Gratefully

Gratefully, we ate a bunch of turkey, and I was so thrilled to bring home a bunch of leftover turkey and ham for my thoroughly carnivorous husband.

Not so gratefully, I dropped the turkey, ham, and a Pyrex at the same time, and thus had to throw it away because it was embedded with glass.

Gratefully, I took sweet potatoes and green bean casserole to my aunt's for Thanksgiving dinner.

Not so gratefully, no one but Rhett and I ate them. Not even my kids would brave them to save my feelings.

Gratefully, I have finished most of my Christmas shopping and so I don't have to brave the crowds at the store today in search of the best bargains ever.

Not so gratefully, I really have an itch to go spend some money on the best bargains ever.

Gratefully, Spe's fever has come down and his cough is getting better.

Not so gratefully, this happened after I spent the whole night sleeping on his floor. I shouldn't complain, though, as Rhett took the two nights before last night.

Gratefully, I have the most thoughtful, loving husband and the sweetest children.

There's no down side to that!

Hope your Thanksgiving was fabulous!

Car Talk

I was driving around the other day (I usually am housebound often enough to qualify to attend agoraphobia meetings despite having no phobia whatsoever about leaving my home. However, three kids four and under will do that to you.), and I just have to say: Enough with the car talk!

Seriously, I don't care if your child is an honor student or beats them up or if you love them even though they aren't honor students. I don't really care if your child plays soccer or if you support Dale Earnhardt, Jr. in the NASCAR races. I don't really care to know that you consider yourself a "PRINCESS" or 99% angel. I don't know you at all, and quite frankly, it's better that way. Because I don't care, and it feels a little bit intrusive that you want to share all of these things with me.

It's kind of like when you are at your locker in high school and the stoner who has the locker next to yours presents you with a black mask that he's made himself in Arts & Crafts class with red paint that looks like blood dripping down it and nails sticking out all over the face in the hopes that you will return his undying affection (I'm not the only one this happened to, am I? Oh, I am. Well, lucky me.). It's just a little presumptuous, you know?

I just don't know why people feel the need to communicate with their cars. I promise, I have never seen a single bumper sticker or car vinyl cling that has made me think, "Wow. I should really get to know that quality human being." What would I do if I did think that? Follow them home and introduce myself? That's just stalkerish, folks.

I feel like we're already sharing way too much information about ourselves with just the type of car we drive. I mean, I drive a white minivan, and Rhett drives a gold Toyota Camry. Can't you tell we're practical, family-oriented people?

Why, I hear you say, if you are so adverse to sharing personal information with other people, do you blog?

Hmmm. Good point.

Dog Days

My kids are in heaven. Seriously, they think they are the luckiest kids on the planet. Why? Because we have a dog. No, we don't OWN a dog. No, no, no, no, no, it's not ours. But for the weekend, we are babysitting a little Shih Tzu dog for one of Rhett's coworkers who went out of town. My kids love it. The dog, well, let's just say he's been very patient.

Spe has said, "HEY, LOKI!" about seven million times today. (Except he can't pronounce Ls correctly, so he says, "Hey, Yoki!") Veevs has surreptitiously tried to feed the dog about seven doggy snacks, although we agreed previously that he only needed two a day. Jacob, well, Jacob doesn't really care, except for when he has a poopy diaper and the dog comes and hones in on Jake's rear end with his nose. It's actually been quite helpful that way . . .

A few ways in which it has not been helpful:

The dog peed in his crate early this morning, and as a result had to be bathed, because he was covered in his own urine. And then I had to clean out the crate, too.

The dog vomited all over the floor after breakfast, which I had to clean up. Fortunately, his owners left me with a carpet cleaning solvent. (Perhaps that should have been my first clue?)

I think you'll know what I mean when I say the dog really loves my leg. Enough said.

It will be a while before we get a dog of our own, much to my kids' chagrin . . .

When Mama Ain't Happy . . .

I really have the most wonderful mother. She raised eight kids with a lot of love, hardly any gourmet cooking, and a HUGE amount of patience. However, like all of us, she has her quirks. And since I really believe my mission in life is to out the world's quirky people one blog at a time, I'll tell you one of my favorite "Mare-mares" (Rhett's nickname for her) stories.

Once a month, we fast. When I was little this was a serious hardship. When I was a teenager, it was cause for some serious crankiness. And now that I'm a nursing mom, well, I don't do it! One Sunday we were fasting, and we came home from church to get our "break-the-fast" meal ready. Well, it wasn't just the teenagers who got a little cranky.

Granted, we were all complaining. Granted, we were all bickering. Granted, it was generally an unpleasant day to be the mother of eight children. In the middle of all of our bickering, fighting, complaining, whining, swearing (that's me!), and unpleasantness, Mare-mares had enough.

"Enough!" yelled Mare-mares. She grabbed the defrosted poppy-seed chicken casserole that was to be our dinner, stormed into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. What? (Or, as my four-year old would say, "What the??")

We all laughed kind of nervously at Mare-mares little temper tantrum, and waited for her to come back with our dinner. Except this wasn't just a little temper tantrum. She stayed in there for a long time! We all crept to her door and apologized under the crack in the door (well, except for Josh who made himself saltine cracker, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in an effort to prove that Mare-mares wasn't the boss of him--he's so like that), but she wasn't budging.

It was probably an hour later that she emerged, poppy-seed chicken casserole in hand, ready to make dinner. What?

Now I know where I get the drama queen gene from . . .


This is Mare-mares and my dad, on a less dramatic day.

Fashion Tips from the Fashionless

Right. I'm no fashionista (far from it, actually), but I have to say:

What is up with those Southern and Midwestern college football cheerleaders?

Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about. Let me fill you in:

Every Saturday, Rhett watches a little bit of college football. He's no fanatic, and neither am I, but we like to watch a little bit together while the kids take naps. Without fail, whenever we watch a game that involves any of the Southern and Midwestern colleges (like Purdue, Georgia, Iowa, etc.) I have to cringe whenever they show the cheerleaders.

Because the girls have huge bows ON THE TOP of their heads that are the size of a small poodle. I'm not joking. And, I have to wonder--is this some fashion trend that only the cheerleaders are following? Do they genuinely not notice that they look, well, like cute girls with small poodles on top of their heads?

I think you can see what I mean from the above picture. I'm very concerned for the future of our nation . . .

Fire!

I used to be a really great sleeper. You know, before I had kids and had to sleep lightly so that I could hear my kids if they woke up. When I was a teenager, I could take naps like nobody's business.

So one afternoon, I took my nap on my parents' waterbed (remember those?) as usual. I slept peacefully, and woke up fully refreshed.

I felt much less refreshed when I discovered the following:

While I was sleeping, the fire alarm had gone off. This wasn't one of those wussy fire alarms that just beeps--this was a fire alarm that was set up with my parents' alarm system, and so when it sensed smoke or carbon monoxide or whatever, an EXTREMELY LOUD man's voice would come out of the speaker and YELL "FIRE! PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY! HELP IS ON THE WAY!" It would do this over and over and over and over. It was so loud, you wanted to cover your ears, no matter where you were in the house.

When this occurred, all my younger siblings (Dan, Josh, Linz, and Bucky) evacuated (if only to escape the yelling fire alarm man) to the trampoline in our backyard, which was our designated "meeting spot" should any of us ever survive a natural disaster. While they were merrily evacuated on the trampoline, I continued to sleep.

It turned out to be a false alarm, but I still can't believe that everyone evacuated without me. Even fifteen years later, I'm still surprised by my siblings' treachery--I COULD HAVE BURNED! (oh, okay, I'm not surprised at all--they are totally like that!) Let me just remind you, I COULD HAVE BURNED!

We're a very close family.

A Little Too Much Rhett . . .

Anyone who knows my husband knows that he loves being socially quirky. You may not know, however, that he is, quite frankly, bizarre. Let me give you just one example:

One night, Rhett and I were driving to visit his parents who lived about an hour away from where we lived. For some reason, which I don't recall, I was driving, which is extremely unusual, as Rhett usually drives everywhere we go, as he cannot stand my driving, which, by the way, is uncommonly good.

We were driving on a dark mini-highway, when I reached over to give Rhett's leg a little love pat. Strangely, instead of denim, my hand met with his bare skin. Somehow, without me knowing it, he had stripped completely, shirt, pants, and everything underneath.

I believe my reaction was a mortified shriek, which I think is what he was going for. (Well, he probably had something different in mind, but I have my standards!) I'm pretty sure that my mind wasn't on my driving at that point.

I had more important things to worry about, like how did he get those pants off without me noticing? And more importantly, what did I get myself into in this marriage? And even more importantly, will the trucker we are going to pass be able to see him nude from his elevated cab? I'm sure I don't need to tell you what I did next. I sped up, just to find out.

And then it was Rhett's turn to shriek. . .

Britishisms are BACK!

I have to say, there are some things that I really miss about living in England. While I was happy to come back to my home in the United States, my year and a half mission there was really fabulous. In fact, I think we should incorporate some Britishisms into American English just to keep me happy. Here are a few suggestions:

Aren't you tired of always using "really"? Well, in England you have a veritable cornucopia of choices, especially if you don't mind being a little, well, common. For example, you can say, "Oh,
that is dead funny." See, don't you love how "dead" can also mean "really"? Or, you might say, "That was well bad, mate." Meaning, "That was really awful." Isn't that a nice choice to be able to make? Now, I'm not saying there aren't consequences for speaking this way. As a general rule, people will assume you are a teenager from a bad part of town, but still. It's all about choices!

I really love graffiti in England. From now on, when I go tagging, I'm only going to write the following: Heidi woz 'ere! '07 See the poetry there? Because you can really hear how I would say that, can't you? I suppose if I were really a die hard, I would write/spray/tag: 'Eidi woz 'ere. I'm no die hard, though.

The "ou" combination really does look nicer. For example, you can go look at the autumn leaves changing colors, or you can look at them changing colours. Isn't that nicer? More poetic?

Another thing I really miss is the British attitude toward "swears". I really loved the freedom of being able to say "hell" and "damn" without the stigma of being a curser (I believe I just made up that word). I have to admit, I still say them, despite having been out of England for over ten years. Although, on the downside, you can't say "fanny" without really raising a few eyebrows (you don't want to know, I promise. . .)

One of my favorite things that English newspapers do is nickname people. An easy way to do this: take the first letter of the subject's first name, and simply add "AZZA"--therefore, Gary Lineker (a footy player--come on people, there are more footy players than just David Beckham, although he is the best-looking, by far) was called Gazza. Isn't that charming? I used to use this technique all the time--my friend Barry (I know, what were his parents thinking, anyway?) easily became Bazza, my friend Sharon answered perfectly to Shazza. It's genius!

Well, it's better than the nicknames Rhett and I give to perfect strangers, anyway . . .

Where is the Mother?

So yesterday I was looking through some pictures that our Uncle Jordy sent us a long time ago. They were taken when he and Aunt Linz came to visit us around Easter time. And seriously, they made me ashamed. Because I don't think there's a single picture where any of my kids are dressed completely or not completely homely. The shame is, I really do have cute kids. If only they had a mother who took care of them . . .

Exhibit A:
Seriously, what is with the hair? Do I not know how to do a simple ponytail? Obviously not. . .

Exhibit B:


I can't even put words to my shame here.

Exhibit C:In this one, I managed to put a shirt on, but no pants. My favorite is that he's wearing his Sunday shoes with this beautiful ensemble.

My only excuse is . . . okay there's no excuse. I also feel obligated to disclose that my kids are watching TV right now. I'm probably not going to shower today, and my bed isn't made. My kids, however, do have pants on!

It Runs In the Family

My little Spe (two years old) had ear tubes in yesterday. It was amazingly easy and fast. The entire surgery took about ten minutes, and Spe did great.

We did discover, however, that he does share some of my genes. In so many ways, he is like Rhett (he has reddish hair, he's a big fan of Queen and The Beatles, he's all torso and no leg). I've finally found one way that he is just like me: he reacts to anesthesia just how I do. And it's funny.

To start off with they gave him a sweet dosage of nostril anesthesia (gross, right?) which was supposed to "make him act like he's had a few too many beers" (these are the nurse's exact words, not mine). Two minutes later, he had his head down on his dad's shoulder, when suddenly he perked up. "Hey!" he yells and points, "Garbage can!" Then he laughs as if he is the most hilarious person on the planet. Then he says, "Go see garbage can!" So Rhett carries him over to the object of his fixation, and he yells, "Garbage can!" and laughs, once more the most hilarious two year old on the planet.

Rhett finally manages to pry him away from his one true love, the garbage can, and Spe sits on Rhett's lap. He starts stroking his dad's face. "Blue!" he says wonderingly, in a voice not unlike Cheech's or Chong's. He giggles again. He strokes again. "Blue!" Another giggle. It is at this point that Rhett starts singing "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" and Spe joins in. Fortunately, Spe is saved from further embarrassment by being taken back to surgery. He had not one bit of anxiety about going with the strange lady.

When Spe comes out of it, he is moody for a little while. But then, he gets loud and aggressive. He keeps smacking everyone around him, but he doesn't seem to be doing it to be mean. He is also showering everyone around him with kisses, headbutts, and loves. It's like he's supercharged. Oh, how I remember the feeling . . .

Rewind ten years to when I got my wisdom teeth removed. I went all the way under, and from that one experience, I'd be okay with being put under again, even for childbirth. Because I'm a happy, happy woman when I wake up from anesthesia. And then I'm also not. It looked something like this:

Me (upon first waking up): WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH! (In case you can't tell, this is uncontrollable wailing.)

Nurse (talking to my dad): Uh, maybe you could take her out the back door. We don't want the other patients to be scared.

Dad: Okay, honey, let's go. (He touches my knee, and the wailing stops suddenly.)

Me: (the only way to describe my voice is childish--seriously I sounded like a four-year old) Can we get me a Frosty on the way home, Dad?

Dad: Uh, okay.

He leads me out to car, while I continue trying to talk like a four-year old around all the gauze in my mouth. We hit Wendy's for a Frosty, but they aren't open yet, and I start to wail again. My dad promises he'll make me a shake when I get home. Wailing ceases again, as quickly as it began.

At home:

Me: I love ice cream. Ice cream is my favorite. But don't let Heather see me eat this!

Heather is one of my older sisters and at the time we were working out to Jane Fonda together. I whispered this in a stage whisper so as to keep Heather from hearing me, although she did, because apparently I don't know how to do anything but a stage whisper when I am recovering from anesthesia.

Me: I hate that Jane Fonda! And you know what, I bet all of the people who work with her hate her too. (This in a perfect four-year old pout.)

Mom: (Trying to find a topic that I'm not so passionate about) So how are you feeling?

Me: Well, I didn't die.

Mom: Did you think you were going to die?

Me: YEEEEEEEES! WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH! (Again, the uncontrollable wailing.)

My mother looks startled. My dad, who has had some experience with the uncontrollable wailing, puts his hand on my knee. I stop immediately.

Me: I think I'll go the bookstore. Where are my keys? I really want to read a Truman Capote novel. I need to go to the bookstore. Who has my keys?

Mom: Honey, you can't drive. You've just had major surgery.

Me: Yes, I can. (Had I been listening carefully, I would have heard the jingling of every single key in the house being hastily hidden by my sister.) Oh, fine, I won't drive.

I pause dramatically. My mother breathes a sigh of relief.

Me: But I can walk!

At this point my mother, my father and all of my brothers and sisters are eagerly watching me to see what weird thing I will say next. Although I can register that they think I'm crazy, it bothers me not one little bit. In fact, I have to say I enjoy the audience. I turn my wit to my pet bird.

Me: I named this bird the wrong name. I named this bird Othello, but I shouldn't have because Othello kills his wife. I should have named this bird King Lear, after you, Dad. (I'm really waxing sentimental here.) Do you know why, Dad?

Dad: Uh, no. Why?

Me: Because he had three daughters, too! (Just for the record, my dad has five daughters, but that hardly seemed pertinent at the time.)

Dad: Oh. That's a good idea.

Me: Waaaaaah! Waaaaaaah!

I think you get the picture. However, let me say that this lasted at least an hour. My younger brother reports that a good two hours later, he thought I was peacefully sleeping when I lifted up my head and said in my little four-year old voice (although I was twenty-one at the time), "You thought I was sleeping, but I fooled you!"

My sister, Heather, who had her wisdom teeth out a few days later, said only this when she came home: "I'm not acting as weird as Heidi did, am I?" Then she went to sleep. You know, like normal people do.

But not me and Spe. We're not normal. I'm so glad to find something that I've passed on to him. I'm sure he'll thank me later. Because to be honest with you, I remember that day as the best day of my life. Even better than my wedding day. It felt like I was a giant party. And who doesn't love a giant party?

Divorced Technology

My computer is seriously struggling. Or else my camera is. Whichever one is to blame, this once happy couple can no longer work together. So sadly, all photos right now are simply old, archival photos (I know old and archival are redundant, but what are you? An English teacher or something? Lighten up, okay?). So sorry about the old pictures. . .

When Veevs isn't being an alligator scientist (grrrr.) or a mermaid or a cowgirl, she would also like to be a pirate.
Is it bad that I find this career choice infinitely more acceptable than an alligator scientist?

This is our Uncle Jordy. We love him for so many reasons. Here are just a few:

He never complains when the kids jump on him.
He held my baby for like an hour at my sister's wedding while I just chatted away with old friends.
He looks like he's sixteen. (Really, don't you think?)
He's a fellow Financial Fascist (this is the reason Rhett loves him, me, not so much).




Our baby Wristy. He's such a happy little man. If it were socially acceptable for me to have this many rolls of fat, I'd be pretty happy, too. Seriously, think of all the candy you could eat. Mmmm.

Blanket

My kids have blankets. Irreplaceable, heirloom quality (at least in their eyes) blankets. I have to admit these blankets are pretty nice. My mom made them for each baby when they were born, and they are made of the softest tricot fabric (which is a kind of silky feeling fabric for those, who like me, are not seamstresses), and they have their names stitched into the corner. They have soft triangles for the binding, and my kids love to put their fingers in the triangles and just play with the material.

But here's my point: shouldn't their MOTHER be more comforting than a blanket? Of course. I nurse them! I feed them! I cook for them! I dress them! I drive them to really, really fun places (sometimes)! I tickle them! I let them paint! I nurture their creativity! I teach them fun songs! I read to them! So keeping all of this in mind, how is that when my kids are hurt or sad, MOMMY is NO GOOD? All they want is that blanket. I put it in their hands, and INSTANT happiness occurs.

Even my seven-month old finds his blanket (which is navy blue with white ties) to be more comforting than his mother. Today my two year old went to have tubes put in his ears, and you can bet we packed along his blanket (slate blue with matching ties). And my four year old can no more sleep without her blanket (originally light yellow with yellow ties--currently pastel blue due to a laundering disaster that involved me, Wristy's blanket, and Veev's blanket) than I can sleep through a fire alarm. (Except I can sleep through a fire alarm. Remind me to tell you the story some day . . . I could have died!) Is it too much to ask that they find me equally comforting, if not more so?

Their poor dad is even farther down the list. So far the comfort list goes as follows: blanket, a Band-Aid, a promise that they can watch a TV show, Mom, and THEN Dad. I guess I shouldn't feel so bad. I mean, I am ahead of Rhett on the list. And sometimes, that's all that matters to me.

A Day Late . . .

Well, I missed writing in my blog yesterday, and it was Halloween which should have been a thrilling blog, indeed. Except I was so dog tired that I couldn't write and still keep my eyes open. And that was what I thought at noon, so imagine me seven hours later . . . not a pretty picture, I promise.

But, here I am today! My mother-in-law and her two sisters have been visiting us for the past four days. It was so pleasant to have a child to adult ratio that was in MY favor, for once. We went to the zoo, we had a Halloween party, and they took my oldest to the park every day, and I felt completely stress-free the entire time. Well, not really. The Halloween party was still pretty stressful, but not as stressful as it would have been without "the ladies" (as my husband calls them).

I was so dog tired that I even managed to convince my four-year old that the best part of Halloween evening is handing out candy to all the neighborhood kids. She totally bought it. And, lest you think I am cruel, let me just point out that we have already: participated in the Halloween party at the kids' preschool (2 bags full of candy), trunk or treated with our church (2 bags full of candy), went trick or treating at the zoo (6 bags full of candy, because "the ladies" also joined in the fun), and we had the snack bags from our Halloween party (exquisitely decorated sugar cookies, and 2 bags full of candy). So, I've done my part in ensuring a sugar high that will last clear until Thanksgiving and beyond.

The best part about that is that I didn't even hand out the candy. I just laid on the floor and looked helplessly exhausted and my mother-in-law took pity on me and handed out candy with Veevs. The little boys went to bed at 7:00, so they didn't even know what they were missing. And now we're done! Hooray for Halloween, and double hooray for "the ladies"!

(I do feel obliged to disclose that "exquisitely decorated" may be a little bit of hyperbole. Because, really, we just slapped different colors of frosting on them and then went to town with sprinkles and candy corn and pumpkins, etc. I don't think Martha Stewart will be asking me to join her design team any time soon.)

Revenge is Sweet . . .

Rhett gives the kids their baths at our house, which is great because otherwise my kids would be about as clean and fresh smelling as river otters (I have no idea if this is a good analogy or not). I'm just no good at it. Plus, I figure it's good bonding time for Rhett and the kids. Nothing brings a family together like a little water, some soapsuds, and washcloths. Well, unless the water and soap make their way out of the tub, then Rhett gets a little hot under the collar. It sounds something like this:

Rhett: Spe, don't dump water out of the bath, okay?

Spe: Ko-kay. (At which point, he promptly dumps more water out of the tub.)

Rhett: SPE! I said don't do that anymore! It makes a big mess!

Spe: Ko-kay. (Do I even need to tell you what he does? You already know, don't you? Yes, he dumps more water out of the tub.)

Rhett: SPENCER CARL HADLEY! I have asked you very nicely not to do that! PLEASE STOP! (This is all said in a very firm tone, which makes Spe look a little sad.)

Spe: (Sadly) Ko-kay. (And yet, as if he cannot control himself, his hand reaches out and dumps more water out of the tub.)

There are no more words, because Rhett is a man of action. And he also believes in retribution. So he takes a cup full of water and dumps it over Spe's head. Spe has gotten so used to this that he no longer even splutters. He just closes his eyes, lets the water fall, and then keeps on playing. Spe is a man of action too. And, he'll have his revenge. When Dad's back is turned, you can bet there will be some more water poured over the side of the tub. Or, he might drink the water (another thing Dad doesn't let him do). One way or the other, he'll get his retribution.

I think you can see why I think this bonding time is so good for them. Oh, you can't? Yeah, actually, I don't see it either, but at least I don't have to bathe them. Sometimes, that's all that really matters. . .

Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!

We're not nice people. I'm just forewarning you so you won't be too surprised when I tell you this next weird, quirky thing that we do. Just keep in mind, I already know we're not nice, so don't pepper me with comments about how mean we are. I already know!

In the course of our married life, Rhett and I have had the opportunity to move around a little bit, and every time we do we have to meet a whole new group of people at church. But sometimes we're a little bit lazy about learning names at first. But we still like to talk about people (especially crazy comments that they might make in church, etc.), so we have our own system of describing people to each other. And it's kind of mean.

We nickname people. Here are some of the nicknames we have used over the years to help each other understand who we are talking about: Man-Talker (obviously a woman with a very, very deep voice), The Giants (This whole family was over six feet tall! They were huge!), Big Hair Lady (I think this one speaks for itself), The Weasleys (a family of redheads), and my favorite, Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! (let's simply say that there was a very . . . um . . . interesting sense of style associated with this one).

The problem is sometimes (like in Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!'s case) occasionally we would get to know these people and really like them. But still, we called them by their nickname in private because as I think I've mentioned before, we're just not that nice. But we did feel a little bit of guilt . . . but not enough to make us stop nicknaming. Another drawback was that Ivy picked up on the Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! nickname and she started saying it whenever she saw that lady too. She was two years old, so we really should have been teaching her to be nice. But whatever.

One time my brother Josh (you know, the famous organist power player) came to church with us. Rhett was pointing out all the people whom we had nicknamed. He looked at us like we were crazy mean (which we are), and then he pointed to a woman in a wheelchair. "So, what do you call her? Hot Wheels?"

"That is SO mean!" I protested. But I have to admit, that's what we called her from then on. I just recently thought that maybe other people do this too, and I wonder what they would nickname me. A few thoughts: "Lady who can't dress her kids in matching clothes," or "Horsey" (since I rarely am seen these days without an accompanying ponytail . . .) or maybe "Pauncho" (since I haven't quite lost the belly from my three children).

What nicknames have you had for people? (And don't pretend you're all better than me, you know you do this, too!) What do you think people would nickname you?

If I were a . . .

If I were a doctor, I'd be a really crappy one. Because the sight of blood makes me sick, and also, I'm just not that sympathetic. I probably would diagnose half my clientele with hypochondria. Really. When Rhett stays home from work sick it makes me so mad that he lays in bed all day that he forces himself to get up so that I won't keep coming into the room, glaring, sighing loudly, banging things, etc. Poor baby.

If I were a dentist, I'm pretty sure that I'd get bitten a lot. Because I think I bit the heck out of Dr. Joe, my pediatric dentist, and there is poetic justice. Oh yes, there is.

If I were a zookeeper, I'm pretty sure that I'd play favorites. You know, keep the big gorilla from bullying the others (I'm aware that I would forfeit my life if I tried to PHYSICALLY force him not to, but hello! that's why we have shock collars! It's time those bully animals learn what it feels like!) I've always had a thing about underdogs and sticking up for the weakest link.

If I were a piece of punctuation, I'd choose to be the semi-colon. Because, you know, it's pretty powerful, being able to link two sentences together without any help. And plus, it doesn't get used that much, and I'm kind of lazy that way.

If I were a construction worker, I'm pretty sure they'd make me just hold the slow/stop sign. Because, again, I'm kind of lazy that way. And you know what? I'd bring treats, drinks, books to read, and a chair to sit in. No one said you have to STAND to do that job. And if they tried to make me stand, I'd quit. Because you can't push around this slow/stop sign girl like that. Oh no, you can't.

If I were a businesswoman, I'd make sure that I wore bookish looking glasses all the time, even though my vision is 20/20. Just so people would take me seriously. And because you can give better dirty looks when you're wearing glasses.

Wow. I'm really glad I'm not any of those things, because my house desperately needs cleaning, and you know me: I wouldn't miss that bit of fun for the world.

Ingrates in my House

Is it too much to ask for my family to respect my phobia? I mean, really. If one of my kids were agoraphobic, I would hardly drag them kicking and screaming outdoors every day. If my husband were an arachnaphobe (I think I made this word up) I wouldn't ask him to kill every spider in the house (just the really big ones, because hey, I have my limits).

So what's up with my family watching the PBS special on giant killer crocodiles tonight? Honestly. The worst part is this: THEY'VE SEEN IT BEFORE! My four-year old keeps running in to tell me that they're watching the crocodile show. She can't keep the glee out of her voice. Gee, thanks. I will continue to barricade myself in my room until further updates. I feel quite confident that she and her father have pacted to drive me absolutely nuts (got news for you, though, that happened long, long ago).

So here I am in my bedroom, trying to block out the giant killer crocodile facts that filter through to me. For example, did you know that giant killer crocodiles don't need to breathe for up to two hours? So don't bother looking at the water to spot their eyes, because it won't work! They will still ambush you at the water hole (or at your friendly neighborhood pool, I would imagine). Also, they can grow to be twenty or more feet long. Yes, I KNOW! They are HUGE! (And I am using caps, because I really am screaming on the inside.)

And what's up with my Veevs deciding that her whole life would be a waste if she doesn't become an alligator scientist? Ingratitude, that's what it is! I'm going to refuse to cook or clean until a) I receive an apology for this blatant disregard of my phobia, and b) Veevs changes her mind about the future and decides to become something more useful when she grows up. Like a pirate. Or a mermaid. (These are past favorites, but have fallen on hard times as the alligator scientist has gained momentum.) Now I'm just worried that no one will notice my cooking and cleaning strike.

All the Famous People I Know

Let me start off by saying that famous, in this blog, is going to be a pretty loose term. Some of these people you'll have heard of, some not.

1) I'm starting off with someone that everyone knows . . . of. You know that sweet, hip band "The Killers"--yeah, I totally went to junior high with Ronnie Vanucci, the drummer. He was in band with me (surprise, he played the drums! Me, not so lucky, I played the clarinet). Actually I remember him as being quite juvenile and immature, but hey, he was like thirteen so I'm sure he's become a mature, responsible rock star. Right. Here's the thing that's weird to me: when I was teaching high school all these girls in my class were seriously in love with this band. And these band members are my age. It's kind of like how all of a sudden teenage girls are in love with Johnny Depp again--hello! he was hot originally when I was in junior high. Maybe it was more than just the age gap that kept me from being cool in my students' eyes? Oh, right. It was probably because I assigned them huge amounts of homework. That's a real damper on the cool factor, right there.

2) One of my former students, Todd Herzog, is totally kicking trash on "Survivor: China" this season. I'm pretty sure that it's because of my inspirational guidance during his formative teen years. He recently told my brother that the reason he liked me as a teacher is because I was "kind of naughty". What? Yeah, I know! That makes me sound like I was doing stripteases, but I promise I wasn't. I did, however, get a lot of protests that The Good Earth was a dirty book, so maybe that's it . . .

3) Anyone seen the cover of Southwest Art? If you did, you've seen the work of my childhood best friend, Justin Taylor. If you missed it, you can hit his blog/website/thing from my links. Super talented, and pretty humble, too. I mean, really, the guy is so nice he condescended to paint my nursery in my old house. Talk about a waste of brilliance. . . those ducks, sheep, pigs, and cows were paltry compared to the sweet stuff he's turning out these days. I'm surprised when I asked him he didn't say, "Hey, I'm big time now, crazy neighborhood friend from when I was five. I'm not going to draw crappy cows on your crappy walls, because I've got better things to do." But he didn't. So, thanks, Bustin'--you're the best!

4) Also, I've been chewed out via my blog by two of my favorite romance authors. That's a pretty intimate connection, right? I'll cherish it forever!

5) I've probably saved the best for last. My brother, Josh, an organ performance geek (really, did I say that?), was featured on Cleveland's public radio. I mean, they played his recital on the airwaves! It's like he's a national power player now! Well, I thought it was cool.

How about you? What famous people do you know?

Pressure

I'm feeling a little bit of pressure now that I know my Aunt Kay (an English professor) and my cousin Celia (a technical writing degree holder) are reading these. Not that the rest of you aren't equally intimidating, it's just. . . you know. Is this how everyone felt around me when I used to say I taught high school English? Oh, the humanity!

My Phobia

I have a phobia. Like a real one that makes me do crazy things that no normal person would do. It's not the fear of heights, people, or spiders. I have a serious fear of alligators and crocodiles. I mean, a SERIOUS FEAR of alligators and crocodiles.

I have never lived in a place where either alligators or crocodiles are indigenous. I technically have never had anything to fear. However, this does not keep me from taking anti-crocodile measures. For example, if I can help it (and I usually can) I don't take baths or showers in lower level bathrooms. Because, you know, you never can tell when a rogue crocodile will be lurking in the two inch pipes that lead up to your shower. In my mind, they are incredibly resourceful. This worked great for me when we lived in Utah, as our house had a basement, and there was no need to worry. This also works great for me in Texas, where all of our bathrooms are on the second story. This does not work so well for me when I go to visit my in-laws or my parents, where I have to shower in the basement. Let's just say I can shower very, very quickly if I need to.

Another anti-crocodile technique that I use: I never, NEVER, NEVER go swimming in the deep ends of pools. Because, again, you never can tell when a rogue crocodile will have picked your pool to take a nap in. This was true even when I lived in Las Vegas, where no wild crocodile has ever been spotted. My parents have a lovely pool, but I stay in the shallow end. This has become less noticeable now that I have children, because everyone thinks that I just am staying close to them because I'm so protective. I know the truth, though. I am really avoiding the crocodiles that lurk in the drain.

When we take our kids to the zoo, I'm not even tempted to look in the crocodile cage. You will see me steer completely around it with whatever child happens to be in the stroller at the moment. You never can tell when a rogue crocodile will give that Plexiglass a nasty whip with his tail and decide it's time to eat that lady pushing the stroller.

Where does this bizarre phobia come from? I have a distinct memory of watching a show when I was really young that I think had something to do with it. I believe it was creatively titled Alligator! and it was in the same genre as Arachnophobia, and Snakes on a Plane. Here's the gist: an alligator wrestler (I know, who knew this career path existed?) gets angry because a friend of his gives his daughter a baby alligator as a pet. In his rage, he FLUSHES it down the TOILET! Well, of course, alligators are resilient, and so for fifteen or twenty years, this alligator not only survives but THRIVES in the city sewage system. It emerges one day to eat the bride at a wedding ceremony. It emerges another day (into a neighborhood swimming pool) to eat a birthday boy. They finally free the city from the alligator's predatory ways by blowing it (and half of the sewage system) to bits with huge amounts of dynamite. I believe I was four when I saw this movie, and it has dramatically changed my life, I think for the better. Because, you know, I will never be the one who is eaten by the rogue crocodile, thank you very much, because I have taken all the necessary steps to prevent it.

Of course, I've told my four-year old daughter that I'm not such a fan of alligators and crocodiles. But if you ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she'll say, "An alligator scientist." To me, that's a real clue that it's time to rent Alligator! just to give her a realistic picture of what her future might look like. And as an anti-crocodile measure for myself. Because who knows when she'll bring home a rogue crocodile? Ah, well, if she does, I'll just flush it down the toilet. . .