Douglass Diaries

Reintegration revisited.

2012-01-27T12:00:00.003-06:00

So, Will has been home for five days, and is on day four of reintegration training.

Remember when I talked about sitting through hours of briefings and Power Point slides and warnings that he might try to kill us or buy a motorcycle?

Well, when the soldiers get home, they immediately begin seven consecutive partial work days where they go in to hear all the same stuff. While one purpose is to get the information out there and have a chance to get some necessary paperwork and medical screenings done, its bigger purpose to ease the transition home. Going to work for a few hours a day for a week is far less jarring than being gone for a year to suddenly being home 24/7.

And as I've discovered this week, I need it just as much as he does. Maybe more. I might be the one who attempts to murder him.

I've been doing my own thing on my own schedule for the past year. If I wanted to see what my friends are up to on Facebook, I did. If I wanted to blog, I did. If I decided to shampoo the carpet some random morning, I could. But now he's home. Just hanging out. ALL THE TIME. Most of me wants to spend every second with him and soak up his being home-ness. But part of me wants to read blogs and Facebook for awhile without feeling guilty for neglecting him.

These hours he's at work give me time to myself. And I need it.

Also, now that the first heady days of reunion are over, the same things about him that annoyed me before he left are still annoying. (And I'm sure the same is true for him.) And living in a crap hole (literally!) for a year can lead to some bad habits. After his first dinner home, he swiped a big pile of crumbs from the table to the floor. Deliberately. Like our dining room was suddenly Medieval Times.

There may have been some yelling about common courtesy and what are you thinking, you barbarian??? I'll never tell.

He came home about 20 minutes ago. In that time he's interrupted me to show me a box (just a box...just because it was folded oddly), a cord, a stuffed dragon (really?), to tell me stories about riding the bus this morning at work, and to ask if we were out of chips.

I may have told him to PLEASE FOR THE LOVE ALL THINGS HOLY GIVE ME 15 MINUTES OF PEACE SO I CAN WRITE.

Ahem.

So the moral of the story?

They say the week of reintegration is for the soldier. I am discovering that it's more for me.

Homecoming

2012-01-25T16:09:00.007-06:00

Now that I don't have to edit for the terrorists, I can tell you that Will got home on Sunday night.

You've all seen heart warming videos and pictures of homecomings, I'm sure. I've ~~sobbed over~~ seen them many times myself. And a lot of it was heartwarming and wonderful and tear inducing. But let me tell you, it is not all hugs and cheers. Really, by the time we were able to get in our van and drive home, I felt like it would have been better if they had just sent everyone home in cab and forgone the ceremony all together.

The first time he deployed, he was by himself--not deploying with a whole brigade like this time. When he got home, we drove to the airport and picked him up at the curb. I would take that any day over the ordeal Sunday night.

Before I get into all the sordid details of that night, let me give you the heart warming part. (The still shots are stolen from the brigade's Facebook page. Every electronic device I brought was mysteriously sapped of all power and died hours before the plane landed. The video was taken by Ben. My apologies.)

(The things in their hands are yellow roses.)

Now, the parts that sucked.

His flight was scheduled to land at 5:30 PM. We were told we had to be there by 3:30 for various reasons. So, we packed a couple of back packs with dinner and books and crayons and other stuff to keep three kids entertained for a couple of hours and off we went.

We arrived at the hangar and they had the heaters blowing full blast. That would have been great if it hadn't been 70 degrees outside with 90% humidity.

But, Will was coming home! It was totally worth sweating in a crowded room with several hundred other sweaty people for a couple of hours.

Fast forward two long hours. The kids are done. I'm done. Everyone in the whole hangar is done. And sweaty.

But, Will was coming home! It was totally worth being crammed onto uncomfortable bleachers for hours with cranky, tired kids and adults with zero common courtesy and other people's children who needed a roundhouse kick to the head.

And lo! We heard a plane land! We were a bit confused because they were supposed to send us out so we could see it land. But whatever. The plane had landed!

Except it didn't. Someone got on the microphone to tell us it was a different plane. And oh, by the way, the plane we were waiting for was delayed an hour in Indianapolis.

Finally they announced that they could see the plane approaching and we were all sent outside to watch it land and see the soldiers file off. And as we all stood there watching, the skies opened up and drenched us all in a torrential downpour.

We filed back in, wet and cold, but happy that it was all finally over.

The soldiers marched in, a General said a few words, and then they were released to be with their families for a few minutes.

I have no picture or video of this because Ben was in charge of filming. What I have is a five minute video of the floor.

After 15 minutes or so, they sent the soldiers off to turn in weapons and other assorted things and bused the families back to where our cars were and where the soldiers would be sent to pick up their baggage.

We knew it would take some time, but we did not expect it to take an hour and a half. Except that it did.

And after all that waiting, the soldiers finally arrived at the second location, only to discover that more than 100 bags were missing. Including Will's.

So, we waited another 45 minutes for him to fill out the necessary paperwork to get his bags back. Someday. If they ever found them.

Six hours after our arrival, we finally headed home. We were all exhausted. The kids were sent to bed. We went to bed.

And we all had a lovely, peaceful night's rest.

Except we didn't.

We were woken in the middle of the night by tornado sirens. So, the five of us crammed into our tiny half bath to wait out the storm. Will compared it to being in a bunker during rocket attacks.

To quote Ben, "Why are we cursed?"

So there you have it. Our heart warming, exhausting, frustrating, sweaty, tornado filled homecoming tale.

One is the lonliest number.

2012-01-21T09:16:00.003-06:00

Except when it's the awesomest number.

Today

114-ish days ago

Help Wanted

2012-01-20T14:46:00.001-06:00

So, I was going to write about how I think there's a serial killer dressed as Santa hiding in my house, but I have a blinding migraine (maybe the killer is poisoning me!), so that will have to wait until tomorrow.

If he doesn't dismember me by then, that is.

But I did want to get this plea for your guest posts out there today.

My husband should finally be home sometime this weekend. Next week he has to go into work every single day (including the weekend), so I'll still be writing to keep myself occupied. But the following week he begins two weeks of leave. I don't plan to be on here very much during those two weeks. So, my dear internets, I need you. I need your guest posts.

They can be about anything you like. And you there--yeah, you! The one thinking you can't write very well--yes you CAN. You can write just fine.

And hey, the last time I had someone guest post, it was featured on BlogHer.

So, send them in! (brandidouglass@gmail.com)

Now I'm going to go lie in a dark room before my eyeballs explode.

Guys, this is actually kind of important.

2012-01-18T08:00:00.007-06:00

Arrrr, mateys. Piracy is bad, but censorship is worse.

So, you may have heard about SOPA/PIPA. No, it's not a Mexican dish. Trust me, I was just as disappointed as you are to find that out.

SOPA and PIPA are proposed bills that are meant to help fight online piracy. That sounds good, right? It is. Except, this is the US government we're talking about. Our government is the master of taking something good and fracking it all up.

If either is passed, the US government will have the power to--without trial or legal recourse--block any website it feels infringes in any way on a copyright. And we're not just talking about one individual site--we're talking the host as well.

For example, the title of my last post was "Crow: The other white meat." Anyone who has seen TV in the past 20 years knows that that was a play on the slogan for pork ("Pork: The other white meat"). If the people on the Pork Council [I dare you to say Pork Council out loud without giggling] decided that my title was somehow harmful to them or taking away their income, they could file a complaint.

The government would then have the power to not only block this blog, but ALL OF BLOGSPOT. All because my title is sorta kinda like the pork slogan.

And legally there is little that could be done if that happened.

Here's a video by some of your favorite internet people about what the bills mean and how they could--and WILL-- affect you.

And HERE'S a post from my internet boyfriend, Wil Wheaton, about it. I like his take on it because he is one of the people this bill is meant to protect.

Oh, and check out The Oatmeal, too. Just for the giggles.

This isn't some internet panic over something not likely to happen. These are real bills with millions of dollars in backing from the movie and music industries. They will be voted on in six days.

The internet is where I live. It's where my friends live. I will pretty much cease to exist if blogs and Facebook go away.

Contact your congressmen. Tell them to vote NO on SOPA/PIPA.

Do it for the internet. Do it for me. Do it for the kittens.

Crow: The other white meat.

2012-01-16T14:54:00.005-06:00

"Poorly behaved children are that way because they have lazy parents."

"The worst that could happen is that he gets sent to Bosnia for six months."

"I will never be one of those people who gains weight back after gastric bypass."

"I can't possibly get pregnant--I'm infertile."

"If I ever had to pay $3.50 a gallon for gas, I'd take public transportation."

"No one will ever read it anyway."

"Thirty-five seems so...old."

"Of course it's true!"

"Why do we need anything faster than dial-up?"

"They can't keep him there for more than a year."

So, internets, what are some the most naively stupid things
you've ever said?

Starving children don't have to worry about fat pants.

2012-01-13T09:24:00.002-06:00

Let me preface this post by saying I know that I have a relatively easy life. I have a house with ample space, plenty of food, two working vehicles, (mostly) healthy kids, my husband's job is secure, I have the option to stay home rather than work. I went to college. No one is beating me. I don't have to put my mad pole dancing skills to use to put food on the table. I have access to good health care. I have friends and family who love me. I'm lucky. I know it.

I know that there are people living in horrific situations. I know there are starving children. I know there are people dying of illnesses. Any hardship I might be enduring is nothing in comparison. I acknowledge that.

And now that that's out of the way, screw the starving children! I don't care about them or the horrible situations others are in right now. I am unabashedly, shamelessly, selfishly feeling sorry for myself.

A few months ago I had a minor Lupus flare up. I kept it on the down-low because the people who would worry the most about it had other things to worry about. Like not getting blown up. It's mostly gone now, but it's left me tired. The steroids I had to take have packed on yet another 15 pounds, thinned my hair considerably, and have given me a lovely fat-filled hump on my back. At least Quasimodo got to live in Paris. My hump and I are stuck in Hicksville, Tennessee. The accompanying arthritis is still lingering. The stretches of days when I don't write? It's not because I have nothing to say. It's because my knuckles are so stiff and swollen it hurts to type.

My quiet, lovely neighborhood is rapidly becoming "the hood." Remember on Halloween when my neighbor yelled, "Hide the weed! The popo's here!" when Liam went to their door dressed as a cop? Well, last night the popo dragged that same neighbor off in handcuffs. And last Saturday there was a meth lab explosion a few streets away. Ben took it upon himself to explain what a meth lab is to Liam and Amelia, and now Liam thinks selling drugs is a dangerous yet viable career choice if he's not accepted into the Justice League.

And this morning I awoke to yet another e-mail letting me know that Will's flight out of Afghanistan has been delayed another two days in addition to the five they'd already tacked on. I know it's only a week extra. I know. But my brain, my body, and my will to keep functioning have all gone on strike.

This is basically how it went down this morning:

Me: "O.K., brain, body, will to keep functioning--I know promises were made. I know you thought a break was coming. Things happened. We've got ten more days to get through. Maybe more."

B, B, WtKF: "Look, bitch. We had an agreement. We were told a year. The year is up. We're going to be over here on the couch watching Project Runway and eating chimichangas. You're on your own."

So, that's where I'm at right now.

If you tell me to look on the bright side, I will punch you square in the taco.

I'll have something to say about this. I just don't know what yet.

2012-01-12T19:30:00.008-06:00

Ben is on the "Black History Quiz Bowl" team.
Everyone on the team is white.
Discuss.

From bad to twisted.

2012-01-09T18:37:00.004-06:00

So, I had high hopes for today. It was supposed to be the one-week mark until Will comes home.

Except that it wasn't.

I woke to an e-mail telling me that his replacement was delayed, therefore he would also be delayed. For five additional days.

I know those of you who have never been through a deployment are probably thinking, "It stinks, but really, Brandi, it's only five days. It's not like they added five months." And you would be half right. It is only five days. It could be so much worse. Back when the war in Iraq was in its early days, a friend of ours was deployed there for a year. He came home, and two days later they told him he immediately had to go back for three more months. So, I'm grateful that it's only five days.

BUT. When you're down to six or seven days and they suddenly double it on you, it feels like they added a year. Adding links to a countdown chain sucks. And while the replacements are hanging out on a beach on the Mediterranean while they wait for a working plane, Will gets to spend more time in a leaky, cold tent on the shore of a raw sewage lake, taking cold showers and using a porta potty because he's already been kicked out of his room.

So, needless to say, the day started out craptastically.

But then I ended up getting stuck in traffic for thirty miles behind a car that had a bumper sticker that said, "I will butt**** your soul." Except there were no asterisks, and it rhymes with truck. I was equal parts curious and scared.

When I got home I did a search to see if it came from a movie or something. Surely there had to be some reason someone had it on the back window of their PT Cruiser.

And that's how I discovered Action Figure Therapy.

You guys. Watch these.

There's A LOT (really, a lot) of language, so if you're the easily offended type, you should probably go read your scriptures instead. But for the rest of you, set aside an hour and watch them all. It took my day from depressed to hysterical laughter in four minutes flat.

The first one is the one that spawned the bumper sticker, and the second made me laugh so hard I may or may not have peed a little. There are tons of them, though, and they're all funny.

On a scale of one to ten, what's the blasphemy level for thinking God placed that profane bumper sticker in front of me for thirty miles just to brighten my day?

Human trafficking, American Girl Doll style.

2012-01-07T08:53:00.008-06:00

So, I related a story about my daughter's escaped-slave American Girl doll on Facebook. The whole idea of a slave doll concerned one of my friends. So, I posted the link to the doll's story, thinking that the inspirational tale of her brave escape to reunite her family would soothe any concerns she might have.

I was wrong.

What she found only disturbed her further.

(Click to embiggen)

I can now add slave owner to my long list of accomplishments.

There are no walk-throughs in real life.

2012-01-05T15:36:00.001-06:00

So, Ben bought a new video game with his Christmas money. During the school week I don't allow the kids to play video games, but over vacation I let them play as much as they wanted during their designated TV time. Ben spent every second of it playing his new game.

I noticed that every half an hour or so he'd pause the game and get on the internet. I realized he was looking up how to beat the levels.

I'm not sure why, but it really annoyed me. So ~~I forced him to sit through a long winded lecture~~ we had a talk.

One of the reasons I'm not vehemently opposed to video games like some people is because they teach you to problem solve. This particular game he was playing required a lot of problem solving and using what you'd been taught as the game progressed.

But he was skipping all the thinking and problem solving.

There are no walk-throughs in real life! At some point in time you're going to be stuck without access to Google or your GPS or your parents or teachers and you're going to have to figure out what to do based on your knowledge and experience alone.

Just like a video game gives you training and tools to complete a challenge, real life gives you parents and school and life experience--they are your training and the things you learn are your tools. But unlike the video game, when you get stuck in real life you can't just push the pause button to look up how to complete the level. You have to keep trying and trying until you figure it out.

There are going to be days where it's nothing but turtle shells coming at you. But you keep going. You could spend years of your life thinking you're about to win only to be repeatedly told that the princess is in another castle.

But you can't just quit the game. And you can't spend your life taking the easy way out and expect to learn how to beat the Big Boss.

So I banned walk-throughs and cheat codes. Ben thinks I'm the most unreasonable parent on earth, but I think it's one more step toward making him a self sufficient, functioning member of society. King Koopa has great balls of fire*, and I want my kids to have the knowledge and experience necessary to figure out how to defeat him on their own.

*The kids were watching some Mario Bros. show on Netflix, and Luigi said, "We'll never defeat King Koopa! He has great balls of fire!" Liam, perplexed, asked, "How do they know he has great balls of fire? He's wearing pants!"

The Five Love Languages of Brandi

2012-01-02T14:18:00.000-06:00

With the exception of my husband and kids, I'm not very good at expressing (or receiving) affection. It's not that I don't feel it--I do. I just don't know what to do with it. I'm not a hugger. Compliments, even when I really mean them, feel awkward. And coming right out and saying how I feel about someone just makes me feel ooky and uncomfortable and paralyzes me with anxiety.

If you're not an immediate family member and I've ever hugged you, sincerely complimented you, or said anything remotely close to "I like you and I think you're great," then you can be pretty certain I'd give you a kidney if you needed one. I like my kidneys, so that's a big deal.

But besides those very rare occurrences of blatant affection, there are other ways that I show I like you. You just might not realize it.

1. Texting: I text you without a specific purpose. Setting up a play date via text doesn't mean I like you. Texting you that I'm contemplating homicide and need you to either talk me out of it or be my accomplice does. (Extra affection points if we've ever come close to sexting.)

2. Facebook: If I like your statuses or comment on them, it means I like you enough that I haven't hidden your posts. If I've gone the extra mile and posted something on your wall (Happy Birthday not withstanding), I obviously think you're extra special. If we belong to more than one mutual secret or closed Facebook group, odds are pretty good I'd consider taking a bullet for you. Maybe.

3. Blogging: I read your blog/comment on your blog/have your blog in my blogroll/have blogged about you. Any of them qualify. The more categories you fall into, the more I like you.

4. Insults: If I have ever insulted you to your face, obviously I love you. If I don't like you, I do it behind your back. On that same note, if I have ever bitched about someone to you, you can be certain I haven't bitched about you to someone else. I do have some standards.

5. Secrets: In many ways I'm an open book. (Hi! I started my period yesterday! The cramps are intense and the clots are golf ball sized!), but in many other ways I'm fiercely private. If you know things about me that I haven't shared with the general public, that's pretty much the equivalent of me giving you a full bodied hug accompanied by an open mouthed kiss. The more you know, the more tongue down your throat.

So there you have it. The jig is up. I'm not the feelingless, heartless robot you thought I was. And if you ever question if I really like you, now you know all you have to do is look at Facebook. Each of those thumbs-up is like a tiny hug from me to you.

Resolve is a carpet cleaner, not a verb.

2011-12-31T14:34:00.003-06:00

So, I wrote this post three weeks ago and scheduled it to post today. But I accidentally scheduled it to post at 10 PM rather than 10 AM. And now everybody and their dog has posted their resolutions, so when I post this in a few minutes I'm just going to look like some copy-catting schmuck.

Just know this: I wrote mine first, bitches! You're the copy-catting schmucks! ALL OF YOU!

So anyway, if you're not tired of reading resolutions at this point, here are mine.

1. Learn the difference between AM and PM, apparently.

2. Be more judge-y. I mean, I've done a pretty good job of being judgmental this year, but I could do better.

3. Spend more than 15 days of the calendar year on the same continent as my husband. Preferably same state, but I'd settle for same country. (Side note: for the next 9 and a half hours, my husband and I are living in different years.)

4. More naps. And bacon.

5. Put all my faith in the Mayans. Tick tock, people.

6. Fewer tornado warnings. Obviously I can't stop the tornadoes from coming, but I can sleep with ear plugs in and pretend they don't exist.

7. Not get pregnant.

8. Gain at least 5 pounds.

9. Spend more time on Facebook.

10. Find new ways to interact with people without actually having to experience human contact.

~~What are your resolutions, internets?~~ Nevermind. I've already read them.

It was more aqua than blue.

2011-12-28T12:38:00.005-06:00

This has nothing to do with the post, but pictures like this remind me why I keep the kids around. I have no idea how she can sleep like that, but I find it adorable.

So, in between napping and reading and napping and eating cinnamon M&M's (Holy crap, people. Have you tried these?) and taking down Christmas decorations (Does your house look completely bare--like you're in the middle of moving--for about a week after you take down your tree? Or is it just mine?) and napping and making Nutella crepes (FYI: The cost of peanut butter has skyrocketed so much in the past couple of months that it's now cheaper per ounce to buy Nutella than Jif. Who am I to waste money?) and napping, I kept getting a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something.

And this morning as I was about to take an after breakfast nap, it came to me. "Uh, hey. You have a blog. You should probably write something before someone starts an internet rumor that you're dead, and then you'll have to go on Facebook and Twitter and post proof-of-life pictures." You know how I hate pictures of myself, so here I am.

Christmas was as good as it could be with Will in Afghanistan and no friends or family close by to hang out with. We've been without Will on Christmas before, but this is the first where we were completely alone, just the kids and myself. To be honest, it really didn't feel like Christmas. It felt like a regular Sunday, except that the kids got a bunch of crap.

We ate Chinese food for four days. Lunch and dinner.

We watched a lot of Redbox movies.

I did a lot of napping.

We're entering into week two of school vacation, and I'm about to lose my mind. I try to keep them entertained, I really do. It's not working. So, I nap. With headphones. I figure they'll either work it out and entertain themselves, or their incessant bickering will escalate to the point that they'll stop speaking to each other (or kill each other). Either way--eventual peace and quiet for me.

But!!! There is a bright side to all this. We're now in the home stretch of this deployment. We're down to less than three weeks. I can't be more specific because there are probably terrorists who read this blog. They've heard my kids have some excellent tactics. Also, I don't know a specific date. I know the date he'll leave Afghanistan, but then they have to spend a few days in Kyrgyzstan getting all their "don't kill your family" briefings while waiting on open flights. Could be three days. Could be a week. For those who have seen my countdown on Facebook, it's more of an estimation.

The past couple of months have been all, "I need to do X, Y and Z before Christmas." But now we've moved into, "I need to do X, Y and Z before Will gets home." I try to save some projects like cleaning out my closet, organizing the junk drawers, and straightening out the garage--stuff that I usually only do once a year--for the last couple of weeks to make the time pass a little faster. Except the last couple of weeks of a deployment are a lot like the last couple weeks of a pregnancy. They become the longest weeks of your life and you suddenly become speedy and efficient and finish all the projects in three hours, leaving yourself nothing to do but wait.

So anyway, internets, how was your holiday? Let me live vicariously through you. Did you do something fun? Go on vacation? Did one of your friends decide to lose her virginity at 38 years old on Christmas Eve and then post a play by play of the preparations on Facebook? (I so wish I was making that up.) C'mon, spill it. I want to hear.

Again, nothing to do with the post, but Amelia got this doll for Christmas. I'm not usually creeped out by dolls, but I'm pretty sure this one is going to kill me in my sleep.

A Very Douglass Christmas III

2011-12-25T13:07:00.004-06:00

It's that time again, internets.
I present for your Christmas viewing pleasure the Douglasses through the years! Behold the awesomeness that is my bad hair and fluctuating weight! Also, I want you to keep in mind that these are the best shots we got every year. That means there are worse versions of each of these pictures. Hard to believe, but it's true.

1997, married 6 months

1998, we added a cat

1999, we added a kid

Our 2000 picture is lost somewhere in cyberspace. So, here's Will in 1982 instead.

2001, Germany

2002, Germany

2003, Germany (are you detecting a pattern here?)
By the way, I was knocked up in this picture but didn't know it yet. So it's technically Liam's first Christmas picture.

2004--Will was in Germany. Ben, Liam and I were at my parents'. Liam was only 3 months old and recovering from open heart surgery. So, this was the best I could manage.

2005, we'd added TWO kids
Geez Louise, I look like the poster child for postpartum depression.

Bonus: me in 1977.

2006, Maryland

2007, Will was deployed and we spent Christmas with my family. I guess I didn't take one in front of the tree that year either.

2008, Georgia

2009, Georgia

2010, Tennessee
I'm pretty sure the phrase, "Smile or get beat"
was uttered at some point during this photo shoot.

2011, Tennessee
We inherited two cats. We love them. And Will is usually the one who organizes the yearly family Christmas picture. Since he's deployed and I'm too lazy, so this is what you get this year.

Merry Christmas!!

Cheaper than stamps.

2011-12-23T11:45:00.006-06:00

(No cats were harmed in the making of this picture.
However there may be poop in my shoes tomorrow.)

Dear Friends, Family, and Internet Stalkers,

It's been another exciting year here in the Douglass household. We have managed to survive yet another year of southern living mullet and pick-up truck free. And when I say survive, I really do mean survive. This year we got to experience our first Spring in tornado alley. There's nothing quite like long, stormy nights spent crouched on the floor next to the litter box in your 15 square foot half bath with three other people while tornado sirens blare outside to really give you an appreciation for Tennessee's quaint southern charm.

Amelia still loves Barbies, drawing and telling people what to do. She's also developed an affinity for dressing the cats in human clothes and telling them what to do. Her biggest achievement this year has been figuring out that it's much easier to let other people do things for you than it is to actually do them yourself. She has also learned that big blue eyes, flattery, and feigned helplessness will convince people to do just about anything, while thanking her for the privilege to do it.

Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine and our continued choice to parent him through pharmaceuticals, Liam has remained suspension-free and on the straight A honor roll so far this year. Not one to sit by and be the forgotten middle child, he has replaced his behavioral issues with reckless, daredevil stunts. Whether it's donning his Superman cape to leap from the top of the two story play set, or standing on his bicycle seat while flying down the hill, he's determined to make his mark in the world, and occasionally the ER. He's decided that he'd like to be a director like Spielberg when he grows up, or possibly a mother, because mothers "get to play on the computer all day."

Ben has spent the year tirelessly working to prove that parents know nothing, twelve year olds are above rules, and an insanely high IQ means little without common sense to back it up. He's also been conducting experiments in how the rate of one's pre-teen mouthiness is inversely proportional to the amount of TV and computer privileges one gets. I'm pretty sure he's close to concrete evidence on that one. He's moved away from the idea of becoming an actor and now wants to pursue a military career. He's begun to look seriously at military boarding schools, and we are more than supportive of this endeavor. I'm sure he'll find military school to be just the break he needs from our strict rules and unreasonable demands at home.

A few weeks after Christmas last year, Will deployed to Afghanistan. There he has been able to spend a year taking in the views (and more importantly, the aroma) of the lake of raw sewage, shower with other men, breathe thick, unrelenting dust, and regularly sit in a bunker while insurgent rockets rain down. But it hasn't all been bad. Sometimes he gets to ride in a helicopter over combat zones to work at the base with the slightly better food! In a few short weeks he'll finally get to come home, where, according to Army social services, he might try to kill us! Assuming we all come out alive, we're hoping for a much more low key year in 2012.

The biggest news for me is that I'm fat again! Not as fat as I once was, but fat enough to make my enemies and detractors extremely happy. The bright side is that I've been able to really explore my creative side while finding new and stylish ways to wear stretchy pants. Also, it's eliminated those pesky come-ons at the gym. So really, it's like a blessing. I've also been lucky enough to garner a small income from writing this year. It's not enough to actually pay for anything, but just enough to obligate me to write.

I hope your year has been equally spectacular!

And remember, "Happy Holidays" is what the terrorists say.
So, Merry Christmas from The Douglasses

(In case you missed it, you can read last year's Christmas letter HERE.)

You lost me at "no bacon."

2011-12-21T11:14:00.003-06:00

Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel! I made it out of clay!
And when it's dry and ready, with dreidel I shall play!

So, I'm not Jewish.

(I'll give you a moment to get over your shock.)

But I did spend a significant number of my formative years living in a place with a very large Jewish population. Large enough that we had the major Jewish holidays off of school, and during Passover, school lunches were kosher-for-Passover (it's how I gained a love of matzoh with strawberry cream cheese!). I have attended a fair share of Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs and Seders, and quickly learned why my elementary school friends would stomp on a Dixie cup when they pretended to get married.

I also discovered the best holiday ever: Purim. Purim celebrates the delivery of the Jews from their enemies in the Esther story. To celebrate Purim, Jews go to synagogue to hear the reading of the story. In costume! And whenever the name Haman (who is the villain of the story) is mentioned, everyone screams.

It's like on Pee Wee's Playhouse when the secret word was mentioned.

Christians, why do we not have a holiday like this? The story is in the Old Testament. There's no reason we shouldn't also be putting on costumes and screaming in church once a year. (Mormons, I think we should scream every time Laman and Lemuel are mentioned. EVERY SUNDAY. Who's with me?)

Really, Jews get all the good holidays. I guess the trade off is that we get bacon.

Anyway, my kids haven't had the same kind of exposure to other religious and cultural celebrations like I had. So, when I saw that our Target had an entire aisle dedicated to Hanukkah, I seized the opportunity.

Hanukkah, for those who don't know, is a Jewish holiday that started last night at sundown. It celebrates the miracle of oil lasting for 8 days when there was only enough for one. Obviously there's more to it than that--the story involves the Greeks taking over, demanding the Jews worship Zeus and eat pork, and defiling their sacred temples. But the short version is that the oil lasted. Kind of like how I haven't remembered to check the oil in the van since Will left a year ago and it's still running fine.

It's a miracle!

Anyway, one of the traditions of Hanukkah is playing the dreidel game. So, I bought a dreidel, gelt (chocolate gold coins) and a gelt pouch.

After dinner (BLT's, which was unintentional, but still funny) I taught the kids the long version of what Hanukkah is, and how to play the game.

It started out fun, but went downhill quickly. Within half an hour, Ben had been banished for cheating, and Liam and Amelia ate all the gelt.

But I tried.

I'm hoping tomorrow's Saturnalia fest goes a little better.

(And here's the best version of the dreidel song ever. Just be warned that it's from South Park and odds are, you might be offended.)

Love Letters from a Sister Wife

2011-12-19T14:41:00.012-06:00

(So, OF COURSE when I write a post that's mainly pictures, Blogspot goes crazy and turns half of them sideways. And yes, it really is Blogspot, not me. Sorry. Just tilt your head. Also, I may or may not be under the influence of prescription narcotics, so I can't make any promises as to the coherency of the following post.)

I have good friends, internets. I really do. They listen to me whine. They tell me to knock the whining off when it gets out of hand. They sext me when I'm lonely. They'll judge people with me while simultaneously helping me maintain the delusion that I never judge people. And sometimes they send me random packages of things that make me furiously happy. Hand knitted scarves in my favorite color. A whole collection of dashboard Hula girls (and boys). Bacon band aids. And this week, I got this:

A card (addressed to "a muff-tastic friend"), Nutella, a cheesy Christmas ~~porn~~ romance novel, a Twilight calendar, and a sharpie for defacing said calendar.

Let's start with that card.

(Name removed to protect the bi-curious.)

And because she went through the trouble of sending it, the least I could do was follow through with her instructions.

(The Edwardian boobies were a special request.)

A little classic vandalism.

Sometimes vandalism is unnecessary. I haven't decided if the intent of this picture is to make me hot for this guy, or afraid of his vampire ways. Either way, the only response it gives me is laughter.

I seeeeeeeee youuuuuuuuuuu.

I always thought this guy (Carl? Carrington? The doctor.) looked like a girl. I decided to make it official.

And internets? You need to go find that ~~porn~~ romance novel and read it immediately. Here are a couple of selections from it, in case you don't believe that it's worth your time:

"I smelled like horse. Some women like it, but I wasn't sure if Lacey was that kind of woman."

And,

"That kiss set my panties on fire, which is a dangerous thing because nylon is highly flammable."

LITERARY GOLD.

Thursday Morning Confessions

2011-12-15T09:05:00.001-06:00

When I was searching for images for this post, this came up.
I think I need to read it and then punch that woman square in the taco.

1. While I hate menu planning and grocery shopping, I love how my pantry and refrigerator are full when I do. I look at the shelves and know that if the zombie apocalypse happened right now, I could feed my family for at least a month. Assuming we don't become zombies.

2. I feel zero Christmas spirit. It doesn't feel AT ALL like Christmas to me. I'm dumbfounded that it's less than two weeks away.

3. Speaking of zero Christmas spirit, I haven't even enjoyed Christmas music this year. Usually I tune into a station that plays it 24/7 from Thanksgiving until the New Year, but this year, more often than not I find myself flipping stations to find regular music.

4. The exception being depressing Christmas music. Which there is a surprising quantity of. Yes, it is a blue, blue, blue Christmas. So baby please come home, because I'll be home for Christmas (if only in my dreams).

5. I finally put up new calendars. The ones I last put up were for October and November 2010.

6. Watching Terra Nova is usually the highlight of my week. Don't you judge me.

7. Three of my neighbors have put up bright blue and red Christmas lights, so every time I walk past my window I think there's a police standoff going on across the street.

8. I have recently become addicted to cheesy romance novels. Except, I don't get any romantic feeling from them. Pretty much every time I finish one I want to punch the main female character right in the taco for being an idiot.

9. I don't know if it's because of the holidays or what, but there has been a sad lack of stupidity on Facebook lately. I'm considering unblocking some people just for entertainment purposes.

10. I don't want to wrap presents by myself this year. It's usually something Will and I procrastinate together. Maybe I just won't wrap anything and pass it off as "thinking of the environment."

Somebody's getting their dishes done tonight.

2011-12-12T09:29:00.003-06:00

The gods at random.org have spoken. The winner of the tile or pillow (winner's choice) is:

Bennett!!!!

Contact me to let me know which you'd prefer.

And then let us all know if it works, O.K.?

O Come Let Us Adore Him

2011-12-09T18:27:00.005-06:00

And the Sith said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day on the barren planetoid of Polis Massa a Jedi, which is Luke Skywalker.

(Click to embiggen)

This is what happens when I leave my children unattended while I take an after dinner nap. I don't even know where they put the actual nativity I had sitting there.

Sex and the (temporarily) single girl

2011-12-08T14:54:00.005-06:00

You're doing it wrong.

So, we're talking about sex again.

Every time I do, I seem to get in trouble with someone. But is that going to stop me? Heck no.

I have a friend who asked me to pose a somewhat delicate question to all of you. And yes, I know when I say "friend" it sounds like I'm asking for myself and trying to hide it. But really, this is for a friend.

I swear!

Anyway, she's an Army wife, and her husband is also deployed. (No really, it's not me!) And she's missing The Sex. A lot. And taking care of the problem herself (if you know what I mean) isn't an option she cares to pursue.

Here's her e-mail:

How do you deal with deployment sexually? For those of us who have a good sex life it's unbearable. And all the benefits in the military do not make up for the six months without sex. I tell you, we will be getting out of the military as soon as possible. I'm not doing this again. I don't really understand how you and [another friend who shall remain nameless] could stay in the military so long and put up with no sex for six months at a time. It's crazy and unbearable. I only want my sex with husband, and I'm uncomfortable with masturbation, and I don't know how to deal with that. Any advice?

So, internets, what advice can you give her?

As an added incentive, everyone who posts advice--real advice--will be entered for a giveaway. Monday I'll randomly choose one commenter and the winner can have their choice of THIS:

Or THIS:(Click links for descriptions)

O.K., internets, go. Help a girl out. (It's not me!)

Reintegration

2011-12-05T14:45:00.004-06:00

So, today I had to spend three hours at an Army briefing about what to expect when your soldier returns from deployment.

If you've never had the pleasure of being part of an Army briefing, thank your lucky stars. They herd a bunch of people who don't want to be there (briefings are almost always mandatory, otherwise no one would show up) into a large auditorium or conference room, and then people from various departments talk to you about things that may or may not actually be important. Also, there will be Power Point. Somewhere along the line someone decided that you can't gather more than three people together in the name of the Army without having a pointless Power Point presentation. I think it's part of the oath when you enlist.

I used to have to give briefings to new company commanders when we lived in Germany. I often resorted to hurling hard candy at their heads to wake them up. There's nothing like a butterscotch to the eye to make power point slides suddenly seem really interesting.

Briefings involving the spouses are a little more entertaining. Soldiers' careers depend on maintaining a certain decorum in all situations. Spouses have no such requirement. Someone always gets their panties in a wad over something and makes a scene. Add in the stress of one's husband being gone for nearly a year to one of the more dangerous areas of Afghanistan and multiply it by 150 women and your briefing is suddenly a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

Today we had not one, but two wives who had be escorted from the room, and a third who screamed that it was discrimination against infertile couples to forbid her from bringing their dog to the hangar for the homecoming.

Good times.

Army wife drama aside, these are the things we learned that we can expect when our soldier returns home:

The routine you've created as a means for survival and maintaining sanity? He will completely destroy it.

He will want to eat All The Things for at least a week.

He won't be able to sleep for weeks. Could be jet lag, could be PTSD. If he tries to kill you, it's probably PTSD.*

He might try to kill you.

He will want to spend thousands of dollars on guns and cars. [I had to laugh at this one because Will's last few e-mails have been about buying guns and cars.]

Flying around war zones in helicopters while getting shot at is kind of a rush. He'll try to recreate it by doing things like going 100 miles an hour on a motorcycle without a helmet.

He'll want to buy a motorcycle.

Taliban insurgents are preferable to screaming, whining children any day of the week, so don't take it personally if he would rather go back to war than deal with your kids.

He will want to have The Sex all the time, but you will just want him to do the dishes.

Did we mention he might try to kill you? This Power Point slide has the number you can call if at any time he tries to kill you.

Not to worry. They also try to prepare the soldier before he comes home. Sometime in the next month he too will endure days of briefings where the main topics on the Power Point slides will be: "Don't kill your wife, your kids, or yourself," and "If you feel like you want to kill your wife, your kids, or yourself, call this number. Just know that seeking help might destroy your career, even though we say it won't," and "If you want The Sex, do The Dishes."

Golly, January just can't get here fast enough!

*I'm not trying to be flippant about PTSD. It's a very real and very serious thing, but that was almost an exact quote from the briefing.

**UPDATED! By popular demand, THIS and THIS are now available in my shop.

Pubic Service Announcement

2011-12-01T08:06:00.007-06:00

Ladies and gentleman, there is a fashion trend spreading across our great nation. Spreading like a disease. A venereal disease.

The knitted cowl.

My first encounter with one of these occurred about a year ago when a friend made this and posted it on her blog:

What does that look like to you?
Here, maybe this will make it a bit more clear.

Ladies (and gay men), there is no way to wear these without looking like you're dressed as genitalia for a costume party. It's got to stop. While you may only see warm and cozy neckwear, the rest of us are seeing your head sticking out of a yarn cootchie.

She's crowning! It's a girl!

There are creams for that.
(This came from yet another blogger I enjoy. She made it for her mom.
Bloggers don't let bloggers give their moms knitted labia.)

Elderly and well used.

Zombie hoo-ha.

Maybe right now you're thinking, "Well, I can just wear it differently. Or make one that's not so...gaping." You would be wrong. It's not just lady bits you run the risk of resembling. Oh no. You also run the risk of looking like this:

Obviously not Jewish.

Genital warts are the leading cause of cervical cancer.

Please, internets. Spread the word. Let's stop this before it goes any further. Think of the children.

(The title was actually a typo, but it was so fitting I left it.)

Gifts for the ones you love. Or hate. I can't decide.

2011-11-28T14:03:00.011-06:00

Did you opt to sleep in on Friday rather than fight the crowds (while getting pepper spayed) for deals, only to now find yourself scrambling for gift ideas?

I'm here to help.

Remember when I shared some...unique...gift ideas? Apparently those were just their normal, every day offerings. This weekend their Christmas catalog came and it was even more spectacular! I would be terribly remiss if I didn't pass along these gift ideas to you, my internet friends.

Let's start with this. Who doesn't want an adorable statue of a dog urinating? And the great part? The hydrant is sold separately! You could skip the hydrant all together and strategically place the puppy wherever you want! I mean, what could be cuter than putting this little guy next to the leg of your couch? Really, the only thing I could think of that would be better is if I could get a statue of a dog squatting and taking an enormous dump! Maybe next years' catalog...

And then we have these. I just...Well, I have no words, really. Wait, yes I do. There is a seriously messed up sculptor out there making a lot money off of freaks.

These made it on the list not only because they're odd (I really want to meet someone who would hang these in their home or garden) but because the description in the catalog made me laugh. "Choose your favorite sin OR buy four sins and get three sins free!"

Then we've got this. The table itself isn't so bad. Well, O.K., yes it is. But when I look at it, all I can think of is what the rear view must be.

Speaking of tables and asses, next up we have this little gem. I know that when I'm designing a room, the number one thing I look for in a piece of furniture is whether or not it looks like a serial killer lured a prostitute to his home, severed her body, and turned her lower half into a table for drinks.

And finally we have this. I've always wanted the child murdering tree from Poltergeist in my garden! If only they sold the clown who tried to eat the kid's face, I could have a complete set!

(All items can be bought HERE. Why you would want to, I don't know. But there you go.)

Obligatory Thankfulness Post

2011-11-23T18:35:00.005-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving Eve, internets! I hope your Thanksgiving is full of gluttony and sloth and whatever other deadly sins you choose to participate in.

To mark the occasion, I feel obligated to make a list of all the things I'm thankful for.

I am thankful for public school, where my kids get to be someone else's problem for seven hours a day.

I am thankful for celebrities who get fat because it makes me feel slightly less bad about my own body.

I am thankful for bacon.

I am thankful for Adam Levine.

Yummy.

I am thankful for cats who fall in the toilet regularly, because really, how can you have a bad day after you just watched a cat fall in the toilet and freak out?

I am thankful for Tim Gunn, without whom my Friday nights would have been far more sad and lonely than they already are.

I am thankful for Netflix, because it keeps my kids occupied during the hours they're not at school.

I am thankful for super secret groups on Facebook.

I am thankful for bacon. I know I've already said it, but that's just how thankful I am for its existence. And that I'm not a kosher Jew. Because if I had to choose between bacon and eternal salvation, I'd pretty much choose bacon every time.

I am thankful for texting and e-mail and facebook and chat and any other technological advance that allows me to not have to interact with people face to face.

I am thankful for hand sanitizer and bleach and antibacterial soap, because people are pretty disgusting.

And most of all I'm thankful for the internet. I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I wouldn't have any friends without it.

The Walking Dead

2011-11-21T12:59:00.003-06:00

Just a snapshot from our last family reunion.

As I said in my last post, my parents were here for a few days last week. While usually that's a good thing, this time their presence may have scarred Liam for life.

You see, Liam looks a lot like my biological father. He died while I was pregnant with Liam and we weren't very close, so my kids don't really know much about him. When someone talks about their grandfather, they only think of my step father or my husband's father. My biological father never even enters their mind.

One morning Liam was downstairs alone with my mother. Apparently she told him he looks just like his "dead grampy." Liam was a little confused by this. My mother explained further that he died of cancer before Liam was born.

She meant my biological father.

Liam assumed she meant my step father. They guy who was seemingly alive and well and walking around upstairs at that very moment.

Poor Liam grappled with this new information all day. I mean, learning your grandfather is a zombie is a lot for a seven year old to take on board.

He didn't ask about it directly because everyone else seemed to think it was perfectly normal to have a dead guy walking around the house, but in hindsight I can see that he was asking things to try to figure the situation out.

First, he asked if people could be resurrected before Jesus came back. I thought it was an odd question at the time, but I assured him that it was unlikely.

Then he seemed to take a very special interest in my step father's CPAP machine. I explained that it helped him breathe when he slept, because his body wanted to stop breathing. I may have even made a comparison to Darth Vader's respirator.

So, now Liam was not only dealing with the idea that his grandfather was a zombie who apparently was able to stay animated with the use of a special breathing machine at night, but that he might also have gone to the Dark Side.

Tuesday evening my family was out of the house and Liam nervously approached me. His unease at having a zombie grandfather was too much. He had to say something.

"Mom, how many people in our family are dead?"

"Oh, a lot. But most of them died before you were born."

"How about in our house? How many people in our house are dead?"

"None. What are you talking about?"

"Well, grammy said grampy is dead, but I don't understand how he can walk around. I think that breathing machine makes it so he can walk even though he's dead."

"What do you mean grammy said grampy is dead? Grampy is alive. I promise. Dead people can't walk around."

"She said I looked like him and he died of cancer before I was born."

And then I realized the confusion and explained who she was talking about.

He was extremely relieved, but he still eyed my step father suspiciously the next day.
You just can't trust a zombie. They're a sneaky bunch.

Who's gonna feed them hogs?

2011-11-18T15:52:00.006-06:00

My grandfather and his new BFF.

My grandfather has been a fan of Tom T. Hall my entire life. Some of you may know exactly who he is (Congratulations! You're old!). For the rest of you, he's a Grammy winning, country music hall of fame inductee singer/songwriter. Even if you aren't familiar with the songs he performed, chances are you at least know a song or two he's written (Harper Valley PTA, anyone?).

When my grandfather found out we were moving less than hour away from where Tom T. Hall lives, it became his mission to meet him.

Tom and his wife, award winning song writer Miss Dixie, live a pretty normal, down to earth life. So much so that they're listed in the white pages. Including their address.

So, the first time my grandfather came to visit us here, he insisted that we visit their house. We didn't just visit once. I believe over the course of the trip we hovered at the end of his driveway no less than 5 times. My grandfather had gone from avid fan to stalker.

A few weeks ago my grandfather found out that has very little time left. In addition to several chronic health issues he's already been dealing with, it was discovered that he has cancer that has metastasized to several parts of his body.

The one thing he wanted to do with the time he has left is to actually meet Tom T. Hall. Not just stare down his driveway.

My mother had somehow found Miss Dixie's personal e-mail address (again, they're very normal, un-celebrity like people) and wrote to her about my grandfather's situation and request.
She immediately invited them to their home for a visit, and also to attend a concert where Tom T. (as everyone seems to call him) would be playing.

So, this week was the week.

On Tuesday my grandfather and parents drove down and spent the afternoon hanging out with Tom T. Hall at his home recording studio. I wasn't there, but from what I understand Tom T. pretty much made my grandfather's life.

Wednesday night we all drove back to Nashville and attended the Music City Roots show which was going to be a tribute show to Tom T. Hall, with him performing a few songs at the end of the night. He'd said he was going to sing a song for my grandfather, but I don't think any of us expected him to give so much time on stage to talk about him. If my grandfather's life hadn't been made at the visit on Tuesday, it most certainly was that night.

(Tom T. talking about my grandfather)

After the concert he got to spend another few minutes with Tom. T and Miss Dixie. When other concert goers realized he was the Skeeter Plummer Tom T. had mentioned in the show, they wanted their picture taken with him too.

My grandfather the groupie.

It was a fun night, with good music (even for someone like me who isn't a big country fan).

Most of all, it reminded me that there are still celebrities out there for whom fame is secondary. Being a good, kind person who takes time for others when they are under no obligation (or when there will be no media coverage as they do it) comes first.

(If you're interested, you can watch the whole show HERE.)

Still mortifying after all these years.

2011-11-15T13:42:00.003-06:00

In honor of my family being in town for a few days, here's a repost of one of our more mortifying family memories.

(Originally posted July 20, 2009)

Once upon a time there was a sixteen year old named Brandi. She was happily living in the Connecticut suburb of Fairfield, hanging out with friends she'd had since she was eleven, growing up among children of The Very Wealthy and even a few future celebrities like John Mayer (jerk) and Justin Long (nice guy) .

Out of the blue, her evil parents decided that it would be a good idea to pack up and move from the cultured, well-bred suburb thirty minutes outside of New York City to the back of beyond in Evanston, Wyoming.

(Evanston. My personal hell.)

Brandi kicked and screamed and hated her evil parents, but she had no choice but to go.

Eventually she settled into life in Rube-ville, where the only claim to fame is that it's the training location for the Jamaican Bobsled Team. Where the only place to shop is Wal-Mart, and the only things to do for fun are setting off fireworks and getting knocked up. She even managed to make a few good friends.

During the summer after she graduated from high school, Brandi's evil parents moved the whole family into their tiny pop-up camper (long, sad tale about a contract on a house gone sour). Needless to say, quarters were tight and there was no privacy in the camper in Rube-ville. Brandi spent most of her time with her friends and at work anyway.

Since she and her friends were not into fireworks and getting knocked up, they found entertainment in piling into a four-wheel drive vehicle and driving recklessly through the back country. Sometimes they'd spot other vehicles out in the hills. Parked. These would be occupied by the kids who were into getting knocked up.

One form of amusement for Brandi and her friends, when a parked vehicle was spotted out in the dark, secluded hills, was to turn off all the lights and slowly drive up behind the parked vehicle. Usually, the occupants of the parked vehicle were too, umm...busy...to notice Brandi and her friends approaching. Once in position directly behind the parked vehicle, they would turn on the high beams (and fog lights, if available). Hilarity would ensue.

One cool summer night Brandi and her friends were out riding around in the sagebrush covered hills just outside of Rube-ville, when off in the distance they could see a parked car. They turned off the lights and made their approach. When the high beams were engaged, what to their wondering eyes should appear but a white Pontiac Grand Am with Connecticut license plates.

And to this day Brandi's friends will not let her forget about "that one time, when we caught your parents parking..."

The End.

Her future's so bright I've gotta wear shades.

2011-11-12T11:41:00.004-06:00

I've got a special guest post for you today, internets.

This was written by Patricia Minnick, who, in my head, is still a twelve year old kid coming from soccer practice to babysit my kids. The truth is, she's not much older. Just 16. So young she probably doesn't even know the song I referenced in the title.

I received this essay that she'd written and was blown away. She's not even old enough for a driver's license, but she writes far better than most adults I know. And with her (and her mother's) permission, I wanted to share it with you.

Some of you aren't going to like the content. That's O.K. We're all entitled to our own opinions. Some of you may not like how it's written. That's O.K., too. Writers will always have critics. However, I have turned on comment moderation because the bottom line is, she's only 16. While constructive criticism and opposing opinions are welcome and will likely be published, I will not publish any comment that attacks a child (or her parents).

I think she's brave for being willing to share her personal journey, even while knowing many who read it will disagree with her or even judge her harshly. And I want to give her the writing platform I wish someone had given me as a 16 year old.

Patricia--I hope you keep writing. I think you have a very bright literary future ahead of you, and I will publish your work anytime. (And when you get a book deal, put in a good word for me with your publisher, O.K.?)

*****

It’s every parent’s dream to have a perfect child with a perfect life, and they do everything in their power to make this dream reality. When I was born, my parents joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, better known as the Mormon Church. The Church seemed like an excellent choice for two young parents who wanted the best for their child; it was known for its strong values and morals. Growing up a member of the Church has changed who I could have been, who I am, and who I could be.

One of the things that I will always remember the most about the church is that no matter where I went, it was always the same. My family only moved a few times, but the first day at a new church was always the same: everyone greeted us with friendliness, and my family instantly fit in. It was amazing how at home they made you feel in a brand new place.

Since I’d been going to church my entire life, the values I’d learned at church were deeply rooted in me. I was just like any other child my age, but at the same time I was so different. I was taught to believe that the world was out to get me and that the only way to be safe was to stay true to the Church. My teachers at church taught me not to drink coffee or tea or any other caffeinated drink; alcohol, tobacco and any drug was out of the question; tattoos were unacceptable, and any piercing other than one hole in the ear was ungodly; wearing shorts or skirts that came before the knee was inappropriate, and if I even thought about wearing a sleeveless shirt I was disappointing God.

The teachers and leaders always taught that I should surround myself with people who upheld that same values and standards as I did, and that those were the ones who mattered most in my life and would bring out the best in me. In addition to this, they taught me about the people who didn’t believe in the same things as me, the nonmembers. They told me that just because the nonmembers were different than me didn’t man that they were bad people. They wanted me to accept the way others lived their lives, yet they didn’t teach me how to. The Church’s idea of acceptance was making my beliefs known to nonmembers, and encouraging them to live the way I lived. I was never taught to accept an individual; just to advertise for my church. I remember going to my grandma’s house when I was younger and preaching to her about the dangers of drinking coffee, and how God still loved her, but he was disappointed in her. God’s disappointment began to draw closer and closer to home.

Every Sunday, my family and I would wake up early, eat a big breakfast, get dressed in our nicest clothes and go to church for three hours. When I was eleven, I started to recognize a pattern in my mom’s church attendance. Every few Sundays she would be sick and stay home from church to get some rest. As more time went by, her strange sickness started showing up more frequently, and before I knew it, she was sick every Sunday. I realized that “sickness” was another ways to say “I don’t want to go to church anymore” when she got a job at the local gym and began working on Sundays. I was concerned, but I tried my best to encourage her to come to church, and sometimes it worked. I thought there was still hope for my mom.

One morning when I was around twelve, I remember getting in the car with my mom and smelling coffee, but I shrugged it off and figured I was imagining things. But the smell didn’t go away as we kept driving, and I looked in the cup holder and saw a brown ring around the bottom. I couldn’t just leave it alone and forget, so I coyly brought up that the car smelled like coffee. My mom told me it was the new air freshener she’d bought, and that was the end of the conversation. I desperately wanted to believe that, but I knew that it wasn’t true. A few days later, I had to go out to the car to get something, and I discovered a stash of empty coffee cups under the car seat. I was so appalled by this that I didn’t even realize that my mom had lied to me about the coffee smell. I probably cried for three hours, and of course, I gave her the passive-aggressive treatment, but I never found the courage to confront her about it. Then, when I least expected, she confronted me. She apologized for lying to me, and told me that she was an adult and could make her own decisions. I was too blinded in disgust to care about a word she said. I felt so betrayed. I couldn’t understand how my own mother could go against everything she’d taught me, and drink coffee. This feeling of betrayal stayed with me for years as I silently criticized and judged all of my mom’s actions.

I didn’t start to accept my mom until I started public high school, and was exposed to things that my private-Christian-school brain couldn’t begin to comprehend. I was surrounded by “the kids I was warned about”; teenagers who smoked, drank, had sex, did drugs, swore. The list could go on and on. I made friends quickly, but I always found myself judging them and the things they did. About halfway into the year, I was just like them. I even started drinking coffee. Somewhere along the line I’d decided that I had no right to judge people for who they were and what they enjoyed doing, and that there was so much in the world that I hadn’t experienced. I wanted to know everything, to do everything, to make mistakes, and to be satisfied with my life.

I stopped going to church. After being an active member of the outside world, a world of surprises and free-spirits and spontaneity, everything about the church was repulsive to me. I hated how they talked, how they dressed, how they seemed so blind. I wanted to save them. It still makes me sick to see how they shape their lives around rules and beliefs that in the end mean absolutely nothing.

At the end of the day I’m kind of glad I was part of the Church. If it wasn’t for fourteen years of brainwashing, I might have made some bad decisions before I was ready to make them. I might even be a better person than I am now. Being part of the church has been to me, sort of a gradual epiphany. I used to view life as a rat race to heaven. Literally. Most of the people I knew had one thing on their mind, and that was where they were going to end up when they died. I didn’t realize until recently that no one can really be sure about their life after death until they die, and by then it’s too late to go back. I’m definitely not the Church’s success story, but now I’m my own success story.

More than just a day off.

2011-11-10T14:47:00.006-06:00

Need a face to help you remember tomorrow?

This is the first time we had seen him in six months.

Tomorrow is Veterans Day, internets.

Growing up during a time when we had not been at war for quite a number of years, I never gave veterans or Veterans Day much thought. In my hometown (or as close to a hometown as I can get), the VFW and the Legion were simply places where people went to get drunk. Or play Bingo on Friday nights. Or have wedding receptions (including yours truly). I was very much an adult before I made the connection that those places had anything to do with veterans. I was even a card carrying member of the American Legion Post 66 Women's Auxiliary and I still had no idea that it had anything to do with veterans. I thought our only job was selling snacks at Friday night Bingo.

It's not that I didn't know any veterans. Several close family members had been in the military during WWII, The Korean War and Vietnam. But it's not something that was talked about much. Or maybe it was but I didn't realize it because I was a kid and we weren't at war and it didn't affect me.

And maybe some of you fall into that category now. Yes, we are at war and have been for a decade, but when it's not smacking you in the face every minute of every day, maybe you forget. Maybe for you Veterans Day is just a day off, or the time of year when old men sit outside of stores giving out paper poppies for donations.

But Veterans Day is more than that.

First, Veterans Day is not Memorial Day. I used to get them confused, too.
Here's the difference, according to the official Veteran's Affairs website:

Many people confuse Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Memorial Day is a day for remembering and honoring military personnel who died in the service of their country, particularly those who died in battle or as a result of wounds sustained in battle. While those who died are also remembered, Veterans Day is the day set aside to thank and honor ALL those who served honorably in the military - in wartime or peacetime. In fact, Veterans Day is largely intended to thank LIVING veterans for their service, to acknowledge that their contributions to our national security are appreciated, and to underscore the fact that all those who served - not only those who died - have sacrificed and done their duty.

So, Veterans Day:

Memorial Day:

("In loving memory of my hero, my best friend SGT Karl A. Campbell
March 15th, 1976 - October 4th, 2010
Forever in my heart"
Also, please note the five children he left behind. Sadly, these vinyl memorials for soldiers--all husbands, sons and fathers--are all too commonplace around here.)

Don't worry. No one is going to get their uniform in a twist if you remember those who died on Veterans Day or thank a living soldier on Memorial Day.

My husband, and every military member like him, make huge sacrifices to protect our freedoms. They leave their families for months or years at a time to go off to war. Even those who aren't on the front lines still face hardship and danger. And those who are on the home front are working to either support those who are deployed, or preparing for their turn to deploy next.

You may not agree with the wars we're fighting (goodness knows I don't), but politics have nothing to do with their sacrifice. Our military members take an oath to serve not a particular political party or a particular president, but to serve and protect our country and all those who live in it. They don't get to choose how and where they keep that oath. You do, with your votes.

So tomorrow as you enjoy your day off (if you have one), take a moment to remember those soldiers who are away from their families. Who have no day off. And don't forget those who haven't been deployed, because by merely taking the oath to serve, they have demonstrated their willingness to put their life on the line if need be.

My sincerest apologies.

2011-11-08T16:17:00.003-06:00

So, I've done some things on this blog over the years that I need to apologize for. Things you shouldn't have been subjected to. Things I'm ashamed of.

I'd like to take a moment to apologize for them.

1. I apologize for the whining. Sweet baby Brangelina in a manger, do I know how to whine. I've tried not to write when I'm pre-menstrual, but I'm pretty much always pre-menstrual. Also, I should probably apologize for talking about the various stages of my menstrual cycle so often, but I'm not really sorry so I won't. (FYI: The bleeding just stopped and I'm entering the honeymoon phase where I lose 5 pounds in 2 days and don't hate anyone for a whole week.)

2. I apologize for having music on this blog for nearly two years. When I go to other blogs with music, I want to stab them in the face--even when it's someone I know and like. That's right, I'm talking to you. All of you. Your music makes me want to stab you. IN THE FACE.

3. I apologize for recommending Single Dad Laughing. He has a couple of really good, very powerful pieces. But when I started to read his blog regularly, I found that he is the embodiment of the word douchebag. He's like the Edward Cullen of blogging. Some women read his stuff and think he's the greatest guy to ever walk the planet and they fall at his feet and pay for his internet bills and want to have his babies. The rest of us start to see beyond the surface and understand he's really just a jerk face vampire. Errr...douche-y blogger.

4. I'm sorry for telling you that it's O.K. to talk about sex openly, that thigh high fishnets are perfectly appropriate church attire and that gay people should have the same right to marry as straight people. Oh wait. NO I'M NOT.

5. I apologize for not writing as much lately. I wish I could say it was because I was busy doing fabulous things that would make my life seem so much better than yours, but it's not. Unless reading in a bean bag chair all day with cats on your chest is more fabulous than your life. I've simply been out of ideas. I'm still out of ideas. I have the urge to write. I sit every day (in between the bean bag naps) and try, but nothing comes out. (Yes, I realize that sounds like I'm constipated. In a way, I kind of am. My brain needs an Ex-Lax.) Help me, internets. What do you want me to write about? I'm desperate, so It's pretty much guaranteed I'll write about whatever you want.

Within reason.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. Or something.

2011-11-04T14:46:00.004-05:00

It's been a long week.

I'm stressed and tired and yesterday I woke up with what can only be a rare, tropical disease. Or maybe just a cold. I don't know.

All I do know is that two hours ago I woke up dizzy and disoriented, sprawled across my bean bag chair, shivering with fever, Wii remote in hand and some show about Pompeii playing on Netflix.

I have no recollection of even turning on the TV, but unless it was one of the cats, it must have been me.

Welcome flu season!

Also, my downstairs bathroom sink flooded and the whole bathroom is now unusable until a plumber comes and tears up all the pipes in two weeks.

And I'm bloated up like a sausage.

And my kids are being less than cooperative about life in general.

And I just turned down the possibility of a nice paycheck AND free Hostess cupcakes and Twinkies because I promised I wouldn't become one of those annoying review bloggers. But c'mon...$100 AND free Twinkies? That was hard to pass up. (*Edit: I recanted. I totally caved. I applied to do it. I promise that if they let me do it, it will be the LEAST annoying review you've ever read. Money and Twinkies was just too good an offer to resist.)

Anyway, I'm not here to just whine. I'm also here to solicit! No, not really. But I've had lots of people ask if they can send anything to Will or his unit for Christmas, and if there's anything they need.

Yes, you absolutely can! Except they all leave by mid January, so it doesn't make a lot of sense to send a bunch of stuff right before they have to go. So, if you really want to send things, this month would really be a better time to send it.

There's nothing in particular they need, but treats--candy, baked goods, good toilet paper, even just a nice letter--are always welcome. If you'd like to send anything, e-mail me {brandidouglass (at) gmail (dot) com} and I'll get you the address. I'm sure his office will appreciate anything. (Also, please don't feel obligated to send anything. I'm only posting this because of the number of people who have asked.)

O.K., I'm going to go drug myself up so I can be somewhat coherent until the kids go to bed.

Adios, internets.

It's the man with the badge, the PO-lice, the cops, the fuzz, the P-I-...

2011-10-31T20:08:00.004-05:00

(Name that movie for 5 million points)

So, first, let me get the obligatory Halloween costume pictures out of the way.

Good? O.K.

So, as you can see, Liam was a policeman. At the very first house we went to, the woman who answered the door jokingly yelled back to her husband, "Hide the weed, the po-po's here!"

Liam has no idea what that means, but he thought it was hilarious.

So hilarious, in fact, that he spent the next hour yelling it through the neighborhood and saying it in lieu of "trick or treat" when he approached a door.

Really.

Despite my begging, pleading and threatening, at every door the people of my neighborhood were greeted by a seven year old yelling "Hide the weed, the po-po's here!"

That ought to go over well at the CPS follow up visit.

You know me so well.

2011-10-30T16:53:00.002-05:00

So, you guys keep sending me links to videos. Don't ever stop, because they make my day. (Except the new Sassy Gay Friend videos. They've lost something now that they're Mio commercials. So, don't send me those anymore. They just make me miss the pre-monetized SGF videos.)

Anyway, here are a few of the best ones I've been sent lately.

(I almost stopped watching this one after the first minute because it was lame. Stick with it--it gets funny after a minute and a half.)

Impulse Buy

2011-10-27T15:17:00.005-05:00

Was there ever something that you really wanted as a kid? Something that other people had--something so incredibly awesome that you thought it would change your life if you had one too?

For me, it was a bean bag chair. I was kind of a spoiled kid. I was an only child and an only grandchild (until my sister came along when I was six and ruined my life), so I pretty much got whatever I wanted. But for some reason I never had a bean bag chair. Maybe I just never asked for one, I don't remember.

Point is, I always thought it would be life-changingly awesome to have one.

And today, as I was walking through Wal-Mart, I saw them. The heavens opened and angels sang.

Giant bean bag chairs.

It's not like I haven't seen them for sale during my adult life, but they've always been too expensive, or we didn't have room in our tiny apartment for one, or it would have been a choice between realizing a lifelong dream to own one and buying diapers and formula.

But today...today I had a whole house of my own and a checking account with a little disposable income. (I am the 99%, and I want a bean bag chair with my free college and iPad.)

I debated its practicality for about two seconds, then I loaded that baby on my cart.

It's huge, and it looks ridiculously out of place in our house, but I don't even care. It's the best thing I've ever bought.

And unlike things like EZ Bake Ovens and Snoopy Sno-Cone machines, this realized childhood dream is all I imagined it would be and more.

Now, please excuse me. I have a bean bag chair to make out with.

Dear Hobby Lobby: A Love Letter

2011-10-25T16:09:00.004-05:00

Making me stabby in the good way.

Dear Hobby Lobby,

I'm not sure what you're using to scent your entryway (really, I don't--I was practically crawling on the floor looking for the source), but it makes me happy. It's like apples and pumpkin pie and Fall and angel farts all mixed together and magically piped in near the front door.

And while I think July is wee bit early for Christmas displays, I'm glad they're there. You see, most days I think I want to skip decorating this year. I love decorating, but it's just one more thing I'll have to do on my own. But when I walk through your forest of plastic trees and bask in the glow of mini light strands while being watched over by life sized, light up Nativity lawn figures, I suddenly want to find my inner Griswold and go all out.

I love you, dear Hobby Lobby, because even if I walk in feeling a little stabby, it takes no time at all to be lulled into a trance by all the pretty paper and fabric and craft supplies. Instead of thinking about cutting people, I find myself thinking about cutting patterns. Instead of imagining roundhouse kicks to the head, I'm mentally building the most glorious doll house ever created.

And I know that I've occasionally cheated on you with your friends Michael and Jo Ann, but only when you weren't around. You know how it is--if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

So, thank you, Hobby Lobby, for being there for me when I need you. You're a true friend. You know exactly how to lift me up.

Sincerely,
Brandi

P.S. Could you maybe stop taking so much of my money? It's becoming a problem. Thanks.

Getting my (TV) groove back.

2011-10-19T16:35:00.004-05:00

So, I used to watch A LOT of TV. Like, a lot a lot. And then kids happened, and living in Europe for four years before the invention of internet connections fast enough to stream shows online. And my TV watching went right out the window. My repertoire dwindled to Thomas the Tank Engine and Teletubbies. I did manage to keep up with Alias for a while, but then I really stopped caring about the Rimbaldi device and quit watching it a couple of seasons before it ended.

Then we moved back from Germany the same week that Lost premiered. Also? I discovered two new-fangled networks that had come into existence while I was gone. HGTV and Bravo.

Why, hello TV. I missed you.

And for the past seven years that's mostly all I watched.

And then Lost ended last year. And then I had the brilliant idea to ditch cable when we moved.

Since then the TV has just become that large, shiny object that my kids watch Netflix on that I have to dust every week.

I've kept up with Project Runway and America's Next Top Model (because there's nothing better for your body image issues than a twice weekly dose of models), but that's been it.

Until last week.

The lonely nights finally got to me and I decided to check out some of the new shows this season.

I've caught up on The New Girl (Love it!), Whitney (Liked it, but starting to hate it. Not all great comedians are also great actors), Up All Night (Love it!), Combat Hospital (Love it!), and my new favorite show, Terra Nova.

I know. Shut up.

I've read the reviews, and I kind of agree with them. The dialog can be lame. The acting not so great. But I don't care. It's like someone took CSI, ER, Sliders, Jurassic Park and Lost, and rolled them all up into one big, cheesy ball and I couldn't be happier. I plan to watch the heck out of this show until it gets canceled.

I'm just hoping it lasts through the rest of this deployment.

Richard Marx: Harbinger of depression.

2011-10-17T17:59:00.007-05:00

Enormous head, tiny body.

So, I hit the deployment wall last week. Anyone who's been through a deployment knows what I'm talking about. It's that point where you're done. The deployment isn't over, but you are. The point where if you have to deal with one more crying kid, one more broken thing, one more anything you're going to lose it. The point where you would take your spouse on his most obnoxious and annoying day over not having him there at all, because at least then he could deal with All The Things.

It started when my alarm went off and it just went downhill from there.

By lunch I had cried because there was a load of clothes in the dryer that I forgot was there from the day before, and that meant I still had laundry to fold. Because someone switched the ice maker from crushed to cubed, and obviously cubed ice is of the devil. Because I could only fit in my stretchy pants. Because frigging Wal-Mart was out of my cheese. My cheese!

And then, in my stretchy pants, in the car on my way home from not buying my cheese, the song* came on.

That song. The song that Richard Marx recorded for the sole purpose of ripping the hearts out of everyone who has ever had to spend an extended amount of time away from their significant other.

Love him, hate him, think his head is abnormally large for his wee body--whatever you feel about the man, If you've ever been in that situation, this song will make you cry like a teething baby with a bad case of gas.

Oceans apart day after day
And I slowly go insane.
I hear your voice on the line
But it doesn't stop the pain.

If I see you next to never
How can we say forever?

(Nodding in agreement, tears and snot running down my face) Exactly!

I took for granted all the times
That I thought would last somehow.
I hear the laughter, I taste the tears
But I can't get near you now.

(Sob) I'm sorry I ever complained about you. (Snuffle) I'll never do it again. (Sob)

Wherever you go
Whatever you do
I will be right here waiting for you.
Whatever it takes
Or how my heart breaks
I will be right here waiting for you.

(Pulled over on the side of the road, sobbing unintelligibly)

And then I pulled myself together, went home, ate some chocolate (see: stretchy pants), took a nap, and braced myself for three more months.
Richard Marx be damned.

*Journey's "Faithfully" or Lonestar's "I'm Already There" have the same effect.
**Here, I dare you not to cry:

Thank you, karma.

2011-10-12T16:57:00.003-05:00

So, remember how someone thought it would be a great idea to call CPS because of a post I wrote about Ben? And remember how a lot of you wrote in the comments that you hoped karma would get them?

Well, karma didn't infect them with syphilis, nasal herpes and a raging case of shingles like I'd hoped. (At least I don't think so, but who knows? Maybe!) BUT karma did see fit to have my post about it catch the attention of BlogHer.

I was contacted earlier today and asked if they could syndicate the post. On their site. Where thousands and thousands of people could read it. Oh, and they'd pay me for it, too.

I know you've already read the post here, but click on over and look at it THERE. Please? I mean, after the disappointment of getting cut from the big OB Tampon article on ABC News, this may be the closest to fame I'll ever get.

Oh, and anonymous CPS reporter? Suck it.

Divine Secrets of the Minivan Sisterhood

2011-10-07T14:50:00.005-05:00

Boring! Jazz hands would be so much more fun.

So, why is it that motorcyclists do that sort of low wave to each other when they pass another motorcyclist? That thing where they keep their hand down low and just kind of raise their fingers as they go by?

And who teaches them to do this? Is it part of the course when getting a motorcycle license?

And why is it just motorcyclists?

This needs to change immediately.

I think minivan driving moms need a thing like that.

Like motorcyclists, we have our own culture too. Ours may involve more stretchy pants and less leather, but it's a culture nonetheless.

When I pass another woman driving a minivan, I know a few things for certain. 1. She probably hasn't had enough sleep in at least a year. 2. That van has been vomited in at least once since she's owned it. And 3. At some point since getting that van she has dreamed about running away forever and starting a new life on a beach in South America with an oiled up boy-toy named Julio.

Those things bond us together, and we need a way to acknowledge that sisterhood when we encounter one another on the open road.

I propose Jazz Hands.

Think of how happy you'd be if you in your kid filled minivan passed me in my kid filled standard issue white Toyota Sienna and we gave each other Jazz Hands? Think of the joy we could spread!

We could totally change the world.

Consequences

2011-10-04T08:55:00.003-05:00

(This was written yesterday. I didn't want to hastily post something in the heat of emotion, so I slept on it. So, every time it says today, it was yesterday.)

I've been sitting here for a couple of hours. Writing. Deleting. Thinking. Fuming. Shaking with rage. Debating. Writing some more. More furious shaking. More deleting. More debating.

I know that logically calling attention to a troll only feeds their ego and gives them ammunition. In this case, however, we're talking about something much more sinister than a troll. We're talking about someone out to hurt a family. My family.

I received a knock on my door this afternoon, and when I answered it I was met by a small, blonde woman who announced that she was from child protective services and she needed to talk to me.

If you've never had that experience (and I hope you never have), let me try to describe how it feels. Your heart starts racing. Your mind starts spinning, frantically trying to recall something--anything--that could warrant a visit from CPS. I was in full panic mode, but trying my very best to hold it together. Or to at least not pass out.

We sat down in my living room and she informed me that the office had received a call from someone claiming that I wrote a blog post that was mentally abusive toward Ben. It was THIS post. Take a moment to read it.

Yes. That caused someone to feel justified to call CPS.

The woman from CPS then said, "I'm not here to take away your kids."

And I couldn't hold it together anymore. I guess just the idea that she could have been there to take them away was too much. I totally lost it.

We talked for awhile about things--she told me she had taken each child from class individually to question them. That she had talked to Ben about it more in depth and with more specifics.

I asked her flat out if she felt I was out of line with the post. She assured me that neither she nor her supervisor felt it was an issue. Certainly not one for CPS to be involved in.

I'm not sure what exactly the person who made the report thought would come of this, but I'd like to tell him or her what did come of it.

Amelia had to be picked up from school because she was too upset. She has never even been spanked, so being taken to the office and asked by a stranger if her parents hit her was confusing and terrifying. Once she had some time to mull it over in her six year old brain after the interview, she became afraid that it meant I would start hitting her.

Amelia is an extremely anxious child by nature. She bites her nails, sucks on fabric to self soothe, and has recently developed trichotillomania. That's when someone pulls out their hair impulsively when stressed. We'd had it somewhat under control, but by the time I got her home from school a three inch by three inch section on the side of her head was completely bald.

Luckily for Liam, his interview took place about the time his meds were wearing off. He apparently rambled on about Legos and cats for most of it. However even he was a little disturbed that a stranger came to school, took him from class and read off a list of punishments and asked which ones he got and when. Because that's not upsetting to a seven year old at all. He also felt really guilty because he told her that he got soap in his mouth a couple of times last year and was worried I would get in trouble. And then he had to lay down for awhile because his chest hurt. His donor vessels are wearing out. Any time he's physically active or upset, he has pain.

Ben is older and smart enough to understand exactly what was going on. He came home extremely upset and feeling guilty. He was afraid that they were all going to be put into foster care, and it would be his fault because if he hadn't traded his calculator for Pokemon cards, I wouldn't have written about it and gotten us all in trouble.

It's been hard enough for them to deal with having a deployed parent for the past nine months. They don't need this as well. Neither does my husband, who has to deal with the daily stress of being at war, need the additional worry.

Because I use real names and because Ben is old enough that it's possible his friends could read the blog, I always let him read any post involving him and get his permission to post it first. He was totally fine with the post in question.

I could understand if there was some indication of imminent danger or actual abuse--be it mental or physical--in that or any post. But there is nothing, NOTHING, in that post to warrant upsetting three children already under the strain of a deployed parent, deteriorating health and anxiety disorders.

I don't want to seem like I'm discouraging people from making reports if they feel they're warranted. It's better to be safe than sorry. But I am asking that you think long and hard about the consequences that may come of it and if those consequences are worse than the thing you're considering reporting.

There are children out there being abused and neglected. Unfortunately, social workers can't focus as much of their attention on finding and helping those kids who truly need it because they're bogged down in following up frivolous and unsubstantiated reports. By law they have to follow up, just in case. This social worker spent an entire day on this, and that doesn't include the mountain of paperwork she'll still have to do, or the required follow up visits later in the month.

No one operates in a vacuum. Everything one does has consequences--often far reaching ones. I always consider the consequences of leading a somewhat public life, especially how my children could be affected by it. I ask all of you to do the same.

I know that many of you only know me as words on a screen, but I'm a real person. My husband is a real person. My children are real children. We all have real feelings. And these are real consequences.

But what does it mean?

2011-09-30T15:43:00.005-05:00

Look! Up there! It's my new header! How many exclamation points can I use before you get annoyed and click on to the next blog!?! !!!!!!!

So, yeah. I'm excited about it. It was created by the lovely and talented Meridth Gimbel. I met her at her baby shower, and she mentioned she was an illustrator. So I Googled her (because I'm too awkward and shy to just ask her for her website). And I loved what I saw. So I asked (well, e-mailed--awkward and shy, remember?) if she'd consider doing a header for me. Even though she had just given birth, and even though my budget was ridiculously small, she agreed.

And here we are.

(This was one of my favorite illustrations of hers that I found while ~~stalking her~~ looking at her blog and portfolio.)

Luckily, she reads my blog now and again, so she had a pretty good idea of what it should be right from the beginning. Which is good, because I didn't really even know myself.

However, since I put the header up last night, I've had a few people ask what "My Summer Cottage in Babylon" even means.

Waaay back when I had approximately 14 readers, 13 of whom were also Mormons, one of our church leaders gave a talk telling us to give up our summer cottages in Babylon. Meaning, quit sinning. Stop hanging onto a few a of your favorite sins even though they're ridiculously fun.

About the same time, I wrote some posts that really rubbed some of my fellow church goers the wrong way. For a time, this became the Blog of Sin, leading everyone astray. Obviously.

I was not only on the expressway to hell, but I was in the carpool lane with a full minivan.

Sin, schmin. If sex between a married couple, or believing all people are entitled to the same rights regardless of sexual orientation, or wearing thigh high fishnets to church is a sin, then yes, I guess they were right.

Anyway, some of my friends joked that my blog was my summer cottage in Babylon. And it stuck. And slowly the readership grew. And now most of you have no idea what that phrase means, or what the new header represents.

So, there you go.

Welcome sinners!

Number Three

2011-09-28T18:15:00.004-05:00

So, I realized a couple of weeks ago that I rarely write about Amelia. I should do something about that so she doesn't grow up, find this blog, and require more therapy than she'll already need after reading it.

Amelia is six going on 76. She has her moody, teenage like moments, but mostly she's like an old lady who doesn't give a crap about what people think anymore. Also, one who smoked three packs a day. Seriously, for such a tiny kid she has a deep, gravelly voice. Like Kathleen Turner in size 4T.

Her favorite food in the world is gingersnaps. Hard, old fashioned gingersnaps.

Speaking of food, she'll only eat things that are highly processed and/or white.

She has an obsession with cats. She will be the crazy cat lady someday. Her most coveted Christmas present last year was a stuffed cat with magnetic nipples and three kittens with magnetic lips. This year she wants both a basket of stuffed Siamese kittens and stuffed versions of our actual cats. In case the real ones die. Her reasoning, not mine.

I bought her a set of Amelia Bedelia books when she started reading fluently. At first she liked them, but by the end of the series she asked me to throw them out. When I asked why she said, "Amelia Bedelia is DUMB. People are going to think I can't follow simple directions because I have the same name."

She rarely pretends that she is the mother of her dolls. She's always the older sister. Her reason? Because moms have to do all the work but a sister just plays with them.

If I'd allow it, she'd wear pink cowgirl boots and short shorts every day.

She's irrationally worried about her feet stinking. So worried, in fact, that I used it to my advantage in getting her to drink Kefir at breakfast. I wanted her to drink it because she gets almost no protein in her diet (see processed and/or white foods above). But I told her that it has things in it that prevent stinky feet. Guess who drinks a big cup of Kefir every morning?

She loves to watch Rugrats, but whenever Angelica has been on for more than two minutes she usually throws the remote and storms out of the room.

She has no qualms about passing gas. Loudly. In public. If someone says anything about it, she responds with, "Get over it. Everyone farts. I said excuse me."

I have to go to great lengths to avoid the lingerie section of any store we go to. If she sees a bra, she will have a meltdown over the fact that I refuse to buy her one. This has been going on since she was three.

Maybe not so coincidentally, she has decided she wants to be Dolly Parton. She saw a commercial for Dollywood, and then announced that Dolly Parton was the prettiest lady she'd ever seen. And she has her own amusement park. And breasts. Dolly is now her unofficial mentor.

Both her kindergarten teacher and her first grade teacher have written nearly identical comments on her progress reports. "What she lacks in size, she makes up for in volume and bossiness."

That's my girl!

OCD like me in 12 easy steps.

2011-09-26T14:15:00.007-05:00

Yeah...I can't help you with this.

So, I feel kind of like an egotistical jerk (or Martha Stewart) (same difference) writing this post.

Who am I to be telling people the best way to do things? I mean, sure, I tell people how best to live their lives all the time. It's just not usually to their face.

Anyway, I've gotten enough e-mails asking me for advice on this topic over the past couple of years--at least one a week--that I guess it warrants a post.

The question: How do I keep my house clean and organized without killing someone/spending every minute of my day doing it/giving myself an aneurysm and STILL have time to go to the gym, shop, cook and waste countless hours cluttering up the internet with my pointless rambling?

The short answer is that I was blessed with a heaping helping of cleanliness OCD tendencies and control freakishness. Also, a loud yelling voice.

But for those of you not blessed with such attributes, I've made a list of some of the things that make my life easier and my house cleaner. (I know. You're bored already. Here, go look at my cat dressed like Princess Leia instead.)

1. Have a place for EVERYTHING. You can't expect things to get put away if they don't have a permanent home. If you're out of places for everything, you have too much stuff. You should get rid of some. Or apply to be on Hoarders.

2. Make sure the people in your house know where those permanent homes are. I get crazy with my label maker on a regular basis, but it really helps.

3. Make it easy to put things away. For example, I tried traditional book shelves for my kids' books when they were littler. Guess what? Kids are not very adept at standing books up to put them away. So, I now store their books in small piles instead (I have several of THESE, which are great. They hold lots of kid books at an easy to get and put away angle). And now the books always get put away. Another example--if you have a toy box, make it a small one, and only keep larger toys in it. Your kid will inevitably want the toy on the bottom, which means everything will have to be taken out to get it. The less stuff to be taken out, the less stuff to clean up.

4. Speaking of toys, I don't allow the kids to take their toys from their bedroom (or playroom when we had one). Obviously when they were very young--one, two--I kept a small basket of their toys in the living room because that's where we mostly were. But once they could play more independently, it became an iron clad rule. That way, the mess is contained to one area. If I'm tripping over Barbie or impaling my feet on Legos, I'm more likely to become mean screaming mom. By keeping them in their room only, they have more freedom to keep toys out until clean up time.

5. Also, have a designated space for toys. Once the space is filled, that's it. No more toys until they get rid of some to free up space. Kids need far less than many parents think they "deserve." I'm not saying you should give them a can and some string and tell them to make do (although that's not a horrible idea). But no child needs a room like a toy store. I limit my kids to one of THESE each. It's more than enough for lots of toys. We go through them and purge A LOT before Christmas and birthdays to make room for anything new they may get. The fewer toys kids have, the less they have to clean up. This goes for grown ups, too.

6. Get rid of broken stuff. You're never really going to fix it. It's just cluttering up the place.

7. Clean up right away. Clean up from meals immediately after they're done. Wipe up spills before they dry. Empty the dishwasher as soon as it's done so there's no reason to pile dishes in the sink. Fold laundry (and put it away!) when it's dry.

8. Make it easier to clean. I keep cleaning supplies upstairs and down. Make sure your cleaning equipment works (I put off mopping for a month because my mop didn't work quite right).

9. Set a schedule and stick to it. I do my deep cleaning on Wednesdays. If you stop by before noon on Wednesdays, you'll find me in my underwear, gloves and a toilet brush in my hand. It's scheduled, like an appointment.

10. Have hiding spots for clutter. I have clutter. I have stuff that doesn't really have a permanent home. (Don't tell!). My saving grace is that I allow a few places around the house for it to accumulate. A junk drawer in the kitchen. An empty cabinet in my bedroom. Wherever you choose, make sure it closes so you don't have to look at all that crap everyday. It'll stress you out.

11. Have an assigned daily clean up time for your kids. For us, the littler kids go to bed at 7:30, so 7 is clean up time. If they're not done by 7:30, there is no story, AND anything not cleaned up goes in a bag and goes away for a very long time. It may take having nothing in their room for a few weeks, but they WILL eventually learn if you're consistent with the consequences. And if you yell. Loudly. (Just kidding.) (Not really.)

12. Don't let your kids/spouse be pigs. Really. Sometimes you just have to be a bitch. Sometimes you have to mean business. The earlier you start, the better. And you have to be consistent. After two months of no TV or computer and keeping the bathroom door locked (they had to get the key from me), there is miraculously no urine on the back of the toilet or the floor. After a few times of scrubbing the carpet on hands and knees, they miraculously remember to take off muddy shoes. After losing $1 per item not turned right side out, I miraculously no longer have to waste time turning clothes before I wash them. Have a kid who writes on walls? Guess who gets to not touch pens/crayons/markers/colored pencils for a month?

I'm not saying any of these tips are EASY. Or PLEASANT. Cleaning isn't pleasant. If you're looking for a way to make it enjoyable, good luck. But these things make it easier for ME. Maybe some of them will make it easier for you too. Or maybe you're just happy living in a pig stye. That's O.K., too. Just don't invite me over for dinner.

*This post is NOT sponsored by Ikea. I just love them. And they're cheap. And their crap works for organization.

**While these really are things I do, please take this post with a big dose of sarcasm.

The only thing pets are good for.

2011-09-25T16:33:00.003-05:00

Sometimes you hear stories about pets dialing 911 and saving their owners, or waking them when the house is on fire. Those are great stories, but they don't happen often enough to make it worth having a pet.

No, the only thing that makes a pet worth it is if you can dress them up like your favorite movie character and put the pictures on your blog.

"Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. No really. This woman is crazy. Who puts a wig on a cat?"

"I hear Vader approaching. Or maybe it's just those kids who never leave me alone. I don't know which is worse."

"Alright, I'm out of here. I'll see you later when I come to eat your face while you sleep."

One stop holiday shopping.

2011-09-23T09:49:00.009-05:00

(Note: This post contains boobs. And very tiny penises. And Greek men doing I don't even want to know what. They're all statues, not actual people,
but I wanted to warn you just in case.)

So, I'm kind of a catalog junkie. I love them. Home decor catalogs, especially. I'm addicted.

Yesterday one arrived that I'd never seen before. I flipped through a couple of pages and it was mostly things like suits of armor and custom chess sets. Not the typical Pottery Barn and Ikea stuff I usually get.

This morning I looked at the whole thing.

It was the most disturbing home decor catalog I've ever seen.

While it does have some beautiful antique replica furniture and cool, unique items (a couple of Ben's Christmas presents will be coming from this catalog, I think), mostly it was all just very bizarre.

You know, every throne needs to be guarded by a knight.

Speaking of thrones, why not drop $1900 on your very own?

And what's a castle without a little statuary, right?

What frightens me most about this is that it's a replica of a classic statue from 1550, sculpted by a student of Michelangelo. Is it just me, or do you ever wonder if sometimes the classical artists made some of their work as a joke? Like, maybe he just made this one to see what Michelangelo's reaction would be. Like a Renaissance version of Lolcats.

And then we have the modern interpretation of classic art.
I have a sudden urge to send this one to Mario Batali, except I bet he already has one.

Once you've finished the interior of your castle,
you'll want to adorn the grounds.
While on one side of the garden you can display a
lifesize sculpture of the holy family...

...you can finish off the other side with Rachel.
While this picture may lead you to believe this is a small figurine, it is in fact a nearly 6 foot tall life size statue. In a thong.

I think it would be extra fun if you put this one directly below Rachel.

And then have this guy watching it all from afar. Because nothing completes a zombie eating a stripper scene quite like a voyeuristic Sasquatch.

Speaking of Sasquatch, I NEED this. Truly. This would make my whole year.
Not only do I collect Christmas ornaments, but growing up my parents often referred to me as Sasquatch (No, I don't have any issues. Why do you ask?). So really, there couldn't be a more perfect gift.

Sisters in inadequacy.

2011-09-19T12:43:00.004-05:00

(Photo credit)

I had a different post planned for today. A funny one. But after comments and e-mails from my last post poured in over the weekend, I decided they really needed to be shared. I know a lot of you read through a feed, so you don't see the comments unless you click through, so I'm posting those as well.

Also, I've added another one of mine, but I'm not saying which one.

Thank you for sharing. Really. I started personally responding to each one, but I got overwhelmed. Just know that I read each one, and wept over them.

*******************************************

My real is that I can't stop drinking. It's my escape from everyone else's real that creeps into my life that I can't handle. I'm a family therapist. I get a lot of other people's real.

***

My imperfection is that I only had my children, all six of them, because I felt I had to for God to love me. I resent all of them every single day. I never wanted children at all, and now I'm tied down with six. When I was pregnant for my last one, I tried everything I could think of to cause a miscarriage. At least then the spirit would have its body. My duty would be done and there would only be five children sapping me of my will to live.

***

I think my husband committed suicide because I was always yelling at him and telling him nothing he did was good enough.

***

I think I'm broken because I can't accept affection from or be affectionate to my friends. I can tell my family "I love you," and I can hear it from them without a problem. But when a friend is genuinely nice, I don't know how to react. When a friend says I love you--and I know they mean it--I freeze. I physically can't respond. And I'm jealous of how freely people seem to be able to give and accept affection. I do love my friends. I don't know why I can't force those words from my lips (or fingers). I usually resort to sarcasm. I wish I could just say I love you too instead.

***

I'm bipolar. For the rest of my life, I will have to take several different meds in order to not be a raving lunatic. But with those meds, I'm stable and happy and generally a good mom. Here's where it gets iffy: those same meds make me tired. OH SO TIRED. No matter how much sleep I do or do not get, I feel exhausted much of the time. My house isn't filthy, but it's far from spotless because I just don't have the energy to keep it up as well as I should. And I'm often found napping or sleeping in when I really should be reading to my little ones or otherwise caring for them. That's not to say that they're going hungry or wearing dirty underwear or not getting to school on time. Just that I could be doing better, and I'm not. So there you go. Totally imperfect.

***

I cuss around my kids, though never AT my kids. The F word is probably my favorite word. Especially since I am married and can F my husband pretty much any time I want, :).

Also, I have 2 boys, am an active member in the LDS faith, and I plan on teaching my boys that it's ok if they masturbate, that the thing to focus on isn't NOT masturbating, but rather to focus on their relationship with their Heavenly Father--do they always have a prayer in their heart? Do they read the scriptures? Are they kind to other people? Because occasionally touching yourself isn't a bad thing (and it's NOT cheating on your spouse, future or current), but letting it overtake your life IS.

And I'm going to teach them when/where it's acceptable to do such things--ie in their bedrooms/bathrooms, NEVER in public.

And maybe it's an imperfection, but I don't think it is.

***

Whooo. Real is hard. Here goes. I take up to 12 laxatives a day to stay skinny. I'd rather be on the toilet all day than puking and ruining my teeth. And I'd rather be on the toilet all day than get fat. Even though it doesn't bother me when other people are fat, it's THE WORST thing that could ever happen to me. I'd rather be dead.

***

I took a bottle of pills because I had sex before marriage. Dying was better than talking to my bishop. I wish my mother hadn't found me and called 911, because now my family thinks I'm crazy AND a whore.

***

I felt like I had to get breast implants to save my marriage. The husband is now gone, but at least have a great rack. (That's just what I tell myself when the depression starts to take over. They weren't worth it and neither was he. And now I'm alone and I hate my body.)

***

I have a blog. I have only told about 3 people.... I am very honest about my current struggles and though I would love people to read it and see their comments and know that we all struggle. I want to be a supporter of REAL. I am very afraid that I would just be seen as totally weak and incompetent in the path I have chosen.

When my husband tells me I'm sexy I have to scream at myself in my mind to believe him otherwise I dismiss it as false. I find it nearly impossible to believe that someone as fat and imperfect as me could ever be seen as sexy.

***

My real is that my husband and I sleep in separate rooms. People on the outside think we're the perfect happy couple, but the truth is that we are merely roommates. We have been for more than twenty years. We figured we'd divorce once the kids were grown, but now we rely on each other too much. We just don't love each other.

***

I have taken down every mirror in my home because I despise the way I look. People have no idea. They tell me I'm beautiful. They lie.

***

my real is that i have an eating disorder. and on most days of the week i want it, need it. i try every day to be good and eat and be healthy bleh bleh. but i just wish deep inside that i could just keep it. and not be ashamed of it.

***

I've been having sex with my math teacher for two years. I pretend I'm a lesbian so no one will suspect. Now I'm depressed because I get bullied for being a lesbian.

***

My real is that I spend almost zero time with my kids. I joke about it, but it's the truth. I hate making them do things, so I just let them do whatever as long as they don't interrupt what I've got going on...and I have a lot going on. Teaching piano lessons, my job at the gym, my bunco nights, my computer time, my reading time, etc. I never seem to make the time to spend with them, so they're all tv junkies and ds addicts. I don't cook for them. I don't clean for them. I don't bathe them. I barely take the time to tuck them in at night. I feel like the worst mom in the world. I love them, but taking even 10 minutes to focus on one child to find out how their day was takes a lot of effort for me. And what kills me the most...when I finally do find the time to talk, they blow me off. I deserve it. I'm working on it, but I'm not perfect.

***

I feel like a failure because I can't have children. Why would God give me a commandment I can't keep?

***

my real is that Im scared if I were real my friends wouldnt like me anymore.

***

My real for today: I often feel like a joke as a mother/ wife. I know that really these insecurities are because my mom wasn't the world's most stellar mom (that's putting it mildly). I fell like (even though really I know I'm doing my best) that I'm not doing enough for my kids. Like I have check off all parenting blocks: volunteering in my kids' classrooms; doing (extra) after-school stuff for my kid- the list could go on and on honestly. Truth is there's only so many hours in the day. I only have so much energy (and motivation). So I'm okay w/ not being the perfect mom.

***

I'm in love with my best friend and it kills me that I can't tell her. I don't know if she'd be more repulsed by me being a woman or me being married. The secret is tearing us apart and she doesn't even know it.

***

I have to be liked, unless I don't like the person or know that I can possibly never cross paths again, I want them to like me. And it's more then that too, I want to be popular, I want a ton of friends who look up to me, who always want to hang out with me, who invite me to all the events. I just need to be noticed and included. Whenever I find out people don't invite me to a BBQ or a Girl's night, I take it really personally. I know I shouldn't, but it stings. I'm so afraid of not having friends, of losing friends, I am often checking with the ones I do have to make sure I haven't offended them.

I'm not my real self because my real sarcastic, kinda crass self doesn't make friends out here, at least not many. I don't want anyone to be offended by me, or I want to not care, but I haven't mastered the second, so I just overly censor myself.

I'm just so afraid of being judged or ostracized. Even when I was a kid nothing got me attention, being good, being bad, no one but my family noticed or cared. I've never had a birthday party since I was 15 that more then 3 people actually showed up to, I've never had a friend throw me a baby shower (my mother-in-law did, but only 1 of my friends showed). I just want people to like me enough to want to spend EXTRA time with me, not just the bare minimum, it'd just be nice to have someone call me up for a playdate or want to come over to MY house for once. That's my real.

***

My husband is depressed and has blown every penny we have. I work three jobs but we still can't even afford for him to get medication to get better. I want to leave him but I'm afraid that would push him over the edge. Everyone thinks we're happy and well off. I just want to scream at people to look more closely and see that I'm barely hanging on by a thread. Help me, don't envy me!!!

***

Everyone thinks I'm selfless and wonderful because I'm caring for my ailing mother. The reality is, no matter how much I love her, I wish she would die and release me from this responsibility.

***

***

The Imperfection Challenge

2011-09-17T09:33:00.009-05:00

(Picture stolen from Single Dad Laughing)

So, I was blog hopping the other day to kill some time, and I landed on Single Dad Laughing. I always love his posts. I don't know why I haven't added him to my blogroll yet. I need to remedy that immediately.

Anyway, posts from his archives flash across the top of his main page. One popped up with a picture that reminded me so much of myself three years ago that I had to click on it (see above). I'm so glad I did. It was THIS. (Please click it and read. Please? It's totally clean and appropriate--no worries that I'm taking you to a profanity riddled porn fest or anything).

For those of you who are too lazy or stubborn to click, here's a very brief summary: Most of us--probably all of us--hide parts of ourselves because we feel the need to be perfect, and exposing that part would make us unbearably imperfect. He gives some real life examples of how sometimes this "disease called perfection" can be deadly. Really, I can't do the post justice. Please, just go read it.

Anyway, at the end of the post, he asks this:

Will you help me spread “Real”? Tell us below just how perfect you aren’t. You never know who might be alive tomorrow because you were real today. You never know who needs to feel like they aren’t alone in their inability to be perfect. Even if you comment as an anonymous guest, please comment. Tell us what you struggle with. Tell a sad or dark secret. Get vulnerable. Get real.

The post moved me so much that I'll accept the challenge. And I'm asking you to do the same. Here in the comments, or on your own blogs. If you post it on your blog, let me know and I'll link it here.

So, here's my dose of real.

I've been extremely open about being morbidly obese and documenting my weight loss through gastric bypass. I even showed you all the skin the weight loss left behind. But I've been a lot less real about my struggle with regain over the past 14 months.

I've gained 30-35 pounds (depending on when I step on the scale). I've gone from a size 4 to a size 10-12 (mostly 12). I feel like a failure. Those 35 pounds may as well be 135 pounds because that's how they make me feel.

I know that I'm not the only person who has regained after weight loss surgery, but I feel like I am. I feel extreme shame that I couldn't stay in those size fours. I'm embarrassed to have people who saw me as a size four see me now. I seriously considered skipping my annual get together in Las Vegas this year because all those people would see how fat I'd gotten. Logically, I know that's probably the last thing on their minds, but no one ever said shame was logical.

Adding to my sense of failure is that I really have been working hard to lose it. But it's not working. I even got so desperate that I tried weight loss pills. I know, I know. I would chastise any of you if you said you were taking them. But that's how desperate I got. 1200 calories a day and intense 90 minute workouts five days a week weren't doing anything, so maybe the pills would. Obviously they didn't. I just felt like a squirrel on crack. I got a lot done those few weeks, just didn't lose any weight.

So, that's my real for right now. I'm a big fat weight loss failure. I couldn't beat it. I want to hide everyday because of it.

I don't want you to tell me I'm not fat. That's not the point here. I'm not looking for people to tell me I'm wrong. I'm just putting it out there because I know that there are others out there in my shoes, and I want them to know they're not alone.

So, now it's your turn. Get real.

Here's a post from Crystal, who beat me to it this morning.
Here's a post from Tex.
Here's a post from Rena.
Here's a post from AngelButton.
Here's a post from BlueCodeRed.
Here's a post from Bennett.
Here's a post from Jen.

"Special" Delivery

2011-09-15T12:56:00.004-05:00

Will sent Amelia this bear from Afghanistan for her birthday.

It took us all day to notice he was...different. Special, some might say.

According to Liam, "He's from Afghanistan, Amelia. That's how bears are there. They're not like American bears."

Can you spot it?
(It's not as clear in the picture as it is in person.)

Dropping Hints.

2011-09-13T13:02:00.004-05:00

A sure sign that you've been too sick
to cook for way too long?
Your kids start playing drive-thru.

It's O.K. to smile.

2011-09-11T07:35:00.003-05:00

Today is the tenth anniversary of the September 11th attacks.

It's a big deal, and I know I should probably write something about the loss of innocent lives that day, the sacrifices made by people trying to save others...

Those are important, and we should always, always remember those things. Not just on the anniversary.

But today...today I don't feel like revisiting the horror and sorrow of that day. I'm reminded of it every day that my husband is in Afghanistan fighting the war that was precipitated by this day ten years ago.

So today I'm going to share a story that always makes me laugh, and is as big a part of my September 11th memories as watching the horror unfold on TV.

(Originally posted September 12th, 2008)

Ben, Booze and Benadryl

Ben, 4 months before the booze incident

I've had several e-mails since yesterday asking if it's true that I got Ben drunk.

Yes, it's true--but I had a really good reason!!

In September 2001 we were living in Germany. I decided to take Ben, who was 2, and fly to New Hampshire to visit my family. Our flight was 2 legs: Paris to London and then London to Boston.

Ben slept for the one hour Paris to London flight, but then started acting up while we waited for our flight in Heathrow airport. So...I slipped him a Benadryl. It normally knocks kids out. I even had a doctor recommend it.

An hour into our 4 hour trans-atlantic flight, Ben starts going crazy. Squirming, kicking, screaming, crying...Nothing I did calmed him down. I walked with him, held him, you name it. He just became more and more agitated. A kind family in front of us, who were getting the brunt of his fit, offered him things to play with and eat. He was not having it. People around us were offering to pay money to be moved up to first class to escape him. They were yelling at me to calm him down and make him be quiet--you know, because I was enjoying having him like that.

By the second hour I was crying as much as Ben.

The flight attendant came over at one point and said--to a two year old, mind you--"You need to sit and mind your manners now. It's time for high tea and we're tired of this nonsense." (The effect is better if you read that in a snooty British accent).

About thirty minutes before we landed, one of the pilots came back. He informed me that my return ticket would be honored, but that in the future I would be banned from British Airways. Banned!!!

We finally landed in Boston, getting dirty looks and fingers pointed at us as we waited for our luggage.

I told my mother, a nurse, about what happened and she told me that sometimes Benadryl makes kids feel like their skin is crawling rather than making them sleepy.

Now she tells me.

While we were visiting, September 11th happened. I couldn't bear the thought of a repeat performance on the way home, especially with everyone nervous and edgy after the attacks. I was pretty certain his behavior was a result of the Benadryl, but I couldn't be positive.

So, my mother suggested we get him good and liquored up.

We bought a fruit flavored wine cooler (which has a pretty low alcohol content) and mixed half of it with Hawaiian Punch in his sippy cup. I had him drink it at the airport.

That kid slept not only from Boston to London, but all the way to Paris and during the 2 hour car ride from Paris to our house in Germany.

Sometimes a mother's got to do what a mother's got to do.

*If you try this yourself and something goes wrong, I am not liable and you're an idiot for getting harebrained ideas about drugging your kids from a blog.

I guess I'm a free range helicopter pilot.

2011-09-07T18:40:00.010-05:00

So, yesterday I got a call from Ben's math teacher. She wanted to let me know that she had changed a math test grade from 65 to 97.

I asked her why she would do such a thing.

She said that when she asked Ben why he did so poorly on the test, he said it was because he had traded his calculator for Pokemon cards. She wanted him to have the opportunity to take the test with a calculator, and when he did, he got a 97.

I knew about the Pokemon card/calculator trade already. He's had extra chores to pay off the $20 I spent on it, and the other $20 I'll have to pay to replace it.

Anyway, I told her he deserved the 65. He's twelve and a half and has an IQ higher than Hitler. He knows his calculator is required for class and needed for the tests. If he's going to be dumb enough to trade it for Pokemon cards, then he needs to suffer the consequences of his stupidity.

And she argued with me! She thought it was only fair to give him the 97, since he clearly knows how to do the work--he just needed the calculator for the complex equations. And I reiterated that it was only fair that he get the 65, because every other kid in that class remembered to bring their calculator. Heck, one even gave up his Pokemon card collection to make sure he had one. He needs to get the 65.

Ultimately, it's the teacher's decision. I'm sure he'll get the 97, and I'm sure it will reinforce that he can be an asshat and get away with it.

What was particularly ironic about the whole thing was that the same day this took place, numerous friends posted a link to this article. It's worth the click to read it, but the gist of it is, good teachers are leaving the profession because parents are jack-wagons who won't allow them to do their jobs. It talks a lot about parents fighting teachers for higher grades for their kid, or making excuses when their kid doesn't do their work.

I can guarantee you I'm not one of those parents.

I hear a lot about helicopter parenting and free range parenting. I don't feel that I fall into either of those categories.

On the one hand, I don't ever try to protect my kids from consequences they deserve. Do I like it when they feel bad or get a bad grade? Of course not. But I also don't want them to grow up to be the kind of person who whines that they got a ticket when they knowingly parked illegally.

I don't want them to think for one second that mom and dad will bail them out of jail. I want them to know that mom and dad will still love them no matter what, and will visit them regularly at the penitentiary, but they will sit in jail until they've paid their debt to society for whatever it is they've done.

Consequences for stupid choices are hard. The sooner they learn that, the better.

Consequences for smart choices are awesome. The sooner they learn that, the better.

On the other hand, they will be in booster seats until the recommended age/height/weight. They will wear bike helmets. They will wash their hands often, and brush their teeth daily. They will not eat junk instead of dinner.

They will not ride their bikes out of my sight until I know for sure they won't get in a stranger's car. They will not play inside a friend's house if I haven't met the parents and know that parents are home.

I will not let my 5 year old use the stove or a knife without my help.

When they were babies, I put them to sleep on their sides and didn't put bedding or toys in their cribs.

I didn't eat soft cheeses even though I lived in Europe for my first pregnancy.

I hear people go on all the time about how they never wore a seat belt or a bike helmet. How they weren't put in a car seat as a baby. How their mother smoked a pack a day and washed it down with a six pack of beer when she was pregnant. How they ate lead paint chips for snack every day and look--they survived.

Just because you survived doesn't make those things safe or O.K. It just means natural selection had bigger fish to fry that week.

Yes, most of us survived those things. Our parents didn't know any better and we got lucky. But too many didn't survive them, and it's sad because it could have been prevented had people known. Of course we can't completely protect our kids from harm and injury, but I'm certainly going to do all I can.

So, I don't know what you'd call me. I don't know where on the spectrum between helicopter and free range I fit in.

All I do know is that my honor student can kick your honor student's ass, but they'll be grounded for a week if they do.

(Ooh! Speaking of school, The Oatmeal had this today. Read it right now! (There's some swearing, so beware if swearing offends you.))

I don't understand it either.

2011-09-03T17:55:00.005-05:00

Apparently last Tuesday was my three year blogiversary. I didn't even realize it until my statistics provider sent me a congratulatory e-mail.

In the e-mail, they listed the number one most viewed post on this site over the past three years.

I've had 21,372,568 page views as of five minutes ago, and a full 6,186,489 have been of this particular post. Before I clicked the link to see which post it was, I had a few ideas about which it would be. None of them were this one.

I still don't understand why it's number one, but here you go. Apparently you like it. A lot.

Now, go have some fish for dinner. It's brain food, you know.

(Originally posted August 10, 2009)

Taking care of business Edited.

Did you know I thought you spelled business buisness up until about a year ago? I did. Sad, I know.

Anyway, I need to take care of a little business, but if you stick it out and keep reading, there's a tale from Wal-Mart at the end.

Business Item #1:

*Based on e-mail response, it apparently wasn't clear that this item of business should be read with a heavy dose of sarcasm. SARCASM, people!!*

It has been brought to my attention that several people have been offended because my friends and I refer to ourselves as The Fat Frumpy Five (FFF). First of all, really? Really? Why on Earth do you care? Is it because of the terms fat and frumpy or is it because we said "five," making it appear we're some uber-exclusive club?

Here's the deal: We are fat and frumpy. Maybe we're not always fat or always frumpy, but I'm sure even supermodels have days when they feel fat and/or frumpy. We choose to embrace our inner fat frumpiness. Get over it.

If it's because of the Five aspect, I'd like to remind all the offended parties that we only became a fivesome because we were never invited to take part in the other girls' reindeer games. The only difference between our "clique" and your "cliques" is that we gave ours a name and didn't pretend it didn't exist. Don't be jealous of our creativity.

However, in the interest of keeping the peace, The FFF has decided that we will change our name, eliminating the elitist "five" from our nomenclature. Henceforth we shall be known as The BFFs. Big. Fat. Frumpies.

Is that better?

Business Item #2:

As today is our first day of school, I'd like to remind you that Ashbellum began at 4:00. I hope you're not working!

Business Item #3:

Bad Girl's book club, right here, Saturday the 15th. We're reading The Rapture of Canaan by Sheri Reynolds.

O.K., and now for the promised Wal-Mart story.

Click on this for a larger view. It's worth it.

I was in line today and the woman in front of me was chatting up the cashier. I'm basing this solely on memory, but it's as close to word for word as I can get.

"Hoo boy, it's going to be hot today. I was going to go down and fish in the pond by Joseph's Creek, but I don't know. Maybe we'll just go to Red Lobster. I got me a coupon in the mail. I need me some fish. I'm taking a GED class and fish is brain food. Ain't no lie. I been eatin' fish for two weeks and my test scores went up. Brain food, fish is. That's why them Japanese are so smart. Daddy don't like it much, but since he ain't got no teeth he can't eat red meat. Sos I make him eat the fish. I'm the one doin' the cookin' , sos he eats the fish or he goes hungry. Sometimes I'll fry him up a pork chop and put it in the blender with some gravy. It makes it like mulch, but he ain't got no teeth and he loves them pork chops. I tell him the fat will just kill him faster. Maybe that's why he wants it. Fish, now. Fish is good for the heart, too. That's why them Japanese live so long. They're smart and live longer than roaches. It's because of the fish, I'm tellin' ya."

I LIVE HERE.

*****
(Note: I no longer live there. And one of the few things I miss is the free entertainment of a rural Georgia Wal-Mart. Also, I've gotten some e-mails over the years complaining that I'm making fun of the way Southern black people speak. For the record, fish lady was white. That's just how a lot of Southerners speak. I'm not sure why people think it's racial. The further South you get, and the further from a major city, the less grammatically correct the spoken language, regardless of skin color. I mean, isn't it kind of racist that you assumed it was a black person?)

Could be hormones, could just be that you're a jerk.

2011-09-01T18:36:00.003-05:00

So, I've had a bad couple of days, internets. I should warn you upfront that this is pretty much just going to be a premenstrual pity party.

I feel kind of picked on this week. Like the kid at school whose friends suddenly turn on them and start stealing their lunch money and giving them wedgies. Except that instead of school it's Facebook. And instead of wedgies it's judge-y private messages.

I know. I'm going to be that person who whines about people being mean to them on Facebook. It's O.K. if you want to leave now.

First, I commented on a friend's picture. The comment was mildly insulting, but it was a joke. It's just how it goes--I insult her, she says something to make me feel sexually uncomfortable and it all works out in the end. She knows I'd give her one of my kids' kidneys if she needed one (What? I need mine). But a well-meaning mutual friend messaged me and chastised me for being cruel and questioned why this person remained my friend.

Which then made me question if my friend really did know I was kidding. Sometimes I can be really oblivious. If this random person who doesn't really talk to either of us thinks I'm mean, maybe I am. So I asked. She knew I was kidding. It was all fine. And then she made me feel sexually uncomfortable again. (Not really, but I'm sure it's coming.) (That's what she said.) (Sorry.)

But I stayed annoyed about it. I was annoyed that this person stuck her nose in my business, but more annoyed that I let it make me doubt myself.

Then yesterday I posted about an incident with Ben. The incident doesn't matter. It wasn't a huge deal--I just wanted to know if my reaction was warranted. Through the course of the comments I said something that was apparently akin to sacrificing puppies in a pagan ritual.

I came home from running errands to find several messages from people telling me I was a bad, bad person. I don't love God and I'm selfish and really, I shouldn't be allowed to breathe their air.

You should probably know that this was about cleaning a church bathroom. So, yeah. Not helping to clean the public bathrooms once a month is right up there with, I don't know...murder or not liking Jell-O.

(And there's no need to comment on church bathroom cleaning policies. It's not about that. I was just making a point about how trivial a thing it was that caused so many mean spirited messages.)

The thing with Facebook is that these are friends. I don't randomly friend people for the sake of friending them. In fact, I almost never send friend requests (so if you've gotten one from me, consider yourself special because it meant I liked you enough to put aside my social anxiety and fear of rejection to send the request. Usually I just sit back and hope people send me a request).

I get nasty e-mails ALL THE TIME from this blog, but they rarely bother me. They're strangers, and more often than not, they're commenting on something I cared about two years ago but that they just barely found and read.

But the messages I got on Facebook were from people I know. People I kind of like. So it sucked a lot more.

And I know that people think it's better to send a private message when they have an issue with you. Normally I might agree. But sometimes I wish people would air their grievances publicly in the comments so that everyone else could see what jack-wagons they are.

Oh, and as the final cherry on top of the self esteem crushing sundae Facebook has been this week, I discovered that several family members have un-friended me. I went to send one a message to ask about a recipe and discovered we were no longer friends. I know sometimes Facebook does weird things and it could have been unintentional. But then I noticed that that whole branch of my family tree had un-friended me. Nice. I know who's off the Christmas card list this year. Sucks to be them, because my Christmas cards are going to be awesome this year.

I should wrap this up with some sort of resolution to stay of Facebook or how I'm not going to let jerks on my friend list get me down, but...no. I wasn't really going anywhere with this.

I just wanted to vent. Sorry.

(That's what he said!)

No, I'm a unicorn.

2011-08-30T10:37:00.004-05:00

Have you guys seen this yet? It's been on several news outlets this morning.

It's exactly how pretty much every conversation I have with my kids (and certain Mormons) goes.

And I've decided that's going to be my standard answer when people ask me if I'm something from now on.

"Are you an Army wife?"
No, I'm a unicorn.

"Are you Liam's mom?"
No. I'm a unicorn.

"Are you coming to dinner?"
No, I'm a unicorn.

Au revoir.

Still a story worth telling.

2011-08-27T11:47:00.005-05:00

(This was originally written and posted on this date last year. I think it's still a story that should be told, so here it is again--with a couple of minor changes to reflect another miraculous birthday.)

~~Six~~ Seven years ago I was lying in a hot, airless hospital room in Germany, nine months pregnant with a baby I was told I would never be able to conceive. My blood pressure was steadily rising, and since I was full term, the German doctors decided it was time for a C-section.

I was wheeled off somewhere to be prepped for surgery. And shaved. There's nothing quite like a large German nurse wielding a Bic razor on your nether regions in a dark room deep in the bowels of a German hospital.

Finally I was brought to the operating room and Liam was born.

But I didn't get to see him. They stopped next to me with him for about three seconds--just long enough to touch his leg. Then he was whisked away to a different room. I assumed it was just how Germans did things.

And a few minutes later they called Will in to another room. After that it's all a little foggy. I've been told that Will came back in and told me that Liam was having trouble breathing (the understatement of the century). And apparently I freaked out, so the anesthesiologist sedated me. Heavily.

I don't remember anything after that. The next thing I do remember is being in another dark room on my hospital bed. Someone must have told me what was wrong with Liam because I was hysterical, but I don't remember when that took place or who told me. But I knew that he might die, and they wouldn't let me see him.

I begged and begged Will to make them let me see him. He asked, but I wanted him to insist. And I was mad that he wouldn't insist.

And then I was told that Liam would be transferred to the cardiac unit in another hospital, in another city, in a few hours. And they still wouldn't let me see him.

I hadn't seen him, and they were taking him away, and there was a very good chance that he could die.

I alternated between being near catatonic and not wanting to see or talk to anyone, and screaming that Will had to make them let me see him.

Finally they gave in and wheeled my hospital bed to the NICU just a few minutes before they transported him to the other hospital.

He spent a week at that hospital, getting just enough oxygen to not be brain damaged. The surgeons there had a plan to fix him, they told us, but he would probably require a heart transplant at some point.

Unbeknownst to us, one of the German surgeons confided in the American cardiologist who was working with us, that the surgical team didn't think he'd make it out of surgery alive. So, the American doctor made some calls and found a surgeon in Philadelphia who thought he might be able to do something, and if it worked he probably wouldn't need a heart transplant in the future.

So, we were hastily put on a med-evac flight with soldiers wounded in Iraq and flown to Washington DC. We stayed one night at Walter Reed Army Medical Center while we waited for a bed to open up in Philadelphia. During that night, some lab work came back abnormal and they discovered that in addition to his heart defects, he only had one kidney and it was deformed. Luckily, it's fairly common and not usually troublesome.

The next day Liam and I flew in a helicopter to Philadelphia and Will and Ben took the train. We set up camp at the Ronald McDonald House, and a team of surgeons met to decide what they were going to do.

A few days later they operated and it was a success. Sort of.

They had re-routed everything in his heart and replaced his faulty vessels with donor vessels, but his oxygen was still too low. They discovered that one of the stitches from the surgery had ripped a new hole in the septum of his heart. So, that meant open heart surgery number two, where the hole was repaired with a Dacron patch.

This time, complete success.

A week later we went home.

We were told he'd need another surgery by one year to replace the donor vessels. They came from cadavers, so they wouldn't grow with him.

A year came and went. Then two. Then three. And four. And five. And today he's ~~six~~ seven, and still hasn't needed another surgery. It's coming, though. We can't avoid it forever. But to make it to ~~six~~ seven on the replacement parts put in at one week old is rather miraculous, according to all the cardiologists he's had.

The fact that just two years before he was born, a Japanese cardiac surgeon developed a surgery that could correct a defect with the level of complications that Liam's had is also pretty miraculous. And then add to that the fact that the surgery had only been done four times ever, and that one of the only two surgeons in the world to have performed it just happened to be working at the children's hospital in Philadelphia where Liam's case was sent for a second opinion.

So, today we overlooked the fact that he's on the verge of getting expelled from first grade, because he's here.

Every birthday is a little miracle.

~~Tonight~~ Last year on his birthday he used some birthday birthday money to buy himself a new heart--Iron Man's heart. You know, just in case.
(Update: This year he decided to hoard his money.)

Age Seven: Still a super hero.

What kind of friend are YOU?

2011-08-26T15:17:00.003-05:00

I was browsing in a little boutique in Nashville today {Also browsing? Alison Krauss. For real. I may have peed a little. But I've had a couple of kids, so sometimes I pee a little for no reason at all}.

Anyway, they had a line of handmade cards. If they weren't $30 for a pack of ten, I would have bought a set. And a couple of you would have gotten my very favorite one.

Front:

The Friend Scale

Which of the following would you do for a friend?

A. Post their bail.

B. Cut a bitch for them.

C. After a few glasses of wine,
help them explore their bi-curiosity.

D. After a few glasses of wine? Who needs wine?

Inside:

E. All of the above.

So, what kind of a friend are you?

Things you probably didn't want to know for $200, Alex.

2011-08-23T18:14:00.005-05:00

FYI: If you do a Google image search for "tampons and boobs," THIS is what you get.

1. I completely emptied my purse today for the first time in about a year. You guys, guess what I found in the bottom of my "lady emergency" pocket? Two O.B. Ultra tampons! The ones with the purple label! The ones they discontinued! The ones that hold roughly a gallon of fluid!

You know how it's kind of exciting to get out your winter coat for the first time in forever and find a wadded up $20 in the pocket? This was like that, except it was like finding ten wadded up hundred dollar bills instead.

I'm going to squirrel those babies away until I really need them. Like a cross country flight on day two or something.

I know. All the men who read this are thinking,"Day two? What does that even mean? " Boys, I say to you: Why are you even still reading this blog? You do realize I wrote about nothing but my menstrual cycle for nearly a month once, right? That my one (failed) shot at fame was over my hard hitting expose' on a tampon shortage?

2. I have to supplement protein. It's just part of the deal with gastric bypass surgery. I normally use whey protein supplements because they're the best for you (Well, maybe not for you specifically. I mean, maybe you're lactose intolerant. But best for someone who can't absorb protein very well and is not lactose intolerant).

Anyway, the whey supplements have been making me sick lately, so I switched over to soy protein supplements about a month ago.

I've gone up three cup sizes since then. (Again, men: Why are you even still here? No, I'm not talking about the size of the vessel in which I place my soy protein shake.)

It's like I'm breast feeding quadruplets. It's disturbing. I'm sure part of it is due to the I'm-not-telling-you-how-many pounds I've gained lately (eff you, thyroid), but not all of it. I had read that excess soy in your diet can sometimes enhance one's natural boobaliciousness (Men: That goes for you, too. Put down the edamame), but this is kind of ridiculous. I can barely even put my arms down, and forget button up shirts.

So, I can go back to the whey and experience daily bouts of explosive diarrhea (What? I warned you. Read the title), or I can walk around looking like Christina Hendricks minus the flawless skin, small waist, full lips and successful acting career.

Decisions, decisions.

Women of a certain age.

2011-08-19T15:58:00.003-05:00

(I stole this picture from Bluntcard.com.
You must visit them immediately.
I particularly love their whore-themed line of cards.)

So, today is my birthday. Or, the day Elvis was buried, as it's known in my family.

I've reached the point where it physically hurts to say how old I am, but let's just say I'm on the downhill slope toward my early seventies.

To celebrate, I skipped the gym and took a long nap after the kids left for school (as Amelia got on the bus I heard her happily exclaim, "It's my mom's birthday! She's 56!"). Then I bought myself a new book, wandered around the mall, and took myself out to a movie.

If you ever want to see the definition of lonely and pathetic, go to a romantic comedy in the middle of a weekday. There were six of us in the theater, all of us there alone. On the bright side, I didn't have to share my popcorn. Also, I'm pretty sure I still look younger than Julianne Moore. It's a tough call.

Later, I'm taking the kids out to dinner. I've overheard them secretly plotting together for three days about how they can tell the waiter it's my birthday so the whole waitstaff can sing to me. They don't really seem to care about the singing, but the promise of free dessert is a siren call they can't resist.

There's also a carnival going on across the road from my house. I may have convinced the kids that the whole carnival was in honor of my birthday. I mean, why else would they set up a carnival on some random empty lot within walking distance of our house on my birthday? Unfortunately, I didn't think it all the way through. If it's in my honor, I have to make an appearance. There's nothing like a few toothless carnies, the tilt-a-whirl and some fried dough to add a little excitement to your birthday, so maybe we'll stop by.

Then, once I've ~~locked them in their rooms~~ put them to bed, I'm going to spend the remainder of the evening with my sassy gay TV BFF Tim Gunn.

So, while it would be better to have my husband home, I have to say that today didn't suck.

(And thank you all for the Facebook birthday wishes. They really did brighten my day.)

If I'm going to write about wieners, it's going to be because I love wieners.

2011-08-18T08:09:00.006-05:00

So, if any of you are holding out hope that I'm eventually going to hit that level of blogging where I'm able to lavish you with amazing giveaways, I'm afraid you're going to be sorely disappointed.

I was contacted yesterday by a company that wanted to sponsor me, and in turn, provide some (admittedly, pretty awesome) prizes for me to giveaway. The catch was, I needed to become a brand. I needed to create a Facebook page for the blog and then get 1000 "likes," among several other things designed to separate Brandi The Blog from Brandi The Person.

Before I go any further, let me make it clear right now that I have nothing against people who choose to do this. I am all for people getting paid for doing what they love. This is not a diatribe against the bloggers who go corporate. This is about me and MY choice only.

And I just couldn't do it. As much as I would love to be able to give you all things, and even more to be able to support myself with writing, I'm having a hard time with the requirements.

I responded to the company that I have my personal Facebook page, and that I make that available to my readers who choose to send me a friend request. (Why you would want to subject yourself to a constant stream of my commentary on the minutiae of my life, I don't know, but there you go). They replied that no, the blog would have to have it's own page because I am "different and separate from [the blog]."

And that's kind of where they lost me. Because it's not separate. There are some people--even some well meaning friends--who believe that I am a "persona" when I write here, and am different in person.

While it's true that I often am different in person, it's not because I put on an act here. It's because I'm debilitatingly shy in person, and I also try not to purposefully offend people to their faces. (I much prefer to offend people with blanket statements on the internet.) And because I am a human being, I have facets of my personality that come out more around certain people. For example, someone might be comfortable doing pole dancing moves while singing children's church songs in front of some people, but would not be as comfortable doing that in front of others. Not that I know anyone who would do such a thing, but you know, hypothetically speaking.

So, what you get here is actually more me than the me you might get in person. ~~Minus pole dancing to religious music.~~

Also, I don't want to be required to write a post about a product, even if I'm allowed to be honest about how I feel about the product.

Do you know how many blog posts I've read over the past couple of weeks about Hillshire Farms sausages? A lot. And they're from bloggers who are incredible writers. I respect their choice to earn a living, but I hate going to a blog and reading an oddly out of character post about cooking Hillshire Farms sausage for dinner, and then getting to the end and finding out it was a sponsored post. A few of those bloggers have started telling you up front that it's sponsored so at least you don't feel violated (by unexpected wieners) after reading it and discovering it was all an ad, but still.

Anyway, the point is, I consider this blog to be a look into my life--a way for me to interact without the constraints of shyness, and I'm not ready for it to be a billboard. But believe me, if I ever manage to marry myself a billionaire, It'll be pony rides and giant TVs for everybody.

Hide your wives, hide your kids.

2011-08-15T14:30:00.013-05:00

This is the most disturbingly

accurate picture of Ben ever taken.
It's like he didn't even need the old-timey costume.

Back in the saddle.

2011-08-12T12:31:00.004-05:00

That's me. On a horse. In 1976.
Check out the groovy bead curtain.
My parents were stylin'.

So, umm...long time no see, internets.

It's been a hard couple of weeks.

In case you missed it, my husband came home for his two weeks of R&R, and then went back to Afghanistan about a week and a half ago for another six months.

I know many of you reading this have been where I am. You've been through a long deployment. You're probably not surprised that I've been MIA for awhile. For the rest of you, let me try to explain.

Imagine that you haven't seen your spouse for around six months, and during that six months they've been in a place where people--some of them people you know--have died or been gravely injured. And even though you know your spouse is relatively safe, you also know that their living conditions are worse than you can probably imagine. Definitely worse than they tell you. And again, people have died.

But then they come home for two weeks! And it's glorious! You either go off on vacation, or visit family, or hole up at home, but whatever it is that you do, you put normal life on hold. Housework, errands, you name it. You do only what is absolutely necessary because you know you only get fifteen days, and even a confirmed OCD clean freak like myself doesn't want to squander any of it away cleaning toilets.

So, you spend your two weeks in a sort of suspended reality where there are no cares and few responsibilities, and oh--did I mention? You're not the one doing all the bedtimes and baths and discipline for those fifteen days.

And then the fifteen days end, and you go off to the airport and you kiss your spouse and wave goodbye and put them on a plane back to the place where people get killed and where you can't drink the water and where the stench is so overwhelming that you spent several days washing and Febreze-ing everything they brought home and it still smelled like human feces.

And you get home with your sad and angry kids and realize that all that stuff you put on hold for fifteen days is waiting for you.

And that you're back to shouldering the entire responsibility of parenting and all the crap (and vomit, and doctor appointments and back to school paperwork and homework battles) that comes with it.

And you spend a few days drowning in everything you have to do. But eventually you find your footing again and get your head back above water.

And that's where I am now. I'm still chin deep, and I think someone has been peeing in the pool, but I'm not drowning anymore.

The Beaver

2011-08-09T15:07:00.002-05:00

I have no less than a million things swirling around in my head to write about, but I just haven't had time. I haven't even had time to post the guest posts people wrote for me.

You know the kind of busy where when you finally stop moving you immediately fall into a coma-like sleep wherever it is you sat down? Yeah. I've had a couple weeks worth of those. And it's not even fun busy. Just busy busy.

I'll be back soon, I swear.

In the mean time, here's a picture to tide you over. Make of it what you will.

I Went Down Yonder on the Chattahoochee

2011-07-25T16:34:00.004-05:00

Heading down the creek

So, I'm still a little confused by the fact that, despite living with the redneckery for two years, I chose to go to Georgia for vacation. On purpose. But I did. I'm also confused as to why I repeatedly choose outdoorsy, woodsy places for vacation when I'm clearly not an outdoor girl. But again, I did. I don't know why it didn't occur to me that the woods in Georgia in the middle of summer would be teeming with big, gnarly bugs that want to eat my face off. Also, the extreme humidity has left my hair looking like I walked straight out of a Def Leppard video.

We rented a gorgeous cabin up in the Blue Ridge/Smoky mountains. The cabin is in the woods with a creek running behind it.

We've been having a blissfully lazy week. Tubing in the creek, panning for gold and gems (this was originally a gold and ruby mining town) with colanders from the dollar store, sleeping late, watching cable (Oh HGTV, I've missed you), playing our nerd board games, roasting marshmallows, hiking to waterfalls, biking, hot-tubbing...just enjoying our vacation.

We've got a few more days to go, but I wanted to stop in, say hello, brag a little about being on vacation, and dump a bunch of pictures on you.

See you in a few days!

The whitest family ever. Avert your eyes or risk blindness.

Not so interested in tubing, but she'll stand there and splash for hours.

~~Burning~~ Roasting hot dogs for dinner.

The screen porch, which I love.

Guest post: The Ten Year Nap

2011-07-22T07:33:00.003-05:00

{In case you missed it, my husband is home from the armpit of Afghanistan for the next couple of weeks. While I'm relaxing in a lovely cabin in the Smoky mountains of Northern Georgia, a few friends have stepped in and provided some material for your reading pleasure.}

Today's guest post comes from Rena Lesue-Smithey. She's an author (check out her book HERE), a teacher, a journalist for her local paper, has had one of her blogs featured in Redbook, and based on the moves we all saw in Vegas, could easily pick up a few shifts working the pole.

Today, she's talking about the sacrifices of motherhood.

(Rena and her pole dancing gams.
And presumably one of her children.)

The Ten-Year Nap

I just finished reading The Ten-Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer. It’ll be taught in colleges one day. Eminent Authors 450 taught by Professor Trey Abernathy—who will no doubt be a balding man with a bouncey nod, and light in his eyes. Also, this imaginary professor wears Chuck Taylors with his tan suits. But the important detail is that the class will be taught by a man.

I’m in a ten-year nap. I gave up my life.

For them.

That’s what motherhood is. The truncating of a woman’s life for the nourishment of another, beginning at conception and filling and fulfilling the innate function of our breasts with milk of women’s sacrifice. Shouldn’t the book be called The Eighteen-Year Nap? The Eternal Nap? Will I ever “one day…just [wake] up, and there [will be] somewhere that [I] need to be”? as Meg so poignantly states in her last line of this book.

I both heartily agree with and reject the idea behind Wolitzer’s last line in the book. Am I to suppose that my early motherhood years are to be considered a “nap”, when in fact I do very little sleeping and a whole lot of dirty work that a sanitation engineer may wince at. Is the latter part the sentence insinuating that working a paying job or volunteer work or anything that isn’t stay-at-home-y is the awake part of my life? The real living? That staying home with my kids is the “dream” and all else is the part where I’m awake? I’m quick to ask if Meg is a mom.

She is…which then leads me back to tending to agree with the same statement that I’m so infuriated with.

“But now the world […] had taken [the mothers]. He knew that this could happen. One day you just woke up, and there was somewhere you needed to be.”

Is it wrong that I feel myself trying to wake up every day? I smack my cheeks with “good literature”, splash the water of “continuing education” in my face, and jostle myself “meaningful conversation” just to get out of this motherhood “sleep”. This ethereal place where I can have a 20 minute conversation about my kid’s pink eye and spend another 20 on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet free of a marker ink…again.

“Are you being Superman?” I’ll ask my son, “Or Batman?” And meanwhile three more homes in the neighborhood are repossessed and the families left SOL.

“Did you just poop your pants again,” I’ll ask my son. And the next day, a student asks me if I was alive during WWII (I’m not even 30), then I have to scold a kid for derogatorily calling someone a “Jew”.

“Your son can really read,” I’ll say to a fellow mom, “He read ‘pizza’ on my microwave panel.” And meanwhile Egypt is single-handedly starting rebel wild-fires in snafu Middle-East.

And back to the other hand…

My daughter says, “Look , Mom. I read the word, ‘pot’. P-O-T. pot,” And in high schools across the nation, students are reading on a 5th grade level and experimenting with pot—some given to them by their parents. And other parents complain about their kids having too much homework. And everyone blames the teachers and the education system. And I wanna give President Obama a hug for telling parents to turn off the TV already and read a book for Lincoln’s sake.

Motherhood is the most important job of a society. More than soldiers who protect society. More than politicians who lead society. Because…

We raise society. We provide a moral and educational foundation that ought to be firm enough to withstand life’s alterations, tempests, and Time.

But it is a sacrifice. Perhaps allegorical to the sacrifice. After all, we lay down our lives for them. Take an eternal nap for our children. We won’t be waking up because there’s somewhere we need to be. We are already here.

Boots in my bedroom.

2011-07-19T07:30:00.002-05:00

See those boots and bags cluttering up my bedroom floor? Their owner is going to be keeping me occupied for the next two weeks.
I've got a few fun guest posts lined up, and I'll be posting a little bit, but mostly I'll be off enjoying my husband .
See you in August!

That's what friends are for.

2011-07-15T17:25:00.004-05:00

So, I was deleting a bunch of old texts on my phone--mostly from people looking for a good time with Lanisha--and realized that I have really insane conversations with my friends.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Crazy attracts crazy.

So, for your weekend enjoyment, here's a sampling of texts I've received. Names have been removed to protect the not so innocent.

Nothing will keep me from assless chaps!!!!

Let's talk about the guy on the treadmill next to me whose ass cheeks are slapping together.

I'm having sex and sleeping the rest of the day. The end.

You seem a little dirty-whorish to me.

Wouldn't it be funny if God made all the whiteys black?!?! I bet there would be a lot of pissed off white folks.

I don't think it really matters what sex the goat is. I'm pretty sure it has to be a human to be considered gay. My brain hurts. I'm not sure I ever had to think about this before.

I'll just drink till I pass out. That'll work.

I let Ben watch a dead snake burn the other day. Hope you don't mind.

We're at South of the Border. I'm looking for the sex shop.

I'm thankful for Batman. He makes the world a safer place.

Now I can be like a real porn star! It's the best gift EVER!

I was going to send you an e-mail with the Portuguese word for penis in it, but it turns out it's just penis. I'm so disappointed.

What's Brandi's bat-signal? A giant penis?

You're representing the whole world in this matter. No pressure.

I love you. In a strictly non-gay way. O.K., maybe a little gay.

Did you poop in it?

We have menstruation! I repeat, we have menstruation!!!!

The difference a day makes.

2011-07-13T14:50:00.003-05:00

So, if you happen to run into me today, be warned that I might punch you in the taco. I'm in a foul mood.

Will was supposed to leave Afghanistan for his 2 weeks of R&R tomorrow. He went today to make sure everything was set for his flight and was told, "Oops. We don't fly on Thursdays anymore. Forgot to tell you that last week when you came in to schedule everything. You should have flown out today instead. You'll have to try your luck a different day. Sorry that I'm such an idiot that I forgot to tell you that we don't actually have any flights on the day I told you you'd fly. Heehee."

O.K., so maybe I'm paraphrasing. But just a little.

I'd love to be able to give you another example--and oh, it's a good example--of the intelligence and good decision making of this person, but several years ago I agreed that Will's job was off limits on the blog. I'm probably walking a very fine line as it is.

Anyway, this means that he'll be delayed leaving Afghanistan by at least a day.

And really, a day isn't much, I know that. And there's no knowing how many days he'll be stuck in Kuwait waiting for a flight, or Germany, or wherever else he might have to stop before he finally gets to Atlanta and can catch a commercial flight home. So, this delay in leaving Afghanistan may not change when he would have gotten here anyway.

But talk about a morale killer. His and mine. That (hopefully only one) extra day feels like they told him he had to wait three weeks.

It's been a long six months, with another long six months to go. The light ~~at the end~~ in the middle of the tunnel was finally in sight, and now it feels like someone rolled a boulder in front of the opening.

(So, speaking Will's R&R, I'll be otherwise occupied for the next couple of weeks. Anyone want to do a guest post? It doesn't even have to be new material. Maybe you have a post on your own blog that you particularly like and want to share. E-mail me at the address on the above right. Put guest post in the subject so I know it's not spam and/or hate mail. Although I haven't gotten any hate mail lately. I miss it.)

Imelda Marcos was a first grader once, too.

2011-07-11T14:50:00.009-05:00

Amelia begged and begged me to buy her these for the first day of school.

Her most convincing argument?
"I think these are made out of Barney."

Musical Notes

2011-07-08T19:21:00.004-05:00

That song "If I Die Young" concerns me. I can just see it being the catalyst for a spate of 14 year old emo-girl suicides. And they'll all leave notes telling their loved ones to bury them in satin.

It drives me insane when I'm flipping through radio stations trying to find something I like and I stop on a good song only to realize it's just Jack FM's station break where they play clips of a bunch of songs.

Like my inexplicable love for all bad end-of-the-world disaster movies, I also love all duets. I can't think of one I don't like at least a little. Even country ones. Scratch that. Especially country ones. I know. I can't explain it either.

"Pretty Young Thing" takes on a creepy quality after learning of Michael Jackson's alleged fondness for pretty young things.

Thank you, Katy Perry, for forcing me to explain to my 5 and 6 year old what menage a trois means. I told them it means three people living in a house together (which is the literal translation, so I didn't even lie). Amelia piped up with, "Oh, so before Liam and I were born, you and daddy and Ben were a menage a trois!"

Bang.

2011-07-04T15:49:00.002-05:00

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

So, happy 4th of July, internets.

Normally, I like this holiday--the barbecues and fireworks and parades. I especially liked it in Germany. There's something about a whole community of Americans coming together to celebrate our nation's independence while in another country as part of the post WWII occupation.

This year...I don't love it so much. This year, I'm exhausted, and it's all The 4th of July's fault.

I guess I'm just old. I don't know. But the fireworks the neighbors have been setting off until well past midnight are killing me. Last night I found myself laying in bed on the verge of tears from pure exhaustion saying, "Please just stop. Please just stop. Please just stop."

But the night before last was far worse.

They kept going off until around 12:30 am. They finally stopped and I drifted off to sleep. Around 2:15 I was jolted awake by several more rounds. A few minutes later I heard a woman screaming for help out in the street.

I went downstairs and debated going outside. On one hand, I didn't want to ignore her if she needed help. On the other hand, I didn't want to get caught in the crossfire of a shoot out, or catch the attention of a zombie axe murderer. You never know why someone might be screaming for help. So, I looked out the window to assess the situation. Several other [far braver and selfless than I] neighbors were already running toward her. So I headed out to the porch to find out what was going on.

Her husband just returned from Afghanistan a couple of months ago. He's infantry and had been involved in numerous firefights and had also been in a vehicle hit by an IED. Understandably, he suffered from PTSD.

He was fine during all the fireworks being set off up through midnight because he was awake and expecting them. But, like most everyone else on the street, he was sound asleep at 2 am when the second round started.

His wife said he jolted out of bed, took cover under the bed and started screaming. He was screaming for help. Screaming that he needed a medic. Screaming that they'd taken hits.

She couldn't calm him down, and she worried he'd eventually go for their gun to defend himself. And that's how she ended up in the street screaming for help. The police arrived within a few minutes, and a few of the other soldiers from our street went in with them. They knew they'd probably be better equipped to talk him down than anyone else.

I went back in and went to bed, so I'm not sure what happened after that. But it made me think about all the other soldiers here who have just returned home from places where the sounds of shots and booms were not equated with a holiday celebration. And then I reminded myself that I should be thankful that late night fireworks are only a nuisance for me, and not something that could trigger abject fear and horror.

So, tonight while you're watching fireworks, I hope you remember, too.

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Things that make me stabby for $200, Alex.

2011-06-29T11:40:00.004-05:00

1. The Department of Motor Vehicles. I had to spend three hours waiting to get my Tennessee license last week. I understand that there's a lot of tedious paper work involved, and they're understaffed. But I'm thinking that things would go a lot faster if A) Five of you didn't stop what you were doing to go stand around and shrug your shoulders and be all, "Beats me. I dunno what's wrong," when someone's computer screen freezes up. And B) If the picture lady stopped taking pictures of all the kids who tagged along with their parents. I get that you're just being friendly, but you're quadrupling the wait time. Also? The whole reason I had to waste a day at the Tennessee DMV was because some genius at the Utah DMV has decided that she knows more than my doctor. I've had to submit paperwork yearly stating that my diabetes doesn't make me a danger to others. My doctor has now sent them two certified letters stating that I'm not diabetic and the yearly paperwork is unnecessary. The response from the DMV lady? "Diabetes can't be cured. Submit the paperwork or your license will be suspended." Bite me DMV, lady.

2. Spam texts. I get all excited thinking I have a text from a friend (Umm, yes. I am that lonely that the thought of a text gets me excited), and then I open it just to find that some company wants to lend me money. Same with e-mails. I see that I have mail in my inbox, and wonder which friend has sent me a message only to find that it's just some Canadian who wants to enlarge my penis.

3. Cat farts.

4. Sylvester Stallone's acting. I've heard that Sylvester Stallone is a very kind and generous man. Sylvester, I'm sure you're just a lovely human being. But for the love all that's good and holy, please, please don't ever make another movie. Apparently there was yet another sequel to Rocky recently. They played it in the cardio-cinema at the gym last week. I had to leave. That's how bad it was. The story itself seemed like maybe it could have been O.K., but the acting was painful. (Oh, speaking of the cardio-cinema, someone must have found out about the back row stationary bike trysts going on, because the whole back row has been replaced with shiny new treadmills, and foot lights have been installed. All the stationary bikes are front and center.)

5. Bieber hair on adults. It's bad enough on 16 year old boys and adult lesbians (click that--it's fun), but it crosses the line into unacceptable on a 35 year old man. C'mon people, even Bieber doesn't have Bieber hair anymore.

Tiny Bullies

2011-06-24T07:50:00.004-05:00

I try to teach my kids to be nice people, I really do. I enforce politeness and courtesy. I really, really try my best to instill in them the idea that it doesn't matter what people look like or what they believe--everyone is entitled to be treated the way we would like to be treated.

But yesterday, in a spectacularly embarrassing public display of cruelty and bad manners, my kids proved that I am somehow failing at all of the above.

We had to stop by our pediatrician's office to pick up a prescription. In line in front of us was a little girl--maybe 8 or 9 years old--who obviously had some developmental and physical disabilities. She turned around and was smiling and trying to talk with Liam and Amelia.

Immediately Liam and Amelia began their (short lived) reign of terror. They said disparaging things about everything from the way she spoke to the way she held her hands to the way her hair was cut.

I was shocked, appalled, and had no idea what to do.

With every cruel remark they made, I interrupted and told them they weren't being nice and that God made everyone different and look! She's saying hello! Say hello back! The little girl didn't seem to understand that they were being hurtful. She just kept sweetly smiling and trying to tell them about her sparkly light up shoes. But the mother--I couldn't even look at her. I can only imagine how hurt and angry she must have been.

And they just wouldn't stop. I've never been so angry and disappointed in my kids. Not ever. I have to say that this is probably the worst thing any of them has ever done. And I have a kid who conned the entire panel of 4H judges at the county fair, so that's saying a lot.

I finally just grabbed their arms and said, "You are being mean and cruel and it's going to stop." And I dragged them out of there. The prescription could wait.

I got them to the car and let loose with tirade about what it means to be kind and compassionate and that it's normal to be curious about someone who looks or acts differently, but it's hurtful to make fun of them for it, especially when it's something the person has no control over.

But I still can't get the mother out of my head. Did I do enough? Should I have done something differently? I was honestly so shocked that they were saying such things that I didn't know how to respond.

How would you handle it, internets? I know that some of you have children with disabilities--how would you have wanted me to handle it had it been your child? And short of chaining them in their rooms for the next 12 years, does anyone have any suggestions for making sure this never happens again?

And if by some chance you are the mother of that little girl and you're reading this, I'm so very sorry.

When internal organs go astray.

2011-06-21T16:12:00.003-05:00

I got the following e-mail yesterday:

Brandi,
I'm a long time reader and I'm coming out of lurker status because I'm worried. You usually post several times a week but lately it's only once or twice a week. Is everything O.K.? Is your husband O.K.? Did anything happen? Sorry for sounding like a stalker or a creeper. I've been reading for years and I feel like we're friends and if one of my friends suddenly stops talking to me as often as usual, I get worried. Hope everything's O.K.

Creepy-stalker Janey

Dear Creepy-stalker Janey,

Thanks for being concerned. Everything is O.K., and my husband is fine.

Do you remember about a year ago when I was whining about my thyroid because it was acting all crazy, and I had to ingest radioactive iodine to find out what was wrong and almost had to forgo the tummy tuck over it? No? I'd link to the posts but my thyroid is making me so tired I don't have the energy to look for it. Long story short: My thyroid inexplicably went haywire and I felt like crap. But it went haywire in such a way (hyperthyroidism) that I lost an extra 20 pounds and got down to a size four. So, as far as medical maladies go, it wasn't so bad.

It finally stabilized and they told me to expect to gain back a few pounds. They also warned me that often it over corrects itself and goes crazy the other way (hypothyroidism). I did gain a few pounds, but for nearly a year my thyroid remained stable.

And then last month it decided to up and quit. Suddenly my thyroid had become about as useful as a college drop out living in his mom's basement laying around smoking pot all day (which would totally explain my constant munchies).

I gained 15 pounds in two weeks (which makes 30 pounds in the past year for those of you keeping score, and I know some of you are). Two weeks. And it's not going away.

I'm living in stretchy pants and constantly praying that my tummy tuck scars don't burst open.

And I'm tired. Like, eight months pregnant in the dead of summer kind of tired.

I've stepped up my workouts to try to combat any further weight gain, but when I get home I'm so exhausted that I really just want to sleep all day. But there are kids to feed and laundry to wash and toilets to clean, so napping doesn't happen as much as I'd like.

Oh, and my hair is falling out by the handful. I have to buy Draino at least once a week.

I'm waiting on a referral to an endocrinologist and hopefully we can figure something out.

So, that's why I haven't been writing as much lately. Not just here but in general--texts and e-mails and notes included.

And Janey? Thanks again for asking. I wanted to whine about it but couldn't find a good excuse.

~Brandi

Guns 'n Nerdses

2011-06-16T18:47:00.005-05:00

I'd want this one.

So, Will wants a gun.

I realize this may sound strange considering I'm talking about someone in the Army who carries a firearm daily, but I've never thought of him as a "gun person." I don't even know what a gun person is--I just never thought he was one of them. But apparently he is.

The idea of a gun in our house makes me really uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. I'm not one of those people who thinks guns should be banned. I just...I don't know. The idea of it doesn't sit well with me.

I partially blame Beverly Hills 90210.

If you're between the ages of 32 and 40 you know what I'm talking about.

See? This is what can happen when nerds handle guns. This was etched into my 16 year old brain.

I've taught my kids over and over to never touch a gun without an adult's permission even if they think it's a toy gun. I've explained and explained that if a real gun has bullets in it, they could accidentally kill someone else or themselves. However, when we were standing in line at Wal-Mart last week, Liam spied a toy gun laying on the shelf at the check out. He picked it up, pointed it at Amelia and pulled the trigger. Then he proclaimed, "O.K., it's only a toy gun. I just checked. No bullets came out."

Will says that if we got one, we'd keep it unloaded and locked in a safe. While that would ease my mind, it also seems to defeat the purpose of having a gun. I'm sure an intruder is going to wait for me to open the safe and load the gun before he kills us all.

And then he played the zombie apocalypse card. Which, you know, he has a point.

What do you think, internets? Do you have a gun? How do you feel about them in your house? Scott Scanlon flashbacks aside, do you have any ideas as to why the thought of a gun bothers me so much? I need your insight.

Mullet Monday!

2011-06-13T13:06:00.003-05:00

I've got a Very Special installment of Mullet Monday for you today, internets.

Behold the awesomeness that is...

...MY mullet, circa 1986.

That's me in the stripes. I thought I was pretty hot stuff in that outfit. I remember that I got it to wear for fifth grade field day. You can't see it, but it had an open back with just a few straps criss-crossing it to keep it all together. Also? That's all one piece. The top and bottom are attached.

Between my fashion sense and obviously cutting edge hair style, I can't understand why I wasn't popular.

It's a mystery.

That one time my anniversary sucked.

2011-06-12T16:27:00.003-05:00

My actual wedding ring. Which I love. So if you don't like it
feel free to shut your pie hole.

So, yesterday was my anniversary.

And I was alone.

But it was still better than the last time I was alone for our anniversary. That was four years ago, the first time he was gone for a year.

It was our 10th anniversary, which is kind of a big deal. I don't know why ten is more important than, say, eleven. Eleven is MORE. But we like those nice, even numbers I guess.

Anyway, I woke up to find that Amelia had had a diaper blow out of massive proportions. Liam was sick. Ben was...Ben. Will was on a British base in Iraq getting the crap bombed out of it. It wasn't a great day.

And then sometime after breakfast I noticed that the diamond from my wedding ring was gone.

On my 10th anniversary.

When I was alone.

I know that it's just a thing. Just a stone that can be replaced. I mean, it came from ShopKo, not Tiffany's, and was bought during an 80% off sale with my employee discount on top of that (Don't knock 80% off sales and employee discounts, people. We saved over $2500. It's better than a fistful of coupons and a shopping cart full of hot dogs and Jello). But anyway, I was really, really upset. I locked myself in my room and cried for about an hour.

Then I searched the house with a magnifying glass. The problem was, I had no idea when I lost it. I discovered it was gone on my anniversary, but it could have been missing for days before that. It was gone.

I sucked it up and got it replaced. I didn't even upgrade to a bigger diamond and it still cost twice as much as we originally paid for the ring.

I had a point here but I don't remember what it was anymore.

Don't pay full price for jewelry? Anniversaries suck when you're alone? I should have replaced it with cubic zirconium and saved a few hundred bucks?

I think it was something like that.

In any case, yesterday was disaster free. It still sucked that we couldn't be together, but it was nice to wake up and realize that we've made it through 14 years without divorcing and/or killing each other.

That's no small feat.

Queen of the backhanded compliment.

2011-06-08T16:59:00.003-05:00

Don't let her sweetness fool you.

Amelia, at the tender age of five, has mastered the art of the backhanded compliment. Her only saving grace is that she isn't deliberately trying to leave my ego in a shattered mess. She'll save that for when she's 15 and hates me.

Here are a few of her latest ego-busting observations:

"Your hugs are so much softer now that you're fatter."

"It's great that that big hair on your chin is white, because it makes it hard to see."

"You cook the most wonderfulest food ever, even though it always makes me throw up in my mouth."

"You look like just like a famous person--Justin Bieber's grandma!"

"Your voice is like an angel...who has a sore throat."

"That polish on your toe nails is beautiful! It makes your feet look normal."

"I don't miss Ms. Hall [her kindergarten teacher] because you look just like her!" [Ms. Hall is in her late sixties, and looks it.]

"Mmmmm! What is that delicious smell like hot dogs? Mom, I think it's your breath!"

[While looking at a picture of the Earth from outer space] "It's so beautiful. It's kind of like your legs--all white and blue swirls."

"You have whiskers like the cats!"

Patriotism swells in the heart of the American bear.

2011-06-04T14:24:00.004-05:00

(If you know where that quote comes from without looking it up, we should hang out sometime.)

So, today I did what Oprah has referred to as "the ugly cry" on my front porch. But that's O.K., because there were fifty or so burly bikers and a good number of people from our community doing it with me.

I've mentioned that I'm kind of a hermit and I don't really know my neighbors, but this week I have learned a bit about our neighbors across the street. They're Chaz and Jessica Allen, and their two young daughters.

The Allens.
(Image stolen from The Leaf Chronicle.)

Chaz is a Staff Sergeant in the Army and was deployed to Afghanistan. On January 22nd he stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) which blew off both of his legs and shattered his elbow. But thankfully, he survived. He's been at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. since then.

His wife had to quit her job, and has spent the past several months alternating between spending a week here with her kids, and then a week in D.C. with her husband. Thanks to the kindness of those who have donated to organizations like Hero Miles, all of her plane tickets were paid for.

The rest of his unit came home in April. For those of you who aren't familiar with them, when a unit comes home from a deployment, it's a big deal. I'm sure you've seen pictures of families running across tarmacs, arms open, to greet their returning soldier. That's not just the stuff of movies--that's how it really is. It's extremely emotional.

SSG Allen was finally given the O.K. to come home for good today. Some of his friends felt bad that he'd missed out on the grand homecoming the others had gotten, so they arranged for a surprise homecoming for him at the small, local airfield he'd be flying into.

Local radio stations found out and got the whole community in on it. So, hundreds of people--most who had never even met SSG Allen or his family--showed up to greet his plane with cheers and signs.

And then the Patriot Guard escorted him and his family home.

The Patriot Guard entering the neighborhood.

Everyone in our neighborhood knew he'd be coming, and we all came out to wave and cheer as they came into the neighborhood.

The neighborhood converging to welcome him home.

And that's when I kind of lost it. I didn't cry because I was sad for him. I mean, I am--it's a horrible thing to lose both legs in that way. But he's doing extraordinarily well, and his family is being taken care of. I cried because of the outpouring of love and support from strangers for this family that was happening on my doorstep. Have I mentioned that our city rocks? Because it does. It may not be the prettiest place, and we may have the smallest, crappiest Target I've ever been to, but the people here love the military, and will pretty much do anything to support them.

The Allen's current home is two stories. They've added a ramp to the front, and have made some modifications inside, but what they really need to do is build a single story home to accommodate SSG Allen's needs. Fundraisers are being held this weekend, and ongoing donations are being accepted. If any of you feel so inclined, you can donate HERE.

And if you know a military member, go thank them. Right now. Don't wait for a designated holiday.

Get off my lawn! (Just kidding, large biker men.)

No title for you!

2011-06-01T14:49:00.003-05:00

Look! I'm not dead!

Sorry about the hiatus. It wasn't planned. The tech guys at Blogger apparently got taken up in the rapture, because I (and thousands of others) couldn't log in for days. And once it was finally working again, I was too busy. Basically, until this moment, I haven't sat down since Sunday.

I don't normally do bullet point posts, but today it just seems easiest. (I haven't sat down since Sunday, remember?)

Say what you will about Facebook, but I kind of love it. Sure, it can be terrible if used for the wrong reasons (posting drunken nudie pics of yourself, hooking up with exes, posting drunken nudie of yourself while hooking up with your exes, Farmville), but when used properly it's great. With Will gone, all the little inane things I would normally tell him need an outlet. Hello, Facebook! (Send me a friend request if you don't have quite enough inane rambling in your life.)

It's amazing the difference the absence of one kid makes. I dropped Ben off at a week long overnight camp on Monday. Since then, there is no pee on the toilet. There is no screaming in the house. Liam and Amelia have played Wii all afternoon without a single physical altercation. When Ben is home, Wii playing usually ends up looking like a scene from Cops. All that's missing is the trailer.

Speaking of Ben's camp, it's nicer than most resorts I've been to. It's quite swanky--vaulted ceilings, skylights, air conditioning, spa-like showers and bathrooms in the cabin. He's in for a rude awakening next week when he goes to Scout camp and has to sleep in a tent (that he has to set up himself), poop in the woods and bathe in a cold lake.

Ben on his bunk at swanky-camp

Liam is really, really good at entertaining himself and making the best of his situation. Being the mean mom that I am, I won't buy him a Nintendo DS. So, he made his own. And he's been playing with it for hours.

The front (top) and back (bottom) of Liam's DS. The game on the screen? Super Liam.

I don't know what the muscles in your armpits are called, but mine are soon to be hulk-like. I started swimming laps again after taking a year off. Nothing hurts but my armpits.

I had to have a discussion about ebonics and making sweeping blanket statements with the kids last week. Ben, for whatever reason, has started saying ain't all the time. Liam informed him that "only brown people and people with missing teeth say ain't."

Speaking of Life According to Liam, Batman only wears a cape so no one will see that he's not wearing any pants. Seems like a reasonable explanation to me.

As peaceful as it is with Ben gone, I'll be glad when he gets back so I can stop cleaning the litter box. And before someone cries Duggar, let me assure you that he was consulted before I agreed to host the kitties, and was on board with this chore assignment.

It's so hot out today that even the cats are laying on the AC vents.

I'm freaking tired.

Brandi's Tips for a Super Fun Summer!

2011-05-24T07:51:00.002-05:00

You want to know the biggest reason I'm really disappointed that the end of the world has been postponed until October? Because that means I still have to get through the entire summer break with my kids, by myself. Honestly, dodging brimstone and earthquakes sounds slightly more pleasant to me.

So, since today is the last day of school here, I thought I'd share my tips for having a Super Fun Summer while being forced to spend time with your children.

1. This one is the most important. Ship your biggest troublemaker off for the summer. Between camps and grandparents who live far away, you should be able to arrange for at least one of your children to be gone for the entire vacation.

2. Buy a good pair of headphones and never take them off. If you can't hear the whining and fighting, it's a lot easier to pretend your children don't exist. Bonus: Once your kids realize you can't hear them bugging you for stuff ~~like dinner~~, they eventually stop talking to you altogether.

3. Invest in a large bottle of melatonin. Slip five or six tablets into their Cheerios in the morning, and you're guaranteed to have a quiet, restful day!

4. Fake a drug problem and check yourself into rehab. That should buy you several weeks of being able to use the bathroom without children wandering in to tattle on a sibling. Have a "relapse" if you need more time.

5. Rent Swiss Family Robinson and have your kids watch it. Make a big deal of it and how "fun" it would be to be stranded on a deserted island. Then suggest your kids play Swiss Family Robinson in the playhouse in the back yard all Summer long! Give them each a sleeping bag and box of snacks, and tell them you'll see them when school starts again. Remind them that the real Swiss Family Robinson didn't come in the house for bathroom breaks or to watch Sponge Bob or to eat dinner.

6. Play lots of games with your kids, like The First One Who Makes a Single Sound Has to Scrub the Toilet. Or, Mommy's Really Sick and if you Whine it Might Make Her Die. Or, Hide and Go Seek (in which the children hide, and you seek...when you get around to it).

7. Lemonade stands are always a fun Summer activity. Set your kids up at the end of the driveway and tell them they're not allowed back in the house until they've made at least $500. It will teach them invaluable lessons about entrepreneurship and innovation. And should keep them out of the house for at least a week.

8. Use the summer as an opportunity to meet your neighbors, and then send your kids over to play in their yard. Every day.

9. Kids love crafts. Teach them to create "vintage" jewelry, and have them work on it for 8-10 hours a day in ~~an inhome sweatshop~~ a quiet, tucked away room, far from outside distractions. Open an Etsy store and use the proceeds to send them away to camp next Summer.

10. Play "Spa" every day. They think you're playing with them, but you get a massage and foot rub out of the deal.

Happy Summer Vacation!

It's the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine.

2011-05-20T13:57:00.003-05:00

In case you haven't heard, the world is ending tomorrow evening. I wish I'd known sooner. I wouldn't have bothered cleaning my bathrooms or shaving my legs.

Since we'll all either be taken up in The Rapture or destroyed in the apocalypse in the next 30-ish hours, I'd like to take this opportunity to say a few things. Clear the air...maybe burn some bridges.

1. I don't really give a flying crap what annoys you about people's Facebook posts. If I annoy you, unfriend me. I'm writing what I want. You know what annoys me? Rants about what you find annoying about Facebook posts.

2. Compete in triathlons, marathons, etc... because you enjoy it, not because it's what the "cool" people are doing.

3. Teaching primary at church is my own personal weekly hell.

4. You're not saving any money with that coupon if it's for something you wouldn't have bought in the first place.

5. I'll judge you for your dirty kitchen. Clutter and messes are totally excusable-- they happen to everyone ~~except me~~, but there's no excuse for filth. It's gross. Get off the computer and clean it up.

6. Bennett--I volunteer to be your third if the whole church thing doesn't work out.

7. I've had two doctors suggest that I likely have a mild form of Asperger's Syndrome. I haven't really discussed it much because I lead a (mostly) normal life. Knowing that I may have it hasn't changed anything about me or how I live (I'm just as socially inept and likely to miss sarcasm as always). Also, I see parents with children who have it and the daily struggle they face. I don't want to diminish what they deal with by blathering on about how I have it when I don't have the same struggle. It would be like the Americans living on military installations in Japan that I've been hearing putting themselves in the same category as the Japanese people who lost everything, including loved ones. Sure, they lived through the same disaster, but the experiences can't be compared.

8. I still think that gays should be allowed to marry, and that as long as churches aren't forced to perform the marriages against their will, then churches need to keep their noses (and tax exempt money) out of the legal battle. I think that if you think a gay couple getting married somehow diminishes your heterosexual marriage, you're an idiot. Personally, I think Liza Minnelli's marriage to David Guest was an abomination, but it didn't affect the sanctity of the vows I personally made.

9. Speaking of being gay, Ryan Seacrest: It's time to stop living a lie.

10. Friends don't let friends wear hipster glasses.

Happy Rapture, internets. More than likely I'll be struck down by brimstone (see number eight). It's been nice knowing you.

Every gym has its freaks.

2011-05-18T14:59:00.003-05:00

Just like at regular theaters, the pervs hang out in the back row.

So, I finally joined a gym a few weeks ago.

When we first moved here, I went to one of the free gyms on the military post. The gym was nice, but it was a long drive and I found myself making excuses not to go.

"I can't go to the gym today. Who will take care of these jalapeno chips if I'm gone? I have a responsibility to their spicy goodness!"

Then I found a sweet treadmill for $70 at a yard sale. I set it up in the garage, and with my weights and stability ball, I had myself a little home gym. Which was great until it got hot. Ninety degrees in a garage in the South is highly unpleasant. I lost my motivation to exercise when I was drenched in sweat before I even started. Also, the family room is directly above the garage, and even with the roar of the treadmill and ear buds in my ears, all I could hear was my kids screaming and jumping like they were holding a rave up there.

So I joined a gym. Air conditioning, pools, TVs, and a kids' program to keep them occupied for a couple of hours a day all summer.

I've been kind of disappointed because everyone has been normal. Half the fun of my two years at the Y in Georgia was the daily freak show that took place there. I miss the crazy parade.

But last week I finally discovered the freaks at my new gym.

One of the fun things about this new gym is a cardio theater. It's just like a regular movie theater, but instead of stadium seating, it has stadium cardio machines. It's where I do the majority of my cardio. Not because of the movies--those are just a bonus. I love it because I can exercise in the dark.

I can wiggle and jiggle and sweat and mouth-breathe all I want and no one can see me!

But I discovered there are some others at the gym who also enjoy having a dark room at their disposal.

On Friday I had to go all the way to the top row to find an empty machine. I usually never go further than the second row.

Apparently that's where all the freaks have been.

The woman next to me had stripped down to her bra and panties to run on the treadmill. I realize that it's a gym and women are in booty shorts and sports bras all the time. That's not what this was. Her bra was most definitely not a sports bra, and her panties were high waisted Hanes straight out of the 6 pack from Wal-Mart. And there was some serious butt crack sweat going on.

And at the end of the row was a couple was on a stationary bike. A couple. As in two people. On one bike. And they were very...happy. Have you ever seen Like Water for Chocolate? You know that scene where they're on the horse? Yeah. It was kind of like that.

That's not the kind of crazy I enjoy at the gym. All that does is make me even more vigilant about wiping down machines before I use them.

It kind of makes me long for the days of getting screamed at in the pool.

Nerd Olympics

2011-05-16T16:47:00.004-05:00

Not my team.
These guys are a thousand times cooler than our team was.

So, I know I'm about a year and a half late to the party, but I started watching Glee this weekend. I'm eleven or twelve episodes in and I'm definitely hooked.

If you take away the great singing voices, good hair and fabulous wardrobe, it kind of reminds me of my own high school experience.

No, I wasn't in a glee club. And even though I was in band and we went to competitions, that's not what it reminds me of either.

It reminds me of my senior year, when I was on the Academic Decathlon team.

Yeah that's right. I was in a competition of brains. A synapse to synapse battle to the death. You think band geeks are the bottom of the social barrel? Think again, my friends. Kids on competitive academic teams are as low on the social food chain as you can get.

Our school didn't have an academic team before my senior year. My AP English teacher decided we needed one. He resented the fact that he'd somehow ended up in Podunksville, Wyoming at a school that only valued football and pick up trucks. So, he decided to start one.

And just like in Glee, this dedicated teacher recruited a rag tag bunch of brainiacs. Mostly misfits (like me), a couple of smart popular kids and even a football player thrown in for good measure (and because the rules stated that we had to have at least one C student). And also like Glee, we had no budget because, well, we weren't the football team.

We even had our own Sue Sylvester. The American history teacher/football coach disliked our "hippie East coast" English teacher (who was from Michigan, by the way, but I guess that's why the guy taught American history rather than geography) and took the opportunity to belittle the academic team members whenever possible.

For months we met every morning, studying, practicing and doing drills until our abnormally large brains were ready to explode. The essence of nerd was palpable in that room.

And finally the time came for the state competition. If we won state, we'd be able to go to Phoenix for nationals. Which is basically a nerd's wet dream.

Like I said, we didn't have a budget, but luckily our English teacher had a giant, early eighties ~~child molester~~ van and we were able to fit in the entire team for the hours and hours long trek across Wyoming.

I'd like to say that the Glee similarity continued and we, the underdogs, won the state championship. But we didn't. We came in second. By five measly points.

There may have been nerd tears shed in the halls of the hosting community college that day.

There's nothing sadder than nerd tears.

But I consoled myself with the fact that I took home the gold medal in the essay, creative writing, and technical writing portions. So, gosh darn it, I was a winner after all. It was proof that I was the best writer out of all the high school-aged nerds in the entire state of Wyoming!

So, I may ~~still be~~ have been a nerd, but for a brief and shining moment at a community college in The Middle of Nowhere, Wyoming, I was queen of the nerds.

Thursday Morning Confessions

2011-05-12T11:05:00.000-05:00

I make this look good.

1. I put the kids to bed early on Wednesday nights so I can watch America's Next Top Model in peace.

2. I seriously considered shaving the cats for a minute or two yesterday.

3. I also thought about vacuuming them.

4. I prayed with all my heart that it would rain all morning so that field day would be canceled and I wouldn't have to go eat lunch--not once but TWICE--with a bunch of hyped up 5 and 6 years olds.

5. It didn't work.

6. I wear a fanny pack at the gym. Don't you judge me. I have keys and water and my note book and my phone to keep track of. It makes life easier.

7. I can feel you judging me.

8. I'm a little bit worried that Amelia may suffer from Trichotillomania. For real.

9. I may need to take out a large loan just to pay for all the crap that Ben is required to have for Scout camp.

10. I really, really, really hope there are no more tornado warnings in the near future, because our safe room is currently where the litter box resides.

Caturday

2011-05-10T13:45:00.004-05:00

Well groomed pussies.

So, We have cats now. Cats. As in, plural.

A couple of friends found themselves in a situation where they couldn't have their two beloved kitties live with them anymore. So, I said I'd take them. They arrived on Saturday. Or as my kids referred to it all last week, Caturday.

I know some of you are probably confused right now. I have made it clear here time and time again that I'm not really an animal lover. Honestly, animal hater is really a more accurate description.

But, cats are an exception. We always had cats when I was growing up, and I'm willing to forgive things from cats that I'm not willing to forgive in other animals. Kind of like my relationship with Ricky Martin. (Call me Ricky. I've got your Cup of Life right here.)

So anyway, we've been adjusting to life with cats.

The first couple of days, the kids were insane. They followed those poor cats around relentlessly, and drove me crazy with their constant running commentary on just exactly what the cats were doing at each moment. "Mom! Mom! MOM! She's sleeping on the couch!" Five minutes later, "Mom! Mom! MOM! She's still sleeping on the couch!"
They've finally mellowed out a little.

Last night we got some catnip.

Reenie, the Siamese, was all over that stuff like a sorority girl at a kegger. Stripes, a gray tabby, wasn't interested. She just kept eying Reenie with a disdainful look that seemed to say, "Just say no! You know this can only end with a picture of you topless and high on Facebook."

High on the 'nip.

So, if nothing else, they're entertaining. And it's nice to come home from the gym and have someone glad I'm home. Even if it is just because I'm keeper of the treats.

Douglass Diaries

Reintegration revisited.

Homecoming

One is the lonliest number.

Help Wanted

Guys, this is actually kind of important.

Crow: The other white meat.

Starving children don't have to worry about fat pants.

I'll have something to say about this. I just don't know what yet.

From bad to twisted.

Human trafficking, American Girl Doll style.

There are no walk-throughs in real life.

The Five Love Languages of Brandi

Resolve is a carpet cleaner, not a verb.

It was more aqua than blue.

A Very Douglass Christmas III

Cheaper than stamps.

You lost me at "no bacon."

Love Letters from a Sister Wife

Thursday Morning Confessions

Somebody's getting their dishes done tonight.

O Come Let Us Adore Him

Sex and the (temporarily) single girl

Reintegration

Pubic Service Announcement

Gifts for the ones you love. Or hate. I can't decide.

Obligatory Thankfulness Post

The Walking Dead

Who's gonna feed them hogs?

Still mortifying after all these years.

Her future's so bright I've gotta wear shades.

More than just a day off.

My sincerest apologies.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. Or something.

It's the man with the badge, the PO-lice, the cops, the fuzz, the P-I-...

You know me so well.

Impulse Buy

Dear Hobby Lobby: A Love Letter

Getting my (TV) groove back.

Richard Marx: Harbinger of depression.

Thank you, karma.

Divine Secrets of the Minivan Sisterhood

Consequences

But what does it mean?

Number Three

OCD like me in 12 easy steps.

The only thing pets are good for.

One stop holiday shopping.

Sisters in inadequacy.

The Imperfection Challenge

"Special" Delivery

Dropping Hints.

It's O.K. to smile.

Ben, Booze and Benadryl

I guess I'm a free range helicopter pilot.

I don't understand it either.

Taking care of business *Edited*.

Could be hormones, could just be that you're a jerk.

No, I'm a unicorn.

Still a story worth telling.

What kind of friend are YOU?

Things you probably didn't want to know for $200, Alex.

Women of a certain age.

If I'm going to write about wieners, it's going to be because I love wieners.

Hide your wives, hide your kids.

Back in the saddle.

The Beaver

I Went Down Yonder on the Chattahoochee

Guest post: The Ten Year Nap

The Ten-Year Nap

Boots in my bedroom.

That's what friends are for.

The difference a day makes.

Imelda Marcos was a first grader once, too.

Musical Notes

Bang.

Things that make me stabby for $200, Alex.

Tiny Bullies

When internal organs go astray.

Guns 'n Nerdses

Taking care of business Edited.