It's MY Pleasure

I've worked a lot of fast food in my 34.9 years. Let's see...there's Tom's Place when I was 15, Captain D's was right after that, and then it seems Hardee's fell in there somewhere during a summer home from college. And there's one simple thing all of those jobs had in common.

 

They all sucked.

 

Big time. I HATED them.

 

Captain D's was the best, even though I would got tossed into the ice machine on a daily basis. That's just what you get for being mouthy, I suppose. Can anyone say sexual harassment?

 

Anyways, the training time for each of those jobs was about...hmmm...let's say 30 minutes. You could learn everything you needed to know to earn $4.25 an hour in exactly a half hour. No more. Seems like I watched a couple of VHS tapes on "customer service" and then they fed me to the angry, hungry people of the Searcy, Arkansas fast food industry. I was all "trained up" and ready to be attacked.

 

And attacked I was.

 

So, no, I didn't magically know what was in a Seafood Sampler or a Deluxe Platter. But I learned. Fast. AND, in all of my lacking mathematical skills, I somehow learned how to count change back IN MY HEAD without using a cash register. I'm still pretty damn proud of that skill. You see, I'm a words gal. Math is for people that can't spell. But now, thanks to my on-the-job training at the best fast food seafood restaurant on the planet, that sophisticated math formula guy from Good Will Hunting ain't no match for me.

 

Point is this: I made minimum wage, which in my 15-year-old mind equated to minimum caring. I didn't care that your hamburger had tomatoes on it instead of lettuce or if the chips I gave you were salted or unsalted. But you know who does care?

 

Chick-fil-A. They care. They even tell you about it every chance they get with their "it's my pleasure" crap. And once, just ONCE I want to come back with, "do you really? Do you REALLY care?"

 

They don't. They can't. But what matters is that Chick-fil-A somehow gets their people to say it all the time company wide. And what's up with the lines there? They always seem to have like 8 lines running simultaneously.

 

I mean that place has more employees than Springdale has Mexican restaurants.

 

But listen Chick-fil-A execs...your kids meal toys completely blow. They're **gasp** educational toys, paperback books, or random cow printed toothbrushes. Thanks for letting my educational resistant kids trade in your toys for a free ice cream cone. A little bit more sugar won't kill 'em. Will it? Hadn't killed 'em yet.

 

But then again I'm really just figuring this parenting thing out as I go, so I really have no earthly idea. I'll keep you posted.

Andy Griffith meets Green Acres

There's just something about small town Arkansas that I love. Well, love might be a strong word for it. Maybe like. Or relish. Or perhaps appreciate. No...I love it. I do. I think.

I've always lived in the country. I grew up on a dairy farm for cryin' out loud. Fences break. Cows get out. It happened all the time. And nobody cared. NOBODY.

Oh sure, drivers would stop by and ask, "This here your cow? Might wanna get it back in the fence before someone thinks it's a deer and shoots it dead."

"Thanks," I would respond. "I'll do that."

Truth is I hated it when people would stop by and tell me crap like that. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I didn't know if it was our cow. How was I supposed to tell? All cows look the same to me. And even if it was, how was I supposed to get it back into the right pasture? And how was I going to do that exactly? Run behind it and flap my arms yelling, "SOUIEE?" How? Tell me, how? Ugh.

If I saw a cow in my backyard today I would think to myself, "Oh, well hello there Mr. (or Ms.) Cow." And then I'm sure I would muster up a couple of "moos" like I do every time I encounter a bovine of its kind. I've gotten quite good at my cow impersonation over the years. Ask me sometime; you'll be impressed. But, I digress.

But for some reason that I have yet to figure out, my next-door neighbor sees a cow in her backyard this evening and decides to call the police. That's right.

Really? Is it that big of a deal. I just about laughed out loud when I saw the police car in the street in front of my house. Maybe that's what you're supposed to do, but not where I'm from. Besides it would have taken the sheriff way too long to get out there. It just wasn't worth it. And remember? Nobody cared.

No worries, though. For the next 20 minutes, Mr. bald, unnamed Police Officer looks around in some brush with his handy, dandy flashlight for a "beige" calf as he called it. It was comical really. He wouldn't actually enter the brush, of course. He just shined his light through some grass so thick there was no way we gonna be able to see anything on the other side.

And what were we gonna do if we found it? It's not like we had a rope, a chain, or um...hello, a cattle trailer to transport the runaway mooing creature back to it's home. Did we just get the pleasure of screaming, "there it is!" and looking around for others to be jealous of our newly found discovery? Seriously.

When it became obvious that we weren't gonna locate this alleged calf, Mr. bald unnamed Police Officer then strolls over to my neighbors pool and proclaims, "Well, that's a short fence...I could get over this thing and jump right in."

"I will if you will," I offer.

I mean, my neighbors have NEVER invited me over to swim. I figure if the policeman is doing it, then it must be okay. Right?

No such luck. Our night ended with no calf, no swim, no flashing lights, no cruise in the police car, no taser demonstration like on The Hangover...nothing.

There's always next Saturday night.

Hello fanny pack. Meet my cell phone.

Ah, the fanny pack.

It's like a Baby Bjorn for old people.

And to my Aunt Callie, it's like heaven with a self-adjustable waist strap...the best thing since sliced bread.

I'm exactly 5 years, 1 month, and 28 days away from owning one. That's right. I figure by the time I turn 40, I'll be able to carry around all of my necessities right there within arms' reach. No more purses with annoying straps falling off my shoulder. No more worrying about someone stealing my purse in the front of the shopping cart at Wal-Mart while I walk away to get the barbecue sauce.

And no more asking the kids, "Has anyone see my purse?" Ah, never mind. There it is. Right there on my waist for all to see and adore.

And the options and varieties are endless.

There's this one for the fashionable:

Or this one with a handy, dandy pocket for my cell phone:Of course I seem to be the only one left on the planet that doesn't have an iPhone, a Droid, or at the very least a Blackberry. Ken doesn't believe in any phone that gets internet access. Not even a little bit. Zilcho. Nada. I know Ken...$60 a month (for 2 phones) times 12 month a year = $720 a year. I get it.

So what. My cell phone was super cool when I got it almost 3 years ago. And it's better than the flip phone that Mark Paul Gosselaar used in NYPD Blue. Beat that.

It doesn't have internet access...or email...and doesn't allow me to see pictures when people email them to me. Big deal. But that doesn't stop me from picking it up every now and then and pretending like it's touch activiated anyway. One of these days it just might work.

And on a side note: if I see one more teenage girl that can text on a cell phone faster than I can type on my computer keyboard, I'm seriously gonna take her down.

So for now, I'm stepping down off of my soapbox and taking my antique cell phone with me. And if someone sees me in 5 years, 1 month and 28 days donning a fanny pack, please just shoot me and hide my body. Wait a second. Shoot me. Unstrap the fanny pack. And then hide my body. Mission Accomplished.

Dear Old Man Who Lives Across the Street, Part 3

Dear Old Man Who Lives Across the Street,

I have a fabulous neighborly idea.

I know how you are probably on a fixed income, so I've been thinking of ways I could help you out in this crappy economy. I'm SO thoughtful, right? Anways, I really don't know how to ask you this in a non-awkward way, so I'm just gonna come out and ask...

How would you like to be my nanny, or...uh...ahem...manny?

It's a brilliant plan. I mean, let's think about it for a sec:

• My boys don't have grandparents close, and you NEVER have company, much less grandchildren.
• You live right across the street (hello...can we say convenient?)
• They seem to be in your yard an awful lot anyhow

Maybe it would help if we don't think of it as "babysitting" per se. I mean they're hardly babies, anymore. At ages 9 and 5, you'd really just have to feed and water them occasionally, make them brush their teeth once every other day, and keep them from playing in the street.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I did let them play in the street that one time, but the nice policeman did slow down and wait for me to hang up the phone before coming over to talk to me. I mean, it is a cul-de-sac, for goodness sake. What a great town.

So, assuming you have chicken nuggets in your freezer, juice boxes in your pantry, and something more up-to-date than a VCR in your living room, we're all good to go. Any chance you own a Wii? Oh, never mind...just give them a couple of empty cardboard boxes and a couple of pocket knives and they can basically carve themselves out a battleship or two. And, unless you suggest it, they probably won't even stab each other after they're done.

You won't even have to put them to bed because somehow I managed to have the kids that need very little sleep to function. They seem to have the uncanny ability to stay up into the wee hours of the night but still get up at 6:00 am the next morning. Unbelievable.

But you will have to actually speak to them in some fashion. You see, shyness isn't something these kids are accustomed to. They can spot it quite easily from approximately 200 yards away, and before you know it, they've already come up with more than a half-dozen ways to use it to their immediate advantage. Kids...you just can't teach 'em this stuff.

So, it's a plan. Are you free next Friday night?

Hugs and Kisses,

H

It's like Walking...Just Faster

Who doesn't love the Olympics? There's just something about all the hard-work and camaraderie among the athletes that make me want to suit up for a trip down the luge or something. And Bob Costas...don't even get me started on all that yumminess.

Truth is the Olympics make me feel like a complete imbecile.

You see, I was the scrawny, freckle-faced girl that every team captain avoided picking until there was no one else left to choose. I was that kid...I was incredibly slow and remarkably uncoordinated. I couldn't win a game of "flag-tag" if my life depended on it, and basketball...wow. Whoever assumes that a 4-foot-8, 80 pound 6th grader can possibly muster up the strength to actually get the basketball anywhere in the near vicinity of the goal, much less through the hoop, is completely asinine. Who does that?

And then there was Coach Christian. Good God. Why in the world this man was allowed to teach P.E. to middle school children is completely beyond me. Let's just say it's a good thing I was a late, late bloomer.

I'd really like to say all that has changed now.

But, of course, it hasn't. So about 18 months ago I took up the only sport I thought I can manage. I figured running was the perfect exercise for me. And why not? It's like walking, just faster. Right? It requires no coordination or complex, thought out game play; it's just one foot in front of the other over and over again. And several months ago, I started running with my friend, Meghan. It's the most opportune time for me to catch up on all the "news" I otherwise would have missed out on. Did I say perfect sport?

So, I suck at sports...so what. I'll obviously never make it to any Olympic games, unless of course they change the rules to allow the syncopated rhythm clapping game as an official event. I love that game, and whenever I can find someone crazy enough to play it with me, I can take on even the most talent percussionist.

We all have our talents :)

Perfect Attendance is for Losers

Ah, 1983. What a great year in the grand scheme of my life. Ronald Reagan was president, Sally Ride (rock on, sista) was the first woman astronaut, and Ghandi won the Academy Award for Best Picture.

Right. Of course, without the help of Google, I wouldn't have remembered any of that crap. I mean gimme a break; I was 8-years-old for cryin' out loud. I was much too busy fighting with my siblings over who Mom and Dad loved more, who got to sit where in our awesome red and white striped van, and which of our three (sometimes four depending on the weather ) TV stations to watch. So unless current events and 80's movie trivia somehow got subliminally mixed into a random ABC Afterschool Special or our 8 track of Bing Crosby's White Christmas, chances are I didn't know about it.

All I cared about was who I sat next to on the 45-minute bus ride to school, who I played Chinese jump rope with at recess, and who I would be moved next to in Mrs. Dixon's 3rd grade classroom because I couldn't keep my gigantic mouth shut for .5 seconds. In addition to all of these childly duties, I also had to keep my kick ass pair of brown KangaROOS clean and stain free. It was a hard life after all. But I somehow managed.

And then my best friend, Julie, had a fantastic idea. WE'LL JOIN GIRL SCOUTS! Yes! It all made sense. It would get me out of riding the bus home one afternoon every single week. It would have been a phenomenal plan if we would have done something besides hold hands, sing songs, and stroll over bridges...sometimes all at the same time. I mean really. Even in 1983 I had better things to do.

So, here I find myself in 2010 in not too different of a situation. Fabulous. Here we go again.

I don't claim to be the world's best parent. I didn't join the PTA, I don't volunteer at the school (except for the fun stuff), and I almost never do speech therapy homework. I'm not perfect by any stretch, and I'm really just figuring it out as I go. The mere fact that my children are as level headed as they are is nothing short of a God given miracle. But there is one thing that I have learned in my almost ten years of motherhood. Perfect attendance is for losers.

That's right...L.O.S.E.R.S. Losers.

Why in the world I would care that my 9-year-old has perfect attendance in **insert secret, undisclosed after school activity here** is absolutely outside my realm of thinking. Really? REALLY? I can see his high school graduation now..."And is there any graduate out there who never missed a **insert secret, undisclosed activity here ** meeting in the school year 2009-2010? If so, please stand up so we can recognize you." Right. Not gonna happen.

Here's another thing I know. NOBODY CARES. Nobody. It won't matter to anyone in 50 years. Hell, I'll probably be dead by that point, and if Levi still faults me for not taking him to his **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** every single time the doors were open then so be it.

So, do we show up 90% of the time? Yes. Do I pay attention and keep my mouth shut during the meetings? Of course not. Do I actually remember to take the manual and flip to every page during the meeting to see how we're making progress towards our next accomplishment? Nope, not even close.

Here's the cold, hard truth. I've never even opened the book. That's right all you organized and punctual **insert secret, undisclosed activity** moms. That book has never been opened by me. I have NO earthly idea what it takes to earn any of the accomplishments or even what exists to even attempt to earn. And here's something else. I don't really even care.

But what I do have is a fun-loving 4th grader who's not afraid to make mistakes and speak up in a crowd. He's hard-working, friendly, and loves to make up his own jokes and share them with anyone and everyone who will listen (and even those that won't). And that, my **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** crazed friends, is worth more to me than some ridiculous perfect attendance pin any day of the week. So there. Take that.

**Insert secret, undisclosed activity here** are prepared not their mothers. Instead, I choose to teach independence, responsibility, and the ability to work without being under constant supervision. Good for me. I am a good mother...(repeating under my breath)...I am a good mother...I am a good mother.

So, raise your right hand, extend your three fingers, and repeat after me..."On my honor, I will try to serve God (which I absolutely do), my country (I vote...does that count?) and mankind (hello, I write a blog) and to live by the Girl Scout Law (well, okay, I don't exactly live by the Girl Scout law, but three out of four ain't half bad.)

Bring it, moms. You ain't got nothin' on me.

Christmas, the Way I See It

There's nothing I love more than Christmas. I do. I always have. I delight in Christmas lights. I adore Christmas music, both the secular variety as well as the traditional hymns. And I love, love LOVE watching my kids' sleepy faces as they throw open their presents with delight at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.

Those are the things I love.

But, of course, all good memories in my cynical mind must come to an abrupt, screeching halt, and I eventually must wake up in the midst of the chaos our society has created for us as we celebrate the birth of our Savior.

1) Black Friday. GOOD GOD. Why in the world we let toy and electronic companies decide what we buy is totally beyond my realm of thinking. These manufacturers undoubtedly have to pay to get their products in the now infamous Thanksgiving Day circulars and for some crazy reason we all fall into their bottomless marketing ploys and buy what they tell us is a good deal. Ridiculous.

2) Salvation Army kettles. I know, I know. I might be sealing my spiritual fate for this one, but SERIOUSLY people. If you ring that bell in my face with your "Have a Merry Christmas" sad face one more time I swear I just might take you down. I LOVE the Salvation Army; I shop at your thrift stores all the time, but until you start taking debit cards at all of your
134, 247 Wal-Mart stores and Supercenters across the state of Arkansas, please don't mess with me anymore.

3) You, your best friend, and your first cousin's girlfriend ...in my stores. One of the biggest perks to being a SAHM is the endless ability to shop in the middle of the day, but it really complicates things when you're there with me. So, please, I beg you, go back to work and leave the shopping to me and my retired friends. I can take them any day of the week.

4) My Family. I love you guys...I really, really do, but when we get together it's like me multiplied by 1,000. 'Nough said.

5) Endless gift exchanges. We're really just exchanging same dollar amount gift cards at this point. Let's just forget it and move on.

6) Christmas dinner at my in-laws. Let's just say I'll never buy my mother-in-law engraved rocks with each of her eight grand kids names on them EVER again.

7) My Beloved Target. You know I love you, Target. But why do you hide all your good deals from me each year when Christmas rolls around? I'm guessing that reason #3, as indicated above, has something to do with it.

8) Christmas Birthdays. That just sucks all the way around for you people. The birth of Jesus is just more important than yours. Sorry 'bout that.

9) Pet stockings. It's a dog. It's a cat. No, they don't realize what Christmas is, and no, they don't feel left out. THEY ARE ANIMALS, so please don't send me another Christmas card with your cats wearing Santa hats. It's almost unbearable for me.

10) Keeping up with the Joneses. Yes, Robert, down the street this one's for you: I can see your 25 blow-up Santas, reindeer, and snowmen from my front porch. AND I can hear that giant Christmas tree that is somehow engineered and synchronized to flash Christmas lights and play Christmas carols all at the same time. Yes. Your yard is kicking my yard's ass. That is clear.

And somehow I still managed to avert yet another Christmas season without a panic attack. Go figure.

I Gotta Have it My Way or No Way At All

News Flash, people. I'm an adult.

A real grown-up who is able to do or not do and say or not say whatever I want. Growing up, it seemed I would never get to this point, and now all of the sudden, I've been there for more than 16 years. And somewhere along the way God has entrusted me with two children, and now somehow I'm responsible for their lives as well. How scary is that?

While I like being an independent, decision-making, responsible person, there are so many things that kids get by with simply because they are kids and we as adults let them. So, I've decided to reinstate some of those acceptable kid behaviors and start living my life with a bit more simplicity.

For starters I'm gonna start showing people exactly how I feel the very moment I feel it. That's right. I'm reviving the good, old-fashioned, full blown screaming, kickin', arm flailing, rolling in the floor hissy fit. Yep, that's what I'm going to do. If you happen to witness one of my new temper tantrums, just step over me and ignore it. It'll pass within a couple of minutes, or maybe longer, depending of the severity of the alleged trauma.

What a freeing feeling it will be. I'll be so much less stressed, and everyone will know exactly where they stand with me. It'll take all the guess-work out of being my friend. If you happen to irritate or disagree with me, you'll know immediately. I'll throw my little fit, and I'll feel better. We all do it inside anyway, so why not just get it all out in the open and see how much better we feel?

I've toyed with the idea of including slaps, kicks, and occasional "you're not my friend anymore" statements, but those might be for the more advanced users. I'll save those until I perfect my tantrums.

Good gosh this is gonna be a ton of fun. Who's with me?

You Win, Michelle Duggar

I once heard Michelle Duggar say that having too many children is like having too many flowers...you can just never have too many. With all do respect, Michelle, I beg to differ.

While I'm a HUGE fan of using colorful analogies in everyday conversation, I think she's way off base of this one. Last time I checked, flowers don't have to be birthed, bathed, fed, educated, nurtured, occasionally tricked, disciplined, guided, chaperoned, entertained, interrogated, OR bribed to go to the Razorback game instead of going trick-or-treating on Halloween night. It's all just a wee bit different in my mind.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd rather have my two amazing babies than a field full of fragrant wildflowers any day, but COME ON. Seriously.

Let's face it, if I had 18 kids and I was pregnant again, I certainly wouldn't be bouncing around and comparing my minor dependants to flowering plants and the like. My house would be a disaster area, my home-schooled kids would be fairly uneducated, and I would be continuously strung out on anti-depressants, coffee, and whatever else I could buy on the black market or trick the old man across the street into giving me.

God didn't make me to have a Partridge Family, A Brady Bunch, or even a Cosby Show for that matter. I just don't have an overabundance of patience or more importantly, a plethora of stylish maternity clothes to make that all happen.

And Anna Duggar...good lord, girl. We need to talk. We could so be great friends. And honey, I don't care what they tell you, but you CAN use birth control. You CAN and you SHOULD. We can get you a prescription for some amazing birth control pills, and we'll hide them in my garage or something. Hell, I'll even buy them for you if you need me to.

I'm not trying to be super sneaky or anything...well...okay maybe I am, but you are entitled to change your mind about this baby thing. No pressure...just an offer.

BTW, if you girls need me to make a cameo performance on your TLC television show, I'm free between the hours of 8:30-2:00 on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays. How much fun would that be? We can have a jam session afterwards and all sing together with all the violins and the piano. I would LOVE to. So, get ready. I know a lot of songs, girls. This is gonna be so much fun :)

Dear Old Man who Lives Across the Street from Me, Part 2

Dear Old Man who Lives Across the Street from Me,

I always thought you hated me, and in your defense, I really don't blame you. Maybe I annoy you when I sing at the top of my lungs with my windows open or maybe you can't stand it when I go out in the front yard and yell, "Levi...get your little butt in this house right now." Hard to say, really, but we've made some real progress recently.

A couple of weeks ago when you were out mowing and I was out running, I saw that brief but very meaningful eye contact you gave me. Don't worry, though. I didn't tell anyone. No one will ever know that you actually looked at me. It's our secret, but I saw...I know.

And I can't be 100% positive, but I think you were actually waved at me last week as I was leaving the neighborhood. I quickly glanced in my rear view mirror to see if you were waving to the car behind me, but no one else was there. It was just me.

But I was shocked, to say the least, when you rang my doorbell yesterday morning. I thought surely Oliver, our free roaming cat, must have bitten you and you were seeking proof of her annual shots or some form of medical compensation. Or maybe, just maybe, you were coming over to accuse my kids of climbing your trees or picking your flowers or something. But no. Oh, no, no, no. It was something much more personal.

I would like to admit, however, that it's sometimes hard to recognize you without that fisherman hat on. But I know it was you; and you were talking to me. Me. Heather. Me. Deep breath.

"I have some mirrors I want to give you," he said.
Me? Why me? Do you know who I am? You actually came over here to ask ME if I wanted something? I felt like throwing myself on you for a momentous hug, but thought you might have gone all kung-fu on me or something.

So, I told a couple of people where I was going, just in case I went missing. I mean, I don't know this guy. Sure, he lives across the street from me, but he could bury dead bodies in a trap door in his garage floor. Dang that 48 hours Mystery show for making me so freakin' crazy.

So, after school, the kids, the cat, and I made our way over to the single cleanest garage I've even seen in my life to retrieve my gifts. I mean, seriously. Where are the leaves on the floor, the cobwebs in your windows, or the dead bugs gathered in the corner. Where are they? Do you clean this thing every single day or what.

Anyway, I graciously accepted two mirrors and a paper shredder of all things. Not that I actually needed these things, but I just couldn't say no. I didn't care if he gave me a cow skull, I had already decided I was going to take whatever he offered.

We've made some real progress in the last month. It only took me 4 3/4 years, but we're gettin' there. You'll be coming over for coffee and watching Regis and Kelly before we know it.

Hugs and kisses,

Heather

If You Can't Beat 'Em...

You know the old adage...the one that currently sums up my life.

Here's the deal. I live with 3 men. I fully realize that 2 of them are not fully grown as of yet, but they are men, nonetheless. I have tried, tried, TRIED, to get my point across and have them be decent, clean, respectable men, but let's face it. I'm failing miserably. I've deducted that it just can't be done. It's something in their DNA that causes them to be the way they are. Can't be my fault because God knows I've tried until I'm blue in the face.

So, as of today, I've decided to end the constant nagging and make a few simple changes in my life.

It will no longer be necessary to flush any toilet in this house. What's the point anyway? We'll just let the aroma brew up for a few days and see how amazing our house smells. Besides, it's "all natural." And just think of all the water we'll be saving.

Speaking of which, we might as well just talk about all of our bodily functions on a daily basis. No place will be off limits, especially the dinner table. We'll talk freely about everything that comes out of our bodies, and then just for fun, we'll practice some of the "gassier" things while sitting in the car with the windows rolled up and locked. Ah, at last, family togetherness will be so much more meaningful.

Then we'll all help Benj with his ABC's by each belching the entire alphabet in one quick breath. I can't think of a more appropriate way to teach preschool skills in a way that each family member will understand. Maybe we could make a video and put in on youtube, just for an added creative bonus. Everyone will be so jealous of us.

And stock in Kleenex will most certainly go down, as we will no longer be needing any sort of tissues. That's what God gave us fingers for.

We'll eat fried chicken EVERYDAY until our arteries harden or we break a limb from slipping on the multi-layers of grease on the floor. There will no longer be a need for vegetables. We'll just take multi-vitamins, if we happen to remember and if they magically appear in the cabinet.

And, finally, just think of all the free time we'll have because we will no longer have to clean ANYTHING EVER for any reason. It'll give us a lot more time for Wii playing, LEGO building, and, of course, Razorback football watching.

It's gonna be such a great life :)

It Goes Something Like This...

I've said before that I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I spend about 3/4 of every day singing or humming, and sometimes I get really fancy and throw in some random whistling just so I don't get bored. So, recently, in the middle of one of my musical numbers, I suddenly realized just one more thing that we Americans take for granted...song lyrics.

When you really think about it, just about anything that ever needs to be said can be done with nothing other than song lyrics. So, if you're really creative, quick on your feet, and happen to know a lot of songs (which I do, YEAH) you may never have to have an original thought ever again.

Give these a try...

Conversations with Siblings:

Joe Jones came out with this in the 60s, and it couldn't more more appropriate for my sisters. I, of course, mean this with the best of humor, so please don't call and tell me that I talk WAY more than you do. It's a blog, for crying out loud, and I'll say what I want to say.

You talk too much you worry me to death, You talk too much, you even worry my pet. You just talk, talk too much. You talk about people that you don't know. You talk about people wherever you go. You just talk, talk too much.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMoDwz9BW0I



Parenting Advice:

Chill out, What you yelling for?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr5PZuE_vaU

A big thanks to Avril Lavigne for that one. It's one of my favs.

Conversations with Ken at work:

Just hit the eastside of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G. Seen a car full of girls ain't no need to tweak. All you skirts know what's up with 213.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXNvHNOD-ZY

Ah, some Warren G and Regulate. This of course makes no sense at all, but does fit into one of my favorite hobbies of calling Ken at work and singing him random songs. He totally loves it ;) but occasionally does try to hang up on me. He's so lucky to have me to occupy his day. Don't you think?

Pep Talk to Myself

Cause I'm a redneck woman And I ain't no high class broad I'm just a product of my raisin' And I say "hey y'all" and "Yee Haw" And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long And I know all the words to every Charlie Daniels song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8ECto9wdRw

Gretchen Wilson read my mind with this one. It's my self-appointed theme song, if you will. It's such a fun song to sing at the top of my lungs while I'm doing the dishes.

I could go on and on but you get my drift :)

Hello, breast...meet my 9 pound, 15 ounce son.

The. Breast. Center. Maybe it's just me, but simply hearing the three words together makes it a bit difficult to understand exactly what this establishment is. Should I go there to get some enhancing in my obviously lacking cleavage area, or should I expect Bambi to show up next to my bar stool with a Cosmo in hand?

And poor Ken can't speak the three words together without chuckling out loud a bit. (Good thing he didn't see the paperwork.) I had no earthly idea what to expect, but I knew it was something that I needed to do sooner rather than later.

So, today, at the ripe 'ole age of 33-and-three-quarters, was my appointment for my first ever mammogram. Yikes. Ouch. I was scared stiff. And when I found out that I couldn't wear deodorant, I wanted to scream out over the phone, "It's LATE JULY, people!" Whatever. Surely it wouldn't kill me.

Whoever said that a mammogram was painful has obviously never delivered and breastfed a 9 lb., 15 oz. newborn baby. Breastfeeding is much more painful than a mammogram, hands down. Today I saw no needles, no blood, and no hands in holes they shouldn't be in. Nothing. I've had blood pressure cuffs be more painful that this.

I am, however, feeling a hint of discrimination. So, on behalf of all small to average breasted women out there, I must ask...is there a reason the platform has to be so large? I mean really? I took up maybe one-sixteenth of the allotted square. Really? Are there women out there that take up the entire thing? Holy crap.

And I'm not really sure why the examiner feels the need to carry on a conversation with me while I'm half naked. Pardon my rudeness, but I CANNOT talk with you while I'm wearing a sideways-turned, polka-dotted smock and exposing everything God gave me. Sorry. I can't. It's weird, and I'm not going to do it. But I am thrilled for you that you have two children and three amazing grandchildren. Really I am. Couldn't be happier, but shouldn't you be clicking something over there on your computer?

BTW, to all of you with computer speakers, I just couldn't resist this song. I'm not apologizing for it. Gotta have some fun with all of this.

"Beat It" Mandy M.

The following is a true story. While the events you are about to read about are in fact true, last names have been abbreviated to provide anonymity.

You've undoubtedly heard by now that, of course, Michael Jackson has officially died. Dead. Deceased. Gone from this Earth. And unless you live in a shack in the middle of the woods with "Dueling Banjos" playing in the background, you've heard at least one MJ classic song on the radio or T.V. since his untimely death.

I get it. He was the "King of Pop," his album "Thriller" is still the top selling album of all time, and he changed the way we view and hear music even today. Really, I get it. But, I still a little bitter. It all goes back to 1983 for me...

I was in the 3rd grade in Mrs. Dixon's class at McRae Elementary. One of my classmates, RaeLynn, always brought things to school to sell. At the time, that didn't seem all that unusual, but now looking back, I wonder who exactly lets an eight-year-old girl peddle items to her peers? And an even better question is why the school let it go on. Anything from homemade, teddy bear shaped lollipops to my all-time favorite, the coveted, amazing, one-of-a-kind Michael Jackson purse.

It was such a cute little carryall. I can still picture it now. It was solid black with a shoulder strap that could have doubled as a black shoestring and right there on the front was a picture of MJ himself in white. I was in love. The price? $5.00.

Seems like a deal in 2009, but in 1983, things were really tight for us. I begged and pleaded with my mom for five bucks, but my constant nagging, as I had assumed, went unrewarded. No purse for me. I would have to settle for looking at Mandy M's latest MJ accessory. She was so cool.

And it didn't help matters that she walked around taunting me with it. She'd carry it different ways just to annoy me..."normally" as one would expect to carry such a kickass handbag, casually without the shoestring strap, or my absolute favorite diagonally across her body. Any way she carried it spelled trouble for me and my now overwhelming envy.

And what did she carry in there anyway? We didn't wear make-up, and we didn't need feminine products just yet (thank God). Maybe she just carried around to see what else she could buy from RaeLynn and shove in there.

I have no idea whatever happened to RaeLynn or Mandy ***insert sarcasm here*** but just in case either one of them is reading this, I would like to tell you something. Something I've been meaning to say for years now...

"Beat It" Mandy. I've moved on. I now carry a purse that my little sister bought me from the Sarah Jessica Parker collection at Steve & Barry's. And yes, it cost $9.99, so if my math is correct, that's exactly double what your purse costs. It's big enough to carry around my wallet, gum, crayons, and even my cell phone (assuming it's charged and I know where it is).

There. Deep cleansing breath, and I'm done.

The Rise and Fall of Jon & Kate: An Insider's Look into the Genre of Reality Television

Okay, so I'm not an insider by any means of the Jon and Kate phenomenon, but I do watch more than my fair share of reality television, so I do have some insight into our recent "development." So, here we go...

Dear Kate:

I've watched your show for years now.

I really loved the fact that your husband went off to work and you stayed home with eight, count them EIGHT, little ones. I was exhausted with my mere two, and here you sit with six more than me. Either I'm a complete loser or you're nothing short of a modern day Mary Magdalene. I applaud you, I really do.

I loved the fact that you fit all eight of your litter in one, rather compact home. They were always fighting over the same toy, constantly throwing temper tantrums and fits, and always peeing (or worse) on the floor. It was great television for stay-at-home and working moms alike across our cable T.V. viewing country. So, I was thrilled, maybe even a little jealous, when you got the tummy tuck.

I mean, shut-up girl. You spent months on bed rest IN a hospital with a severely overstretched stomach centered with a belly button that was just screaming for someone to draw large, black circles around it thus making it a moving dartboard . You deserve to do something nice for yourself. Go for it.

I didn't even care when Jon had his hair transplant. I mean, yes, he was losing his hair, but it didn't seem that overwhelming to me. Nonetheless, I say take it. If it's being offered free of charge and your kind brother and his pretty redheaded wife are willing to take care of all of the kids, I say heck yeah, bring on the follicle support.

It was fun that you went to various places around your hometown with the kids. I enjoyed seeing your church, where you bought groceries, and the little kids' preschool. Very cool. I wasn't even that put-off when you went skiing in Utah or to Disney World, even though I had never been to either place.

But, I think we crossed the line when we took the entire family on an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii for a wedding rededication ceremony. Really? Was that entirely necessary? Yes, yes, I know Jon's family lives in Hawaii, but you didn't seem all that interested in getting to know them. You seemed more into your designer wedding gown and complimentary spa treatments than into meeting your in-laws. And now, all of the sudden, it seems you've gotten too big for your britches, as my dad would say. That one episode alone was enough for me to re-examine my TIVO lineup and delete my season pass.

You more than double your filming from the first season, get complete body makeovers, and move into a multi-million dollar house and now all of the sudden your "documentary" has turned into a paparazzi chasing, media frenzy. The viewers suddenly turned on you, and we now hold you somewhere between Amy Fisher and Michael Jackson.

Now it seems that all the crap you've dealt out to your husband has come back to bite you. No more "it's a crazy life, but it's our life" and "we're in this together" intro into your show. Should have thought about that before treating your husband like he was just another one of your many disposable diapers.

So, what's a thirty-something, mother of eight to do? Go on with the popular reality show where you get paid to go to the zoo, create pottery, and make cupcakes or get a regular 9-5 job and keep your family together. Hmmm. Guess you'll have to think about that one for a while.

My advice? Get out while you can. Try to scrap together any shred of sanity you have left and move to Zimbabwe. Give your sweet kids a break before we see them on an episode of "Reality Show Kids of the Past" and they're talking about their tormented childhoods.

P.S. I like the white, wide-rimmed sunglasses. Do you mind telling me where you got those?

A concerned ex-fan,

Heather

On behalf of dogs everywhere...

I'm not a dog fan. There I said it. I'm not. Not even close.

I just can't wrap my little brain around the idea of actually paying for a four-legged-pet, papers or not, and then taking care of them as if they were a child. I mean come on...you've got the feeding, the watering, the papering, the grooming, the walking with the poopy clean-up along the way, the obedience classes, and who could forget the ever-so-popular "doggie day care." It's enough to make my head spin and my wallet shrivel up and die.

Maybe I'm just way too lazy, but I can't imagine cleaning up after one more living creature. If I wanted to do that, I'd just ***swallowing loudly*** have another baby. At least that way we'd get a tax credit, right honey?

I know it's an unpopular opinion, maybe even an un-American one, but I don't care. Somebody needs to stand up for these guys, and I have self-appointed that somebody as ME.

I recently watched the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua and...okay let me stop myself right there. I should have said I grudgingly sat down and tried to watch this flick that my 4-year-old begged me to watch with him. How bad could it be? It's a cute kid movie.

I got about five minutes into this "movie" before I realized what I had succumb to. I'm watching a movie about dogs...not just any dogs but talking dogs for that matter...dogs that wear SHOES and HATS and LEATHER COATS and get PEDICURES.

Seriously? Why are we doing this to poor, innocent canines across our country? So, on behalf of dogs everywhere, let me just say that they HATE, with a capital H, wearing any type of clothing. Just to be clear, this would include any kind of shirt in any material, jewelry, shoes (yes, boots too), raincoats, hats (even with the appropriately sized openings for their ears), and please don't get me started on Halloween costumes.

Dogs are dogs. They sniff each others privates and drink out of toilets. They don't require countless trips to the groomer and the nail salon. Give them food, a bale of hay, some rain water, and maybe a flea collar, and they're good to go. That's all they need. Period.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for equal rights for all of God's creatures, but where I'm from, dogs were lucky to get FED. They sure as hell didn't wear CLOTHES. And don't tell Bob Barker, but we never had them spayed or neutered. That's what a water hose was for.

Perhaps I'm just a wee bit cynical, but deep down you all secretly agree with me. I'm all for vet visits, rabies shots, flea control, and maybe even an occasional bow or scarf in the fur. That's it. Just let it go. ***CHANTING (and holding my picket sign)***No more clothes...No more clothes...No more clothes!

I feel better already.

What I'm STILL Learning...

As my friend Ginny would say, "This is a serious blog. Sit down, shut up, and listen."

Yesterday was probably one of the hardest days of my life as we were faced with the funeral of our sweet friend, Ginny. About six years ago, way before she was ever faced with cancer, she asked me to sing a certain song at her funeral. I believe the words I said to her were, "Would you stop it and stop talking about your funeral. Who does that?" Well, she did apparently, and I remembered it.

That was all she said, and she never brought the song up again - until she was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. On what was apparently a particularly hard day, she asked me in front of "witnesses" as she called them, to sing at her service again. I just shook my head and started crying. Now all of the sudden it seemed all too real to me, and I was literally terrified.

So, when she passed last week, I knew it was coming. Her husband, David, called me on Saturday and asked me to do just that. I knew I had to do it for my friend, but I was completely mortified of singing at a funeral, especially one of someone that had made such an impact on my life. But I knew what I had to do.

Those of you who have been to funerals with me know what I'm referring to. I'm a contagious cryer. I can sob at a service of someone I've never even met. I actually did that once when my mom forced me to go to a funeral of one of my great aunts when I was in high school. It was bad...really, really bad. I think she got some comic relief out of it because she was too busy laughing at me rather than paying attention to the service. BTW, thanks for that, Mom.

Anyway...back to my friend. I've known the song selection for years, so I didn't have to learn anything. I just had to get geared up for it...put my game face on and get to work.

I was nothing short of an emotional wreck. I mean a sobbing, tissue grabbing, eye-swollen mess. So many people, myself included, didn't think I was going to be able to pull this off for anyone, much less for Ginny. As Carl and I were practicing the day before, the funeral home pulled up. Now I know these guys do this for a living, but they just wheeled her in and flipped open the lid. WAIT A SECOND. HOLD THE PHONE. I wasn't ready for that. But I think it turned out for the best. I was able to have my own private viewing, sort of speak. I cried, talked to the kids (who were of course with me) about death and heaven, and I then knew I could do it.

The day of the service comes, and I'm still an absolute wreck. My heart is beating out of my chest, it's hard to breathe, and I think I could very easily vomit. I think I'm having a panic attack. But in the back of my mind, I keep hearing Ginny's voice saying to me, "Would you stop being such a baby and shut up and just SING THE SONG! It's just me for crying out loud!" Then I suddenly felt a peace about the whole thing. And she was right.

I had considered, depending on my emotional state, saying a few words before I sang. I had this elaborate speech all prepared in my head, but when I got up to start talking about her, I really didn't say any of it. I just said what came out, what I felt. To me, singing is always the easy part. It's the talking that always gets me. My voice was shaky, but I was able to somehow keep it together.

The song went very well, better than I ever expected. I owe a lot of thanks to Carl for playing guitar for me and for talking me down from the rafters when I called him crying and telling him I couldn't do it. Also a big thanks to everyone who encouraged me along the way, and to Denni for the emotional support she showed to me after I lost it when I finally sat back down.

My point is this: I learned something about myself today. I didn't think I had the confidence to do this, but Ginny knew I could. She wouldn't have asked me otherwise. She's still teaching me things, and I think that says a lot to the testament of her character and her influence on my life.

So, I'm grateful for friends both on earth and in heaven. I'm grateful that I am in a position to bolt off to the emergency room at a moment's notice to be able to tell my friend how much I love her and to say goodbye. I'm grateful that I'm not totally wrapped up in a job, activities for the kids, or other things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of life. I'm grateful for the things she taught me and for the things I'm still finding out along the way.

I'm grateful that Ken and I got to ride to the cemetery with an past pastor from Foundery and get our own little private counseling session along the way. John Humphries is one of the greatest people I've ever met; he makes me want to be a better person. Ginny loved him, and I know she was happy that he spoke about her amazing life.

In fact, she would have loved every minute of the service. She would have loved that a lot of people from our old church were there and that we all sat around and laughed, exchanged pics of the kids, and talked about old times. She would have loved that and would have been right there in the middle of it all. In fact, I think she was.

What I've Learned from my Friend

There she was. She was the skinny, short-haired, glasses wearing lady sitting on the ottoman. She was older than me, maybe old enough to be my mom, but it was hard to tell exactly. She seemed nice enough. I guess I was going to have to like her. Then she opened her mouth and out it came.

It was the first time in my then 22-year-old self that I'd ever heard someone curse in church. I just knew that God himself was going to appear in the room with a cloud of smoke and fire and strike her down for such an abominable act. But He didn't.

He didn't. Interesting. Okay, so I was naive, but I'd never met anyone like her before. She seemed to say what was on her mind and somehow get away with it. She didn't sugar coat her words; she just told it like it was, pretty or not. But I probably learned the most from her by what she did rather than what she said.

She was an amazing mentor to me. She taught me to be ME - never to pretend to be someone I'm not. She taught me to be more confident in myself. She taught me to be accepting of others - judging was a waste of her time. She taught me to love. She taught me to never give up.

I know she's up in heaven giving 'em heck. I can just hear her now..."Pearly gates? Streets of gold? Crystal seas? You know you can't write those things off on your taxes so don't even try that crap with me."

I know she'll be there waiting on me, with some sort of sarcastic comment that she's probably already brewing up. She'll be ready to introduce me to all the people she's met since she got there and fill me in on all their info. And maybe then we'll understand all those New Testament parables that went over our heads in Disciple II. Or maybe we won't care at all.

My friend, Ginny Cheek, died on Friday night after a more than 2 year kick-ass fight with lung cancer. She meant the world to me, and I can't wait to see her again.

Me and My Big Mouth

For as long as I can remember, I've been a talker. As a 3rd grader, my lifelong ambition was to someday, somehow open up my yellow, tri-fold report card with my name printed ever so neatly on the front, and not see the words I had grown so accustomed to seeing. And every single time, there it was staring back on me in that bright, red, unforgiving ink: talks too much.

I can still remember weighing the options in my 8-year-old mind. "Okay, let's see," I would contemplate. "Can I really spend nine whole weeks keeping to myself without talking to the lucky kids sitting next to me?" Maybe, just maybe, I could pull it off. Then I could be "Citizen of the Month" and get that awesome Polaroid picture posted in the hallway by the cafeteria for everyone to admire. I could do it. I could.

I considered this shift in behavior many times throughout my elementary school career, but every time I would end up right back where I started. What's one more check mark in the grand scheme of life? So, I talk too much. Big deal.

My friend, Julie, had the opposite problem. She was always sitting quietly, her nose in a book, and didn't speak to anyone. I'm still not quite sure why she ever became friends with me; we were so different. She was Citizen of the Month every year from kindergarten through fourth grade, and I was completely jealous. If only I could get my picture in that dang hallway...

These days, though, my lack of early focused self-control seems to be more evident every day. Now I talk to so many people, I find myself forgetting who I tell what and end up repeating the same stories to the same people. Guess I need to either gather some new friends or start taking notes on the ones I already have.

My new life goal is to do more listening that talking. Seriously. I'm trying it. Something happened to my self-editor these last few months, and I now find myself saying things I shouldn't much more often than I should. So that's it. Welcome to my new listening phase. I can do it. I can. No more check marks for me :)

Sing, Sing a Song

I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I'm talking a full-on Broadway musical right here between my double oven and my dishwasher. This daily production is complete with constant singing, repetitive and sometimes intricate dance steps, and even an occasional, quick wardrobe change. It might be reason #273 why my neighbors hate me.

Maybe I just drink way too much coffee, but I am constantly either belting out a song with my microphone (okay, a wooden spoon) or tapping out a syncopated rhythm like I'm a member of the percussion line in a competing drum corps. My family is downright lucky that I don't own a pair of tap shoes. I could really bust a move with those babies buckled on.

Several years ago, I actually tried to involve cheerleading jumps into my dance routine. That lasted only a few days until my high-kicking aerobesk went terribly, terribly wrong. So, I was forced to hang up my pom-poms forever and stick with what I knew…bring on the music.

And when American Idol comes on, you might as well get out of my way because my game is ON. I sing all of the contestants' songs immediately after they perform them, usually during the judges' comments. Then, because no one else is around or even remotely cares what I'm doing, I critique myself on my performance. I think I've grown a lot as an "artist" since I started a few months ago.

I'd like to think this erratic behavior is from my many years of band or choir throughout my schooling, but in actuality it's probably just me and my undiagnosed ADHD tendencies. I've been trying for years now to involve my family in my musical escapades, but my accountant husband doesn't seem to want to participate. I'll sing a bar of a song I know he knows, hand over the "microphone" and say, "take it away, honey!" He just stares at me, shakes his head, and slowly walks away, wondering how in the world he entered into Holy Matrimony with a loud, singing lunatic such as me. I'm not discouraged, though; I have full confidence that one of these days he'll come around and join one of my many musical numbers.

My 8-year-old, on the other hand, can carry on an entire conversation with me by only quoting lyrics from a 1988 classic by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. "Mommy," he'll say, "that's why I Hate Myself for Loving You." Can't say I didn't see that one coming, but at least he's on board. At least he isn't quoting Aerosmith or AC/DC back to me. See, it could be much worse.

And I'm pretty sure my 4-year-old is the only child who can sing Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. He may not have the most intelligible speech, but that boy can downright hum the bass guitar line.

I really need to switch to decaf before it's too late.