I'm such a big chicken...or is it turkey?

I'm a scaredy cat. It doesn't take much to have me hiding under the covers in fear of some unseen boogey man. (Don't ask me why people like me pull the covers over our heads when we are frightened. That not only makes us chicken, but it makes us stupid as well. There is no way a thin little sheet is going to save us from any monster...unless it's a killer drier sheet).

Anyway.

I've been a little extra jumpy since we returned from Seattle. I have a good reason too. There was a haunted elevator that kept trying to kidnap me. No really there was. Every time I got on that particular elevator and pushed the first floor it would take me to the basement, but the door wouldn't open. Then it would take me up to the fourth floor (or some other floor...it varied) and the door wouldn't open. It was very creepy and more than once I ended up pressed against the door saying, 'let me out!'

Like I said, I'm a scaredy cat.

But it really is true! That elevator had it in for me. Mom and Lauren sat there and watched it stop on the first floor once and then not open. They were waiting on me and they couldn't figure out why the door wasn't opening. What they didn't know was that I was on the other side once again saying, 'let me out!' Of course Lauren didn't help matters by telling me it was probably haunted by an ancient Swedish Nun and mom didn't help by waiting until it was quiet on the elevator and then jumping around, cupping her face with her hands and yelling, 'boogida-boogida-boogida'. After that I really hated that elevator.

So you can see why I was a little jumpy when I got home from the trip what with all the haunted elevators and scary ancient nun stories. I mean who was to say the nun didn't follow me home? She could have jumped into my suitcase. She may be running (or floating) amuck in my house looking for an elevator to lock me in. Only HA! The jokes on her. I don't have an elevator.

Anyway, this current jumpiness led to me screaming in horror and almost wetting my pants early this morning in my own home. I was up early and doing some housework when I ran across one of Dave's windbreakers that needed to be hung up. I grabbed it and went into the front hall to place it in the coat closet. I didn't turn on the light because the girls were still asleep. Instead I reached into that dark and shadowy closet, praying there weren't spiders or nuns and groped around for a hanger.


Only instead of a hanger my hand wrapped around something really weird feeling. I peered into the darkness and saw a beedy eye staring at me from a severed head. Like any rational adult would do I screamed at the top of my lungs, ran like fool and jumped under my covers. After a little while when no severed head came after me with killer drier sheets I worked up the nerve to go back and get a closer look at whatever was staring at me in the dark closet. I turned on the light and saw this:




It's a turkey decoy my husband uses for hunting. I'm thinking of sicking the nun on him. This is all his fault.

Does Midol come in chocolate flavor?

As soon as I get the girls straightened out I have got to get myself to the girly doctor, and by girly doctor I mean the one that has the stirrups and the gloves (sorry Dad) (and any other unsuspecting male that stumbled upon my blog). I need to get my hormones checked out. Something weird is going on. It could just be stress, but man, my body is going KUH-RAY-ZEE! I am emotional, my face is breaking out, and I have so many periods now that I could be the Declaration of Independence. Only if I were it would read something like this...

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Chocolate.

Don't be offended. It's just the hormones talking. Plus, the words chocolate and happiness are pretty much interchangeable anyway.

Speaking of happiness, my mom gave me the prettiest bracelet for a belated birthday present last weekend which made me very happy. It was made of sterling silver beads and would have gone with just about everything. Notice how I used the past tense when I described my new bracelet? I bet you are wondering why. I know my mom is.

Well, it's like this. I was in the bathroom today at work and when I was finished taking caring of my girly business (sorry again Dad) (and random strange men) I went to wipe and my bracelet slipped right off my wrist and landed in the potty with an impressive splash that my bottom did not appreciate. I sat there for a moment in stunned silence, looking down at my beautiful new bracelet resting at the bottom of the toilet. I wanted to reach right down and grab it, but ewww. So I thought to myself, oh I know! We have gloves in the nurses office. I'll just run and grab a pair of those and then fish it out. My brilliant plan would have worked too, but I was forgetting one thing.

Automatic toilets.

Yes, that's right. Our school went all twenty-first century this summer and as soon as I stood up it was bye-bye bracelet, hello Christy screaming in horror and jumping around with her pants around her ankles.

Curses on you futuristic toilet! Did it ever occur to you that I might not be finished pottying yet? Maybe I was just getting up to stretch or maybe my left cheek was going to sleep and I needed to move around a little or MAYBE, just MAYBE my lovely new bracelet that my mom gave me for my birthday fell into your evil, watery bowels (no pun intended) and MAYBE I wanted it back. But noooo, you just had to get into a hurry to show off and flush before I was ready.

Okay. It just occurred to me that I was talking to a toilet. A toilet that I seriously doubt reads my blog. See what I mean by hormonal?

All men may be created equal, but all toilets are not.

(And I could really use some of that chocolate about now)

n = embarrassment squared

As I was sitting there trying to help Lauren with her math (I say trying because Math is not my forte) I had a Math flashback...

It was my senior year in College and the only class all the way through four years of higher learning that gave me the least bit of trouble was college Algebra...and boy howdy did it ever give me trouble! In fact it was so difficult for me that I had to hire a tutor. The sad thing is that this tutor was a Sophomore in high school.

Yeah, I know...when it comes to math I am a few fries short of a happy meal.

And Happy Meals were exactly what I was afraid I'd be serving for a living if I didn't get help. That's what drove me to ask a mere 15 year old to help me with my course. His name was Lanny and his mom was my partner teacher that year. Lanny was tall, lanky, pimply and very shy. Looking back I feel sorry for the boy for having to spend so many afternoons explaining over and over again why N could equal Q and P could equal coocklydoodlydoo (as you can see the finer points of what Lanny taught me have stuck with me lo these many years).

This particular math flashback (what? Don't try and pretend that you don't have mathematical flashbacks) (it's not like I am weird or something) took place on a Saturday afternoon at my house. Lauren was about three and Dave must have been at a track meet or something because he wasn't home. We were over two hours into the studying (on a lesson that I am sure should have taken about ten minutes, but like I told you people, I am missing fries!) when Lauren walked into the room.

She was the cutest little tyke back then...all chubby cheeks and curly hair...and as always she was being perfect and wonderful...we barely knew she was around. That is why I didn't pay much attention when she walked up behind us at the table. I knew she was dragging something behind her, but I didn't bother to turn around and see what it was. After a few moments of being ignored she finally spoke up and said in her adorable toddler voice, "Mommy I haff somfin that you need."

Since I was in the middle of wrestling a big bear in the form of a math problem I didn't even look back at her. I just held out my hand and as soon as she placed something in my palm I said, "thank you baby." And then I placed the something on the table.

And then I looked at the something.

And then I almost died of embarrassment right there on the spot.

The 'something' she had been dragging around was a whole bunch of condoms still together in a row. And there they were on my table between me and a 15 year old kid!

I jumped up and grabbed those suckers and flew to my bedroom at warp speed to put them away. Then I came out and stammered a few dozen apologies to Lanny, who was suddenly beet red and wouldn't look me in the eye anymore.

I did go on to pass that math class and Lanny never even mentioned the incident to his mom (although I did). I suppose he was probably too embarrassed.

Now it's ten years later and the tables have turned. Suddenly I am the embarrassing one and Lauren is the one that has to worry about what I will do and say around her friends.

I must say, I am liking this much better than Algebra. Now if we only still used condoms I could REALLY embarrass her!

My New Bestest Friend Forever

The coolest thing happened the other day. I went to pick up some high school boys for dyslexia retraining and the substitute wouldn't let them leave with me. And do you know why she wouldn't let them leave? Do you??? I hope not because I am dying to tell you!

SHE THOUGHT I WAS A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT!

No really, she did. You can stop laughing now.

She actually thought I was a teenager! Sure she was old as Moses and wore glasses, but she did think I was a student. She apologized later and told me she had to go check and see if my story was true because I just didn't look old enough to be a teacher.

When she said that she officially became my BFF! Now if you'll excuse me I am going to see if she wants to go shopping later. I totally need some Clearasil and one of those new push up bras all the other teens are wearing and I am thinking that she might need something too...

like new GLASSES!

My trashcan hates me

It's true. The trashcan in my classroom hates me. No matter what I am throwing away it won't go in. The water bottles bounce in and back out. Wads of papers bounce off the rim. Diet Coke cans accidentally hit students in the head.

Oh I kid. When I hit students in the head it is never an accident.

I KID, I KID!

Now I know you are thinking that it is most likely my terrible aim and lack of athletic ability that keeps my shots from falling in, but it's more than that I tell you...it is!

Today I threw a lid at the trash and it bounced out. One of the students said, "I don't know why you keep throwing stuff at that can. You never make it." I was almost offended when I realized he was right. So we did an experiment and I threw bottles, paper, almonds...and several other things to try and break my trashcan hex.

That's when it happened. I threw an almond at the trash can and it landed perfect balanced on the RIM of the can. It didn't fall in and it didn't fall off. It just rested there, as if it belonged. I couldn't believe my eyes. I mean I can get THAT close and it won't fall in?

That's just wrong.

So I took pictures to show you just how much my trashcan hates me.

Here is a bird's eye view of my trashcan (including my lunch...see the banana down there? It was yummy). If you look closely you will see the almond resting on the edge. I didn't put it there! I just threw the almond and that's where it landed.

And here is a close-up of my almond.

See??? The can hates me. It refuses to catch anything I throw at it! It's a curse. Or a trash conspiracy.

Come to think of it I think my softball glove was cursed too.

Question...

Is 'foiled again' really a saying? Or did I make that up? I have a quirky habit of mixing up words or just making up my own if I feel like it. I got that habit from my dad.

Quirky is a genetic trait (in case you didn't know).

So I was sitting in class while some students were testing and my last post popped into my brain. Specifically the line where I said, "Dang. Foiled again."

Then I tried to actually figure out what 'foiled again' meant. Which caused me to picture myself all wrapped up in foil. Not that I'd know what that looks like. Well, okay... once after watching Fried Green Tomatoes I did wrap myself up in saran wrap for Dave, but that is totally different. It is also totally too much information isn't it?

But since we are on the subject let me just discourage you from trying that because if your husband happens to be running late, let me tell ya, it's ain't pretty. In fact, it's just plain sweaty. Which as I just mentioned, ain't pretty.

Alrighty then.

Back to the question. Is 'foiled again' actually a saying? When I say it I picture that bad guy Snidely from Dudely Do Right twirling his moustache in an evil manner. Is there a non-evil way to twirl a moustache? I think not.

Okay. I have to get back to work. Now that you all see what I do when the children are in music class you might be afraid for the educational standards of our school. Well, fear not dear readers, for I am the only goober on the staff.

You can breathe easy now (unless you wrap yourself in saran wrap cause then it's almost impossible to take a deep breath).

Meet Pablo

Is he not pitiful? My parents bought this guinea pig for my girls. They had begged and begged and begged and begged and then begged some more for a guinea pig. Their dad said no and no and no and no and then he said no some more. My parents thought they'd be clever and buy one for them themselves (they want the girls to have everything they could possibly want or need) (these are NOT the same people that raised me) because it would be a gift and nobody can say no to a gift. So they take the girls out one day and buy Pablo. Then they bring him home and say, "Surprise! We bought you a new pet." And Dave said, "Congratulations! You now own a guinea pig." They laughed because they didn't think he was serious.

Pablo has been living with them for a year now.

And live he does...like a king! Just look at how fat he is. My daddy spoils this rodent rotten (again I say these are not the people that raised me). I kid you not. He feeds him fresh veggies (a wide variety) twice a day. When Pablo's bowl gets empty he tumps it over. Then he tumps over everything else in his cage. And he makes this insistant little guinea pig sound that is kinda cute 'til you realize that he is mad and is probably saying something like, 'remember that time I peed on your pants? That wasn't an accident. And that was only the beginning. Now FEED ME.'

Okay. Now you've met Pablo. There was no real rhyme or reason behind this post. I just wanted to share the picture with you because I think it's hilarious. Hope it made you smile!

Sisterly Love

Hello interpeeps! Did you miss me? I missed you. I've been in bed for a few days feeling so bad that I didn't even feel like checking in with my blog buddies. You know it must have been BAD if it kept me away from here, cause I love you people like a fat kid loves cake (and that's sayin' a lot).

I finally pulled my miserable self out of bed earlier today and walked through the house. That was a big mistake. I promptly screamed and ran back to bed and hid under the covers. You should have seen the place! Cave yourself up in your room for a few days and a renegade band of outlaw tornadoes bust in and destroy the place. Either that or my kids made the mess. The investigation is still underway.

While I was helping the CSI team look for evidence I came across a bunch of wadded up paper towels in both of the girl's rooms. Upon closer inspection I discovered that the paper towels contained messages. Apparently the girls were throwing notes back and forth to each other across the hall. I thought I'd share a few of the notes. Get your tissue ready and behold my daughters' idea of sisterly love.

From Brookie (age 7) to Lauren (age 13)

Love you some. You can get all on my nerves, but still I love you. but I think of you in my head sometimes and it is not good.

Love you,

Brooke

From Lauren to Brookie

Well me too, but sometimes I just want to slap you in your face, but I don't because I love you.

Love you!

Lauren

Makes a mama proud.

You Might Be a Redneck If...

1. A midweek dinner includes biscuits, chicken fried steak, corn, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese AND gravy.

2. There is food being served in a pan on the table.

3. There are two foods being served in pans on the table.

4. Your plates do not match.

5. Your daughter is fixin' her plate before anyone else gets to the table.

6. You say fixin' on your redneck list.

7. Your napkins are paper.

8. Your napkins (that are paper) are thrown haphazardly on the plates (that don't match) with a fork and your oldest child calls this setting the table.

9. Someone's water is still in the bottle instead of in a glass.

10. Probably because you don't have enough matching glasses to set the table.

11. The butter is in a tub.

12. There is camo gear thrown over a chair during the entire meal.

13. You have no qualms about posting a picture displaying your redneckness to the world (a.k.a. the 17 people that read your blog).

14. I didn't want to end on thirteen.

15. You are too superstitious to end your redneck list on thirteen.

Randomness Galore

Mrs. 4444 from over at Half-Passed Kissin' Time has tagged for a meme! I am still not sure what the word 'meme' actually means, but I get the general idea behind it so I shall give it my best shot.

THE "RULES"

Link to the person who tagged you.

Post the rules on your blog.

Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.

Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.

Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.


Here are my six non-important things/habits/quirks:

1. I am a flossaholic. I floss way, way too often. I carry floss with me at all times and it is hard for me to wait until I am out of a restaurant before I start flossing (sometimes I don't wait).

2. I am toebidextrius. I use my toes like extra sets of hands. I can can cook, clean and pick my nose with my toes. Oh I kid. But I really can pick stuff up with them very well.

3. I used to be really, really afraid of clowns. Okay, I still am afraid of clowns, but not as bad as I used to be.

4. I sat in the bathroom at lunch for almost an entire school year in high school because I feared that when I went inside the cafeteria to sit at a table everyone would get up and leave.

(In defense of my weirdness I was incredibly shy and had zero self confidence. What's odd about this is that I wasn't unattractive or unliked. In fact I had lots of honors to make me feel better about myself such as class favorite, most beautiful, most friendly, valentine sweetheart, homecoming queen court...blah blah, but for some reason that was never enough to make me feel good about myself. To this day I don't know why I was like that. For a very long time after we married Dave would not allow me to put myself down and that helped, but what helped most of all was teaching. The unconditional love of hundreds of children healed my defective self esteem like nothing else ever could. )

5. I can make balloon animals.

6. I wrote a children's book called 'Washing Wishes.' Don't be impressed. It wasn't good enough to be published, but I did write it!

I'm not going to tag anyone right now because I think most of my blogging friends just completed a meme of their own. I'll just leave an open invitation for anyone that wants to play along. Have fun! (but not freaky clown fun cause that would just be creepy)

Poopsie

I promised to tell the story of how my father came to be known as 'Poopsie'...the Poopster...the Grand Poopah...okay, okay we just call him Poopsie, and really I think that is enough. Don't you?

When I was pregnant with Lauren my mom picked out the names Mumsie and Poopsie for the grandnames. She thought the names were adorable. Dave thought they were ridiculous...especially the Poopsie. He protested immediately. My mom didn't really care what he thought (she rarely does) and she stuck to her guns.

So did Dave.

As the months of my pregnancy flew by (as fast as bleeding, pre-eclempsia and bed rest can fly by) it became clear that neither of them were going to agree on a grandname for my dad. Dave was determined that he be called Papaw and mom was sticking with Poopsie. Eventually they decided that whichever name she said first was going to be the name we used.

When Lauren was born they each used the names they had chosen. They used them a lot...a whole bunch of A LOT. The day finally came that she finally called my dad by a name.

Poopsie.

But Dave had the last laugh. As it turns out young children can't say Poopsie very well. Lauren couldn't. Brooklyn couldn't. Tre couldn't. Instead what they said was Poosie.

I'll just let that sink in for a minute.

Everybody on the same page now? That's right. I said Poosie as in poooseee. It really wasn't as fun or cute as it might sound. It was actually awkward and blush inspiring. Especially for my mom because she is the one that insisted on the name. I could tell countless stories about the embarrassment this name caused or about the fun my uncle had telling the kids to say Daddy loves Poopsie (yeah, I come from some up-town folk), but I will limit it to one story.

When Lauren was about 18 months old my dad was taking up offering at church and we were all sitting towards the back of the sanctuary. Lauren really wanted to go with my dad, but of course she couldn't. Her little lip quivered for a bit...waiting just long enough for him to get to the very front of the church and then she stood on the pew and said, 'Pooooossssiiiieeee....I want my Poooossssiiieeee'. Well everyone and I do mean everyone sorta gasped together and turned to look at her/us. Then my mom stands up and announces very loudly, "She is saying Poopsie everybody...she is saying POOPSIE." I wanted to crawl under my seat and hide until everyone left.

Good times. Good times.

And now you know how my Dad ended up named not only after a bodily function, but at times after a body part as well.

Next we'll work on the cabbage patch

I was teaching an ESL group today (that's English as a Second Language for the acronym impaired readers among us) when it came to my attention that out of the three boys in the group exactly zero percent of them knew what break dancing was. Of course I found that entirely unacceptable.

You may be asking yourself why we were talking about break dancing in class, but never you mind, I do not have the time to go into the complicated intricacies of the art of teaching here today.

Ahem.

Anyway, after I got over my appalledness at their woefully lacking education I tried to explain break dancing to my little Spanish speaking friends. Have you ever tried to explain breaking dancing to someone? It's really not as easy as it sounds. Eventually I had to get up and actually demonstrate some classic break dancing moves to them.

Have you ever tried to demonstrate break dancing? That's not as easy as it sounds either.

Let's just say it didn't go well. I fear they did not understand what walking like a retarded astronaut had to do with American dancing, though it was hard to tell by all the blank stares and blinking they directed my way. Apparently they don't appreciate the finer points of classic dance moves.

Right.

They struggled a bit with synonyms and antonyms as well at first. I didn't think they would ever understand the difference of the two. We had tried numerous examples of synonyms when I got to the word hot. Right before all my hair fell out in one frustrated pile their teacher came in to pick them up early. I told them to leave their dry erase boards on the table and I'd put their things away so their teacher didn't have to wait.

I picked up the first dry erase board. It said warm. Very good. I erased it and put it away.

I picked up the second board. It said worm (don't laugh. That actually makes sense. Seriously, sound it out. Phonetically it does say warm). Again, very good. They both understood that warm and hot were alike. Yay!

I picked up the third board. It said Mrs. S (insert my last name). Now this kid, he is obviously BRILLIANT. He totally understood synonyms. I immediately game him an A for the entire school year and referred him to the Gifted and Talented program. What else could I do??

Oh I kid. What kind of teacher do you think I am?

I only gave him an A for the semester.

Unfortunately my lovely teacher buzz was killed when my next group of children refused to believe that toodleooski was Russian for good-bye. What on earth happened to my credibility??

Perhaps they heard about the break dancing.

She should be selling used cars

I had to wake up bright and early this morning on account of the horrible thing that we people in the teaching business call morning duty. I find it very fitting that the word duty sounds like doodie, because, well, morning duty stinks a lot like real doodie.

Since I had to be at work early for stink duty I was trying to hurry the girls along. That was rather difficult to do with Brookie bent over the toilet heaving. She had been sick since last Friday, but she seemed better on Sunday. I was worried and thought I should stay home with her, but Dave said that it was just sinus drainage and that she needed to go. So I brought her crackers and sprite and her clothes and she got dressed in the bathroom.

When we got to school I went to the gym for morning duty and Brookie went to my classroom to spend some quality time with my trash can...lots of quality time. The two should be quite close now because when duty was over she was still bent over it. And when my first group ended she was still bent over it. I probably need to get them BFF necklaces because when my second, third and fourth groups were over she was still bent over it. I decided enough was enough. She needed to go home.

So I called her dad and he said that was nonsense. That I didn't need to miss work. She'd be fine. I explained that she was feeling terrible and heaving so much her tummy was hurting. He said she seemed fine yesterday when she was playing with her cousins (who were visiting from out of state) and to tell her to suck it up and go to class.

He can be a tough dad. I tried to talk to her about trying going to class, but it's rather hard to talk to someone with their head in a can. So I made an executive decision, took the day off and brought her home. Afterall I am the mom and am the one equipped with motherly insticts. She was obviously sick and the man had no idea what he was talking about.

Once I informed all the teachers that I was leaving so they wouldn't send students to my room I took Brooklyn home and put her to bed. I was a little nervous about making my own decision when her father had suggested something else, but I kept reminding myself that I knew better than he what was best for her.

I checked on her often and clearly the child was on her death bed.

The first time I peeked in on her she was in a pair of my heels. Clearly she was very sick. Everyone knows that dressing up makes you feel better. The poor dear was taking it upon herself to force herself to get better.

And apparently Madame was feeling poorly too because she dressed her up as well.

She even tried that age old method of 'feeding her cold'. Oh yes, she was a very sick girl.

And finally I found her in some kind of ritual with her Barbie. They used a fiber optic light to take the place of fire. I'm guessing she was praying to God for forgiveness for exaggerating her illness and making a fool of her gullible, soft hearted mama.

I really hate it when he's right.

Babbling Can Cure Sad Pants

Hi my devoted readers of babble! How was your day?? BOTH girls are sick so I am having to sit at home and miss out on helping at The Power Team tonight event tonight. That made me sad in my pants so I decided to do something to cheer myself up.

Step one: Comfy cozy pj's. It's hard to get happy in tight jeans.

Step two: Eat an ice cream sandwich. How can you be sad eating that?

Step three: Put on a movie guaranteed to cheer you up each and every time you watch it, Sister Act. When I see Nun Whoopie up there shaking her booty in her habit and those little old ladies signing I just HAVE to smile.

Step four: Babbling. I can't help it. I'm a born babbler and when I am down I need to babble to someone to work the sad out of my system. So guess who the poor saps lucky souls are that get to read my drivel babbling?

Uh huh, it's you! Don't let your excitement overwhelm you.

First I have to elaborate on a recent comment left on my blog. You may or may not have noticed someone talking about the time a student bit me on the...um, boob. Since so many of the wonderful teachers and parents from the school I currently teach at read this blog I thought it might be prudent to reassure them that I am not in the habit of letting students put their mouths on me. Well, there was that time last year that boy licked me in the face, sorta cow like with one big lick that started at the bottom of my face and went ALL the way back up, but I am told he only does that if he really likes you, so that wasn't really a lick, it was more like a compliment (see how my warped brain operates?).

Now back to the attack on my boobage. Here's what happened (and Regina, no laughing...you got enough kicks outta this when it actually happened)...

One morning I was out on my morning jog, well I walked some too, so to be fair let's call it my morning jalk (half walk, half jog)...Okay, so I was out on my jalk with a friend of mine that was an aide at our campus. She mentioned that she was going to be out for a few days and none of the other aides would cover her bus route (she road a bus and helped with some mentally handicapped children in the mornings). I immediately offered to fill in for her and we went on jalking.

Bright and early the next morning I showed up to help on her bus route. The first day was challenging, the two brothers she rode with were a little rowdy and liked to throw things at you. The youngest was cute and smiled a lot, especially when he hit you in the back of the head with the buckle on the seatbelt. That really made him happy.

The second day I came prepared. I brought some of those books with the bug eyes in them that stick out through all the pages and crack you up. I hoped that would be more entertaining that trying to kill me. My brilliant plan worked great until we stopped to drop the youngest child off. The teacher on duty by the bus drop off wanted to talk to the bus driver (this really nice man) and leaving the bus running, he hops off to answer her questions about a note he delivered to the mom for them the day before.

This is where things went terribly awry. The oldest child, I guess he was 13, suddenly makes a dash for the drivers seat of the bus, which as I mentioned a moment ago, was STILL RUNNING. Okay. This is in the morning, before school and there are children everywhere. I had visions of him throwing the bus into drive and running amuck through masses of screaming children. So I put my hands around his shoulders (he was as tall as I am...that's not really saying, much, but still he was as tall as me) and I pulled him away from the driver's seat. Somehow in the struggle that ensued he ended up facing me as he tried to lunge sideways toward the steering wheel. I yelled out the door for help from the bus driver (suddenly I understood why they had a male driver who was rather large) and while the we struggled and the driver ran towards us, the boy latched down onto my boob with all the might in his little choppers.

OUCH!

It really, really hurt. We managed to get him to detach and then I tried to pretend like nothing happened. But oh no, there was to be none of that. My lovely boss (stop laughing woman, I mean it) insisted I fill out an accident report and then called down to my room that afternoon ON THE INTERCOM and said they needed me to come down so they could take a picture of my injury (she made sure I was alone first). Of course she was kidding about the picture, but I did have one heck of a bruise from that bite.

We found out later from his teachers (we sent him to a school nearby with a life skills unit so we didn't know about his nija teeth) that this was his preferred method of attack. It would have been nice for the teachers at that neighboring school to have warned us. But it's ok. My boob and I forgive you. Good thing he bit my right boob, because my left boob is not nearly as forgiving.

Now you know the entire story and you can rest assured I shall not be attempting to turn any of your children into cannibals.

Hold on to your panties cause I have some terrific news. I am not done babbling yet! I know it is so hard to handle all this excitement, but please try (and you can stop holding your panties now, people are staring).

Last night was night number two of The Power Team Event and we had an even bigger group come up and accept Christ as their savior. I'd guess it was close to two hundred, but I haven't heard an official count. This time there were several entire families that came forward. It was so amazing!

I mentioned in my first Power Team post that my husband was a little nervous about the amount of FIRE in the high school. Last night they did the fire bit again and I snapped some pictures (of horrible quality) with my phone and I thought I'd share a few pics of what panicked my principal hubby.

This was on the stage in our high school auditorium. I guess I can kinda see why he was nervous...if I turn my head sideways...and squint just a little...yes, I can sorta see why he had a bit of anxiety over the situation.

I better hush now. Don't be too sad. I babble a lot and I'll be back later ( and seriously, let go of those panties it's getting a little weird).

Love Note With A Twist

This morning while I was showering a wave of hubba, hubba husband love washed over me. You know, the kind of feeling that a wife can only feel early in the morning BEFORE their hubby actually wakes up and opens his mouth and ruins a perfectly good moment.

Oh I kid. My husband never annoys me when he opens his mouth (I love you honey!!! You can go back to watching ESPN now. Muah!).

Okay, where was I? Oh yes, I was in the showering feeling all warm and lovey dovey (gosh, that sounds dirty. What is with my blogging lately??). Well, while I was feeling sappy I spotted Brookie's bathtub markers and that gave me a grand idea. Dave always showers after I do so I decided to take the red marker and write a big giant I HEART U on the shower wall for him to find. After that was done I went back to my normal showering routine and smiled stupidly to myself as I thought of his reaction to my note. I thought of the way my serious, quiet, anal retentive husband would smile and...

Wait....anal retentive....he is anal retentive and he is going to climb into this shower and see my note and instead of a little love note left to make him smile he is going to see RED MARKER on his SHOWER WALL and he is going to FLIP OUT. He has never given the girls a bath. He'd have no idea what shower markers were. Well poohdunkle. Now what was I going to do? I really didn't want to wash it off. I wanted to surprise him with a note in the shower, but I didn't want to make him angry. So I did this:




In case you can't read it, the note ended up saying: I HEART U (don't freak...this is a tub marker).

After I amended my little note I once again returned to my regularly scheduled shower and then halfway through washing my hair I started to giggle. What kind of love note was that? Who wrote an amendment to a love note? The more I thought about it the harder I giggled at myself. I almost decided to erase it all and forget the whole thing, but then it occurred to me that there was nothing wrong with my note. It may not be a typical love note, but it was OUR kind of love note and it was perfect...perfect for us. So I left it and guess who loved it?

My anal retentive husband loved it, that's who.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

When I was a kid I loved static electricity. I used to lay in bed at night under a fluffy blanket and amaze myself with the sparks I could make (somehow that sounded dirty, but I promise it wasn't). Then there was the time I had a slumber party and my daddy took what seemed like hundreds of balloons, blew them up, rubbed them on his head (he had hair back then), and stuck them all over the ceiling in the living room. All of us little party animals in princess pajamas slept under that canopy of hairy balloons and while we were happily dreaming of what it would be like to be Smurfette all the balloons drifted down on top of us. When we woke up the next morning we were covered in a blanket of balloons. It was like magic! And oh my goodness what fun my brother, sister and I had sliding around the house in our sock feet building up a charge and then sneaking up and shocking the crapola out of each other. Good times, good times.

Well things have changed. I no longer like static electricity. In fact I am starting to loathe it. It messes with my skirts. It messes with my hair. It makes me accidentally shock the daylights out of people (mostly myself) and since I'm officially old it's just not funny anymore. It's annoying. But apparently we chose to live in the center of where all static electricity in the universe dwells because no matter what I do I get shocked. If I touch a door, it shocks me. If I touch a car, it shocks me. If I touch my computer it shocks me so bad I keep to check and see if my eyebrows were blown off.

I'm not the only one being stalked by the static. Brookie often looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket. Man oh man that child's hair can stand on end. It's amazing really. And the last time Madame Dog went out to potty she came back with so much static charged dry grass stuck to her that she looked like a tiny scarecrow (of course Mighty Dog is still the one that needs to petition the Wizard for a brain).

Speaking of my dogs, if I don't figure out how to stop this shocking madness soon they are going to run away (I have shocked them so many times that they now look at me suspiciously if I get within ten feet of them). Then I'll have to resort to a pet elephant or rhino so that their tough skin will protect them from my jolts. Of course the thought of the Dave's face the first time the rhino hiked it's leg on his shoes makes that idea almost fun, but I like my dogs so I'd rather just stop zapping them.

So does anyone out there have any ideas on how I can stop the static madness?

Toilet Owners Beware!

I don't want to cause nationwide panic and mass hysteria, but I think there is a monster in my house. Seriously people, A MONSTER.

I know! I was just as amazed and frightened as you are.

This isn't just any monster either. Oh no, not for me, I just don't roll that way. You see if I had a vampire it would be easy...garlic, holy water, sunshine, a stake in the heart...no problem. Or maybe a nice werewolf...hello, this is Texas, guns are everywhere and surely a silver bullet could be found. A monster under the bed? That's easy. I'd just show them what's under Brookie's bed and they'd so be running for their lives.

But could my monster be something that simple?? Nooooo. Instead of a run of the mill one-eyed one-horned flying purple people eater I end up with some freaky monster with what must be half a dozen butts! Seriously people, A BUTT MONSTER.

I'd show you a picture of the beast, but I haven't actually seen it yet. But that matters not, because it is so living in my house and I have proof! Behold the evidence....

This toilet paper roll was full this morning. FULL. But look at it now. It's empty. EMPTY. Scary no? And if that freaks you out wait 'til you see this...

All of these toilet paper rolls are fresh out of the trash in one of our bathrooms (yes, just one of them). This very trash was emptied less than a week ago and now it is filled with all of these emptied toilet paper rolls (and we were out of town half the week!). It's okay. Don't panic. Take a deep breath. I was frightened too, but things will be okay. I will find this horrifying butt monster and I will conquer him.


But first I have to wait for him to get home from the basketball game.