Newfound Respect For Noah

Tuesday night, we got in kinda late, especially for a school night, and stood out in our front yard--this was before it became colder than your best guy friend's ex-wife--listening to and watching something explode to the south of us. (It turned out to be fireworks at Oklahoma Wesleyan University.) When we finally discerned that it was just a fireworks show (Dang! That scanner app is handy!), we ventured inside to find that Bo had let himself in. He does this a lot during hot days, cold days, fireworks, rain, snow, parties, Sundays, whenever he wants in. The last time he let himself in, Leonard one of the cats got out because even though Bo can open the door, he apparently can't close it. He was born in a barn, though.

On this particular night, Bo was inside checking out our trash, and the cats were safeguarding the tree against the intruder.

Brian showed Bo to the dog's room--yes they have their own room. Don't think we're all dog crazy, though. It's not a great room, and it doesn't have any windows. We shuffled The Daughters to bed and then I sat down to work on my fourth book ... it's about girlfriends, but after this blog post, I may want to write about animal sciences and insanity.

When I finished my writing for the night, I went to the garage to make sure the door was down and discovered that the back down had never been closed about Bo's (I'm assuming) grand entrance. I pushed the door shut and spied four little green eyes in the still of the night. I sighed, opened the door again and step outside saying, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

The cats watched me walk toward them, laughed then ran off into the dark, black night.

Since it was about midnight, I slammed the door shut, said a few cuss words and went back to bed.

All night long the cats sat outside my bedroom window meowing but refusing to come in. I said more cuss words. 

The next morning, Brian left at an ungodly hour to go to a workshop, and I rose from my bed at the last possible moment I could. I went to the back door to call for the cats. They were not there ... but I heard them meow. They were in the front yard, little tricksters. 

Daughter 2 was already in the shower, so I snagged Daughter 1 from her warm bed to, well, herd the cats back into the house. We went to the front yard and the cats, of course, bolted. Daughter 1 remained in the front yard hollering, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." I went back into the house, to open the garage door where I found the questionable cats upsetting the dove.

Yes, we have a forsaken dove that has taken sanctuary from the neighborhood hawk in our garage--which has a built-in pet door, courtesy of Bo. The dove was doing some sort of Karate Kid-type move onto of our garage door opener while the cats were clawing their way back into the house. 

I calmed the dove, let the cats in the door just in time for Bo to open the door to his room and chase the cats right back out the front door.

This was all before 6:30 a.m..

If God Almighty had shown up on my doorstep as I was in my pajamas and told me to build an ark, I'd have asked him to help me find a hammer in our disarrayed garage, and I'd have started hunting down gopher wood.

Creating A Monster

My own momma needed a new phone. Her phone was a little over two years old and was a flip phone. A flip phone, y'all. She could call on it only--can you imagine? A phone that you could only use to place a call? She could have texted, but having to hit the 3-button twice to get an E was a little more technologically advanced than my own momma could handle. That and she used to sign up to get her horoscope online and that would charge her phone a gazillion dollars a month, so my sister and I had the texting package turned completely off. My own momma thought that was just one step away from the old folks' home ... but it was for her own good. Don't call human services. Yet.

 My Own Momma's toilet water? Not so recycled...
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Well, Friday night, my own momma dropped her circa 2002 flip phone down the commode. Down the crapper. She was literally up ... or down ... sh!t creek. She knew what to do because she reads Facebook religiously, and she fished that phone out and stuck it in her rice container. (Note: Do not eat the rice at my own momma's house.) The rice didn't work. So, she came to us.

She knew better than to go to my sister with this problem. My sister would have put her in the home or would have gotten her a firefly phone with dialing out privileges to only a very few people--my sister not included. So, she came to us.

Brian is very skilled in dealing with a certain phone company whose initials are AT&T; I know what my own momma would and wouldn't like in a phone (basically, she wanted to text, to call, to check the weather and listen to any police scanner in the world); My Own Momma just wanted a phone that hadn't been in the toilet. So, we set out to our local store.

Long story short--too late, I know--and three phone stores later, my own momma had a new phone, a texting plan and a data plan, all for just a few dollars more than she was paying for her one-trick pony, um, phone. She also had a pretty purple cover, a screen guard, an extra memory card, and a stylus. What more could an almost-75-year-old woman want in a phone?

The first order of business was to text my sister and let her know that she was moving up in the world. After about seven minutes, give or take a half hour, we figured out how to text, and we discovered that it had a talk-to-text option. That, my friends, is that route that led to my own momma's very first text to my sister:

My own momma: So, just press this microphone button?

Me: Yes.

My own momma: And it will go straight to your sister and no one else?

Me: After we press the send button, yes.

My own momma: Okay. Here we go [presses microphone button]

And this, my friends, is the complete text of my own momma's very first text message:

Guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Oh wow! It's typing as I'm speaking. Why did it say as I'm  spackling? Heather. It's not saying what I am saying. Oh wait. Now it is. Did I send it? It says Guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Oh wow! It's typing as I'm spackling. It says guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Now it's just going crazy. Why did it say I'm spackling. It's still wrong. Wait. Now it's just on an endless loop typing the same thing over and over. Oh wait. Now it typed what I said. Oh my goodness. Did I send it yet? It typed did I send it yet. It typed did I send it yet again. I don't think it's working right. No, I don't think it's working right. It's not sending it. Why are you laughing? I can't understand you, Heather. What do I do to send it? Press send? Do I need to press pause? What does pause do? Does it pause my text message? So, just press send. Where's send? But will it send this whole thing? I just want a text that says guess what I got. I got a new phone. Call me. Oh wait. It did type that. It's right there. This phone is a smart phone. How wonderful. Well, tell me where the send button is and then show me how to use the scanner. [presses pause button then send]

My sister's not speaking to me any more.

Anatomy of my Morning

"You wanna meet me for a morning walk?" my friend innocently asked not knowing that I was fixing to rip her  ears from her head and stuff them down her dirty talking mouth.

"I don't do mornings," I growled with a sneer that rivaled Jack Nicholson's sneer.

Source

"C'mon," she insisted. "You'll feel better."

"Lady ... ," I growled. "Let's take a took at my morning ..."

Five For Friday: Favorite School Supplies

This is the time of year that Momma becomes a little lotta bit cra-cra. Summer is winding down and that makes me sad.

But The Daughters are pushing every last button I have and that makes me twitchy.

We've also had a great summer and that makes me happy.

And the school supplies have hit the store and that makes me giddy.

So even though The Daughters going back to school means that I go back to school with them, I let those few rows of school supply wonder erase any melancholy I feel about the end of summer.

Here are my five favorite school supplies.

1. Composition Books. I love a fresh notebook with its empty pages, so full of the promise of new and powerful words. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Chances are that the pages will be filled with grocery lists and recipes I'll never make, but the possibility that I'll fill those pages with words that wax poetic about this wonder known as life still exists. Even if only in my very tired mind.

2. Crayons. So far, The Daughters have never asked for a 64 box of Crayolas (with the built-in sharpener) and if they ever ask for it, I'm not sure what I'll do. Because if anyone in this household is getting a box of 64 Crayolas (with the built-in sharpener), it will be me. And I'll use all 64 colors to draw pictures on my fresh new composition book. (Now, we could get a 96-count box of Crayolas. This gives me goosebumps.)

3. Cap Erasers. These things are magic, y'all. Don't believe me? Try this: Buy a package of them. Leave them on your kitchen counter when you get in from the store. Race to the bathroom (because you always have to go to the bathroom when you're bringing in sacks from Hellmart) come back to the kitchen and voila! They've disappeared.

4. School Bags. Oh. My Heavens. I could very easily be a street person and carry all of my possessions in all of my bags. I love back packs and messenger bags and over-the-shoulder slings. I love plaid bags and chevron bags (why the hate for chevron, people?) and polka dotted bags and monochromatic bags. I just love bags. Of course, I never actually use one, I just buy them, pile them in my closet and occasionally run my hand over their beauty.

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5. Colored Pens. I'm convinced that if peace treaties were signed with green or purple or pink or turquoise ink, there'd be no more war. "Imagine there's no black ink..." those are Lennon's lost lyrics. I'm almost positive.

Are you ready for school to start? Then you need some candy. Head HERE and get registered for cool prizes, including candy!

Drink, anyone?

During softball / golf / testing / spring, the housework goes by the wayside--more than it usually does. Last night, thanks to a cold, spring rain, we were all home all at the same time and planned to eat a meal all together. It's practically unheard of from March to May. But, in order for me to fix the meal that we would eat all together, I had to find a few things first, namely the sink and clean pans.

To say it had been a while since we had done the dishes would be a gross understatement. Heavy on the gross part. So, I hastily unloaded the dishwasher and then loaded it right back up again. I dragged the cats out of the dishwasher, shut that sucker up and hit start. Whew. That was more work than I had done at home since Christmas. I had worked up a sweat and could honestly say that I was parched. I opened the cabinet to grab myself one of my colorful tumblers and fix myself a big ol' cup of iced water.

Instead, I found this:

This, my friends, this is where my cups would be if my cups were where they should be. So, I went on a cup-finding mission.

I made my rounds through the living room and the office. I circled through the front room and the bathrooms. I jogged in and out of the girls' rooms and our bedroom. When all was said and done, I returned to the kitchen with 20 plastic tumblers, 12 plastic tea cups, 12 Eskimo Joe's homecoming ups and two QT cups from last summer.

It's apparently been a long time since I went cup gathering.

After I fixed myself some water in a clean mason jar, I installed a lock on the cup cabinet.

Vocabulary Lesson

Daughter 2 and I found ourselves heading to the shopping mecca just south of us a while back. I, unfortunately, was on the phone for a lot of the trip, and Daughter 2 had to entertain herself. Since we were in a vehicle and I wouldn't let her crank the radio up or sing loudly, she dug in the glove compartment.  When I finally got off the phone, she had some very serious questions for me.

What's Not On Pintrest

Daughter 2 asked for an ice cream sundae party for her birthday, so I did what every loving and caring mother would do: I went to Pintrest and built this party up to Inaugural proportions in my mind. Without much effort I was able to find a Pin that shared the cutest idea for an ice cream sundae party. This particular mom got crystal goblets and had each party go-ers name painted on each goblet. Then she special ordered a spoon and had each party go-ers initial engraved on each spoon. She had linen napkins in the guest of honor's favorite color (pink) and had dozens of toppings ranging from fresh strawberries and kiwis to chocolate covered cherries and Jordan almonds. She and her husband dressed like old fashioned soda jerks and served all the future socialites from behind their crete-papered wet bar.

Thanksblogging: I'm thankful for The Dad

A few weeks ago, I completed the Hot Mamas 5K in Edmond, OK. It was Oklahoma's first women-only 5K, and I was a part of it. Not only that, but I walked it with three of my fabulous friends. We had a great time and even posed for the raceway cameras. Those super-skinny, fast-running diehards didn't pose like we did. They were going too fast.

Conversation of the week

I recently had the opportunity to have my hair and make up done by a show business stylist. She began my flatironing my stray flyaways:

Me: For the longest time, I didn't know how to flatiron my own hair.

 

Stylist: Oh?

 

Me: Yeah, I learned watching Jersey Shore.

 

Stylist: Ok.

 

Me: I didn't realize I could pull the flatiron down my hair.

 

Stylist: It's really not hard.  It's one of the easiest things anyone can do.

 

Me: Well, it's easy for you because you have two hands.

 

Stylist: Don't you have two hands?

 

You know what? I do have two hands.

Too cool for my boots

A few weeks back, in anticipation of my weekend at AWBU12, I went shopping. It's important to note at this point in the story that I absolutely hate shopping. Can't stand it. Nothing ever looks like I thought it would look. Nothing is ever cute. Nothing is ever the right color. I cannot stand shopping.

Friday Flashback: I like shiny things

In first grade I wanted to experience it all. I wanted to write my numbers all the way to 100.  I wanted to jump on the trampoline and recite my words.  I wanted to make a J that actually curved the right way at the bottom. But more than anything else, I wanted a charm bracelet like my friend's bracelet.

The crazies go to Hellmart late at night

Last night about 10:00, just as I was almost ready for bed, I remembered that I hadn't finished my grocery shopping. I had been to the big city earlier and had gotten most of my groceries at Whole Foods where, even if I buy crap, I feel so much better and sanctimonious about buying crap.  And quite frankly, it's not often I get to feel sanctimonious.

An explanation

My momma complains that every time someone points a camera in my direction, I make a face.  She's right.  Long after I'm gone, my great, great grandchildren will see the pictures of me with my eyes crossed and my tongue out and my lip snarled and will think what a hoot I must have been.  Or they'll think that I was not right in the head and they'll pray that the affliction from which great, great grandmomma suffered was not hereditary. Either way, I will be remembered.

I try to take better pictures for my momma.  But I really feel like it's not in my genetic make-up to take a nice picture.  

This weekend, I actually acquired photographic proof that I am just not made to take a serious picture.

My uncle John married his blushing bride 50 years ago.  All of the family gathered to celebrate their bedded wiss wedded bliss at their home church.  As my aunt Liz was making her way around the room greeting those who came to wish her well, she came upon two of her sisters-in-law:  my own momma and my fabulous Aunt Kay.  

Aunt Liz's older son, Larry said, "That's a great pic right there."  He pulled out his camera, as did I and my cousin Courtney, Aunt Kay's daughter.  

"Say cheese," one of us called out and this was picture we got:

Aunt Kay, on the left, strikes some kind of pose that Madonna wouldn't even sing about.  Aunt Liz, in the center, apparently thought that was the best time to start a conversation with someone who's not in the picture.  And my own momma, on the right, smiles while still wearing her sunglasses, circa 1986, because she thinks they make her "look like Raquel Welch."

Raquel Welch = My Own Momma.
Uh-huh.
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Seriously,  doesn't make this seem so bad.

Now we know that I come by it honestly.

The Hat, Part II

True to my word, I wore that hat all weekend long.  We went to the falls; I wore the hat.  We went to the water slides; I wore that hat.  We grilled burgers; I wore that hat.  We chatted late into the night (or morning); I wore that hat.  We got fried pies on our way home; I wore that hat.

The Hat, part I

Sunday we returned home from our family reunion.  It had been a very successful reunion, not because we were able to have all of our family in one place at the same time; not because no one was seriously hurt, except that one unfortunate incident between Daughter 1's butt and a rock; and not because our specific cabin was the only cabin with properly flushing toilets on the entire property.  No, those reasons made it fabulous, but what made it successful was that I wore a floppy hat the entire weekend.

The crap I feed my kids

"NO WAY, Momma," Daughter 2's rant began.  "There's NO WAY."

"I agree," sided in Daughter 1.  "It's disgusting, and I'm not eating it."

As usual, I was lost.

Dude, Where's my blog?

Daughter 2 drove a go-kart by herself for the very first time last weekend.   I know you're expecting lots of funny tales to come from that venture, but I've got nothing.  A big fat zilch.  And who do you have to thank for that?  The stupid, no-good, Go-Kart Dude, that's who.

It was a dark and stormy night

Really.  It was.  It was dark, and it was stormy.  It was the stuff campfire stories are made of.  It wasn't exceptionally stormy - the rolling thunder was distant, but it was still out there.  It was, however, extremely dark.

"When I turn 10..."

Daughter 1 will turn 10 years old in two weeks.  Because she is obsessive and analytical and academic and generally hard to buy for, birthday presents are hard to come by .  So, imagine my sheer excitement when I discovered that Rick Riordan, author of Daughter 1's all-time favorite books, was going to be just three hours away!  And, for an additional fee, we could get his new release signed by Rick Riordan himself!  Plus, there would be a costume contest for all the kids who attend his presentation!  This would certainly land me in the running for Momma-of-the-Year, no doubt about it!

Occupational Hazard

The Dad and I have never had a tree in our front yard.  It wasn't by design; it's just that the houses we've chosen to buy have not had front yard trees.  The house we were in when Daughter 1 was born had a tree, but since we bought the house in November, we didn't know it was dead until the next March when a wind blew it over.  We eventually planted a tree when Daughter 1 was born but we moved before it got over 4 feet tall.