So today is my birthday. Hold the applause please. Seriously. I mean, it beats the alternative but at this point you come to the realization that if "this" is the hill, you're just about over it. But I knew it was going to be a good day today. First of all my oatmeal didn't explode. Now that you can applaud. And....drumroll please....there's been no poo on my foot. Unlike last year if you remember. So far so good. But the day's not over so I'd probably better not get too excited.
The other day William asked me if I was really, really old. I told him no. I was only really old. There's a big difference.
Then he asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him a chocolate cake. He said, "No....I mean a real present that you can open." Thinking his Daddy sent him fishing for ideas I decided to shoot for the moon and told him I'd like a new camera. Can you say Canon Rebel, William? Or Nikon D-triple digit? He quickly replied, "Daddy says your camera is just right."
Poo.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Here Boy
I couldn't find him the other day. I called his name. I quickly went through the house, sticking my head in each room hollering for him. Then I heard something coming from the sun porch. A scurrying about.
This is what I found.
I was afraid to look around for crumbs of kibbles-n-bits.
Should I be worried?
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Looking For a Local FAA Group
Does anyone know if there is a Facebook Addicts Anonymous? Because there needs to be. I could be the charter member. "Hi, my name is Julie, and I'm a Facebook addict. I log on to Facebook at least 325 times a day. Rearranging my Flair is more important to me than brushing my teeth. Sometimes I skip meals just so I can check and see what all of my friends are doing right now. My low point came when my middle child spent the night sitting on the potty because I was too busy adding applications on my Facebook page to go wipe her. My husband frequently finds me wide awake at 3 am hiding in the corner of the laundry room searching Facebook for new friends. And I have a new habit of speaking about myself in the third person. When people call me on the phone and say 'what are you doing,' I find myself responding with things like 'Julie is thinking about changing her Office quotes' or 'Julie is hoping Andy brings dinner home so the children will eat tonight.' I need help."
Anyone else have this problem?
If so, be sure and find me on Facebook because I can always use more friends. And Flair.
Anyone else have this problem?
If so, be sure and find me on Facebook because I can always use more friends. And Flair.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Calling Bebo
"Hi, is Bebo deh? Oh hi Bebo."
"Mm, hmm. Mm, hmm. Pretty sure." (sounded more like pwetty shuwah)
"Yah. Pwetty shuwah."
"Mm, hmm. Welllllll.....I will just come to yowah pink house, den."
"Mm, hmm. Pwetty shuwah. Pwetty shuwah but I will ask Mama."
"Ok, den. Bye, Bebo. I lub you, Bebo. Be sweet. Bye."
*Note to readers: Bebo does not exist.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Figgy Pudding?
Aside from the fact that I always thought it was piggy pudding in that song, I have no clue what figgy pudding is but I wish I did because I have a PLETHORA of figs in my backyard. My fig tree is just about ripe and I don't know what to do with them all!
Last year was the first year we had a "harvest." I made a feeble attempt to make fig preserves. I remember my grandmother used to make them and there was nothing better in the summertime than a piece of bread buttered and toasted in the oven with a pile of figs on top. My preserves, however, could have been shot out of a missile and used to obliterate a small country. Hard as a rock. I still don't know what I did wrong. I really really want some fig preserves. Can anyone clue me in?
But we did find one amazing recipe and I have to pass this along. Andy brought in a basket full of figs earlier today...said the rest of them should be ready for pickin' in a couple of weeks. But he made this incredible appetizer. I lucked out when I went to the store earlier and found blue cheese, Gorgonzola and Roquefort on sale for super cheap. I stock piled. So if you come to dinner at my house anytime in the next 8 months, expect this dish.
I would have taken a picture but I turned around to get my camera and it was all gone and everyone was licking their chops. It's that good.
Last year was the first year we had a "harvest." I made a feeble attempt to make fig preserves. I remember my grandmother used to make them and there was nothing better in the summertime than a piece of bread buttered and toasted in the oven with a pile of figs on top. My preserves, however, could have been shot out of a missile and used to obliterate a small country. Hard as a rock. I still don't know what I did wrong. I really really want some fig preserves. Can anyone clue me in?
But we did find one amazing recipe and I have to pass this along. Andy brought in a basket full of figs earlier today...said the rest of them should be ready for pickin' in a couple of weeks. But he made this incredible appetizer. I lucked out when I went to the store earlier and found blue cheese, Gorgonzola and Roquefort on sale for super cheap. I stock piled. So if you come to dinner at my house anytime in the next 8 months, expect this dish.
I would have taken a picture but I turned around to get my camera and it was all gone and everyone was licking their chops. It's that good.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
NO FAMILY BED!
I heart sleep. I really do. Sometimes I go to bed right after I put all of them to bed. Before it's even good and dark. And occasionally....only very occasionally....I'll act like I don't hear the monitor(s) so Andy has to deal with the situation, whatever it might be. But last night - or this morning rather - at 3 am that just wasn't the case.
3:11 am to be exact, I heard Catherine hollering for me. Another reason I couldn't rightly ignore her. There's something about hearing "Ma-a-a-m a" billowing through the house in the wee hours that sends a mother running. But I was truly in a dead sleep. And my room was dark. So as I stumbled up the stairs, tripping and then catching myself and mumbling obscenities (hoping then that Catherine was far enough away not pick up a fancy new vocabulary to share at Sunday School), I just knew that I was going to find some kind of serious issue. But all I found was a sleepy little girl in Tinkerbell pajamas standing in the middle of the den, holding her Frosty the Snowman blanket in one hand and a giant plastic whistle in the other, and begging to please go get in "mama-daddy bed." So given the choice between saying no and having her throw down just outside of William's and Stuart's room - certainly waking them up - or just putting her in my bed, I chose the latter. I was a first class sucker. Thank goodness this is not a common occurrence.
She had brought this huge plastic whistle home from music camp and it had not left her clutches for nearly 12 hours at that point. She crawled in bed next to me and starting fooling with that @^&*$ whistle. She stuck it up my nose. In my ear. Twirled it around in my hair. I tried to ignore her but it's hard to act like there's nothing going on with you when you have a three foot long piece of plastic hanging out of your nostril. This went on for what seemed like months. I finally slinked out of bed when she finally went to sleep and considered choosing the bed behind door # 3 but I knew that the rooster was about to crow and I'd best give up the dream until tonight.
We have a king sized bed but it is a DOUBLE. As in me and Andy. NO ROOM FOR ANYONE ELSE. Especially anyone with a friggin' whistle. I can't believe there's actually an entire movement that advocates sleeping with those little sleep thieves.
3:11 am to be exact, I heard Catherine hollering for me. Another reason I couldn't rightly ignore her. There's something about hearing "Ma-a-a-m a" billowing through the house in the wee hours that sends a mother running. But I was truly in a dead sleep. And my room was dark. So as I stumbled up the stairs, tripping and then catching myself and mumbling obscenities (hoping then that Catherine was far enough away not pick up a fancy new vocabulary to share at Sunday School), I just knew that I was going to find some kind of serious issue. But all I found was a sleepy little girl in Tinkerbell pajamas standing in the middle of the den, holding her Frosty the Snowman blanket in one hand and a giant plastic whistle in the other, and begging to please go get in "mama-daddy bed." So given the choice between saying no and having her throw down just outside of William's and Stuart's room - certainly waking them up - or just putting her in my bed, I chose the latter. I was a first class sucker. Thank goodness this is not a common occurrence.
She had brought this huge plastic whistle home from music camp and it had not left her clutches for nearly 12 hours at that point. She crawled in bed next to me and starting fooling with that @^&*$ whistle. She stuck it up my nose. In my ear. Twirled it around in my hair. I tried to ignore her but it's hard to act like there's nothing going on with you when you have a three foot long piece of plastic hanging out of your nostril. This went on for what seemed like months. I finally slinked out of bed when she finally went to sleep and considered choosing the bed behind door # 3 but I knew that the rooster was about to crow and I'd best give up the dream until tonight.
We have a king sized bed but it is a DOUBLE. As in me and Andy. NO ROOM FOR ANYONE ELSE. Especially anyone with a friggin' whistle. I can't believe there's actually an entire movement that advocates sleeping with those little sleep thieves.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Cheesewagon
William and Catherine are attending music camp this week at our church. It's only for preschoolers and it's only for three days (the fact that it's only for preschoolers explains why it's only for three days, no?). They are having a great time. They are singing. Dancing. Playing games. Doing crafts. And gathering poison ivy, chinaberries and other weapons of mass destruction and bringing them home in decorated paper bags. The theme for the week is a nature hunt. So apparently they trek through woods all morning and collect various treasures and then bring them home. William was so thrilled when he handed me his bag. He said it was a surprise for me. Ooh...a latch hook pot holder maybe? A tiny flower pot with his hand print on it? Imagine my excitement when I reached in the bag to pull out a lethal plant and something else for Stuart to try to stick up his nose or in his ears!
So while the kids were napping I rushed around on my own hunt and collected all of my "gifts" and directly deposited them in the trashcan, taking great care to cram them way down to the bottom so the kids wouldn't find out. I learned my lesson the hard way once when I tossed a blank piece of paper with one faint yellow colored mark in one corner, only to have Catherine burst into tears because her "painting" was in the garbage. Sigh. She's going to end up on Oprah one day for sure.
But here's the funny part of the week (as if you're not already doubled over with the berry story). I'm picking up and dropping off two of our little friends who are attending the same camp. So I have five children under five in my van. I decided to paint a number on the front right panel and paint the whole thing yellow. I've also flashed the entire church parking lot hanging my rear end out the side of the van while I attempt to strap and unstrap five toddlers in and out of carseats.
When I dropped off my passengers today their sweet mom walked out with a cake she'd baked for me, I mean, us. So half a delicious pound cake later I've at least doubled the size of my rear end and should give the church folks a real good show tomorrow. Thank goodness (for them) it's the last day.
So while the kids were napping I rushed around on my own hunt and collected all of my "gifts" and directly deposited them in the trashcan, taking great care to cram them way down to the bottom so the kids wouldn't find out. I learned my lesson the hard way once when I tossed a blank piece of paper with one faint yellow colored mark in one corner, only to have Catherine burst into tears because her "painting" was in the garbage. Sigh. She's going to end up on Oprah one day for sure.
But here's the funny part of the week (as if you're not already doubled over with the berry story). I'm picking up and dropping off two of our little friends who are attending the same camp. So I have five children under five in my van. I decided to paint a number on the front right panel and paint the whole thing yellow. I've also flashed the entire church parking lot hanging my rear end out the side of the van while I attempt to strap and unstrap five toddlers in and out of carseats.
When I dropped off my passengers today their sweet mom walked out with a cake she'd baked for me, I mean, us. So half a delicious pound cake later I've at least doubled the size of my rear end and should give the church folks a real good show tomorrow. Thank goodness (for them) it's the last day.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Just Another Morning
So the kids have been eating breakfast for the past hour or so. Or maybe I should say looking at their breakfast. And doing other strange things with it.
Instead of napkins my kids use wet washcloths at mealtime. I guess it goes back to when they were infants and I always had a washcloth on hand at meal time because I hate...I repeat hate...mess. One of the most disgusting stages of childhood to me is when they are eating baby food and with every bite you put their mouth they spit out half of it so the mush covers their mouth, their hands when they touch their mouth, and then their hair when they run their slimy little hands over their head. It makes my skin crawl. I can handle poopy diapers. But rice cereal facials gross me out. Go figure. Anyway, I digress. I said all of that to explain why the almost 5 and almost 3 year olds are still using wash cloths as napkins. They know of nothing else. I'll try to teach them otherwise before they go out to eat at a nice restaurant before prom. We still have a little time.
So a while ago I saw Catherine's wash cloth crumpled up in the floor and I reached down to pick it up and about 15 blueberries rolled out of it all over the floor. What in the world? I said, "CATHERINE! Why are all of your blueberries wadded up in your rag?"
She looked at me like I was the crazy one. "I put them to sleep," she explained.
Sometimes you shouldn't even try to figure things out.
Instead of napkins my kids use wet washcloths at mealtime. I guess it goes back to when they were infants and I always had a washcloth on hand at meal time because I hate...I repeat hate...mess. One of the most disgusting stages of childhood to me is when they are eating baby food and with every bite you put their mouth they spit out half of it so the mush covers their mouth, their hands when they touch their mouth, and then their hair when they run their slimy little hands over their head. It makes my skin crawl. I can handle poopy diapers. But rice cereal facials gross me out. Go figure. Anyway, I digress. I said all of that to explain why the almost 5 and almost 3 year olds are still using wash cloths as napkins. They know of nothing else. I'll try to teach them otherwise before they go out to eat at a nice restaurant before prom. We still have a little time.
So a while ago I saw Catherine's wash cloth crumpled up in the floor and I reached down to pick it up and about 15 blueberries rolled out of it all over the floor. What in the world? I said, "CATHERINE! Why are all of your blueberries wadded up in your rag?"
She looked at me like I was the crazy one. "I put them to sleep," she explained.
Sometimes you shouldn't even try to figure things out.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Just Call Me John Deere
I don't know that I've blogged much about it this week, but I've been stuck in the house all week long with sick kids. Then on Thursday Andy and I were both sick. Well, at least one of us got a sick day. The other one went to work. Figure it out.
Anyway, we are all better now but this morning we were standing in the kitchen fixing breakfast with clutter and mess and screaming whining children everywhere and Andy announced that he was going out to cut the grass. I rolled my eyes and uttered "lucky dog" under my breath. He said "You want to trade?" YOU BETCHA! I've always told him that he has NO idea what it's like to try to get chores done with three kids underfoot because any time he has chores to do, i.e. cutting the grass, he just goes and does it. No biggie. And it gets done.
So I told him that I'd leave him a list of things that needed to be done inside, and I'd go out and cut the grass. I was thinking to myself how great it would be. I'd get sun, exercise, listen to my iPod, not have to stop what I'm doing to wipe hineys, change poopy diapers or break up fights. How hard can it be to run a mower across a yard anyway?
So he came outside with me, started up the mower, we kissed and wished each other good luck and off I went. It was around 8 am. Not too hot. Not too sunny. Kinda nice. I started in the back yard. Up and down, pretty flat, no trees. I was jamming to Joss Stone and kinda dancing as I went, humming along. Not bad at all! I chuckled as I imagined the scene inside.
By the time I got to the side yard it was warming up. And things weren't so flat anymore. My hands were starting to go numb from the vibration of the mower. I was starting to get a blister. Ok...not so much fun anymore.
I got around to the front yard and HOLY MAJOLE it was HOT. You could have cooked an egg on the side of my face. I was drenched. Now my hands AND feet were numb. The insides of my palms were one giant blister. I swear a pack of hornets was following me around and people driving by in front of the house were shaking their heads in pity, wondering what kind of jerky would make his wife do such slave labor. I wished I was wearing a big sign that read "He's inside doing laundry!"
Anyway....I was determined to finish. By the time I got to the last patch on the other side of the house I could no longer even hear my iPod over my screaming and cursing...."This ^&*@^&* yard is a !^&@^&** !^&*@^& to cut...I'm !&8@&*** DYING here!!!" I was covered in so much grass stuck to my sweaty numb limbs that I looked like a Chia pet.
When I finally managed to crawl inside, I saw Andy humming as he was finishing wiping up the kitchen. Kids were all working together in the playroom to clean it up, there wasn't anything out of place. Dang! No one was vomiting or pooping. What the heck? "How'd it go?" he cheerily asked.
"Phsk." I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. "Piece of cake."
And then I collapsed.
So I've decided that I really don't mind unloading the dishwasher and folding clothes and sweeping and mopping and wiping hineys. Because I get to do it all in the comfort of air conditioning. And I've never had to go to the emergency room afterwards.
My man deserves a freakin' parade next time he goes out to do yard work.
Anyway, we are all better now but this morning we were standing in the kitchen fixing breakfast with clutter and mess and screaming whining children everywhere and Andy announced that he was going out to cut the grass. I rolled my eyes and uttered "lucky dog" under my breath. He said "You want to trade?" YOU BETCHA! I've always told him that he has NO idea what it's like to try to get chores done with three kids underfoot because any time he has chores to do, i.e. cutting the grass, he just goes and does it. No biggie. And it gets done.
So I told him that I'd leave him a list of things that needed to be done inside, and I'd go out and cut the grass. I was thinking to myself how great it would be. I'd get sun, exercise, listen to my iPod, not have to stop what I'm doing to wipe hineys, change poopy diapers or break up fights. How hard can it be to run a mower across a yard anyway?
So he came outside with me, started up the mower, we kissed and wished each other good luck and off I went. It was around 8 am. Not too hot. Not too sunny. Kinda nice. I started in the back yard. Up and down, pretty flat, no trees. I was jamming to Joss Stone and kinda dancing as I went, humming along. Not bad at all! I chuckled as I imagined the scene inside.
By the time I got to the side yard it was warming up. And things weren't so flat anymore. My hands were starting to go numb from the vibration of the mower. I was starting to get a blister. Ok...not so much fun anymore.
I got around to the front yard and HOLY MAJOLE it was HOT. You could have cooked an egg on the side of my face. I was drenched. Now my hands AND feet were numb. The insides of my palms were one giant blister. I swear a pack of hornets was following me around and people driving by in front of the house were shaking their heads in pity, wondering what kind of jerky would make his wife do such slave labor. I wished I was wearing a big sign that read "He's inside doing laundry!"
Anyway....I was determined to finish. By the time I got to the last patch on the other side of the house I could no longer even hear my iPod over my screaming and cursing...."This ^&*@^&* yard is a !^&@^&** !^&*@^& to cut...I'm !&8@&*** DYING here!!!" I was covered in so much grass stuck to my sweaty numb limbs that I looked like a Chia pet.
When I finally managed to crawl inside, I saw Andy humming as he was finishing wiping up the kitchen. Kids were all working together in the playroom to clean it up, there wasn't anything out of place. Dang! No one was vomiting or pooping. What the heck? "How'd it go?" he cheerily asked.
"Phsk." I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. "Piece of cake."
And then I collapsed.
So I've decided that I really don't mind unloading the dishwasher and folding clothes and sweeping and mopping and wiping hineys. Because I get to do it all in the comfort of air conditioning. And I've never had to go to the emergency room afterwards.
My man deserves a freakin' parade next time he goes out to do yard work.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
You're a What?
I got a call a while ago on my cell phone. Normally I don't answer it when it says "call" instead of a real number. But just for kicks and giggles (because I'm a little low on those right now with three sick children) and desperate for adult interaction I answered. After saying "Hello?" three times I finally heard a woman's voice in some unrecognizable accent. She said that I had been selected to receive a $1000 shopping spree on line. WOW!
"I do undahstand that eet ees TOO good to be twue, no?"
Well I'll say.
She then went on to tell me that in addition to this fabulous on line shopping spree (where I bettah make for sure that I do not go ovah the one thousand dollahs or I will be chahged) that I have also been one of the lucky few selected to receive not one but TWO complimentary subscriptions to Redbook and Good Housekeeping magazines (or I could pick from the hundreds of titles they have available...double WOW). As if the shopping spree wasn't enough!
All I would have to pay is a vetty vetty small sheeping and hahndling fee. But first she needed to know what year I was born and my occupation. Here's how, oh let's see, I'll call her "Sudhadkwiwuioduiotwsz" and I ended our telephone relationship.
S: Ok deen....we ah almost done. What yeah een eet were you bohn?
Me: 19** (sorry but I'm not giving it away on this blog)
S: Ok. Ahnnnnnd.....what ees eet you do for the occupation?
Me: I'm a lawyer. (and YES Wendy, I DID say it like Tracy Lawrence doing Star Jones on The View!)
S: *Click*
Wonder what I said that made her hang up without telling me goodbye?
And who said I went to law school for nothing....
"I do undahstand that eet ees TOO good to be twue, no?"
Well I'll say.
She then went on to tell me that in addition to this fabulous on line shopping spree (where I bettah make for sure that I do not go ovah the one thousand dollahs or I will be chahged) that I have also been one of the lucky few selected to receive not one but TWO complimentary subscriptions to Redbook and Good Housekeeping magazines (or I could pick from the hundreds of titles they have available...double WOW). As if the shopping spree wasn't enough!
All I would have to pay is a vetty vetty small sheeping and hahndling fee. But first she needed to know what year I was born and my occupation. Here's how, oh let's see, I'll call her "Sudhadkwiwuioduiotwsz" and I ended our telephone relationship.
S: Ok deen....we ah almost done. What yeah een eet were you bohn?
Me: 19** (sorry but I'm not giving it away on this blog)
S: Ok. Ahnnnnnd.....what ees eet you do for the occupation?
Me: I'm a lawyer. (and YES Wendy, I DID say it like Tracy Lawrence doing Star Jones on The View!)
S: *Click*
Wonder what I said that made her hang up without telling me goodbye?
And who said I went to law school for nothing....
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