Friday Night In The Ghetto

It's Friday night in the ghetto, and that means that Andrew is outside playing catch with our boys under the street lights.  It also means that he is playing catch with half the kids in the neighborhood.  The ones who don't have dads, and the ones who have fathers that are too busy getting drunk to play catch with them.

Andrew knows most of these kids by name.  He knows which ones are left-handed.  He knows when they've gotten better at throwing the ball.

A dog has gotten loose and its owner chases it through the shadows, calling its name.  

A tricycle sits abandoned on the sidewalk.  I think it's Trent's.  

An occasional breeze brings with it the pungent odor of cheap cigarettes.

As it gets darker people seem to talk louder.  There is chatter up and down the street about a cat fight between two moms.  All the kids are discussing what the other kid's mother called their mother.  We're glad to have missed that show.

It's almost dark.  A few porch lights come on to aid the street lights in stretching the football game just a few more minutes.

Some parents call their kids inside.  Some don't seem to even care where their kids are, much less when they come in for the night.

Andrew says goodbye to the last orphan child to leave the game of catch.  Then he enjoys a few minutes alone with his boys.  Bicycle seats are adjusted for growing legs, helmet straps tightened, manly hugs distributed.

The night's first yawn makes its appearance and it's time for balls and bikes and foam swords to be collected and put in the garage until tomorrow.  

All of the boys troop inside and the screen door screeches a close to a pretty lovely Friday night in the ghetto.

We've Run Out of Dr. Seuss

My husband can read, as is obvious by his possession of one high school diploma and a heap of paintball magazines stashed in the bathroom cabinets; but he doesn't do it very often.  

He read the Harry Potter series, he plowed through The Hunger Games in about 24 hours, and he's read quite a bit by Patrick McManus...but that comprises the entire list of books I've seen him read since we got married eleven years ago.

I once suggested that he read Twilight, because his brother did and seemed to like it.  I won't tell you which one, because I don't want to embarrass anyone.

Andrew's response to that suggestion was to flip me the bird and remind me that he isn't bi-curious.

When we moved about a month ago we decided not to get satellite or cable TV.  We thought it would be good for the kids to learn to entertain themselves otherwise.  But poor Andrew has been bored and having moody spells over basketball games that he has not been able to watch.

He keeps telling me that he wants TV, and I keep telling him to read a book.

But he doesn't know what book to read.

So we need suggestions.  Man-type books, preferably.  Nothing by Stephanie Meyer or Danielle Steele or one of the guys from Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.  I need man books.  With a PG-13 rating.  

Help a girl out.  I really don't want to find my house invaded by a man from Comcast who's administering oxygen to Andrew with one hand while he hooks up the HBO with the other.

My Un-Birthday

Andrew claims that he didn't forget my birthday, he just thought it was on Thursday.

I say he's full of it.

But either way, he made up for it tonight by taking me out to dinner and pretending today was my birthday.  I ordered a lovely sweet crab fettuccine.  He had fish and chips.  Tonight went down as one of the few nights when I was able to order better than he did.

We got home and had cinnamon rolls for dessert.  I brought Andrew's up to the bedroom on a plate for him because he was busy playing a video game.  Cause he's 12.

And then we, I mean I, got the kids ready for bed.  I went into the bathroom to monitor the teeth brushing and hollered to anyone within earshot - "Why is there a plate in the bathroom?"

Andrew hollered back - "I told Cameron to take my plate down to the kitchen.  I don't know why he didn't do it."

To which I replied - "Why is Cameron your dish slave?"

And Andrew, in all seriousness said - "Because today is your birthday."

This is what I live with, people.

Impatience and Metro-Sexuality. Almost.

Of all my flaws, impatience is likely the worst.  It rears it's ugly head at the most detrimental times.

Case in point - last night.  

I decided that I was bored with the plain locks atop my head and resolved to do something to liven them up.  I'd been debating for a while whether to chop them or grow them out.  I opted for the grow-out, because there are only so many years left in which I'll be able to get away with long hair; may as well make the most of them.

The only choice left was color change of some sort.

So I took my boring head out to the local discount store and picked up a box of do-it-yourself highlights.  Why would I do such a thing?

Because of the impatience.  

Once an idea is concocted in my brain, it must be carried out, post haste.  It was 8:00, and all the beauty salons were closed, so professional help was not available.  (Not that I would have used it, because I'm still terrified of going near a hair salon in Utah.)

I brought the box home and put on the little cap and began to pull strands of hair through the holes...  And then I realized that I would not be able to see the back or sides of my head in order to pull hair through those holes.

This is what we refer to as being "in a pickle".

I came out to the living room, where my dear husband was watching football in a very manly fashion.  I smiled at him and cooed, "Honey???"

He looked at me, holding out my little crochet hook tool, and said, "No way."

So thirty seconds later I was sitting in front of his manly recliner while he attempted to pull bits of my hair through the highlighting cap.

And all the while he muttered, "If you blog about this, I'll kill you."

(Grin)

And then, when I told Cameron to take a picture, Andrew got really ticked...

But even though he acted all miffed about having to perform girly tasks, I was really glad that he was man enough to help me out of my impatient pickle. 

Crazy Diet

My poor husband has those crappy genetics that mandate he battle his weight his entire life.

Don't get me wrong - there's some good genetic code in there, too.  I won't go into that though.

It's just sad that he has to go to the gym or hit the pavement every night to keep his waistline below a size forty, and I get to sit on the couch eating a giant bowl of Reese's Puffs cereal while watching Master Chef, and not gain a pound.  (Almost.)

Just watching Master Chef has the potential to make Andrew gain weight.  

Several months back, Andrew decided he needed to be at a respectable weight before we go on our annual salmon pilgrimage to the Pacific NW.  He started out by watching what he ate and working out six nights a week.  

I helped out by baking peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to tempt him with.

After a few weeks, he decided that his plan wasn't drastic enough, so he started to eat rice.  And nothing else.

He ate rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two solid weeks before I finally convinced him to eat a banana for breakfast, or an occasional packet of oatmeal.  I honestly thought he was going to get scurvy or something.

And he wasn't even eating brown rice!  He says he doesn't like it.  So white rice, (empty carbs), only.  And it really did work.  He was burning every one of those empty calories, and then some.  He dropped about twenty-five pounds in three weeks.

Finally, I got sick of cooking the rice, (broke my rice cooker lid quite a while ago, so I was doing all of this on the stove top, poor me). I did a little poking around online and found a super easy recipe for refried beans that aren't fried.  Slow cooker all the way.  They are delicious, have almost no fat, and they are actually pretty full of nutrients.  Everything from fiber to protein to magnesium.  

And believe it or not, I convinced Andrew to switch from rice to beans, and now I'm only cooking for him once a week.

I made a fresh batch of beans tonight, and I added in some cheese.  Don't tell Andrew, or he won't eat them.

"The Curse" Now Has A Real Name

You know what the best part of this contest was for me? Andrew not knowing who submitted derogatory comments about his car.

You see, I wouldn't let Andrew read the suggestions for bug names, because I didn't want him to be biased. So I read the submissions to him, and he had no idea who submitted what name until he made his choice last night. Now that he knows it was his brother who suggested that his baby should be named PeezOChite, Barney, or A Nice Attempt, guess who's not invited to our house anymore??

There were 11 names that made it to the finals, and last night I handed the list to Andrew and he studiously began to examine and cross out, until he was left with just three names. And he asked Ethan's opinion. He scowled, he debated, he asked me who had submitted the final three, and I refused to tell.

And then I saw him circle one name, and let me tell you - the suspense was epic.

Everyone - Meet Brigitta!

(Forgive the butt-shot of our dear Brigitta. I seem to not have any photos of her from the front. Although, there is a very nice one of her on a tow truck, which is like home for her, and I would have used it if I weren't afraid of Andrew's hurt feelings.)

So congratulations, Kellie! In just a matter of a few shipping days, you will find yourself the proud owner of one adorably retro Herbie The Love Bug t-shirt!

Thank you to everyone who played along in complete seriousness, or in jest - I had fun. And David - you owe Andrew an apology.

A Very Serious Contest

Friday night, Andrew and I went on a date with about thirty other people. The monthly cruise night with the V-Dub Club of Northern Utah.

Andrew loves his bug. It is old, it is smelly, it is a money sucking beast with a really loud motor. The neighbors love to comment that they heard my husband leave for work again this morning! (So far none of them have offered to buy us a quieter car, so they can bite me.)

My relationship with Andrew's bug is better these days. I used to hate it because it never ran for more than a week without needing a new fuel pump or transmission. But since it was worked on this last spring, it has been so well behaved that I would almost go so far as to call it reliable.

But not quite.

Anyway, back to the date.

You can't take a parade of 20 V-Dubs on the freeway without at least one breaking down. Especially when it's 100 degrees outside. You just plan for it, and then it's not irritating. It's funny.



And even though a lot of people think that Volkswagens are just smelly hunks of rusted metal that are polluting the earth and waking them up too early in the morning, there are plenty more who appreciate their coolness. We got lots of honks and thumbs up on this cruise, and I swear that none of the fans looked like pot-smoking hippies.



During the course of this evening with the V-Dub Club, we came to the realization that Andrew seems to be the only member who has not yet named his car. This became a problem for me, because if I'm going to start loving this car, it must have a name so that I can call it something besides "That Piece of Shit".

And that's where the Very Serious Contest comes in.

Andrew needs some name suggestions. We decided to get them from all of you! Aren't you honored? All you have to do is leave a suggestion in the comments section, and Andrew will select a winner. The winner will receive a prize. I cannot tell you right now what it is, because it's a secret, but rest assured that it represents the spirit of what we're naming. (I can tell you though, that it is better than both a beer bottle opener or wife beater tank top!)

Here are the specifics of the bug:


(Andrew's car is the one on the right, but he wishes it was the one on the left.)

Year, Make, and Model: 1963 Volkswagen Beetle

Color: Purple or Blue depending on the light and who you ask. I say it's purple, but Andrew says it's blue. I can see that, I suppose; like in the daylight it's purple, and in the black of night you could call it blue if you wanted to and no one would be able to prove you wrong. Interior is black.

Birthplace: Germany (If you didn't know that, you should probably hang your head in shame.)

Kick-butt Motor Specifics: 2110 cc (2.1 liter), approximately 140 horsepower; in other words, loud and fast, as long as it's not laid up with a clogged fuel line.



Contest will be open until Sunday, July 25th, 2010, when Andrew will choose a winner and I will announce the most awesome prize. Multiple entries are encouraged.

Have fun!

Our Kind of Pillow Talk

Laying in bed with Andrew, trying to go to sleep...


Him: I can't sleep.

Me: Shhh...

Him: I'm going to steam roll you.

Me: No, you aren't.

Him: (Steam rolls me.)

Me: Gerroff! Yer squithing me!

Him: (Rolls off, laughing.)

Me: You bastard, I was almost asleep!

Him: Sorry! (Laughs.) You know, this lady came into the store today - she wanted...

Me, interrupting: Noooo! You're not going to talk about cabinets, are you?

Him, continuing as though I had not protested: ...cherry cabinets for the same price that IKEA had quoted her for cabinets she'd have to put together herself...

Me, interrupting again: How many celebrities do you think have three nipples?

Him: Who cares? Did you remember to buy me some deodorant?

Me: Yeah, but I couldn't remember which kind you like so I just sniffed them all until I found one that smelled familiar. Hope I got the right kind.

Him: I'm sure it'll be fine.

*Silence*

Him: Let's be Catholic.

*More silence*

Him: We got a billboard for our store. We're already getting a lot of traffic from it.

Me: How about you keep talking about work, and I'll be asleep in no time.

Him: Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I want ice cream. Do you want ice cream?

Me: No. I want to go to sleep.

Him: (Steam rolls me again as he gets out of bed to get his ice cream.)

Me: (Laying in bed, trying to decide if I'm more tired or turned on by the idea of ice cream.)

Him: (Clearing throat, tossing from one side to the other.)

Me: You're so freaking loud! I thought you went to get ice cream?

Him: I did. I'm back now.

Me: Well, crap! I was asleep then, and you woke me up!

Him: Sorry. I'll be quiet now.

Me: THANK YOU.

Him: (Clears throat and loudly flips to the other side again.)

Me: Aaaarrrggghh!

Him: Shhh. I'm trying to sleep.


It's this, and the thought of having my own bed with perfectly placed blankets at all times of the night, that make me want my own bedroom.

You skip a day, and all hell breaks loose.

Two hours into plowing through my overflowing feed reader this morning, (TWO HOURS), I gave up. I couldn't get through them all. New ones were popping in faster than I could read the old ones.

Quitting never felt so good. I have kids begging for my attention, and they aren't the ones I want to disappoint.

So I'll be back on my game tomorrow, and in the mean time, I wanted to share with you this picture:



It doesn't look like much, but it's documentation of the moment my husband confessed to me that he has a secret "Emergency Bug Fund".

He's been stashing money away for a Volkswagen emergency. A lot of money.

I laughed. And I was relieved.

Cause that bug ain't soundin' too good.

Summer Fun

Our summer rocks! Just sayin'.

Mom decided to go to the drive-in for her birthday and see Karate Kid. (Way more awesome than the original, by the way.) The drive-in is one of my favorite places ever. It's just cool.




My mom's a pretty hot 52 year old, huh? And speaking of hot...






Payback. You know what they say.




This is after four sodas, popcorn, licorice, blow pops, skittles and strawberry shortcake. Sugar is bad. But it's fun!




We've spent many a day at Lagoon, too. Buying those season passes was a really, really good idea. Whenever we're bored we just load up the car, drive for five minutes, and ride roller coasters until we puke.

I love Andrew's face in this one.


I love the names of these rides. I wish that was my job - Amusement Park Ride Namer. I would rock it! However, someone is doing a fairly decent job. Above, we have The OdySea, then below are the Jumping Dragon, Turn of the Century, and Tidal Wave - my favorite from my childhood. Hope you and yours are making some awesome memories this summer, too!

An Ordinary Man

When I think about my husband I have to say that he is ordinary. He's just an ordinary man with an ordinary family living an ordinary life.

The amazing thing about him is how in love he is with his kids.

He lives for our four boys; to hug them, to hold their faces in his hands, to breathe in their unconditional love for him as though it were the very force that keeps his heart beating. And, in fact, I think it is.

Before Andrew and I had any children, he lived in the moment - we both did - but Andrew was selfish. He did whatever made him happy without regard to what anyone else thought or wanted. The transformation that has happened since our first son was born is nothing short of miraculous.

Andrew now lives a lot of his days in the future. He can look deep into the eyes of our boys and I know that he is seeing them grown and on their own. I see the anguish he feels knowing that one day they won't be here to wake us up on a Sunday morning before the sun has fully risen. One day they won't be in the backyard laughing and throwing a baseball or kicking a soccer ball to him. One day they won't come running to the back door when he gets home from work and scream with delight as he greets them.

And because he knows that day is coming, he sucks every last drop of the joy their childhoods bring from every day. Andrew loves our boys with such ferocity that sometimes I feel like I am an outsider to their bond. I can't tell you how amazing it is to behold such a love - to feel it extend beyond him because it's too big to contain inside one person.

It is a blessing for me to see Andrew with his little boys. Every day brings us closer to the time when all four of them will leave our home to see where their lives will take them, but the connection between father and sons is growing stronger every day. The relationship that Andrew is building with each of them will continue on into their own parenting years, and they will have learned from him what it is to be a good father.

And that is the greatest accomplishment a man can have.

Smells Like Old

Andrew's birthday was yesterday, (today is Kellie's and I'm behind, so there has been no birthday tribute for her. I'll get to it...), anywho... Andrew wanted nothing more than to go to Market Street Grill for his birthday, so we went. It's a good thing that's all he wanted, and it's also good that we have three paychecks in July, cause holy crap.

We had a great time, just the two of us. Thanks to Joel for the babysitting - you da man.

I have honestly never had better clam chowder in my life. The key to good clam chowder is to make it so you can't tell there are clams in it. Yum.

I had a lot of deep-fried things because I hear that's fat free. I have had calamari before, but it always takes a little pep talk to get me to stick tentacles in my mouth. The shrimp was my fave. Well, after the clam chowder. And the spinach artichoke crab dip.

Over eating gives me some serious gastro-intestinal problems. We had to make three pit-stops on the way home. That's how good it was.

Picture Party!

In attempt to keep family updated on our goings-on, and so they don't forget what our kids look like, here are some pictures of what we've been up to...

We skipped church a couple weeks ago because half of us had snot hanging from our noses clear down to our socks. (Not me.) So Ethan went out to play soccer with his dad. He was having a great time until...


...he caught the ball with his stomach. Looks painful, no?


Cameron is almost done with his baseball season. His poor team didn't win a single game because none of them had ever played in the player pitch league before, while the teams they played against had plenty of experience in their pitchers who were two years older than them. I know that life isn't fair, but Cameron's love of baseball was killed, squashed, mutilated and left in the sun to rot when his team was mercilessly beaten over and over. That makes me pretty sad. At least he looks cute though, huh?


Another horrible part of the baseball season was Trent. We couldn't set him down for a second or he would take off for the road or the parking lot, giggling like a maniac the entire way. He loves to do whatever it is he knows he is not supposed to do, and it makes us nuts. Andrew shouldered Trent for several innings every game to keep him from being squashed by a car, but now that I think about it - that would have taught him a lesson.


We went to a park for a barbecue with my parents for Memorial Day, and Andrew wore this hat. He was relentlessly teased by my dad, and rightly so. That was also the last time we saw the sun. My fingers have been numb since May.


Andrew decided that it stinks to do yard work, and while we can't afford to pay a teenager to mow our lawn, (the little punks want $40 just for our backyard!), we can employ our own home-grown slaves and make them tend to the yard for a fraction of the cost of having a larger person do it. Ethan likes to think that he is a world-class weed puller now, but he needs some more practice. Still, nice to have some help.


Cameron, being taller and older, landed the job of mower. Now he knows what hard work is, because we have a rather large yard and our mower is not self-propelled. Total cost for two hours of hard labor? $5 per kid.


Andrew went paintballing. This is one of his trophies. Can't show you the other ones because they are too near the groin. Dangerously near.


At Grandpa's birthday party, Drew jumped on the trampoline. So did I. It was fun! I hadn't been on one of those in years. And I won't be doing it again anytime soon, because I peed a little bit with every bounce. My bladder control is not what it was before children.


Trent fell asleep well before nap time one morning because how could he resist cuddling up with his favorite blankey after a hard morning of rough-housing?


He likes ice-cream, too. I love summer. You can let the kids make total messes of themselves and then just hose them off before letting them back in the house!


Summer is also good for thunder storms. The kids were all lined up watching this one the other evening. The lightening was hitting pretty close, so the thunder was loud. Drew kept running to hide behind the recliner. Good stuff.


Alright - my fingers are going to crack in this cold, so I have to sign off. Have a fabulous weekend, all!

The Inconvenience of Poop

I am a nervous pooper. Anxiety gets the better of me, and I instantly have diarrhea. This rather inconvenient issue flares up whenever I have to speak in public, when I do something bad and am facing exposure, (yes, this still happens to me), and whenever a certain family member of mine calls on the phone or sends me an e-mail. In fact, just thinking about all this is making my guts rumble.

Excuse me - I'll be right back...

Okay, all better now. Where was I? Oh - right.

So I'm learning to deal with this side effect of my personality, and giving myself an internal therapy session, I suppose it's a sign of weakness. But this is not the case with my husband.

You see, he has the same disease, but his takes effect whenever something needs to be done. Nice, huh?

I ask him for help with the dishes, and POOF! he has to poop. It hits really fast - almost like magic. By the time he emerges, dishes are done.

Today we decided to clean up the backyard, and as I'm headed out the backdoor he hollers to me that he'll be out after he uses the bathroom. He eventually showed up after I had already gotten all the toys put away in the garage, the tent taken down from the boys' backyard camp out, and nearly had the picnic table dragged back to it's proper place.

I've decided that he's brilliant, and next time I get a disease, I'm going to make sure it suits my purpose.

Dear Whoever May Be Reading,

Wow, have things been crazy lately. I'm trying to re-vamp myself and prepare for summer, (providing the snow ever decides to stop), and I've let these little updates slide. Well, enough of that.

Last night I asked Cameron if he wanted me or his dad to go on the field trip with him to the zoo today. I reminded him that I am the cool one who compulsively buys things like candy and souvenirs.

But there's just something about a boy's bond with his father. So today, Andrew went with Cameron to the zoo and the planetarium. I was really glad that Cameron chose Andrew because Andrew never gets to do that kind of stuff with the boys. And really, the only reason I gave Cameron a choice is because I like to put my kids in awkward situations of having to chose their favorite parent and then guilt the hell out of them for it later on.

But if he had chosen me, that would have meant one entire day of not wiping bottoms or noses, and I would have been more than ok with that, too.


Cameron at the zoo with his group. I gave Andrew a ten so he could be the cool dad and get the kids some candy from the gift shop. We like to take every opportunity we can to buy friends for our kids.

Today, Ethan got his first library card. I announced that I was going to the library tonight and he volunteered to come along. (Cameron couldn't come because he was being punished for favoring his father.)

Ethan felt so grown up holding that gray piece of plastic. We spent a half hour perusing the books and when he found out the he could check out a movie he nearly burst with pride. When finally we got in line to check out our selections, Ethan turned to me and said, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll pay for these with my card."

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at him.

And when we got home, I had to take a picture of him pretending to read this book that is 135 pages long, has no pictures, and is far too advanced for him. He's been an avid pretend reader for two solid years. He really does sit there staring at a page for about two minutes before he turns to the next page and pretends to read that one, too. About three days after this process begins he announces that he's finished with his book and would like to start on the next one in the series. He's nuts, but I'll keep him.


Drew has finally mastered the potty. I can happily announce that I have not thrown away a pair of poopy underwear in at least three days. He hasn't had an accident of any sort in quite a long while, and he attributes his success to his tri-cornered hat. It's good luck. He also finds it helpful to bring a snack - thus the empty baggie previously containing potato chips.

We don't really take snacks into the bathroom or wear costumes when we go, I just thought this one incident of both happening was pretty comical. I can't even walk into the bathroom if I'm still chewing something - I have to stand in the hallway and swallow before I go in. So don't go calling the sanitation police or anything.


And our caboose - Trent. This picture depicts the reason I hate giving him a bath.

Because it isn't just him that gets a bath - I end up soaked, too. There have been times when he has gone four or five days without a bath because I couldn't bear to clean up the mess. I hope he grows out of the splashing obsession, because the other parts of bath time are kinda cute:


Just not cute ENOUGH.

So until next time folks, me hopes you are well. I'm going to fold laundry now.

It Was A Man Cat Fight!

We currently rent a house with a basement apartment. Several people have come and gone from that little two bedroom abode, and I like to think that it's because they grow tired of living in the shadow of our greatness. (Other possibilities include new jobs, buying a house, witness relocation, and really annoying neighbors. But not us, of course.)

Our most recent inhabitants are a couple with a small child, and from the moment they first pounded on their ceiling, (our floor), to tell us to be quiet, we knew there were going to be issues.

We have hard wood floors and four boys. There's going to be some noise, and there's only so much I can do about it. Welcome to the bottom floor, People.

We've never had any problems with any of the other basement dwellers. No noise complaints, no dead body hidden in the closet kind of smells, no obnoxious polka music, etc. But these people have kinda had daggers for us from the get-go.

Yesterday I was sitting on the living room floor and going through a giant stack of homeschool curriculum while Drew watched cartoons and Trent pushed his ride-on toy from one end of the room to the other. He crashed into the wall a time or two, but I was too engrossed in second grade math workbooks to think much of it...

...Until three violent explosions rocketed my backside into vibrate mode. The guy downstairs was pounding on the ceiling - AGAIN! It irritated the crap out of me because he was essentially saying that my kid cannot play with the toy he wants to play with at two thirty in the afternoon! Lighten up, right?

But the really infuriating part was the way he handled it. He pounded on the floor like a gorilla-child instead of just coming upstairs, knocking on my door in proper grown-up fashion and asking me to keep it down a little. That approach would have been just fine.

After the pounding stopped and I had finished my deep breathing exercise, I took Trent's toy away and did my best to keep everyone quiet for the rest of the day. But first I called Andrew and told him how annoyed I was. Andrew didn't have much to say about it - just listened with a few well timed "uh-huh"'s and we all moved on.

But when Andrew got home last night, he did not come in the house - he went downstairs and knocked on the door.

When I realized what he was doing, my armpits started to prickle with that nervous sweat and my heart pounded so hard I almost couldn't hear what was going on.

I held my breath and listened to the exchange: (if I may paraphrase)

Andrew: I heard there was an issue today with the noise?

Dude: Yeah, well, when they're rolling the toys all over the floor...

Andrew: So that's how you're going to handle it? Pound on the ceiling?

Dude: This conversation is over. (Forcefully shuts door.)

And then!

And then the real drama began!

Andrew decided in that instant of door being shut on the conversation, that he would play along. He turned around and pounded his tree-trunk legs up every one of the stairs as hard as he could, walked into our house, across the kitchen and into the living room, attempting to put his foot straight through the floor with every. single. step.

I went into full on panic mode, trying to calm him down. "Andrew! Stop it!", I hissed at him with no effect whatsoever. There was steam coming from his beet-red ears and our four noisy boys simply stared in shock.

Andrew sat down on the couch and turned on ESPN and said not a word until I came in to ask him where we were going to move.

We discussed the pros and cons of several new living arrangements for a while, Ethan sat at the table in solemn angst and asked me if we were going to get kicked out that night or if we could pack our things first, and Cameron, for once, felt the tension in the air and didn't prance about the room chanting random phrases about peace and war.

Then came the knock at the door.

Andrew looked at me expectantly and I shook my head, "Oh, no! This is your fight, I am so not opening that door."

It kinda surprised me that he didn't ignore it.

I hid in the living room while Andrew opened the back door and looked into the face of the man he had just beaten in a contest of childish rants.

And Dude apologized!

It's amazing how fast men can suck up an incident and move on. They shook hands and went back to their sports.

Passing me on his way back to the couch and his NB playoff game, Andrew said, "That took balls."

So now I guess it's nothin' but respect for the Dude in the basement, but I will still be in hiding for at least the duration of the weekend.

Hello, Stranger

I miss this little bloggy here. I've neglected my first born. Blog.

Cameron's great - don't worry.

Yesterday I got to thinking that I have a fantastic husband. He's not wine and roses all the time. Sometimes he's nothing more than too many Mt. Dews and bad gas from eating sauerkraut. But most of the time he's so great that I can overlook those things.

How many guys do you know who will make a seven o'clock in the AM trip to the grocery store for an econo-size box of tampons, actually get the right kind, AND bring back four candy bars in anticipation of his wife's hormonal food cravings?

Andrew does that all the time.

And if that weren't enough, he was my hero yesterday for sure. Okay, it's after midnight, so I guess I should say day before yesterday.

We were cleaning the garage and behind a box I found a dead bird.



I hate all things dead. It disgusted me so much that I had to scream, shiver like a maniac and run. (Then I came back and took a picture of it for your reading pleasure.)

I looked at Andrew and said, "Babe, this is one of those things that I cannot handle. You're on your own."

And I went inside.

I came back a couple minutes later and the bird was gone. No sign of it anywhere.

My man is the man!

An Almost Victory Followed By Embarrassed Shame

Last night we had grilled ham and cheese with tomato and sauteed onion for dinner. Yum, right?

Andrew came home from work and asked me if I wanted his help making dinner, and I replied that yes, I would, but I would do the cooking because his grilled cheese is always soggy.

I have a trophy on my mantle for being the most compassionate wife ever.

Andrew asked me if I was kidding - "There is no way you're better at grilled cheese than me," he said.

Even Ethan chimed in and said, "Dad's are better." He's such a traitor.

"Dad's sandwiches are always soggy and barely toasted!" I had to stand up for myself, because no one else would. "Mine are tons better!"

Andrew told me to have fun burning the sandwiches, he'd be outside playing soccer with Ethan, who giggled as he followed his dad outside.

Well, fine. Game on! I buttered the bread, sauteed those onions until they were perfectly caramelized, sliced the tomato and ham and slapped the bread in a hot pan. Butter was sizzling and I was a watchful chef, being oh-so-careful to grill with perfection so that I could show Andrew that I did not inherit my mother's "burn the grilled cheese every time" gene. When I had a couple of sandwiches just about done, I called everyone in from outside and wasted no time in showing off my superior grilled cheese.


Is it just me, or is that crisp, golden perfection?

I stuck my frying pan right under Andrew's nose and said, "There! See! I am soooooo much better at this than you!" And then I turned out six more perfectly toasted works of art and sat down with everyone else to eat my delicious dinner.

And realized I had forgotten to put the ham on them.

There went my win. Gone.



*Speaking of win - don't forget to enter to win the $40 gift certificate from CSN Stores! Winner will be announced tomorrow!