October 31, 2005

Last night Sean and Amanda made us dinner. They bought penne noodles and spagetti sauce and garlic bread. Everything went well until we sat down at the table. The sauce had a slight………..odor. OLIVES. Ewwwwwwwwww. They honestly smell like a dirty diaper or worse. Noone could eat it…….’cept Matt. That kid loves just about everything!!!! I looked over at Sean and I could see his crestfallen look, I know he felt bad, felt like he failed. He wanted everything to be perfect. My heart really hurt for him. I said thank you for supper and told him not to worry about the sauce, that he didn’t know that it had olives in it. I mean it really was okay. Just the mere fact that he wanted to do something nice for his family is way better than any gourmet meal from any gourmet chef!!! Thank you Sean for being a good son. Love Mom

October 26, 2005

October 15, 2005

Pick a band/singer + Answer using only titles of their songs.
Band: Nickelback of course!
+ Are you male or female: Diggin’ This
+ Describe yourself: Little Friend, Old Enough, Photograph
+ How do some people feel about you: Little Friend, Breathe, Hollywood
+ How do you feel about yourself: Feeling Way Too Damn Good
+ Describe your Ex: Figured You Out
+ Describe your views on your significant other: Hero, How Your Remind Me, Leader Of Men, Rockstar
+ Describe what you want: Rockstar, Someday
+ Describe how you live: Hold Out Your Hand, Saturday Night’s All Right
+ Share a few words of wisdom: Should’ve Listened

October 12, 2005

“Mom, how come water has no taste? I think it should taste like strawberries. That would be really wonderful”.

See the 2 munchkins in the middle? Ya, well they’re not such munchkins anymore. Sean is 18 and Matt is 17. Both are way taller and bigger than me. They’re a couple of inches from 6ft. They’re past hubby too. Where does the time go?

I remember when we used to go out and had the kids with us, people would ask us if they were twins. They’re very close in age (hubby and I met when both boys were babies) so it was like having twins. Evil twins at times. They were as thick as thieves, those 2.

I remember a few years back….the boys were about 9 or so and they wanted to paint. Big deal right? Give them some paper and a little paint and you’re all set. WRONG. Hubby was doing taxidermy at the time, so he had bottles of paint. Lots of paint. Expensive paint. Paint in squirt type bottles. You can imagine where this is going.

The boys were bored. Asked hubby if they could paint. He said, sure, he’d take them down to his workshop and they could have a couple of bottles of paint and a big stack of paper. Heaven for 2 little rascals. So we both walk them down (the workshop is at the end of our driveway, a few feet from our house) and get them settled. Anthony gives them each a couple bottles of paint and some paper and says, get to it, have fun. We’d be down in a bit to check on them.

About half hour later, I decided to walk down and see what artsy fartsy type pictures they had made. Probably a few would go on the fridge. Or probably not.

OMG. I stop in my tracks in front of the workshop. The WHITE siding workshop. Well more like the now RAINBOW colored workshop. I’m standing there, mesmerized by the bright colors splashed upside the exterior of the shop. Wow, talk about art. NOT.

I don’t see demon boys anywhere outside, so they must be inside. I slowly walk up to the door and look in through the window in the door. MORE ART. I open the door and in a sort of half mother, half devil voice, yell, what the hell are you doing? Scared the shit out of them. Good, because it will be less mess when I hang them by their ears and torture them with cheese slices.

I slowly survey the room. I see paint bottles….many paint bottles, not just the FOUR that daddy had so kindly given them, but ALL of the paint bottles…..$700 worth of paint bottles, strewn about the office part of the shop. I see paint on the walls, on the floor, on the desk, on the filing cabinet, on the 2 cherubs I’m about to murder, on the ceiling. Just about every nook and cranny is splattered with paint. It looked like a paint crime scene. I was wondering where my forensics bag was so I could document the evidence. They just stood there, each holding EMPTY paint bottles which they quickly put behind their backs. Like I wouldn’t notice. You’d have to be one of the 3 fucking blind mice not to notice the carnage all around.

I ask, what’s going on boys? Nothing. Nothing at all. Really? All 3 of us are standing still, except our eyeballs are rolling all around looking at the $700 worth of paint decorating the office, in a not so flattering way I might add. I snapped out of my stupour and told them to stay put and I was on my way to get their father. And that he MIGHT just say the F word, which he never does but he JUST might this time. ‘Cause this was big shit man. I, secretly, was excited about the prospect of hearing him say it just once. I don’t say it either (I do get a kick out of writing it once in awhile), but it can be funny when used in the right context. I do enjoy hearing it once in awhile. Anyway I digress.

So I run up the driveway, throw open the door, scare the shit out of my husband and tell him, that he’d better get his ass down to the shop because there’s been a, ummm, a situation that has taken place. We go down and he sees the paint. Well you can’t really miss it. I’m pretty sure his jaw broke from hitting the floor. We discuss selling them on the black market but figured since we didn’t really know anyone involved with the black market, that that option was really not plausible. What to do, what to do? Adoption? Hmmmm. Sending them to the circus was discussed but since we didn’t have any connections to circus people, that that might not work either.

We ended up buying them each a notebook and making them write out I will not destroy property ever again 500 times. They did it. And I still have the books in my keepsakes box. Oh and we still have the boys too.

Once upon a time, I decided to make meatloaf. I called my mom to get her recipe. I’ve had her meatloaf many times, as has my husband and older children. It’s good. Good as any meatloaf I’ve ever been exposed to. So I write down all the ingredients, and instructions on what to do with the ingredients. Instructions? Is that right?


Anyway, I follow the directions, place it in the oven and patiently wait for it to be done. I’m excited about this since I don’t often experiment in the kitchen. And if I do, look out people, because you never know what you’ll get.


Ding ding ding, timer goes off on the oven. Meatloaf is DONE! Yay! I put on my blue and pink oven mittens, and pull it out. Ummmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm. That’s funny…it looked pretty normal when I put it in to cook but let me tell ya, coming out, it didn’t look good. At all. Actually saying it didn’t look good is being kind. It looked like, well SHIT. Hard, molded, rubbery shit. I’m pretty sure I put everything in. And I’m pretty sure I cooked it at the right temperature and at the right time. Not 100% sure. But pretty sure.


Fast forward about 15 minutes. Hubby comes home. Walks over to the stove and says, and I quote…..”What the hell is that?? We’re not eating that are we? Is that supper”? Well, honey, it actually IS our supper. Sorry. I’m not sure what happened. But it’s meatloaf. “Meatloaf????? Who’s frigging recipe is that? Why is it all rubbery and hard looking? And blackish”? It’s my mom’s meatloaf recipe. “Ummm, well I’ve eaten your mother’s meatloaf and it does not look or smell anything like that”. Well he does have a point. Okay, so what to do with it? Anthony says, let’s give it to the raccoon.


Okay, the raccoon…..we had a raccoon hanging around our home (we lived out in the country, surronded by woods) and it would try to get into our garbage. And sometimes it would succeed. Raccoons love garbage. So issue solved. We’ll give it to the raccoon. He’ll have a nice meatloaf supper. We won’t but hey at least someone will enjoy it.


We end up having cereal for supper…yum. Later on, once it’s dark, we set the “meatloaf” outside and turn on the yard light so we can watch him come up on the deck and have his meal. We were watching out our livingroom window, lights off as not to scare him away. A few minutes later Mr Raccoon comes up on the step and sees the meatloaf. He comes closer, smells it, puts his little paw in it….and scoops a little bit out and puts it up to his mouth. THEN HE RUNS AWAY. What?????????? OMG. The raccoon runs away? He’s going to leave a meal just lying there? Raccoons EAT GARBAGE for shits sake. So why would he not eat my meatloaf? My husband laughed his ass off. Pretty sad when a garbage eating nocturnal scavenger refuses to eat my meatloaf. Nice. Needless to say, I have never made meatloaf again. Actually, I was forbidden to make it again. EVER.

This is my conversation with Maddy this morning. Well I say conversation loosely because mainly it’s her yapping and me trying to get a word in now and again.



“Mommy, it’s going to be morning soon. Well I know it’s already morning but when the sun comes out really good then it will be MORE morning. Why don’t dogs like cats? Because they think cats smell? Can we pick up Kierra today? Oh wait, no we can’t because she’s still away. Is she gone for only 2 days or a few days? I think she’s been gone for 2 days now but maybe she’ll come back soon?



Yes honey.



Mom, I’m really wondering why dogs and cats can’t get along? I wonder why? Do you know why? I want to ride my bike on the way home today. Can you bring it to school for me? I hope so. My hands are cold. I should have worn my mittens.



Ah huh.



I know, I’ll put my hands in my pockets. They will stay warm then. OMG is that Matt’s bus? It says number 86.



Yes, Matt takes bus 86 but he went on the earlier one.



Oh ok. But that’s still his bus right? Is he at school now? I can’t believe we made it in time to see Matt’s bus. Are we going to be at school in one minute? Or will it take like 2 more minutes? My teacher wasn’t there yesterday. We had another teacher. I forget her name. Mrs. G will be back today. I made her a picture. It’s in my backpack. I know honey. I like to draw. I wrote Kim Possible on it. It’s a picture of Kim Possible. I like Kim Possible. We’re almost at school Mama. I see my school. Ryan used to go to that school. He doesn’t anymore. Is he at his school now?



Yes he is.



Okay, don’t forget my bike Mom. I really want to ride it home. Bring my helmet too. I have to wear it. Bye Mom, see you after school! Don’t forget my bike. I really want to ride it. Alot. Really.



Love you Maddy.

October 11, 2005

Once again I find myself in a public bathroom with my daughter. No big deal right? ‘Cause we all take our kids to the bathroom when we’re out shopping. BUT I’m sure most people don’t have the “deep” conversations that I seem to encounter with Madison AND they always happen when the bathroom is CROWDED. With people. Lots of people.



So last Saturday, the whole family is out shopping at one of the big malls here. We’re just about done and getting ready to head home….GOD why couldn’t we have left just 2 minutes earlier? Daughter tells me she has to go to the bathroom. I said, Come on, you just pee’d like 10 mins ago, you can wait until we get home. She then tells me, she doesnt have to pee, she has to poop. GREAT.



We get to the bathroom and I’m thinking, let’s get this done fast and get out. Let’s not talk. Let’s stare at the walls and have zero conversation. Hmmm, well that doesn’t happen with Maddy. She’s just not the silent type. Particularly out in public. In the bathroom.



I see her thinking and slightly straining. OH GOD. Here it comes (no pun intended). Maddy says, in a rather loud voice, “Why won’t it come out”? I smile at her. And my mind starts whirling. What won’t come out? The booger from your nose? The stain on your shirt? The gum in your hair? No, none of the above. I am silent. My plan is to ignore her. Not really a good plan with Madison.



“Mom, why won’t the poop come out”? I know my eyes rolled several times as I hear the snicker snickers from outside the stall. In my deranged, stalker/pyscho mom whisper, I say, “I don’t know. Why not finish this at home”? Wrong thing to say. “Mom, I have to get the poop out here, I can’t wait to get it out at home because it’s already on it’s way”.

Okay, I hear laughing now and it’s not coming from my pie hole. Okay Maddy, let’s finish this up. I’m starting to sweat now. Are the stall walls closing in on me? I’m pretty sure they are now. A minute ticks by….I hear a plop, then another. Thank Sweet Jesus. It’s done. Let’s get the hell out of here. Wait. Wait.



There’s more chatter about to sprout from her sweet, heart shaped lips. She gets up off the toilet and turns around and looks in the toilet. OMG. “Mom, where is the big piece of poop? I see the little one but I know a big piece came out and I felt the water splash on my butt from the big piece but it’s not there. Where did it go? Did it go down that hole in the toilet by itself? Is that possible? Mom, mom, mom, where is my big piece of poop? I felt it come out. Where did it go”?



Is it wrong to want to flush your child’s head in the toilet (minus the poop of course)? I again was praying for the damn bathroom floor to open up and swallow me whole. Apparently noone upstairs is listening. I quickly wiped her butt, pulled up her pants and in a crazed, looney whisper, said, “Let’s not discuss the poop ever again. Please”.

As we exit the stall, I see some looks coming our way, some snickers, always the damn snickers. As I was helping Maddy wash her hands, I was hoping a fat, singing clown would walk in and start vomiting, because then they’d forget about the poop conversation. They would definately be telling their friends about the obese, puking clown and not the five year old girl who wanted to know where her big piece of poop went.