Loren and I have had many discussions about the fact that our children don't listen to the word "no" very well. We know that few children like the word no unless it works to their advantage. For example, Emily came in our room Thursday night telling us that her friend wanted her to go to the midnight premier of the final Harry Potter movie. Em is not a Harry Potter fan and didn't want to go, but didn't know how to say no. So as her friend is on the phone waiting for an answer she asks us to say that she couldn't go. Okay, I'll play this game. "No," I replied.
"Okay. Thanks."
Yes, I do comprehend the irony here. Not only can they not be told no, they can't say no unless it's to their parents.
The reason I bring this up is the following: Jessica wanting to drive to Colorado; in her father's truck; alone; FOR TEN HOURS!
"No Jessica you can't go. It's too long and too far to be driving by yourself."
Her response, "I'm 20 years old mom. I'm not a child. I'm an adult now." By the way this is her response to everything; which is the topic for another blog.
"I didn't say you were a child. Bad things happen to grown women too."
"I can get on Craig's List and look for a Ride Share."
"Huh? You think that's safe?! Really?!"
"Mom, don't be ridiculous. You can meet them before we leave if you have to."
"Oh yes, that will make it all better. They will be the same person on the road with you as they are when I meet them. Are you crazy?! Just because I meet them before you leave doesn't make them safe once you get in the car with them and pull away!!"
"Mom, you're being overprotective again."
"Oh, so sorry that I worry if you'll be safe!"
So her answer to this issue was to ask her 19-year-old step-brother to go along. He could help drive, she said.
"Your brother has no license. And it's your dad's truck."
"Yeah.. So?"
"So if you get into an accident, what then?"
"I'll deal with that when it happens. Besides, nothing's going to happen."
"Are you going to ask your dad for permission to drive his truck to Colorado?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because if I ask him he'll say no and I just don't want to deal with that drama."
"That'll be nothing compared to the drama that you'll have to deal with if he finds out you took his truck to Colorado and didn't let him know."
"He's not going to find out."
"Uh, your sisters. Hello!"
So of course she continues to make plans to leave with her step brother later that night. No amount of reasoning could change her mind. And after attending a party all afternoon, she packs in about ten minutes and leaves.
Let me also add that she is not concerned about the job she just got and was supposed to start this past Wednesday, but put off starting until sometime the following week because, "She just has too much to do first."
And the thing that just gripes me about all of this is that she will get there and back just fine. She'll start her job just fine. And she'll never understand the issue here until she has children of her own.
AND she made me go there! She made me sound just like MY mother!
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Day He's Not a Man Anymore.
What do you get when you live with a man who grew up on Monty Python, the ORIGINAL Saturday Night Live, Robin Williams and Steve Martin when they were new? My wonderful Loren! Yes, his sense of humor is original. Just like mine and the friends we hung around with in high school. I have found that on occasion it becomes necessary to explain our sense of humor to some. Especially those who are older or waaaay younger. There have been frequent times when our children have heard our jokes, rolled their eyes and walked away. Or looked us in the eye and said, "You are so weird!"
So with that introduction I have to share Loren's recent funny comment to me. After working late last night (Friday) he naturally came home quite hungry. But since it was after 7 p.m., I thought starting a big meal was not a good idea. So I suggested sandwiches. Now, Loren loves boloney sammiches (as he calls them), and he loves putting potato chips on his sammich; preferably, Lay's Plain chips. Oh, he'll settle for generic, but when he's into quality dining, it's Lay's all the way baby.
But I digress. As he and I were discussing making sandwiches, I told him I would make his sandwich for him. He told me he could make it, but I said I would be happy to do it for him. He then became insistent saying he could make his own meal.
"But sweetheart," I said. "You've been working hard and it's been a log day. I'm happy to do it for you."
That's when he blurted out this little beauty: "The day a man can't make his own boloney sammich is the day he's not a man anymore!"
I slowly looked up at him, raised my eyebrows and questioned, "So your manliness is based on your ability to make a bologna sandwich?"
"Yes! If a man can't make it himself, he is NOT a man!"
"Well babe, you just go for it. I would not want to be responsible for emasculating you," I replied in a very serious voice.
Ten minutes later a pleading voice calls from the kitchen. "Honey! Where are the potato chips?"
'Nuff said.
As a postscript to the above, he has also stated the following:
The day a man can't carry his own groceries is the day he's not a man anymore.
The day a man can't sit in a side car of a motorcycle with his pinwheel blowing in the wind, is the day he's not a man anymore.
(I know. Don't ask).
Monday, June 6, 2011
Standing "Toe to Toe" With My Step Son: A "Foot" Note
The GAPING wound measured (giving the benefit of the doubt) about 3/4" in circumference. Yes, it was easily close to a mortal wound, similar to that of Achilles fatal blow! How could he go on with the pain pulsating up his leg, punctuated with screams of anguish and despair! A wound so mortal that even the largest tube of Neosporin with pain relief could not comfort it. Yes, my stepson was barefoot while running down a hill today, rolled his foot on a rock, and ripped a tiny portion of nail from the second toe of his left foot. Large enough, surely, to render him incapable of mobility by any measure.
I told him to quickly submerse his foot in cool water as it was grimy enough to hide his actual skin color (eeeewwww!). He was screaming at the top of his lungs that it hurt and he couldn't put his foot in the water as it was too hot! I had the water set at cool.....just sayin'. I told him to clean it with some soap and a rag to get the dirt out of it. "I'm dyin' here! It hurts soooo baaaad!" Uh huh. He then decided to put peroxide on it. Yeah, THAT will feel better than soap and water. As he was screaming at the top of his lungs in pain in his best little girl voice, rolling on the floor, cradling the wounded appendage, I, being the kind and feeling healer/teacher, told him to stop being a wimpy cry-baby and pick up his sorry carcass so I could look at the toe. He put his nearly severed digit on the edge of the toilet so I could apply the aforementioned Neosporin with pain relief and bandages. I then gently applied those same bandages with the skill of a seasoned surgeon, slapping them in place to make sure they would not fall off. He was grateful, yet nearly unconscious with the pain and trauma of his ordeal.
That being said, over two weeks ago the nail of my large toe of my right foot was viciously ripped off followed by profuse bleeding. Did I cry? No! I laughed! Laughed I tell you, walking confidently into the bathroom with nary a limp to bathe my wound in cold water in the bathtub to stanch the bloodletting that would have indeed rendered a weaker soul senseless. My old nail had since fallen off to soon be replaced by a new, better, faster, stronger, bionic toenail. Yes, the technology does exist for this.
My telling of this story is only to prove that men are big babies when it comes to injury. Women are the far superior beings. I now leave room for my sweetheart to enlighten us with his version of the truth (please remember he's a man).
From where I sat all I can say is there was much screaming, taunting and laughing. I dare say no more.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Camp Estrogen
Look. I know Mary has filled you in on the wondrous events of the weekend thus far but I must speak to that which she has not. Trust me, this is not an attempt to say she has missed something or that she hasn't presented an accurate picture. She has. It's more that what she doesn't tell you is how this affects a parent, let alone a couple; which Mary and I are. Though, there are those times when she gives me that look that says there will be a price to be pay. It may not be today. It may not be tomorrow. But it will be paid. You see, Mary doesn't play fair. If I steal your M&Ms it is only part of adult etiquette that something of mine will disappear and a smile will be on the face of the one formerly offended. For example; not too long ago I shot Mary in the behind with a water gun. Really I had no choice. It was my daughter's water gun and its a big water gun. Its a really big water gun. It's a bright yellow with a blue pump on the stock water gun and it was pleading to be used. Yes. I did. Right there in the kitchen and the look was provided. Within a few days she got even with me. A Keurig. A nice coffee maker indeed. I know you are thinking that this is no big deal but I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO DRINKS COFFEE! It would have been better if she had looked at me that day and said, "Why don't you just go to bed." That's the kind of fear I can handle but this "you-victimized-me-with-violence-but-I've-responded-with-love-and-compassion" kind of stuff is just flat out wrong, painful and not very nice! Sorry. A little side tracked there. What was it? Oh yes...the affect upon parents and couples.
Now, I'm not the fastest turtle in the race, but I do know that there are things that must make the head hurt. Living with with five women is certainly a meaningful experience. If you screw something up or say it the wrong way you will soon know the full meaning of what you have done! But there are things that make the head hurt. I'm not meaning give me an aspirin, naproxen or hammer to the forehead kind of pain. It's more like John Cleese's reaction in the Monty Python skit in which a simple spot was found on a customer's fork in an elegant restaurant. The kind where you clinch your teeth, roll your eyes to back of your head, press your hand with all your might to your skull and scream "the wound! the wound!" For example. You walk to the fridge and your diet pepsi, which was full last night, now only has but a drink or two left. You ask who drank your drink and of course no one can answer. So, you go through the process of elimination (I know...foolish) but when you get to the one in which you are 87.3% sure the response is, "there's still pop in the bottle, I didn't drink it all". It's not limited to such things as my soda, its any liquid container. I've come to learn that the rule is this. If the container still has about a quarter cup of liquid still in it it has not been consumed and if you ask "did you drink this?" it's "I didn't drink it all". If you ask "are you aware there are others in the house that may have wanted some?" the answer shifts to "I didn't drink it all". If you stress "I"m not asking if you drank it all, I'm asking if you consumed so much of it without concern of others wanting to have some of it?" the new and improved answer is "I didn't drink it all." My particular favorite happens to be things like empty ice cream boxes in freezer. What is amazing about this is that you have to leave the counter, which has a built in trash can, turn around, open the freezer door and put the box back in it. This is an increase in energy expenditure which runs contrary to the reason's given to such things as picking up messes, putting clothes away, letting the dog out, letting the dog back in, and getting a coaster for your drink. Do you feel my pain?
Let's talk potty paper! Oh yeah...I'm going there! Living with five girls I've learned...or I should say my son and I have learned, that boys are not the only ones who leave seats anointed with holy water.
But the real issue is that with a house full such as this there ain't no ply big enough! Plus the objective when using toilet paper is that the purpose of potty paper is to enfold the hand, let's liken it to say the size of a ball mitt...no, a hockey goalie's mitt...so that one may be assured that not only is the sphincter treated with the utmost of care but that all universal precautions have been taken to prevent the incidental exposure to...well....you know. Needless to say there are some household supplies that must be purchased in bulk at Sam's. Of course we did not broach the delicate topic of the complexity of removing and replacing a roll of tissue have we? If you have kids you know the song...every one sing with me! Ladies!....Men!......now everyone in Chinese! (thank you Steve Martin).
Of course there are those other things that make you wonder what is going on, why does he shave his butt....why does she have to line the tub with wash clothes before showering....why do they text us when we are in the same house...how do folded clothes show up in the clothes chute but no one knows how...why is everyone else's bedroom off limits to visitors but ours...how is it that gravity's pull will overwhelm a child in the ability to keep things off the floor but never keep them from scooping food off a plate...how many days is too many days to wear the same shirt, same socks and, oh, never mind...and how, oh sweet baby Jesus, can you hear the words "like", "so yeah", "uhm" and "I know" in a single sentence?
At our ages I am happy to say, Mary and I do not take any medications. We've never smoked, tried drugs and drink in moderation but here at Camp Estrogen I'm thinking it may be time to give any one of them a whirl! Then, here she comes, that sweet, wondrous Mary, recognizing the look in my eyes that begs to be put down with a cattle gun, placing her hand upon the side of my face, ever so gently, whispering, "why don't you just go to bed?" And I think to myself...good God...I'm going to die one way or another!"
Now, I'm not the fastest turtle in the race, but I do know that there are things that must make the head hurt. Living with with five women is certainly a meaningful experience. If you screw something up or say it the wrong way you will soon know the full meaning of what you have done! But there are things that make the head hurt. I'm not meaning give me an aspirin, naproxen or hammer to the forehead kind of pain. It's more like John Cleese's reaction in the Monty Python skit in which a simple spot was found on a customer's fork in an elegant restaurant. The kind where you clinch your teeth, roll your eyes to back of your head, press your hand with all your might to your skull and scream "the wound! the wound!" For example. You walk to the fridge and your diet pepsi, which was full last night, now only has but a drink or two left. You ask who drank your drink and of course no one can answer. So, you go through the process of elimination (I know...foolish) but when you get to the one in which you are 87.3% sure the response is, "there's still pop in the bottle, I didn't drink it all". It's not limited to such things as my soda, its any liquid container. I've come to learn that the rule is this. If the container still has about a quarter cup of liquid still in it it has not been consumed and if you ask "did you drink this?" it's "I didn't drink it all". If you ask "are you aware there are others in the house that may have wanted some?" the answer shifts to "I didn't drink it all". If you stress "I"m not asking if you drank it all, I'm asking if you consumed so much of it without concern of others wanting to have some of it?" the new and improved answer is "I didn't drink it all." My particular favorite happens to be things like empty ice cream boxes in freezer. What is amazing about this is that you have to leave the counter, which has a built in trash can, turn around, open the freezer door and put the box back in it. This is an increase in energy expenditure which runs contrary to the reason's given to such things as picking up messes, putting clothes away, letting the dog out, letting the dog back in, and getting a coaster for your drink. Do you feel my pain?
Let's talk potty paper! Oh yeah...I'm going there! Living with five girls I've learned...or I should say my son and I have learned, that boys are not the only ones who leave seats anointed with holy water.
But the real issue is that with a house full such as this there ain't no ply big enough! Plus the objective when using toilet paper is that the purpose of potty paper is to enfold the hand, let's liken it to say the size of a ball mitt...no, a hockey goalie's mitt...so that one may be assured that not only is the sphincter treated with the utmost of care but that all universal precautions have been taken to prevent the incidental exposure to...well....you know. Needless to say there are some household supplies that must be purchased in bulk at Sam's. Of course we did not broach the delicate topic of the complexity of removing and replacing a roll of tissue have we? If you have kids you know the song...every one sing with me! Ladies!....Men!......now everyone in Chinese! (thank you Steve Martin).
Of course there are those other things that make you wonder what is going on, why does he shave his butt....why does she have to line the tub with wash clothes before showering....why do they text us when we are in the same house...how do folded clothes show up in the clothes chute but no one knows how...why is everyone else's bedroom off limits to visitors but ours...how is it that gravity's pull will overwhelm a child in the ability to keep things off the floor but never keep them from scooping food off a plate...how many days is too many days to wear the same shirt, same socks and, oh, never mind...and how, oh sweet baby Jesus, can you hear the words "like", "so yeah", "uhm" and "I know" in a single sentence?
At our ages I am happy to say, Mary and I do not take any medications. We've never smoked, tried drugs and drink in moderation but here at Camp Estrogen I'm thinking it may be time to give any one of them a whirl! Then, here she comes, that sweet, wondrous Mary, recognizing the look in my eyes that begs to be put down with a cattle gun, placing her hand upon the side of my face, ever so gently, whispering, "why don't you just go to bed?" And I think to myself...good God...I'm going to die one way or another!"
We Call This.......Saturday
Imagine cuddling up to your sweetheart early on a Saturday morning. And when I say early, I'm talking around 6:15; when a text message appears on the cell phone from your youngest daughter asking you to pick her up from her friends house for personal reasons ('nuff said). So I go get her and bring her home, help her feel better and send her to go lay down. Now, when I say lay down I'm thinking in her room. But, no, she plants herself on the couch in front of the television instead. At 6:30 a.m.? Really?! Okay, so I go back to bed because I'm sleepy and it's the weekend for crying out loud.
I get comfortable, cuddling back up to Loren when I get another text message, this time from our oldest daughter who is currently in NYC.
And I quote, "If you have time this weekend could you gather up things you don't want anymore from around the house? I'm gonna set up a garage sale next weekend. Got to make some gas cash for Bonnaroo."
Now, Bonnaroo is described as a Four-day, multi-stage camping festival held on a 700-acre farm in Manchester, Tennessee. Yeah. Think a modern day Woodstock. The tickets cost $400! Yes, $400.
So, my response was, "Let me get this straight. You want to sell MY stuff so YOU can have gas for Tennessee?" Her: "Yeah, that's about right."
I then advised her that Mercy Franklin was a block away and I would be more than willing to make her a psych appointment. Lets just say, she was not amused. Loren and I thought it was quite funny and we were laughing pretty hard!
It was then we decided that we would not get any more sleep and it was time to start our day. We had a very pleasant time at the Downtown Farmer's Market where we bought the best focaccia bread we had ever eaten; VERY dangerous!
We stop at the bank on the way home to deposit our middle daughter's paycheck because she couldn't, due to being at softball practice.
We got home and were promptly yelled at by the 11-year-old for not taking her with us. Uhhh, you're sick, remember?
We decided to head to run some errands to get a few things and then home to relax.
Understand that now it's about 5:30 in the evening, and we're tired. Remember, we didn't get to sleep in. We arrive home to our middle daughter asking if she can go hang with one of her girlfriends after she finishes watching a movie. I tell her no problem. After which, she promptly gets in to an argument with her younger sister, about what I have no idea. I just know they're yelling. I tell them both to stop, to which the older daughter responds by being nasty to me! I tell her she can no longer go with her friends.
The exchange that ensues between us is akin to having a conversation with a three-year-old. Mind you, she is sixteen. She kept coming to me saying, "I can't go out? Really mom? Why?"
"Really, Em," I reply.
Now you need to understand, she asked this same question about six times. And, I explained to her each time why she could not go out. I told her that when she is abusive to me, she forfeits her privileges.
After I feel she has gotten the point of why she should not have acted the way she did toward me, I tell her I have relented and she can now go out. She says she can't now because her friend got mad at her when she told her she couldn't go. I suggested that perhaps if she calls her back and talks to her I'm sure she would want to go out again. She said she would NOT call. I asked her why not and she said because she and her friends don't CALL, they TEXT! Jeez mom!
But guess what? She got a hold of her friend, and they went out.
We decide to go to Hy-Vee to get some things for dinner. At the grocery store I get a call from the aforementioned middle daughter saying that she tried to put gas in her car and her card said there was no money in the account. I explain it's because it's SATURDAY and the processing won't be complete until TUESDAY since Monday is a holiday!!
"But mom I need gas! I only have a quarter tank!" Huh? I drive a Yukon! A quarter tank is about all I ever have and I have to sell blood to get that! So Loren and I agree to go help her get more gas (whatever!), and ask where she is. She is at the Kum & Go at the corner of 70th and Douglas. When I start to ask why not the Git & Go that's closer to our house and closer to where we are I stop myself. Please refer a the former post.
On our way to rescue her she sent a text which started a conversation which can only be described as....well....you decide.
"Is it illegal to stay parked by the gas pump if you're not getting gas?" Oh, we thought we could have so much fun with this.
So I sent her "YES!"
"Really?!" She asks.
"Yes, it's illegal! Act like you're using the pump! Hurry!" I text. And "it's also dangerous to use your cell phone while near a gas pump!"
"No it's not!" She responds.
"Uh, yeah! Batteries, flammable liquids, sparks!" I reply.
"This is Loren talking," She sends.
"Nope, Loren's driving," I text.
"Really?" she asks.
"YES!" I reply.
"Right."
"Look it up!" I send.
After that we went home. We gave up; we surrendered. We were exhausted!
Just a typical Saturday in the Strait-Munyon household.
I get comfortable, cuddling back up to Loren when I get another text message, this time from our oldest daughter who is currently in NYC.
And I quote, "If you have time this weekend could you gather up things you don't want anymore from around the house? I'm gonna set up a garage sale next weekend. Got to make some gas cash for Bonnaroo."
Now, Bonnaroo is described as a Four-day, multi-stage camping festival held on a 700-acre farm in Manchester, Tennessee. Yeah. Think a modern day Woodstock. The tickets cost $400! Yes, $400.
So, my response was, "Let me get this straight. You want to sell MY stuff so YOU can have gas for Tennessee?" Her: "Yeah, that's about right."
I then advised her that Mercy Franklin was a block away and I would be more than willing to make her a psych appointment. Lets just say, she was not amused. Loren and I thought it was quite funny and we were laughing pretty hard!
It was then we decided that we would not get any more sleep and it was time to start our day. We had a very pleasant time at the Downtown Farmer's Market where we bought the best focaccia bread we had ever eaten; VERY dangerous!
We stop at the bank on the way home to deposit our middle daughter's paycheck because she couldn't, due to being at softball practice.
We got home and were promptly yelled at by the 11-year-old for not taking her with us. Uhhh, you're sick, remember?
We decided to head to run some errands to get a few things and then home to relax.
Understand that now it's about 5:30 in the evening, and we're tired. Remember, we didn't get to sleep in. We arrive home to our middle daughter asking if she can go hang with one of her girlfriends after she finishes watching a movie. I tell her no problem. After which, she promptly gets in to an argument with her younger sister, about what I have no idea. I just know they're yelling. I tell them both to stop, to which the older daughter responds by being nasty to me! I tell her she can no longer go with her friends.
The exchange that ensues between us is akin to having a conversation with a three-year-old. Mind you, she is sixteen. She kept coming to me saying, "I can't go out? Really mom? Why?"
"Really, Em," I reply.
Now you need to understand, she asked this same question about six times. And, I explained to her each time why she could not go out. I told her that when she is abusive to me, she forfeits her privileges.
After I feel she has gotten the point of why she should not have acted the way she did toward me, I tell her I have relented and she can now go out. She says she can't now because her friend got mad at her when she told her she couldn't go. I suggested that perhaps if she calls her back and talks to her I'm sure she would want to go out again. She said she would NOT call. I asked her why not and she said because she and her friends don't CALL, they TEXT! Jeez mom!
But guess what? She got a hold of her friend, and they went out.
We decide to go to Hy-Vee to get some things for dinner. At the grocery store I get a call from the aforementioned middle daughter saying that she tried to put gas in her car and her card said there was no money in the account. I explain it's because it's SATURDAY and the processing won't be complete until TUESDAY since Monday is a holiday!!
"But mom I need gas! I only have a quarter tank!" Huh? I drive a Yukon! A quarter tank is about all I ever have and I have to sell blood to get that! So Loren and I agree to go help her get more gas (whatever!), and ask where she is. She is at the Kum & Go at the corner of 70th and Douglas. When I start to ask why not the Git & Go that's closer to our house and closer to where we are I stop myself. Please refer a the former post.
On our way to rescue her she sent a text which started a conversation which can only be described as....well....you decide.
"Is it illegal to stay parked by the gas pump if you're not getting gas?" Oh, we thought we could have so much fun with this.
So I sent her "YES!"
"Really?!" She asks.
"Yes, it's illegal! Act like you're using the pump! Hurry!" I text. And "it's also dangerous to use your cell phone while near a gas pump!"
"No it's not!" She responds.
"Uh, yeah! Batteries, flammable liquids, sparks!" I reply.
"This is Loren talking," She sends.
"Nope, Loren's driving," I text.
"Really?" she asks.
"YES!" I reply.
"Right."
"Look it up!" I send.
After that we went home. We gave up; we surrendered. We were exhausted!
Just a typical Saturday in the Strait-Munyon household.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Did They Really Say That?
"They're punishing me for my success!"
Said by a daughter during her senior year in high school when she failed to communicate with her employer for three weeks about all of her extra curricular activities that would prevent her from working. When she finally talked to them, they had assumed she had quit, and were perturbed that she had not been in contact.
"I'm twenty years old. You don't have to tell me how to share."
Said by a daughter who assumes what's yours is hers and what's hers is hers.
"I can't drive that direction because I don't go that way!"
Said by a daughter when asked why she didn't drive a certain route so that she could get gas at a closer station than the one she usually went to on the way to school. But because this gas station wasn't on the school route, she couldn't go there, even though it was closer to home. So, she asked her dad to drive her to school because she didn't have enough gas in her car to get to school.
"Michael Jackson....Michael Jackson.....I'm going to marry Michael Jackson one day! Michael Jackson is my uncle!"
Said by a daughter who is a...you guessed it...Michael Jackson fanatic. Um, Michael Jackson is dead.
"My bottom is the most sensitive part of my body!"
Said by a daughter who was wrestling with Loren. But then the more he wrestles with her, you can throw in anywhere there's connective tissue.
"I could have $300 in my pocket tomorrow!"
Said by a son who is currently unemployed. Um....we don't want to know. Hence, we don't ask.
Said by a daughter during her senior year in high school when she failed to communicate with her employer for three weeks about all of her extra curricular activities that would prevent her from working. When she finally talked to them, they had assumed she had quit, and were perturbed that she had not been in contact.
"I'm twenty years old. You don't have to tell me how to share."
Said by a daughter who assumes what's yours is hers and what's hers is hers.
"I can't drive that direction because I don't go that way!"
Said by a daughter when asked why she didn't drive a certain route so that she could get gas at a closer station than the one she usually went to on the way to school. But because this gas station wasn't on the school route, she couldn't go there, even though it was closer to home. So, she asked her dad to drive her to school because she didn't have enough gas in her car to get to school.
"Michael Jackson....Michael Jackson.....I'm going to marry Michael Jackson one day! Michael Jackson is my uncle!"
Said by a daughter who is a...you guessed it...Michael Jackson fanatic. Um, Michael Jackson is dead.
"My bottom is the most sensitive part of my body!"
Said by a daughter who was wrestling with Loren. But then the more he wrestles with her, you can throw in anywhere there's connective tissue.
"I could have $300 in my pocket tomorrow!"
Said by a son who is currently unemployed. Um....we don't want to know. Hence, we don't ask.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
OWIE!!
Today Loren and I decided we were going to try walking a couple times a week in order to get some exercise. We walked for about an hour and it was wonderful. It was after the morning rain and the air smelled so fresh and invigorating. I was very much looking forward to the next opportunity to walk with my baby. But then, once again, fate intervened.....
Later in the day, in the process of responding to my eleven-year-old's screams of anger from her room that the dog had gotten in and pooped on her floor, I became injured. Yes, I tripped on the wooden stairs and in the process ripped the toenail right off the big toe of my right foot. Completely pulled it off. The odd thing was, I stood there staring at it in disbelief, sort of disembodied. What the heck? My toenail? Really? Are you kidding me?! Interestingly enough, it never really hurt except for putting my foot in cold water to slow the flow of blood. My wonderful sixteen-year-old daughter ran to Walgreen's for medical supplies so that my sweet man could the play role of doctor and bandage my toe for me (he says he can do this because he stayed at a Holiday Inn Express). So now here I sit, blogging about my exploits of my wounded appendage. I wonder if the rapture would have been easier?
Later in the day, in the process of responding to my eleven-year-old's screams of anger from her room that the dog had gotten in and pooped on her floor, I became injured. Yes, I tripped on the wooden stairs and in the process ripped the toenail right off the big toe of my right foot. Completely pulled it off. The odd thing was, I stood there staring at it in disbelief, sort of disembodied. What the heck? My toenail? Really? Are you kidding me?! Interestingly enough, it never really hurt except for putting my foot in cold water to slow the flow of blood. My wonderful sixteen-year-old daughter ran to Walgreen's for medical supplies so that my sweet man could the play role of doctor and bandage my toe for me (he says he can do this because he stayed at a Holiday Inn Express). So now here I sit, blogging about my exploits of my wounded appendage. I wonder if the rapture would have been easier?
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