Wednesday, May 28, 2008

It's Like . . . Reality, Man.

This weekend we spent some time with some good friends of ours, the Benches. We love them for a number of reasons, not just because when Spe says their names it sounds like he's calling them something that no one should be called. It always puts me in a good mood to hear him.

In the course of conversation, Landon said something like, "I think it's so great how you're marriage comes across as being real." He meant it as a compliment, and I take it as a compliment. Because it's true: with Rhett and I, what you see is what you get. We won't hide the fact that it annoys the crap out of Rhett that I keep a Mt. Whitney-sized pile of worn clothing beside the bed. We won't hide the fact that I get peeved when Rhett calls three minutes after I leave Target and says, "What did you spend $24.32 on at Target? Can you take it back?" But also we don't hide the fact that we genuinely enjoy each other's company, that we enjoy the give and take that is our marriage immensely.

But later that night, I was just waiting to fall asleep, listening to Rhett's rhythmic breathing as he slept. I thought about what it means to have a real marriage. I thought about how different a real marriage is from an ideal marriage. I thought about how much compromise and sacrifice and craziness and patience has been required on both of our parts to have our real marriage, much less an ideal marriage.

I reached over and put my hand on Rhett's chest. In his sleep, he reached up and held my hand there with both of his. I smiled into the darkness. It felt, well, ideal.

And then he started snoring. So I kicked him until he shifted positions. And just like that, we were back to reality. Quite honestly, that felt like a pretty good place to be.

Monday, May 26, 2008

The Holy Relic . . . Disposed

I came across the Miracle Toenail whilst cleaning out my junk drawer.

I finally threw it away. If there's a downward turn in our luck, I'll know what to blame.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

The Best Prison Ever

We don't have satellite, which is fine. In fact, it's great. Because this means that we get to see two channels clearly, and the rest are fuzzy. Did I say two channels? I meant two ENGLISH channels. We also have about six Spanish channels.

I love them. Rhett loves them. They provide family fun for every one. We especially love Spanish game shows. Everyone seems to be having such a good time, I wish I spoke Spanish so I could understand. Also, I love how there are always women in short, short skirts dancing. That's the best.

Tonight I was flipping through the channels and I saw a prison scene on a novella on one of the Spanish channels. It was awesome. All the girls were perfectly made up (because prison apparently gives you lots of time to beautify) and also they were all in beautiful white tank tops. Apparently standard issue isn't so standard in Spanish Prison. Because some had scoop neck tank tops, some had V-neck tank tops, some were loose, some were fitted. And apparently, bras are optional in Spanish Prison.

If I ever go to prison, I hope that's the prison I go to.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008


You know, as a general rule, I try not to share my dreams with people. Not like dreams as in ambitions, but dreams as in nighttime fantasy-crap. Because let's be honest, they're usually only interesting to the person who dreams the dream.

And you just end up trapping people into listening and their eyes start glazing over and then they start going, "Uh-huh," "Uh-huh," "Uh-huh," over and over as a signal that they are really bored with this totally fictitious story about how you gave birth to an illegitimate baby that you must have been impregnated with by the toilet seat, because in your dream you couldn't remember who the father could possibly be . . . blah, blah, blah.

But last night my worst phobia made its appearance in my dreams. I dreamed that we had a little crocodile infestation problem in our house. They were everywhere. In my kids' cribs (Yeah, cribs is plural on purpose. Do you have a problem with me having two kids eighteen months apart?), under beds, in showers, in my closet, in our swimming pool (because in dream world apparently we have a swimming pool), in my bed, on the stairs. Seriously. EVERYWHERE.

In my dream I kept screaming at people, "I NEED HELP!" and they would be all nonchalant about it, like, "Oh, we have some crocodiles at our house, too. Don't worry." And then I would have to go wrestle a crocodile to get my baby out of its jaws.

And then, somewhere in the middle the crocodiles all turned into GHARIALS! You don't know what that is, do you? Here, I will sacrifice my sanity to show you a picture (trust me, it made me a little sick just to find this for you):

Seriously, I woke up shaking. And sobbing. I woke Rhett up. And then I kept Rhett awake for a good half hour pawing at him. Because those gharials are even scarier looking than crocodiles, don't you think?

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Nancy Drew . . . Where Are You?

You remember that I love Nancy Drew, right? I mean, sure I always imagined I would end up with someone more like Ned Nickerson than Jack Black, but I'm laughing and Nancy probably isn't. Not that Ned isn't great. He is. He's awesome. He's just so nice. And ordinary. And polite.

But that's not really my point. My point is that I have some mysteries around the house that I need clearing up, and I could really use Nancy Drew's help. She is such a great sleuth. Especially for an eighteen-year old. You know, the world could use more eighteen-year old sleuths. Most eighteen-year olds are worried about university, and leaving home, and how they look, and partying and stuff, but not that Nancy. She's got to keep River Heights' crime rate down. Single-handedly.

Some of the mysteries I would like Nancy to tackle:

--Where did all my lip gloss go? Are my children eating it? Should I be checking diapers more carefully? Is it too much to ask people to stay out of my make-up drawer? Seriously?

--Who colored on my laptop with permanent marker? Never mind, Nancy. I can pretty much assume it was Spe. Oh, he admitted it. See? Mystery solved.

--Why is laundry such a monumental pain? Is it child abuse to make everyone wear the same thing even if they did spill Spaghettios on it? And they did. Trust me.

And while Nancy is at it, I would really appreciate it if she could turn her gigantic mental prowess to finding a way for me to eat whatever I want without gaining a pound. That would make her absolutely perfect.

And now I will go open a new lip gloss, which will be gone in one week. It's just the effort that matters, you know.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Rhett's Quirks

You know, I can't ever seem to write enough about how quirky my husband is. There's this one and this one and even this one for the brave of heart.

One of his best quirks: Taking the kids to Cabela's on a bi-weekly basis so that I can have a little alone time.

One of his most embarrassing (for me, anyway): His not-so-impressive first impressions.

Take, for example, the first time Rhett met my grandparents on my mother's side.

All was going well for the about the first fifteen minutes. Rhett had smiled, feigned interest in our pioneer heritage, listened to stories about World War II and generally kissed butt.

"Can I use your restroom?" he asked politely.

"Oh, sure." Grandpa Lee gestured down the hall. "First door on the left."

While he is gone, I smile, feign interest in our pioneer heritage, and listen to stories about World War II. I don't have to kiss butt, because they are my grandparents, and they are forced to love me, or at least to feign love for me.

"Uh, Grandpa?" Rhett comes back out, "Do you have a plunger I can borrow?"

Oh, Rhett. Your social skills are AWESOME!

If you think this one is a fluke, please consider the first time Rhett met my grandparents on my father's side.

I had told him about Dan and Hazel (my grandparents) and all about the various cousins whom he would be likely to meet, and all about the sweet myrtle that covered my grandpa's entire front lawn and which you had to stay out of or else he would grumble at you.

So, I walk into my grandparents' house, holding Rhett's hand (I suppose after the Grandpa Lee and Grandma Barbara episode, I was trying to make sure he didn't make a break for the bathroom), when Rhett suddenly drops my hand, bounds over to my great-aunt Isabelle, a woman whom I spent the majority of my childhood trying to avoid lip-kissing, and yells, "Grandma!" Then he embraces her enthusiastically while she feebly tries to push him off and explain that she's never even been married, much less become a grandma.

She's the kind of woman who thinks that this little stunt isn't that funny. But don't worry, years later, Rhett will finally win her over when after a car accident, he has to help her get on and off the toilet. She finally thinks he's a nice person after that.

He blames me for that one, although how I could have predicted that he would seize upon any hapless senior citizen who came his way, and start calling them GRANDMA!, I will never know.

His social skills. They are awesome.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

It's A Lot of Pressure

I've just got to say, Sue has totally exaggerated my sterling qualities in this post, right here.

So don't blame me if you don't laugh while you're here. Blame Sue. Lovely, insightful, hilarious Sue.

Sue has also driven my site hits up today by over 1000 percent (according to my husband, since I don't do math . . . EVER). And I suddenly feel like the geeky girl who takes off her glasses just in time for the high school heart throb to discover, that yes, in fact, she is attractive.

And then I remember that I wore Units to junior high, and the feeling fades, pretty darn quickly. And then I remember that I also wore a teal poly-cotton blend outfit with huge droopy pants and a striped shirt with white Keds, and then, quite frankly, I get a little depressed. Because even blogging queen Sue can't change the fact that I was/am a real dork.

So don't blame me, everyone, for the lack of hilarity. Also, don't blame me that there is no picture of Units to go along with this post. Apparently they really disappeared from the national identity, like just minutes after the fad started. Blame Sue for steering you to a lame, non-funny, non-aesthetically pleasing website.

I just write the junk.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Alone. . . Really.

I've realized that there aren't that many things that I miss from my carefree, pre-Mom life. I mean, of course, I miss teaching high school. And I miss being able to sleep. Oh, and I miss being able to just get out of my car and walking straight into Target or Wal-Mart or wherever without having to unstrap a zillion straps. And I miss sleeping. Did I mention that one already?

But really, not that much. The one thing that I miss the most though--going to the bathroom alone.

Seriously, I can't remember the last time I got to go to the bathroom alone during my children's waking hours. Sure, I've tried shutting the door and locking it, but it's just as annoying to look at those little waggling chubby fingers under the door and listen to their constant yelling, "Mom, when are you coming out? Are you almost done now? What about NOW? Are you washing your hands now? Are you coming out? I'm waiting! I'm still waiting!"

So I just started going to the bathroom with the door open. It's just easier that way. Sure, my kids may need therapy down the road, but hey, didn't we all? For something or other? I figure if seeing their mother go to the bathroom is all my kids need therapy for, then I've done an awesome job. Right?

I've gotten so used to the open-door policy that one time I forgot to close the stall door in a public restroom. Oh, that was a little embarrassing (fortunately, there wasn't anybody in there, but still) but not near as embarrassing as it would have been having people hear my children yelling to me over the stall, "Did you go pee, Mom? Are you peeing? Do you need help? Are you wiping now?" So it's all relative.

Next Mother's Day, I'm going to send my kids off on an outing with their dad. And then, I'm going to the bathroom.

That's heavenly.

Thursday, May 8, 2008


Veevs turned five this week. That girl is something else. She is just, like, so grown-up now. She rolls her eyes at me now and everything.

If I tell a story when we are with friends that in any way involves her name, she will look at me, her eyes pleading for mercy, and then she'll cover her ears in anguish, and whisper fiercely, "Mom! You're embarrassing me!"

I wish I could say I apologize. But I usually just say, "Get used to it, honey. You've got years and years and years left of this."

Last night as I put her to bed, I snuggled up next to her, and just looked at those expressive eyes. They danced when she told me a knock-knock joke.


"Who's there?"


"Banana who?"

"Banana underwear!"

I'm not sure I get it, but I think it's the underwear that's the pure comic genius.

Her eyes got serious when she told me that she really doesn't want Spe to touch her brand new Biggest Littlest Pet Shop. Because he breaks stuff. And he doesn't even know how to put the bridle on the pony.

Then, she explained the story of Noah and the Ark to me. Her eyes were a little puzzled as she thought about the logistics of the whole flood, living in an ark situation. "So, Mom?" she asks.


"Did Noah have to feed the crocodiles other animals?"

"Uh, probably. I don't know. The Bible isn't that specific."

"Oh." Then she smiles, her eyes mischievous, "Aren't you glad you didn't have to feed the crocodiles?"

"Oh, yes!"

She puts one hand on my cheek, and says, "Mom, you are doing a really great job. Spe is sometimes crazy and Wristy cries sometimes but you are the best mom."

And then I got all teary-eyed. That girl is something else.