Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Archive for the ‘Family: Good Stuff, Dumb Stuff & THE Stuff of Life’ Category

The TRUTH On Mother’s Day

Even if you’re one of those who thinks Mother’s Day doesn’t have anything to do with you, you’re wrong.

You know a mother. You came outta one.

In fact, you probably came outta her while as she screamed.

You might have come outta her while she cursed your dad for EVER coming near her with his pants around his ankles.

She might have even threatened him with a Lorena Bobbitt if he ever so-much-as THOUGHT about doing it again.

I know you don’t like to think about your parents having sex or about the fact that your dad has a weener but that’s how you got here so maybe I’ll save all that creepy stuff for a Father’s Day post. But in the meantime, on Mother’s Day, I just want to remind you of an important fact: You OWE your mother.

It is not my intention to take the gushy, lovie sentiment out of Mother’s Day by bringing up the memory of the indescribable pain you caused your mother while giving birth to you. But you did. And it was a pain that triggered a guttural, primal wail heard for miles at 2 am on that cold winter night when your life was just beginning and she thought hers was ending.

It’s because of this pain that you OWE your mother and it’s why she sometimes uses guilt to move you in a more intelligent direction. You owe her! You do. You owe her big time.

On this Mother’s Day, tell your mom in your own special way that you’re sorry. Tell her you’re sorry that you woke her up in the middle of the night. Tell her you’re sorry that you didn’t just slide outta there like a little pickle wrapped in Saran Wrap. Tell her that for enduring the pain of your birth and for still loving you after those wretched teen years you heaped upon her that she is your hero!

Go. Call … or Write a letter or send 50 ecards or utter the words in your prayers … Just tell her you’re sorry you weren’t a pickle.


Snow Log – Day 4: Growing Increasingly Concerned

6 am: Every tick of the clock signifies another moment lost, buried beneath the snow and ice, hold-up in our home in Georgia. At least we are together and warm, I tell myself. At least we have cheese. But after 4 days, a stunning revelation has emerged: even cheese is not enough. And I’m troubled by the thoughts that haunt me … worried that we may plummet to depths, the likes of which, this family has never seen.

7:15 am: The disturbing behavior of my cabin mates gives pause to the thought that they, like me, may be on the verge of utter madness. I must keep a close eye on the small one. He appears to be up to something, coming in and out of the house with sharp icicles, pretending to harbor pride over the size of each one. But will he use them against us … or ME … his mother?! I’m careful to admire the icicles as they glisten in the light so as not to upset him … but I’m watching out of the corner of my eye for any sudden movement.

9:32 am: Found my larger cabin mate pilfering about in the kitchen claiming to be looking for another “coffee pod.” I think the truth is something far more sinister, for he NEVER has a second cup at home. I believe he’s plotting something and may have aligned himself with the small one. They’ll be growing hungry soon … I must prepare myself for whatever comes next … even if they turn against me. I must try to save this family!

12:47 pm: As predicted, lunch time is slowly bringing a level of angst to the males of my group in spite of the fact that the snow is, indeed, MELTING. It appears they’ve turned a certain measure of expectation toward ME to provide sustenance beyond grilled cheese sandwiches.  Being snow-bound has caused a discernible deterioration in my culinary faculties … yet I fear that if I fail them, they may resort to something so dark that I cannot survive the evil. I MUST think! THINK! What else can I do with this bless-ed cheese! There must be something!! I’ll send the small one outside for some fresh air so I can work without distraction.

1:15 pm: The small one returned hungry from “playing” in the slushy snow. The large one has taken a break from his “work” on his computer. I’ve contemplated the thought that they may be using some sort of telepathy to communicate. I’ve managed to convince them that sustenance is coming – at least enough to keep them settled for the time being. The small one has insisted that tomato sauce out of a can will provide him the nourishment he needs. But I don’t trust him with the sharp lid once it’s removed. The tall one remains stoic, but I’m not easily fooled. He’s tapped his cheese-tolerance, anxiously combing the pantry for something more … I fear he will snap like a mouse trap when he sees the paltry offerings. Then what?! My confidence in his ability to remain sane is waning. I feel his clouds rolling in. He is on the brink. As am I.

3:45 pm: They’ll never find me here! I’ve been hiding in the back of my closet for almost 3 hours.  I know I must escape and find a non-cheese food product lest the madness overcome us all. I’ve contemplated the worst: Baking a mixture of the remaining cheddar and the last of the prune jam at 350 degrees until golden brown. What I wouldn’t give for just 1 can of Spam …

No wait! That would be worse.

5:02 pm: I’ve not heard a sound in hours but I can hear the snow continuing to melt. Perhaps the males have devoured one another? Maybe the tall one overtook the small one and is lying in wait. Either way, I remain alone … here in this closet … wondering how we could have ever anticipated JOY in this snow storm to begin with. Georgians are not prepared for such an event.  I was not prepared. Next time, (if there IS a next time) I will take another course.

In the meantime, I’m left to consider my present circumstances  … cheeseless, Spamless, hungry and alone in this cold closet fearing I’ve lost my family in this snowy madness.

Snow Commode for Needy Snow Men

Our Snowman Fail.

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Awaiting Snow

Living in the South means that when the forecast calls for snow, everyone in my house gets REALLY excited! I am no exception!

I spent the day nesting and preparing. In my head, the dialog went like this:

ME: We might be stuck inside all day tomorrow because of snow!

ME: How exciting! Better tidy up so it’s a pleasant place to be stuck!

ME: You are soooo right! But what about food?

ME: Gosh! Let’s run to our local grocer and buy all the bread.

ME: Ok. Let’s get some of those little packets of hot chocolate, too. You know… the kind with those little mini-marshmallows.

ME: Isn’t it just STUPID the way ‘marshmallow’ is spelled?! It should be ‘marshmEllow’. How annoying!

ME: Yeah! I know what you mean. It IS stooopid. Now I’m mad. Let’s also get oatmeal. Oatmeal is a great breakfast for snowy days.

Then I cleaned all day.

Right now, we’re hunkered down in our tidy, snuggly home …. fireplace ablaze, marshmallows melting in hot chocolate … and we’re waiting – waiting – waiting for snow. It’s just so exciting … in spite of the minor spelling annoyance.

Happy Snow Day, Y’all!



The Fascination of A Dead Frog

We walked side by side after the rain stopped. The park was almost entirely empty. I guess no one wants to  go for a walk right after it rains. He ran on ahead toward the creek.

The thing about 10 year old boys is that anything that’s gross, sticky, bloody or puky is THE most fascinating thing beyond all human reason. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled,  “LOOOOOOK! It’s a FRRRROGGGGGG!”

By the time I’d caught up, he was knelt down on one knee. “It’s deeeeaaaad,” he said in a low, slow and reverent tone as he poked the remains of the decedent with a stick.

It wasn’t just dead. That fucker was flat. Flat-Dead. Squished … as if  he’d gotten trampled by an entire HERD of bull frogs.

My son was spellbound by the crime scene. “Ew” he whispered, “Look at the guts.” I leaned in closer looking more at my son than the remains.

“Oh,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, “I’m sure the little guy is fine!” I nudged my son gently with my elbow. “Looks like its just sleeping,” I tried to coax a smile.

Silence fell. Blink – pause – blink.

“Mom…” he began as his voice grew frustrated, “Really?! I mean … No. Just … ugh … No! It is NOT sleeping … It’s deeaaad!” Poke. Poke.

“Aw, c’mon now! Don’t be so negative Mr. Gloomy Pants!” I encouraged. “Give the poor little guy the benefit of the doubt! Maybe he’s just tired or maaaaybeeee….” I said trying to rouse his sense of humor, “Mayyybeee he just got back from a huge frog party and he needs some time to recuperate? You know … take a nice little shower? Maybe knock back a juicy quarter-pounder … with cheese?”

Blank looks on 10-year-olds are hard to ignore when they last 6 hours. It’s even harder when you can clearly see the wheels turning as they inwardly battle the inevitable, horrible truth: That they share YOUR DNA. Finally, he broke the silence,  “Do you SEE that gray stuff? I’m like a thousand per cent sure it’s his brains.” Poke.   

I was determined to make that kid laugh, even in the face of the gruesome scene that lay before us.  “Well … that doesn’t mean he’s not okay in a manner of speaking,” I began. “I mean, you could wear him as a hat or maybe you guys could hang out and play Wii? Look!” I said as I used a twig to lift what I think was a leg, “He’s flat enough that I bet you could use him as a Debit Card! You know …  you could do a little shopping…?”

I bit my lip and waited for a grin, a chuckle … a something… but no. He sat back on the concrete in utter defeat with his head in his hands. All hope was lost. His mother would never be anything other than weird and that frog would ever be anything other than dead.

I put my hand on my despondent little guy’s shoulder and proceeded tenderly, “Son … Seriously… Never mind what I just said … ” Slowly  he raised his head and met my eyes. “Honey … Dead frogs don’t make good Debit Cards … just trust me on this one.”

No Happiness Last Night On The Mothership

Something about being a dismal failure as a Mom has me feeling a little down this morning.

Is it the fact that my son’s 5th grade math assignment appears to be written in some secret, anti-mother code leaving me feeling inept and completely void of brain function? Maybe it’s that I found such a BRILLIANT place to stash his Red  Math Folder last week that there’s no way in flippin’ Hades that we’ll EVER find it so he can return it to his teacher. It COULD be that I realized that he wore the same pair of socks 2 days in a row … leaving me suspicious about his underwear!

I hate math. I’ve hated math since 7th grade when Mrs. Keyes humiliated me in front of the whole class over some stooopid fraction of a number that lacked the moxie to be a whole one. It wasn’t MY fault! It was the sad, tired, pathetic little handicapped numbers fault …  all snivelly and crying like a baby, “Who will complete me? Whaa whaa whaa!”

Well, to Hell with ALL the fractions and their common denominators! Damn all the halves and three-quarters and whole-number wannabes that limp around on the pages of ugly old math books covered in boogers and snot stains! Maybe if they’d keep their smelly little hands and feet INSIDE the parenthesis, they wouldn’t get all busted up in little bits and pieces, forever separated from their disgusting other halves, or one-thirds or … whatever!

I think 5th grade math is mean. If 5th grade math had a birthday, I wouldn’t buy it a present.  AND if 5th grade math had a  party, I wouldn’t go. AND if 5th grade math DID have a party and didn’t invite me, I WOULD go and I would put a dead frog in a box and give it to 5th grade math as a present. But I’d break off one leg so that it was only a FRACTION of a dead frog.

My Beauty Rock Collection …

Not the WHOLE collection … just some of it.