There's Something Wrong With You and other tales from the crypt.

The kids and myself went to Momma and Jack's house tonight to celebrate the grand opening of "El Grande Casita". (Don't critique my use of El, I can't remember if Grande is feminine or masculine or if that even matters or is applicable in choosing whether to use "el" "le" or "los" in this situation, my eye just twitched thinking about it.) Back to the topic, it is the brand new playhouse that Grandpa Jack built and Mae Mae decorated (and helped build). We have been waiting all week to finally make it over there to check it out and I will have a separate post later this week that is strictly about this magnificent abode. It is stunning. Just wait, you'll see.

After enjoying some great momma/mae-mae/daughter/granddaughter moments we went back inside to prepare for dinner. I was haggling with Cooper over whether or not he would allow me to bring the spoon near his face and how far I could get said spoon to his mouth before he used his cat like reflexes to knock the damn thing out of my hand. Finally I had to just give it up and step away or someone was going to end up with peas on their head. Yes, it probably would've been me.

Throughout this scene I kept hearing Momma mention that she was hot.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before but the women in my family don't do well with hot. I'll give a brief rundown; outside hot = fine, inside hot = the opposite of fine. She tried opening the door but then Jack explained that noone else is hot so why make us cold if she's the only one hot. This may sound like logical reasoning, unless you are the one that is hot. If you are the one that is hot then that explanation sounds more like this, "Oh, you're hot? Well, fuck you then. While you're not looking I go over and turn up the thermostat and then tell you that I'm not hot so that you think you are crazy and look at me I'm not hot I'm so very comfortable you fucking lunatic! Oh, you want some cold water sweetie? Here, have some room temperature water."

I never said we were sane.

Finally dinner was done and we are enjoying a nice meal including a fantastic Cabernet Sauvignon that was delicious. We were just about done eating, having some nice conversation and I turn to my left where Momma is sitting and I notice I can see her stomach, I thought her shirt had ridden up. Nope. All of a sudden that shirt came flying off, eyes wild and hair going crazy.


I simply cannot get enough of this vision. I don't know where to look, I want to see Jack, Madison, and Cooper's expressions but I don't dare tear my eyes away from this epic scene that is taking place right in front of my eyes. She gives a lot of different descriptions of how her skin is melting off of her body but I just don't see it. That's when Jack says what I've been waiting for. The obligatory "husband remark".

"There's something wrong with you."

He then backed it up by saying, "No, seriously. Something is wrong with you."

I love how they try to make us feel better. Either way the whole scenario had me in tears and I gave everyone fair warning that this was definitely a story to be shared.

So, Momma, there's nothing wrong with you. Damn, is it hot in here or what?


My Name Is Superstar.

I have a rule about not telling stories about work. I am only going to share this story because it took place at an old workplace and it's not about the work, just about an event...err, situation.

It was my first week in the office and I was just learning where everything was and who everyone was. I was asked to take a large printout to the office at the end of the hall.

"Give it to Gay." they tell me.

"OKAY!" I say wanting to pass as helpful and responsible. You know me by now, I'm neither.

I grab up the print job and head down the hall, shoulder's back, head held high...for a second. As I walk towards the office I see that there are two people in the office, a man and a...woman, she was wearing flannel and a less than desirable hairstyle.

I walked past the office door with a look of panic. I knew that if I kept walking I would eventually end up back here and that would give me enough time to figure out what to say...Oh GOD, what do I say?

"Are you Gay?"
"Who's Gay?"
"Hey, Gay?"
"Hi Gay."
"This is Gay's."

What the fuck. I was instantly pissed of that I had been put in this situation and wondered for a second if I was being Punk'd. What if they were just joking with me? The office had no nameplate on the outside, so how the hell am I supposed to know?!

What if I walk in and say "Gay?" and then one of them say's "Yes." Is it "yes" my name is Gay, or "yes" I'm gay? Oh, shit, I'm back to the office...keep walking. Who named this person? Why would they do that? Why don't we wear name tag's here? That would make everything simpler...They should definitely start putting nameplate's on the outside of the office's so that we know and visitor's know who is in there! I feel like I'm in some sort of test or conspiracy. Did I already make someone mad? Do they want me to get fired?

By now I have crinkled up the print job, my hair is a mess, my face has sweated all my make-up off, my eyes are all darty and crazy and I'm already back at the office door! Why am I walking so fast?!

By now, they've seen me pass this door at least two times that I can remember.

I decided, well, my mouth decided to just say "Gay?" like a question...but it came out like "GAY!" The woman looked up and I shrieked "THIS IS FOR YOU!" and flung the paper into the air, I think she caught it, I didn't stick around to find out.

I ran past my bosses door, "I'M GOING TO LUNCH!"

I'm going to change Cooper's name to "Genius" and Madison's name will be "Rocket Scientist". Because that's what we're doing these day's right?


Misunderstood Donation

If you have a child, like I do, that insists on keeping every single thing that crosses her path...you know, for sentimental value, then you know what kind of mess a bedroom can become. For the most part Madison keeps her room clean, sometimes it gets out of hand but lately she's been good about it. I have drilled into her how fortunate she is to have all of the crap, err, toys that she has but that some kids don't have anything, so a couple of times a year we purge her room and donate, around Christmas we buy new toys and donate to local charities also. Sometimes I will just make a quick sweep and drop a bag of at Salvation Army.

This is what I did about two weeks ago. She was at a sleepover so I decided that it was time for a sweep. I went through and got rid of a bunch of stuff, stuff that I never see her play with and stuff that I was just plain tired of looking at. Nothing of actual sentimental value...so I thought.

Yesterday, I get a message from Joe. "You need to call and talk to Madison."


I called and I heard "waaaa" "sniff sniff" "gurgle" "baby" "waaaa" "doll" "ehhhhh". I double checked the number to make sure I hadn't misdialed and gotten some crazed lunatic's home/asylum by mistake. Nope, correct number.

I'll spare you the gory details but apparently I donated to Salvation Army her most favorite baby doll ever in the world and now she is sad and can't function on even a minor level because everything she does reminds her of the time spent with said doll.

Me? Donate you baby doll that you have had since you were two? I don't think so. I couldn't believe it! I must have just thrown it in by accident. I wouldn't have done it on purpose...really. I promise. I tried to talk her down from the ledge but it just wasn't working so I told her maybe it was still actually in her room and to look again and I would help her when I got home. Lies.

I now remember that it was in the bag, that bag was definitely taken to Sally's, and I am definitely the worst mother to ever walk the planet. Ever. I, of course, get the bright idea that I will go there after work and look to see if it is still there. No way someone bought that doll...no way I said. No way.

I'm not sure what I was thinking, wait, yes I do. I was thinking that I would walk into that stinky, dirty, dusty store and a beacon of heavenly light would be shining down onto the pristine body of that baby doll with its arms outstretched ready to go back home where it belongs.

I have quite the imagination.

Instead I am greeted by two pack and plays from the 1980s filled way past the brim with stuffed animals and dolls. Please, let me remind you that these toys have seen better days. These raggy, mangey, moldy stuffed beings...well, it was just pitiful. That's the only word I can think of, oh, and gross. Who would donate this stuff. But, I, determined to save the day went ahead and dug in. Each time I reached my hand in I prepared myself to pull back a bloody nub. FINALLY, I saw a doll head!

I grabbed it and pulled it out and this is where I tell you the God's honest truth. I screamed and jumped back about 3 feet and didn't even draw the slightest of attention from anyone. What stared back at me was something that has survived (if you can call it that) many a war and many a brother or sociopath. This doll looked back at me with one clicky eye open, one nubby arm and one leg that had been duct taped on, it was dirty and it hated me.

I didn't need any other sign, I left. I'm still sanitizing my hands.

Went home empty handed (luckily I had both of them) and if I know my daughter, and I do, when she is 30 years old she will call me and say "Remember that time you donated my favorite doll?"

And I will say, "Yes."

I hate dolls, they scare me (obviously) so here is a picture of Bocephus, he's due for some screen time.



Madison enjoys those Mad Libs books. By "enjoys" I mean she likes me to tell her what type of word then she likes to take an hour or two to make her decision.

I started teaching her in Kindergarten the different types of words, nouns, verbs, adjectives and so on. For some reason the adjectives always throw her for a loop.

For instance:

Me: Adjective.

Madison: Chicken.

Me: Adjective, a describing word...short...tall..pink...fluffy...pretty

Madison: Chickooooooooo.

Me: No...that's a sound effect or...something.

Madison: Stinky.

Me: Thank you.


I May Not Talk To You In Public...Don't Be Offended.

I love my friends...most of them...most of the time. (This includes ya'll you know.) We have great fun and conversations and girl nights and going out nights and movie nights and staying in nights and all kinds of awesome adventures.

I don't always like to talk though. I know, right? Me? Not want to talk, to people with ears for listening? Pish posh.

It's true.

Sometimes, and with some people (you know, like acquaintenances, not close friends) I just don't want to talk in public...it's always awkward. We cross paths in the grocery store and its:

Me: "Heeeeyyy."

Them: "Heeeeeyyy."

Me: "Grocery shopping?"

Them: "Yeah, you?"

Me: "Yeah....got some eggs."

Them: "Oh, yeah, I have eggs already."

Me: "okay then...well...bye..."

OH GOSH! Then what if you see them AGAIN!

"Oh, hi again."

By the seventh run-in I'm just indignant about it.


It's just so much work and the last place I want to catch up on someone else's life is in the aisle's of Wal-Mart.

Just to prove to you how much I hate this exact thing, I will share a recent experience.

I was in Wal-Mart, I needed to grab a couple of things and pick up a prescription. As I was heading to the pharmacy I noticed someone I knew...not a close friend but someone that I would have had to talk to the whole time I was in line. Not interested. So I turned around.

After a few minutes I went back...still there. Turned around. Went back, still there! Geez, what are they getting, a years supply of everything? By this time my antics have peaked Madison's curiousity.

"What are you doing" she says.

"There's a line, I don't want to wait in the long line." I lie.

"There's no line."

Damn it. She caught me. I continue to lie about this line that may or may not be.

One hour later we finally left Wal-Mart and I was saved of an awkward conversation.

I win.

So, if you see me in public and I don't talk to you , I'm not ignoring you.

Yes I am.


Manners? What's That?

I was raised in the South, by my very Southern momma. Which means, a: I got spanked and I'm totally fine with that, b: I know how to make gravy, fried chicken and how to eat a crawdad, and c: I have manners. I've found living in other states, like the one I live in now, manners don't seem to fall real high on the totem pole. I've heard many a child yell "What?" to their parents, I have to catch myself from yelling back "Excuuuuse me boy?! I think you meant "ma'am"! Start over." That's not to say that I don't have to remind my own brood to say their "please" and "thank you's", or to "MY GOD, could you please chew with your mouth closed!". It's a learned habit.

With children I expect a few slip-ups, they're kids after all and the only learn from their parent's. What I cannot get over is the lack of common manners and decency in adults.

A few things make me crazy. One is table manners. Could you please not shovel the food direct from the plate into your cake hole? Maybe? Also, while your chewing could you close your gullet long enough to chew and swallow? I know I'm asking quite a bit from you here on this one, but really, just this once. I'm begging you.

A lot of my complaints come from the road. I don't claim to be the best driver ever but at least I have some common courtesy and sense...and a lead foot. Nevermind that. Now, when I'm in traffic, driving along and someone needs to squeeze on over I used to let them go ahead. I would let them in and then I would receive the standard over the shoulder wave, as if to say, "Thank you kind ma'am, surely there is a place in heaven just for you and your kind soul."

Why yes, I am kind aren't I?

What happens these days? I let someone over, grinning like a fool because I am super nice and I am about to get an awesome wave from this super grateful citizen. I'm waiting. Smile is slowly falling. Waiting. Smile has completely turned into frown. Waiting, dodging pedestrians because I don't want to miss this wave that I am surely going to get...right? Frown has now turned into scowl. I am still waiting for that fucking wave that I so  greatly deserve because I've been in traffic for an hour and you could've gotten over five miles back but noooo you decided to speed on up here and squeeze in ahead of everyone who has been waiting patiently and you sir are an asshole and have now punished everyone else in the world that I will encounter in traffic because I will never let anyone in front of me again. Douche bag.

I'm not asking for much. Just a little wave to let me know that he knows that I went out of my way to do something that I didn't have to do. Just a nod from human to human that says, "Hey, you didn't have to do that but you did and I thank you." Is that too much? Am I expecting way to much of my fellow inhabitants of this great world?

I guess so. But I have no more problems because I will no longer be disappointed. I hope you don't need to get in front of me on the streets because I'm not letting you in. And you can thank Mr. Maroon Ford F-250, BGBLLS, who enjoys "ditching the bitch" to go hunting and urinating on Chevrolet emblems.

How rude.


I Am My Own Husband

I'm sure that you own a vacuum cleaner. Right? I'm also sure that at some point in your life you have answered that dreaded knock on the door by a Kirby salesman. Right? No? Really? Oops, I think someone's at your door. You go ahead and go get that and I'll see you in three hours.

Here's what happens, in case you didn't already know. The guy knocks on your door, you answer and he says, "Well, hello there. I would like to come in and clean your carpet! Just clean it and then I'll be out the door, no strings attached!"

Then you say "Woohoo! What an amazing Christmas miracle, please come in kind sir!".

Then he leaves three hours later, and maybe you bought a Kirby vacuum cleaner, maybe you didn't.

I'll go ahead and spoil this story for you. I own a Kirby vacuum cleaner.

On the way home one cold winter night I had Madison in the car with me and called home to let Joe know that we were on the way. Joe says, "Oh this guy just came by and said he would clean our carpets."

"Noooooooooo! Get him out of the house now! Oh my God!"

Then he says, "Oh, he's not here now, he just ran out to get the cleaner out of the van."

"Oh good. Lock the door."

"I can't do that Amber, he's just going to clean the carpet. Come on."

"Joe." I said, "Joe, I'm on the way home. I don't want that man in my home when I get there."

I was home a few minutes later. No van in the driveway. Phew. We walk in the door. Now, please remember, I had just worked all day and still had to come home and cook dinner. I see a stranger's coat hanging on the rack and some snow boots that I didn't recognize. I thought to myself, "Well, looks like someone left without their coat and snow boots." Naive, I know.

I am welcomed by my beaming husband and a stranger. Poor Madison was stuck going to play in her room while this guy cleaned our carpet and my husband smiled the biggest freaking smile I had ever seen.

Immediately I am attacked about the face and neck with facts about this fabulous machine! It does this and this and this and look and it can unfold and BOO it's Joseph Gordon-Levitt and then hit this button and BAM he turns into Jensen Ackles, turn this switch and it's a BRAND NEW CAR! And a year's supply of A-1 Sauce. (if that's what it really did I would have paid anything for it...anything)

I don't care what they were saying. Joe wanted the Joseph-Jensen-car and I wanted to be able to pay our regular bills and maybe get some food. Food that didn't required A-1 sauce.

Finally, well, so I thought. I just gave in. I grabbed the checkbook and put it on the table and said, "You want it, you write the check."

That sparked a whole nother conversation about making joint decisions, the sales guy whipped out his wallet with pictures of his daughters (one is getting married in the summer), he also called his boss about three times to lower the price from one million dollars to five-hundred thousand. It was literally three hours. 3 hours. 180 minutes. I'm tired. Joe is still reeling from the Kirby vacuum fumes, this man was freaking excited about cleaning the carpets, the furniture, the mattresses. They made it clear that I wasn't the best momma ever unless I had this vacuum to suck up all of the bugs in our child's mattress. The sales guy was also sure to mention that it was usually the husband that didn't want the vacuum, not the wife, and that we were ten kinds of back ass wards.

I don't know when it happened, I was deliriously tired and had low blood sugar, but that guy left and when he left he didn't take the Kirby with him.

The Kirby that has a dog brush attachment, a belt sander attachment, a massage attachment, a carpet shampoo attachment, a crevice attachment, a rotating brush attachment, an inflate/deflate attachment and a stair vacuum attachment. No, I am no joking about any of the a fore mentioned attachments. I am 100% serious and that makes me sad.

The picture above does not show the rotating brush attachment or the sander/massager attachment. I promise they exist and I have them.