I'm Just A Ho Ho .... Ho

I love Christmas.  No I mean REALLY love love love to the capital L love.  Except for the occasional mishap during a Black Friday event, I totally adore the warm and fuzzy vibes everyone is giving off during the holidays.  Houses are jazzed to the hilt in an extravaganza of blinking lights and armies of inflatable Rudolph figurines descend to the smallest yard on the street.  It is pure Trashy Christmas Americana and I am their biggest fan.  You can never have too many Christmas lights and yard decoration do-dads in my opinion.  Personally I prefer to not even see a blade of grass until at least until the end of January. 

I love Christmas because it is the time of year when I am reminded of my favorite hymns and carols you unfortunately do not hear any other time of the year.  Popular radio has tainted the airwaves with Madonna singing Santa Baby every 5th song which is inexcusable.  This is crazy talk I know but how about shelving the Material Girl and give ol' Eartha Kitt some radio play?  Seriously.  Trans Siberian Orchestra will make you hallucinate if you aren't careful and if I hear Grandma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer one more time I may just go postal.  For my funeral I would like my ashes scattered into Lake Waccamaw while Lo How a Rose e'er Blooming and For Unto Us a Child is Born is playing along with a champagne fountain bubbling on the pier.  This is to promptly be followed by a sunset beach bonfire where everyone sips on Ketel One vodka gimlets and margaritas on the rocks with extra salt while they talk about how great my ass was and my Heisman Trophy worthy flag twirling skills.  Take notes people.

Here is a snippet of our highly anticipated 6 days before the "Big C" Tree/House/Everything decorating party from last night.

• After endless days of nagging my husband finally brings in the multitude of overstuffed boxes.
• Kids mercilessly fighting over the same freaking tree branch to hang an ornament.
• Music blaring in the background offering zip in the way of "holiday cheer".
• Me yelling at everyone to stop yelling.
• Carl stepping on boxes of ornaments in an effort to block Annie from the preferred Stocking hanging spot.
• My husband looking at me from across the room no doubt wondering to himself how in the hell he got mixed up with me.
• Me shouting over the craziness that we are going to have fun by God and for everyone to stop shouting.
• Carl pouting in the corner because no one is listening to him.
• Nat King Cole failing miserably.
• My husband looking at me from across the room wondering how he managed to scoop up this crazy chick.
• Annie wailing because Baby Jesus jumped out of the Nativity and onto her toe.  On purpose.
• Charlie the Elf calmly sitting by and taking it all in for Santa.

Man, we're in trouble. 

Merry Merry Merry with a Capital M Christmas y'all!

Unto Us a Child is Born

Lo How a Rose e'er Blooming

Close Encounters of the Too Close Kind

In an attempt to possibly not work for the rest of our lives, my husband and I decided to really scale back and get down to the basics of having just what we need.  With me having a career in real estate (if you can call it that) it's kind of a no-brainer.  Just recently we moved to new place that is 1/3 of the one we previously had and I am now living in a home the same size of my first college apartment.  Tar River anyone?  Don't get the wrong the place is totally adorable.  Our sweet treehouse is in Trey's extended family and was actually built by his grandfather which is pretty cool.  The house is robin's-egg blue and is perched amongst some really pretty live oaks so while you sit out on the top deck you really do feel like a bird in your little cozy nest.  I am thankful to have it, the kids love it and we are getting to spend a lot of quality time with one another.  All up on each other.  Every day.  All snuggly buggly together.  Close.  All the time.  Together.

Dear God ... I don't think I'm going to survive this.

You see, I am more of a "multi-room" kinda gal.  The treehouse has 3 bedrooms / 1 bath upstairs with the living area and kitchen making the other 1/2 of the house.  Did I mention that it is round?  So basically you are either in your bedroom OR in the open living space looking at each other.  Don't feel like listening to the TV?  Go to your room.  Have looked at your sister all day and need some relief?  Go to your room.  Annoyed with your husband for any reason at all?  Go to your room.  I'm not joking here people.  Either we are together as a family or you are in your room.  Alone with every stitch of clothing stuffed into the closets, toys stacked in organizers to the ceiling and every framed picture we own, nailed to the walls because there is simply just not another inch of space to display it.  No, my dream home would have a sprawling floor plan with countless rooms.  The kind of home where you decide to just visit the other side of your estate and upon opening a door you've never entered there sits a kid you forgot you had.  "Oh HEY there little Sasprilla!  How's the last 6 years been treating ya?  Wondered where you crawled off to".

Listen, I love my kids ... adore truly, but we haven't spent this much "together time" since they were in my womb.  And with the weather turning colder and it getting darker at like 4 pm, we are all stuck inside the treehouse surrounded by boxes upon boxes of absolute crap that I am just too exhausted to deal with. Seriously.  Where in the hellz do you put your 4th set of pottery plates that you just HAD TO HAVE when you got married?  Why didn't anyone say that unless I am planning on feeding an entire town, having 36 dinner plates really isn't needed?  I am officially an every day china hoarder.  Probably should add platter hoarder to that title too since I own countless platters in every size, shape, and type you could ever want.  Aunt Beatrice is having a garden party and needs a frosted Amaryllis shaped platter?  Done.  Wine and Cheese gathering?  Got your oval grape infused number right here.  Old school clam bake?  BAM!  Rustic bowls and oblong ditties coming at ya.  Fancy Smancy?  Engraved silver beauties at your service.  With handles?  Of course.  Decorated with flowers, boats, barns, your mother ... yes yes and yes.  Relish tray?  What decent southern girl doesn't?  Glass cake platter?  I can't believe you even asked me that.

So while the rest of the world is spending their days in the further most corners of their home not speaking to one another for days, the Stidham crew is talking to one another from across the house with excellent clarity and spending another day of together time in our little blue treehouse ...... counting plates.

Lie To Me

After a short hiatus (weeks. ok, months) from the gym I decided to give it another go last night since my fat clothes are getting an eensy bit snugly and we have recently moved into house that is 1 block from my local rec center.  Rushing the kids into a bath I threw on my old trusty workout ensemble that is hideously tight and beyond unattractive in any language, snatched my iphone away from my husband and jumped into the truck before I had time to chicken out.  Yes, I drove the 500 feet to the workout room; creepy people hide in the shadows thank you very much.  Here's how it all went down ....

• Jumped out of the truck with purpose, tied unruly natty hair into bun, sauntered into the gym.
• Put my John Hancock on the Sign-In sheet, attendant mentions she hasn't seen me in a while and has the audacity to ask how I've been.  the nerve
• Walk into the exercise room like I own the joint and then quickly reminded that whomever set up the treadmills so that your big ole arse faces the parking lot/entire world must be skinny sadists and should be fired.
• The room is empty (thank God) so I pick the treadmill closest to the wall as to not be seen by another local I may possibly see again during the light of day, plugged in some tunes and started walking. 
• In between my huffing and puffing during the warm-up cycle (smirk and you die) the darn thing starts blinking my weight in bright red numbers!  What in the Hell kind of torture contraption is this?   Look - my pants are leaving an indention on my waistline, I look like I have on a shirt from my 9 yr. old and the friction that is coming from my thighs rubbing together could light up the whole damn town.  Do I really need to know what my weight is?!  I think not.  Hey Nordic Track - let's do away with the weight indicator and instead display You are a stone cold fox.  Make it happen people. 

So there I am about 15 minutes into my little workout which started off pretty calm and almost/barely enjoyable until some random fella from the weight room decided to join me on the treadmills, and by joining me I am telling you he got on the one facing me I'm assuming so we could "get some chemistry going" over my wobbly bits and the uni-boob action I had going on.  Oh, I could've had him with all the crazy-sweaty-sexy vibe radiating off me if I was into that kind of thing .... dating my grandfather .... but it royally ticked me off.  There we were amongst a plethora of equipment that was totally available for someone to use NOT facing me and here this joker comes in and makes it so I have to step-up my game.  Not pass out on the 4.9 incline and supersonic speed I set.  Stare up at the ceiling pumping my fists to 50 Cent and not fall breaking a hip.  Pretend that I don't want to die after only 20 minutes.

By the grace of God I survived for 35 minutes with my pride relatively intact and without a Same Time - Same Place nod from Old Man River.  Also a huge shout out to my husband for eating the remaining 3.2 cookies while I was out therefore dashing any possibility of me consuming them upon my return which would have undoubtedly happened.  Tonight all I need to do is plug in some more funky beats, squeeze into my ravishing walking gear and run out of the door while I am still motivated.  All of this of course depends on me being able to walk up the 2 flights of stairs to reach my front door.  So, if you see me sitting in my driveway tomorrow morning in the same clothes I have on today you will know there was not a repeat performance on the treadmill or I had a late night at the V.F.W with gramps.

There is a Smudge On My Glass

If I had to guess I probably tell my kids on average of 1,000 times a day to not be concerned with what someone else is doing or has and instead they should just worry about themselves.  Sadly I cannot stick to my own advice.  What is the saying?  "Those who cannot live by their own advice, tell others what they should or should not be doing because they know everything and everyone should listen to them."  Something along those lines. 

To be honest I worry way too much about what other people have and nowhere near enough time on what I should be doing to change circumstances in my life.  Just the other day I finally watched the 2005 Commencement Speech given by Steve Jobs on youtube and it totally reminded me how ridiculous I am.  Steve was talking about how each morning he wakes up, looks into his mirror and asks himself if he is excited about what he will be doing that day.  If the answer is NO several days in a row, then he knows the time has come to make a change in his life and he does it.  I on the other hand begin my mornings by looking into the mirror and become immediatley annoyed that once again my prayers of waking up looking like Minka Kelly have gone unanswered.  For the love of Tim Riggins!  It's not like I place that eensy weensy prayer request before all the important ones like God blessing all the little children in the world, keeping them safe and watching over my family; I'd consider it to be more like a closing statement.  Dear Lord, thank you for blah blah blah, watch over the children blah blah, keep them safe from blah blah blah, make my kids listen to me and let me look like Minka when I wake up.  Amen.  Goodness how I would love to be a "The glass is half full" kinda gal but alas it is not meant to be.  I would say I am more of a "Her glass is prettier than mine and I want it" girl.   Horrible.

Sitting here thinking of all the bad things I have done and will do in my lifetime, I've come to grips with the fact it is my complaining thats gonna keep me out of those pearly gates of heaven.  I just know it.  And the worst part is I really do not have anything to complain about!  Honestly I would have to say there are a great number of checks during the first 37 years of my life.  Born into a loving family, healthy, got the Holly Hobby with the yellow banana seat, got the Outback Red outfit I wanted for my 15th birthday, was accepted and attended my dream college, moved to the beach like I wanted, married the boy I wanted (other than Brad Pitt), had the 2 kids, have great friends that make me laugh, has a closet full of elastic pants and Mom jeans .....  check, check, check and a check.  And STILL I'll sit here complaining about my glass that is only half full and has a smudge on it.

What I need is a good dose of zest, gusto, ambition, passion!  Now that would be a good cocktail.

Don't let me disturb you

I was going to begin my blog this morning with a list of pros's and con's about my husband but thought it could get a little dicey so I'll just skip to the #1 thing that absolutely pisses me off more than anything else in this entire world. 

~ Having to ask my husband to help me do something concerning our children.

It's not that he minds helping, that he intentionally tries not to, or doesn't want to help.  Actually it's quite the opposite.  Trey is a great dad, loves his kids and is the first to jump in and get the crew moving .... but you have to ask.  And people, it is the need to ask part that sends me directly into witch overload.

As an example, this morning I overslept and woke up a few minutes after 6 am instead of our normal 5:55 am wake up time.  Kids are still snuggled in their beds and my husband is on the back porch reading the news on my iphone (that is a whole other issue) smoking.  There he sits undisturbed, chilling out before he has to get ready and leave the house by 6:30, which leaves me alone to wrestle our brood through the morning ritual and out the door with lunches and bookbags packed.  Of course I jump up when I notice the time and race to the porch to ask for assistance with getting the kids up and served breakfast while I barely have time to shower (another day of not shaving my legs) and scurry around making lunches and getting myself dressed.   What infuriates me is that in his hands rests the darn phone that, sur-freaking-prise, shows the TIME!!  Dear Sweet Baby Jesus in Heaven ... why why why why why doesn't he notice that it is past 6 am and take a brief moment to wake up the kids, instead of me screeching like a banshee at him from across the house?   I used to think that nirvana was recreating the love scene in Legends of the Fall with Brad Pitt but now I would gladly take waking up and finding my children dressed and eating breakfast without any of my assistance. 

On another note, Annie my sweetcakes 5 year old is becoming  quite the little troublemaker in her kindergarten class.  Mind you we haven't even completed 1 month of school and Annie's "green lights" are coming home with strikes and notes that simply say, Will Not Stop Talking, Will Not Participate, Does Not Listen.  When asked to explain why she is not behaving in class, her answers are very short and delivered with a little eye-rolling, hands waving, hip holding, sassy explanation.   Oh, and don't let me forget the bright red light she received earlier in the week for flat out not participating in music class and then proceeded to pick the paint off the classroom wall while she was standing in the corner, supposedly to think about her bad behavior.  Awesome.

Mixed in this craziness is Carl who loves his 4th grade teacher but not the homework and it's practically pulling teeth to have him complete it.  (he doesn't even know the meaning of homework yet)  And then there is me who is alone after 9:30 pm since my husband gets up at the crack of dawn for work; eating and pathetically watching episode after episode of Friday Night Lights.   Which is my new obsession and I am totally in lust with Tim Riggins who is a character on the show, and is not even a real person because he is an actor who plays a character on a television show, where everyone is an actor with a script and none of these people really exist. 

I hope he calls me.

So much to do, so little time

http://youtu.be/-BrDlrytgm8

About a month ago I was happily reading the online version of The Daily Mail which is nothing more than the UK's version of US Magazine; when I stumbled upon an article about this amazing short independent film, that has totally wrecked my life.  It featured these 3 guys who are filmmakers and artists that spent a month and a half traveling around 11 countries filming this fellow named Rick walking towards the camera, and compounded all the places they visited into a one minute masterpiece.  It is incredible!  Here is this guy walking while the venues change around him, some of which I visited during a trip to Europe with my high school language arts class.  That film is my new drug and I cannot stop watching it.  Later that day as soon as I walked into my house I showed it to Carl and we began to make plans to make our own version, setting out for an adventure as soon as possible.  The problem is, I don't know where to start.

I'm not quite sure why that one thing struck a chord so deep down in my soul but it has and I've been obsessively compiling a "bucket list" of things I want see, eat, hear, learn and experience since.  Some are obtainable, others I'm not sure will ever be but by God I want to try.  For years I have been stuffing little nuggets of "one day I will do's" into my back pocket for safe keeping, but after watching that short film I am just chomping at the bit to lace up my boots and get my Indiana Jones on. 

Taped to my bedroom wall is a large sheet of paper I borrowed from Annie's easel that I have begun writing all of my wants into 3 columns of Before December 31 , Before I'm 40 and Before I'm dead.  Naturally all the big ticket items are in the "dead" column with the sincere hope that I can afford to make these dreams a reality, since it gives me additional time to save up the money.  Of course in a pinch I can always remarry someone with the extra cash flow if I'm getting down to the wire.  Honestly it has helped me to remember some things that seemed so significant at one time in my life, it makes me laugh to think how easily I had forgotten all about them. 

Will I realize all of my desires and create my own 1 minute video of my amazing journey?  Probably not.  But boy will I be livid if I die before I achieve at least half of them.

Here are a few of mine:

Before December 31, 2011
Be able to put on, button up and breathe in my wedding dress.
Develop all random film canisters and place pictures into an album.
Learn how to start a fire with a flint rock and 2 sticks, pitch a tent by myself.
Spend the night fishing on the pier.
Start playing the piano again.
Learn how to make my Grandmother's green pepper jelly.
Sending friends and family postcards just to say hello.
Go oyster and clam digging with my kids.
Tie a cherry stem with my tongue.

Before I'm 40
Learn how to play the drums.
Become a certified lifeguard.
See the Cherry Blossom Festival in D.C. and the Rockettes in at Radio City Music Hall.
Help my kids build a treehouse.
Be able to communicate in Spanish and French.
Ride a horse along the shore.
Walk through an Indiana cornfield.
Before I Die
Drive across the U.S. in an old Jeep Wrangler, jeans and a white tank top.
Backpack in Europe with my kids.
Sail to Key West with my family.
Work on a vineyard, be an assistant to a glass blower, learn to dance the Tango.
See the sun rise and set over the Pacific, Arctic and Indian Oceans.
Watch my children get their college diplomas.
Visit Australia and pet a wallaby.
Learn to crack a whip like Indiana Jones.

Dear Father Time, Stop Running In The Hallway

This morning I dropped my baby off at the front door of his school per his request for the first day of his 4th grade career.  How can this possibly be when his father and I were just standing in the discharge room of the hospital with our newborn, trying to figure out the rocket scientist designed car seat we forgot to assemble just yesterday? 

Earlier in the week a friend of mine posted on her Facebook page that she corrects her children when they correctly pronounce blueberries instead of bluebabbies, and all those other sweet little nuggets of  "baby English" every parent adores.  Packed away in my attic are baby books and calendars I spent countless hours detailing every time Carl sneezed, drooled, rolled over or breathed; where are those now?  That post from my friend reminded me of Carl saying lasterday instead of yesterday and when he used to call Halloween, Forever Halloween, and how I actually threatened to kill Trey if he even thought about correcting him.   Those sweet, precious words.  Lasterday and Forever Halloween were my trinkets of pure joy, sprinkled with that dear sweet melody that makes your heart swell; something that can only come from the sound of your child's voice.        

Weren't there others?  What was that darling phrase Carl used to say when he held my face in his yummy little hands, while looking at me with those chocolate brown eyes; a mirror of my own.  How could I have forgotten when at that moment I was positive that treasure was imprinted on my heart and stored in my mind forever?  And here I sit in a panic trying to recall what he wore that first day of Kindergarten and in what drawer I've filed his picture along with countless others I promised myself to place in a photo album.  Did I remember to pack away that outfit along with those embarrassing baby pictures to pull out during the first time Carl brings home a "girl friend"?  You know, the pictures only a parents can appreciate those cherished memories associated with the one at 2 years old in just a diaper, cowboy hat and boots holding a sticky Popsicle?   Please Lord tell me I'll uncover them again one day.

I didn't sleep much last night; instead spending my time in the doorway of Carl's room watching him in a peaceful slumber with his long tan limbs reaching the end of his bed.  Clutched to his side was Teddy his faithful bear and on the floor beside him was the shirt and shorts he set aside for today, his first day of 4th Grade.  And as I leaned against the door glancing at the pictures, school projects, graded papers and sport trophy's that line the walls catching moonbeams peering in from the curtains I hear myself saying, "Slow down Father Time, stop running in these hallways.  Let me keep my baby like this just a moment more".

1st day of 4th Grade

2 Years Old

Roll Call for the Un's, If Only's and the Should Have's.

Just this past Saturday I had a rare treat of going home and spending the night with my parents without the kids and my husband.  It's  so easy to forget how much you really don't speak to one another when the whole family is visiting with kids running around, bedtimes to prepare for and just the normal interruptions that come along with accommodating several people and their schedules.  Although I really enjoyed driving around my hometown and taking advantage of some alone time with my parents, I must admit it takes me about a week to get over those visits.  I am neurotic by nature; I mean super-de-duper over the top analyze every single little thing bananas, and this process begins the second I step into the driver's seat for the 2 hour drive back to my home.  My radio volume barely rises above level 2 and I will spend that entire time driving along a dark HWY 87 thinking of all that was said, and not.  All that's left unsaid should truly be my motto because I feel that is pretty much an overview of how I view my life.

I have the most amazing parents in the world but maybe it is all those glances/inquiries/suggestions/hints of disappointment/concern/discussions (lecture) and constant "you should consider's" that put me over the edge.  Out of all the wonderful things I have accomplished and seen in my life I am still plagued by the What If's, the Un's and Should Have's.  Whoever said "everything happens for a reason" is a jackass and I for one am sick to death of hearing that quote as an answer to any episode in your life that you just can't get your mind around.  Whether or not it is true, I don't want to hear anyone say that unless you know the darn "reason" and will share that with me, because I will stay up for the rest of the night and the next night and the next trying to figure out just what that reason is.  My mother simply saying "Maybe you should have waited a year before starting college; do you think that things would have ....." catapults me into Analyze My Life world, where I have a nice little comfy spot just waiting for me.  Don't they know by now you can't plant a little seed of doubt about my life decisions and then just walk away!  Seriously people have mercy!

All those things left unsaid to people in my life, plans unfinished, amazing places unseen, words unheard.  If only I had stayed in one town, taken another route, asked a different question, given another answer.  All the things I should have tried, people I should have been kinder too, places I should have stayed away from.  How different would my life be now?  Better?  Worse?  The same but with different looking characters?  I envy those that just take life as it comes without question or doubt.  Me, I'll just sit and think about that for a very long while.

Can I get that in a pill?

My mother has been slowly going through her attic and the closets of my old room so usually each time I see her she has another box of my mementos for me; basically this breaks down to a box filled with every scrap of my life pre 1992.  From these goodies I would consider myself a dedicated packrat / borderline hoarder of the past.  Most things are the typical movie ticket stubs, newspaper articles, Candy-Gram notes, game tickets, programs, matchbooks, every card I have ever received and restaurant menus with some painful old love notes (cringe) thrown in.   It brings back fond times while I pour over all the little ditties I painstakingly packed away so in the future I would remember every sublime moment in my life.  Sadly my memory isn't what it once was and this is not the case, but are you really supposed to cherish that menu from Annabelle's 20 years later?  Well, maybe that one. 

I admit that showing Annie my old Homecoming ribbons brings a smile to my face but it quickly turns upside down when I get to the pictures.  When did I get so old and wasn't I turning 18 just the other day?  Mixed in the muck of my teen years is a framed photograph of me taken in my high school breezeway; probably given to an old boyfriend I undoubtedly pestered to death until he dumped me along with a box of my crazy tokens of love on my front stoop.  Though I can't blame the poor fella I wish he would have just thrown that picture away because it is haunting me and keeping me up at night.  There she sits on my dresser giving me the evil eye with a pestering what in the hell happened and those pants don't look like the size 6 I saw you in last.  Topping off the dreaded back in the day picture Carl comments how pretty I looked with Annie chiming in with a you sure don't look like that now.  Seriously ... the girl must not want to be fed anymore. 

It's not that I really expect to be the same size as I was when I was 18 because I don't, but jeez how did I get to be so lazy?  L-A-Z-Y.  I went from playing tennis for hours, swimming, running, band and drill team practice in the freaking heat to getting up off a couch to fill my red plastic cup with Natural Light from someone's keg and basically nothing else.  That was the beginning of the end.  I should have hitchhiked across the country like I planned right after high school.  Now I am a pile of slouchy, squishy, eating off the kid's plates, caffeine addicted, potty mouth, nose wrinkling, granny panties, whiny, blob-meister, can I please just get a pill for that ... mess with a capital M.  Damn that picture! That girl is sitting her skinny self on my shoulder badgering me every time I sit on the couch to watch old episodes of Grey's Anatomy again instead of riding my bike to the beach.  Good God she drives me nuts, no wonder the poor guy dropped her like a hot potato!  I want all the rewards and results of just good ol basic hardwork and exercise without actually having to lift a finger or leg or squat or sweat.  You know?

This latest neurotic installment stems from visits with old friends that I have not seen in a long time; as in since my glory days.  Who doesn't want to look their best which is code for  looking exactly the freaking same as you did a decade ago.  I know I do.  But for the life of me all the energy I put into complaining about my current status not one ounce do I save to walk my sloth self down the stairs and onto the treadmill that lives barely 30 feet away.  Isn't that horrible?  My house is than 1 mile to the beach but rather than slip on the tennies for a quick stroll, I browse the web for a pill I could buy that miraculously zaps the fat off your ass and hopefully won't kill you in the process.  What good is it to have a great bum if its face down in your coffin?  Thinking of all the money I have spent on workout videos makes me hungry for a HoHo and what good are they anyway unless Julian Michaels is going to jump out of the screen and pull me off that chair.  Lazy Mazy .. that's who I am.  Honestly if I thought drinking a gallon of honey infused with cayenne pepper or whatever it is Beyonce drinks, would make every man look at Trey and think how in the hell did he score her? and every woman green with envy I would drink it.  Every. Single. Day.

In a month I'm going to Hot-Lanta to visit another blast from the past pal and besides typing my post, I have spent the day looking on the Internet for ways to lose a couple million pounds in 80 days.  There was an interesting video I tried to watch also but really couldn't hear anything over the crunch of my chips.  Looks like I'll be wearing black.  Lots and lots of black.  And Spanx.

A Chuckle A Day

Laughing is one of my most favorite things and it is something that I do on a regular basis whether someone is with me or not.  I'll be just cruising down the road and will start to think of something that happened years ago, and suddenly I am in full blown hysterics all over again.  Personally I think I have a decent laugh but have noticed that my "laughing traits" have changed thru the years.  Am I a pretty laugher? (Is this even a word?)  Absolutely not, but I put in the effort and hopefully get points for that.  As my friends know I start with a good giggle which evolves into a more hearty/slight cackle with a head throw back, and for the real doozies I go into a full on silent but crying laugh with sporadic snorts.  This can last for an extended period of time where I will randomly get tickled and start this process all over again should I think of it later in the day.

Another one of my favorite things to do is visit a local Hallmark to read all the funny cards and just crack up; this can go on all day.  Growing up my sister Katherine and I would stop in Hallmark and then spend the next hour reading (out loud) cards to each other from across the store absolutely in tears from laughing so hard.  After we had totally screwed up the placement of each card in the "Funny" section we would stop over at the good ol Baskin Robbins for a double scoop of chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, in a cup.  Please and Thank You!  Gosh I loved doing that!  Those were the days when greeting cards were actually funny, instead of now when they are just down right terrible.  Who knew the one that says "I looked all around the world and all I could find was this card" had such an extended self life?  It wasn't funny in 1969 and still isn't today.  Geesh.  Why doesn't Chelsea Handler, Jimmy Fallon or Tina Fey have a line of greeting cards?  Those would be money.

While I'm on the subject of laughing I will share 2 awesome memories of mine.  Gosh I'm getting tickled just thinking of them again.  The first one is the time I had some friends over and we were playing tag in the pitch black darkness inside my house.  (Don't ask, I have no idea why we thought this would work)  I had just gotten my multi-colored heart comforter so it must've been when I was in junior high;  my bed was situated a little off center from my bedroom door to where you would walk in and then step to the left to jump on the bed.  Anywho, there I was laying on the floor furthest from the door beside my bed while my friend Kelly was in Black Knight stealth mode in search for everyone.  (hee hee this is hilarious)  There I am barely breathing when I hear her creeping into my room, and with a leap she exclaimed "AH HA!!" only to totally miss my bed and land with a ferocious thud on the floor.  Oh my goodness it was stupendous.  Poor girl, it had to hurt but good Lord it was pure comedy.  The second one (God this is fantastic) was when my sister and I were playing flashlight tag (again in the pitch black darkness) with some kids at my Dad's company cookout.  So there we are crouched down along with this other guy, when he turns to Katherine and I and whispers "shhhh you stay here, I'll be right back".  Poor fella stands, turns and Carl Lewis' himself directly into a huge pine tree.  You cannot even imagine the hysterical fits that came over Katherine and I.  Unbelievable.

After a recent Facebook post of mine prompted my "friends" to mention some hilarious things that I had forgotten, I thought it would be fun to write some down for a nice Saturday laugh.   

• My 8th grade mushroom haircut with 5 inch rat tail.  Horrific
• The time my tire came off my VW golf and bounded down Main Street in Hope Mills during the bumper to bumper traffic from the 4th of July firework festival.
• Senior trip to Florida while swimming in the ocean.  I jumped up out of a wave, my bikini top did not.
• Sneaking back into my house on Range Rd and scraping all the skin off the front of my legs climbing back into my window.  Damn cedar siding.
• Jumping up on stage at Michelle Gillis' wedding reception and dancing/lip synching to Tequilla.  Totally unsolicited entertainment.  To this day I don't know why I did that.
• A quick bathroom break in the woods driving home from Fuquay with Misty Gillis and my husband.  I returned with a man-eating spider on my back.  Us 3 running around the car screaming while they are hitting me and the spider.
• Driving my sister and her friend to school one foggy morning.  Pulled onto the road and straight into our school bus who didn't have on their lights.  People wrote Hey Sally on the fogged up bus windows.  Oh yeah, and the driver was my lunch lady that day. 
• Nightly shows in Greenville of me singing and dancing to Passionate Kisses by Mary Chapin Carpenter to Steph, Misty, Shannon and our entire apartment complex.  Still have no idea why I did this.
• Riding bikes with Trey down the main street in  Southport after the 4th of July parade, when our handlebars crossed and I went face first into the pavement in front of the entire state of NC.  Thank goodness I had been drinking all day, helped with the pain.
• Trying to give myself a bikini wax.  Enough said.
• My bachelorette party in Myrtle, I got on stage and danced at Senior Frogs to Mustang Sally.  good grief
• First keg stand on Brent Road, trying to look cool in front of all the cute NC State boys.  Went up, came down and puked all over the guy in front of me.  classy
• Jumping on the back of some creepy old man's Harley at Laura's beach house, burned my leg on the exhaust on the way home.  Soaked my leg in the keg barrel and kept on drinking.  2nd degree burns. 
• Dancing on top of the table for my 21st birthday at the beach and showing everyone in the restaurant my panties.  On purpose I think which is even worse.
• Started sliding backward down the slope on my ski's, a darn tree branch when up the back of my jacket and thru the collar.  I was stuck in a hole like that until Trey stopped laughing and helped me, all the while our family was laughing down from the ski lift overhead.
• Slid down the ski slope backwards again and down into a deep ditch for the light poles in a pike position.  Stayed like that until Trey stopped laughing and helped me out.
• Tried to be a smarty pants and cut thru the parking lot at Tweetsie only to step waist deep into a mud hole.  Again was stuck until everyone stopped laughing.

Say It Ain't Dough

I am having an affair with a ravishing Italian and he is delicious in every way.  Each time I pass him just casually laying there beckoning me with his crisp exterior I must stop and take a nibble.  Or two.  Honestly I cannot help myself.  Just a whiff of his sweet toasty aroma sends me into sensory overload and I must have him ... now. 

My lover and I met on a rainy day in the bakery section of the new Food Lion in town while I was trolling the aisles for something to catch my eye.  He was nestled under the soft glowing lights amongst many others but I only wanted him.  Our connection was instant and the moment the attendant lifted him up and over to my basket I knew we were meant for each other and would be together if only for one blissful day and night.  Sneaking him into my home and finding a good hiding place is relatively easy, however waiting until everyone is asleep so we can be alone is pure torture.  As the minutes tick away at a snail's pace I anxiously await for my husband's eyes to close.  The moment I hear the slightest snore I pounce into the kitchen like a cheetah ninja warrior and whip out the Extra Virgin (how ironic) Olive Oil faster than you can say Rachel Ray.  With my trusty cracked pepper mill and evoo I smother the closest platter with my love elixir, pour myself a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, hoist him onto the countertop to dip and devour every last bite. 

I am the Black Widow of bread and there isn't a slab of dough that is safe while I am around.  Thank goodness I am married because there isn't another man alive that would consider having me for a wife once he saw the bread basket carnage I leave behind.  Whether it be the richest sourdough or crouton-like stale heel still floating around the house, I will dip or slather whatever is handy and will eat it.  No questions asked.  Get between me and some garlic knots and you may just lose a digit or two.  Now the Jews can keep their rye, but you may drop me off at the Macaroni Grill anytime where baskets of heavenly rosemary goodness await. 

Why o why Lord could I not have been born with the gift of vegetable addiction?  Seeing a woman eat a lush green salad is sexy; hankering down on some biscuits and gravy is not.  It's a sickness I tell you.  How could I possibly be held responsible for all the extra baggage (in my ass) that my love for Italian loafs brings to my once svelte frame?  Is it my fault that all of MY salads are accompanied by croutons larger than a small dog?  What creepy skinny person would attempt to have a bowl of pinto beans without a hunk of iron skillet cornbread doused in heart attack inducing butter? 

You can keep your fancy smancy Mediterranean Orzo Salad with Feta Vinaigrette but please pass the leftover pizza crusts to me.  Quickly.

Darn you Phil Collins

That darn Phil Collins kills me every time; it never fails.  Every single time I'm driving down the beach front with my windows open just minding my own business happy as a clam, a Phil Collins song will come on the radio and I turn into a total hot mess.  There is absolutely nothing for me to be weepy about, but there I am in all my teary runny nose glory singing Against All Odds at the top of my lungs to no one in particular.  Oh .. and the best are One More Night and Groovy Kind of Love.  Just one opening measure of those and up goes the car radio and down go all the windows, and off I go driving up and down the roads just singing at the top of my lungs like my heart is breaking in two until the song ends and I can finally go home an emotional wreck.  At first my husband would give me that "What in the Hell?" look each time I came home all sniffled up and bleary eyed.  Now I just get the "that darn Phil Collins song" eye roll.  It's not like I can help it!  But grief, I am a little loony about them.

In my defense I have had some doozy relationships, although none that I can remember would warrant the total dissolution of my pride as I lean out my car window just singing into the darkness, while poor vacationers are out on their rented porches covering their ears.  I mean really?! Just one more night?  What in the heck is one more night going to get anybody?  You tell a guy you just want one more night, and he's thinking, Lord he'll give you just one more night just as long as you promise to leave by daybreak and to never call again.  Am I right?  Umm Hmmm.  I thought so.  One more night is nothing but a whole lot of trouble.  Trust me.  I know this.

And Groovy Kind of Love,  my goodness I love that song.  Someone plays that song around me and we might as well get married, cause I'm never leaving.  Nope.  No "one more night" for this chick.  Good ol' Phil knows just what to say and if he could just wait until I'm asleep to come on the radio I would get a lot more done around here.  It's just so time consuming to stop what I am doing so I can drive around the island singing, and then spending the rest of the evening analyzing old relationships that I haven't thought about since the last darn Phil Collins song came on the radio! 

I really should be medicated.

I'll Wine If I Want To

Today I had just one of "those days".  You know where you feel that nothing is going quite like you had planned, your yard looks like shit and you don't have the energy to even care what your neighbors may be thinking of you.  I'm totally bummed about the fact that I will never be an Olympian, I am a total slug and I refuse to play tennis (which I adore) until I can fit my hind-end into a cute little tennis skirt; which at the rate I'm going will be a very long time.  I'm talking decades here.  My career is a total joke, and that just sucks.  All I wanted was to be in real estate, and I worked sooo hard to accomplish that goal and earn my license.  When I finally (and I do mean FINALLY) passed that freaking test, it was one of the happiest days of my life, and the following 2 years were fantastic too.  Of course in famous procrastination Sally fashion, I didn't get into the market with all of my now "well off" smart friends when I had the chance.  Oh No!  Let's wait 6 years so we can screw around and be a beach bum and THEN get into real estate just as the market is crapping the bed.  Oh My God talk about bad decisions central.

So here I am on a mission to drink my worries away and all I have in the house are those individual frozen margarita things that I am slurping down as fast as my curly straw will let me.  Nevermind that they only have 5oz. of wine in the packet, a small but important detail written in the tiniest script on the bottom of the label.  Thankfully I've started early so hopefully by the time the sun rises on Wednesday I will be singing the Pina Colada Song to my weeds.

My husband went to bed long ago, weary from hearing me complain about our yard, how messy our house is, why I'm the only one who remembers to buy toilet paper, asking how much longer it will take to fix the pool, how he crashed another computer putting virus protection crap on it and now we have to use our 1867 laptop on dial up, how come he never wants to sit and talk anymore, why is curly hair never in style ..... I don't know what has gotten into him.  It's MY bad day after all you know. 

And to top off this delicious day of crapness, I don't have anything clean to wear to work tomorrow which is my fault since I'm the only one who does laundry around here.  When I graduated from high school my dream was to take the summer and drive across country before going to college.  Knowing me, I probably never would have done it even if I had the opportunity but how awesome would that have been?!  I could have saved myself from a whole lot of heartache and disappointments, but whose to say that my life wouldn't have turned out exactly the same but maybe now I would be living in San Antonio or Seattle?  I'll just stay here by the ocean thank you very much and have a little pity party with my yellow swirly straw and frozen wine cooler contraption in a rat-a-tat nightgown.  It's too bad the kids finally went to bed, I could complain about that too.

Remembering the Fourth of July

The 4th of July is a magical time of the year for me and holds many wonderful memories in my heart.  Just thinking about all of my 4th's over the past 37 years brings joy to my soul and a few laughs as well.  I hope that everyone is enjoying their 4th of July with friends and family!  Maybe you too will take some time to sit down and remember some of your favorite memories and they will bring joy to your heart and a smile on your face too. 
Happy 4th of July!!

Here are some of my fondest memories~

Riding in the back of my Pop Pop's truck at Lake Waccamaw with my sister and cousins, carrying Grandmother's famous lemon pound cake and blueberry cobbler to my Aunt Mary's where the entire Wayne Family gathered for the annual 4th of July reunion.  Fat, juicy watermelons bobbing in the an ice cold well just waiting to be devoured by us kids, while danging our tan legs off the pier.  My Aunt Ethel's homemade 12 layered cake, so sweet I can't believe our teeth didn't fall out.  Gentle lake breezes blowing the red and white checkered tablecloths that covered miles of picnic tables with the most delicious food I've ever had.  The annual race for the only hammock, diving off the end of Aunt Mary's pier with my cousins, my Aunt Juanita wearing her beautiful 4th of July scarf and the divine peace that only comes with a good days swim, being kissed and hugged 100 times by those that love you and a belly full of food.  

Once I moved to the beach Trey and I started making some of our own memories.  I remember my first year not being at the lake because I wasn't prepared for the 4th of July traffic and couldn't get off the island!  Trey buying the tackiest Hawaiian shirt and I a hippie dress that we found at Local Call or Bert's Surf Shop so we could roam around the Yacht Basin at night in our sunburned slendor.  Packing a backpack full of beer and riding our bikes all day around downtown Southport, while weaving in and out of the parade procession.  Stopping by friends houses for a visit and cookouts after hanging out at Beach Day, while Trey competed in the Volleyball and Horseshoe Tournament.  Wrecking my bike in the middle of Howe Street because I was too busy waving at a friend passing by!  Ouch!  Dancing to Brown Eyed Girl at the Tiki Hut by the Southport Marina, and milling about the Riverfront greeting old friends by Provision Company while we pulled up some grass for the fireworks.

Now that I'm older with children we enjoy those fireworks on the other side of the river at The Baptist Assembly.  Those same fireworks still light up the sky in the most vibrant colors, only with a 5 second delay and a child chattering about their favorites.  (The buzzing bees are still mine)  Beach Days are spent with the children in sack races and watermelon rolling contests and mommy-ish red, white and blue attire have replaced those ridiculous yet comfy hippie dresses.  4th of July mornings are spent driving to the lake from our home, instead of waking up in my old room at the lake house, the annual reunion is now hosted by my parents at our lake house and hamburgers off the grill have replaced those pimento cheese finger sandwiches and homemade ham biscuits.  My children and their cousins are jumping off the pier now while I reminisce with great-aunts and uncles in those same heavenly breezes, beach bags filled with extra clothes for the kids, snacks and the ever-present camera have replaced those backpacks filled with beer.

I wouldn't have it any other way, but I sure do miss my grandparents and watching my Grandmother in her kitchen baking her famous blueberry cobbler.

Way Past The 9 Month Mark

IamstillwearingmaternityclothesandIhaven'tbeenpregnantin6years

As incredibly painful it is to admit that, it is most definitely true.  You want to know the most horribly awful thing about it?  I loaned my maternity wardrobe to my sister-in-law and then 5 years later when she returned it to pass along to others, I didn't put the clothes in the attic .... I just put them back on my body!  And they fit!  Talk about depressing.  Uggh.  I'm not crazy and I knew that I was wearing them again but it really didn't hit me how pathetic it was until a few days ago at the ballfield.  There I was chatting with other team moms thinking to myself how cute they all looked in  little summery tops and shorts with snazzy sandals; all the while I had on my Mamba Jamba Big Momma tent of a tee-shirt, a maternity jean skirt and maternity undergarments.  Really Sally?!  Hellz Bellz.  AND to top it off, instead of packing that entire wardrobe up and walking the 5 miles to the local Thrift Store to drop it off I thought .. Hey!  I should put this on my blog!  It's sick I tell ya.  S I C K.

It's my husbands fault for this extreme abuse of decade-old-maternity-clothes-wearing nonsense.  He was standing right there with me in Motherhood and helped me pick out these darn things while I was pregnant with Carl in 2000 and freaking 1!  Hello??  We have pictures in the house of me wearing that same jean skirt pregnant as all get-out with Carl and again with Annie in 2005.  The damn thing has elastic on it, and he watches me put it on again and again and again!  Where may I ask is the delicate yet deliberate comment of, "Sally, honey, love of my life, most amazing person in the entire world ever ... why don't you pack that maternity skirt away and try something a little more .... current?"   Nope.  Not a word.  Instead he says I look very pretty.  What?!   Yes, I would look pretty if I was PREGNANT!  But oh no, there he goes, letting me walk out that door wearing clothes for 2.  Shameful.  If you can't depend on your husband for a little reality check now and then, who can you count on?  He probably wouldn't even notice if I didn't talk to him for a week afterwards.

So here I am in Way-Post-Maternity La La Land digging tops and dresses out of bags that should be packed away for friends and family, trying to see if anything still fits and being truly disappointed when something doesn't.  Can you even imagine?  Wanting to take a swig of wine each time that adorable little wrap-around number that I wore at 6 months, will not wrap around this mother 6 years later is disturbing.  Hell, I should be drinking with thoughts like that.  Drinking an Atkins Diet Shake for Cripes Sakes!  Unfortunately it is goodbye maternity clothes time and I have some packing to do.  I probably should feel sorry for Trey, he has been a good sport with the compliments even when I clearly did not deserve them.  Wonder how long he would have let this absurd behavior go on?   Maybe the real question is ... is the man blind?

And those who can't sing .... sing

Unfortunately on the day I was born God decided to be a little stingy with his gifts.  He gave me 10 fingers and toes, perfect eyesight, 2 ears, my health ... yada yada yada ... but he dropped the ball on a really good one.  The gift of a beautiful voice.  Maybe God should have talked to me about this upgrade while we were hanging out up in heaven and I had loads of time on my hands.  I would consider sacrificing a little pinkie toe for an amazing voice that would put Whitney Houston (pre Bobby Brown) to shame.  What good are those rascals for anyway other than getting snagged on every coffee table from here to Kalamazoo?  It's just not fair.  Even though I am deathly afraid of being out in public as the center of attention, I would force myself to belt out a Journey song in any random place, and I would sing all the time so that he would know how thankful I am.  There would no longer be spoken words from me, everything that I wanted to say would be in the form of a song.  "Let's get ready for bed and brush your teeth" would be sung to the tune of Under The Boardwalk, and the kids would finally listen to me.  It would be heavenly.

Like 99% of the population that cannot sing I sometimes have a lapse in judgement and with my hearing where I really think that my voice maybe isn't so bad.  (it is)  This happens usually on my daily commute when I have an hour of alone time bliss, and I can sing without the eye rolling from my children.  I prefer anything by Journey, Air Supply, The Pretenders, REO Speedwagon, Ronnie Milsap, Heart, Steely Dan, Suzy Bogguss and Al Green with Born To Run by "The Boss" and American Girl by Tom Petty being my all-time go to songs.  I dare you to tell me that when Separate Ways by Journey plays on the radio you are not blasting that song and singing at the top of your lungs.  Impossible not to.  Here is where my problem begins.  After a lucky morning of an incredibly awesome morning playlist I really start to think that just maybe I actually CAN sing!  And, not only can I hold the tune, that I sound pretty darn fantastic!  Anyone that is in the car with me or is unfortunate enough to be stuck beside me in traffic will undoubtedly agree that this is not the case.  I am awful.  Just painful.  Years of holding my one woman rendition of Back On The Chain Gang by The Pretenders has seriously damaged my recognition of tone to the point of being totally out of tune on the simplest of  little ditties.  I murder Twinkle Twinkle Little Star; and I know this because just as I am considering skipping work and driving straight on to Nashville, I turn the radio volume down and my worst fears are realized.  There will be zero recording contracts in my future.

All of us crazy people out there being ridiculous on the local Karaoke stage singing Aretha Franklin who can't hold a note and should not be singing in public period, are always the ones that do.  Man, if I had a decent voice I would walk into the nearest McDonalds and just put on a show like no other.  Can't you just imagine ordering off the Dollar Menu when all of a sudden some lady breaks bad with the National Anthem, Whitney Houston style!?  How killer would that be?  I totally would do that.  All. The. Time.  One moment I would be checking out at my local Food Lion and the next just going to town with the theme song to Annie.  "Tomorrow tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow, you're only a daaayyy aaaa wwwayyyy"!  Bet me five bucks I wouldn't. 

So one day when I'm reincarnated, you're children's children see me walking around in Budapest minus my pinkie toes, they better be ready for some Tom Petty cause I'll be bringing down the house.

Hey old people, go sit down!

There is nothing worse in this world than an old lady show-off.  Yucky stinky feet, over-ripe bananas and gum left underneath a desk are chocolate covered raindrops compared to watching a lady older than Methuselah out running in the heat of summer.  This travesty needs to stop.  Now.  The morning drive to my son's summer camp is completely ruined since I am forced to cruise at 30 mph past old women and men exercising in the 100 degree heat while I am cool as a cucumber in my AC.  How can I possibly enjoy my breakfast of leftover pizza and can of Coke with them just staring at me, giving me the "You should be the one out here running Missy" stink eye?  What once was a treasured summer tradition and a favorite part of my day; driving along the oceanfront watching the waves crash on the shore is now nothing more than a drive of shame. 

How much longer must this game of "In Your Face" last?  We get it already.  Old People of the World ... You Are Awesome!  There, I said it.  Done.  You walked 65 miles to school in the winter without shoes while carrying your drunkard father and pulling the old mule with the corn you alone harvested by hand.  Our generation is lazy, disrespectful, brazen, obnoxious and doesn't know the meaning of hard work.  Please allow me to say a gigantic THANK YOU and please go back to your house and sleep in, for gracious sakes you deserve it.  Why must you torture us young adults who are exhausted from staying up too late spying on old crushes and people we haven't spoken to in 20 years on Facebook, and haven't the strength to conjure up any breakfast other than last night's leftovers and coffee that is black as night?  It must be a "beach living" thing that rejuvenates their old souls, encouraging them to break out those well worn running shoes and blaze a trail past the young folk.  Maybe they have forgotten that the gold watch on their wrist was a retirement present, and was supposed to be used for keeping up with time on the ol' golf course. 

Surely there must be something interesting to take up an old lady's time besides out riding her bike at the crack of dawn when it should be me out there sweating my ka-tush off.  There is a hole slew of those old bike riding bandits, making their way up and down my street and taking up 2 lanes of traffic while I am outside yelling at my kids.  Isn't Wheel of Fortune on or aren't there some old people vitamins that should be taken with dinner around 5:15?  Just a wee glimpse of grandparents on the tennis courts in the middle of the summer heat, with their cute little saucy tennis skirts that once graced my now fat ass, makes me want to hurl.  I fly home enraged with a sense of tennis court entitlement, grab my racket bag and out the door I go to hit some tennis balls against the backboard for hours if I must.  I will let those show-offs know that I too can withstand the heat and have no intention of allowing them all the glory of a perfect sweaty match.  No Sir.  If some 85 year old can handle it, so can I.  5 minutes later I faintly remember leaving my oven on and must get home to just check; once there I realize that Surprise, it is time for my afternoon nap.

We hear you loud and clear seniors, you have made those of us with untouched workout tapes feel like bums.  Now, please go home and knit so I can get back to researching the new diet fad, where I may lose weight without actually having to get off my couch. 

Is there an echo in here?

We have an echo in our house whose name is Annie and she is trying to send me to the looney bin.  If it wasn't for the fact that I do not have any clean underwear, I would seriously consider packing my bags tonight.  I have thoroughly looked over the hospital discharge records from her birth and there was no mention of a Repeat Button located anywhere on her body, however I am quite certain she has one.  There is not 1 request made by me that is not repeated verbatim with a little sassy twist added for special effect.  Me - "Annie, please go brush your teeth, put on your nightgown and get ready for bed".  [Hip out, head cocked, shoulder dipped, eyebrow arched] "Go brush my teeth, put on my nightgown and get ready for bed?"  "Right now?"  (It always ends with a "right now?")  Me - "Annie please grab your bookbag, put on your coat and let's go because we are running late".  [sassy stance]  Annie - "Grab my bookbag, put on my coat and let's go because we are running late?"  "Right now?"   For the love of God, Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, the old man down the street and John Lennon, why can't the child just freaking go and do what I say in silence?!  Mr. Roger's Neighborhood; it drives me up the wall.

Oh boy does she have her father snowed; just wrapped around her little Repeat Button like a ribbon on a present.  I would not be surprised if one day my husband just drops me off at the front of Walmart to go "park" and never comes back, and I couldn't really blame him.  Can you imagine the scene playing out on a regular basis with Trey walking in the front door while I am running around in a fever pitch, screeching about how no one will just DO WHAT I ASK THE FIRST TIME, with wild eyes and my hair standing on end?  In all fairness to me, he never fails to just miss another marathon of "I know you are but what am I" or "Annie would you please", that would drive a hibernating bear from his cave and totally justifies my latest freak-out. 

Good ol' Annie Girl never sets her Repeat Button in overdrive for her Daddy.  Nope.  She is a smart little cookie and I am sure there are a multitude of interesting repeats in our future,  just as long as I can stay on this side of the Padded Room.  Annie and I look like something straight out of a made for TV movie, with her calmly walking behind me, devilishly repeating every request I make while I am ransacking the medicine cabinet for those last few Xanax left over from my wedding 12 years ago.  Classic.

Maybe they'll get Eva Mendes to play my me.

Next time I'll wear more red lipstick And less clothes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my least and most favorite day of the week.  Family Beach Day and the dreaded Bathing Suit Day.  Yuck!  Having to squeeze my squishy self into something that is the most unflattering piece of nylon and spandex is my own version of Hell on Earth.  Which brings me to this shocking confession.  I cannot believe I am going to say this on the world wide web, but [deep breaths] this is so hard!  Ahem [another deep breath, stand up straight] ... "My name is Sarah Alice Yates Stidham and I would like to go on record saying that I should have listened to my mother, Martha Wayne Clark more when I was younger and that she may have actually known what she was talking about".  Whew, that was painful.

Let me break it down like this ... I should have worn more red lipstick and less clothes when I had the chance.  Actually skip the less clothes part .. I should have just walked around completely naked.  all-the-time.  Am I suggesting that I was a stunning beauty like Sophia Loren?  No, absolutely not, but there were a few years tucked away in my lifetime that this old girl was easy on the eyes.  Naturally I feel that way now looking back over old pictures and remembering how self conscious I was with my appearance back then, and now realizing that I had an attractive little body going on.  What's not to love about creamy wrinkle-free skin, pre-children perky breasts and curvy hips, a firm little tush, flat tummy, shapely legs and arms?  Am I right?!   Oy Vey why didn't I listen to my mother?!  I haven't had a lifetime of hotness but I feel confident saying that somewhere in between say 1990 and 1997 when I was in the best shape of my life, I should have worn my hair down, slapped on some Revlon Red and gone about my daily life au naturale.  My mother warned me that I would regret not wearing the cute skirts that showed off my toned legs and the fitted little dress numbers that looked great on me but I was too shy to wear.  She was so right by saying that time goes by so fast and we would all look back and realize how beautiful we really were.  Darn it all!  I haven't worn a skirt 3 inches above my knee since Clinton was in office. 

My poor husband, what a little trooper he is.  Unbeknownst to his little skinny ass that can still wear the same pants from high school, he met me on the downswing.  I moved to the beach still looking pretty decent, we started dating and then .. Hocus Pocus .. I'm a fatty-boom-baladdy.  Basically my metabolism left on vacation and I haven't seen that wench since.  Why is it that the ladies in need of additional coverings wear too few clothes and those who would look so attractive in less clothing look like they are modeling their entire wardrobe?  Maddening.  Every season I unpack my old high school jeans and I still have my favorite black dress I wore to my first formal in college that I have every intention of being cremated in, hanging in my closet.  But, I will always regret getting rid of this red dress I had in the 11th grade.  It was a crepe red criss-cross in the back sassy number I purchased from The Limited and wore for my job interview with The Express.  Boy I looked smashing in that dress with my red shoes and matching red scrunchie if I do say so myself.  Got that job too.  Never wore it again.  idiot. 

Surely there is a kid out there in the world that will invent a Time Machine before I kick the bucket.  You can be sure that when they do, Sally will be grabbing her trusty Revlon Red,  jumping in, setting that dial on May 12, 1991 and will be naked faster than you can say Mom Jeans.

If you don't have anything nice to say, then come sit by me

Gossip - noun.  Idle talk or rumor, especially about the personal or private affairs of others: the endless gossip about Hollywood stars

Let me be the first to admit that I am a gossip whore.  Yes I am.  It is a terrible flaw and something I am not proud of, but I love hearing about other people and their private affairs, regardless if I know them personally or not.  Could not care less.  I can't help it.  Some people collect bobblehead dolls or shoes, I collect gossip.  It doesn't necessarily need to be all kinds of crazy drama gossip even though that is what I prefer.  No, I am quite happy knowing that somebody from another town, that I will never meet, just broke their leg jumping across a busy highway on a pogo stick.  Thrilled.  Love it.  Tell me more.  What's the best about gossip is that no one will admit they enjoy hearing and delivering it; that by admitting you are a bona-fide Gossip Junkie it will land you on the local Leper list.  Heck no Sista!  Come sit by me and tell me something good. 

I look over all of the tattler websites for the latest celebrity news, flip thru the People and US Magazines while standing in the checkout line and comb my local newspaper for the Crime Section so I can be updated on all the latest delinquent news in my small town.  Small towns are the best.  We all complain about how everyone knows your personal business but sometimes it can come in handy.  Isn't it good to be in the know?  And I just can't get enough of the latest Jennifer Aniston boyfriend saga.  Does she really have a boyfriend?  Are she and Courtney Cox on the outs?  Could there be a Brad and Jen secret liaison in the future?  I need to know these things.  Sometimes I catch myself discussing what dress Anne Hathaway should have worn for the Oscars and that I prefer seeing her in deep hues as if I am her personal stylist.  Goodness I am nuts.  Of course there are strict gossip rules that must be followed. If someone tells you to not tell another soul, you totally can't.  Except maybe your husband because you are dying to tell someone and husbands never listen to you anyway. (I would never do that)  Nope, just having my gossip tank full of delicious tidbits about some woman who is in your neighbor's Sunday School class, that was busted smoking a joint in the non-fiction section of the local library, with the twin brother of the Mayor who just got home from Rikers during the 4th of July parade is right up my alley.  Don't care if I never meet them, it's just good to know.

That is why I love me some Facebook.  Yes indeedy.  There is nothing better than to log on after a crap day and see someone's relationship melt down Jerry Springer style all over Facebook for the world to see.  Naturally it is also great to reconnect with old friends and to see pictures of their sweet family and all of the incredible spots they have visited because they actually finished college and have a super cool job and travel all over the world to places you'll never go because you are a loser but you really aren't jealous because that would be so lame.  Sorry, I got off track.  A shout-out to your kids is a must and some updates of an amazing weekend too, but I can do without the hourly my husband is awesome and words of wisdom.  It makes my week watching someone come completely undone (like myself) on a daily basis.  Aren't we all a little zany?  It can't just be me.  Yes please, on your horribly embarrassing weekend that someone else had to update you on because you funneled one too many Natty Lites.  Oh, and don't forget the pictures!  I'll need those so I can call the other Gossip Queens and we can discuss that halter top you wore and your 14 yr old daughter's mini skirt that you had no business wearing. 

This summer will be a scorcher and you know how crazy people get in the heat.  Umm Hmm.  I'm counting on it.

5 Miles to Meltdown City

I'm pretty sure I am on a little winding back road to Crazy Town, and it would be safe to say that my poor husband would agree.  Poor fella.  One minute I am charming, funny, nice, full of life, nice, pretty, thin, nice, happy, nice and the next ... SHAZAAMM ... I am totally bananas and want to start a whole new life, except with an already made 9 and 5 year old.  Trey (my husband) probably thinks that I am having a "Mid-Life Crisis" do-watchy, but I don't really like to say "mid-life" anything.  Mainly that is because who is to say when the middle of my life really is?  I am 37 now so does that mean I'm kicking the vodka bottle at 74?  And, most importantly, I would like to save my mid-life crisis for much later in life when my children have children so I can really shake things up a bit.  Don't judge me, those little white hair inducing rascals deserve it!  No, I'll have a nice little "Sally's going nuts" episode now and wait for the doozy later.

Now don't start dialing Dorothea Dix and looking up straight jackets just yet, I mean everyone is entitled to a little crazy-spell now and then right?  It's not like I want to buy a cow and start drinking unpasteurized milk in my tepee and shark tooth bedazzled Mu Mu with Corn and Barley, my children formerly known as Carl and Annie.  But I do find myself getting a little crazy itch where I want to sell everything, buy a suped-up Van and just cruise to parts unknown.  How hard could it possibly be?  Trey could grow a beard, I could start braiding my hair and wearing Stevie Nicks inspired attire, and the kids would let their hair grow long and wear bathing suits all day.  Sounds awesome to me.  Oh sure the novelty would wear off after the first tussle with a bear while salmon fishing in Washington State or run-in with a whale while trying out our twig and gum wrapper dingy in Maine, but who doesn't have those problems?  Bring it on!  The open road would be our teacher.  Learn by experience.  We could teach Annie to read from billboards! 

Probably my best bet would be to have a good old hissy-fit, complete with lots of bad words, alcohol, really ugly crying and an old Patrick Dempsey movie.  I should just get a Life Coach.  My own Jiminey Cricket that preferably looks like Brad Pitt, pre-Angelina thank you very much. 

A pickle for your thoughts

It all started with this gigantic pickle I saw in a new gas station last week.  Right there, smack dab in between the bucket of hot boiled peanuts and dancing solar powered flowers was this pickle display offering huge individually wrapped pickles called The Big Dill.  It was the biggest pickle I've ever seen.  That's what she said.  Oh my grief!  See!!  I'm out of control.  I cannot stop my crude thinking, it has been on hyper-mode ever since then.  Actually that is not entirely true. 

To be honest I have always had an odd sense of humor especially among friends, which most people do not understand or would appreciate.  Let me back up.  It's not like I go around talking about "things that go on behind closed doors" to the general public, but when you get a bunch of silly friends together, the subject is bound to be discussed at some point.  Now I admit that there are many areas and layers of one's personal "preferences of intimacy" that I will not talk about and honestly do not really understand, but in general I think over all it is a pretty funny conversation topic.  How can it not be?  I am 37 (aack) years young and I think it is safe to say that most people my age have been intimate with someone and have a funny story or two mixed in there somewhere.  Who doesn't want to talk and laugh about those times over lots of margaritas with your buddies, and that one poor friend someone brought along that you will never see again?  Nipple.  Bwaa-haha-hahaa  See? 

I really should behave and watch what I say more but I'm having a hard time doing so.  People and some things they say crack me up.  Yes, there have been a half dozen million times that something inappropriate was said by me while I was trying to be little Miss Comedian; afterwards I will do my very best to avoid that person for months in the hopes they will forget.  Alas, they never do.  For the most part I keep my comments and sophomoric thoughts to myself unless it's possible they will be appreciated and hopefully garnish a chuckle or snort.  Unfortunately I'm not that smooth at reading people and more often that not I look like a dirty-minded floozy.  Here is a good example of my lack of tact.   Two weeks ago at the ball field I was sitting with a group of other team Moms that I've known for a few years and shared a few chuckles with, only half listening to a story.  Earlier we had been joking about husbands, so when one lady said "I told Randy to come home quickly, that I really wanted him", it triggered some juvenile reply button in my head.   I piped in from the edge with a "Umm Hmm I BET you did"!   The looks I got could have froze rain.  Well, it was hilarious in my mind. 

This brings me back to the pickle.  The Big Dill.  There I was, standing at the cashier buying my can of coke when out jumps this wall of big dill pickles.  No, they were bigger than big, they were enormous!  (I'm not even going to say anything here)  I was stunned into silence.  Who knew a vegetable could be so, so, so big!  It was all I could do to just pay for my coke and get the dodge out of there.  Have you ever?  Of course I called a friend of mine right away and told her all about the 7 inch long wonder I found.  Out in public!  It's that hysterical!  I didn't dare take a picture or buy the darn thing for fear of causing unnecessary attention to myself and my snack.  Don't give me that look ... of course I know that many people enjoy a nice dill pickle now and then, but I'm sorry The Big Dill is borderline obscene and I love it!  X rated pickles in the Minuteman.  Pure Americana.  And you know the best part?  When I called later in the morning to save one so I could take a picture, they were sold out.  Now I am obsessed with finding inappropriate pickles and have luckily found Big Papa & Hot Mama, but the famous The Big Dill is still M.I.A. 

I bet someone had a fantastic lunch.

I know you can but why can't I?

After years of partially completed scrapbooks, ridiculous looking centerpieces and millions of dollars spent on nick-knacks and miles of ribbon that will never become frames or barrettes or tablecloths or whatever the heck was in that month's magazine, I give up.  It's time to admit to myself that I am the anti-Martha Stewart.  No matter how hard I try and all the time I spend reading and going over every little detail in the hopes to create this year's Easter basket masterpiece, it's safe to say that it ain't gonna happen.  Nope, it's not. 

It must have been the huge box of unused scrapbook ditties and swatches of mismatch fabric I unearthed in the back of my daughter's closet, along with the old stacks of Martha Stewart Living that has forced me to finally admit that I am just not crafty.  Uncrafty Sally.  Yep, that's my name.  Life can be so unfair sometimes, and you want to know the worst of it?  I was totally content making ordinary birthday cakes and purchasing Christmas ornaments until that dream killer Martha came along.  Oh Yes!  A simple chocolate cake with 16 candles and those edible Spiderman thingys will just not do.  Only good Mommies will make a 3 foot tall 3D talking Spiderman cake that will swing itself outside and onto the picnic table from the kitchen.  Only terrible blah people would hang store bought chintzy ornaments on their Christmas trees while the rest of the "Marthies"  hand roll and bake their 8 point intricate snowflake ornaments, finishing them off with crushed sea glass that you should've been collecting this entire year.  Who needs the stress?  I do.

Deep down in my simple cake soul, I want to be a Marthie.   I live on the beach.  I collect shells regularly and I have possessed a glue gun at some time point in my life, so you'd think that with all of my extra time (ha) I should be able to assemble a lovely shell wreath for the next door neighbor with little or no effort.  You would think.  Gathering all of the ingredients is not the problem, it is the execution that I have trouble with.  What "should" take a hour of your time is still sitting on my dinning room table months later along with the June 2002 partially monogrammed with cut potatos, tablecloth that was supposed to be someone's wedding present.  I can only hope that their marriage has lasted longer than my willingness to complete their gift.  To be honest it was hideous and quite possibly saved our friendship since the 'D' looked like a 'P' which was the last name initial of an ex-someone.  Who wants to explain that?  Check please!

I should start my own revolution where un-craftyness is celebrated and a lopsided, barely cooked strawberry surprise is the go-to desert of the month.  Having a dinner party with the chipped plates you've had since college and using the soup spoon from your daughter's play kitchen to serve your bag of salad, would bring cheers from your friends and make your dinner table the place to be!  Chicken nuggets and all.