I'm thinking of starting a chapter of Sarcastics Anonymous in the new year. I'm thinking it could be like my New Year's resolution since losing weight and being a better housekeeper seem to not be working out for me.
Like with all things, my mind wanders and I start to think what one of these meetings will look like. I should probably stop all this "mind wandering;" it gets me into a lot of trouble.
OUR MISSION: To accept responsibility for our sarcastic ways and how it effects every area of our lives.
We will learn new ways of coping with life like smiling and nodding, not making fun of stupid people, situations or anyone's grammar and knitting.
Sample Meeting Agenda:
7:00-7:05pm--Make small talk. Please limit questions to one word responses. Please limit responses to one word replies. Watch your tone!
7:05-7:20--Group Discussion
Sample Topic: Why the Kardashians are Famous
Instructions: Engage in above topic, using only positive statements. Remember: no sarcasm is good sarcasm. Please come prepared with comments. You have two months' prep time. You can do it!
7:20-7:35--Personal Testimonies: In which members share how their sarcasm has ruined their lives and the lives of others they have come in contact with. Sarcasm is the third most likely cause of marital strife. (First is money, second is not replacing the toilet paper roll).
7:35-7:55--Topical Speaker
Suggested Topics:
Tone will be the DEATH of you
The South wasn't Won on Sarcasm
Nobody likes a Sarcastic Guest
Life with a Sarcastic Spouse--The Bad, the Badder, and the Worst
The Sarcasm Gene? Will Your Children Be Affected?
7:55-8:00--Reminders and Reciting the SA Creed
Sarcastics Anonymous Creed
God grant me the serenity to bite my tongue
when stupid people say stupid things,
The courage to point out grammar errors politely,
And the wisdom to smile and nod whenever necessary.
*This post was, of course, done with a good deal of, well, um, sarcasm. Please take it as such. :)
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Saturday, October 10, 2015
How I'll Get Arrested
Our youngest, Katherine, is two years old. As the only girl with three older brothers, she's kind of used to getting her way and . . . mean. She has no problem kicking, hitting, or biting to get what she wants. And then she looks at you with her giant blue, blue eyes and all that blonde, blonde hair and those adorable dimples and you'll almost forget.
Until she bites you again.
I am often asked if I am her babysitter. I am neither blonde-headed or blue-eyed and my adorable factor is questionable. (Although I do bite on occasion). She certainly favors her father in the looks department. She unfortunately favors me in the personality department. (My kids tell me all the time how mean I am).
Over the last month, she's learned to say a new word. The word is "help."
Actually what I mean to say is that she's learned to yell the word "help."
Usually in public.
Usually when I'm trying to put her in a grocery cart. Or the carseat.
As loud as she can (and it's surprisingly loud), she'll shout, "Help! Help! Help!"
I'm struggling to get her in the carseat, grappling with the buckle, trying to avoid her teeth, and, okay, I might be swearing under my breath (Putting this kid in a carseat is exhausting. I deserve a cookie or cruise or something afterwards) and she's screaming "Help!" at the top of her lungs.
All this to say, I'm just biding my time until I get arrested. It's gonna happen, people. Someone is going to walk by and think, "Why is that woman forcing that toddler yelling 'help' who doesn't look anything like her into that van?" And the police will get involved.
Can I blog from prison? I'm not sure.
On one hand, I'll be arrested which, admittedly, has quite a few negative aspects.
On the other hand, it is kind of like a paid vacation. A few days in solitary sounds kind of . . . peaceful.
Until she bites you again.
I am often asked if I am her babysitter. I am neither blonde-headed or blue-eyed and my adorable factor is questionable. (Although I do bite on occasion). She certainly favors her father in the looks department. She unfortunately favors me in the personality department. (My kids tell me all the time how mean I am).
Over the last month, she's learned to say a new word. The word is "help."
Actually what I mean to say is that she's learned to yell the word "help."
Usually in public.
Usually when I'm trying to put her in a grocery cart. Or the carseat.
As loud as she can (and it's surprisingly loud), she'll shout, "Help! Help! Help!"
I'm struggling to get her in the carseat, grappling with the buckle, trying to avoid her teeth, and, okay, I might be swearing under my breath (Putting this kid in a carseat is exhausting. I deserve a cookie or cruise or something afterwards) and she's screaming "Help!" at the top of her lungs.
All this to say, I'm just biding my time until I get arrested. It's gonna happen, people. Someone is going to walk by and think, "Why is that woman forcing that toddler yelling 'help' who doesn't look anything like her into that van?" And the police will get involved.
Can I blog from prison? I'm not sure.
On one hand, I'll be arrested which, admittedly, has quite a few negative aspects.
On the other hand, it is kind of like a paid vacation. A few days in solitary sounds kind of . . . peaceful.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Rea'l Talk
Let's have a talk about diarrhea. I know, you're thinking, Really, lady? It's Friday night. But you know what, I'm a mom and diarrhea waits for no one. No. One.
We learned a new word today in our house: Diarrhe'd.
I will have to admit that I'm not sure if I put the air comma in the correct space.
(Oh, I'm sorry, you might not be familiar with the term "air comma." That would be the easy way to spell apostrophe).
But I digress, back to diarrhe'd. As I am a former English teacher, I have always found that definitions are best understood in context. So, here's how it went down.
I ran upstairs to grab something and when I came back downstairs, one of boys, who had previously been fully clothed moments before, was now in his underwear. This occurrence in and of itself is pretty common--who doesn't like to run around in their underwear in the middle of the day, right? Ask my husband, he'll tell you.
"Son," I say. "Where are your clothes?"
"Not on me anymore," he says. And yes, please note the sarcasm cause I'm kind of proud.
As a mom, I have begun to really hone my questioning tactics. For example, questions should be as specific as possible. If there's too much wiggle room, you'll never get the right answer. It's exactly like an attorney trying to nail a witness on the stand. So, I try again.
"Why don't you have your clothes on anymore?"
"Cause I diarrhe'd on myself," he replies.
"Diarrhe'd?"
"Diarrhe'd," he says. "Come and see." (Words everyone wants to hear when we're on this topic).
So I follow him to the bathroom and check. I can't tell you how often I look at poop as a mom. I can talk pretty freely about poop in general now. Poop. Poop. Poop. Not even cringing. It's a fact of life, people.
"Yup, you definitely diarrhe'd."
"I don't think I can go to school tomorrow," he announces.
"Good thinking. Tomorrow is Saturday. You should not go to school."
"Oh well," he continues, undeterred. "I should probably stay home on Tuesday." (I'm impressed with his quick thinking. Monday is a holiday).
So, based on this, I think we can define diarrhe'd as "The act of having just had diarrhea, especially how it can be used as an excuse to get out of school."
(I also imagine there's some poor kid running around named Diarrhe'd. You know, like, "Diarrhe'd, don't play in the toilet." or "Diarrhe'd, get your fingers out of there." Poor kid probably has to tell everyone where to put the air comma).
Anyway, it should be a fun (or is crappy the right word?) weekend.
Isn't it always?
*I would like to dedicate this blog post to Steve Smith, who saw the potential in a blog post about diarrhea. Thanks, Steve. Everyone else thanks you too.
We learned a new word today in our house: Diarrhe'd.
I will have to admit that I'm not sure if I put the air comma in the correct space.
(Oh, I'm sorry, you might not be familiar with the term "air comma." That would be the easy way to spell apostrophe).
But I digress, back to diarrhe'd. As I am a former English teacher, I have always found that definitions are best understood in context. So, here's how it went down.
I ran upstairs to grab something and when I came back downstairs, one of boys, who had previously been fully clothed moments before, was now in his underwear. This occurrence in and of itself is pretty common--who doesn't like to run around in their underwear in the middle of the day, right? Ask my husband, he'll tell you.
"Son," I say. "Where are your clothes?"
"Not on me anymore," he says. And yes, please note the sarcasm cause I'm kind of proud.
As a mom, I have begun to really hone my questioning tactics. For example, questions should be as specific as possible. If there's too much wiggle room, you'll never get the right answer. It's exactly like an attorney trying to nail a witness on the stand. So, I try again.
"Why don't you have your clothes on anymore?"
"Cause I diarrhe'd on myself," he replies.
"Diarrhe'd?"
"Diarrhe'd," he says. "Come and see." (Words everyone wants to hear when we're on this topic).
So I follow him to the bathroom and check. I can't tell you how often I look at poop as a mom. I can talk pretty freely about poop in general now. Poop. Poop. Poop. Not even cringing. It's a fact of life, people.
"Yup, you definitely diarrhe'd."
"I don't think I can go to school tomorrow," he announces.
"Good thinking. Tomorrow is Saturday. You should not go to school."
"Oh well," he continues, undeterred. "I should probably stay home on Tuesday." (I'm impressed with his quick thinking. Monday is a holiday).
So, based on this, I think we can define diarrhe'd as "The act of having just had diarrhea, especially how it can be used as an excuse to get out of school."
(I also imagine there's some poor kid running around named Diarrhe'd. You know, like, "Diarrhe'd, don't play in the toilet." or "Diarrhe'd, get your fingers out of there." Poor kid probably has to tell everyone where to put the air comma).
Anyway, it should be a fun (or is crappy the right word?) weekend.
Isn't it always?
*I would like to dedicate this blog post to Steve Smith, who saw the potential in a blog post about diarrhea. Thanks, Steve. Everyone else thanks you too.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Big Sick Baby Syndrome: It's real and it's here.
I married the absent-minded professor. He's one of the smartest guys I know and also one of the most forgetful. For instance, he can recite (probably the actual minutes of) in great detail what happened at the Council of Nicaea but his memory on the kids' birth dates is a little fuzzy sometimes.
I'm not kidding, folks. I am routinely amazed that he showed up on time and dressed for our wedding. I love him to pieces but I spend 99.9% of my time and energy looking for his car keys, wallet, bus pass, and his other shoe.
If I wasn't around, we wouldn't have kids. Not because they wouldn't have been born, but they long ago would have been left at a Walmart somewhere to fend for themselves. (Which still may be their fate, depending on how the Teenage Years work out for us).
He also suffers from what I like to call BSBS or Big Sick Baby Syndrome.
What exactly is BSBS? This syndrome affects all married man any time they have ANY medical issue. We're talking common cold, hang nail, headache. It's symptoms including excessive whining, inability to do any task, big or small, on his own, and long movie marathons that usually include Star Wars, The Bourne Series, or the Lord of the Rings trilogy (all of these are preempted during any sports season). There's no cure for BSBS. It will rear its ugly head throughout the life of said husband. Sadly, wives are the silent sufferers during the active periods of BSBS.
And, friends, BSBS reared it's ugly head this evening.
Husband enters restroom, leaves door open (to make sure all the sound effects are clearly heard), and proceeds to puke his guts out.
He arrives in kitchen and immediately hugs me. It's unclear if he washed his hands first.
"I don't feel good," he says weakly, making sure to use puppy dog eyes. He brings my hand to his forehead. "Do I have a fever?"
I choose to not dwell on the whole hand washing issue and ascertain that, no, he does not have a fever.
Husband is not deterred. "What do you think is wrong with me?" he asks, being sure to use the right amount of worry to provoke a sympathetic response. He's already lining up the movies in his head.
"Maybe you should go lay down," I say. Did I mention this is during dinner? When I am (unsuccessfully) trying to get three kids to SIT and eat and trying to convince the fourth one that a popsicle is not an appropriate meal substitute. I'm also trying to not remember my last pregnancy where I literally spent nine months throwing up.
"Maybe . . . ." Husband says, faintly. Like maybe he plans on fainting for real.
\
I look at him closely and remember he wasn't feeling badly earlier today. "What did you have to eat recently?" I ask, suspiciously.
Husband thinks for a moment, which is hard in his current state of BSBS. "Well, I had some leftovers . . . ."
"Leftovers?" I try to remember what leftovers we had hanging around.
"The ones from when we went out . . . last Sunday."
It's Saturday. As in SIX days later. (Yes, don't judge, they were still in the fridge).
"Hmmm, six day old Mexican food?"
"Is that bad?"
Why should I bother explaining? "Go lay down!" I say.
So, while I'll be spending my evening getting the kids to bed, cleaning out the refrigerator of too old leftovers, and checking to make sure the Husband is still in the Land of the Living, the Husband will spend his evening reminding me how sick he is, watching movies, laying in bed looking sad and pathetic, and hopefully getting over his self-inflicted food poisoning.
Let us all pray this BSBS passes quickly.
It's a good thing I love this guy.
I'm not kidding, folks. I am routinely amazed that he showed up on time and dressed for our wedding. I love him to pieces but I spend 99.9% of my time and energy looking for his car keys, wallet, bus pass, and his other shoe.
If I wasn't around, we wouldn't have kids. Not because they wouldn't have been born, but they long ago would have been left at a Walmart somewhere to fend for themselves. (Which still may be their fate, depending on how the Teenage Years work out for us).
He also suffers from what I like to call BSBS or Big Sick Baby Syndrome.
What exactly is BSBS? This syndrome affects all married man any time they have ANY medical issue. We're talking common cold, hang nail, headache. It's symptoms including excessive whining, inability to do any task, big or small, on his own, and long movie marathons that usually include Star Wars, The Bourne Series, or the Lord of the Rings trilogy (all of these are preempted during any sports season). There's no cure for BSBS. It will rear its ugly head throughout the life of said husband. Sadly, wives are the silent sufferers during the active periods of BSBS.
And, friends, BSBS reared it's ugly head this evening.
Husband enters restroom, leaves door open (to make sure all the sound effects are clearly heard), and proceeds to puke his guts out.
He arrives in kitchen and immediately hugs me. It's unclear if he washed his hands first.
"I don't feel good," he says weakly, making sure to use puppy dog eyes. He brings my hand to his forehead. "Do I have a fever?"
I choose to not dwell on the whole hand washing issue and ascertain that, no, he does not have a fever.
Husband is not deterred. "What do you think is wrong with me?" he asks, being sure to use the right amount of worry to provoke a sympathetic response. He's already lining up the movies in his head.
"Maybe you should go lay down," I say. Did I mention this is during dinner? When I am (unsuccessfully) trying to get three kids to SIT and eat and trying to convince the fourth one that a popsicle is not an appropriate meal substitute. I'm also trying to not remember my last pregnancy where I literally spent nine months throwing up.
"Maybe . . . ." Husband says, faintly. Like maybe he plans on fainting for real.
\
I look at him closely and remember he wasn't feeling badly earlier today. "What did you have to eat recently?" I ask, suspiciously.
Husband thinks for a moment, which is hard in his current state of BSBS. "Well, I had some leftovers . . . ."
"Leftovers?" I try to remember what leftovers we had hanging around.
"The ones from when we went out . . . last Sunday."
It's Saturday. As in SIX days later. (Yes, don't judge, they were still in the fridge).
"Hmmm, six day old Mexican food?"
"Is that bad?"
Why should I bother explaining? "Go lay down!" I say.
So, while I'll be spending my evening getting the kids to bed, cleaning out the refrigerator of too old leftovers, and checking to make sure the Husband is still in the Land of the Living, the Husband will spend his evening reminding me how sick he is, watching movies, laying in bed looking sad and pathetic, and hopefully getting over his self-inflicted food poisoning.
Let us all pray this BSBS passes quickly.
It's a good thing I love this guy.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
I'm Going to Have the Best Blog Ever (and other lies I tell myself)
So, I did it.
I started a blog.
Not just any blog.
This is going to be THE BEST BLOG EVER.
I just know it..
Many moons ago, when I was in the BK (Before Kids) Time Period, I had this dream to become a writer. Not a seriously journalist or anything like that. Let's not get crazy. I wanted to write stories and novels. I imagined I'd be pretty good at this. I was an English major, I taught middle school English (I know that's probably not a great endorsement), I read books. I knew how to type.
So, my dreams of writing the next great novel have not exactly come to fruition.
I did give birth to four kids though. That's a pretty big accomplishment, right?
I keep them alive. Every. Single. Day. That should earn me a lot of gold stars and maybe a stiff drink.
Recently, I had a birthday and I started thinking. (Insert jokes about hurting myself with all that thinking). I'm still not a writer. And it was a dream. I am not under the false pretense that a blog makes me a writer. I realize I'm joining ranks with every other person on the planet that has a computer and free time. But maybe, I can pretend, at least for a little bit, that I'm working towards some kind of dream that doesn't involve having all of my children potty trained or making it through a meal without anyone spilling milk. (That last one is kind of a fantasy, as in not of this world and never gonna happen).
Of course, I'm going into this starry-eyed and optimistic. Don't worry, that won't last long. I'm a tried and true realist. I don't care if the glass is half empty or half full. I just want to know how long the glass has been there and who's gonna clean it.
Let's get some things cleared up right now though, before we go any farther.
1) If puke (or any derivatives of the word including but not limited to: puker, pukefest, puke-athon, puking, puked, The Puke King) make you feel, well, pukey, you probably want to find another blog to follow. There will be puke. When it happens, there will be a lot. I will spare you photos (unless any of the puke blobs look like Elvis or something),
2) As the title of this blog may hint at, I am not perfect. My family is not perfect. I'm really okay with that. Honestly. If you're expecting a Pinterest Mom, don't look here. Did I even spell Pinterest correctly? I'm not sure and I'm too lazy to google it. Thankfully, I do have a perfect God that forgives me. A lot.
3) Speaking of lazy . . . . I"m mostly not except when it's something I don't want to do. That's probably not laziness, it's more passive agressive-ness, right? Anyway, one of my concerns about starting The Best Blog Ever is that I won't have the time to make it awesome. I might not. This very well may be the only blog entry I ever write. And this has taken me three days. So, let's set expectations low, really low. Then both of us can be pleasantly surprised when I exceed them.
4) So, we have two sons with autism. This is NOT an autism blog, per se. Will autism make an appearance? Of course! Autism is like my fifth child. It's really expensive and it doesn't listen very well. But we still love it because it's here and it's ours.
5) There will be a lot of sarcasm. It's my love language.
6) I don't plan on debating politics, religion, sports teams, or that Huey Lewis and the News is awesome (they are. There's no debate about it). I might talk about this stuff and it also doesn't mean it's not important to me but I'm not much a debater. It kind of bores me . . . all that thinking and explaining yourself.
7) This is not a couponing blog. Deals are great. There are millions of blogs dedicated to finding you the cheapest ketchup possible. Go ye, search, and ye shall find (just not here).
8) So what is this blog about? I don't know! Time, maybe some wine, and hiding out in the closet, hoping my children don't find me, will tell.
This could be the start of something great or something that was possibly the dumbest idea ever. And maybe I'll just be writing for a few friends and the one lone person that stumbled on to this blog by googling puke+Elvis (this person is going to be so disapppointed). I guess I won't know until I try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Never eat yellow snow. Oh, sorry, I was getting caught up in my cliches.
Here goes nothing.
I started a blog.
Not just any blog.
This is going to be THE BEST BLOG EVER.
I just know it..
Many moons ago, when I was in the BK (Before Kids) Time Period, I had this dream to become a writer. Not a seriously journalist or anything like that. Let's not get crazy. I wanted to write stories and novels. I imagined I'd be pretty good at this. I was an English major, I taught middle school English (I know that's probably not a great endorsement), I read books. I knew how to type.
So, my dreams of writing the next great novel have not exactly come to fruition.
I did give birth to four kids though. That's a pretty big accomplishment, right?
I keep them alive. Every. Single. Day. That should earn me a lot of gold stars and maybe a stiff drink.
Recently, I had a birthday and I started thinking. (Insert jokes about hurting myself with all that thinking). I'm still not a writer. And it was a dream. I am not under the false pretense that a blog makes me a writer. I realize I'm joining ranks with every other person on the planet that has a computer and free time. But maybe, I can pretend, at least for a little bit, that I'm working towards some kind of dream that doesn't involve having all of my children potty trained or making it through a meal without anyone spilling milk. (That last one is kind of a fantasy, as in not of this world and never gonna happen).
Of course, I'm going into this starry-eyed and optimistic. Don't worry, that won't last long. I'm a tried and true realist. I don't care if the glass is half empty or half full. I just want to know how long the glass has been there and who's gonna clean it.
Let's get some things cleared up right now though, before we go any farther.
1) If puke (or any derivatives of the word including but not limited to: puker, pukefest, puke-athon, puking, puked, The Puke King) make you feel, well, pukey, you probably want to find another blog to follow. There will be puke. When it happens, there will be a lot. I will spare you photos (unless any of the puke blobs look like Elvis or something),
2) As the title of this blog may hint at, I am not perfect. My family is not perfect. I'm really okay with that. Honestly. If you're expecting a Pinterest Mom, don't look here. Did I even spell Pinterest correctly? I'm not sure and I'm too lazy to google it. Thankfully, I do have a perfect God that forgives me. A lot.
3) Speaking of lazy . . . . I"m mostly not except when it's something I don't want to do. That's probably not laziness, it's more passive agressive-ness, right? Anyway, one of my concerns about starting The Best Blog Ever is that I won't have the time to make it awesome. I might not. This very well may be the only blog entry I ever write. And this has taken me three days. So, let's set expectations low, really low. Then both of us can be pleasantly surprised when I exceed them.
4) So, we have two sons with autism. This is NOT an autism blog, per se. Will autism make an appearance? Of course! Autism is like my fifth child. It's really expensive and it doesn't listen very well. But we still love it because it's here and it's ours.
5) There will be a lot of sarcasm. It's my love language.
6) I don't plan on debating politics, religion, sports teams, or that Huey Lewis and the News is awesome (they are. There's no debate about it). I might talk about this stuff and it also doesn't mean it's not important to me but I'm not much a debater. It kind of bores me . . . all that thinking and explaining yourself.
7) This is not a couponing blog. Deals are great. There are millions of blogs dedicated to finding you the cheapest ketchup possible. Go ye, search, and ye shall find (just not here).
8) So what is this blog about? I don't know! Time, maybe some wine, and hiding out in the closet, hoping my children don't find me, will tell.
This could be the start of something great or something that was possibly the dumbest idea ever. And maybe I'll just be writing for a few friends and the one lone person that stumbled on to this blog by googling puke+Elvis (this person is going to be so disapppointed). I guess I won't know until I try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Never eat yellow snow. Oh, sorry, I was getting caught up in my cliches.
Here goes nothing.
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