping some kind of magic would occur, a la Beauty and the Beast - the canned pumpkin and the spatula and the pie crust would do a song and dance and then combine to make themselves into a pie that would win the Bake-Off Prize of the Century.

But that didn't happen. (And by the way, I will never forgive Walt Disney for causing me to have such high expectations out of life - princes on white horses, mice that sew, cars with the voice of Owen Wilson...)

Anyway. Here is what I learned from the experience.

I own only one can opener. The old-fashioned kind, that you use to puncture holes in the tops of lids of evaporated milk.

My only can opener hasn't been used in 15 years.

My only can opener is extremely difficult to locate.

My only can opener might be in the very back of the drawer of kitchen utensils.

In the front of the drawer of kitchen utensils, I have ice cream scoops.

Six ice cream scoops.

One of my ice cream scoops is adorned with a cow's head that actually moos when you dip out the ice cream.

A mooing ice cream scoop should be enough to keep one from eating too much ice cream and thereby gaining weight, but it isn't.

Therefore: a 15-year old can opener caused me to get fat.

In summary, have a blessed Thanksgiving, and eat all the cranberry sauce you'd like. I didn't make it, so it's safe.

A Hockey Mom's Letter to Santa Claus

2008-11-24T10:32:00.004-06:00

Dear Santa,

I have been very good this year. Remember that one game where a mom from the opposing team threw a triple-A hissy fit because my son checked her son? Even though I wanted to go over there and rearrange the sparkly gems on her t-shirt so that instead of saying "Hockey Mom," it would read "Whiney Mom," I restrained myself. I didn't even say anything ugly to her. Out loud. If you just say it in your head, it doesn't count, right?

Okay. I admit I didn't sell anything for the team fundraiser. But that wasn't really my fault. With the economy being so poor, people just aren't buying Tupperware Corn Cob Keepers like they used to.

Anyway. If you could put the following under my Christmas tree, I'd be happier than a couple of Zamboni drivers playing bumper cars.

1. A new coat to wear to the rink. It needs to be lightweight, able to keep me warm in -30 degree temperatures, quick to remove (in case of a hot flash), and make me look like Catherine Zeta Jones instead of Kung Fu Panda.

2. I've heard that diabetics can now get this machine called an insulin pump, that delivers the right dose directly into their system when it's needed. Can you get me one of those? But I need it to pump shots of espresso. With peppermint mocha syrup.

3. An Odor-Eater the size of a body pillow, to stuff in my son's hockey bag after practice.

4. Heated cute shoes. (Wool socks make my feet look fat.)

5. One of those big electronic megaphones. Apparently, the coaches and players can't hear my advice when I yell from the stands. And I just know that if they would follow my instructions, our team would be undefeated and my eight-year-old son would already have an NHL contract.

Yours Truly,
TC

P.S. Don't count on having milk and cookies at my house. There's a hockey player living here, you know.

Why we don't use ace bandages for headaches.

2008-11-21T21:17:00.002-06:00

NOTE: This entry was originally posted on Feb. 1, 2006. It is being reprinted here at the request of my wonderfully funny friend, The Moodie Foodie.
___________________________________

Perhaps you, like I, have spent many a sleepless night pondering the issue of why we don't use ace bandages for headache relief. It's a question that has plagued mankind for centuries. Or at least since the invention of the ace bandage back in 1932.

Well, I think I have found the answer. We don't use an ace bandage for headache relief because it makes you look like a flaming nut case.

Exhibit A:

That, my friends, is my firstborn child, The Human Q-Tip.

And does anyone else see a resemblance here?

Can I get a parenting do-over?

2008-11-21T11:05:00.002-06:00

Everyone aquainted with my daughter, Bunhead, knows that she believes that in any given situation, she should be wearing the t-shirt that says, "I'm The Person In Charge." When she was six, if you asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she didn't say, "a princess" or "a ballerina" or "a mommy." No. Her planned career path was Evil Dictator.

Fast forward ten years. This was the conversation I overheard in our kitchen last week.

15-year-old Fashion Bug, to Bunhead: What are you making?
Bunhead: Eggnog.
FB: Can I have some?
Bunhead: Only if you do what I say.
FB, hesitantly: Okay... but I'm not going to kill anyone for you.

Great. I read all the wrong parenting books. Here I was all worried about stranger danger and peer pressure and sex education, when I should have been pouring over How to Extortion-Proof Your Child and So Your Daughter Wants to be Head of the Mafia!

The award that's custom made for me.

2008-11-15T12:07:00.007-06:00

I don't know if I'll win Best Humor Blogger over at the Homeschool Blog Awards. I'm up against some pretty stiff competition, and I have a small campaign budget. Like, in the neighborhood of $0.00. Unless you count the fact that I bought myself a box of Junior Mints to boost the morale of my campaign; that would put me $0.65 in the red. I feel a need for a bailout coming on.

Anyway. I've thought of an award that much better suits my blogging style. Next year, I'm going to win the Most Redneck Homeschool Blogger award.

Here's why.

We recently decided to remodel the guest bathroom here at Agony Acres. I wanted to go for a spa look, so we tore out the pink floral gag-a-rama wallpaper that had been taped to the uninsulated sheet rock since 1975. We painted the room a lovely taupe shade, and then put in a new counter top.

But wait, there's more.

We decided that since we'd gone that far, we should really blow our whole wad. So we sprang for some new 2x4s.

Now, I've heard that in spas there is often a fountain and some chimes, so that you are lulled into relaxation by the sound of trickling water and soft tinkling tones. (Not to be confused with the tinkling tones and trickling water in the actual bathroom... never mind.) Anyway. There's no room in this bathroom for a fountain, and what with the purchase of the new lumber, I couldn't afford chimes. But I've come up with a substitute.

For the sound of water, I go into the next room and throw a load of Hubster's tightie-whities into the washing machine. For the sound of chimes, I put a couple of pairs of my sons' jeans into the dryer, where the inventory of a hardware store falls out of their pockets and clangs around in the dryer drum. (I have a theory: I think my boys have been giving their underwear to gypsies in exchange for bits of shiny metal.)

But wait, there's more.

Hubster decided to replace the commode. He says whoever invented the low-flow toilet obviously never ate at our local Mexican eatery, Taco Tico Mayo Me-o Ee-I-Ee-O, on All You Can Eat Bean Burrito Night. He also mentioned that Mr. Low-Flow Toilet Inventor should be kicked in a certain region of his anatomy, but since this is a family friendly blog, I'll move on.

Now, if you have an old toilet perched on your back porch, you might be a redneck.

And if you have a cow who comes to the back porch to look in your windows, you might be a redneck.

But when you have a cow who comes to drink rainwater out of the toilet on your back porch, you are definitely a redneck.

I just hope the award is more 2x4s, because we need a place to hang the towels.

Abbott & Costello Go To the Emergency Room (or, My Family's Version of "Who's On First?")

2008-11-13T12:06:00.004-06:00

Cast of characters:

My father, a stubborn old Dutchman who is deaf as a post.

My mother, a sweet but memory-impaired woman whose technological skills never progressed past using a television - with a dial.

Me, TC, the designated worrier of our family

Setting:

Saturday morning. I have received a call from my sister to let me know that my dad is in the Emergency Room with "lung pain." I am half a continent away.

_____________________________________________

TC calls her mother's cell phone. The phone rings several times (TC imagines that her mom at first wonders why the heart monitor is ringing, and then can't find the phone, and then can't figure out what button to push to receive the call). Then the connection is made, but there is only background noise as TC hears, "I don't know how to answer it! .... No, I don't know who it was. ... Well, maybe they'll call back."

TC yells: MOM! MOM! CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Phone clicks off.

TC, sighing, dials again.

Mom: Hello?

TC: Having trouble with your phone?

Mom: No, why?

TC: Never mind. How's Dad? Have they done an x-ray?

Mom: No, all they did was an EKG. Here's your dad.

TC: Hi, Dad. How are you feeling?

Dad: Hungry. I hope I get out of here before lunch.

TC, rolling eyes: Okay, well, are you going to get a chest x-ray?

Dad: They already did one! And an EKG. And they took some blood.

TC: Oh, Mom said you'd only had an EKG.

Dad: No, I had an x-ray.

Mom, in the background: When did you have an x-ray?

Dad, raising his voice: Don't you remember when they wheeled me out of here?!

Mom, dubiously: Oh yes.

Dad: Now we're waiting for the doctor. I hope someone brings me something to eat.

TC: Okay, well, I'll call back a little later.

Dad: Why don't you call back later?

TC: That's what I just said!

About an hour later, via cell phone again.

TC: Hi, Dad, how're you feeling?

Dad: Good! They brought me a hamburger! I told the nurse to order up a pizza for us.

TC, shaking her head: Okaaayyy. Well, how about your pain? What did the doctor say?

Dad: Dr. Bay? Who's he?

TC: No, what did the doctor SAY?

Dad: I have to have more tests.

TC: What kind of tests?

Dad: A CT scan, I think.

Mom, in the background: It's a clot in his lung.

Dad, raising his voice: No, that's not what they said! They don't know what it is.

Mom, in the background: Oh. I thought they said something about your lung.

Dad, irritably: They DID. Something about a spot on the x-ray.

Mom: When did you have an x-ray?

TC, sighing: Okay, well I'll call back later.

Dad: Why don't you call back later? I'm going to see if the nurse can bring me some cake or something.

TC sighs.

About two hours later, via cell phone again.

TC: Hey, Dad, what's the story?

Dad: I have a clot in my lung.

Mom, in the background: No, that's not what they said!

TC, suddenly understanding the situation: Dad, you don't have your hearing aids in, do you?

Dad: WHAT?

TC: YOU'RE NOT WEARING YOUR HEARING AIDS, ARE YOU?

Dad: No!

TC: SO YOU REALLY DON'T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THE DOCTOR OR THE NURSE HAS BEEN SAYING TO YOU, DO YOU?

Dad: No! But your mother will tell me later.

TC, muttering: Yeah, great, we'll get all the details from the one who can't remember what year it is.

Dad: That hamburger sure was good for hospital food. I wonder if I can get one to go?

TC feels a migraine coming on.

_____________________________

In the end, the final diagnosis remains a mystery. For all I know, my father could have had an entire lung removed and been given some experimental nuclear medicine and turned into a hamster while he was in there. It's not like I'll ever find out - my mother doesn't even remember the visit to the ER, and my dad's still talking about that hamburger.

So I thought, Why should I keep all this fun to myself?

2008-11-10T19:55:00.018-06:00

Last night I realized I hadn't exercised in quite a while, so I got out my 10x mirror. Looking at myself in that thing gets my heart rate up to anaerobic levels, and I don't even have to break a sweat. The bad part is that instead of getting a runner's high, I get a magnifier's depression.

Anyway. Using my mirror, I discovered my head has more silver than a Taos gift shop. My 25th wedding anniversary is coming up in a couple of years, and you know that's the silver anniversary. As opposed to the 50th, which is the golden anniversary. It's named that because if you've lived that long, your kids are probably wondering if they can get any money from your gold dental work. So. I figure that, by my silver anniversary, with a few flowers and one of those glittery floral picks that say "25" stuck in my hair, my head can be the centerpiece. With any luck, all of our guests will also be needing 10x mirrors to see anything clearly, so they won't notice.

But that's not the point of this post. The point - and I do have one - is this. I didn't have gray hair until I had children. Specifically, one child. Specifically specifically, Danger Boy, who last week celebrated his eighteenth birthday.

I thought it might be nice to share with the world just a little of what I've witnessed over the last 18 years.

<-- For over two years, we didn't have to use a lawn sprinkler. Just set the boy outside and made sure he spent a few extra minutes around the flower beds.

The consummate air traveler. Note: this was before 9/11, when passengers were allowed to take their own pacifiers through security.

And you thought Post-It notes were just for, well, notes. Betcha didn't know you can use them to block alien brain waves.

<--- Homeschool multitasking: doing math & gymnastics at the same time!

When traveling by car, most people take 10-minute restroom breaks. Not Danger Boy. He takes unauthorized 30-minute rock climbing expeditions and gets back in the car with four pounds of dirt in his shoes, smelling of skunk cabbage.

Danger Boy Principle #12: An activity isn't any fun unless you ramp up the potential injury factor times 50.

The infamous "Brownie Ball" challenge.

Followed by "Bag of Burned Popcorn Ball."

Pasture surfing.

Chronicles of Danger, chapter 2, verse 8: And God made trees, and He commanded Danger Boy to climb to the top, yea, the very top of the tree. Then the Lord did say, "Behold, see the land below you which I have created. And see your mother having heart failure. Verily."

*sigh* He's cute. He's funny. And I hope God gives him a kid (or six) just like him.

Can I get that with anti-anxiety medication?

2008-10-30T13:03:00.005-05:00

Well, today is October 30th, and you know what that means - it's Christmas catalog time!

Unfortunately, the first catalog I received, from Barbie Collector, was selling some pretty disturbing gifts. (I should note here that I do not actually collect Barbies. I just think it's ethically wrong for toys to have better shoes than I do.)

Anyway. These aren't your run-of-the-mill Floozy Cheerleader Barbie or Chain-Smoking Hair Stylist Town Gossip Barbie dolls like you can get at StuffMart. These Barbies are obviously the creation of a psychopath. Either that, or someone's putting hallucinogenics in the water coolers down at the Mattel headquarters. I give you Exhibit A.

This would be Medusa Barbie. Because what's a childhood without a doll whose hair turns into a mass of writhing snakes?

But Exhibit B is even worse.

This, my friends, is The Birds Barbie. Here, Barbie is about to have her eyes pecked out and her flesh shredded by a flock of vicious birds, in a recreation of the scene from Alfred Hitchcock's classic horror film.

And a holly jolly Christmas to you, too, Mattel. Sheesh.

Okay, I know that these dolls aren't really intended for kids. But think about it. The average Barbie collector is probably about my age, which is none of your business but let's just say I've been 39 for many years. So, the average Barbie collector probably also has granddaughters. Can you imagine the conversation an 8-year-old girl might have with her friends after spending a night at Grandma's house?

Girl 1: My grandma has one of the very first Barbie dolls. She's on a shelf in grandma's guest bedroom.

Girl 2: My granny has Malibu Barbie on her shelf. I like her tan skin.

Girl 3: My grammie has Psycho Shower Scene Barbie. She comes with a little plastic knife and a shower spattered with real blood!

(silence)

Girl 3: I have bad dreams at my grammie's house.

Girl 1: I have to go home now.

On the upside, a resourceful mom could really take advantage of this trend.

Daughter, wailing: Mommy, Mommy! Rover chewed the leg off my Barbie! Wahhhh!

Mom: Oh, honey, look! Now you have Jaws Barbie!

Daughter, wailing: Mommy, Mommy! My Barbie's head came off!! Wahhh!

Mom, in a soothing voice: Oh, honey, look! Now you have Marie Antoinette Barbie!

Daughter, wailing: Mommy, Mommy! Susie came over and said President Obama said we HAVE to share, and she took all of my Barbie's clothes home with her! Wahhhhh!

Mom: Oh, honey, look! Now you have Socialist Barbie!

________________________________________

Be a responsible American citizen. VOTE ON NOVEMBER 4.

HINT. HINT. HINT.

2008-10-21T03:24:00.000-05:00

I admit it. I have no pride.

Please go and nominate me for a Homeschool Blog award. ------>

Anyone can nominate. Anyone can vote.

And if I win, I promise not to do anything to the economy except buy more socks and underwear.

Recipe for mischief

2008-10-21T02:17:00.018-05:00

Take one sixteen year old smarty pants daughter.

Add one photo of daughter's father. (The sun was in his eyes.) (Okay, it wasn't. He always looks like that.) (Especially at teenage boys, vegetarians, and men with purses.)
Combine with smarty pants daughter's growing skills with photo editing software.
Let ingredients simmer.

Return to computer to find this wallpaper.

I keep telling her she needs to use her powers for good rather than evil.

So near, and yet so far.

2008-10-13T12:41:00.003-05:00

Recent stories from the world of science and technology report that a young man was equipped with a bionic hand, another man received two transplanted arms, and the U.S. Army is developing something called "synthetic telepathy ," which will allow people to send emails or voice mail by thought alone. (And for the sake of this entry, I'm pretending I didn't hear about the malfunctioning space toilet.)

This is all well and good, but here's what I want to know: Why can't someone create a shopping cart that doesn't take two strong men and a monkey to muscle through store aisles?

I was in StuffMart on Thursday night, on one of my bi-weekly trips for milk, socks, and underwear. It was 12:30 AM. I was the only shopper in the store. Well, there were a couple of guys lurking in the magazine aisle, but I think they were just killing time until their meth lab finished brewing back at the trailer park.

Anyway. You'd think the odds were good that I would get a cart with 4 wheels that all move, AND that move in the same direction. No. Apparently, StuffMart has a contract with a shopping cart manufacturer to buy only these types of carts:

The Political Cart. One front wheel goes left, the other goes right, and a back wheel tries to secede from the cart altogether.
The Mental Illness Cart. On this model, one wheel has an obsessive-compulsive tendency to pick up every bit of thread, string, dental floss, and barbed wire that lays on the floor of the store. (What, your StuffMart doesn't have barbed wire laying around? How do ya'll keep your tailgates fastened to your trucks?) All this twine is then wrapped around the wheel's axle, thereby causing the wheel to rotate at half the speed of the other three wheels, which then creates a paranoia state for the OCD wheel, which then tries to commit hari-kari by twisting sideways in an attempt to get kicked to death by the shopper.
The Two-Year-Old Cart. A toddler-like wheel stubbornly will. not. move. at. all. And if you force it, it screams bloody murder.
The Microbiology Experiment Cart. (A must-have in a community with a lot of homeschoolers.) You think those letters on the shopping cart handle are imprinted? Think again. That's 80 trillion organized bacteria. "C'mon, guys. Everybody get in formation, like rocks on a beach. We'll spell out StuffMart on the handle, and then watch the flu party get started! Yee haw!"
The ADD Cart. You roll this one out to your car, and in the 2.5 seconds it takes you to open the trunk, the cart has drifted 10 feet away and is about to smash into the side of a BMW belonging to the police chief's wife.

And while I'm thinking about shopping carts, I also want to say that every StuffMart should install a Cart Wash operation at the entrance to the store. You know, like a car wash. First, the hot, soapy water wash. Then the cart passes through a bleach rinse. Then an alcohol spray, and finally, an ultraviolet light drying period. I believe that if these steps are followed, we can eradicate measles, mumps, chicken pox, the common cold, and possibly even Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever in our lifetime. In some cases, it might also be necessary to force the shopper through the Cart Wash as well, but this is the price we have to pay for good community health.

And now I must go answer an email I received from my memory-impaired mother. She said something about a chimp, a can of sliced peaches, and Ron Paul. Either that synthetic telepathy thing is on the fritz, or she just got home from StuffMart.

Another one of those little gaps in our homeschool curriculum

2008-10-06T23:29:00.004-05:00

This morning, Danger Boy was relating what he learned at a church youth program last night.

"The pastor was talking about when the apostle John denied Christ three times. And then, later in his life, John was circumcised. Or crucified. Or something like that."

Thank God this child isn't planning a career as a pediatrician. His practice would go downhill faster than a fat kid in silicone snow pants, the first time he asked some new parents, "Do you plan to have your son crucified?" And there's not enough malpractice insurance in the world to cover a doctor's note that reads, "Patient was crucified after the administration of a local anesthetic."

Introducing Skippy

2008-09-29T23:06:00.003-05:00

Well, life has gotten pretty busy since Skippy the Wonder Pug came to live at our house a couple of weeks ago.

Skippy has two speeds: Heat-Seeking Missile, and Comatose. The above photo was taken on his first day at our house, when he was shocked into immobility for, oh, 15 minutes. I think he has grown since then, but it's hard to tell because when I see him, he's a little fawn-colored, snorting blur.

Fortunately, his target is usually The Menace, our basset hound with a hyperactivity disorder and a miniscule bladder. Skippy's favorite trick is to let The Menace chase him under the bed. The Menace, whose brain is approximately the size of a soybean, will then stick her head under the bed, and Skippy, who has been waiting for this exact opportunity, nips her right in the nose. The Menace yelps, backs up, realizes Skippy is still hiding, and then thrusts her head under the bed again. This is a game that could go on for hours, were it not for The Menace's need for frequent potty breaks. I guess that with all the excitement, her bladder shrinks to a size that can only be seen with a high-powered microscope.

Skippy's other favorite activity is to eat anything but the $25 worth of puppy chow I purchased for him. I'm trying to have a good attitude about this habit, though. I figure I can tell my friends, "Hey, you've heard about that elephant who painted? And that gorilla who could use sign language? Well, check this out. Our new puppy has eaten a DVD remote, a cell phone, two CD cases, a Playstation controller, and several newspapers. He's going to be the dog that poops multi-media presentations."

Oh, like YOU haven't thought about it.

2008-09-12T16:26:00.004-05:00

Toothpaste: It's not just for breakfast anymore.

2008-09-10T11:26:00.003-05:00

So last night I had to make one of my late-night forays into StuffMart. I think Rod Serling might have gotten his inspiration for The Twilight Zone from StuffMart at midnight. And because plain old run-of-the-mill weirdness isn't enough for me, I took along Danger Boy.

Now, I have to tell you that there is something in the air at StuffMart that just escalates Danger Boy's ADD to mach five. I imagine that his brain is doing something like a pinball machine in which all six balls have been released at once. "PING! LEFT FLIPPER! TILT! PING! PING! BONUS POINTS! RIGHT FLIPPER! PING! WHOOP WHOOP! TILT!" (Or, for those of you younger readers who have never seen a pinball machine, think Sonic the Hedgehog hopped up on crack.) Surely I am not the only mother who wishes those belted seats in shopping carts could accommodate a 6'2" seventeen-year-old boy.

Anyway. Besides the usual bi-weekly pickup of milk, boys' socks, and underwear, I needed to get some toothpaste for myself.

Well. I was horribly unprepared for toothpaste shopping.

When I was a kid, you had your choice of four different toothpastes: Colgate, Crest, Pepsodent, and, later, UltraBrite. They all came in one color: white. They all came in one flavor: toothpaste. There were no such things as sealants or flouride treatments, so everyone had cavities, no one had braces, and we had to use toothbrushes that weren't battery operated or had MP3 players in the handle. Life was good. Especially for dentists.

As I rounded the corner into the toothpaste aisle last night, I felt like I had entered the Chuckie Cheesedom of Dental Products. There had to have been 135 varieties of Crest toothpaste, all in sparkly, brightly colored boxes, right next to the fluorescent singing toothbrushes ("Now with a palate sander!") and the raspberry-flavored mouthwash (in your choice of alcoholic or non). I'm pretty sure I saw

Crest Fresh Mint
Crest Cool Mint
Crest Mint Julep
Crest Lemon
Crest Strawberry Daiquiri
Crest Hickory Smoked Goat Cheese

WHO is working in Research and Development for Crest - Rachael Ray?! Good grief, I was working up an appetite while just trying to purchase a little 88 cent tube of toothpaste-flavored Pepsodent. Meanwhile, Danger Boy, whose boredom meter had exceeded the "safe" zone and was now in the "impending danger to others" zone, was throwing pennies at a bird in the rafters while simultaneously trying to determine if he could put hydraulics on our shopping cart.

Finally, I found my toothpaste, on a bottom shelf under the enormous display of dental floss - waxed, unwaxed, mint, unmint, organic, hypoallergenic, and vegetarian. (They were out of the floss with extra calcium for seniors.) I grabbed the toothpaste box, used my purse strap to lasso Danger Boy as he was starting to wander off toward charcoal lighter ("But, mom, flames coming out of the back of the cart would be so cool!"), and headed for the checkout lane.

Today I'm very worried. I just noticed we're running low on liquid hand soap.

Proof that our culture is going to hell in a handbasket.

2008-09-07T21:33:00.005-05:00

People are always complaining about the media.

Reporters slant stories too far left. Or right. Or, for those at the North Pole, too far south.

Rumors are reported as fact. Facts are reported only in part.

Tabloids skip the facts and the rumors altogether and just report the news that's transmitted from space aliens and their leader, Elvis Presley.

And just when you think it can't get any worse ....

... I've been published.

Yep. A small magazine that circulates in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area printed one of my pieces.

I'm trying not to get The Big Head about this, but I gotta tell you, I'm happier than a dung beetle in the cattle barn at the county fair.

I promise this: If this leads to my very own media empire, I am definitely going to hire someone else to do my bi-weekly shopping for boys' socks and underwear.

If I ran the nightly news.

2008-08-30T10:07:00.003-05:00

TV newsguy Biff: John McCain has announced his selection of Gov. Sarah Palin for V.P., and tonight we will hear an expert opinion on this choice from our correspondent in Dirtville, Mrs. TC. Mrs. TC's expertise is in the field of knowing everything and/or making stuff up. TC, welcome.

TC: Hi, Biff. Thanks for the introduction.

Biff: You say that you think Gov. Palin brings a "unique skill set" to the office of vice president. Can you elaborate?

TC: I can, and I will. You might want to get a snack before I get started.

As we all now know, Gov. Palin is a hockey mom. This experience alone, I believe, has prepared her for the challenges she will face as a vice president. For instance, she's familiar with the offsides rule, which regulates when a player may enter the opponent's zone. I believe Gov. Palin will be tough but fair on the issue of illegal immigration. I'd like her to start by painting a blue line on our borders.

Biff: What about gun ownership rights, TC?

TC: Biff, in the game of hockey, a skater is not allowed to be in the crease, the area just in front of the goalie. If a skater does attempt to encroach on the crease, the goalie usually will take matters into his own hands (or stick) to remove the skater from his "house." I believe Gov. Palin will stand behind the Second Amendment, allowing homeowners to use weapons for protection and self-defense. I don't think she will require a 3-day waiting period to buy a hockey stick.

Biff: And that begs the question, what about capital punishment?

TC: Because of her experience with the penalty box, Gov. Palin is well acquainted with the justice and penal systems. I think she will press for swift punishment for criminal activity, and I would encourage her to consider establishing a game misconduct penalty, with a 6-month suspension, for congressmen who vote to give themselves a raise.

Biff: Some people say she does not have enough experience in the foreign relations field. Your opinion?

TC: Hello? Haven't those people heard of CANADA, that little chunk of land between the lower 48 and Alaska? You can't convince me that Gov. Palin hasn't been to a hockey game or two in Canada. And I bet she's watched the movie, "Miracle," which of course indicates that she's familiar with Russia.

Biff: Terrorism, TC?

TC: No thanks, I'm trying to cut down.

Biff: No, I meant, what's Gov. Palin's plan to deal with terrorism?

TC: Oh. Well, let me put it in hockey terms. When a hockey player takes a cheap shot on an opponent, that opponent's team doesn't take it lying down. Every hockey team has a player who's known as an "enforcer," a guy who makes the attacker very, very sorry for his cheap shot. Gov. Palin will be a strong supporter of our country's enforcer, the U.S. military, and my people are working behind the scenes right now to contact Gov. Palin about buying a certain stealth cow to aid in that effort.

Biff: The economy is a major issue in this election, TC. How might Gov. Palin deal with it?

TC: Well, Biff, every hockey parent knows that when you have a kid playing this sport, you learn to live on beans and cornbread. I just bought a pair of skates for my own son that cost more than my first car AND its first 100 fill-ups. Gov. Palin obviously has experience in working with a budget and my hope is that she will mandate that Starbucks, where most Americans feel the money crunch the hardest, will lower its prices by 50%.

Biff: Well, TC, we are out of time. Thank you so much for sharing your wisdom with our viewers.

TC: Always a pleasure, Biff. Keep your stick on the ice.

We'll leave a light on for you.

2008-08-28T13:18:00.003-05:00

As I was making my bi-weekly trip to StuffMart for socks and underwear, I noticed that two very large luxury hotels are going up here in Dirtville, TX (pop. 5,023, counting the people in RVs in the StuffMart parking lot).

We already have 4 hotels, plus a couple of No Tell Motel type places - you know, the places you drive by real fast because 1) you're afraid of recognizing the pickup parked outside Room 6, and 2) the bedbugs might be able to make a leap from the motel lobby into your car. I can't figure out why we're getting two more hotels. It's not like anything ever happens here.

Well, we do have our annual Dirtville Days celebration. This is held in honor of the invention of the trailer hitch, or something like that. If you haven't heard of it, it's just because you haven't been paying attention. Or you're a Democrat and think that trailer hitches should be regulated by the government.

Anyway. Two big events happen during this celebration. One, the Trailer Hitch Princess is chosen. This is quite an honor for any young lady, and something to add to her resume when she applies to be a hair stylist down at The Pampered Heifer Beauty Barn. Two, we have the big Dirtville Days parade, headed by the local Trailer Hitch Preservation Committee. Everyone goes to the parade, because they know the football team will be there on a float, throwing candy out into the crowd. (Never mind that the team purposely tries to bean people between the eyes with watermelon Jolly Ranchers thrown at 60 miles per hour.) The Cub Scout float usually follows the football team float. Those poor unsuspecting kids. They've never caught on to why the parade watchers scream in horror and duck for cover when they start tossing candy.

Not only does nothing happen here, but there IS nothing here. If you go to the town square, the hotbed of commerce in Dirtville, you will see:

PeetieMae's Thrift Store ("Browse our selection of 400 used coffee mugs!")
The Craft Mall ("Specializing in plastic canvas Kleenex covers for the discriminating home and business")
the Good Ol' Boy Barber Shop
The Longhorn Cafe ("Don't even bother asking about veggie burgers. This ain't goldurn Los Angelees.")
Cooter's Boot & Spur Emporium
Eight (yes, eight) attorney's offices. Hmm. Apparently, something does happen here, albeit of an illegal nature. Probably people trying to possess a trailer hitch without a license.
Four photography studios. I have no idea why we need four professional photographers. We only need one to do the portrait of the Trailer Hitch Princess. Last year's was especially lovely, even though she was sporting a big welt from an Atomic Fireball over her right eyebrow. Everyone told her not to turn around to look at the football players' float, but she didn't listen.

Well, as I said, I'm mystified as to the need of two new hotels here. But it's a comforting thought to know that I'll have a place to live when the sock & underwear compost heap upstairs finally comes crashing through the ceiling.

It's hockey night in ... Texas!

2008-08-22T08:40:00.003-05:00

Hockey season has started again. Sasquatch had his first practice on Saturday. I think they must have been trying to weed out the wanna-be hockey moms from the die-hards, because we had to be at the rink from 7:00 am until noon. I know. Even God doesn't get up before 7:30.

Fortunately, I knew to bring the two things no die-hard hockey mom should ever be without: caffeine and chocolate. I had my 2-gallon Thermos of coffee (which I like to call, "Keg O' Pacemaker") and a bag of Oreos (which I like to call "Oreos").

_________________________________________________________

It's kind of a shock to walk into a frosty ice rink after a summer in Tejas, which is Spanish for "five degrees cooler than Hell." My body didn't know whether to sweat, shiver, or have to pee. So I had a hot flash and accomplished all three.

_________________________________________________________

We have a new team manager this season. Last year the position was filled by Perky Cheerleader Barbie Mom. I loved her, except for those mornings when we had 6:00 am games. The woman would literally be bouncing in the stands, filled with the sheer joy of all things hockey and children and sunrise. I just wanted to sit on her, and follow that up by whacking her on the head with my Keg O' Pacemaker.

Anyway. This year's team manager is Number Cruncher Goalie Mom. She's not perky, but lemme tell you, if you need someone to beat up a referee behind the rink after a game, she's your go-to-girl. If you know anything at all about hockey, you know not to mess with a goalie mom, because she might be even crazier than her goalie kid.

Ask anyone who's been around ice hockey for a while - goalies are different. They're a weird subset of humans. You've probably heard the expression, "His elevator doesn't go all the way to the top." Well, a goalie's elevator goes to the top - and out the roof. Goalies are intense, and about half a puck away from being criminally insane. It's really a good thing that doping isn't a big problem in the NHL, because goaltenders would take 'roid rage to a whole new level. If a skater stepped in the crease, that goalie would rip the dude's face cage out with his teeth, and then eat it like a Triscuit.

__________________________________________________

I haven't met all of the other parents yet, but I do know that Dr. Dad's kid is on the team again this year. I like Dr. Dad. He's smart, and funny, and he uses an Apple computer. I use an Apple. We Apple ~~groupies~~ users think alike. We all want our daughters to marry a guy who works at the Genius Bar.

__________________________________________________

As is his custom, Sasquatch grew several inches over the summer, which meant that he needed new hockey equipment. I really need to find out if that compost heap of socks & underwear in his room is giving off growth hormones or something.

New skates, size 13: $500!! You'd think that for that price, they'd come with an iPod dock, a built-in ice level digital video camera, and some Flubber in the heel cup. But no. All I know is, when the season's over, I am not throwing those skates out. Maybe I'll make a purse out of 'em. Oh, wait, I know. I'll send them to China. The Chinese gymnasts can use them for 3-bedroom apartments.

Dude, where's my cow?

2008-08-19T12:11:00.008-05:00

Apparently, it's not enough that every American under the age of 35 is perpetually connected to an electronic device. You know - the iPod, the cell phone, the laptop, the Wii, the Blackberry, the GPS, the Guitar Hero guitar, and that antique called a "television." And, in the case of my kids, sometimes all of these devices at the same time. This from the same kids who complain if I make them do math AND science on the same day.

On top of that, I really think that someday, someone is going to inadvertently make contact with space aliens just by mixing up their Wii nunchuck with their iPhone. And then Steve Jobs is going to become so rich, he'll be able to buy Europe.

Anyway. Because we're Americans and we believe in equality for everyone, we have now made it possible for our cows to wear headsets. I swear I am not making this up.

You can read the whole story here. Basically, the idea is that not only can the farmer track the cow via GPS, but the cow receives sounds through the "Ear-A-Round" (although my choice for the name would have been the "iMoo") that will get the cow to move in a particular direction.

Now, this was interesting to me, because we have a Houdini cow who manages to get through any given barrier designed to keep her on our property. I can't tell you how many times we've had to go all cowboy on her because she managed to open a gate and escape. I really believe this cow could infiltrate Ft. Knox. If anyone from the CIA is reading this, I'd be happy to sell her to you for stealth operations for a mere 20 billion dollars.

And think of all the other wonderful applications of this technology! Kids are at the mall, wearing their Ear-A-Round, and you could have them hear, "If you even enter that awful Spencer Gifts store, you're gonna be grounded until I'm forced to let you leave the house to get fitted for your dentures." Son is in the locker room after hockey practice, and he hears, "You'd better come home with your underwear and two socks. And they'd better be YOUR underwear and socks." Teenage son is driving, and he hears, "You exceed the speed limit, mister, and I swear you'll be back to riding a little red tricycle to work." Teenage daughter is out on a date, and her Ear-A-Round transmits, "NO. NO. NO. NO." And her date's transmits, "Don't even THINK about it unless you want to spend the rest of your life as a eunuch."

But here's the best part: the last sentence in the article reads, "If the sound cues don't work, the device can emit a small electrical shock to move cows in the desired direction." I'm especially excited about this option. I think this might be exactly what I need to get Hubster out of his fishing boat and back to his 2-year-old bathroom remodeling project.

Coming soon to a theater near you

2008-08-13T10:36:00.004-05:00

Driving with one's teens in the car is an enlightening experience. My sons play some game where they call out car names and then punch each other. I have no idea what the purpose of this activity is, but I'm trusting that it's some kind of male bonding thing and that it's preparing them for stellar careers as video store employees.

My daughters, on the other hand, like to have meaningful conversation in the car. This means that I get to listen to them chatter about cute boys, clothes, cute boys who wear clothes, and uteruses.

Yeah. You read that right. And yes, there's a story coming.

Seems that FashionBug had become aware that some women are no longer the proud owners of a uterus. And it seems that this was true of the mom of FashionBug's best friend. So FB was sharing with her sister and me that friend's mom occasionally experienced PMS symptoms, even without the requisite organ.

Now, Princess Bunhead has a long history of being knowledgeable about uteruses. She also has a long history of coming out with those "it sounded right until I said it" proclamations. She's familiar with the phantom limb phenomenon, and figured it applied in this case, but as she explained it to her sister, she declared, "Oh, it's probably a ghost uterus."

I almost drove into a tree.

But, wait. There's more.

That night I watched one of the X-Men movies before I went to bed. Mistake.

I dreamed that I had special powers. I became the Mutant Ghost Uterus, with long, snake-like fallopian tubes, and I could reach way out and smack folks upside the head with my ovaries. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to meet myself in a dark alley.

I see a whole series of movies in my future, starting with "Scooby Doo and the Ghost Uterus."

Freddy Krueger has met his match.

The secret life of cows.

2008-08-01T10:43:00.003-05:00

So, this summer we've had a day-care cow. By that I mean, there is a neighbor's cow who comes over to our house every day around 10:00 am, eats our grass, fertilizes our lawn, and goes home around 3:00 pm. See? Day-care cow.

I have a theory about this cow. I think she got wind of the runaway bull adventure we had a couple of years ago, and she's hoping that she, too, can get a ride in an SUV. I mean, think about it. A cow's life is about as exciting as a potato on sedatives. What does a cow do all day but eat grass, make manure, and sleep? So when that calf got home after his little car trip, don't you know he was the talk of the barnyard? He's probably something of a bovine legendary myth by now. "Oh, your uncle Clovis met Buford, The Backseat Cow. 'Course, that was back when he was a bull, before the, uh, surgery. Some folks say that's what made him get the wandering hooves."

Really, the only time cows get any travel experience at all is when they get loaded up in a trailer for a ride to that Great Pasture In The Sky. And it's not like they know what's going to happen. They're probably all excited, "Oo, I hear that where we're going, we'll be surrounded by greenery." No one's going to tell them, "Uh, that greenery would be the lettuce between you and the bun."

Well, gotta run. I have to find out if having a day-care cow is a home business, for tax purposes.

Fat Eyebrows

2008-07-16T11:53:00.008-05:00

I think I've finally figured out why I never got asked to the high school prom. I have fat eyebrows. Not the eyebrow hair - Brooke Shields has fat eyebrow hair and used it to rake in a gazillion dollars. No, I have your run-of-the-mill fat eyebrows (see "A" in the following illustration), and the only thing it's done for me is give me a perpetual glowering look, which is great when you're a parent but not so much when you're trying to lure an eighteen-year-old boy. I'm sure all the guys who were in high school with me thought I was suffering from permanent PMS.

Let me tell you, there aren't any exercises you can do to lose fat in your eyebrows. I tried doing eyebrow pushups (Angry! Surprised! Angry! Surprised! Angry! Surprised!) but that just led The Hubster to ask, "When did you get Tourette's Syndrome?"

Anyway. I had to have minor surgery on my eyelid this past week. Not the fat eyebrow part, but the VERY THIN layer of skin that covers my actual eye ball (see "B" in above illustration). And I was okay with the idea until we actually got to the part where the doctor said, "Lay back and keep your eye closed. I'm going to inject some numbing medication into your eyelid."

Now, because the fat in my eyebrows slows down the transfer of information in my head, this is what was going on in my brain.

"Wait a minute ... Inject ... numbing medication .....very thin skin .... GAWWWWWW!!! That HURTS!!!"

And then,

"What if this guy accidently pokes that needle through my eyelid into my eyeball? Then my eyeball would be NUMB! And I couldn't move it! I'd look like Marty Feldman!"

"That would put a serious crimp in my plans to become a supermodel... Well, that plus the fact that I'm not the same shape and weight of a No. 2 pencil..."

Of course, because of my brain delay, by the time I got to the Marty Feldman part of my internal narrative, the doctor had finished my procedure, seen two other patients, performed lifesaving neurosurgery on an injured dog in the parking lot, and gone to lunch.

Well, as it turns out, the 1-minute surgery went off with no complications. So now I have a swollen eyelid, which, combined with my fat eyebrows, makes everyone else think I'm giving them the Hairy Eyeball.

Which isn't all bad. I might actually be up for a modeling job in Vulture Owner's Weekly.

You've been warned.

2008-07-03T09:03:00.003-05:00

Airlines are going bankrupt. Housing foreclosures are at an all-time high. The Big Three automakers are seeing a downward spiral in sales. Angelina Jolie's quest for world domination is about to get 33% more powerful.

But buddyroe, you ain't seen trouble yet. Here's the scenario that should frighten you more than a nuclear bomb in a postal worker's basement.

Imagine a 50-year-old woman on her way to work. Global warming is making her hot flashes worse. She's been reduced to wearing those uglier-than-homemade-sin Crocs because her feet hurt. And they're generic StuffMart crocs, because she can't afford the real things since she just put $65 worth of fuel in her car. And now she can't get her morning jolt of caffeine because her neighborhood Starbucks closed?!

You're about to witness road rage taken to a whole new level.

Lessons from Boston, Part II

2008-06-28T16:55:00.004-05:00

Someone really needs to invent bifocals to be worn in the shower. Because somebody might not be able to read the printing on those teeny bottles of personal hygiene items at the hotel. And somebody might put ultra-moisturizing body lotion on their hair.

Not that I would know anything about that.

Lessons from Boston

2008-06-27T16:45:00.003-05:00

Three things I learned today while spending 3 hours lost in downtown Boston:

1. Do not bother to look for street signs in Boston. There are none. At least, none on the street corners that you will specifically be looking for.

2. Traffic lights mean something entirely different in Boston than in the rest of the world. Green: cheer for the Celtics. Yellow: cheer for the Bruins. Red: cheer for the Red Sox. Feel free to make a left-hand turn across oncoming traffic no matter which team is highlighted.

3. If you see a yellow line on the road to the left of your car, it means that you are in the "chapping lane." The yellow line indicates that you may, at any given time, steer your vehicle so that half of it is in the neighboring lane of oncoming cars. Then, because some idiot up the street is turning left while cheering for the Red Sox, you will block oncoming traffic for a full 3 minutes, thereby chapping the other four hundred thousand drivers trying to go by you.

Gotta run. I'm using a computer at a hotel at which I'm not even staying. I think. There aren't any street signs, so for all I know, I'm in Quebec.

TC's Retirement Plan

2008-06-21T13:16:00.003-05:00

The creators of Real Life Adventures summed up my retirement plan in today's comic.

On The Road With Pain & Panic

2008-06-19T21:16:00.006-05:00

There are times, when boys are very young, that a parent thinks, This kid is a knucklehead. It'll be a miracle if he survives to his 18th birthday.

But the day finally comes when the parent looks at the boy, now grown into a young man, and the parent realizes, Shoot. He really IS an idiot.

I give you Exhibit A: my own sons, who for purposes of this entry will be called Pain and Panic.

After the big tire blowout in Dallas, and after waiting three hours at Pep Boys while the mechanics re-enacted the Battle of Gettysburg in the garage bays instead of changing our tire, we were finally ready to get back on the road to Florida. But, realizing that kids sleep better when their bellies are full - and are therefore quieter and less likely to make smoke come out of Dad's ears when he's driving - we decided to get some dinner. Hubster chose IHOP. Oh, yeah. Nothing like a quadrillion carbohydrates in the form of sugar to settle a kid down.

As the children plowed through their pancakes and bacon and whatever wasn't glued to the table by thousand-year-old maple syrup dribbles, Hubster quizzed them with some catechism questions. For every question they got right, they received another glass of orange juice. I was seeing a lot of potty stops in our immediate future.

After we'd paid the bill by arranging a second mortgage on our house, we headed for the exit. Naturally, Pain and Panic had to finish off an hour of spiritual exercise by jacking a couple of packages of crayons on the way out the door. Which just goes to show you can lead a horse to righteousness but you can't make him repent. Or something like that.

And then they proceeded to terrorize their sister, FashionBug, all the way to Florida. Every time we saw a police car, they stuffed the hot crayons onto her lap and shrieked, "AHHH! The cops are after us for stealing!" FashionBug, who has a law authority phobia anyway, was convinced the whole lot of us would end up in a filthy Mississippi jail, guarded by Mongo.

________________________________________________________

We arrived in Florida without any other major incidents.

Second day there: Pain and Panic announced they'd like to go fishing in the pond behind Grandpa's house. Grandpa fixed 'em up with a couple of rods and sent them on their merry way, which was rather foolish given that Grandpa's own son, Hubster, could barely be trusted on his own for more than 22.5 seconds until he reached age thirty.

One hour later, I went looking for the boys. They were nowhere to be seen around the pond.

Did I mention that this pond is home to a 10-foot alligator?

And did I also mention that Pain thinks he is the long-lost son of Steve Irwin, the late Crocodile Hunter?

I had visions that my boys had approached the gator with the intent of bringing him back to Texas as a pet, but that the gator had approached them with the intent of bringing them into his stomach as dinner.

Turns out the alligator DID play a role in their disappearance. Or rather, the lack of the gator. After they had fished for, oh, 4 minutes, and there was no sign of the Big Dude, the boys decided to hike over to another pond in hopes of "catching more fish" (which, in boy-speak means, "finding another alligator").

In a rush, it all came back to Grandpa how to parent two wayward boys. The rest of the day was rather, shall we say, unpleasant for Pain and Panic.

__________________________________________________

Third day in Florida: We had been advised by Grandma that there had been some break-ins in the neighborhood, and that we were to be diligent in keeping all doors locked at all times. This applied especially to the house next door, where we had been given permission to stay, by the owner who had gone north. (Tommie, if you're reading this: When you go back to Florida in the fall, if you find any of my sons' socks or underwear in that spare bedroom, DO NOT - I repeat, DO NOT - attempt to remove them yourself. Call the authorities.)

It was close to midnight, and I was still up over at Grandpa's house when I heard a banging noise from outside. FashionBug and Pain and Panic had all gone to bed at the neighbor's house next door. The banging continued. I finally realized what was going on. Pain had likely gotten a phone call from a friend, taken his cell phone outside to talk, and was locked out the house. I smiled to myself as I decided to let him suffer the consequences a bit longer.

The banging kept getting louder and more insistent, and I figured I'd better speak to my son before the whole neighborhood was awake and pelting us with rocks and garbage.

I swear I felt every organ in my body shut down when I opened the door, looked across the driveway, and saw three police officers standing there with their weapons drawn. FashionBug was standing in the doorway of the neighbor's house and turning the color Gwyneth Paltrow might be if she spent a year living in a cave. Pain and Panic were, of course, sleeping soundly.

Well. It seems that a vigilant neighbor had noticed lights in the "empty" house, and given the recent rash of burglaries, had called the cops. I explained the situation to the men and they drove off in search of some donuts.

Then I went to do my parenting duty of comforting and calming FashionBug. When I asked her what went through her mind when she opened the door and saw officers with a guns, she said, "I really thought they were here about those crayons."

If Men Vacuumed

2008-06-13T13:03:00.003-05:00

____________________________________________________

Hubster, if you're reading this: NO.

Honey, unless it comes with a camo TV remote, I'll still know where you are.

2008-06-11T22:51:00.005-05:00

Every guy's favorite store, Testosterone World, is marketing some interesting things for Father's Day. (Oh, don't even try to convince me that they're also selling to women. Sure, they may offer a few token pink wool socks and a cast iron frying pan, but any place where you can actually hear men grunt when they enter the Bargain Cave is a guy's store.)

Father's Day gift idea #1:

Because a house isn't really a home without a camo rocker recliner.

But, wait! There's more!

Father Day gift idea #2:

The camo sectional sofa!!

The problem I have with this is, what do you say when you go to JCPenney to order window treatments?

Clerk: Now, what's your decorating style, dear?

TC: Well, it's mostly Early American Tree Stand. But I like to throw in a few Cro Magnon accents just for fun.

_________________________________________

Hubster, if you're reading this: NO.

The Flamingo Fandango, perhaps?

2008-06-04T18:11:00.005-05:00

Okay, okay - I'm sorry. I totally forgot to write about the Guinea Pig Hoedown back in early May. (I swear I don't make this stuff up.) Mea culpa.

So as to make up for my error, I've decided to list a number of upcoming events here in the Federal Republic of Texas, things you can plan that summer vacation around. 'Course, with the price of fuel, you might need to sell your two oldest kids and their Wii to afford to get to some of these events, unless you have a close relative in Iraq, where gas currently costs fifty eight cents a gallon. (Again, not making this up.)

June 1 - Aug. 2, El Paso UnKnitting: Challenging Textile Traditions. "Performative knitting practice in the creation of avant-garde, contemporary sculpture."

Performance knitting?! Who knew you could make a big blobby knot of yarn and call it art? Gee, I could be a master of performance cooking: 'I call this piece, "Rubbery Eggs Held Captive by Melted Spatula."'

June 6-8, Aransas Pass 60th Annual Shrimporee "Enjoy crafts, carnival, culinary tent, shrimp peeling contest, outhouse race, and more."

Okay, I'll bet a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts that the outhouse race is the dream child of three guys named Bubba, Steve-O, and Dwayne, with the help of a couple of cases of Keystone Light.

June 13-14, Fredericksburg Antique Tractor Engine Club Show "Features engine displays, tractor pull and parade, working sawmill, wheat thrashing, and more."

Yessirree, you cain't have a better time than gettin' together with your homies to ogle rusted gears.

June 14, Cross Plains Barbarian Festival "Includes cyclists' routes, live music, antique cars and tractors show (Tractors again? We Texans really do have other hobbies. Racing outhouses, for instance.), arts & crafts, and more."

I just think it would be great to be able to tell your friends, "I met my husband at a Barbarian Festival. Which explains a lot."

June 14, Gatesville 10th Annual Fire Ant 100-K

I personally have no interest in dragging my blubber over 100 kilometers, but if you go to this, please stomp on a few million fire ants on my behalf.

June 14-15, Stanton Old Sorehead Trade Days "Shop for arts & crafts, furniture, jewelry, clothing, and antiques."

I had no idea that Charles Barkley grew up in Stanton, Texas!

June 20-21, Mount Vernon Scroggins Catalpa Worm Festival "Includes live music, arts & crafts booths, and trail ride."

Must be some mighty big worms if you can saddle 'em up.

June 21, Bellville Austin County Fair Summer Music Fest & Bull Blowout "Barbeque cook-off, classic car show, mutton busting, and arts & crafts."

My advice - take a plastic poncho. That bull blowout is bound to be messy.

June 26-29, Luling Watermelon Thump "Includes a parade, live entertainment, seed spitting, and more."

Might not want to buy a souvenir t-shirt at this event. The whole melon theme, you know.

June 28-29, Whitehouse Four Winds Rendependence Open Joust Competition "Texas' only full-contact jousting competition."

Is it just me, or is it hard to imagine a bunch of cowboys playing at being knights? "Boy howdy, I'm gonna spear me a page!"

July 1 - Sep. 1, Corpus Christi Flamingo Fandango "Features the classic pink plastic yard flamingos theme-designed and dressed by area artists."

Now really, how you can deny your children the experience of seeing hundreds of plastic flamingos dressed in evening wear, rodeo attire, and flannel pajamas? You want your kids to grow up totally uncultured, or what?

July 5, Granite Shoals Second Annual Ugly Dog Contest

It's July. In Texas. If we had any compassion on our dogs, we'd shave 'em all and enter 'em in the contest. Trust me, they'd be grateful.

July 24-26, Clute Great Texas Mosquito Festival "Three days of family fun, athletic events, vendors, and live music. See what the buzz is about."

I know, I know, you Minnesotans say that your state bird is the mosquito. Well, lemme tell ya. Texas mosquitos are directly descended from pterodactyls. (Again, not making this up. Much.)

August 2, Gainesville Breakfast With the Animals "Enjoy a guided behind-the-scenes tour of one section of the zoo, including a meet & greet with an animal and breakfast on the dining deck."

HA! I bet you thought that was going to be at MY house, didn't you?

August 3, San Angelo Biscuits & Gravy Bike Ride

Just one question: why ruin a perfectly good breakfast with exercise?

August 23, Honey Grove Bugtussle Trek "Enjoy the parade of vintage and classic vehicles (sure to be some tractors!), which are parked on the square during the lunch break on the trek between Dallas and Paris."

Okay, I admit it - I want to go to this, just so I can buy the "Honk If You Bugtussle" bumper sticker.

August 23, Wichita Falls Hotter'N Hell Hundred

This is an event to which I've actually been, so rather than quote the press release, I'll just tell you what it's about: Thousands of obviously mentally deranged cyclists on a 100-mile ride in 100-degree weather. Hot tip (heh heh) - on August 22, buy stock in Aquafina.

August 30-31, Austin Bat Fest "Features a bat wing eating contest, bat watching, bat education, bridge bungee jumping, and more."

Austin is a liberal, college town. You should have no trouble finding the necessary mind-altering drugs you'll need right before you eat a bat wing or jump off a bridge.

August 30-31, Buffalo Gap Chili Super Bowl "See and sample the world's largest bowl of chili."

And you might want to be across the state line the next day, before the mass, uh, after-effects occur.

So there you go. If you have a boring summer, don't come crying to me. I'll be too busy admiring antique tractor spark plugs with my barbarian.

Indiana Jones and the Crappy Skull Prop

2008-05-29T11:08:00.005-05:00

My kids took me to see "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" on Memorial Day. I'm going to hold off on my personal thoughts about the movie, so as not to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet, but I did want to say this.

Mr. Spielberg must have been running out of budget money when he got to the part where he had to have a crystal skull prop, so he hired the creative genius of Herkie & Dale, two guys who work down at our local Taco Tico. That skull looks like somebody's leftover plastic Halloween yard decor, stuffed with a big wad of aluminum foil.

I hear another Indiana Jones sequel is in the works. Watch for the Dollar Store to be named in the credits under "Special Effects Department."

The time I wanted soooo badly to say, "I told you so."

2008-05-22T18:47:00.003-05:00

So, there we were, loading up for our trip to Florida, when Hubster announced, "Well, I've got the trailer all ready."

Trailer?!

Yes indeedy, it seemed we were going to haul a large trailer behind our van, in order to transport many large chunks of wood that probably were at one time a national forest, so that Hubster could exchange them for a Floridian dentist's one-time-national-forest. My brain actually made an audible "ka-CHING!" sound as I quickly calculated how much extra money this was going to cost in fuel. Let's just say it was enough to purchase the entire lumber inventory at our local Home Depot. Plus a barbeque grill and some lawn chairs, so the kids & I could relax while Hubster loaded up his shiny new wood onto the dreaded trailer. Well, apparently the extra cost did not worry Hubster, which surprised me. This is the guy who micromanages our expenses down to how much ketchup our kids may put on their burgers. (I swear I am not making this up.)

"Are you sure the trailer can handle this much weight?" I asked. Hubster gave me a look that said, Don't you have to go pack some ridiculously large hat or something? so I shut up.

And so it was that, one hour later, we were in the middle of downtown Dallas, during evening rush hour, on a one-lane overpass, when a trailer tire blew out.

Have I mentioned that I'm scared to death of heights? I mean, I get nervous when I have to wear thick socks. And this overpass we were on was one of the highest in the city. Personally, I think that if you can see a commercial airline pilot's ear hair as he flies by your car window, the roadway is too danged high.

Besides that, I was worried that Hubster was going to be flattened by one of the cars zooming up over that roadway like it was the curve at Texas Motor Speedway. I comforted myself by realizing that we were so high up, he'd have time to craft a parachute from his underwear and locate the nearest tire store before he reached the ground.

Then Hubster discovered that he had neglected to bring a "four-way," which isn't as naughty as it sounds. It's a tool for changing tires. I wanted to suggest that maybe he should carve one from his load of wood, but thought better of it.

In the end, the tire got changed, and although we were three hours behind schedule we did make it to Florida, and we did receive an even bigger load of wood to bring home to Texas.

Which blew out the other tire on our return trip.

So if you were driving on a dark, busy Mississippi highway at about 12:30 am on April 27, and you saw a woman by the side of the road, attempting to light a trailer load of logs on fire, that was me.

We interrupt your regular programming ...

2008-05-12T18:42:00.001-05:00

I just found my Halloween costume for 2008.

I'm going to be a patio umbrella.

And yet we let her drive a minivan on I-75.

2008-05-04T21:52:00.004-05:00

NO, my mother-in-law did not try to break my kneecaps. What, do you people think I married into the Mob? Sheesh. (Although I might have considered it if I'd ever had an Italian boyfriend, because I love pasta.)

My mother-in-law isn't even Italian. She's got Canadian genes, and you know Canadians never get angry enough to break someone's bones. Canadians are mellow. If they feel violent, they drink another beer and wait for the feeling to pass. If the feeling doesn't pass, they move to the U.S. and play in the National Hockey League.

No, I think I have the best mother-in-law in the world. She's funny and generous and loving. And smart. She was a registered nurse for about 150 years, and you know that your average buffoon doesn't get to be a nurse. Hubster says that his mom was the kind of nurse that if she had to give a kid a shot, and the kid was pitching a royal fit, she'd give the kid a look that said, "Keep it up and I'll go get the needle that's the size of your bicycle spokes. And I'll sterilize it over an open flame until it's red-hot." And then the kid would shut up and later need therapy for his phobia of white shoes.

In fact, it was my smart mother-in-law who educated me about service monkeys. There's this facility that raises guide dogs near her home, and in the course of talking about it, I found out that some disabled people have monkeys that help around the house. Really! I guess a service monkey can be trained to do things that a Golden Retriever can't, like butter your toast, tie your shoes, roll your Yahtzee dice, that kind of thing. Who knew? Man, if they can teach monkeys to cook and clean toilets, it would be worth having my kneecaps broken just to get one of those little dudes for myself.

Anyway. Back to the kneecap story.

We decided to take the kids for a full day at Sea World, and my mother-in-law rented herself one of those electric carts. Now, as I said, she's usually a very bright, capable woman, but for some reason she had a lot of trouble with this cart. First she rammed the thing (and her knee) into a metal pole. Then she plowed into a bench, whacking the same knee again. She already has two artificial hips, so maybe the electric cart generated some kind of weird magnetic attraction between her leg and whatever upright metal object was nearby. I don't know.

It got to where my kids started warning strangers around us, "Look out, my grandma's coming through. You might want to get out your insurance card." When they'd hear the beep, beep of the cart backing up, they'd begin searching the Sea World map for the closest first aid station. You could be across the park and know when the dolphin show, or the shark show, or whatever show, was over, because you could hear the WHAM of my mother-in-law backing her cart into a trash can as she prepared to leave the stadium.

Hubster and I talked about it later, and we decided that if his mom ever becomes unable to walk well within her own home, we're not going to let her get one of those Hoveround things. Absolutely not. She'd run that thing straight into the bridge table, knock over the peanut bowl, and her bridge buddies would pelt her with rocks and garbage. The entire retirement community would be in an uproar, and she'd be relegated to playing Yahtzee with her service monkey.

Nope, if she ever needs ambulatory assistance, we've got a solution. We're gonna get her a service donkey. One of those little miniature donkeys that she can ride around the house and down to the community hall for morning coffee.

And the best part of this plan is this. If my kids ever get in a bragging match with an Italian mafia kid about their grandmas, my kids can say, "Yeah? Well, my grandma's ass can kick your grandma."

Heh heh.

Please leave a message at the tone ...

2008-04-26T11:42:00.002-05:00

TC is away on vacation, which has included, so far:

1. Automotive disaster
2. A midnight visit from 3 armed police officers
3. Two lost sons
4. A mother-in-law's attempt to break her kneecap - twice

TC will return to blogging when she gets home and has gotten a prescription for Prozac.

Why I'll be serving oatmeal at my next dinner party.

2008-04-12T11:31:00.003-05:00

Okay, so there's this new candy bar on the market, "Snickers Charged." Apparently this is just like your normal everyday Snickers, except that it's packed with all those energy-enhancing ingredients like caffeine, taurine, and nitroglycerine.

This is a bad, bad idea, on so many levels.

Let's start with who won't purchase this candy: anyone over the age of 40.

It's not like people over the age of 40 don't need more energy. Quite the contrary. Let's face it, you hit 40 and suddenly you start grunting when you put on socks. You get winded just throwing your change into the bucket at the toll booth. You rationalize that when you chuck your underwear at the laundry hamper and miss, and then you pick them up with your toes, that counts as both aerobic exercise and strength training.

But the first problem with the Snickers Charged bar is the fat content. Fat molecules love people over 40. We're kind of a luxury commune for fat molecules. They move in, claim squatters rights on your thighs, have a bunch of children, invite their friends and their friends' children, and before you know it, you've got half of Oregon camped out on your butt. You might as well just buy a bunch of Snickers Charged bars and duct tape them together around your waist like a belt.

The other issue with this candy is that the older you get, the more dangerous food becomes. Butter clogs your arteries. Sugar gives you diabetes. Salt gives you high blood pressure. Lima beans make your spleen explode. Bananas cause you to develop a mutant twin in your pancreas. By the time you're 80, the only safe things to eat are pureed oatmeal and air. And if you make it to 90, you'd better get used to living on air alone. Pureed, of course.

So as much as I need the energy in a Snickers Charged bar, I just can't take the risk of 1) cankles that start at the back of my knees, and 2) my pituitary gland growing a beard and getting a driver's license.

Next: Snickers Charged + Toddler Power = a solution to the energy crisis.

Be Careful For What Thou Wisheth (a true story)

2008-04-07T18:25:00.002-05:00

And it came about that when Hubs and his wife, TC, had begat three children, the three children ate much and grew large, so that Hubs said, "It is time for us to make our dwelling in the land of much dirt, for there we can find a larger abode." So it was there they made their home.

But ere long, Hubs cried out, "Lo, we have been much deceived, for this habitation was built from discarded mobile home parts and stolen job site materials, and look, it is held together with Twinkie filling." And it was then that Hubs and his wife, TC, cried out to the Lord, "Oh, God, hear us in our hour of need, as we petition Thou to send us money or a winning lottery ticket that we might repair this habitation, for our children have sucked us financially dry." And God heard their prayer, and sent them a fourth child, whom they named Sasquatch, for he ate more and grew more than the other three children together, so that the financial dryness became a drought upon them and they were unable to make the abode a pleasant place.

And so it was that when Hubs and his wife, TC, and their children would journey to another place, Hubs would instruct his neighbors, "If thou seest our house on fire, waiteth one hour before calling the fire department." And TC did greatly hope that each new spring would bring a tornado upon their land with which to utterly destroy the habitation of despair, as it was one where wallpaper was held in place with packing tape. And when they said these things to their friends, all would hear of it and laugh and make merry.

But the Hand of the Lord was at work, and shewed Itself in the fourth month of the year 2008, when God sent a mighty wind and storm upon the land. And in the dark of night, the family of Hubs cried out, "Have mercy on us, as our habitation is thus being pelted with hail the size of monkey heads!" And behold, as the light dawned, Hubs and his wife, TC, did look upon their rooms and see glass glittering as a million small diamonds upon their floors, which caused them to say, "Surely we are not like Moses, for God has instructed us to put ON our shoes in this place. And holey moly, this carpet is soaked and smells like the fur of a wet dog."

And then, God did send an angel of mercy, he who was named Allstate, who declared to Hubs, "Behold, you shall receive new windows, a new roof, new siding, new carpet, and whatever else shall be necessary to re-build your place of habitation." And there was much rejoicing even though one car had suffered totally at the power of the hail the size of monkey heads.

So it was that the children of Hubs and his wife, TC, did empty out their bedrooms so that the habitation might be rebuilt. And TC pondered these things in her heart, and did smile, for she alone knew the truth: That the mighty stench of the Compost Heap of Underwear and Socks, that had long grown deep and dark in the room of her sons, had reached the nostrils of God in Heaven. And God had said, "Surely this stench is of The Evil One," and He sent forth the storm and the hail the size of monkey heads to utterly destroy it.

And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. ~ Romans 8:28

So don't mess with me.

2008-04-03T02:16:00.000-05:00

Good grief, where have I been?

2008-04-02T18:41:00.004-05:00

I've decided it's really difficult to keep up with a blog when one lives a life as exciting as mine.

To wit (I've said it before, and I'll say it again, one of the best things about blogging is getting to use phrases you'd never say in real life, like "to wit"):

Bunhead, after ballet class last week: I feel so out of touch with the other girls in class. Last week, during spring break, Rachel went to France. Lauren went to Hawaii. Olivia went to Pompeii!

Me: Are you saying our spring break wasn't exciting, or interesting, or stimulating? What about the day the dog got so stressed, he pooped on the floor while we were trimming his nails? Wasn't that a story you'll tell your children? Oh, and don't forget that one afternoon when we went to StuffMart and I made everyone behind us in the self-checkout line wait for 15 minutes while I plugged dimes and nickels into the slot to pay for my purchases! Wasn't that a lively time? Oh, oh, and the morning that the cow and her calf escaped, and we had to go all Lonesome Dove out on the highway to round 'em back up? That was kind of cool. And then there was that time your dad wigged out because the floor needed to be vacuumed. That was ... uh ... memorable.

Bunhead, giving me that look that says, Only by some bizarre genetic mutation am I related to you : Yeah.

So yeah. That's what's been rockin' and rollin' in my life. But I just found out about a new candy bar that's just begging for my comments. You know I always have an opinion about chocolate - usually that 1) it's good, and 2) I need some - so that'll be up next.

Wordless Wednesday

2008-03-11T21:58:00.003-05:00

Not only "no," but "heck, no!"

And if I'm gonna pay $3,600 for a pair of shoes, they better darn well come with heels.

(That wasn't very wordless, was it?)

You kids are gonna learn something, dang it!

2008-03-07T23:16:00.003-06:00

One of the benefits of homeschooling is the plethora of opportunities for what we homeschool parents like to call "teachable moments." I'm a big believer in teachable moments. My kids, not so much. They claim that they can't fart without me making it a lesson on the anatomy and physiology of the digestive system. They say I'm the only mom they know who can turn taking out the trash into a field trip.

WhatEVer. Communists.

Anyway. Our part of Texas received an abundance of snow this week, which is something extremely unusual. It's kind of like Nebraska getting hit by a tidal wave. Or StuffMart running out of pork rinds and 4XL black polyester stretch pants. Unheard of.

Of course, my teachable moments antenna were quivering with excitement, so we had some outdoor lessons.

1. We trained a couple of our dogs for next year's Iditarod race in Alaska.

What? You've never seen an elderly, one-eyed pug and a Basset hound pull a dog sled? It could happen.

2. We practiced cave living, a skill that might come in handy after next November's presidential elections.

And then, when our electric power went out for a while, I demonstrated how to heat up canned chili on our wood stove. You'd think this would have impressed my children, but no. Their fear of my cooking knows no bounds. It scares them when I spread peanut butter on crackers. So they were more than a little worried about how they were going to endure the next few meals (or lack thereof). When the power finally came back on, 14-year-old FashionBug saw the blinking digital clock on the microwave and cried out in great relief, "YES! We're going to live!"

Ah. Another teachable moment: Appropriate apologies to yell through the window when your mother locks you out of the house.

I was just wondering ...

2008-03-03T19:11:00.002-06:00

So I was in a public restroom the other day, and I noticed the name of the company that manufactured the toilet stalls, and it made me wonder:

Is there really a guy out there who introduces himself, "Hi, I'm the CEO of Hiney Hiders?"

School. Or something like it.

2008-02-29T14:06:00.003-06:00

(This entry is dedicated to my beautiful, funny sister, who is an outstanding public school educator and who has the ability to post God-awful childhood pictures of me on the 'net for the whole world to see.)

Some people might wonder how homeschooling actually works in a family's life, so I thought I would tell you our morning agenda.

My alarm clock goes off at 8:00 am, and I lay there wondering why morning has to start so doggone early. If I ran the world, morning wouldn't begin until 11:00 am, maybe even noon.

I stumble out of the bedroom and head for the kitchen. If I am lucky, one of the kids has already made coffee. This is not because of their unflagging love for me, but because it scares them to watch me try to operate small, kitchen appliances with my eyes closed.

Because they know that I can barely remember to breathe at this early hour, my children know not to wait on a hot, cooked breakfast. They've already eaten their Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs and are now plotting how they can escape for the next few hours, hoping to avoid school altogether.

One of the kids offers to take our black lab and go down to the road to pick up the daily newspaper, while I ingest a couple of cups of liquid CPR.

Newspaper between her jaws, the dog returns to the house. The child does not.

Fortunately, the paper is encased in a slobber-proof plastic wrapper, which, unfortunately, keeps Hillary's/Obama's/John's front page photo from being comically distorted by dog drool.

I leaf through the paper, just to make sure there's not a world-wide recall of coffee beans.

I start to feel my heart beating, which means it's time to start school.

I send out calls, text messages, and carrier pigeons in an attempt to find my students.

Thirty minutes later, I begin to read aloud from our history text.

I am in the middle of the stirring words, "Listen, my children, and you shall hear, of the midnight ride of Paul Revere," when I hear slight noises from my children. Without looking up, I think, " Good, they're being moved by the drama of this poem. Gosh, isn't homeschooling wonderful?"

The slight noises turn into bigger noises that sound suspiciously like muffled laughter.

I look up and see that three of my students have turned their attention completely to Student #4.

I turn my fiercest gaze upon the interrupter.

It seems that Mr. Disruption has created, with the help of the plastic newspaper wrapper, a small visual aid for our history lesson: a model of the ghost of Paul Revere.

And here, my friends, is where homeschooling makes a dramatic departure from the public school model.

In a public school, the student would be disciplined for his mischief, perhaps by writing an essay on The Impact of Homosexual Patriots in 1776 American Society.

In a homeschool, the teacher takes a photo to commemorate the moment and posts it on her blog.

Sanctification in 30 minutes, or it's free!

2008-02-25T12:34:00.004-06:00

There's a church in Texas that advertises its "30 Minute Worship." If you check out their website, you will see that their order of service looks like this:

8-10 minutes: singing
15 minutes: sermon
5 minutes: offering

Now, I'm not one to criticize the way other churches work, but this particular approach to worship does raise a couple of questions in my mind.

1. What about communion? Maybe they hand everyone a communion-to-go bag on the way out the door. You know, a juice box and a packet of saltine crackers. Gives new meaning to the term "Happy Meal."

2. I wonder how they baptize folks. I guess if there's only one baptism to be done, they might just nail the person with a squirt gun before he gets in his car. If they have a group, it'd probably be faster to just turn on the lawn sprinklers and tell all the baptees (Of course that's a real word. Whaddya think, I just make stuff up?) to run through as they leave the service.

3. Um, prayer? Oh, maybe the parishoners get credit for the one they uttered in the parking lot: "Please let me get a spot near the door so I can be the first person out the door and into Chili's before the after-church rush."

Curse you, "Sing, Spell, Read, & Write!"

2008-02-20T18:24:00.010-06:00

I've had a revelation. It dawned on me exactly when I lost control around here. It was when I taught my kids to read.

See, it doesn't take long, once a kid can read, that he gets twice as smart as his parents. One day he's working his way through The Cat In The Hat, and a week later, he's making subversive messages with those plastic letter refrigerator magnets: "DOWN WITH OPPRESSIVE BEDTIMES! STOP THE TYRANNY!"

And then they learn to spell, and from that point it all goes to hell in a handbasket. No more can you say to Hubster over your dinner of Beanie Weenies, "Tomorrow's agenda includes a f-i-e-l-d t-r-i-p," because your five-year-old will pipe up, "Well, I hope it's not to the dumb ol' zoo, 'cause I really would rather go to the jet propulsion laboratory. I have an idea for an experiment I'd like to discuss with the engineers." So you're left sitting there, dumbstruck, thinking that maybe you've been right all along - Beanie Weenies really do aid in brain development. But you look over at Hubster and he's still mentally working on "f-i-e-l-d..." and you realize it's not the Beanie Weenies that created this scary, midget brainiac, it's books.

And don't think for one minute that you can avoid the same consequences with the younger children. Oh no. The older ones will teach the babies the communist power of books, and at that point, your reign as Sovereign Parent is o-ver like last year's American Idol.

Pretty soon you'll be getting notes written with blue crayon that say, "No more tuna casserole. For both ethical and health reasons, I have become a vegan. Research findings available upon request."

In summary, I have only myself to blame. I'm the one that encouraged their reading habit. But for some of you younger mothers, it's not too late. All you have to do is enroll your kindergartener in public school. I have it on good authority that most of the kids coming out of our public schools can't read their way out of a tin can labeled "b-e-a-n-i-e w-e-e-n-i-e-s."

Spring? Break.

2008-02-13T19:09:00.004-06:00

So Groundhog Day was a couple of weeks ago, and I guess the ol' rodent saw his shadow, which supposedly means six more weeks of winter.

Bah. Any Texan with the IQ of a doorknob knows that you don't base your weather predictions on a hibernating critter from the east coast. Nosiree. For truly accurate weather forecasts, you have to measure the length of Willie Nelson's braids.

Oh, wait. I might be getting mixed up. That's probably the method for determining when to plant your marijuana seeds.

Well, it doesn't matter, because Texas doesn't "do" spring like everyone else. We like to scatter our 75-degree days throughout November, December, January, and February, just to make things interesting and to confuse the fire ants. That way, when March rolls around, we can make the transition from winter temperatures - about 50 degrees - to summer temperatures - about 100 degrees - in about a week. We don't need three months to acclimate to warmer weather like a lot of other states. Wimps.

ANYway. We had a couple of those spring days last week, and they were enough to trigger the annual Spring Break tradition at my house. What I mean by this is: if it's spring, something breaks.

Of course, the broken item is never anything that would be cheap to replace, like our 15-year-old toaster oven with petrified crumbs in the bottom. And it's never something I'd like to replace, such as my hand mixer. The thing is harvest gold (that ought to tell you it pre-dates rotary dial telephones), uglier than homemade sin, and has a motor that refuses to die. That sucker could mix concrete. And according to my family, who have eaten some of my cooking, it already has. Hardy har har.

So this year, the spring break casualty was my microwave. Now, my whole kitchen could fall into an eight mile deep sinkhole tomorrow and I wouldn't care, as long as I still had a coffee maker and a microwave. As far as I'm concerned, the major food groups are Coffee, Chocolate, and Anything That Can Be Reheated. I'm proud to say I'm the Queen of Reheat. So I was in a bad way.

Hubster. Good old mechanical, Mr. Fix-It, DYI, Norm-Abrams-Wannabe Hubster. I really believe the man can repair just about anything. He ought to be able to. If God had needed power tools to create the earth, He would have envied Hubster's workshop. So I was sure that Hubster was going to rush to my assistance just so he could use his Binford Microwave Torque Saw Vise Grips. Or something. Plus, without a microwave, it was going to be kind of hard for me to reheat his Taco Bell chalupas, so I figured he was motivated.

I rushed to tell Hubster that the microwave was making a noise like an ice maker that's trying to grind up a softball-sized hail stone (don't ask how I know what this noise sounds like). And it was shaking more than a Jello competition near the San Andreas Fault. So you know what Hubster said?

"Huh."

How very helpful.

Well, a microwaveless week went by, and let me tell you, it was stressful. You ever try to reheat mac & cheese on the stove? It's not easy, my friends. I kept telling Hubster, "What do you think I am, some kind of gourmet chef?!"

I guess he finally got tired of boiled hot dogs and cold chalupas, because he gave me the go-ahead to buy a new microwave. It is truly a thing of beauty. And to celebrate Valentine's Day, tonight I'm going to use it to reheat some heart-shaped Pastaroni. Sometimes you just have to live a little.

Now I'm just praying that next Spring Break, a tornado passes over our house, sucks up the stove, and deposits it in the next county. And you know what I'll say if that happens?

"Huh."

"And don't forget to check out the new paint job on the Dumpster out back!"

2008-02-08T23:09:00.000-06:00

Good Lord. Entertainment options in my little Texas town have reached a new low. Literally.

I used to think it was pitiful enough that most families 'round here spend their Friday evenings dragging their eight kids through StuffMart until midnight. By that time, the mostly naked toddler is crying into his sippee cup of Dr. Pepper and his diaper has reached critical mass. The older kids are squabbling over whether to get the mega-pack of Larditos, and the teenage son is curled in a fetal position under the shopping cart. Good times, good times.

But, like most other small Texas towns, we have a Dairy Queen. DQs have been around a long time, because, as any fool knows, God created Dairy Queen right after the whole Garden of Eden disaster, so that Adam & Eve and the kids would have a place to go eat after Wednesday night prayer meetings.

Well. Our poor old DQ was in need of some remodeling, and once the project was finished, what do you think the manager put on the sign board out front? "Updated play area for the kids!" No. "Eat in our new, larger dining area!" Try again. "Now with self-serve ice cream bar!" I wish.

No, here is what is on the sign board. And I swear I am not making this up.

"We are open! Come see our new restrooms!"

Now, I don't know about you, but 1) I don't get all that jacked up about public restrooms. All I care is that they're clean and that there's enough toilet paper so that I don't have to wave my hand under the stall divider between me & my restroom neighbor, because we all know where that leads, and b) I don't want to be sitting at my table, enjoying my Buster Bar, and have to listen to the guy at the table next to me telling his buddies, "Dang! Them new ur'nals'll do ever'thing but zip up yer pants!"

So I'm kind of avoiding the Dairy Queen until the newness wears off. On the upside, though, with all the locals crowding into the DQ, StuffMart has been pleasantly less suffocating.

Oh my. I just had a dreadful thought.

What if StuffMart remodels their restrooms? There just aren't enough Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies to pacify the huge mob that would arrive for the Great Double Whammy of Entertainment.

Now I know I'm really a mom.

2008-02-02T11:53:00.000-06:00

I thought I had already done all the things that qualify me to be called a mom.

I've been peed on.

I've cleaned up puke in the carpet at 2:00 am.

I've hosed down a toddler whose diaper exploded, spreading its contents from neck to knees.

I've wiped away boogers without a kleenex.

I've dealt with poop in bathwater.

(I could go on, but you get the gist.)

But today I earned a new badge of Momhood. It seems that Sasquatch has a raging case of poison ivy, with the greatest concentration in the area, uh, south of his tailbone. Down in the valley, shall we say. And guess who gets to administer the itch cream?

Why is it that Dadhood is earned by doing fun stuff with one's offspring, like teaching them how to belch the alphabet, showing them how to crush a can on their foreheads, and helping them memorize all the lyrics to Frank Zappa's "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow?"

No wonder we moms need chocolate. It's our hazard pay.

I'm not who you think I am.

2008-01-30T18:45:00.000-06:00

Dear Mr. or Ms. Spammer,

It has come to my attention that you have been sending me numerous emails, in hopes that I will purchase your product(s). I am writing to let you know that I am definitely not in the demographic you are trying to reach, and that you may want to focus your efforts on one of the other gajillion people with email accounts.

I do not need a product or pill which will "increase the bulge in my pants." All the bulges in my pants are already far too large. But if you come up with a product that will make me a size 6 while I sleep, get back in touch with me.

If you are a "single Russian female who is bored tonight," I'm not the person you want to come chat with you. I can probably come up with a hundred things for you to do to relieve your boredom, such as volunteering down at the local homeless shelter, or adopting 2 miles of highway and keeping it litter-free. Or perhaps sewing your own clothes, since you apparently don't have any.

Do I "like to cook and want to attend culinary school?" Most emphatically, NO. I've been known to burn water AND air. My kids put on helmets and goggles when I enter the kitchen. Do you believe a cooking school really wants a student who has exploded glass pans? I think not.

Am I "sick of dating?" Honey, I've been married for nearly 22 years. I wouldn't know a date if it walked up and kicked me in my bulgy pants.

The offers for "land in Costa Rica" are mighty tempting, but I'm pretty sure my family would find me there, anyway. And then I'd be stuck cooking jungle food, which is a lot harder than microwaving Ramen noodles, and I can't take that kind of pressure.

I don't really want to "claim my gift card," no matter which store it's redeemable in. One hour of shopping takes 10 years off my life. See my previous entries.

I'm sure your "replica Rolex watches" are just lovely, but I don't need one. I already own a watch which does a fine job of letting me know when it's time to start screaming at my daughter that she will just have to go without that particular mocha lip gloss which is lost in the debris under her bed, because we're extremely late for church and God really doesn't care about the color of her lips, anyway, so get in the car and get in a worshipful mood, dammit.

To all you South African widows who "need urgent help" (and my bank account number) to claim the $9.4 million from your late husband's estate: Am I the only person who thinks the death rate among rich men in your country is unusually high?

In summary, I think you can see that it is fruitless to continue to send me 350 emails each day. However, today I received a message with a link to "hundred of singles in my area," and I would be happy to pass that along to you to help increase your customer base.

Best wishes,

Awarding Idiocy

2008-01-28T18:18:00.000-06:00

I'm not much of a TV watcher, but last night my kids convinced me to sit down with them for a show on the "achievements" (if growing one's toenails out to 15 inches long can be called an achievement) of people who are in the Guiness Book of World Records. Here's what I think.

I don't know how mankind has survived as long as it has. You have to wonder when our gene pool includes people like the guy who ran barefoot across 140 hot stove elements. (I'm not sure if that number is correct, because while I was watching the guy, I was thinking, "Now, if this guy had 15 inch toenails that might burst into flames while he's doing this, that would really be something!")

I think past humans were much smarter than recent generations. I mean, if God had suspected that Noah's sons, having a little down time after mucking out the giraffe stalls, would say, "Dude, let's see if we can hold the tarantulas in our mouths while we blow soap bubbles!", I'm pretty sure He would have bagged the whole ark idea and had Himself a do-over.

100% of the insane records are held by men. It has something do with the way their brains work, I guess. I don't know a single woman who would wake up one day and say, "Gee, my abs workout went so well yesterday, I think I'll let 7 trucks drive over my belly today." Or, "Hmm, there's not much on my agenda this afternoon. It might be a good time to hook some cables to a van and see if I can pull it with meat hooks pierced through my back muscles."

I think there's a chance one of my sons could someday be in the record books. They've already got a good start on one category: Largest Indoor Compost Heap Made Entirely of Hanes Underwear.

The Mother's Revenge

2008-01-26T11:21:00.000-06:00

It's been nearly a year since my last shopping adventure with one of my daughters. If you've been reading my blog for a while, you might remember that it was the day that ended with me pleading with a Gap salesgirl to stab me in my jugular vein with a broken hanger to put me out of my misery. (Full story here.)

Well, I thought I had finally recovered enough from the emotional trauma to take my other daughter shopping. She had received a gift card for Christmas, and she was afraid it was going to go Mission Impossible on her. "This card will self-destruct in 15 seconds. Good luck. Oh, and ballerina flats are in for spring."

After I had readied myself by drinking 8 cups of coffee, we set off for the store. Unfortunately, Sasquatch had decided he needed to go along. Right then, I knew we were headed for disaster, because taking a 12-year-old boy on a shopping trip for clothes is about as much fun as setting your hair on fire.

Once at the store, my daughter spent 30 minutes dragging me through the racks of clothes, asking my opinion about various pieces and then disagreeing with my choices. Eventually, she headed into the dressing room and I joined her with a few, uh, foundation garments for myself. Sasquatch waited on a bench at the dressing room entrance, trying to recover from the experience of watching his mother pick out bras by dreaming of which kind of candy bar he was going to nag me into buying for him.

It wasn't long until I heard Daughter say, from somewhere in a far corner of the dressing room, "Mom, would you look at this shirt and tell me how it looks on me?"

I did what any good mother would do. I called out over the top of my cubicle door, "I CAN'T COME OUT. I'M NAKED."

There was a nanosecond of utter silence, then I heard Daughter whisper loudly, "MOM! People are going to hear you!" Apparently, people did hear me, because I heard snickers from other cubicles. When I emerged, Sasquatch gave me such a look of horror that I knew that lots of other people had heard me, not just those in the confines of the dressing room area.

Ah. Success.

I spied Daughter back among the racks, but this time she was asking for fashion advice from a six-year-old girl and her Barbie doll. And Sasquatch was so anxious to get out of the store, he forgot to load up the cart with his usual "needs," namely, two liters of Monster energy drink, a party platter of petite cheesecakes, and some SpongeBob boxer shorts.

I daresay I won't have to take one of my kids shopping for at least another year.

This is your brain. THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON COFFEE!!

2008-01-25T14:43:00.000-06:00

One might be considered an addict if one catches oneself saying, "But I've only had two doses of coffee this morning!"

It's Not Much, But I'm Very Good At It.

2008-01-24T14:23:00.000-06:00

One of the nicer parts of getting old is that you sort of figure out what your purpose in life is. You're way past that moment of panic when you realize your school years are finished and you actually have to find The Job: the career that helps you mine your talents to their fullest; the career that allows you to make the world a better place for future generations; the career that earns a you millionaire bucks in the first two years. In other words, when you get older, you realize you're not going to be Steve Jobs, Ben or Jerry, or the guy who started Starbucks, and that's okay. You're content with doing whatever it is that makes your life purposeful.

I've finally figured out that my purpose in life is to fall down.

Frequently.

In front of large groups of people.

Just last week, I took a tumble in the lobby of a hockey rink, right in the middle of about 100 other parents. Actually, "tumble" is too mild a word. I pretty much just crashed to the ground like a C130 with all engines smoking and landing gear up.

The funny thing was, in the 1.5 seconds between standing and then pressing my cheek to the concrete floor, I had time to think about a bunch of things. No, not my whole life flashing before my eyes - I'm old, I'd need to fall off a 100-story building to have time for that. No, I was thinking about the last time I fell down in public, and how, once again, I was either going to 1) wake up later in the hospital, or 2) find myself staring at some strange man's shoes as he assisted me to my feet, while I was wishing I could crawl under the bleachers and hide among the KitKat wrappers. I was desperately hoping for Option #1, so as to avoid having to face all the people who were about to witness my unintentional stage-dive-without-the-stage.

Naturally, I ended up with Option #2.

And get this. When I told my kids what had happened, they said, "Oh, man, we can't believe we missed it!" A broken pencil gets more compassion around here than I do.

Anyway. Thank you for all the kindly concern over my foot. I think it's getting better, but right now I'm hardly noticing it. My attention has been focused on the blue racing stripe I'm sporting down my right thigh, and the way my right shoulder feels like it was ripped off and used to bludgeon my rib cage.

My big worry now is that my various groups of acquaintances are someday going to cross paths. If that happens, they might start sharing "Remember When TC Wiped Out In Front of the Deli Meat?" stories, and before I know it, they'll be buying me a walker with tennis balls on the bottom of the legs for my next birthday.

Anything but that.

2008-01-18T22:12:00.000-06:00

Oh, calm down. I haven't passed on. Although it's not like I haven't had opportunities.

One morning last week, I climbed out of bed and promptly whacked the side of my foot against a box that's been loitering at the foot of the bed for, well, a long time. I think I ruptured a major blood vessel 'cause within minutes that sucker swelled up like it belonged to Barry Bonds. A few minutes later, the whole side of my bloated foot was a deep burgundy and it hurt to put on a sock.

Well, my big fear was that I was going to wake up the next morning and find myself d-e-a-d, dead. Bled to death as a result of being a crappy housekeeper. My obituary would read, "Died from clutter," because my family wouldn't come up with something more plausible and less embarrassing, like, "She was carried off by a pack of caffeine-deprived jackals," or, "She died of dehydration while waiting for her dial-up internet service to download a YouTube video."

Actually, I never thought I'd die from my own clutter. I figured my kids' junk would do me in, in one of those bizarre home accidents you read about in News of the Weird. Something like, I'd walk in the back door, trip over a pile of shoes, and fall to the floor, where I'd suffer a fatal puncture of the left kidney by the barrel of a Nerf dart gun. Or I'd step on a hairbrush, and the accupuncture by the bristles in all the wrong places would cause my heart to stop. Or maybe a Cheez-It would slip out from under the sofa cushion, cut my thigh, and I'd die of cheddar sepsis. You never know.

Anyway. I'm fine now, other than the spectacular bruise left behind. Why do people describe a bruise as "black and blue?" My foot looks like fall foliage. Hot glue a couple of acorns on there and I'd have a nice centerpiece for Thanksgiving.

In other podiatry news, a large quantity of petrified socks showed up in the laundry on Monday. I could swear I haven't seen these since my sons "lost" them back in 1998. Judging by the odor and crustiness of the socks, I can only assume they've spent the last 9 years in a dumpster in Bayonne, New Jersey. I'm sincerely hoping the lost underwear never reappears.

Not the look I was going for.

2008-01-11T17:21:00.000-06:00

So I'm entering into this new relationship with my hair. In the past, I treated my hair like my husband - if I didn't like the way it (he) was, I tried to change it (him). This resulted in a lifetime of changes and experiments, including cutting, coloring, perming, straightening, highlighting, styling, and the occasional threat to get rid of it altogether. (Not Hubster, just the hair. Although he could use a little styling, what with his wardrobe staples being torn t-shirts and baggy shorts mottled with wood stain.) For the longest time, anyone I met who hadn't seen me for the previous 3 months would say, "Gosh, you've really changed your hair." I was a walking art project.

But I finally reached a point where I'm accepting my hair for what it is. Or maybe I'm just too tired to care.

Anyway. The other day, after my hair had dried into its usual mass of long waves, I had an epiphany - I look like Dyan Cannon! How cool is that? Well, it would be cooler if anyone younger than 50 had even heard of Dyan Cannon. But here she is, in a photo from Oct. 2007.

I should probably mention that DC is 70 years old in this photo. I guess to be honest, I should say that only my hair looks like Dyan Cannon. The rest of me looks like Dyan Cannon's mother.

In any case, I've been reveling in my new confident self-awareness and radiating with love for my locks. Until yesterday.

Daughter #2 (age 14) said, "Gee, Mom, your hair looks .... "
I jumped in to finish her statement. "Pretty? Wavy? Full of volume? Stylish? Attractive? Great?"
Daughter paused, then replied, "... cave-woman-ish."

Great - if the wedding's at a monster truck rally.

2008-01-07T21:23:00.000-06:00

I think clothes shopping with one's own kids should be declared unconstitutional, on the grounds that it is cruel and unusual punishment for the parent.

This is how it usually works in my family. Let's say my teens need something to wear as guests at a wedding, so we set out to go shopping. First we have the traditional "SHOTGUN!" fight, which helps everyone to get in the requisite foul mood. Then we have the traditional "Are you going to buy us lunch?" whine, which allows me to practice my 20-minute Do You Think We're Made Of Money lecture. Then the kids have the traditional Application Of The iPod for the remainder of the drive, which makes me feel noticeably cheerier.

We finally get to the store, and I hand each child about $25 and tell them, "Go find something suitable to wear to a wedding. I'm going to pick up some socks and underwear for the boys, and then I'll be in the coffee aisle with my head in the bean grinder."

While I'm still looking at the Bale O' Socks and wondering if it will fit in the cart, the boys show up with bags in hand, announcing that they're done shopping and they're heading back to the sporting goods section, which is where they play Dodgeball Death in the basketball aisle. Of course, they don't tell me that last part, so I let them go.

Thirty minutes later, there is no sign of the girls, so I go searching, only to find them looking at artificial hair attachments. I tell them that unless they plan to go to the wedding dressed like Lady Godiva, they'd better get their butts over to the clothing department, and not only that, but they're going to need hair attachments because I'm gonna be dragging them out of the store by their scalps if they don't step it up. The odor from nearby boxes of Lady Clairol must affect their brains' ability to understand me, because they meander off, thinking that I don't see them drifting toward the towering purple display of "Huzzy Glitter Eye Shadows: Put a Fling in Your Spring!"

An hour later, I am looking at those Rubbermaid boxes that are roughly the size of Rhode Island and pondering whether I could slip into one for a nap. The boys are still in sporting goods, probably playing street hockey with a golf club, and tent pole, and a skateboard wheel, and wearing foam yoga mats as protective gear. I wonder if I should go over to the automotive department and buy a flare to send up so I can find the girls.

Many, many hours later, after we have returned home and I have indulged in some primal scream therapy, I finally get to see the kids' purchases.

The boys have each bought

A t-shirt that says something about flying monkeys on the front
A ball cap featuring a fake bloody eyeball peering out of the back
A package of temporary tattoos

They cannot understand why none of these items are appropriate for formal wear. I tell them they might as well save the stuff for their own weddings, because they're never going to be able to shop for clothes again. It seems every store in the neighboring eight states has banned them from the premises. Apparently, those sporting goods department employees have quite an information-sharing network.

The girls have each bought

$16 dollars worth of nail polish and lip gloss
Fuzzy slippers in lime green
A notebook with the slogan, "Yes, it IS all about me!" on the cover
Some bling for the dog

When asked what they are going to wear to the wedding, they look at me innocently and say, "Oh, we forgot to tell you that we're going to be babysitting that night, so we can't go to the wedding. But isn't this doggie ankle bracelet just so cute?"

Next time, I'm not only going to stick my head in the coffee bean grinder, I'm going to turn it ON.

2008 Resignations

2008-01-05T23:54:00.000-06:00

"Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."

In light of the above truth, I have decided to quit making New Year's Resolutions and start making New Year's Resignations instead. In other words, I'm going to accept certain undeniable realities. Here's how my list shapes up.

Resolution: I will lose 20 pounds.

Resignation: I will lose 2 pounds, and that's only if my doctor will agree to remove an organ.

Resolution: I will get my sons to clean and disinfect their bedroom.

Resignation: I will pray that the compost heap of dirty socks & underwear spontaneously combusts, thereby incinerating all the mutant bacteria growing up there.

Resolution: I will become an environmental activist in my community.

Resignation: The incinerated compost heap will obliterate the ozone layer and my family will go down in history as "The Boneheads Who Melted Antarctica."

Resolution: I will keep my vehicle in immaculate condition.

Resignation: I will continue to drive my dust-covered mini-van with the front bumper that's duct taped on, so as to be reminded to be humble because I'm this close to being poor white trash. Or possibly related to Red Green.

Resolution: I will spend less.

Resignation: I will cut back on purchasing non-essentials, such as food, electricity, socks, and underwear, so that I can buy gasoline each month, so that Hubster can continue to get to work to earn more money to buy more gasoline.

Resolution: Every day, I will look youthful and vibrant.

Resignation: Every morning, I will notice that all my body parts are continuing their slow, unstoppable migration toward the Equator.

Resolution: I will prepare healthy meals for my family, and teach them to enjoy exotic foods.

Resignation: My children will think that "healthy" means the can was not dented, and "exotic" is when the box of mac & cheese comes with little pastas in the shape of farm animals.

Resolution: I will blog about serious, relevant issues.

Resignation: What, Hello Kitty waffle irons aren't relevant?

Hello Kitty. Goodbye Manhood.

2007-12-30T22:16:00.000-06:00

The big news in business this week is from Sanrio, the Japanese company responsible for that bow-wearing, moon-faced cartoon cat that adorns all types of merchandise. On the low end, economically speaking, you can find Hello Kitty pencils, socks, and band-aids. Going up the scale, you've got your choice of a waffle iron (a bestseller at $43.49),

a Fender guitar ($229),

or diamond earrings,

which will set you back only $2,150.00. (Valentine's Day is coming, guys.)

Believe me, I so wish I was making this up.

Anyway. The big news. Sanrio is going to offer a line of Hello Kitty products for men, which will include a black t-shirt with a picture of the cat on the front, selling for $36.

Dude. Here's a tip. DO NOT WEAR THIS SHIRT IN NORTH TEXAS. If you insist on getting beat up, save yourself the $36. Get a white t-shirt, and use a Sharpie to write something on the front, like

"Go Vegan!"
"I just can't quit you, Tony Romo."
"John Wayne wore women's underpants."
"I still Y the Dixie Chicks"
"Pickup trucks suck. Real men drive scooters."

Trust me. You buy that Hello Kitty t-shirt, and later you're going to wish you had the cash to pay the plastic surgeon to remove the cowboy boot imprint from your derriere.

Who are these people, and how did they get in my house?

2007-12-28T11:48:00.000-06:00

So there I was, bustling around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on our Christmas dinner. Yes, I actually cooked. No canned crescent rolls, by golly. I dusted off the bread machine and made a loaf of bread. And don't even tell me that using a bread machine isn't really cooking. In my house, any dish that requires

the use of a measuring spoon/cup, or
the stirring of two ingredients together (even if those two ingredients are only water and a box of artificial flavorings), or
a container other than a paper plate

officially qualifies as something that has been "cooked." By that definition, making coffee, jello, and hummingbird sugar-water counts as cooking.

And besides that, I made twice-baked potatoes, which had to have been thought up by a man. No woman in her right mind would create a recipe that requires you to prepare the same ingredients two different ways in one dish. You don't see women baking chocolate chip cookies, then crumbling them up and baking them again, do you? No, you do not, because we eat the dough before it even makes it to the oven the first time.

Anyway. My family had seated themselves at the dining room table, and I was happily meditating on the birth of Christ, God's gracious gift of a Savior, and whether Mary's sciatic nerve was killing her after riding on a donkey in her last month of pregnancy. Then, basking in this spiritual glow, I carried the last few meal items into the dining room, where the topic of conversation was this:

"Do male squid have nuts?"

And they wonder why I never invite guests for the holidays.

It should be an Olympic event.

2007-12-24T00:19:00.000-06:00

Sasquatch & his hockey mates had their team Christmas party on Saturday, and I have to say it was the most fun I have ever had with a bunch of loud, smelly, twelve year old boys and their parents. We played WhirlyBall.

What in the name of ESPN is WhirlyBall, you ask? Well, imagine a combination of jai alai, polo, and basketball - played in bumper cars.

You're laughing already, aren't you?

Apparently, this game has been around (and by "around," I mean, with teams and leagues and trophies and probably beer) since 1980. It was conceived all the way back in 1961 by - you guessed it - a guy riding a golf cart in an automotive shop (probably with beer). Interesting things tend to be created when you let a man drive a motorized vehicle indoors . Why, I bet Al Gore got the idea for inventing the internet while he was riding a fossil-fuel-sucking 4-wheeler from one end of his 8,000 square foot electricity-sucking home to the other end. Then again, it might have been just the inspiration of beer. Whatever.

No, that's not us in the photo above. These people appear to actually know what they're doing. At our WhirlyBall event, there were always at least 2 players who had run their bumper cars, known within the sport as Whirly Bugs, into a corner and couldn't get out. It seems Whirly Bugs don't come equipped with brakes.

Whirly Bugs also don't come equipped with normal steering wheels, having instead a steering rod which you move to the left when you want to turn right, right when you want to turn left, forward to go in reverse, and backward to go forward. Because of this feature, we also had a player who spent a lot of her playing time spinning in backwards circles, nowhere near the action down the court. And, boy, did that make me dizzy.

Anyway. The important thing was that ~~MY TEAM WON!~~ we all had a great time, and the boys learned some valuable lessons: 1) the importance of teamwork; 2) it can be challenging yet fun to try something new; and 3) stay out of the way of a wiffle-ball-wielding, highly competitive, menopausal mother in a bumper car.

I'm a failure as a homeschool teacher.

2007-12-20T14:46:00.000-06:00

This morning I helped my seventeen year old son fill out his first job application. A politically-correct public school teacher might say he is "gifted in non-traditional learning styles." I say he is "terrible at reading and writing but excels at eating entire sides of beef and blowing stuff up."

I'm aware that eating sides of beef and blowing stuff up are not the job skills that most employers are looking for, but as it turns out, that may not be my biggest worry.

Me: Fill in your name and all the blanks about your address and so on.

Son: What's "M.I.?"

Me: Middle initial.

Son: What?! I don't know how to spell my middle initial!

[sound of my head hitting the table]

Proof #286 that I am raising the next generation of StuffMart greeters.

Word Association at the Perfume Counter

2007-12-19T10:18:00.000-06:00

Smelling good was so much easier a gajillion years ago, when I was a child.

First of all, everyone used bar soap in the shower. You had Dial or Irish Spring, both of which stripped off every molecule of oil and left your skin feeling like the hull of a thousand-year-old Viking war ship. If you had hard water, you experienced dry AND shrunken skin. Kind of like a whole-body skin lift, where a plastic surgeon had pulled all the extra flesh up to the top of your head, put it in a ponytail, and whacked it off. Maybe you couldn't lower your arms for a few hours, but at least you smelled clean.

Now, we have shower gels that make you smell like anything from fruit cocktail to a brand new basketball to a greenhouse. It's confusing. I mean, I like having choices, but I don't have time to stand in the "cleansing products" aisle at StuffMart, trying to decide if I want to smell like whatever produce is currently in season. (Which, for your information, is avocados. "Mmm, honey, I love it when you smell like guacamole. Do we have any Tostitos?")

Colognes and perfumes are even worse. When I was a kid, there were unwritten rules about cologne, and you didn't deviate. Grandmas wore Jean Nate. Moms wore some benign Avon fragrance, and teenage girls wore Sweet Honesty, which was a blend of lilacs and baby powder. Not exactly the stuff to drive teen boys wild, which is precisely why our moms bought it for us. If you were a guy, you wore Old Spice. Period.

Today, you go to buy someone some cologne, you'd better take along a sleeping bag and a camp stove, because you're gonna be there a while. And I totally don't understand how the manufacturers choose the names of these scents. It makes me wonder if the marketing department is a bunch of chimps using sign language. Is it just me, or do these names conjure up some weird associations?

Chrome - motor oil and transmission fluid
Drakkar - camel spit
Insolence - makes me want to put the wearer in time out
Reaction - sparks and singed eyebrows
L.A.M.B. - for women named Heidi
Usher - movie theater popcorn
Be Delicious - applesauce
Cool Water - What the ? Water isn't supposed to smell like anything, and if it does, it's usually unpleasant, like dead, bloated mackerel or chemical waste.
Opium - At $60 an ounce, I'll have to look for the $10/ounce knock-off, Pot.
Man - "Man?!" My husband already smells like a man. That's why I'm buying him cologne! Sheesh.

And I'm not even going to mention what I think of when I see Britney Spears' name on a bottle of perfume. This is, after all, a family-friendly blog.

Well, I have to go pack my bags. Not only do I need to pick up some cologne, but we're also out of laundry detergent (Island Fresh or Clean Cotton?) and dishwashing soap (Pear Medley or Gardenia Blossom?). I'm going to be gone a while. If you happen to be near StuffMart, please bring me a cooler of beverages. And some Tostitos.

Next Christmas, I hope to get salad tongs.

2007-12-17T18:29:00.000-06:00

My husband is a good man, but can get a little carried away in the control department. Imagine a cross between King Henry VIII and a German Shepherd police dog, and you'll get the idea.

So here we were with this new computer with the dreaded "Parental Controls." Hubster immediately set himself up as Grand Poobah System Administrator and gave the rest of us Menial Serf accounts. He even assigned us our passwords, and then wouldn't tell us what they were. I had to threaten to cook for him if he didn't tell me my password. And then when I finally got logged on, I couldn't access any of the usual functions because, as the little message box kept telling me, "You have not been granted access to this feature. Contact your Grand Poobah System Administrator." Oh, I was going to contact him, alright. You betcha.

The kids had it even worse. I think the only access Hubster granted them was to view their avatars (which he had chosen). I have to admit, though, that this made life much easier for me, as I could keep giving the same answer to the kids' issues:
I can't get on email!
Talk to your father.
I can't see my photos!
Talk to your father.
Why can't I use Garage Band?
Talk to your father.
The printer is on fire.
Talk to your father.
A meteorite just landed on our cow.
Talk to your father.

I think I might be a Democrat.

Talk to your father. But stay out of his reach.

Now, some people will say that I should have been a submissive wife and let Hubster run wild with his newfound administrative power. I say, the Apostle Paul never mentioned the computer in his epistles, so I'm pretty sure he never meant for women to have to ask their husbands - er, I mean, Grand Poobah System Administrators, for permission to crop a photo.

You would think things couldn't get any worse, computer-wise. Oh yes, they very much could. And they very much did.

Hubster came home and uttered those seven little words that every wife fears: "I bought a new external hard drive." [Insert music from Jaws here.] Our children wept.

For the next couple of weeks, we hardly saw the Hubster, what with his having to rebuild his entire iTunes library, thanks to the new hard drive. By this time, Hubster and Customer Service Brian had spent so much time on the phone together, they had developed guy names for each other. "Hey, Knot Head, you girlie man! It's Chumpy. Quit pickin' your nose and help me out with this computer."

So here we are, several weeks after the purchase of my new computer. I still can't send emails or upload photos, but I did get some good news last week. Computer Service Brian/Knot Head informed Hubster that in order for me to do some of the things I needed to do, Hubster was going to have to grant me access as an administrator. Kind of a middle-management Poobah, I guess. It nearly killed Hubster to have to check that little box, but he did it. And I owe a debt of gratitude to the Apple programmer who set things up that way, who most certainly is a woman and a wife.

As much as I'd like to fix my email problem, I don't have time right now. I've got to clean house. Knot Head and his family are coming to spend Christmas week with us.

And he's bringing Hubster a new hard drive.

If It Ain't Broke, Let My Husband Work On It.

2007-12-12T17:32:00.000-06:00

Every spring, we go to visit my in-laws, and nearly every spring, my father-in-law has a different computer than the last time we were there. He claims it's because "the old one just didn't do what I needed it to," but my mother-in-law usually follows that up with a whispered, "He's always trying to cram 40 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound sack."

Well, I married Mr. Potato Crammer, Jr.

I've written before about my husband's personal mission to own every piece of music that has ever been recorded. (By the way, if you have a copy of "King Tutunkahmen Sings the Christmas Classics," let me know.) Said bloated music collection has resided quite happily on our iMac until Nov. 10. Why do I remember the date, you ask? Because that's the last time I was able to access my email. Here's what happened.

Nov. 10: The Hubster comes home with a box and says, "I bought an external hard drive to back up iTunes." I nod. How naive of me.

Nov. 11: Hubster casually mentions that the hard drive appears to have interfered with some of the other software on the computer, but not to worry, he can fix it. I notice that the computer sounds like a cricket on methamphetamines.

Nov. 12: Hubster comes home with another box and says, "I bought another external hard drive to back up the first hard drive." I begin to worry.

Nov. 13: I hear Hubster on the phone with the Apple help desk. "Hi, Brian, I'm having some trouble with my iMac..." I notice that the computer actually makes a grunting sound when booted up.

Nov. 14: Hubster comes home with yet another box and says, "I bought another external hard drive to back up the first two." (I swear I am not making this up.) Hubster spends 2 hours talking to his new friend, Customer Service Brian.

Nov. 15: When I attempt to use the computer, I get the Apple spinning beach ball of death. (For you PC users, this is the Mac equivalent of the the Windows blue screen of death.) Hubster calls Brian at Apple again. "Hey, Brian, it's me. How's the weather there? Yeah, I need more help..."

Nov. 16: Hubster comes home with another box, but this time he says, "I'm going to install a new operating system." I swear I can see the computer actually try to move off the desk in a fruitless attempt to run away.

Nov. 17: I hear Hubster on the phone. "The Brianator! You da man! Hey, how did your mom's hernia surgery go?..." The computer is on life support. I go searching for those Valiums that were left over from the time Hubster "fixed" the air conditioning unit.

Nov. 18: Hubster takes the computer to the nearest Apple store for a little R&R, and returns home with a big box. He says, "Merry Christmas. I bought you a new iMac." I weep tears of joy and promise to love, honor, and cherish my new computer as long as we both shall live.

Nov. 19: I rue the fact that I did not grab up that big box and hide it with my chocolate stash, because Hubster proceeds to set up the new computer, and says, "Hey! This has parental controls!" OH DEAR GOD. Hubster + Control = Very Bad Outcome For Everyone Else In Our House.

...to be continued....

Didja vote?

2007-12-12T17:25:00.000-06:00

If you haven't voted in the Homeschool Blog Awards yet, I need you to jump on over there and vote for me in the "Funniest Homeschool Blog" category. I could really use an emotional boost because this wet, cold weather has given me so many bad hair days that I'm considering legally changing my name to Medusa.

Thank you.

Part II of my Ode To Cracker Barrel

2007-12-07T09:22:00.000-06:00

The Cracker Barrel store is unique in that it represents all that is good, right, and holy about mid-America. I mean, you've got to love a place where you can buy

101 Meals From Pork Rinds cookbook
A clock that chimes, on the hour, the mating calls of twelve different varieties of dung beetles
A complete John Deere-themed infant layette
A Christmas ornament in the shape of a miniature bale of hay, that plays the "Green Acres" theme song.

I don't know this for sure, but I bet there aren't any Cracker Barrels within 180 miles of New York City. None of the aforementioned products would sell there. The Cracker Barrel marketers would have to stock

A New Yorker's Guide to The Best Cheese Pizzas for Under $30
A complete "Impeach Bush" themed infant layette
A Christmas ornament in the shape of a taxi, that plays a half-dozen Iranian curses

Well, I'm pretty sure that won't ever happen.

Anyway. There I was, thinking about buying a dairy barn scented candle, when I spied the shelf of beauty products. There were a number of items that you see everywhere - Burt's Bees under-eye cream, milk-based hand cream, avocado facial scrub. (You put all that stuff on at once, you're gonna smell like a Easter brunch buffet table. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

But what caught my eye was a little pot labeled, "Body Truffles: Double Chocolate Raspberry Lip Butter." The "butter" part piqued my interest. I've seen lip stick, lip gloss, lip shine, lip creme, and lip exfoliant, but never lip butter. I've also never seen a lip product truthfully called "lip petroleum by-product with red dye #42 and chemicals out the wazoo," but that's beside the point.

So the butter part was interesting, but I really bought it because of the chocolate. Everyone who knows me knows I never met a chocolate I wouldn't chase down a dark alley. It's a good thing they don't make cigarettes in chocolate flavors, because I'd have a five-pack-a-day habit.

OH. MY. This stuff is wonderful. It's light as air, smells heavenly, and even tastes good. (No, I didn't eat my lip butter like I eat my peanut butter, with a spoon. I used a spatula.)

And here's the real shocker. Body Truffles are made in Canada. That distressed me a little, at first. What in the world is Cracker Barrel, the purveyor of all things mid-western America, doing selling foreign goods?

But then it dawned on me. Canadians are just as redneck as we Americans (except for maybe the folks in Montreal). Think about it. These are the people who invented ice hockey. Hockey players love to fight and don't have all their teeth. If that isn't representative of all that is good, right, and holy about mid-America, I don't know what is.

You might be a redneck if you buy your beauty supplies at Cracker Barrel.

2007-12-05T09:33:00.000-06:00

So I went to Cracker Barrel the other night with my friend, SunyDazy, and our combined herds -er, I mean broods of nine children.

I like Cracker Barrel. For starters, I feel young when I'm in there. Part of this is because of the other customers. You ever look around in a Cracker Barrel? Most of the people that eat there are the uber elderly. Some of them still drive, even though they've shrunk to 4'2" and can't see over the dashboard of their car. Doesn't matter, though - they can't see past the hood ornament anyway. Then there are all the elderly folks who arrive by bus. They're the parents to the ones who are still driving.

(I have a theory about those buses. You know, most of us now make our own travel arrangements online, so we really don't need travel agents, yet travel agencies still exist. My theory is that travel agents make their living arranging bus trips from nursing homes to Cracker Barrel.)

And the restaurant itself makes me feel young. I hate it when my dining experience includes looking at the "antiques" on the walls and realizing they are my childhood playthings. At Cracker Barrel, the stuff on the walls is so old, no one really knows what all of it is. Not even the corporate decorators. It's not their fault, though. They're probably from Long Island and don't know much about rural antiquities. They figure if it's rusty and doesn't have "Made In China" stamped on the bottom, it can be nailed up in a Cracker Barrel. For all we know, we're eating our turnip greens under an 18th century toenail fungus gouge.

All the antiques also have a homeschooling benefit. When my kids get unruly, I can say, "~~Quit it, you little heathens. See that bus out there? How would you like me to put you on it? You can be the colostomy bag attendants.~~ Oh, dear children, gaze upon the wondrous display on yonder walls." Then I can go home and count the whole thing as a history field trip, satisfied that my kids can now identify a 1922 potato chip can.

The food at Cracker Barrel isn't what I'd call exciting, but it makes me feel good in a "another layer of fat cells are going to keep me warmer" kind of way. Especially the biscuits. Mmm, biscuits. When I get to heaven, I'm going to eat biscuits for every meal - with more than one measly pat of real butter and the sugariest blackberry jam I can find - and still be able to fit in my size 6 slim fit robe. No elastic waistbands in heaven, baby.

Anyway. Sometimes I have trouble ordering my meal at Cracker Barrel. I'm too much of a stickler for proper grammar, I guess. Like the other night. The meal I wanted was Chicken & Dumplings. Except on the menu, it was written, "Chicken and dumplin's." I can't tell the waitress "I'd like chicken and dumplin's," without feeling like I need to follow it up with, "and please bring a jug of moonshine." And then I'd probably get carried away and say something like, "I'm celebratin' my engagement to my cousin, Purvis. 'Course, most folks call him Prunehead on account of that time he got locked in the smokehouse where his daddy makes beef jerky."

But the thing I like best about Cracker Barrel is the after-dinner shopping extravaganza.

...to be continued....

Competitive? Moi?

2007-12-05T00:50:00.001-06:00

You know how on those Emmy Award shows, the losers always say, "Well, it was an honor just to be nominated, and, really, all the nominees are winners?" WhatEVer. We all know they're lying through their cosmetically enhanced teeth.

So that's why I'm going to be honest and say I want to WIN a Homeschool Blog Award in the category for which I was nominated (humor). So I need everyone to vote for me here. Basically, the voting rules are

1. You have to be alive. I don't think you have to be human, so all you possums out there who read my blog, please be sure to vote. And everyone else, call your grandma, your dentist, and your kid's piano teacher and tell them to vote.

2. You may vote only once.

3. You don't have to be a homeschooler, know a homeschooler, or have Googled "homeschooler."

Oh, and while you're over there, cast a vote for my cyber-child, Chris, in the Best Teen Guy Blog category.

Thanks. And I promise that if I win, I will use my position to spread whirled peas.

I think I'm too busy.

2007-12-01T08:54:00.000-06:00

People who think homeschooled kids aren't socialized need to come to my house. And they need to bring gas money. Our schedule includes: ballet, hockey, babysitting, Nutcracker rehearsals, birthday parties, basketball, youth group, field trips, Save the Land Sharks Campaign, and the Pick Your Nose Club.

To keep track of where everyone is supposed to be on any given day, I use a Palm and have all the activities color-coded for quick reference. Today, when I turned it on and looked at my color-blocked agenda - and I swear I am not making this up - it looked like a stained glass representation of a bottle of Prozac. (Although if you tilt your head to the right, it could be a Saint Bernard with a nail gun.)

Too busy to write more. I have to go brew 2 gallons of coffee and put on a Depends, because there's no time for potty breaks today!

Christmas Traditions: The Cursing of the Lights

2007-11-30T09:02:00.000-06:00

The Cursing of the Lights is the oldest of our holiday traditions, begun back when I was about fifteen years old.

To hear my sister and family tell it, the tradition started because I am a bossy, anal-retentive tree decorator. I say, if I hadn't been careful to anchor a mini-light to every branch, AND made sure the garland was evenly spaced, AND hung each ornament equidistant from each other, ya'll would have had one sorry looking, white trash Christmas tree. (And don't think I didn't hear you calling me "Yukon Cornelius" from the other room while I was trying to put up those &%^#$@ lights.)

Anyway. Here is how The Cursing of the Lights takes place.
1. Remove multiple strands of lights from the storage box. Notice that although they were neatly coiled 11 months ago, they now resemble a macramed pot-bellied pig.
2. Spend 20 minutes unknotting lights, muttering under breath.
3. Plug in lights. Notice that strands #2,3, and 7 do not light at all, and strand #4 blinks to the rhythm of The Twelve Days of Christmas.
4. Spend approximately 87 minutes searching for and replacing blown-out bulbs. Mutter slightly louder.
5. Plug in lights again. Notice that strands #5, 6, and 8 do not light. Do not bother muttering, simply curse loudly.
6. Spend another 20 minutes jiggling cords, wiggling bulbs, and threatening to drive over the lights with the car.
7. Plug in lights again. Rejoice! as all bulbs burn steadily.
8. Put lights on tree, carefully spacing them so as to achieve that coveted department store look.
9. Plug in lights. Say words I didn't know I knew as I see that the middle two strands do not light. Threaten to go postal on the factory where they make Christmas tree lights.
10. Spend 45 minutes jiggling, replacing, muttering, and sweating.
11. Plug in lights again. Rejoice! as all bulbs burn steadily.
12. Go outside and look at tree from 100 yards away, to be sure there are no areas with insufficient lighting. Notice a small area near the right side of the tree that needs adjustment.
13. Return to house, move one bulb to a lower branch.
14. Entire tree, with all 800 bulbs, goes dark.
15. Lose my religion.

However, I am sad to say that this tradition has come to an end at our house. Last Christmas, our thirty-year-old tree developed the artificial pine version of leprosy, which is when random branches fall off if someone exhales in its direction. By this time, the tree was more silver than green due to all the duct tape holding it together. So I hoofed it on over to Tarzhay and got us a brand-new, pre-lit tree. This year, Bunhead put it up all by herself and no one had to repent of using foul language. Something just felt ... missing. Until the dog peed on the tree skirt. Then I got into the *&%@# holiday spirit.

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, the Grinch DOES live here.

2007-11-28T16:16:00.000-06:00

Another Christmas, another year of having to explain, "Kids, your dad doesn't put up outside lights because he has a headache from drinking too much eggnog. Why don't you make Daddy feel better by playing some soothing music? How about that AC/DC version of Drummer Boy on your electric guitars?"

The truth is, my husband is the original Scrooge. He would like nothing better than for me to put up the tree at 11:00 pm Christmas Eve, take it down before lunch on the 25th, and for everyone to exchange gifts that don't require any money to leave our bank account. You know, things like leaves. Sporks. The classified pages from the newspaper. In his opinion, the best thing about Christmas is getting to eat date bars, which an old family friend used to make on her fireplace hearth. (By "old," I mean "babysat Teddy Roosevelt.") Naturally, Husband thinks I should make them the way she did, and, naturally, I ignore him and continue to feed my family microwaved date bars that resemble radiated road tar mixed with potting soil.

I'm going to write a lot more about our Christmas traditions, but not today. Our home computer is offline, and I have to go pick up the stuff for my husband's stocking - a pencil nub, a purple zipper, and 4 M&Ms that I found under the front seat of my van.

Money must make people stupid.

2007-11-26T16:01:00.000-06:00

Acquiring a boat-load of money must make people's brains turn to Cream of Wheat. How else to explain their spending habits?

Take, for instance, clothing. I read that some Hollywood stars will think nothing of spending $158 on a plain, white t-shirt. If I want a nice, white t-shirt, I take myself to the poor woman's upscale store, Tarzhay, where I can get not only the shirt, but a Yoohoo and a pack of HubbaBubba for under $7. The only thing the $158 shirt has that mine doesn't is a special name on the label - where no one can see it. How dumb is that? We poor people know that if you want to show off a name, you go down to the truck stop and get yourself a t-shirt with Dale Earnhardt's number on the front. 'Course, you're gonna pay a little more, around $10, but the extra three dollars is worth the classy feeling you get when you wear that baby down to the auto parts swap meet.

But what's even more astounding is what rich people will pay for entertainment. Our local paper just reported that before the new Cowboys stadium opens, season ticket holders will have to pony up $50,000 for a license to buy a season ticket. Yes, you read that right. That fifty thousand will buy you not the ticket itself, just the opportunity to purchase a ticket. Oh, and for each season ticket you want (approx. $350 each, per game), you have to buy a license. Then there's the parking fee of nearly $800.

Now, I'm thinking that would never fly here in Dirtville. To begin with, we only have two forms of entertainment: Saturday evening shopping at StuffMart with Grandma, Uncle Roy and Aunt Sissie and their eight kids (locally known as "That Family with the Seven-Year-Old Triplets With a Criminal Record"), or going to the seasonal parade. I can just imagine what would happen if the town fathers tried to levy a licensing fee for either one of those events.

If our local StuffMart announced, "For only $50, you can be one of the first customers to be given the chance to buy our new 20-Grit bath towels as soon they become available," well, the faithful StuffMart customers would just drive their Ford Festivas over to the dollar store and buy the 30-Grit bath towels there, instead. They may own cars with only 1 wheel cover and duct tape holding the rear bumper on, but they're not stupid.

And the parade. Parades are a big deal around here. First of all, you get to see a big celebrity, like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or every Texan's hero, the guy who invented air conditioning. My personal favorite is the Pickled Okra Queen. No one really knows if the "pickled" part is supposed to apply to the okra or the Queen, so every year one of the high school football players - usually the guy who's finishing 11th grade for the third time - goes over to the next county and picks up some Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine, and sneaks it into the Queen's cherry Coke. Just to cover all the bases. We hate to mess up tradition.

Another fun thing about the parade is that you get to see the latest in John Deere equipment, especially the tractors that are especially designed to pull a float full of well-fed cheerleaders and two tons of pompoms. And if you're lucky, you'll get to see your neighbor pelted in the eye with a midget Tootsie Roll, which a Boy Scout winged into the crowd from the troop trailer.

Anyway. Suppose the city sent out a letter that said, "If you want to park your XXXL-polyester-pants-covered-butt in a lawn chair on the curb to watch the parade, it's gonna cost you $100." I know what I'd do.

I'd set the kids up in chairs next to our driveway. I'd put my husband in the back of our pickup, wearing one of those cardboard crowns you get at Burger King. Then I'd drive him slowly past the kids, while he waved and tossed ketchup packets into the crowd. Then we'd all go in the house, admire my new white $5 t-shirt, and chew HubbaBubba. And I'd go to bed feeling a whole lot smarter than the fool who paid $50,000+ for the use of a seat.

This explains all the flamingos that showed up in our turkey pen.

2007-11-22T17:01:00.000-06:00