La Grande Casita

About a month...maybe two, ago, momma and Jack had the fantastic idea of building a playhouse for the grandkids. I was instantly excited, they have a beautiful yard, very rainforest-ey...yep, that's a word. They got started on it quicker than I anticipated, then it rained for 40 days so that delayed things a bit, what with the huge Ark that landed in the front yard.

Then, just like that, it was done. Jack did some amazing work on the construction. What started out as a one room playhouse ended up being a tiny cabin complete with bunk beds, a reading chair, windows, a heater and a heap of personality. Momma decorated and it's like something straight out of a storybook. We can't get enough of it. I would love to take you on a photographic tour, I tried to capture everything but looking back at the pictures I just feel like they don't do it justice.

This little home is magic. From the second you walk in you feel like you've escaped something and can finally breathe. The beds are outfitted in fine linens and the comfiest quilts. Every nook has a little piece of personality. The windows only reveal the wilderness so you feel even further from reality. A storage ottoman houses crayons, markers, and paper dolls. There is electricity and the light that shines down comes from an antique fixture that seems like it was made just for this spot. The ceiling is tall giving the small house a grand feel. When you leave the magic of "the cabin", as Madison calls it, you are already trying to scheme and plan the next rendezvous.

Thank you to Momma and Jack for blessing our family and all the grandkids with a little place that they can call their own and truly be children.


Won't you come in?

 We're warm.

 Modern bird nest.

 Shed a little light.
 View from inside towards the door.

A whole lot of enjoyment is contained in this storage ottoman.

 There's not much better than a brand new box of crayons.

 Magnificent chair.

 It's all in the detail.

 Something in every corner.

 Magic lies within this door.

 I love the bottom bunk.

 Madison calls dibs on the top.

 It's just calling for me to sit and read an entire book.

 Homemade curtains by momma.

 We've each started to make beaded garlands to decorate with.

 This is momma's, there is no end to her creativity.

I would live right here if I could.


Stages Of Seeing A Scary Movie

I use the term "scary movie" loosely. Just because I think it's scary doesn't mean that it is in fact scary. Just wanted to point that out. Since, during a conversation with me you could randomly yell out "boo" and I would hit the floor in defense mode, I understand that not everyone is as easily frightened as I am.

Not very long ago I was a big horror movie fan. Weekends were spent at momma's house watching whatever one of us found in the deepest darkest pits of the video rental joint. I'm not sure when it happened or why but all of a sudden my nerves just couldn't handle it anymore. There are still a few things I can watch but my tolerance is limited. I'm talking to you Human Centipede.

I specifically rememember a weekend that Morgan and I were supposed to go see a movie. I will break it down for you based on my stages of seeing a scary movie.

Denial: "Morgan. I'm not going to see that movie." (driving to theatre) "I don't want to see that one, let's see something else."

Anger (with some denial mixed in): "I'm NOT seeing this Morgan! It's going to be TOO SCARY!" (this is standing in line and purchasing tickets to scary movie that I am vocally refusing to see)

Depression (plus denial): "I don't wanna...hmph." (pouting, standing in line for nachos and hot dogs)

Bargaining (no longer in denial): "Morgan, please, let's leave now. I'll buy you something! Anything...if it costs less than $5. Do you want to go for ice cream?" "PLEASE!" (in theater, in the middle of the movie that I haven't seen more than 3 minutes of because my head is behind my coat, people are throwing things at me)

And that's about it. Apparently ice cream isn't good enough for him even though at one point I wasn't the only one behind my coat...so, I win. Kind of.

This isn't me, you know, because you can see her face. I'll be the one hiding behind a jacket or someones head.


What's In A Name? Well, It Depends On How Many You Have.

I have three names, first - middle - last. I understand that a lot of people have more than that and that is great. The basic rule of thumb is, you only go by the one name. Unless you have some nickname that some people call you but then others don't so then when you meet people half of your friends introduce you as Socko and the other half introduce you as Wayne and noone knows what your name is or who you are and why are you even here, where's Socko? Where's Wayne!? What have you done with them?! Poor Wayne and Socko, they were fun, too bad they're gone forever... Then you're all, I'm right here! And they're all, you're nuts man.

Or you could be like my mom and go by every single name depending on what day it is and what hour. Counting her maiden name she has 5 names. Recently she went to the pharmacy to pick up a presciption and was told my the clerk that her insurance company responded to the claim by saying "This person is not insured." Which is a fantastic thing to hear when you are standing in line to purchase medication.

She called her insurance company and here is a little tidbit of the conversation. A conversation that momma thought was totally normal and accused the other party of being insane until I explained..."They are insane? Are you sure? Because you have 17 names and it can be confusing..."

Momma: Hello. I tried to get a presciption filled and they told me that I was uninsured...that is incorrect.

Guy: Yes. I see here that the pharmacy tried to fill a prescption for a Jessi R. Wade...

Momma: Yes.

Guy: Who is that?

Momma: Me.

Guy: It says here you are Robin J. Wade...sooo.

Momma: Yes. I showed her my insurance card AND my drivers license. My first name is Jessi but I don't use that name.

Guy: So, it's not on your birth certificate anymore?

Momma: No, it's still there. Actually. My first name is Miss, but I go by Robin, but my first name is Jessi.

Guy: So....

Right? Confusing.

This also from the mother who raised us all to call my brother by his middle name and now that he's older he's grown weary of correcting anyone that calls him by his actual first name so now he goes by both names, depending on where he is and how old he was when he met the person.

People. I am the normal one.

Isn't that scary?



My friend Stephanie refers to her ears as "earholes" which I am abso-freaking-lutely in love with, and has driven me to add "holes" to a multitude of things. Eyehole, mouthhole, belly button hole, tv hole, shoe hole, brain hole, it's fun you should try it. Just use your imagination hole and come up with some of your own.

Now. Back to my story. Ack! This, my friends, this blog, is a...ready? A story hole! Wow. I hope Steph is proud.

So. I wear contacts (stalkers, take note) and for the longest time, read: for as long as I've worn them, I can't obey the laws of the contact. I consistently have worn them for way longer than they are supposed to be worn...say, 9 months. Also, I will sleep in them for...say, 9 months. (Please don't yell at me.)

This year when I went to the eye doctor, knowing that I have been very very bad, I requested the prescription for the "daily" contacts. The ones that you wear for just one day and then throw them away. Thinking that I would be more disciplined and that I would be a good girl and throw them away directly after flossing my teeth and then put on a fresh pair in the morning.


Well, I did it for a while. And boy was I good! I was all flossing and removing contacts and doing things and wearing my glasses.

Once or twice now I have woken up at around 3 am and ripped them out in the dark and set them on my nightstand.

Last night, I slept in them. I also did not remove them in the morning. I am certain that now they have disintegrated into my cornea and I will not be able to remove them without some sort of operation that involves a scrapey thing and I will have to have my eyelids taped open Mel Gibson Conspiracy Theory style and I won't get any anesthesia because I was the one that decided to sleep in my daily wear contacts therefore making the choice to screw up my eyeholes forever more.

This is similar to me trying to eat healthy, I'm good for a minute, losing weight, feeling great. Then a donut passes by and I'm all "Roooaaarrrr...donut times!" and there's cardboard flying and carnage and people screaming and running for their lives and I've eaten all the carb's and sugar coated everything in the building and there's crying, mostly by me, but I'm also happy because there's bacon.

It's obvious that right this second I am on a sugar high because a friend stopped by and threw a bag of chocolate at me and yelled "Get these away from me!". I was strong...until she left. Now I'm sitting here with chocolate on my face and my leg is jumping and I'm pretty sure that this blog post in this story hole has taken about 5 left turns which takes more fuel than making 5 right turns, did you know that? I learned it on Twitter.

This donut has bacon on it.


A Day.

Today is a day. What a fucking day. I am in desperate need of unlimited amounts of cash and patience and if it's not too much trouble a pair of Tom's shoes in red, size 8. Thanks.

Cooper has been doing this "screaming slash squeeling slash hey look, momma's ears are bleeding" thing. It has me on the edge of world and at the brink of insanity. I have tried a few things to get him to stop this "behavior", that's what the pediatrician calls it. "It's a behavior, he's nine months old, what are you going to do? He'll stop it soon enough." What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Doc. You have no idea.

First I tried ignoring it. Then I tried this thing where I yell back, then he yells, then I yell, then he yells, then Madison says, "Soooo, do you want me to yell also?"

Before I start getting your comments about colic and about needs and about whatever else, let me just explain it. He's not crying. He's screaming. He likes the sound of his own yell. He doesn't necessarily want or need anything obvious when he does it. I don't give him anything when he screams, I try desperately to not even give him a reaction but sometimes after sporadic yelling for 10 minutes and my hair is starting to drop out in clumps I have to say something. Anything. Sometimes it's just a sound effect. My house sounds are "EEEEEEEEE" (that's Cooper) and "BLERRRRGGHHH" (that's me). Our neighbors must think that we are lunatics.

Yesterday I tried this thing where I would just talk to him and say things like, "Oh, yelling? That's totally fine. Go ahead, yell. It's cool. I'm cool. We're all cool." Then the more he would yell, the more indignant I would get until finally I could hear my dad's fits of laughter coming up from downstairs and I yelled "It's not FUNNY" and threw myself on the floor. That's how I roll.

Other than that I have the basic mind numbing, life shattering, irritants. Bills, and lots of them. They just don't stop, and just when I think I have paid the bills and minimum payments for the month I get a phone call or a letter saying, "Hey, pay this shit or we're coming over there and you don't want us to come over there, cuz we're all gangster and we will turn off your gas, ma'am." Fuck. I just remembered I need to pay the gas bill.

Today I cancelled a dentist appointment because it would've cost me over $800 and I love the look that the receptionist/dental hygienist gave me because I didn't just have $800 lying around in wait for the day I needed a fucking crown. If I'm paying almost $900 for a crown, that bitch better have diamonds and rubies and come with a throne and some minions.


Murphy's Law Anyone?

I am really getting tired of the whole "Can something bad happen in this situation? Sure. Okay, then BAM!" situation. It's not even big things that send me over the edge, it's the small stuff. Here's a list. I know how you love my list's.

1. Hands wet? Signal nose to itch like nobody's business.

2. Hands wet? Phone, where are you? Oh, there you are under the important documents. RING!

3. Hands wet? Wait, why are my hands wet all the time?

4. Need to open the car door? Something that needs to not hit pavement go ahead and shoot out like a rocket. Then, have a family of four walk by while I yell "MOTHER FUCKER" into the universe.

5. Trackball on Blackberry broken and just sitting in the holder? Signal pothole so the phone will go flying and the trackball will gracefully jump out the window.

6. Need to rush somewhere? Or even just walk slowly somewhere? Hey foot, why don't you just shoot out towards that wall or handy concrete block. Thanks.

7. Waiting to hear the last results from America's Got Talent? GCI cable, you asshole, go ahead and freeze my episode and then shoot it forward about 10 minutes. You're the best.

8. Have a little extra money? Car break down. Water heater flood. Chaos ensue.

9. Out of diapers? Explosion!

10. Audition? Hi clear skin...goodbye clear skin.

So, that's just a few. I feel better now just getting those irritants off my chest. Now I will go to bed...but not before stubbing my toe on the way and scratching my cornea while taking out my contacts.

Now that I've typed this all up I realize that I may have addressed my Murphy's Law situations before...but I've done all this work so, enjoy.

The Ways He Lays

Caught In The Act

I know you see that Twilight Scene-It game back there...shut up.


Read Signs Closely Before Entering

Just for the record, my memory sucks and I need to compose an actual descriptive list of all of my blog posts because I can’t remember what I’ve written about…

Okay, enough of that.

Yesterday Morgan called to review with me the awesomeness of the previous day that he spent with Angelo at the fair. He talked of fried and dipped foods. Perfect weather (which we never get at fair time, by the way). More perfect and awesomeness and heaven’s sunshine and halo’s and bacon and donut’s.

Perfect day. Except that when they thought they were going into the funhouse, they quickly realized that this was not fun. In fact, it was the exact opposite of fun. It was a haunted house. Trying to just make it through with their wit intact was a feat. There were heads flying around and black trash bags and attack poses and screaming and some pee. He didn’t say that, but he didn’t have to.

I asked, “chainsaws?” and he said, “no”. Phew. I hate a fucking chainsaw.

This reminded me of my own haunted house experience. Well, the one that I can remember clearly. Momma took me to at least one as a small child. What I remember is this: chainsaw guy, me screaming, momma laughing and screaming, and sliding out of the building from the roof. I’m sure the roof thing wasn’t real but the chainsaw guy was.

A few years ago a friend and her boyfriend were going to the local haunted house that they put out every Halloween…I can’t remember the name of it exactly but it should be called, “Come pay us to scare the shit out of you.” I, forgetting who I was, agreed to tag along. What? Dumb.

When you arrive there is a line… of course…seems logical to stand in line for terror. There are also these little children in scary masks yelling at you and calling you names. After you pay you are then ushered into a little black hallway, they only let about 3 people in at a time. So here we are. Boyfriend in the center, we are on either side of him holding on for dear life. We walk into the first room. It’s huge and dark with a cardboard house in the center. Then. CHAINSAW NOISE. PEE. From behind the cardboard house emerge two figures. Both in masks. Assholes. One carrying a chainsaw. Bigger asshole. The other is just walking calmly next to chainsaw guy. We are now running, well we girls are running, boyfriend is being dragged, around this room. It’s dark; we can’t find our way out. So, we are ineffectively running in circles and screaming. We plastered ourselves to the wall and just kept moving unable to escape. Finally, bigger asshole turns his chainsaw off (this is after about an hour of our escapade) and says in a small calm voice,

“Are you actually scared?”

We, now sitting atop the boyfriend’s head, shriek, “YES!”.

Then what did he do?

Turned the saw back on.

What did I do?

Ran. Ran like hell for the front door, which I knew I could find if I punched through enough sheetrock. As I’m leaving, nay, escaping, the small children are screaming “scaredy cat, scaredy cat”. “SHUT UP!” I scream at the ankle biters as I finally see daylight. I get outside and can finally breathe.

I find the exit door and sit outside of it, waiting for the idiots who continued with the terror to come outside. I can hear the screaming and then what do I hear? CHAINSAW! AGAIN! There was another bout of chainsaw dude when you get to the end! I should call the cops, this has got to be some sort of crime.

I’m glad I left when I did. I would not have made it. No way. No how.

Here is a puppy and kitty reenactment of my scaredness.


Where I Exhibit My Craziness

I was hungry. Hungry for food with a high caloric and fat count. Outside of my office is a coffee shop that has delicious croissant sandwiches. Out I go.

I step outside and feel the raindrops on my face.

I announce, out loud, in a sing-songy, high-pitched voice "It's raining!" complete with arms waving in the air. I glanced to my left to see a man standing on the front steps of the next door office. Knowing that I can't fix what I just did I whipped my head around so all he could see was hair.

Obviously this has disguised my crazy. Only, I didn't just turn my head so he couldn't see me, I also began laughing like a crazy person. Great. I'm sure him driving away tires squealing wasn't because he was in a hurry to get somewhere...he was in a hurry to get away.

And to top it all off, the girl at the coffee shop tells me they don't have bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches. When I know for a fact that they do and she's just new and incompetent.

Still hungry. And also crazy.