have mercy on my soul

I have four children. They all have their good qualities, of course. They all have their less than endearing traits, naturally. They all contribute to my happiness and to my joy and to my purpose for living.

They also all have their own unique ability to drive me insane.

Insane.

Like right now, for example, someone is opening and slamming the back door repeatedly which I do believe, last time I checked, was number 6 on the "Fastest Way To Drive A Woman Crazy" list.

They are all loved and appreciated and wanted. Yes, even during summer holidays.

But there are times when that number 4......

Oh man, that number 4........

She may seal the deal for me. She may be the one to turn me to the darkside.

For 5 years I have loved her to death. I have cherished every single moment we've had together. When she arrived she released a dark heaviness that burdened me my entire pregnancy. She brought me a lightness, a peace, a knowingness that I had done the right thing in wanting her so deeply. She was needed and desired and her arrival solidified that. She brought with her a finality, a completeness, a fulfillment of dreams. She had been longed for and, with all the love I could give her, I showed her that.

For 5 years she's been my buddy, my sidekick, my one chance to focus so distinctly on one child and make an attempt to do everything right. I've been able to appreciate her because with her there were no other distractions. Just me and her, for so long.

This summer has proven that nothing good lasts forever. All good things come to an end......

Who is this child? She looks like my beloved child but she acts like a demon. She is loud. LOUD! She is bossy. And she is driving me out of my mind.

Insane, I say. Completely done for, out of my senses, nutso.

She whines, she demands things that are not rightfully hers. She is insistent and stubborn. She takes goofy to a whole new level. The level where you want to string yourself up or run away from home. The level where you ponder how something that little can have so much power.

She has singlehandedly resurrected the time out chair. The same chair we retired years ago because we thought it was no longer necessary.

Amelia, my lovey, where art thou?


Now she is 5 and a half. She is going into grade one in 27 days. Be still my heart and have mercy on my soul, she is leaving me.

September 1st is coming.

Only.... it isn't coming soon enough.

9 life lessons of the utmost importance

Today I wanted to teach you some very important things. Life lessons, if you will. Things that will help you get by in this confusing topsy turvy world.

1. Don't listen when people try to talk you into buying a house to renovate that seems perfect and right. Ignore them when they tell you the location will never be a problem because the house is so perfect. And punch them in the throat when they say "the house will sell itself." Just walk away. After the throat punch.

WALK AWAY!

2. Do not send emails to people who make you mad whilst you are pms-ing. When you make a no 'emailing whilst pms-ing' rule, which I made for myself several years ago, follow it.

FOLLOW IT!

Poor poor stupid *Enid from the insurance company. I'll bet she didn't even know what hit her when she opened up that puppy.

3. When the man tells you he is 'almost' done his current work project and you ask what 'almost' means and he says another week, allow then for another month to pass before you ask again when he might get paid. And do it nicely.

BE NICE!

4. Stand back from the oven after you've opend it for just a sec. Just a teensy sec so as to not melt your mascara. Again.

AGAIN!

5. When you wake up in the morning and are already feeling lazy and slovenly, bra yourself anyway, despite your innermost rebellious desires. Because if you do not, without a doubt, someone will come to the door and it will be the kind of someone whom you do not want seeing your taataa's hanging down to your knees.

JUST DO IT!

6. When you announce "beach day" to your progeny and the oldest of said progeny (who hides in her room all day reading like a reading type of vampire) gives you her most exquisite vampire stare-down expression and hisses the words "I'm not going" you say nothing about the sweats she chooses to wear to the beach when you, as the pms-ing ultra vampire mother, get your way.

SAY NOTHING!



Let her melt. Or burn up and turn to ash or do whatever it is vampires do.

7. When you are watching Locked Up Abroad on the National Geographic channel with a child, or two, instead of sitting with your mouth hanging open in utter amazement that people are actually that stupid, use it as a teaching experience and let your children know that if they ever get thrown in jail for drug trafficking in Brazil or Venezuela or anywhere else, for that matter, you are not coming to bail their sorry butts out. Drugs are bad both inside and taped to the outside of your body.

DRUGS ARE BAD!

8. Bananas and Diet Pepsi do not go together. At all. Ever. Despite the decade and a half I have devoted to the hope that this basic fact will change, diet Pepsi and bananas are sworn enemies and there is no amount of convincing them otherwise. Sorry banana, but if you are going to make me choose........

Well. We all know how that's going to go. Don't we?

DON'T WE!

9. Multi-vitamins make your pee fluorescent. Happens to everyone, you're not alone nor are you going to die. Why don't we talk about this more in our homes, during family meetings and stuff, so it doesn't have to be a conversation one hears being mumbled behind them in the line at Superstore? It'll be all right terror-stricken, over dramatic, cancerous, fluorescent pee lady, trust me, it'll be all right.

TRUST ME!

So there you have it. Nine valuable lessons that will help you cope in life just a wee bit easier.

And....... you're welcome.


*Some names have been changed to protect the stupid. And ignorant.

Feel free to share your own life lessons since this blog is all about helping others.

a recipe @foryourenjoyment and also thoughts on twitter #artoftimesuckage

I am overwhelmed, and a tad frustrated, by the idea of social media. Just when you think you have mastered the art of social media another opportunity pops up that seems impossible to wrap your head around. Facebook is fun and it isn't rocket science. Most people get it and are on it and use it and it's all good. But then there's Twitter. And StumbleUpon. And Pinterest. And Linkedin. And the new Google+ (what on earth is Google+?) And who knows what else. I don't get it and I'm pretty sure I don't want to. Or maybe I do? I'm dazed. And confused.

I have recently started up a Twitter account as a social experiment.

An experiment is defined as this: A scientific procedure undertaken to make a discovery, test a hypothesis, or demonstrate a known fact.

So after a couple of weeks of hard core tweeting to my twats and twips and all variety of people with nothing better to do, these are my findings.

I have discovered that Twitter is fickle and pretty much useless.

The hypothesis that Twitter might help grow my blog is proving to be flawed. More action, but not more growth. How much time should it take anyway? And who has that kind of time?

My joining Twitter has in fact demonstrated a known fact. The known fact is that there is an infinite amount of time to be wasted on social media. I have demonstrated this over and over and over again. I am a champion at the art of time suckage.

So to Twitter I ask: What is your point?

However, I will push on because if you are friends with me on facbeook then you know how much I like to share 'what's on my mind' with the world. Twitter is just one more place to do that. And, since no one knows me there, I can use bad words.

Just kidding.

Am I though??

It's just one more way to feed the beast.

Speaking of feeding the beast....... Have you ever had a pizzookie?

My lovely baker daughter, otherwise know as baker-girl, whose soul purpose in life seems to be to bake until I either need to be jaws of life-d out of my house or until all grocery stores on the planet have run out of flour and sugar, made them a couple of days ago. She has wanted to make them for months now but our lack of ramekins and my refusal to purchase any has hindered her evil plot to rule the baking kingdom.

We stumbled upon them at the dollar store and her eyes lit up like reflections of the moon on the sea at night. How was I to resist? 2 for a $1.25. I guess that's sort of a dollar.

She didn't want to make them like the recipe that inspired the idea. She wanted to make them her way.

Her way is the best way.....as it turns out.

They were unbelievable. And worth all the sleepless, heart racing side effects.

She used our famous Spiced Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe which I will share with you now:

1 cup of butter or margarine, softened
1 1/2 cups of packed brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 egg
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 sp ground ginger
1/2 tsp salt
12 ozs semi sweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped walnuts (we always skip these because baker-girl does not care for them)

Heat oven to 375 F. In large bowl beat butter, brown sugar, vanilla and egg with electric mixer on medium speed, or mix with a spoon. On low speed, beat in remaining ingredients except chocolate chips and walnuts. Stir those in.

If you just want to make cookies then drop by rounded tsp on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 7 to 9 minutes

If you want the pizzookie then fill a ramekin about 2/3 full and bake for 15 minutes-ish, give or take. You can decide how cookie dough-y you want them.

Put a big ol' scoop of your fave vanilla ice cream on top and all the sauce your heart desires.

Moan. I mean....eat.

And enjoy.

the man pt 2.

The man is a big guy. Strong and tough-like. He can leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Really?

No, not really.

Regardless, he's big and strong and fearless and so totally not delicate in any way, shape or form.

I refer to him as my bull in my china shop.

Yes, it's my china shop and he is my bull.

This is starting to sound dirty which is not where I was going at all.

Picture it: the man in his Italian suit.



Okay, so you don't have to picture it. So picture this instead: he is teaching Sunday School to a room packed full of the 'elderly'. (I don't know why that has quotes, because they really are elderly. Most of them.) Before he begins his lesson, which is the reason the room is packed, people love him, he prepares his space. He has a tiny little podium and he sprawls his stuff out. And when I say sprawls I mean throws things around in a very loud, seemingly destructive manner. He has a look of consternation on his face.

"What is he so upset about?" people wonder within their minds. I know they are wondering within their minds because for the first two years of our marriage I wondered within mine.

"What is the matter?" I would ask.

"What do you mean?" he would respond.

"Why do you have that look on your face?"

"What look?"

"The one that looks like you might be plotting my murder and body disposal."

"Oh, I'm just thinking."

"About my murder and body disposal??"

"Um, no, honey. I was thinking about whether I want Vietnamese or Chinese for dinner tonight."

Dinner choices invoking such looks was something I would always remember from that day forth.

Good to know.

So, as the years passed, when I would see him sitting quietly with 'the look' upon his handsome face, I would ask what he's thinking about and without fail it was never about my murder and body disposal. For you, this may be good to know.

He likes me, he really does.

It is also something I had to teach my family and our children.

"Oh that's just his thinking face." I would explain.

He's heavy footed and if you didn't know any better you'd think he was coming after you in a fury that could only equal total destruction and ultimate loss of life. A rampage that would most certainly end with a murder and subsequent body disposal. One always knows when the man is around. He's loud.

He thrashes around in bed like he's possessed. When he turns in the night it's like someone has picked him up, flipped him over, and thrown him back into bed with such a force that anyone underneath him would be destroyed instantly. We bought one of those fancy 'bowling ball not knocking over the wine glass' mattresses in the hopes of me not being interrupted in my already fragile slumber by his 'tossing'. Nothing could sleep through a grown man flailing about as if wrestling dragons with his bare hands.

It truly is only a small miracle he doesn't move much in his sleep. Nor does he snore which endears this brute fellow to me.

(When we are apart and I sleep alone I sleep like a dream. He does not sleep well at all. I'll bet it's because no one is there to disrupt. Or terrorize.)

In the mornings when he is ready to get up he lifts the blankets off himself and hurls them at me. He raises them up high, and then throws them down with all the early morning strength he can muster. Right on top of me. When I confronted him about it he said he wasn't hurling them at me but merely removing them from his body.

If by removing he means hurling then yes, I agree.

"How about you just gently roll out of bed leaving the blankets where they are?" I suggest in the nicest tone possible.

"You're up anyway."

"Yes, you're right. I am up. I just had a duvet hucked at my head."

This morning, the man gently rolled out of bed leaving the blankets alone.

Will wonders ever cease?

one little, two little, three little y'alls

Here's a little somethin' to keep y'all busy while I finish growin' out my hair

Texas Forever.

Y'all.

super w8 a sec

Dear movie makers/movie raters/movie theatres,

I took my kids to Super 8. The movie. You know the one. The one with Coach Eric Taylor in it. Well, he didn't go by Eric Taylor in this particular movie, duh, but that does not negate the fact that he was, indeed, Coach Eric Taylor.

It's a good thing Coach is so likable because I fear his acting range may be a tad limited. So if you ever use him again make sure it's for something very Eric-y Taylor-y-like.

I do like him. A lot. He's real dreamy-like.

Anywho. It has become glaringly obvious that my movie filter is broken.

B.R.O.K.E.N, I say. And I do say because I haven't rented a movie in months that was any good. It's mostly because I am broke and get my DVD's from the library, where they are free-like. So instead of being number 578 in line to get the new, good stuff, I get the old stuff that is there for the simple fact that no one wants to watch them. Regardless, my theory is that they can't all be crap but I have proven my theory to be wrong over and over and over again.

Nevertheless, I persevere.

Even when Colin Firth, aka Mr.Darcy, is in them, they still seem to be crap. So bad, in fact, that the man won't watch them with me. I have to sit alone in the dark watching bad movies wondering if there is any hope for myself.

Yes, I know, this is not your fault at all. It lends to the argument, however, that I have a broken movie picking filter and this is where you come in.

See, I checked the website before I went to Super 8 because I do have a 5 year old and her innocence should be protected. Or at least feigned protection should be had. I did my due diligence and checked. PG. My kids have seen tons of PG stuff so I threw caution to the wind and took them, as well as my sweet little niece who swears her mom won't care if she saw it but......

Sorry Lisa. Again, movie makers/movie raters/movie theatres, not your fault.

I was originally concerned that my little one would be scared but I figured if she was I would distract her with my iphone. After all, that is what it's for. No?

So I was scared about the scariness making my 5 year old all scared-like but now I am scared that she's going to tell her grade one teacher to eff off.

And now the blaming comes in. And I blame you.

Since when does PG include the eff word? I checked my phone app. Don't you just love phone apps? My app said it was PG-13. Ahhhhh, yes. The 13 means the movie can have an eff word. And why shouldn't it? 13 year olds say the eff word all the time and if they don't then us mothers think it sure would be swell if they heard at least one in every movie they see.

Oh, you agree? Great.

Here's a question, a side note of sorts. Why is it so much funnier when tweeners say s*** in the movies than when grown ups do it? Man, every time the pudgy kid who hasn't "leaned out" yet said s*** I laughed my hiney off.

Not the point. Not the point indeed.

Super 8 was like Goonies meets E.T. meets a very mild version of Aliens. What's not to like?

Well I liked it, but this is also not the point.

J.J. Abrams is awesome but again, not the point.

Here is the point. Finally? I know, right? Why is there a discrepancy on the rating? Why does my phone say PG-13 but the website and the movie theatre say PG? Who gets to make that call?

Maybe I should be making the calls.

Well thank-you for asking. I would make the calls but I can't. My filter is broken, remember? I am simply incapable of judging whether a movie is appropriate and/or entertaining. So I look to you to do that for me.

You have failed.....again. Colossal fail. The five year old has been up every night since the movie was seen with bad dreams. For this I blame me. And so does the man, since he's the one who has been getting up with her.

For my 11 year old, Jack, thinking he hit the jackpot by seeing a movie with the eff word in it and therefore thinking he may be able to see Snatch next, I blame you.

I have to blame you because what kind of mother would I be if I took full responsibility for my children's total corruption?

That would silly, and heaven knows, I am not silly.

So, I'm sure I will continue to show my children inappropriate movies because I am broken and have yet, after all this time, figured it out, thereby contributing to society's dysfunction. And I am sure you will do your part to aid me in this endeavor.

As for Jack and his movie line up which includes Kill Bill, Pulp Fiction, The Hangover and Goodfellas? Sorry kid.........it's back to Mary Poppins and Little House on the Prairie on box set for you!

Sincerely,

Catherine
Mother of 4
Corruptor of all





(Don't forget to leave a thought provoking retort. You have to look down a bit to find the place to do it)
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why can't we all just get along?

As I sit here I can here the 5 year old is crying. Crying irritates me. Unless it's legit, which this isn't. And I know this because this isn't my first rodeo. I've heard lots of crying before and I know legit crying when I hear it.

The boys have been sidetracked with some Wii. The oldest is primping in her bedroom.

My computer chair has a new weird tilt and sinks slowly as I write. Also irritating.

It's Saturday and the man is working, again. I am alone with the children, again.

Some crazy person has shot up a bunch of kids in Norway for no good reason. Would there, could there, ever be a good enough reason to shoot up a bunch of innocent children? If there is I do not want to know it.

Ever.

My heart is heavy for the parents and families of these lost ones. I have cried a lot these last two days.

Why is everything so sad all the time? Why can't we all just get along?

It is so strange to me that in every realm of life there is contention and chaos. It ranges from families all the way to terrorists trying to kill as many people as they can.

Contention and chaos. From loved ones to strangers.

I try to teach my kids to just get along. It is actually easier to enjoy each other than to be upset with one another. Am I wrong?

Yet, there continues to be a daily struggle.

But there is also love. Maybe that's the difference.

Maybe not, I just don't know. Between the earthquakes that decimate entire islands, droughts that wipe out millions, egotistical power hungry men who think they can steal your private thoughts from your phone and get away with it, mothers who may or may not have killed their own child and crazy gunmen that shoot children for two straight hours my head spins at a fairly consistent rate.

And then there's me and my bubble. For instance, I sit here and wonder if this is a weed or a tree/plant.



It is growing outside my front window. At first, I thought it was a weed. It was short and weed-like. I went to pull it but the base of it was thick and tree-like. I decided to let it be for a bit. I got home from holidays and the thing is 4 feet tall and has huge tree-like leaves. There are no flowers on it. It's like a beanstalk or something, minus the beans. By the end of summer it will be as tall as my house. Weed or not, it's pretty ugly so I think it has to go.

To pull or not to pull, that is the question I ask as I sit here in my safe house with my scrappy kids who are now playing lego nicely together, I might add, while mothers and fathers plan funerals for their dead.

Am I ungrateful? Sometimes I feel ungrateful. Maybe just clueless. Maybe I'm taking advantage of the fact that devastation hasn't rocked my own personal world yet. Maybe my time will come. Maybe it won't. Maybe I simply don't understand. This must be true because does anyone really understand what is happening to the people around them?

Maybe I don't care.

That can't be it because why would I cry some much if I didn't care? Especially when I feel so numb all the time due to my own problems eating away at me. The same problems that seem to silly compared to so many others.

I think I do care. But so what? What good does that do anyone? To care after the fact.

Maybe I'm selfish, unaffected, narcissistic, disingenuous.

Whatever I am, one thing never changes, I just want everyone to get along.

Please.

Is that really too much to ask? Is it too simplistic? Is it impossible?

Do all of these awful things happen so that the those unaffected by that immediate misfortune can be thankful for what they have? If so, why can't we be thankful enough without the misfortunes of others? Or is being thankful a mere side note to the devastation that would have happened anyway?

Whatever the reason, and I may never know, today I am thankful.

Is there any amount of thankfulness I could feel that might equal the level of sadness others are feeling today? Is there any way to know?

Today there are people in Norway whose anguish I may never know. Because of this, today I am more thankful for my children and my husband than I have been in a long time.

Like a reminder of what I already knew but may have forgotten for a moment.

The 5 year old is not crying anymore. The boys are together and peaceful. The oldest looks beautiful due to her primping. I am practically sitting on the floor because my chair has lost it's will to live and refuses to stand tall. I will go pull the weed/tree/plant thing now. All the while, I will remember that this isn't my time to feel direct loss and sorrow. My time will come, I'm sure, but it isn't today. Today that is reserved for others. Today is my time to feel thankful and grateful.

So I do.