Scream and Shout ( a lot)

"And how are YOU?" the cashier said with a sympathetic smile.

I liked him for not NOT liking me.

Why? Because my sweet Angeldoodlehead, H4, had just thrown a fit worthy of an Academy Award in the middle of Old Navy.   In fact, I could still the screams echoing off the concrete walls filled with images of non-terrified souls in brightly colored parkas.  These were in sharp contrast to the people filling the aisles who were still not breathing after my pride and joy was heaved-hoed over my husband's shoulder and carried through the mall and out the door.

"He's two.  And he's milking it," I smiled and handed him a credit card.
"Oh, it's not signed? I'll need to see your ID."
"Okay!" I said brightly. I was happy. The kid was with the husband and I was thisclose to owning a mint green zip up sweater that was sooo cute and --
"He'll have to come back in and sign for this."
"What?" My good mood evaporated as I stared at the pre-pubescent, tattooed, Adam Lambert-wanna-be who just asked for the impossible.  He may have asked that I simply walk into Mordor, that was the scale of this nitwit's request.

I didn't like him.

"He was just here? Just carried out the crazed kid? You saw him," I was trying to be reasonable and I shook my Disney card in front of his eye-linered face - just in case the Kohl was blocking his damn view.
"Yeah, but he has to be the one to sign it," he said. "But I can hold it for you!"
"No.  No need.  I won't be coming back," I said.
I was proud of my maturity.
Proud of the fact that I was SEETHING on the inside but managed to keep my gaping maw closed - for once.

Happy Fucking Christmas, Glambert, I thought as I pushed my empty stroller toward the door.  "And thanks for the GIANT FUCKING INCONVENIENCE!"

Okay - maybe I didn't quite maintain my high level of maturity for too long.  :)

Ready or Not...

"Hey - can you be ready in ten minutes?"

These words are enough to put me in a bad mood for the entire weekend yet my husband, without fail, utters them to me every Saturday morning as I am emerging from the shower. 

This is from the same man who can take up to twenty minutes to decide on a pair of shoes.  Or thirty to decide on the perfect undershirt-and-t-shirt combo.  

So as I sit here in full attire, wet hair and a face lacking any tidbit of cosmetic enhancement I plot my revenge...   

Suggestions are welcomed.  :)

I am Super (Sand) Man

If I were given a wish to have a super power that could be anything in the world - I would not hesitate to seal my fate.  In my younger days I'd have wished for Teleportation power or Telepathic power, or even the power to be able to calculate a 20% tip in just seconds (this is my husband's power - one he flaunts every time we go out to eat). 

But now that I'm a mom, and I'm old, and I am sleeping in storage (the renovation is nearing it's end! yay!) I wish for just one Super Power ---

To be able to fall asleep instantaneously.  

I would love to be able to say "Hey! It's 10pm and the kid will be up at 6am! I need to go to sleep!" and then drift seamlessly off into Dreamland to meet up with Nathan Fillion and Jeremy Renner on a fluffy cloud pillow in the sky.  Nakeys.  

But I digress.  

A lot.  Mmmm.....  :)

Ahem. 

Ever since my kid was born it's like I can't get enough of the good stuff - that REM sleep that turns people into true humans and separates the Perky from the Petulant.   I'm pretty sure that, at one time, I considered myself "too bored to function" and would nap just for the hell of it.  I used to spend hours just lounging in bed doing nothing but dozing until the clock would roll from single digits to double and back to singles again.  That girl could sleep in a car, a bed, on a couch, and even, on the rare occasion, at her desk at work.  :)

I hate that girl.  

Now I go to bed by 12am, knowing that I will drift off into the Land of Total Exhaustion by 2am.  If I go to bed earlier - I still don't clock out until 2am.  

Get up earlier?

2am. 

It's like my body is trying to rid itself of all possible energy before hitting the internal Snooze Button. 

But why?

I have a kid to take care of!

A house to pretend to clean!

Laundry that must be sorted and never washed!

A bathtub and toilets that must be noted to clean "later"!

I think I'm just reverse aging.  My body is slowing down but my mind is speeding up.  Like some kind of cruel twist of fate, I am destined to be the smartest person I know (ahahah! ) but have the reflexes of a half-dead turtle.  

Maybe someday I'll be granted those awesome Super Power of Sleep  --- or a prescription for Ambien. 

You know, whatever comes first! :)

Daddy Dearest

"Remember the time that your sister in law and her doctor-to-be husband came over for the first time and Dad tripped over the baby gate at the end of the stairs, flipped, barrel rolled and then stood up and said, 'I'm okay.'?"

"Hey - remember when he tried to move the metal chairs from the upper deck to the lower deck but didn't want to take the time to move the chairs into a recline so they kept smacking him on the head - but he just kept moving them?"

"And then when he fell into the pool, slipped under the cover and kept popping up while I held on to one end? He kept yelling 'Drema, keep talking! I'll follow your voice!' but I was too busy laughing to say anything?"

"He called me once when I was working at the law firm to tell me he fell out of bed.  I had to sit there and try not to laugh so loud I would disturb the room full of lawyers next door as he told me how he fell out of bed, rolled into the closet where you had just put up new curtains and then couldn't get out because he was tangled in them!"

"And then that time when Matt Elixon called me and said 'hey - I'm here at the gas station and your dad is hanging out of the window, trying to jump in.  All I can see is his butt.' And I had to say, ' Yeah - he does that sometimes..."

"Remember that time when he cut a GIANT hole in the ceiling so that he could screw a vent in it to cover up the tiny hole he accidentally put in it while mopping the floor? How the hell did he do that in the first place?"


These stories are all about my dad.
He is unintentionally hilarious, which, we all know, is the best kind of hilarious.

Clean 'em and Weep

"I'm going to need you to clean the mirror in the bathroom," my mother said to me, trying to look extra pathetic while quickly whipstiching a ribbon to the top of my son's "STAY PUFT" hat.  "Oh, and the cabinet windows, the toilet, the lamps, the entry hall mirror and the sink."

I stopped in mid-bite of my delicious and super sinful Cam's Sandwich and stared at her.

"What? I laid the Windex out on the sink in there. Oh, and get the webber, too. The bug man said that the webs were key to keeping bugs out..." and with that she went back to her sewing.

My mother truly is an amazing person.  Rheumatoid has wracked her body, left her shortened, close to invalid and yet she still rules with an iron fist.  At 30(Plus) years old I am still bereft to know if a decision I have slaved over is "correct" until she tells me, her Branchland, WV twang, barely concealed, what I "should've done." But she truly is amazing.  The hill people to which she is kin have mastered the art of manipulation throughout the years.  Think Devil Anse and Charles Manson but less icky and scary.  So when she nodded her head to the left I knew that I had no choice.

She was like the Borg.

Resistance was futile.

So I did as I was told and cleaned the surfaces that were deemed my duties but, seeing as how she can't really turn her head very well, I failed to mention the fact that my 2.5 year old Angel had spent the hours following my cleaning spree standing in front of the hall mirror carefully, and meticulously licking it and rubbing a glazed donut in a large two by two square.

She may be an expert in manipulation but H4 is a master of Destruction.

Game, set. Match.

:)

"TWINSIES!"

Ever since my sister and I were young babes (as in the literal sense, not the centerfold sense, ewwww) people would ask my parents "are they TWINS?" even though I was almost two years younger and a shade or 50 darker than my near-albino-blonde-older sister.

Now that we are swirling around our 30's, we've begun to look even MORE alike.  For example, while shopping at the local Jump and Dump (AKA "Gabriel Brother's Discount Store) my lovely sister, Summer, went to go try on a few pairs of pants while I continued to circle the clearance rack for things that weren't too irregular or too holy or too --- much.

"Hey, go sign up for a card - it's like a rewards thing.  Like a Kroger.  In the dressing room," Summer said to me as she placed her prized pair of six dollar cords in the buggy.  I stared at her for a few seconds until my brain comprehended her rapid-fire-assault-like speech and then ran (ha! Just kidding! I haven't ran since --- wait - have I ever ran?) to sign up.

"Hi!" I said to the plus-sized woman in Reeboks that stood guarding the rooms.  "I was told I could sign up for some sort of rewards card here?"

"Uh, yeah," she said and then gave me a look.  A look like I had done gone and lost my mind.

I knew that look well.

"Well - can I sign up for one? What do you need from me?"

"I just signed you up, right?"

"No," I said, slower and more enunciated.  "No, I am signing up now." The poor dear.  Now I knew why she was assigned the dressing room duty roster for the day.

"I just took your information. You were JUST back here!" She said, looking a bit spooked and a bit like she was going to head for the hills.

"Oh, wait! Ha! No, that was my sister!"

"Really? Are you twins? You look JUST ALIKE!" She said and then, finally, took my email address and handed me a lovely plastic card to add to my other stack of plastic cards.

TERRORIZING THE WAL-MARTERS AND TRYING ON HAIR FEATHERS

If only we could use our TWIN POWERS for good instead of evil... :)

Listen Up!

"You never listen to me!" The irony of my husband's complaint is not lost on me. In fact I can remember a day in the recent past when I painstakingly told him which crack to seal in the newly-raised sidewalk and, instead, he went out and shot his caulk (sniggggger) all over the place and then whined "But YOU SAAAAAID!" and I hadn't. Not at all.
So as I sit here and painstakingly rub at the freckles and speckles of black paint that dot my arms and hands, I think about how maybe I should have waited for him to help me. Maybe I should've had him stir the paint and roll the rollers as I seem to have painted myself more than the wall. And seeing as how this paint is magnetic there is a good chance I'll be unable to leave the house due to the giant metal entry doors pulling me and my painted self back inside.
My house will try to eat me.
Which would make a great horror movie.
Wait? Hasn't that been done - to death?
Hahahha
"You don't listen, do you? Holly?" Big Harry was on the other end of the phone, apparently talking to me.
"Sure I do. Suuuuuure," I said and then tuned him out as he threatened to do something involving me, the car, hurting me and ----- buying me a pony.
I think.


Well - I wasn't really paying that much attention. :)

I Scream for Ice Cream

"You know those Drumsticks you like? The all chocolate ice cream ones? Well they had one box left at the store. No, I didn't get them because you said you wanted to eat good this week and oh my GAWD I'm sorry! Don't cry! I was joking! There's a box in the freezer! I couldn't do that to you! Oh baby, I'm sorry! I got you your ice cream!" Me, trying to be funny but instead reducing my large hunk of a husband into a near-blubbery mess over ice cream treats.
I'm a bad wife. :)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

I'm trying to get my sister to make a Taco Bell run with me a la 2003. She would come in from Virginia around 11pm and then call me to come pick her up at Mom's house and driver her to Taco Bell. We were not seeking food. We were not seeking hot sauce. We just missed each other and our reason for "needing" to go out could easily be explained, as per the norm, with tacos.
But now that she lives a mere two Minutes away from me pulling her crack from the cracks of her couch is not unlike trying to get the nut meat out of a stubborn walnut.
She'll feign tiredness.
A headache.
A missed text.
But sooner or later, she will succumb to me, my persistence for nostalgia and the thrilling thrall of The Bell.

Dirty Thirty

I found an old notebook today in which I penned a paragraph that predated my arrival into my "Dirty Thirties":

At the age of sixteen we are given the ability to drive, to operate heavy machinery. Two years later, at eighteen, we can die for our country or vote or even be convicted of adult crimes like Murder and Tax Evasion. At twenty-one we can drink.
A lot.
But as thirty looms before me and I enter another age box on most surveys, I'm in a time of my life when my eggs are numbered, my career is settled and my love for all things Harry Potter is readily apparent I find that I am --- scared shitless.


Note: a year later I was pregnant, jobless, and scared even MORE shitless. Hahahah!

High School Musical

I watch "Glee."

A lot.

I can't help it. It's high school.

It's musical.

But it's NOT High School Musical.

And I can't help but think that High School would have been so much better with a musical soundtrack. I know that I could've aced any math quiz with the theme from "Rocky" being sung behind me by a Santana of WV. I could've nailed the auditions for Drama club if I could've tossed in some notes by Queen. And how much better would any dance have been if someone would have choreographed a few routines in there?

I really think that any situation, in life or on tv, can be made that much better with the addition of Jazz Hands. :)

Boredom Washes Over..

I'm watching my husband wash his car and, yes, that is as boring as it sounds.
Oh- now he has out some weird squeegee thing going over it in quick, squeaky, motions. It's like slightly-buffered nails down a chalkboard.

My child stands a few feet away slowly and meticulously dumping out all of the water in his Pirate Sea Table. A scoop goes on to the deck, one for his homies, one on his toes and the last on his forehead where he then sputters and looks around for the culprit who just attacked him from an unseen location

Rinse.
Repeat.

Now the hubs has out a large cloth and is carefully rubbing the Caddy as if she is Slave Leia and he is Han Solo there to soothe the pains of the past/grit from the past's journeys.

His buttcrack, on view for the entire neighborhood to see, cements his uncaring attitude about what others think of the forbidden love between him and his vehicle. Surely breaking a few covenants with his machismo so much on display he gyrates and shimmies to reach every nook and cranny.

Some cars have all the luck.


:)

Parenting for Parents

For some reason I'm obsessed with getting my barely-talking-coherently toddler to talk like a pirate.
He'll say: "fun!" and I'll yell "ARRRRRGH!" back at him. He'll giggle, run off, and then come back a few minutes later: "....fun?" and again I'll "ARGGGGGH!" at him.

I even made him walk around tonight with one hand over his eye.
"R?" he asked me.

"ARGGGGH!" I responded, lovingly.

Next Week: Scottish Brogue! :)~

Shiny Happy People -Getting Decked

When will my husband learn that the best way to wake me up in the morning is NOT by sticking his big, goofy face an inch away from mine and grinning like a brainless monkey on banana-crack?
He about lost an eye this morning.
I'm thinking about getting revenge tomorrow.
I'll perch upon his chest at about three AM and then, in all my morning-breath glory, I'll creepily whisper "Riiiiiiise and shiiiiiine" while "accidentally" giving him a wet willy.
Game ON, Daddy-O. Game FREAKIN ON.

:)

Mommy Secret #7,345

Sometimes I give the kid the iPad to play with so that I can catnap. Or clean. Or ---blog. :)

Super Bossypants!

Sometimes- I craft.
It's an awful habit made worse by that "I'm-so-much-more-creative-than-you" site -Pinterest. I've also been trying to come up with a snarky nickname for that time-suck site but, ironically, have been too busy pinning away to actually tame the snarkbeast into submission. So instead I do things like haunt craft stores, flee flea markets, and repurpose toilet rolls and used up egg crates.
When my husband is home he likes to join me in my crafty-loos. And by "join" I mean "take the fuck over."
I had an idea to glue magnets to the bottom of Hot Wheels to make them wall art - but I was "doing it wrong." he immediately grabbed my glue gun, scooted my kitchen chair over and tsk-tsk'd over my choice of mixing body styles.
As I sat down tonight, armed with old comic books, a discounted shadow box, Avenger mini figures, and a deep impending feeling of doom, I just knew my loving better half would intervene.
I hurriedly cut, arranged, and glued feverishly until I felt his blue eyes boring into my (sweaty) back.
Thirty minutes of him hacking away at a poor, defenseless "Cloak and Dagger" comic later and him saying things like "Oh you HAVE to put this in there!" and "They don't even DO this anymore!" and "Let me stop and let you, the Craftress, work!" - okay, fine, I made up that last one - and we finally had a perfect storm of a Superhero Shadowbox.
And I resisted the urge to hot glue his forehead to his testicles.
Which still would've counted as a "craft" that I sooo could've pinned on Pinterest. :)

Extreme Makover: Baby Edition

Before... And after.
He looks years older in the second one!

Summer Bummer

"This sucks!" my sister said as she huffed and puffed and tried to jam her petite white foot into a red espadrille in Target's shoe section. "Ugh! My foot is always swollen now! It's so hard to find shoes!"
I just stated at her.
She stare at me.
I walked away and she hobbled after me laughing in what I hoped was an apologetic way.
If not, well, maybe she'll at least run over her other foot so they'll be evenly swollen.

:)

Harry Hairy Harry

Someone needs a haircut...

Language Barriers

"I didn't know! We don't all watch that 'Tims' channel!" my husband yelled to me from the bathroom doorway. We had just finished the horror flick (yes. It was THAT bad) "Harold and Kumar Christmas" which had a cameo in it with Neil Patrick Harris and his partner, David.
"How could you NOT know that was his real-life husband?" I shouted back. "And what is 'Tims'?!?!"
"Tims!" he repeated.
I stopped and stared.
"Do you mean 'TMZ'?"
"Yeah," he said, slowly shutting the bathroom doors to hide his shame. "Timssss."
"I can't tell if you're being funny or if you really thought it was pronounced like that," I said.
"I think it's better that way," he said and closed the doors on me, our conversation, and my hope that I had married him for his brains.

:)

Possibly Offensive Post

I think my kid is hilarious.
Not because of what he says or what he is necessarily even doing.
He just IS funny.
So when he got done painting the other day and looked up at me --- I couldn't help but burst out laughing. Some days I'm a good mom. Some days ---- I just pretend to be:

Don't Hate Me...

I found a white hair the other day.
IN MY HEAD!
I'm only 33!
I should NOT have white hairs!
So I've decided to grow old gracefully ---- or I could become the next face of Miss Clairol!
Bring on the color wheel and drippy bottles! Let's dye this bitch!!! :)

Artificial Sugars

I'm pretty sure the host from "Sweet Genius" on Foodnetwork is the secret love child of Dr. Evil and Greedy Smurf.
Yup.

Crack-a-lacka!

Somehow my mother and father convinced me to come to their house for not one, not two, but THREE meals yesterday! Breakfast, lunch AND dinner!

My sister and her gorgeous daughter sprung for three pizzas (we like our pizza here in WV - it's like a four-course meal if you can get enough toppings for free on it!) so we gorged ourselves and then sat around digesting, waiting for the kids to either get in a fight or dissolve into hysterics of some sort or another.

My mother had the bright idea to turn on the stereo and blast her favorite Alan Jackson song "Chatahoochie" to which both Harry4 and Gillian started flashmob dancing! Not wanting to miss the action, my dear sister reached out and snatched the closest kiddo she could find. As her tiny chicken-pickin- fingers ensconced my son's middle, he looked at me in fear, which my sister, thinking he was wriggling with happiness at having being impaled by her rat claws, started bouncing around to the music, my helpless baby clutched in her arms. She bobbed to the music, swung him to and fro with her curls bouncing, all the while sitting in one of my mother's delicate dining room chairs.

CRAAAAAAAAAAACK!

"OH MY GAWD! MY FAT ASS BROKE THE CHAIR! I BROKE THE CHAIR! I BROOOOKE IIIIIT!" she screamed and finally let loose of my poor child who ran to me, sweaty but happy to be free.

Summer held up the wrangled piece of furniture as we all held our stomachs and laughed at her expense, trying desperately not to regurgitate the stuffed crust pizza we just stuffed into ourselves.

"I can't believe I broke the chair!" Summer said again.

"Finally!" I yelled. "Finally! Don't you remember when I was sitting in the bathtub, painting the wall and it DROPPED! I got out screaming 'MY FAT ASS BROKE THE TUB! MY FAT. ASS. BROKE. THE TUUUUUB!'???"

"Oh yeah," she said.

We all quietly reflected on the girth of our backsides while we wiped the tears from our reddened, hot faces.

"If I broke that chair, your mom would've killed me," my dad said and started laughing all over again.

"Shut up, Ben," Mom said, swatting him on the arm.

Summer left shortly after that incident but I'm sure the memory, and this blog post, will haunt her for all the rest of her days.

Now - who wants pizza???

:)

Safe Sex and Walmart Breakdowns

I stared at it.

A small, yellow squeaky toy shaped like a dog.

I felt myself being drawn to it and then my tiny T-rex-like hands curled around the middle of the balloon animal and - squeeze.

SQUUUUEEEAK!

"HAHAHAHAH!" I propped my forehead on the germ-encrusted buggy and hunched over, laughing loudly and drooling for good measure.

I dared another squeeze.

SQUEEE-EEAK!

"OH WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY?" I yelled to the small dog toy still in my hand and then burst into horrible, hornking laughter again.

I knew that I wasn't going to make it.

This stupid little dollar toy was going to make me lose my shit.

In Wal-mart.

I had to find help.

Or a bathroom.

My sister, Summer, was two aisles away, apparently oblivious to my squeaky-toy showdown in the middle of the electronics department. And who the EFF puts a dog toy display in with the cd's anyway? I mean, I could sue for mental duress or something.

I saw her standing next to an employee and contemplating between buying pens or pencils or arsenic - I don't know - I didn't care. I meandered toward her, forehead still on the buggy, dragging my legs behind me, clutching the damn squeaky toy and laughing until my eyelids burned and I snotted slightly on myself.

"Hey - what do you - well Holly! What the-?" she stared at me with a smile but also a bit of concern as I thrust the dog toy toward her perpetually pretty nose.

"Dog toy! It SQUEAKS! Dog! Balloon! Sex commercial! Balloons!AHAHAHAH!" I doubled over in the floor and continued to guffaw and wheeze until I was sure I was as done as my Clinique mascara was now on my nose.

"Why is this funny? What commercial? Sex what?" she asked and goddammit if she didn't squeeze the little fucker and make me keel over again.

Later, when I could breathe again and had thoroughly hand-santized my forehead, I explained about seeing a Durex commercial where balloon animals were "doing it," and it was so funny.

"Okay," she said, doubt radiating from her eyes. But that didn't stop her from squeezing the thing at various times trying to get me to wet myself from laughing so hard at a dog toy.

That stupid balloon animal dog toy almost cost me my dignity.

And it did cost me 99 cents.

Fat as a Fiddle

"Oh, Holly," my young niece said to me softly as she hugged me and then gently patted my belly. "You look as fat as when you were pregnant."

Ahhhh- to be young and have no need for filters....

Let Them Eat - Pie

I found a wonderful recipe that uses up my leftover apples and bananas - which were plentiful.
I have this obsession with buying tons of fresh fruit - and then not eating it.
So it's more of a quirk.
Or a tic.
Or - okay FINE- im just weird. Anyhooo all I did was roughly peel and chop a few apples and a couple bananas, soak em in lemon juice for about ten minutes and then plop the mix in a store bought crust. Add a simple crum mixture and -voila - PIE!

I've yet to taste it but - if all this goes well I have some strawberries and pineapple that may end up in my oven too!

:)

First Mobile Post!

I just downloaded the new Blogger App - so here's hoping it actually works.
And - a picture of me and the kid eating Frozen Yogurt:

Romantic, uh, Nudges

I took off my shirt and stood by the bed, smiling at my husband who just returned from a hard week's work in North Carolina.

"Hi," I said, coyly.

"Whooooo," he drew a sharp intake of breath and I just knew, KNEW, that we were gonna wake the neighbors with a fiesty frolick of epic proportations.

"Wow," he continued. "We really need to buy you some new bras."

Yup.

That's how romance DIED at the Shivel household.

Walky and TALKY!

I went to the grocery store today - alone.

The kid was with the baby-sitter (whom I adore as she always says he's a wonderful, well-behaved child when I KNOW he has been one step below Chuckie or Macauly Culkin in the "Good Son") so I had time to actually peruse the shelves, drool over the fresh produce and squeal over the reduced-for-quick-sale baby brie.

Unfortunately, in my happy-stupor, I found that I was also --- talking to myself. A lot.

A LOT lot.

"Oh I forgot HOT DOGS!" I said loudly, scaring a lovely couple who were shopping for skinless chicken breasts in their matching polos and spike crew cuts.

"BUNS!" I screeched in Aisle 8.

"CRACKERS and HONEY!"

I could've been announcing a porn line-up for all these people knew. Or NBC Fall sitcoms.

It wasn't until the 6'6" grizzly man with the long beard, tiny grocery cart (nope - not really - he was just THAT big) looked at me like I was insane and purposely steered down the feminine hygiene aisle just to avoid my path that I knew - I was really gonna have to shut the hell up.

Or milk it.

I mean - really - if I keep up the muttering to myself and keep up with the random word shouting - I'm pretty sure I would never have to worry about being stuck behind the mom with six kids hanging off of the cart, or the old-lady aisle-blocking the canned beets, or the crunchy hippies hovering over the organic squash - they'd run from me. They'd be terrified of me.

Like the cat lady on "The Simpsons."

But with better hair.

Sometimes.

:)

That's it.

That's my new lease in life.

Sure - I tried being "Harry 4's mom" for a bit and while it is WONDERFUL - I just may have to take "Crazy Cat Lady" for a stroll - at least once a week.

Or more if I have good coupons.

Fear me, crunchy hippies, FEAR ME , as I will get the best Butternut. Oh yes. I will.

"BUTT-ER-NUTTTT!"

The Easter Parade

'Twas the night before Easter,

And all through the state,

Not a creature was stirring,

'cept in Wal-mart's case.

The aisles were filled with late-night shoppers,

mothers of twelve, baby-carriage hoppers,

and then there was me, Stacey and Sis,

Who didn't want to be there,

But there none-the-less.

For Sis in her Hover'round and me all sweaty,

dragged poor Stacey there, and she wasn't ready

for the action, the drama, the clean-up in aisle three,

the hectic relations between crippled sis and me.

For when we checked out, all gripping our treasures,

My sis revved her engine, and sped up for good measure.

Knocking me flying right in to poor Stacey who couldn't be faulted,

for it was Summer, in the chair, who sent me catapulted.

The Bunny, he came, and left us all goodies,

Even Summer, the meanie, in her handicapped duties,

was given a reprieve and sent on her way,

All was forgiven, On Easter's Sweet Day.

"Beep! Beep" Goes the Weirdo

"I really have to go to buy milk - wanna come?" I asked my sister as we walked, arms linked, from another successful night of wine and frivolity at our friend Amy's house.

"Sure!"

A short drive later and a few snarfs of laughter (we can't help it - our brains go into hyper mode when in short proximity to each other) we arrived at Kroger to buy cereal and milk. No sooner had we steered our small cart into the aisle and were debating the price of "Fruit Rings" to "Fruit Loops" did a man pop from around the corner.

"BEEP, BEEP!" he said and smiled as he hopped in front of us. Clothed in a white dress shirt, dark slacks, a tie and one of the god-awfulest toupees I had ever seen, he was also too tan for winter, and too old to be uttering the words "beep, beep."

"Now," he boomed to his waiting audience of two 'tweens nearby. "I want to buy something that's less than thirteen cents an ounce!"

"Okay - let's find a cereal for me..." Summer and I moved on down the row, leaving the man and the girls behind.

"What about-"

"BEEP! BEEP!" the man interrupted.

"Oh, excuse us!" My sister and I apologized for being in his way as we are children of the children of the Great Depression and were taught that manners, above all else, were to be maintained even when one is contemplating beating the hairpiece off a random stranger by sheer force of will - and a 64oz box of generic Cheerios.

"You want a good cereal! Try this!" he then popped a box of Grape Nuts in my face and added, "put in some brown sugar and serve it hot." He winked. I suppressed a shudder but remained diplomatic on the surface of my freckled and bespeckled face.

"Okay, I'll try it. But if it's not any good - I will hunt you down!" I laughed and tossed the box in my cart and tried to get away.

"Wait! You said you'd hunt me down, huh? In that case - add mustard and parsnips!"

"I like those, too!" I yelled behind me as we ran for the dairy case.

"Are you gonna toss out the box of Grape Nuts now?" Summer asked as we flattened ourselves against the refrigerators of Vitamin D.

"Nah. Sad thing is - it actually does sound good!"

We grabbed some milk, ran through the check-out line and hurried to my waiting van.

"Those poor girls that were with him. I mean, that was probably their dad. Can you imagine having to live with that?!?!"

Summer paused, and her cute, upswept nose turned to face me from profile.

"Holly? That's probably what people say about us and our daddy."

I stared at the red light in front of me, contemplated her observation, and completely lost it as I dissolved into dash-slapping giggles and hornks of laughter.

She's right.

Our dad is the weird guy who makes lame jokes. But, and this is important, he does NOT wear some floppy, streaky toupee.

That floppy, white-streaked mess is all his own.

BEEP BEEP!

Rude, Much?

Actually managing to book a sitter, the hubs and I went to the mall to return a few things - among them were a pair of running shoes that while I loved them - I certainly didn't need two pair at this time, so my pretty purples were to be taken back to Lady Foot Locker.

A tall, slim blonde waited on Harry to take the shoes out of the bag and hand her the sales receipt. He immediately balled up the bag, pulled on the front strap of my messenger bag and shoved the wadded plastic in between my boobs.

"Did you want to keep the other pair?" the girl asked Harry while I struggled to release my strap.

"GOD! That is SO rude!" I said dramatically.

The salesgirl, hereafter known as "Bambi," paused and stared at me with wide eyes. I smiled weakly at her and then, glaring at my husband, I pulled out the bag and slammed it on the counter.

I was feeling a bit jumpy because, well, I had to pee and BAM! closed their bathrooms to the public. Never mess with a gal who has to pee. She WILL do bad things.

"I thought you meant ME!" Bambi giggled and turned back to her register.

"Oh, no, no! Just my mean ol' husband, here!" I laughed.

"Okay, so was there anything wrong with this pair of shoes?" Bambi asked a few minutes later after she had pushed some buttons and scanned some codes.

"Nope. I bought two of the same shoe and the other one is working out just great."

"Oh, did you join a gym?" she asked.

Now, a normal person would've answered her quickly and frankly, but seeing as how I am, at any given time, processing entirely too many thoughts at once, I stood there and apparently stared at her with a squished-up, constipational-like face.

I was thinking:

1. "No! I just have to run after a toddler all day so - well - yeah! I guess I did kinda join a gym!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
2. "No! I have a lymphatic issue and have to wear good shoes - alllll the time! No heels for me!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
3. "No! I don't have time to shave my legs much less go to a fancy-pants gym! "(insert self-deprecating chuckle).
4. "No! I'm good with being fat." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

But instead, I just said:

"No!"

A few minutes later we were strolling toward Macy's and the comforts of their facilities when Harry turned toward me. "Wow," he said. "I really thought you were gonna bitch-slap that girl for asking you if you joined a gym!"

"Wait - was I rude? Was I really? Oh GOD! I was, wasn't I?" I stopped in mid-pee-pee dance to look at my husband imploringly.

"No!" he said.

Am seriously considering sending her a cookie cake with the words "I'm sorry. I had to pee. I didn't mean any rudeness." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

***The shoe to start all meltdowns***

The Dreadmill

Ahhh - the New Year.

A time of new beginnings. New DIEts. And new sentences that begin with "This year immagonna..."

I freakin' hate this time of year.

But as my toddler is encroaching upon his second year of life, and my personal space, with an alarming speed, I have decided that I need to at least be able to, ya know, GET MY FAT ASS OFF THE COUCH IN UNDER THREE MINUTES!

We all need goals, people.

So today, January 10th, I stared at The Treadmill. I loathe that name - "Treadmill," it's like someone naming their kid something that will guarantee to get them beat up in the playground. And the name itself just makes me wanna stay far, far, away as I think only thin people with words written on the butt of their sweats ever actually GET on the cursed things.

So I quickly emailed a very smart friend and asked her if she would help me rename it.

And thus began the life of "THE DREADMILL."

I approached the large monster holed up in the corner of my basement with trepidation.

Sighing, I started to look for the button to release it from its resting position and lower the belt so I could then haul my pudgy ass upon it.

Fifteen minutes pass while I yell, scream, cry, giggle and slap at The Dreadmill.

And then I found the knob. Hiding in plain sight.

The fat girl in me wanted to retreat. To go into the downstairs kitchen and pull out a glass bottle of coveted Coca-cola and waddle to the overstuffed leather couch to watch "Dinosaur Train" with my baby boy.

But I pulled up my big girl stretch pants, shifted my boobs back into their cups and re-pulled my ponytail into a sloppy bun.

I was determined.

I was ON THIS.

I was GOING THE LIMIT!

I was out of frickin' breath!

Two minutes in and I'm keeling over the rails like an 80-year-old smoker with black lung. Actually, my grandfather died of black lung and I'm pretty sure that in the weeks preceding his death, he could've ran circles around me - with his walker.

Ten minutes later I shove off of The Dreadmill and duck-walk back to the couch vowing never to approach the beast again whilst sober. About the time I'm deciding to start drinking for my new New Year's resolution my toddler comes up to me, rests his tiny blonde head on my chubby knee and sighs deeply. And I know then - I will be back on The Dreadmill by morning.

Even if it kills me.

Which it probably will.