Here Comes Peter Cottontail...

And there goes sleeping peacefully EVER again! Sorry Nutt and Tink. We'll try to help foot those future therapy bills.

I just had to post about this. W...T...H?? That which is seen can never be unseen...

And we wonder why our children want to sleep with their nightlights on until they're 25? Who in their right mind would even dream to create this monstrosity, let alone SPEND MONEY to buy it? And who at the Fort Hunter Park Events Society ever said it was okay for someone to show up wearing a costume that should never have seen the light of day?

So many questions and I cannot come up with any logical answers!

But on a good note, Nutt didn't scream and try to claw his way out of my arms like he did when he met Jolly Old Kris Kringle. Leave it up to my kid to find comfort in that which is terrifying.

Gnomes vs. Elves vs. My Sanity

For as long as I can remember, I've been kind of a spaz when it comes to my idiosyncrasies and other things that freak me out.  I can't touch anything if my fingers get pruny from water until they are un-pruny.  I can't eat my sandwich if there is lettuce or other stuff hanging out over the edges of the bun.  I scream and run like a little girl from moths and house centipedes.  The list really does go on and on.

I'm not sure how I got this way.  According to my mother, the only thing that struck terror in my heart when I was little was not snakes or spiders...it was garden gnomes.  This was discovered when my Nana bought two of them and placed them in her front flowerbed.  My mom said that she knew something was wrong when I stopped dead in my tracks as I was hauling ass into my Nana's house (as I usually did).  After she picked me up to carry me past those little suckers, I screamed and cried so much that she thought I was going to pass out.  This apparently happened at every home that had those creepy little creatures skanking around in their gardens.

Well, that fear has followed me into adulthood.  It's not as bad because all of my other irrational fears have taken away from the energy that I used to spend on gnomes. I'm still not fond of the beady little eyes that seem to follow me from under the ragged little hat, nor do I like the frozen little smirk they wear that seems to say, "I am wondering what your flesh tastes like."  I've seen far too many movies about gnomes that devour children and family pets to ever feel comfortable with having one in my yard.

Now that you know the back story, imagine my surprise (and horror) when on Christmas Eve, I unwrapped a snide little gnome at my mother's house.  She said she bought it as kind of a joke and she thought it wouldn't be "that bad" because it was dressed in a Penn State outfit. Yeah Mom, you can put lipstick on a rattlesnake but it's still going to bite you.  I politely thanked her and stuffed that thing into our present bag as fast as I possibly could.

After we got home, I had no idea what to do with it. I was planning on burning it selling it, but before I had a chance, my loving husband found a better use for it:

I'm pretty sure this is ground for divorce in some states.

Yes, that is a gnome in my baking cupboard.  I didn't even see it until I was closing the door, and I caught sight of those horrid little ice blue eyes staring at me.  I cracked the door and peeped inside, just to make sure, and there he was, just staring at me with that dumb look on his face.  That image will forever be burned into my mind.

So after reporting the horror I felt when I opened that door to my husband, this has now become Big Daddy's favorite game.  I will not touch the thing to move it, and he will not get rid of it.  The kids are obviously not going to give him up or toss him in the trash like I've ordered them to do since they have something that gives them power over me, so I guess I'm stuck with it until Big Daddy gets bored.  I don't see that happening any time soon since Mr. Terrifying has recently made appearances in my snack pantry and my behind-the-door shoe rack.  The minute he appears somewhere that I can douse him with lighter fluid and toss a match, he is a goner.

Not half as nice as if he would have surprised me with new shoes.

After experiencing the paralyzing fear that I feel every time this little creature pops up, I can't wait for it to that moment. It also brought me to a realization that I may have made a mistake when caving into Tink's insistence that we start a new Christmas tradition in our household:

A generic Elf On the Shelf set or my worst nightmare come true?

Tink INSISTED that we get an Elf on the Shelf set for our house for next Christmas. For those of you that are not familiar, the whole concept of this set is that there is an elf that comes to your house 12 days before Christmas to keep an eye on your kids for Santa. How does the elf do this? He moves around the freaking house to different places AT NIGHT, AFTER EVERYONE HAS GONE TO BED.

Really??  How did I not realize that this thing was the epitome of evil when I let her talk me into buying it?  Would this not scar my kids for life?  There's a little, point-eared Hell raiser (that looks eerily like a skinny gnome) that sneaks into your house to spy on you, and we welcomed him with open arms!  Not only does he spy on you, he slinks around at night causing all kinds of ruckus, and then stands frozen like a statue during the day.  If I was Tink's age, I would be freaking out about that thing going through my underwear drawer and violating my Barbies.  And I WILLINGLY let this thing come into my home.  I feel violated.

It's not here yet but I know any day, the UPS man will show up with a big brown box full of creepy.  At least the devil elf gets stuffed into the attic until the holidays.  If I didn't think they would contemplate recipes that use the flesh of my children, Mr. Gnome would be joining him in seasonal slumber.

And if my husband doesn't knock it off with his little game, he may just be joining them, too.

The Ghost of Christmas Presents

It's Christmastime. Usually I just kind of muddle through the season with only enough spirit to make sure my kids have a good time. But a funny thing happened this year. I finished Christmas shopping and wrapping...EARLY. I am sitting here on my couch and writing this blog because I have absolutely NOTHING that I need to do. Big Daddy and I's presents are purchased, wrapped, sorted and ready to freaking go! This has never happened before.

Usually I am the mom that swears I am going to finish shopping a few weeks before Christmas and wrap everything as I buy it. Slowly, as the presents start to trickle in from Amazon and the few physical shopping Walmart trips that I braved, they pile up like skeletons in our closet. Every time I open the door, I see them looming in the darkness like little miniature Bogie Men, just waiting for the right time to steal my Christmas cheer. They suck up my time and energy to the point where I feel like a holiday zombie. So I muster all of my enthusiasm, close the door and completely ignore them until I have to deal with them.

This usually ends with Big Daddy and I wrapping presents, half loaded, on Christmas Eve while our giddy little children scamper about upstairs until one of them decides it is better to get yelled at than to not know if Santa had arrived yet. I don't think he got here until around 3 AM last year.

This year I was determined to get everything done before the last minute. And somehow I freaking did. I'm pretty sure that fact that my Nana died kind of pushed me along since I would rather be wrapping presents than sitting around thinking about not getting to spend Christmas with her. It also forced me to think long and hard about everything that I am thankful for this holiday season. I have my beautiful family, my health and I also have the remembrance of how much Nana loved Christmas. Maybe I absorbed her holiday spirit or something, but after she died, I became more determined to enjoy Christmas this year. And I have been.

I've baked cookies, decorated the house with more than just a Christmas tree, mailed Christmas cards, sacrificed a few of Big Daddy's hard earned dollar bills to those deserving Salvation Army buckets and I wrapped those evil, little ghosts that usually haunt our closet. All of their ill-will has been neutralized with a few pieces of tape and some big, shiny bows. They cannot hurt me this year. I now have time to sit, relax and enjoy the Spirit of Christmas with my family and friends without stressing about all of the things that I have to do.

After all, Christmas isn't about presents. It's totally about having off work!

(JK, I love you Baby Jesus)

Love and Neti Pots

For the past four days, I've been sick. I'm talking sore throat, fever and sinus pressure that is so bad that when I lean forward, I feel like my head is so heavy it is going to be torn from my shoulders. And everybody knows that I am not a pleasure to deal with when I'm sick (think poking a rattlesnake with a stick and you might see what my family has to endure). After the sinus pressure got so bad that I could literally feel the snot moving through my head, I figured it was time to resort to drastic measures.

I am a sample junky and a while back I requested a free Neti Pot sample. For those of you that are not familiar, it's the little plastic pot that you fill with warm salt water and use to cleanse your sinuses (by cleanse, I mean jam up your nose, tilt your head and let gravity do it's thing). I didn't actually want to use the stupid thing, I just wanted to feel the rush that I get from getting something for free. Well, my magical little Neti Pot has been sitting on a shelf since I got it because I am deathly afraid of sticking anything up my nose due to a traumatic incident with a piece of corn during my childhood. That and I watched an episode of Cougar Town that involved Bobby Cobb and a Neti Pot. Not something I wanted to experience.

Last night after the decongestants and Thera-Flu stopped working, I decided to give the little snot pot a shot. I pulled it off the shelf, blew off the dust and stared at it with all kinds of second thoughts running through my head. So I did the only thing I could think of to get me through this.

"Honey..."

Yes, I called for my husband to come and hold my hand. Or my hair since this could get messy. He sidled into the bathroom and gave me "the look" that he reserves for me when I'm talking about my Sims like they are people.

"The Neti Pot? I thought you were afraid that you would drown if you used that thing." He's so sensitive to my phobias.

I explained that I thought this was a life or death situation so I would take my chances on drowning instead of suffocating from all of the mucus that was overtaking my ability to breathe. He raised his eyebrow and asked what I needed him to do.

"Just perform CPR if I need it."

"Eww, not if you have snot water dripping out of your nose."

But as I was standing there with a tea pot stuck up one nostril and water running out the other one, I couldn't help but think about how much this man loves me. It has got to be love if he actually stood there and watched me do something like this without faking a stomachache or a really bad gout flare up. I would have swooned if I wasn't worried that I would choke.

This man puts up with a lot from me. He never (okay, rarely) complains when I watch Parking Wars for hours on end or decide to take up an entire drawer in our tiny kitchen because I want to start recycling Capri Sun pouches (which also get very sticky after sitting in said drawer for a month when I forget about them). He deals with my tendency to forget to do things that he asks me to do (like laundry and cleaning the toilet) and he rubs my feet after I've had a hard day of forgetting to do this stuff. He's great but he knows how to return the favor in the form of coffee cans, jars and other unnecessary items that he hoards and believes he will have a use for someday.

Oh, and flatulence.

As the Neti Pot ran empty, I realized that my heart is full of love for this man that has figured out how to deal with me. Most of the time that involves having all the tact of a sledgehammer, the tenacity of a wolverine and lots (and lots) of sarcasm. Wrap that up in a package that ain't too hard on the eyes and you have my husband. Be still my heart.

It made me thankful as we headed to bed that I had this man in my life. I guess you know it's love when he doesn't bat an eye at you as you cover your pillow with a towel to catch the mucus that is still draining from your nose an hour after you cleansed your sinuses. I snuggled up to him, careful not to drip, and gave him a kiss goodnight. And then he repaid me.

"Sorry," he said, "I hope that doesn't stink."

ándale! ándale!

Anyone who knows me knows that I do not do well with crowds of people, namely crowds of people in gigantic, crowded stores that have Christmas music blaring over the speaker system. Yes, I'm talking about Walmart. I get angry, I get flustered and I can occasionally get hostile (ask the old lady that cut me off after I left Walmart one time). Tonight was no different.

To top it off, I was Christmas shopping. So as I'm dodging old ladies in motorized carts and the treacherous spears of Christmas wrapping paper that are protruding from over-stuffed shopping carts, I am trying to read Tink's six page list and decipher Evel's atrocious handwriting enough to figure out what to buy for them that they wouldn't cram into their toy boxes and never play with again. I was also trying to do all of this with a very cranky 17 month-old baby that desperately needed a N-A-P. And even though people were bizarrely nice this evening, my stress level was up. Way the hell up. Curse you Pennsylvania for not selling liquor in grocery stores.

After two grueling hours and two trips to wait in line, only to realize that I forgot stuff that I actually needed (like baby wipes for my child that had soiled himself while I was waiting in line the first time), I finally made it out, but I had one more stop before we headed home. I had to hit the new Dollar Tree.

So I changed a horribly stinky diaper, jump started the Subaru with the solenoid and made my way down the highway from Hell (A.K.A. the Selinsgrove strip) to the dark scary parking lot of the Dollar Tree.

Let me tell you, there is a completely different crowd of people that shop at the Dollar Tree. Believe it or not, I think they're even a little rougher than the Walmart crowd. The first woman I saw looked like she could have been on the '85 Bears defensive line and her husband looked like someone out of Joe Dirt. I'm not sure if there was a full set of teeth in the entire store. Freaking creepy. I wanted to walk around and see what kind of junk they had that I didn't really need but would buy because it only cost $1, but after seeing how jam packed this store was and seeing the kind of people that were wandering around unattended, I decided to just get my crap and get out while I still had some of my sanity left.

Everything was going well until I was having trouble finding accordion tubes for Nutt's stocking. It was impossible to push a cart through this tiny store that was so stuffed full of $1 goodies that it was bursting at the seams and my patience was done for. Time to give up. I rounded the corner and headed toward the checkout.

One problem. As I was on my way down the aisle, I come across two little boys, probably somewhere around the age of six. Wrestling. Yes, wrestling on the ground in the middle of the aisle. And beating each other with rolls of wrapping paper. Seriously.

I couldn't go backwards because, like Jell-O, the aisle behind me had sealed up with people. So being the kind person that I was, I said to the kids, "Excuse me." No response except for the shouts of another language as they rolled around on the ground. I tried again, "Hey kids, CAN YOU GET UP SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?!" (Okay, I didn't really swear at them but I really wanted to) Still Nothing. "HEY, KNOCK IT OFF AND MOVE!" Not a freaking thing.

This was the straw that broke the camels back. I was starting to feel like I had a sore throat, I had the beginnings of a migraine from trying to refrain myself from just plowing them out of my way into the Christmas tinsel with my cart and Nutt had started crying because I yelled (mental note, gotta toughen him up like the other two so he ignores my yelling, too). So I did what I had to do.

"Andale!" They stopped and looked at me. Whoa. I totally felt powerful. So I yelled it again, this time with some hand motions that showed them I wanted them to get off of the floor and out of my way. "Andale!!" They slowly got up and I slowly pushed my cart and screaming child past them, all the while giving them my best "Mom Look" to let them know that I was pissed. That look is definitely multilingual.

Don't get me wrong, I don't like yelling at children (much). I really would have preferred to yell at their parents because they're the ones that should be publicly humiliated for letting their children act like a hoard of wild banshees in the middle of a store, but I saw no one in the general vicinity that resembled these kids enough to possibly have spawned these monsters. I'm sure if I would have found them, they wouldn't have understood my lecture anyway because there was obviously a language barrier (although, I think they may have understood a gesture or two that I felt like using). And the fact that their two young children were not in their field of site says to me that they probably wouldn't have given a crap anyway.

So I made it home without getting myself featured on the evening news because I left skid marks on two little kids that decided to have a WWE Smack Down in the middle of Dollar Tree. I'm sure if the newscasters told my back story about spending two hours in Walmart, everyone would have understood. Damn, I could have been a hero today.

I See Said the Blind Lady

Last night I had my first eye appointment since I was in sixth grade. I've been getting headaches if I watch TV or spend time on the computer or, I don't know, open my eyes. So since the Naproxen and Nurofen plus have stopped working, I figured it was time. I've been putting it off because to me, getting glasses is basically a revocation of my youth card and a ticket on the train headed straight over the hill. The fact that I will be 30 in a few months doesn't really help.

First of all, I think the people that work there secretly take pleasure in shooting the little puff of air into other people's eyes. The lady had to do it three times to my one eye because I kept moving. Yes, it's because you are shooting air into my eye. I have a hard time putting on mascara because I get freaked out with the wand being near my eye so there is no way I was going to be able to sit still when I knew what was coming. After the third time, she just kind of rolled her eyes and sent me "down the hall." My judgement awaited me right behind that door.

After a few minutes, the doctor came in and started his routine. Read the letters. Is it better with this one or with that one? Would you say you get a lot of eye discharge? I did the song and dance and waited for his sentence.

Glasses is was. Ugh. I'm only wearing them when I read, watch TV or drive but I know it's only a matter of time until those things are shackled to my face permanently and they're throwing around words like "bi-focal" and "transitional lenses." I know they'll just get thicker and more expensive every time I go back. It's only a matter of time before I look like a hipster wannabe.

But not only did this OLD eye doctor give my youth a death sentence, he insulted me while he was at it. After my hefty, heartbroken sigh when I received the news, he says to me (in what I think may have been an attempt to comfort me), "This is just something that happens when you get old." Yeah, he fucking called me old. He included me in his club. I think it's time for a face lift and some cheek filler. Oh and Lasik.

The only thing that kept me from purchasing a shiny new pair of orthopedic shoes and support hose was the fact that Evel also had to get glasses. He's all about it, though. He lives in an age where kids now wear glasses before they start kindergarten. At least he doesn't have to worry as much about the four-eyes jokes and people stealing his glasses for a good spirited game or monkey in the middle (oh yes, I've seen this happen on the school playground). And he actually chose a pair of glasses that looked like something out of Revenge of the Nerds (and looked totally ADORABLE in them). They cost more than the wire rimmed frames that men actually want to wear now. I guess fashion has come full circle.

I think I'll fit in just fine as a nerdy old lady.

The Frugal (okay, Cheap) Parents Guide to Halloween

Today is Halloween. For as long as I can remember, I have waited all year long for this one day. I'm the person that starts decorating in September (a little bit at a time so Big Daddy doesn't notice). I was also the person that would go out and spend $75 each (or maybe a BIT more) on a Halloween costume for myself and my son.

Enter Big Daddy. I think we may have spent $75 total on costumes since we've been together. And that's for the whole family (including the ridiculously priced $25 glorified bat jammies for Nutt's first Halloween). This is not what I'm used to but I think we've made due pretty well. 

The year before last, I bought an old lacy nightie from the American Rescue Workers thrift store for $6 and wound up turning it into a really awesome witch costume for Tink (plus a $6.99 hat from Walmart). Evel found a bunch of random old costumes that he put together into some sort of demon dragon ballerina that was heading out for a fishing trip. That's Evel for you. 

But I've kind of realized that you can get away with spending less on Halloween (thanks to my parents and living with Big Daddy). Kids will make due with what they have (once they realize that resistance is futile). So here are some ideas that you can use to save yourself some money this Halloween, especially if you're like us and haven't bought costumes yet this year. Stay tuned below for the photo highlights of Halloweens past!

MUMMY

Probably the easiest of the cheap costumes to pull off. If you're like us and you're recovering from a flood, you will have 2 cases of toilet paper from the Red Cross sitting around (if not, go buy some). Wrap up your kids and viola! Instant mummification! By the end of the night, the TP should be partially unraveled and dirty and dragging about a half a mile behind your child, adding to the effect. This costume also subs as instant tissues if your kids noses are running from the brisk, Halloween air. We all know they're going to wipe their noses on their sleeves, anyway.

CHRISTMAS PRESENT

Get a box. Get some wrapping paper. Wrap the box in the wrapping paper, taking care to secure it well. Cut holes for the arms and head and a big hole in the bottom for the legs and to get your child in and out of the costume. Put them in the box and slap a big bow on their head. You now have a costume and hours of fun for your child's siblings as they push the kid in the box over and run away (just ask my sister). 

CAT

Buy a black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes and a black headband. Dress the kid in the black clothes and shoes. Draw black cat ears on a piece of flimsy cardboard (the front of a school notebook works well), taking care to make the little red insides of the ears. Cut them out and tape or glue them to the headband. Put the headband on your kid. Draw a cat face on your child, complete with a little red nose and whiskers. (You may also want to buy some rubbing alcohol to get the magic marker off of your child's face before school the next day).

HOBO

Raid Dad's closet for some clothes (look for lots of flannel and jeans that have been worn to hang drywall or work on a car). Dress the child in these clothes. DO NOT use a belt...you must use clothesline or rope to keep the pants up. Stuff a pillow inside the shirt to make a belly. Smear some dirt on your kid, mess up their hair and give them a candy cigar. You have a hobo. Bonus points if you add a flannel that is tied to the end of a stick like a carry-all or a flask in the front shirt pocket. 

GRAPES

Blow up a bunch of purple balloons. Get a purple hoodie and pants and dress your child in them. Pin the balloons to your child. Viola! A bunch of grapes. This costume will make it until your child tries to squeeze through the neighbors overgrown hedges. Bring the earplugs. 

OLD LADY

Get some of Granny's old clothes (mumu's, support stockings, orthopedic shoes, old glasses) and dress your child in them. Put their hair back in a bun and cover it with powder to give it the illusion of having grey hair. Put some bright red lipstick on them and you have an old lady. Bonus points if you can score a cane or walker. 

VAMPIRE

Dress your kid in their little, black 3-piece suit. Make a cape out of a black pillowcase (for a toddler) or a black sheet (for a bigger kid). Slick their hair down and make a noticable part on one side. Paint their face ghostly pale. Mix some red food coloring into corn syrup and paint it on your child's face so it looks like blood dripping from their mouth. Buy a set of plastic vampire teeth and you're set. Make sure you teach them to do the evil laugh (MUAHAHAHAHA!)

BEETLEJUICE

Start out with the vampire costume. Paint white stripes on the suit to make it look like Beetlejuice's suit from the movie. Instead of slicking the kid's hair down, spike it up and put some powder in it. Paint the face white but rub some dirt around the hairline. Stick a rubber snake in his pocket. 

So I hope that helps give you some inspiration for next Halloween. Without further ado, here's there reason you're all actually here...THE PICTURES!

Wow, what a picture to start with. Lizzie G in an outfit that was a bit too convincing.

Evel and his BFF playing dress up

Halloween 1985. These WERE the awesome costumes back then.

The witch costume that Nana S made for me. I wore it for three years until it didn't fit anymore.

Another Halloween 85 gem

Believe it or not, this is me (and Lizzie G in another questionable costume). My, my how times have changed...

Shitbrick being creepy

Halloween 2011 - Joe Dirt, a green monster thing and a vampire.

Halloween 2009 - The witch costume I made Tink and our weird skeleton goth old lady.

Halloween 2010 - The weird dragon ballerina, bat boy and the kitty cat.

He's the one that will be choosing our nursing homes

Nana S and Evel as a cowboy. Another quick homemade costume.

Our little Nittany Lion

It was a costume for Elvis's birthday but Satan didn't care

Not really a costume but it's a great opportunity to embarrass Evel.

Trid as a unicorn and Evel in the Teletubbie costume that my mom made him

This Is "Snot" What I Signed Up For!

When I was younger, I swore I would never have kids. I didn't want the responsibility or the accountability of what happens when they turn out like me. But I'm sure we all know things didn't go exactly as I planned.

Now I have 3 kids. Two boys and a girl. I love them to the moon and back...except when they get sick. If it were financially feasible to buy a bubble to keep them in until they were well, we would be adding on an addition to house it.

Nutt (the youngest) woke up this morning with the Niagra Falls of mucus leaking out of his face and mommy forgot her snot slicker. I didn't notice until I was trolling the aisles of Walmart in search of curtains and dryer sheets that I had a smear about the size of Iceland on my left shoulder. Thank god for cart sanitizing cloths that I used to wipe it off (and that someone had probably neglected to use when their kid sneezed their nasty germs all over the cart that my kid contracted this illness from). I have been praying all morning that me and my snot spot don't show up on the People of Walmart website.

It's not like this is my first rodeo but it's still disgusting. Thankfully, I've only been through one other since Tink was housebroken and had been trained on how to use a tissue by the time I met her. The problem is that the other rodeo was about the equivalent of something out of "8 Seconds."

Evel. He got the nickname for a reason. Even from birth everything this kid did was extreme. They told me he was going to be under 6 lbs at birth...he was 8 lbs even. They told me kids didn't walk until they were around 14 months...he was barely 9 months. They told me he had a slight dairy allergy and I witnessed this kid projectile vomit from his high chair to the other end of my 5 foot kitchen table.

I would have traded his "slight dairy allergy" for a snotty nose ANY DAY. I had to read the packaging on everything that we bought and decode the ingredient listing if I didn't want to be cleaning vomit off of every surface in my house. Any kind of dairy sent that kid into a fit that would rival the infamous pea soup scene in "The Excorcist." No milk, no cheese, no pizza. NOTHING.

So being the awesome mom that I am, I began my endeavor into soy foods. Soy milk, soy cheese, SOY CHOCOLATE. Everything that Evel ate, I ate. And now I completely understand why people that eat this way are so healthy.

If you've never eaten soy-based products in place of the normal stuff, please allow me to give you an example of the taste. Take a CD leaflet book, paint it yellow, put it between 2 slices of bread and eat it...you have soy cheese. Most of it was awful and I'm sure the reason that people on a soy diet are so skinny is because they themselves can barely stomach these imitation knockoffs. But the alternative was cleaning up vomit and having a VERY cranky child. I'll suffer quietly while sipping my soy milk infused coffee.

It went on like this until right before Evel was ready to start kindergarten. He stayed at Nana S's house for the weekend so I could have a much needed break before I got another much needed break when I finally shipped him off to school. I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic because I forgot to send his soy milk along. I could just picture my poor, old Nana's face when Old Faithful erupted from my child when he ate his Cookie Crisp and cow's milk in the morning. But then I got sleepy and eventually crashed out.

I wound up not getting up until around 9 AM and ran for the phone to call Nana, praying that Evel was still sleeping. When she answered, I all but screamed into the phone, "Don't give him milk!" I heard silence and then she said, "What? Who in the hell is this? If you're selling something, we don't want it." I finally got my wits about me and explained that I was not a telemarketer, but I was calling to make sure Evel didn't drink milk or she would have a very loooong morning. You know what this lady said to me?

"Really Jennifer? I told you all along that this allergy thing was just in your head. He ate a bowl of cereal an hour ago and he's fine. He's outside playing. I told him to just run for the woods if he felt sick. I don't want him puking in the yard because the cats will eat it." Gotta love Nana.

So just as quickly as Evel's dairy allergy had come on, it had vanished. After that, he could eat anything. We had pizza and McDonald's cheeseburgers and Red Rabbit milkshakes. We ate it ALL! We even had a good time feeding all of the crappy soy stuff to the stray cats that used to use our flowerbed as a litter box. They never came back.

All of this just to raise a child that would talk back to me and think that Big Daddy and I are walking ATM machine. I'm glad we're done having kids. Our luck, if we had another it would be allergic to keeping wine in the house.

One Squeeky, Clean Spirit Coming Right Up!

I've always been a fan of strange things. As a child, I wanted to be a mortician (or a vampire, depending on the day). As a teenager, I dabbled in Wicca but didn't have the attention span to really follow through on all of the rituals that had to be performed. As an adult, I devoured astrology books and learned to produce people's charts. The metaphysical arts have always fascinated me (I'm an Aquarius, I should have expected it).

So today in my wall posts on Facebook, a local shop (Moonbeams Metaphysical) posted that they were having a woman come in to offer people private spiritual cleansing. It immediately caught my attention and I texted Big Daddy to see if he wanted to have his spirit cleansed with me. After some skeptical questions ("What do they used to cleanse us? And do you think $20 will cover the cost of all of the extra materials that they're going to need to fully cleanse the both of us?"), he agreed. 

I called to make the reservations and see what exactly a spiritual cleansing involved. The woman on the phone explained that nothing "weird" happens during the cleansing. For $20, we basically go into the back room with the healer (I had to resist the urge to ask if she was going to expect a $20 tip, too) for our private session. She then has you soak your hands in a bowl of herbs, oils and water and asks you to think about releasing all of your trauma and turmoil for a few minutes (and for an extra $10 she will even do your cuticles!). Finally, she recites a few chants, smudges you with a burning bundle of herbs that smells like pot and VIOLA! You are clean! Well, your spirit (and your aura and chakras) are anyway. She also told me that people with a lot of baggage and people that have suffered great emotional traumas may break down, as in cry like a baby. I haven't told Big Daddy exactly what goes on yet, but I can already imagine him raising his eyebrow and looking at me as if I'm trying to get him to believe that the moon is really made of cheese.

After I got off the phone, I immediately Googled the name of the woman that is doing the cleansing (Silver RavenWolf) to see what her deal really is. She seems like a very interesting person. She practices Braucherei (or PowWow), which is actually a Pennsylvania Dutch-German Magickal System based on a blend of High German Magick, Country Philosophy, Pre-Christian Pagan practices, Gypsy influence, a good dose of Biblical references, and Native American herbal cures for the ailments of human and beast, the seen and unseen, medicinal and otherwise. It is a unique system that relies on one's belief, intent and the manipulation of energy by means of what we now understand to be the quantum physics of the mind. (That is a direct quote from her website)

As I read further, it talked about hex signs that are commonly seen on barns in this area and it explained some of the PA Dutch folklore and the talismans and rituals that they created to ward against evil spirits. There's also a few projects that seemed worth looking into. One was a stuffed monster with a blessed note inside to protect the child own from evil and another was a sign that could be printed, colored and blessed and then hung in your home to protect it from evil. It was very intriguing and informative and I'm actually pretty excited about the cleansing. 

Plus, I think this will be a great chance for the both of us to "start fresh," in a way, before we get married. If this woman can manipulate our psyches enough to have us both drop all of the excess baggage that we're carrying, I am all for it. Maybe if I don't have to lug it all around anymore, my back would stop hurting as much as it has lately. All I know is that something has got to give and if this is what does the trick, then so be it.

So many people are skeptical when they hear of things like this but I believe that we have no idea what the human mind is completely capable of. I also believe that there is a higher power out there that watches over each of us. I don't know if it's God or what or if God takes different forms to aid people that are reaching out for help. I (thankfully) have never been dead to know. But I do know that I will at least go into this experience with a positive attitude. I think that sometimes just believing in mind over matter sometimes is enough to make things better.

If nothing else, I'll at least have REALLY soft hands on my wedding day.

My Big Redneck Wedding

Sorry I haven't been around much to keep you all entertained. I've been planning a wedding. My wedding. Eek!

How did this happen, you ask. I'm not quite sure either. Big Daddy and I were talking about getting married one night and he told me to find out what we needed to do. The next day I called about the proper procedure and the next thing I knew, we had an appointment set with a judge, who would legally declare that we were entitled to half of each others belongings if we ever decided to go out separate ways. Whoa. What a head rush!

But we've been toying with the idea since before I found out that I was (again) knocked up out of wedlock. But we put it off because we both wanted be able to celebrate (i.e. get drunk) at the reception. So then we figured we would just wait until I was done with school and had a full time job that actually paid a little bit of something so we could afford everything that we "wanted." Well, it turns out that I'm probably looking at around 5 years of college before I'm finished. So our son would be in kindergarten before we got married.

After some debate and that one phone call to the Prothonotary's office, we decided it's now or never (well, now or 5 years). So in mid-May, we will walk into a courtroom, say a few lines to each other and a man that is wearing an outfit similar to a dress will pronounce us Mr. and Mrs. Big Daddy. And I'm completely fine with that. Neither of us practice a particular religion and at this point, I think my parents are too busy sighing their sighs of relief that I will never be returning to their nests to worry about me getting married in a church. They've chosen their battle wisely.

Which brings us to the most important step...THE RECEPTION. Ever since I was old enough to drink (well, okay so maybe I wasn't QUITE old enough), I have dreamt of my reception. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a big, huge bash in my parent's backyard. Some of the details have changed over the years (open or cash bar, what kind of champagne to use for the toast and the most important...what kind of beer will I have in the kegs?) but I have always known that this would be the location. It's always been one of my homes and I couldn't imagine having as much fun anywhere else on this special day (plus, there are no cops. The closest State Police barracks is about 20 minutes away. Party on!).

Big Daddy and I have decided to host a casual backyard BBQ and pig roast (cuz what goes better with getting married than a slaughtered pig?). With just the first wave of invitations, we've invited close to 200 people. There had better be one gigantic hog at this roast. And we haven't even gotten to the rest of our invites. I think it may exceed previous party guest tallies by a long shot. Thank God it's outside.

Which brings me to my next conundrum. This shindig is outside. What if it rains? Normally I would say we'll just get a giant slip and slide and some whipped cream and recreate Woodstock (the one from the 60's, not the monstrosity from the 90's). But this is a classy affair. So I think we're going to have to rent a tent, just in case. It's an expense that we would rather avoid, but we want people to come to our wedding and enjoy themselves. The threat of rain will probably put a damper on this. So it looks like we're stuck paying at least $105 to rent a tent that probably won't be big enough for everyone so then we'll be forced to rent another one. And then it's an extra $100 if we want them to set it up and take it down. That's the biggest chunk of our wedding budget. And I hope that our guests remember their lawn chairs because it's going to be standing (or sitting) room only. If not, I hope they don't mind pulling up a big ol' piece of lawn to sit on because there is no way we can afford to rent chairs. But what else is a girl to do?

I guess I could consider this one...Poppi and the Great Redneck Hope (aka my parent's neighbor) have offered to "rig" something using the neighbor's gigantic camo-colored tarp, some rope and a few metal poles that are cemented in tires. Although I did appreciate the gesture, I had to politely decline.

I just kept picturing my wedding video: A backyard pig roast with the neighbor's broken down cars and washing machines in the backdrop, a giant camo tarp casting an ominous shadow over the entire event. Suddenly it starts raining and everyone heads for cover under said tarp. After about 5 minutes in the monsoon that has settled over my parent's house, you hear a creaking and groaning. The tarp struggles to hold the gallons and gallons of rain but it eventually succumbs to the weight, the metal poles snapping like twigs and sending the tires at the bases hurtling through the wedding cake. And then everything goes black. All you hear is the bride (me) shrieking that I can't find the children and Big Daddy wailing that the taps on the kegs have been snapped at the necks and they're spewing beer faster than he can drink it.

It would be plastered all over the evening news and then it would go viral. Daniel Tosh would see how many jokes he could make about it in 20 seconds. And then it would reach it's "peak" of popularity by being featured not only on Wedding Nightmares, but also on My Big Redneck Wedding.

Maybe $310 doesn't sound like all that much now that I think about it...

School Daze

In an attempt (a very vain attempt) to eliminate some clutter from my life, I started cleaning out my closet today. I made it though one box. This particular box just so happened to be a box that contained my entire high school life - notes that my BFF's had passed each other, old yearbooks and believe it or not, old report cards (that will be burned before Evel has the opportunity to see them and hold them over my head).

I looked through the stuff and thought back to how much I absolutely hated high school. There were very few things about it that I liked. I was just biding my time until I could graduate and become a grown up. If I knew then what I know now...

Surprisingly enough, when I think back to school, one of the only things that I liked were the teachers. And the teachers that really stick out in my memory were not the teachers that may have won the popularity vote. The teachers that I remember and that I am thankful that I had were the teachers that didn't just let kids slide by for the sake of passing them. They demanded more and they made me flex my brain for a change.

Mr. Kestner, for example. I remember him hovering over me in middle school keyboarding class, reminding me to keep my fingers on the home keys because it was far easier to type that way than to "hunt and peck." And I had his 9th grade Business Principles class with my little sister (three years my junior) because I wouldn't do my homework and instead of just passing me after the first two times I failed, he made me retake it until I finally did enough work to earn my grade.

And Mrs. Hagenbuch. I know there were a lot of kids that DID NOT like her. I know I got booted out of her classroom my fair share of times. But I also know that I can tell you the difference between Quartz and Calcite. And I can properly instruct my son on how to build a working model of our solar system out of paper mache, coat hangers and an old record player (okay, so it doesn't revolve QUITE like the real planets, but I got an A- on it).

Why do I look back and remember these teachers? Because they demanded that I give a damn about something other than myself. They held me accountable for not doing my best. I'm not saying the rest of my teachers were "bad" teachers, but these two are the teachers that I remember making me work for what I wanted and what I wanted was to get the hell out of school. When a lot of other teachers just seemed like they had given up and they didn't care about the students anymore (which is one of the reasons my children will never attend that school, along with the HORRIBLE administration turning a blind eye to the bullying that happens rampantly), these two teachers still had enough fight left in them to get mad. And that, they often did.

Why? Because their students didn't respect them (and I'm guilty of it, too). These kids talked back, threatened them and pushed them to their breaking points. You think you have a thankless job? Try being a teacher at my alma mater. What wasn't understood way back in 9th grade is that the only way you will get respect is if you give it. Yes, all of your teachers are making assumptions about you because you have never shown them otherwise. Only you can change someone's opinion about you.

I believe that is why our public school systems are failing our children. After you get treated badly for so long, you wind up broken. You lose your will to fight. And when teachers give up, the students eat them alive. And if they resist and try to demand respect and demand that kids do their best, the kids label them as a "mean" teacher and resolve to make their life a living hell. It's a vicious cycle. Maybe it's time to bring back the original "Board of Education" (a paddle for those that didn't get the pun) to get some kids in line.

And maybe it's time to cut the salaries of investment bankers that are ripping off their investors for millions and give some of that money to our teachers (rather than trying to bully through laws to take away their collective bargaining powers that will eventually screw them out of benefits and pay raises). Maybe then there would be some incentive for them to remain motivated on educating the future of our country.

Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe parents should teach their children respect. The reason that schools are no longer allowed to paddle your children is because the parents are the ones that complained and wanted to be the only people that disciplined their kids. Maybe your discipline isn't working. For your child to go to school and cuss out a teacher is unacceptable I myself am guilty of that also (not proud, but guilty) and if any of my children ever do it, they will not know what the word "ungrounded" means until they reach legal adulthood.

Maybe, just maybe, we need to look at the big picture before we point fingers at the teachers and blame them for failing our children. Just remember, every time you point a finger, you have 3 pointing right back at you.

For the Love of Dog!

My family and I are renters. I never really minded renting before because if something breaks, I don't have to freaking fix it. I make a phone call and it's taken care of for me. It's a perfect situation for someone as lazy as I can be sometimes. I was content renting for the rest of my life until I found this:

This is Sahara. She's a Yellow Lab Retriever Mix that is available for adoption at the Lycoming County SPCA in Williamsport, PA. (<----the link to her profile. Someone please go adopt her NOW). I saw this picture and my entire bubble of irresponsible living happiness came crashing down around me.

I found this picture on Sahara's profile on Petfinder.com a few weeks ago and I've been going back to check on it every few days. I've also been riding Big Daddy like a racehorse to call our landlord and threaten beg ask him if we can get a dog. Pretty, pretty freakin please!

This is the first time that I have lived anywhere longer than a few months without a dog and at first I was hugely somewhat relieved after living with the Terrible Twosome at the Mama's house. I didn't get out of bed and step in poop or have to worry about my underwear being eaten and it was a relief. But the longer I've gone without a furry companion, the more I miss it (not the poop and underwear eating, just the companionship).

Half of the Terrible Twosome, Mr. Ears. The other half is in the background, trying to keep her face hidden so as not to be recognized in a police line up.

 I miss coming home and no matter how crappy my day was, a dog will be there to just be my friend. They're a good source of exercise, they help lower stress levels and pet owners are clinically shown to have lower blood pressure and cholesterol than non-pet owners. It's a win/win situation!

Plus I think about the kids. Evel has ALWAYS had a dog around. I never heard him complain that he was bored and he never really asked to go to his friends houses because he had a source of entertainment at home (a very tiny, evil source of entertainment that seemed to love him and only him). Tink had a dog for the first half of her life. I wasn't around for that part but she still asks if Riley (a small, male Pitt Bull Terrier) is going to ever come to live with us again. And then we have Nutt. Nutt was terrified of the Terrible Twosome (maybe justifiably) the first time he saw them. I don't want him to grow up without the experiences that he would have if we were to have a dog and I don't want him to be nervous around them because he doesn't know how they will react.

But the thing that gets me the most about this dog is that it's a Yellow Lab. I am the worlds BIGGEST sucker for Yellow Labs because for 14 years, my family had Makita.

Makita came to us on a fluke after my Brittney Spaniel (Ginger) died a day after my 12th birthday. The neighbors had this misfit rebel of a dog that they were trying to get rid of so being the sucker that Poppi is (at least where his kids are concerned), we adopted Makita.

This dog was absolute hell on paws when we first got her. She wasn't housebroken (and really had no desire to be), you couldn't open the door without her bolting outside and terrorizing the neighborhood and she chewed almost everything in our home to bits (dining room chairs, the arms to the couch, the legs on the coffee table, one of every single shoe in the house, Poppi's game football that was signed by each of his pony football players the year that he coached them to the playoffs, just to name a few things). We tried muzzling her but if the muzzle was left within her reach while it was off, she would chew that up (we went through three of them). She was hopeless.

Except this dog had Poppi in her corner. He worked and worked with her until he transformed this wild animal into a cherished, docile family companion. Trid and Evel would sit on her back and pretend they were riding a motorcycle, using her ears as handle bars and she never once showed a tooth to them. If she wanted them off, she would just kind of roll over and dump them on the floor. She was by far one of the greatest dogs that I have ever known.

But all great things must come to an end. Makita passed away in 2007 from cancer. I was thankful that I was there with her at the end but I still bawl like a baby mist up when I think about it. And that's another reason that I want my kids to know the experience of sharing their lives a pet. It will teach them about unconditional love and it will eventually teach them about loss and how to cope with it. I always said that I would never have another dog after Makita, but Evel (and his big, brown eyes and knack for begging) prevailed and we got Mr. Ears. That's his little buddy, even if he doesn't see him that often.

And I know that someday the Mama will call and tell us that Mr. Ears has passed away and Evel will find his own way to cope. Just like I did with Makita and Ginger. Just like Poppi did with Rex (the greatest German Shepherd to ever live). And just like Trid did with Buster (the spunky little Border Collie that we adopted when my parents separated temporarily that became Trid's companion). It's the downfall to pet companionship but it's a small price to pay for all of those years of happiness. And all of the wet kisses and wagging tails that make having a doggy companion TOTALLY worth it.

And since I love showing off, here are some photos of the greatest furry friends that I've ever had the pleasure of knowing:

 

The lady of the hour, Makita (AKA Mosquito). As you can see, she's a party animal. Sadly, this is the only picture that I still have of her. It's in a frame on our mantle.

The Rex-meister. This guy was Poppi's buddy. We had him for 15 great years. Such a sweet dog.

Here is Peanut (and her floppy ear). I have no idea why the Mama decided to get this spawn of Satan after Buster died. And I have no idea why she agreed to let me get a second one so they could form a pack of evil.

Mr. Ears (and I'm sure you can tell where he got the name) came to us after Makita died. He was the runt of the neighbors litter and Evel slowly wore me down until we took his hypoglycemic, scrawny butt in.

 

Here's Buster. He was an odd dog that wagged his tail up and down, couldn't run in a straight line and "smiled" when he was nervous. Go figure he wound up being Trid's buddy.

Sadly, I no longer have any pictures of Ginger after all of my moves.

I would say that is it but I have 2 more pictures. They weren't dogs, but they're sure cool enough to qualify in my book.

Yoda (AKA Fat Ass Cat Ass). This guy's been around since 1998. He's 23 lbs. of mellow and sweet and love and everything that you wish when you buy a cat.

And this is Kitty Kruger. She is everything that is opposite of Yoda. She is the devil in cat form. We keep her around just for the funny photo opps that she gives us. We rescued her after her mother abandoned her and how does she thank us? Pulls everything out of my purse and uses it for a bed. And she would eat my cigarettes when I was a smoker. And she would claw my feet while I was sleeping. Man, maybe the photo opps aren't really worth it...

Commercials That Make Me LOL

I really have nothing to blog about today since I am trapped in the house due to "the big one" that has hit the East Coast. Typical for the week of my birthday. So if you're stuck in the house, here are my personal Top 10 Favorite TV Commercials That Make Me LOL (plus a few extras cuz I'm bored):

This is the best commercial that has EVER been made! I should have saved it for last but I couldn't wait. Animals dressed as serial killers get me every time. There is also a variation on this commercial where the woman's leg was cut off but it was removed from TV for being to violent. Personally, I think it was more entertaining.

A pothole with a Southern accent? Love it!

The Orbitz gum Clean Mouth Test 37. I can quote it verbatum. "Who are you calling a Cootie Queen, you Lint Licker?"

People falling on treadmills always make me laugh. Bonus points for nut shots. I don't even know what this commercial was for. I think a credit card or something.

I think this one is so funny because the guy on the right reminds me of my Uncle Jase. I always find myself trying to rap this for the rest of the day and more often than not, I also find myself at a McDonald's drive-thru.

"BOO creepy foot doctor! HOORAY beer!" I love the Red Stripe Beer commercials!

Another one that makes me crack up every time. This would be something that my sister would do. And not care. 

Another one that I have remembered for years and years and I still have no idea what company it is for. I used to want to be a cat wrangler when I grew up. Instead I'm wrangling kids. 

I'm not usually a fan of talking babies, but I love the "shocked face" at the end of this one. Whoa!

This one doesn't make me LOL...it's actually kind of disturbing. But I guess if singing, harmonica playing road kill helps you sell tires, more power to you.

I just like the ending where Chris Kattan is leaving the dry cleaners. I think the Cat Wrangler Cowboys make a special guest appearance in this one.

Hehe. Mr. Silent Killer Gas Passer. 

And my personal favorite Bud Light commercial - Fire Breathing no longer available

Taco Shanks

If you've have ever watched Lockdown or had a family member (or five or six) in jail, you know what a shank is. For the rest of you (all of which do not live in my neck of the woods), a shank is a crude tool that is made by prisoners for the express purpose of stabbing or slashing another inmate. This term resulted in my favorite expression to yell at ass clown drivers -- "I will shank you in the neck." Basically, the inmates file down any object that can be made into a point and wrap something around the handle of the object for better grip and so they don't hurt their little hands when that use it to skewer their cellmate like a pig.  They use things like plastic toothbrushes, screws out of their beds and pieces of metal from their toilets.

But a taco shell? Really? Evel swears that this is the reason that they are only given soft shell tacos in his middle school (I highly doubt it, but it makes a good subject for a blog).

I guess it could make sense. I've pulled some ancient hard taco shells out of my cupboard and impaled the roof of my mouth on the first bite at dinner, but I could only imagine the school safety team meeting to discuss the possible dangers:

"Let's bring this meeting to order. First on the agenda, the recent outbreak of stabbings in the lunchroom. Seems kids are breaking their taco shells into pieces and filing them down on their rock hard dinner rolls to exact revenge on the rival tether ball team. Just last week, star player Billy Marshall had to leave the team due to a taco shell inflicted stab wound on his punching hand. All in favor of banning hard taco shells?"

Now I can see getting rid of metal forks (which my son's school still has) or the hard melamine plastic lunch trays (I saw a girl use one in a fight my sophomore year in high school. It looked like it did some damage), but food related violence? The only food related violence is what is inflicted upon the poor children that have to eat that slop. What is next, banning pizza wedges because they have a point or doing away with fruit cocktail because...well, I'll let you use you figure that one out (*snicker, snicker*)?

So after a good ten minutes of pressing Evel for the deets on what color school issued prison jumpsuits I'll have to order for him and Tinkerbell next year, he finally broke and told us that a kid was eating a taco and got stabbed IN THE ROOF OF HIS MOUTH (I totally called it back in paragraph three). Ahhhh, I see said the blind man. All of the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. I think I have a little story teller on my hands. Where he gets that from, I'll honestly never know...

He Didn't Even Need A Triple Dog Dare

No, he didn't talk back and get what was coming to him.

My little genius decided he was going to see (after numerous warnings from his mom and dad) what happened when he stuck his tongue to a frozen metal pole.

* Please see Exhibit A at the top of the note*

We were at my youngest sister's 13th birthday, having a good time. I was trying to fix a bottle for my youngest son when a mob of teenage girls came rushing inside and began shrieking at levels only heard by cats and dogs that Evel had stuck his tongue to a frozen pole. Then in came my son. Bleeding.

My first reaction? "Evel...Seriously?" (insert eye roll and deep sigh) "Someone get my camera."

Not that I wasn't concerned about the fountain of blood running out of his mouth (and onto the floor of the RENTED party hall that we were in), but after 11 years I've (sadly) come to expect things like this from my son. I'm sure if you have a boy around this age or that has ever been this age, you know what I am talking about. You just reach a point where all you can do is throw up your hands and pray that they make it to adulthood with only minor dents and dings. Plus, stupidity seems to be entwined with the male DNA on my side of the family so he was destined to seek out the activities that can cause maximum damage in minimum time.

When asked why he thought it would be a good idea to try this despite the various warnings from adults (Pappy tried it when he was little and I used to stick my tongue my Nana's metal ice cube trays for a MOMENTARY thrill) and movies (the kid has seen A Christmas Story. We've explained that it's real and that it HURTS), he just shrugged. It told me everything that I needed to know. He knew exactly what he was doing when he decided to pull his little stunt. This kid is being sold as soon as they let us start listing them on eBay.

I'm sure it was all for attention, which he got by almost every adult at the party when they shook their head and called him various synonyms for "village idiot." And I really saw no point in punishing him since the crime was punishment enough in itself. He still can't eat salty or spicy foods because his lips are raw and soda is out of the question. I doubt it, but I hope he learned that the moral of the story is "Listen to adults! They know what they're talking about!" before he decides that he has to see what happens when he pees on an electric fence.