A Beautiful Mess

Does the way we respond to the bad times/moments in our lives mirror that which we really are? I don't know. I guess it depends on the situation, or the response, and what would be considered “normal”, if normal exists, which I believe it doesn’t. We aren't all Grace under fire or an erupting volcano. But chances are you've felt pain that hurts to the very depths of your soul. The kind that makes you short of breath, your chest tight, and tears stream uncontrollably down your face. One person’s pain is not greater than another’s; the circumstances which caused it are only different. We've all felt that kind of pain that cuts into our soul and wounds you. You know not how, when, if you will heal; but almost always certainly a scar will remain.

 Sometimes being hard as steel, makes you cold as steel. Hard not to do one without the other. And you give all appearances of being fine. Or maybe you are fine. What gets me through the hard times is knowing God will not let me fall. In him I have so much trust, that I know he will always provide a way. Not always the path I would choose if it were my decision, but his roads lead to more glory than anything I could imagine.

 The last 3 years have been an awakening for me. What used to matter doesn't anymore. It is very freeing when everyone around you knows your life has crumbled to a million pieces. Why? Because I had nothing to hide, did not have to pretend everything was okay; I was totally exposed. When you're exposed and vulnerable you can recoil or you can let people help you. You can let God help you.  Grace is always there if you are willing to receive it. 

I allow myself more mistakes, some pity every now and then, the right not to be perfect; but just to be me. When your life goes to you know where and back, you learn quickly what you are made of. You learn to rely on yourself, and maybe discover that you aren't so bad. In fact, you kind of like yourself. At least I do. If you read my blog you know I am having an on-going love affair with myself. No, not because I'm perfect; but perfectly flawed in so many ways, without which, Cari would not be. I'm not so much concerned with "fixing" my flaws anymore. Now I just breathe in and out, close my eyes and be. Well, and I drive a lot too, so there is that.

My friend Shelly wrote this beautiful post about me, and it made me cry. And I'm not going to make a joke, because everything she said is true. Ahem. As I read it, it made me proud. Proud because I did accomplish those things. I have heard people say it, "you are so strong", but maybe I just had to read it to believe it.  My strength is not mine alone, because God has been holding me up the entire time. Sometimes to feel that complete trust in God, you have to reach the bottom; where no one but him can pull you up. Then it doesn't make all the bad seem so bad, but rather a blessing, a great magnificent blessing that heals old wounds and makes you view the world and faith in a whole new light. Or sometimes, it takes a friend like Shelly to show you just how special you are.

Surviving may be my greatest victory in this life. I am certainly not destined for fame or fortune, nor do I want it. This blog is a sum of all my crazy parts: I am not a top-notch fact spewing Autism blogger; just living with it. I'm not a single Mom advising you to do AB&C to get on with life after divorce; but I did. I am no poet, nor do I say anything profound. Truth be told, I am a sasstastic disaster, a storyteller about waxing, sweaters and mechanical bulls. And that kinda makes me happy. Life is too short to be writing about the past, why when you can write about the most delicious cheese you've ever had! {Oh yes, cheese}

My friend, you are a beautiful wonderful blessing in my life.  Your words lead to action and inspiration.  Thanks for being you.

You Get the Box!

So when the kids are naughty I usually just toss them in the toy box until they straighten out!  Or totally not, stand down CPS.   Caught this little video clip of the boy who has taken a liking to hiding in the toy box.  You'll notice he keeps saying, "cheeeeese", because I told him I was recording it.

Cautionary Disclaimer:  He can get out all by himself, and he can breathe in there too.

Oh yes, translation on the last sentence, "want to go play".  He watched this video 20 times and it cracked him up.  Nice to know my kids are easily amused...as am I.

Judy

Have I told you all that I adore old people? Probably because I act 65, but say things like, "holla, peeps, word, fo-shiz", or, maybe not. I'm pretty un-cool, sorry to break this to you. {Hush, your laughter is breaking my concentration.}

The other night I met up with some girlfriends and they were saying how cute I looked, seriously, I'm not joking or making this up. I was glowing apparently, in a non-pregnant glowing way of course. And perhaps the words, "teachery" were used to describe my cute cardigan-wearing self. Look, I'll take it, I can pretty much turn anything into a compliment, it's a gift really. Apparently it is a hard thing to make teachery look good. I got this. Let's just note, for the record, that I do NOT shop at CJ Banks, or own any sweaters with schoolhouses, buses, apples or ABC on them. Why teachers? Why?

So I was being all teachery, and teaching a class the other day...of one. I don't mind, I like to chat, so we were cool yo. Me and Judy. Judy was older. I, being a lady, did not ask her age, that's just wrong on so many levels, besides she would've knocked me out. You just don't mess with someone named, Judy, they are bound to be scrappy. Let's just say, she had been married for 51 years!

I connected with her right away, she was spunky and cute, in a very non-teachery way. She was telling me how she had just finished painting that day, polka dots, which she hated and changed to stripes. Love it.

Conversation flowed like we'd known each other for years. Then she said this, "Oh, honey, you just wait until you get married and have kids". Okay, so my interpretation of that was, "damn girl, you are a smokin' hot chick, why are you NOT married with a gaggle of cute kids and doting husband?" This friends, is one of life's great mysteries, can't be solved in a mere two hours. I'm just the messenger relaying the crazy in my brain, I can't explain it otherwise. So I politely told her, been there, done that, divorced. {Also did she have any single sons? Maybe I said that, it's a whirlwind}.

She just shook her head at me, not like a disappointed can't hold your marriage together shake, but what a moron that ex-husband of yours is. Well, maybe she said that, whirlwind. So she explained how she'd known her hubs since 7th grade, and how marriage is hard, and only gets harder the older you get. She told me how they had just celebrated their 51st Anniversary, nothing outrageous, just a really good brunch and window shopping, and some gift buying, just enjoying each other’s company. So I had to ask, what is the secret to a long, happy marriage, here's what she said....

 There is no secret, no magic key or thing you can do to make it everlasting. It is a journey, with someone that should be your best friend and fills you with happiness. If you are looking ahead, in the same direction, towards a common goal, you can walk on the same road in the same direction forever. Sometimes you hold hands while you're walking, sometimes you need space in-between. But if you are looking in opposite directions, you will both be on different roads, and it's pretty hard to communicate when you’re going in opposite directions.

This is probably an ariel view of the road of life, better
stick together!

Yeah, I know, how wise is she? I asked Judy if she would adopt me, and this is what she said, "Cari, as cute as you are, more kids in the house would put a damper on my sex life!"

Pretty much love that lady.

Tell Me Your Secret Kid

So as I mentioned in an earlier post, my 9 year old nephew, the Entertainer, is a borderline manipulator genius.  Grandma paid the Entertainer $20 to shovel, or pick up, some rocks out of a small rock bed.  Oh, 5 minutes into the task, the Entertainer took a 3 day break citing "back pain".  During the said break, I also took the Entertainer to Legoland, where he spent the moola {and maybe I bought his cute lil' self something, no matter}.  The day before their  departure back to California, questions where raised about the remaining hundred rocks in the rock bed, and the lack of services for fees paid. 

There was talk of lawyers, law suits, almost a throw-down, it was madness!  {Totally not}  So the Entertainer begrudgingly went out to do the dirty work, evil-eyed, and temperamental.  We decided to roast some Smores first, for energy, sustenance and such. 

I caught the aftermath on film, as you'll notice, people started chipping in, but one person never seems to be working.  How'd he do that?  Yup, we're suckers.

First, he rounded up the little kids minions.  The
boy brought over the John Deere to help, note the
blue-shirted Entertainer "managing"

Still "managing", now his Mom and other Auntie's
boyfriend are in the mix, uh, still managing.

Another Auntie joins the group, looks as if the Entertainer
is working, most likely just directing, he's not afraid of
directing.

When my sister is writing his term paper for 11th grade English, I'll pull out this post and re-name it, "Exhibit A".

Bubble Gum on My Beard: The Plunge into Single Parenting

Does a Single Mom have it easier or harder than a Single Dad? Same challenges, different genetic make-up. Does that even make a difference? The great thing about blogging is that even in a community, i.e., Single Parent, Mom, Dad, Special Needs, Cooking, Gardening, stalking boy bands, etc., the circumstances may be similar, what makes it intriguing is the differing perspective. So I, with a little help from fellow blogger, Beard, am going to offer a little {long-ass} three part series; sharing our perspectives as a Single Mom and a Single Dad.

There is so much to say we had to break it down:

Part I-The Plunge into Single Parenting

Part II-The Journey

Part III- The future of a Mom raising a son and a Dad raising a daughter

That is a big ol’ can of worms friends, promises not to be dull.

Meet Beard. He sounds scary, creepy and hairy but is pretty harmless as far as I can tell, and is a pretty tremendous Dad. He blogs over at Beard and Pigtails, and if his writing doesn’t reel you in; his sweet little 9 year old daughter {Pigtails} will.

Also, ladies, don’t e-mail me asking for his number; my hands are tied, he won’t even give it to me and I’ve been stalking him for months.

Beard and a Baby Bjorn

Cari's crazy brave inviting me over to spew rubbish on Bubble Gum On My Shoe. Ms. B.G.'s keyboard dishes the wit, she's a fetching Mom and friendlier than a baby monkey. Shame, if only she wasn't so fond of the bottle.

Today's post mixes a different spin on single parenting. Picture a smelly-pits, hairy-faced Pop raising a sweet (until she's hungry) little girl. I am that man, poor Pigtails.

So what's it like for a dude raising a dame? Well, I guess the story morphs as she grows. And a few chapters remain to be written. For now, we'll rewind time back to the cold plunge into single parenthood. Jump in...

I was a helpful husband and father even as the bread popped from the oven. But when ex-wifey lobbed me a bye-bye grenade and vanished when Pigtails was a babe, it was an entirely new level of hands-on parenting. As in a poop-smearing-pee-spraying-diaper-disaster-while-baby-grunts-and-grins level of involvement.

Our household shifted from stay-at-home honey calmly managing our casa to me fumbling around praying for a tag or something pointing me in the right direction of the front/back of the crap-catcher. Perhaps 1 in 4 diapers were bolted on incorrectly, which likely explains the frequent hot messes. I quickly discovered that wet wipes, not dogs, are a man's best friend.

Early days were a mad hustle combo'd with fear that I'd mess something up. What the heck and when and how much was I supposed to feed this hungry beast as she molted from baby into toddler? Would grilled ribeye and garlic taters fly for a 2-year-old? I was alone, my family was mute. Thanks Google, you got my back.

Lined up daycare (boo!) and doc appointments to inject booster shots. Quietly consoled Pigtails when she roamed the house confused, asking "Mommy, where's mom?" Tried to ignore gawking neighbors as my toddler wailed while strapping her to stroller and parking it on the porch so I could mow the grass.

Grinding a full time job, maintaining a home six decades deep in rust and keeping my kid cooing left little time to dwell on what this all meant. Which was probably a good thing. Although there were those occasional quiet, still nights where it all oozed in and burned.

Oh yeah, one more thing...tossing the tot a live vacuum does the trick of keeping 'er quiet and the floors clean. Win.

If you'd like to read more about the plunge, Double Down's your ticket. I'll shut my hole so Cari can tap the keys.

4-1=Family

There are not many people in this world who willingly choose the life of a single parent {plate of crazy if you do}. Sometimes the transition is long and slow leaving you a Single Parent mid-life. Or in my case, it sneaks in and life changes in the blink of an eye, and when I say blink, I mean overnight. My sweet title of stay-at-home-Mommy had been reluctantly revoked and the term Single Mom, was being chiseled into my very being fast and furiously.

Only just the night before I was most concerned with my children’s emotional well-being, cherishing my job as primary hugger and boo-boo kisser, book reader, bath giver, chauffeur, and caring for my household. Those things still remain, and still are my most cherished. Now the responsibilities for caring for my children’s basic needs fell to me as well. How would I provide for them? Where would we live? How am I going to do this all by myself?

I’m a pretty stubborn chick, and wasn’t about to let Ex or fear get the best of me. I would not settle for less therapy for my Autistic son, which meant working a lower paying job to gain flexibility to work around his sessions. And every time a roadblock appeared without warning to crush my perfect plans, God answered my prayers and I found a new way. God answers prayers in the form of dear friends, family and co-workers who won’t listen to you when you say, “I don’t need any help”. Thank God they didn’t listen to me.

The single parenting gig wasn’t in the plan, but it is my reality. Daycare wasn’t supposed to be raising my kids for hours a day, I was never going to live with my parents ever again {really!!}, I was never going to have the “why doesn’t Daddy live with us” talk. I was also suppose to have a partner to bounce ideas off of {I talk to myself a lot} and have someone to grow old with and spoil our Grandbabies with.

Indoctrination into Single Parenting is a tough and lonely road. So far it hasn’t gotten any easier, I’m sure it never will. You develop thick skin, and continually one-up your exhaustion level. Parenting alone can make you guarded and doubtful. Don’t let it.

Guess I should thank the little people; my two precious gifts. Really, I’m the lucky one. I get all the hugs, all the kisses; I get to see all the “firsts” and don’t have to hear what I missed. Hard as it may be, the rewards outweigh the trials. But anything rewarding or amazing in life will always be hard; that’s what makes it worth it.

Thanks to Beard for Co-Posting with me!

{Beard is going to answer questions/comments on the comment form with me, so let us know what you think!}

God Save The Queen!

I think I'm going to rename my blog, God Save the Queen.  That's me the Queen.

Because I need all the help I can get really. I just leaned back in my office chair and completely toppled over. Yes, I also can't stop laughing about it, and said to myself, "God save the Queen". I completely blame it on the Benadryl and the 1 jillion milligrams of vitamin C I'm taking, because those little nephews of mine got me sick. I am willing myself to get better. But if I get strep throat, I WILL NOT be getting them what they want for Christmas. Totally kidding, I will, I'm not a good patient, I don't like being sick, as you can see...very crabby.  I brought it upon myself with all the hugging and kissing I forced on them.

 I think the save the Queen reference is stuck in my brain because I just watched The King's Speech, which was EXCELLENT! But basically anything with Colin Firth is excellent, and it's nice to see that he is spreading his wings as an actor and not actually in something where he is a character named, Mr. Darcy. Although, he's a great Mr. Darcy, no matter what time period.

 So that's pretty much it, I'm going to go back to bed now. Someone should take this blog away from me.  Everything's fuzzy, and it's getting dark.

God save the Queen!

Pass the Kleenex...

I'm so sad people. This post won't be thrilling, but high in cute factor. I also have to hurry up so my tears don't make my keyboard malfunction or something. Just kidding, I'm not crying...anymore. I have had the best 2 weeks. Why? Lottery winning? No. Liquor store gift card? Nope. Insurance Almighty decided they are powerless against me and said, "Alright you win"? Not a chance in hell.

My boys were in town. Meaning my two adorable nephews from California. Oh, yes and my sister and BFF, who I did way too much happy emotional eating with. I've doubled up on my exercise regimen to work off the shortcake...she watches as she's on vacation. Humph. They were here for 2 weeks and left today; I'm in denial and will not acknowledge that they are gone, well, I suppose it became a reality when they had to remove me from my sister's leg by force. They moved from Minnesota to California in March, so it hasn't been long, but too long, ya know? We Skype and text and e-mail and Facebook, but there is nothing like being able to put your arms around your boys, and sister, oh yeah, bull-riding brother-in-law too. I make those boys hug me, I chase them down in fact, they aren't super huggy, but I really don't give them options in this area. I try really hard not to pinch their cute little chubby cheeks and give them a quarter. I've warned you I'm a 60 year old lady in a gorgeous 30-something-something year old body.

I'll do a quick introduction:

The Twins.
They made each other a Build-A-Bear.Or
Build-A-T-Rex and Darth Saber {Saber
Tooth Tiger under the Vader mask.}  They
are both obsessed with stuffed animals,
 and Lord knows we needed more!

These are the twins. Spike {looks a Spike, mean and gnarly isn't he? Don't cross him, he bites.} and Drama Queen. No, not biological twins, but they are a phenomenon. Spike and the Drama Queen are only 3 weeks apart. They've been BFFs since birth. They can go days without getting sick of each other, never fight, read each other's mind, and have their own language. They are also freakishly protective of each other.  I have to admit, as cute as it is, it's a little creepy. When they Skype, everyone has to leave the room and all you hear is crazy laughter for a good hour. I suppose it's in the genes; once my sister and I took a 33 hour road-trip and I kid you not, we never listened to the radio once or had a moment of silence. What? You are surprised?

{Hold on, I'm having a moment. The twins are very dear to my heart, they might be my favorites, but I don't have favorites. But if I did, this would be the reason: I was pregnant with twins my first pregnancy, it wasn't meant to be, and I lost them. Tough things like that make you cherish what you have even more, and make me feel all the more grateful. Besides, if I would've had twins, that might have been all she wrote and no more babies for me, probably not, but maybe; and then I never would've had my favorite son, and I know that I was meant to be that kid's Mom from the deepest part of my heart. So this way, I still have twins, and what's even lovelier is that my sister gets one and I get one, and that feels right.}

The Entertainer, Drama Queen, Spike, & the Boy

Then there's the Entertainer, tallest kid pictured above {see what happens when I say smile} the resident smarty {seriously brilliant, somewhere in that grayish area of serial killer and finding the cure for cancer smart}, and he's Mini-me to his Dad. Brother, I know you're reading, yes, I said it, you're not serial killer-ish though, well neither is he, I should totally take that out.  Yep, I'll defintely take that out.  He could just pull it off is what I'm saying, no killing tendancies though.

Entertainer is also my workout buddy. He does a killer tree-pose for a 9 year old, and could pretty much hang with me during my cardio sessions too. He's very sassy; this is why I think we get along, that and the fact that he is family. Here are a few of his best moments this week:

I decided to do a little Jillian Michaels one morning, I really don't like her, just sayin', this is what the entertainer spouts out as we're half way through the workout and I'm shooting Jillian the evil eye,

 "What is wrong with that lady?" Yes!!! Exactly, my thoughts exactly! Boy, I love you and am putting you in the will, he'll get my cherished cardigan collection or something.

Almost in the same breath, he said, "Cari, why are you sweating, I'm not". Here's where my evil eye shifts from Jillian to him. Maybe I spouted something equally sassy about correct form or something. I'm not too nice to check a 9 year old. Right, I know, I'm mean. I think I the words, "respect your elders" came out of my mouth this week, which I immediately retracted, and was all like, "look what I've become boy"!

I arrived home from work and was enjoying some down-time watching the kids play in the backyard and was attacked with a water gun by the entertainer, gone Green Beret. I had no choice but to retaliate with the garden hose. My retaliation was futile, because as I was gingerly spraying the children with the hose, I was blindsided by a huge bucket of cold water down my back Gatorade-coach-style. Wait, that was my son gone Gatorade splasher. Proud moment.  No prompts.

The entertainer is also scary smart at cards, he's a card counter. We differ in this aspect, because, well I don't count cards. Half the time I don't even know it's my turn; I can't be bothered by this card counting. This makes it nearly impossible for me to EVER win against him. I am taking that kid to Vegas Disney Land.

You see where the nickname entertainer comes in? I am drafting an entire post to how he was paid $20 by his Granny to pick up some rocks in the rock bed and somehow managed to have the entire family do it for him as he looked on. The kid's a genius I tell you. Brilliant.

Naturally, as my sister reminds me, all of this sadness could be avoided if I simply move to California. Well, yes, excellent point, why didn't I think of that! Because I did, that's why, and there are three possible scenarios that could pan out from a cross country move:

1. My sis would have to hook me up with some hot movie star, which I'd marry and then live in the Hollywood Hills. But then people would start to talk about all the Botox I was getting and they'd be jealous that I was hanging with Paltrow and the Jolie-Pitts.  {Maybe just the Pitts, Angelina scares me a little, okay, a lot.}  Everyone would say I've changed because nobody would know I'm kidding with my already dry sense of humor and the Botox would make me look dead serious all the time. Besides, the traffic from L.A. to not L.A. where my sis lives would be too much for us.

2. I could move in with them. Then we could get our own show on TLC called the Real Sister Wives of Orange County. Gross, moving on.

3. They could visit me in my 2 bedroom flat, and by flat I mean cardboard box I'm residing in because there is no way I can afford California.  Most likely scenario I think.

Well, that solves that. Looks like I'm staying put and shoveling snow.

So I'm going to try and pull it together and get on with my week, although not today, today I'm wallowing and letting my kid's play hooky.

Self-Discovery: My On-Going Addiction

While writing my girl's night out post, I had a realization. I am an addict. I have a subconscious addiction to black cardigans. Most often times, any picture of me also includes a black cardigan. Could be worse, could be Hawaiian shirts. My tally, 13, thirteen cardigans of black. In my defense, I am always cold, always! Even on a 90 degree day, I have a sweater in hand if I am going somewhere air-conditioned. And I routinely keep a stash at work too. Can I eat soup on a 90 degree day? Yes I can, hot coffee too.  I know!  I'm telling you, they need to do some kind of study on my abnormality(s).

Perhaps I'm part reptile? I should probably retire in Arizona or something, where I can just lay on a rock so I don't freeze up.  Maybe when I hit menopause, the hot flashes will be a welcomed change, and even things out.  Or, knowing my luck, I'll be forever a hot sweaty mess {not to be confused with the hot mess I already am}, and wearing tube tops and daisy dukes at 60. 

Any takers on my black cardigan collection?  No?  Maybe I'll sell it on Ebay.

Back to post at hand. Who has 13 black cardigans? Me, that's who! So here's my bizarre reasoning.

-One has beads

-But not the same beads

-That one has ruffles

-Long

-Short

-3/4 sleeve

You get the dull picture here. I blatantly blame Ann Taylor, Inc. for starting my addiction. Although my single mom status most often times leaves me getting my fix  at Target these days. And should I see a cardigan sale, I hear no voice of reason; I'm a junky plain and simple.

Is there some kind of 12 step program for this? I obviously need an intervention. So I jotted down a few options for my recovery, tell me what you think.

1. Admit you have a problem. Check.

2. Maybe hypno-therapy? That might subconsciously make black cardigans look purple and yellow polka-dotted. But then would I have a purple and yellow polka-dot cardigan obsession? The world may never know.

3. Procure some sort of heat lamp for work, but is that a fire hazard?  More than likely.

4. Don't live in a state with frigid temperatures.

5. Get rip-roaring drunk, invite over the neighbor kids and have a cardigan bonfire...and smores. Do the ugly cry and get over it. Tough love.

6. Act my age and not 60, which means weaning myself off the pearls too.

7. Write a nasty letter to Ann Taylor explaining my disapproval of the seasonal black cardigan revamp every few months, or they will lose me as a customer! That'll turn them around in a jiffy. I don't need your cute, classy, over-priced sweaters anyway Ann Taylor, crack cardigan peddlers.

{I am so sorry Ann Taylor, I'm a junky and didn't mean that, I'll see you next week, I will re-word my letter and send to Victoria's Secret regarding their darn Semi-Annual sale.}

8. I could just quit my job and stay snuggled up under my comforter. On second thought, no. Starvation and such. No good.

9. I'm tired, and cold, and these are ridiculous, so I'm stopping here. Yeah, I thought you'd be okay with that. 

{Just dealing with the black sweaters at the moment, baby steps, you don't even want to know how large my various neutral sweater collection is.}

Do you have a silly addiction?  Now is the time to come clean, let's hear it.

You Can't Teach Funny

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Boo.

Boo, what?

Boo who, sweetie, say boo who. This is me trying to teach my Autistic son how to participate in the art of the knock-knock joke. Senseless belly-laughing knock-knock joke telling is a phase every four year old goes through. The boy doesn't get it. Most often times he doesn't get jokes per se, and just ends up laughing because he sees someone else laughing. Physical comedy does not apply here, he gets that. But the whole Q & A part of the knock-knock is tripping him up. I never thought I'd long to hear a few hundred more insanely ridiculous knock-knock jokes, but it will come.

Now in the boy's defense; he is the Autism class clown. I do not know where he gets this. We're pretty serious here at the Bubble Gum house, almost militant if you will. Or maybe not. Our house is always full of laughter and cracking up, so I suppose he could just be scripting it? Oh no, I might have the only kid with Autism who is seriously funny. Or at least out of the six kids in his class. {Oftentimes kids with Autism are hilarious because they are so literal.} Is it bad that I'm more proud of that, than him learning to ride a bike or write his name?

Meh...handwriting is overrated, make your X, and let's get on with it.

Here is a taste of the boy's humor...

Scene looks like this: boy, Drama Queen and I playing with My Little Pony Houses {shaped like teapots, cupcakes, and rainbows}, Drama Queen's residents are well, ponies, the boys...matchbox cars. I am sitting on the floor with them, my Pony is house in the hood outskirts, and I house the resident ocean animals, and the pony dubbed "tripod" because she's missing a leg. Boy stops playing, takes the cars out the house and says, "Nah, not this house, it's too peanuts."

Okay, seriously that makes no sense, but I can't resist cracking up. When he sees me laughing, he naturally, in Bubble Gum gene fashion, plays to the crowd. Must be from his Father's side.

He then begins his little side to side dance in his under-roos, singing, "corndogs, corndogs!"

Yeah, I don't know either, but I find it amusing.

And there you have it. I'm happy to report when there is no hellacious screaming in the household; it's filled with laughter.  That's good enough for me.

Not To Toot My Own Horn

"Mom that sounds like the roadrunner!"

Do you want to know what sounds like the roadrunner's, "mmeeep, meep"?

My broken-ass car horn, that's what! 

Seriously, how embarrassing could this be?  How does a car horn even break?  Or half break, because it's not fully incapacitated. Is the inevitable next phase of the breakage this?

That scene from Little Miss Sunshine, makes me laugh so hard, which is why I can't really be all that upset about my horn.  Although, never, ever in a million years would I wish that to happen to me.  I am petrified that it will get stuck now because of this movie!  But I don't drive a VW van, so I'm hoping that rules out the stick-age.  I also have no intention of fixing this problem, because really I should be saving for my my kid's college fund going to the liquor store.

Nonetheless, this horn situation poses a problem for me because I am a horn honker.  That doesn't sound quite right, but how else do I word this?  I am not a rude, lay on the horn type driver, just a friendly, beep-beep-lights-been-green-turning-yellow-let's-go kind of driver.  I may give a little added horn time if you almost side-swipe me and leave me paralyzed on the side of the road with 9 inches of snow in a blizzard.  But beyond that, I'm a pretty well behaved driver.

So I've been avoiding honking my horn, because it seriously sounds like something from Sesame Street or some kind of clown car; and well, that's a tad humiliating.  It's bad enough that I am already probably swerving while screaming at my kids to "knock it off", while throwing popcorn or something to the back seat, or saying, "give me that", while blindly curling my arm around the seat, Cirque du Soleil style, reaching for arms, legs or whatever resembles my cell phone on which the children have cold called my gynecologist, again. 

Probably a good thing I'm not going to be popping out anymore chicklets anytime soon, because my OB/GYN, being the top of my contact list, A, gets more Bubble Gum kid cold calls in a week than I'd like to own up to.  Yeah, that's right, and I get the call backs because they mistake the shuffling and screaming for some poor lady giving birth on the side of the road.  Note to self, find new OB/GYN, might be awkward on next visit.  I should send flowers or chocolate to the reception gals.  I can see it now, I call to make an appointment and of course my favorite Doctor is booked for 7 years straight.  Then I'll have to settle for the old guy, and I mean like should have retired 20 years ago old,  Father Time old, you're still here? old, still says, "relations" old.  Shudder.  Calling florist tomorrow, changing OB's name in contact list to something with "Z". 

I believe car horns are a necessary luxury in society.  I miss it.  I guess I never realized how much I used it until I couldn't anymore.  I honked at a lady 6 times today, and the light turned red mind you, before she realized I was honking...or that the sound she heard was a horn...from a car, my car, who I will refer to as Lexus, because she likes to look pretty too.

So what category do you fall into?

A.)  I never honk, it's dangerous and I might get shot.

B.)  I'm a leisurely honker, only use it when necessary.

C.)  Red Alert...Road Raging car honking machine.

D.)  None of the above, because I bike, run, skydive, or canoe to work.  {But I'm not naming names}