My Wonderful Life

Seven years ago vanity and an healthy fear of weight gain brought three girls together. Warped senses of humor, good listening skills and a fear of blackmail has bonded them for life.

Wow, did I have an awesome day. It really couldn't have been more perfect. It all started with a visit with two old friends (old as in young and beautiful looking friends I have known for a long time). We try to get together once a month, and usually we go out for brunch. Today we decided that brunch was the last thing we (read: our thighs) needed and that what we really could use was a little exercise.

First we walked three miles and a new(ish) friend, Linda, came along, too. All you former Girl Scouts, sing along with me now: Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold. Whatever that means, I don't really know, I just sang along with the rest of Troop 349 because Mrs. Patterson scared the living poo-poo out of me. I really wanted to be a cheerleader, but Mom allowed me to join Girl Scouts because we only met once a month and cheerleading had several practices a week.

After the brisk walk we returned to Vic's house to eat a well balanced breakfast. I brought along my favorite cereals. Whole wheats? Check.

Everyone contributed something. Kerrie sliced the strawberries. Fruits? Check. Vic had some fat free milk. Dairy? Check. I think.

It was delicious. Kerrie and I ate all of our cereal and tipped our bowls to slurp our remaining milk (well Kerrie didn't, but I did). Vic said she was "stuffed" and couldn't have another bite. It must have been that Saltine cracker she ate earlier.


Aughhh, Vic? I thought you were "stuffed" and couldn't eat another bite? Is that a Bloody Mary your making? Oh, I see, it's the homemade kind. That's my favorite, too.


That Vic, she wants to make sure we get all our veggies, too. She loves us! She really, really loves us! (Name that actress.) Vegetable group? Check.


Kerrie retired to the back deck to drink her Bloody Mary. Please take note of Vic's cocktail table. It is the newest and the cuttingest-edgeiest (these are new words, look 'em up). I know you are going to want one. It is all the rage in California and in Europe too. Some people call these new fangled devices ironing boards, but those people don't know what the hell they are talking about. This is a cocktail table for only the most Vogue consumers and will soon be featured in House Beautiful and Architectural Digest. Vic had one first.


O.K. fine. It isn't really a cocktail table, but I feel sorry for Vic and I am trying to play it up for her sake. She's just a teacher and can't afford all the new, latest and greatest furniture. But the ironing board is cool.

Vic, Kerrie and I first met over ten years ago. Although we had mutual friends and knew each other for about three years, it wasn't until we decided to start walking together (Spring of 2001) that we became great pals. Before children (B.C.), our walks lasted over an hour. We were committed to five to six days a week of exercise. The brisk workouts sometimes ended with a long lounge in the hot tub, a margarita or a cozy dinner in a restaurant. Before children, I said. I am sure that I have not had the full one hour walk-relaxing cool down-post alcoholic beverage experience since my first born was delivered. That was over six years ago. Today I had the full experience and I only have one thing to say:


Let the countdown to liberation begin.
I have 17 years, 3 months, 2 days!

Vic has no children. Because she has no children and Kerrie and I have 5 (combined), we like for Vic to host any get togethers we have. At her house one is less likely to twist one's ankle on a Lincoln Log. One is also less likely to have one's ear drum blown out while minding one's own business. And her toilet seats never have tee-tee on them. It's very nice. I used to secretly wish that Vic had kids. Now, I am secretly glad that she did not. So here I leave you with

The Top Ten Reasons Why I am Glad That Vic Has No Children.

#10. Her house is so quiet that it is disturbing (in a good way).

#9. She spends all her lowly teacher's salary on posh clothes and designer shoes and she never minds loaning them out to the poor peasants (namely me).

#8. Her Christmas list is short so my name is kinda near the top.

#7. We can play her Wii without having to share a turn with any snotty-nosed punks.

#6. Her house is really quiet.

#5. By sharing my motherhood stories with her I reassure her of her decision to skip the child-rearing phase of life and move straight into the travel and self-grooming phase of life and thus make myself very valuable to her justifying her existence. And she really loves me for that. And I love feeling loved and valuable to someone. Someone who is an adult. Someone whom I do not feed and whom does not technically have to love me back. It's nice.

#4. She doesn't have to go to Wal-mart and I am happy for anyone who does not have to go to Wal-mart.

#3. She gets to drive a two-seater and when she takes me places I get to ride with her. And sometimes I stick my head out the window and my tongue falls out of my mouth and I pant. I'd sit on her lap while she is driving but she won't let me.

#2. Her house is like crazy quiet.

#1. If Vic had kids her refrigerator wouldn't look like this and that would be a real waste of cold air.

p.s. When she saw me taking a picture of the refrigerator she wanted me to mention that it is not clean right now. By "clean" I think she means the bottles are not all facing the same direction? Maybe it is for the better that she didn't have any kids after all; those kind of neurosis probably don't need to be passed along.

And my wonderful day wasn't over yet and I have so much more to tell you, but I am tired and I am a mom and I need to go to bed so that tomorrow I can wake up and love my kids more than I thought was ever possible and I can love them more because I spent a few hours away and I missed them and I want to see them and hold them and then send them to school so we can start the whole process over again.

Missing Birth Contol Pills...Reward

Help me, Jesus! Where did my birth control go? Last weekend my helpful husband did me a favor and picked up my prescription from the pharmacy. If he really wanted to be helpful he'd get a vasectomy , but that is another post for another day. He so kindly took my pills out of the paper bag and sat them on the bathroom counter (so he thought). I thanked him endlessly, because you have to do that with husband's; it's called positive reinforcement and one hopes that the encouragement will spur other good deeds in the future.


Yesterday I was cleaning the bathroom and noticed the pill "compact" felt lighter than usual. I opened it and to my dismay and disbelief, then pills were gone. Missing. Void. Notta. None. Zilch. Where could they be? Under this? Under that? Inside this? Check the medicine cabinet! The make-up basket? Where do we keep important things? My underwear drawer? The fire proof box on the office? Under the mattress? In the china cabinet, next to my stash?
The pills were nowhere to be found.

I called the husband (the one that really needs a vasectomy now, more than he needed one yesterday). He didn't answer. Figures.

There was no time to waste. It was Friday and the doctor's office would be closing for the weekend and I may need their approval to get more pills). I called the pharmacy and explained my situation to some dear woman who probably worked all day away from home because she can't stand being with her kids 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. She felt my pain and allowed me to buy more pills at full price (insurance won't pay twice in one month). Shew! Safe! Money well spent.

I can only guess that the vasectomiless husband threw the pills away with the paper bag and all the literature that warns me about the side effects of birth control. He didn't know the "compact" was empty and that the pills that would help him reach retirement before the age of 70 were neatly nestled in with the side-effect literature.

And one last thought. If we get side-effect literature with birth control pills warning us of what will happen when we take them, do people who buy Viagra get side-effect literature that warns them about the lifetime of worry and cleaning and cooking and caring that follows the...the...that follows the pill popping? Just wondering?

Baby Birdies

Good news- I just ordered a new camera for myself. Bad news- it's being delivered via Fed Ex. Unfortunately for housewives throughout America, Fed Ex men just drop their load and run. No chit-chat. No front door "foreplay" before the unwrapping of the package. No nothing. Besides ringing one's bell and running and I've never been much for bell ringing and running (or bell ringing and sleeping).

Oh well, at least I'll have a camera to look forward to.

Do you remember this little bird house on my mother's kitchen window?

And these little eggs that Ashley tried to make into cupcake decorations for Kate's first birthday?

Look at these little suckers that managed to hatch before Ashley could exploit their beauty atop a 1-year old's birthday cupcake.

Are you my mother?

Can somebody please turn on the lights?

These sweet little birds manage to walk a fine line between cute and absolutely disgusting (sort of like a husband).

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Wearing Halloween shirts in April is accepted around here. In fact, I think I kind of like it. He has a mind of his own and doesn't mind ridicule. Besides, it is far easier than wearing your PJ's to school in December.

We are planning a garden. That is P-L-A-N-N-I-N-G, one T shy of planting a garden. A week ago I was watching The Food Network while folding laundry and the idea occurred to me. If I have a garden, I may not have to go to the grocery store as often. That would give me more time to watch TV and blog. Genius. I know what you are thinking, a garden takes a lot of time. That's what a reasonable person may consider, but I, on the other hand, am much more impulsive.

After this initial garden revelation my mind ran away with reasons to plant a garden this year. I'll share a few with you.

My top ten reasons to plant a garden:

Number ten. I had a garden when I was single. It was so much fun and it landed me a good husband. Now it is time to pay up because I misled him into thinking I was industrious, hoaxed an engagement out of him and he hasn't had one fresh grown vegetable since. Scurvy has set in and his lack of iron gets him rejected at the blood bank.

Number nine. Child labor is cheap.

Number eight. With a recession looming over us, this garden may be our only source of nourishment.

Number seven. My folks had a garden when I was growing up. Their folks had a garden when they were growing up. It's tradition and I am all about tradition. Especially the traditions of spanking your children, hiding your loot in the china cabinet and drinking heavily on weekends.

Number six. Maybe my kids will eat more vegetables if I let them eat stuff they pull straight out of the dirt. They tend to like food off the floor better than off their plates anyhow.

Number five. I already have the dirt, what more do I really need?

Number four. Sam is hungry.

Number three. What would Martha do?

Number two. I'm running out of reasons here. Just why am I growing a garden?

And the number one reason to plant a garden is: Have you ever been to Wal-mart with three kids? I can not stress this point enough. The second we pull into the parking lot my kids' noses run with green snot, their flip-flops fall off and they become barefoot. I start swatting at them and the Wal-mart security watches me from the camera room waiting to report me to the Department of Children and Families. Sam poops his diaper and I don't have any extras with me (plus taking three kids into that bathroom is an E-coli nightmare) so we have a green cloud hanging over us for the duration of the shopping. None of this is all that bad, but the kid-bickering that ensures is pure torture. The Geneva Convention has ruled it unethical, but since it is all self-inflicted it is permitted (but only at Wal-mart). The crying is ear piercing. Pushing a buggy that has a the big-kid attachment while carrying a 25-pound sack of potatoes on my hip is nearly impossible. Turning corners I knock off endcap displays (envision hundreds of Chapstick tubes all over the ground. This is true.). Then the cell phone rings. I would ignore it, but my house is for sale and it may be a realtor wanting to know if my house is pristine for some strangers to walk through it and use it as a comparison for the house they really plan to buy for $50,000 less than mine. So I look for my cell phone that is in my purse under all the wilted, browned vegetables that Wal-mart buys from third world countries and in turn sells to me for next to nothing while American farmers are paid by the government not to farm.

Growing a garden just makes sense to me.

I think we will have a 8x12 plat for out veggies, but I accept that this will change as we get things rolling.

Indiana cousins, please don't laugh at us. Or at our dirt. Ueh, um (clearing my throat), I mean our soil.

Or at our trees. All we can do is try.

I do want to go on record as saying I do not like the location we have selected for our garden. I do not feel it gets enough sun light. Pat is so sure it does. Although the kids are hard at work tilling the soil, I reserve the right to change the location without notice.

A Big One Makes Pat Happy

I've never been one to think that size really mattered, but apparently it does. Today the patient received a package in the mail. Since I am the one home alone with el sick-o I would have preferred for the package to have been delivered via my favorite shipping company, The United Parcel Service, where the men in brown take such good care of the packages and would have come to my door and chit-chatted while the gimp lay helpless in the bed wondering where his ice bag was and why I had not come back to his side, refilled his juice and massaged his...oh never mind. But I won't look the gift horse in the mouth (whatever that means).

Above, the nurse delivers the patient the package (By the way, she would have preferred UPS too).

The patient is excited. Even before he opens the box, he can tell it is the "big daddy" he has always wanted.

Kelly must appreciate big ones, too. Careful there Little Lady, don't set your expectations too high; you are bound to be disappointed. Pat is reading the directions and already making plans for his next prescribed burn.

Thank you, Jeff, for thinking of Pat when you ran across this extra large lighter. You must have remembered this post and knew that Pat loves burning down woods. Thanks to you, he is now cured. He has left the bed, his shoulder is in perfect condition and he has figured out how to flick the bic!

Below is our backyard early this morning. Hello trees. I have always been grateful that we did not cut you down when we built. One day our children will climb you and create memories that will last forever. See? The kids are grateful for the trees too.

I'll call this shot BEFORE the big one.

And below...

AFTER the big one

On another note, I must tell all how helpful the miniature nurse has been to the lame husband. She is there for his every beck and call. She yearns to please him. She insists on delivering his food, fetching his napkins, refilling his cold compress. I'll tell ya where I'd like to stick that cold compress. She also wants to wear her nurse apron while doing her duties. She is a regular Clara Barton, that one! One day she will make some man very happy, and I'm afraid it won't be her daddy.

I have had two sisters make suggestions regarding this little nurse's apron and myself and I have one comment for you: Are you nuts? I need him to get better and I will not encourage this type of sickly behavior.

Fifty. That's Five - Oh! Fifty Years Old.

I'm 50. Fifty years old. I like to kiiiiiick and stttttretch and kick! Ladies and gentleman, my name is Sally O'Malley and my caboose may be a little loose, but I can kiiiiiick and sttttttretch and kick. 'Cause I'm 50! Fifty years old!

I put on my red pants 'cause I like to daaaaaance and kiiiiiiiick and sttttttttretch and kick. 'Cause I'm 50. Fifty years old. That's five-oh. Book 'em Dan-o!

This photograph was not staged. It is only coincidence that Kelly resembles Molly Shannon's SNL character Sally O'Malley. Gosh, I miss that skit 'cause I like to shimmy and kick and stretch and kick!

And I know someone who is turning 50 tomorrow...Gus! Happy 50th Birthday, Gus! Do you like to kick and stttttretch and kick? I think of you more as a shimmier than a kicker. You're 50! Fifty years old! That's five -oh! Book 'em Dan-o!