Ninja Spiders and Olivia Newton-John

Before we get started please consider this:  If you enjoy quotes from the Bible, unicorns, rainbows, happy thoughts and are offended by potty language and a bad attitude I suggest you close this blog post and move along.  You've been warned ....

I should have known this morning would blow when I woke up with a sore throat and my never ending headache with the kids actually in a great mood and not whining at 6 am.  This never happens.  Maybe I was blindsided by Annie still holding onto my old Raggedy Ann that she found burrowed somewhere in her bottomless pit of stuffed animals.  My Grandmother made me that doll and just seeing her sweet little face loving my Raggedy Ann warped me into thinking this was an excellent start to our day and things were going to go smoothly.  Warning #1


Warning #2 came while I was in the shower saving and nicked my heel like a 13 year old girl.  Holy Cow that hurts.  Now I have gone through childbirth twice and in a pain toss-up between nicking the back of your heel or knee with a razor in soapy water or unloading a 7 lb. plus sack of potatoes from your who-ha, I'd go with the tator tots every time.  Labor hurts yes but then its over and done with; a razor cut is a continual bee sting reminder that shaving sucks every time the back of your shoe, hem of your pants or hand lotion touches that itty bitty slice.  


The next warning came when rummaging through our medicine box and the only Band-Aids I could only find were those shitty character ones that never stay on.  So there I go hobbling into the kitchen with half of my Snoopy Band-Aid flowing in the breeze, annoyed at myself for always purchasing the crappy ones out of guilt.  It never fails that by the time we reach that section in Walmart I feel so guilty for hollering at my kids and chasing them down practically tying them to the grocery cart, that I cave in and buy those Band-Aids I know are crap just to put a smile back on their faces.  Also I do this with the hope those Walmart employees watching me on the security cameras will not call DSS  for fear that I will in fact do what I promised on aisle 9 by giving every single freaking thing they have away if they do not stop freaking asking me for a new freaking toy every single freaking time we step into the freaking Walmart!  Damn.  So there we are at the breakfast table with my crap Band-Aid, happy suspicious children and the darn Ident-A-Kid packet that I have pushed aside for over a week and is now due with my $16.00.  I stand there taking a moment to justify not getting the ID cards for my precious children in case they are lost or kidnapped since we have up-teen million pictures of them; Belks has an awesome sale going on.  Be a responsible loving Mother and buy your children an ID card vs a new pair of black flats.  Hmmmm.  To not risk having their teachers think that I am a horrible mother I bought the ID cards.  Oh, the pressure.

The next warning, #3 came when I decided to wear a "trendy" shirt that is supposed to look good on me (so said the 80 year old sales lady) where the bottom of it keeps inching its way above my belt.  This is joined by a enormous oversized neckline that slides down over my shoulder exposing my 1989 black camisole and therefore makes me look like an Olivia Newton-John wannabe.  WTF?  Can a girl not get a break?  Apparently not.  I look like a homeless Mexican with sail-like sleeves that show my armpits which I hate and is making me sweat and I will reek by lunchtime.  That is if the stench can penetrate 20 layers of deodorant I schlepped on to prevent that from happening.  Why in the hell I ever thought this Pedro from South of The Border look was good for me I will never know.  To top off this monstrosity the heel of my favorite shoes broke this morning and I can't buy a new pair since I spent my money on those lousy ID cards.  Needy kids and old ladies do me in every single time.

Warnings #4 - #100 went down like this:

•  Trapped on the way to school listening to a screeching and whining argument over who had the best dance music Flo Rida (Carl) or Black Eyed Peas (Annie).  joy
• While stuck in the school car line an evil ninja spider attacked me with no jumping out of the car option, no opening the door and flailing around option.  Just had to sit there squirming and saying lots of bad words.
• Forced to search under my car seats where the ninja spider was hiding for car vacuum quarters.  
• Out of 4 car vacuums I picked the one with the broken hose.  Shit
• Used half of my WW points and 3 bucks on a biscuit with runny eggs (they have frozen eggs how is this possible?) 1 slice of bacon and zip for napkins.  Bastards.
• Watched the gas raise 15 cents with my "low fuel" light blinking all the way to work while people raced past me like that Indy 750 Danika Fitzpatrick or whatever her name is race car broad.  If one of those idiots kill me I'm going to be pissed.
• Assaulted by the smell of dead ass while climbing the front steps to my real estate job (what a joke) that has been here for over a week.  I would do some of my Law & Order SVU investigation tricks but I can't be bothered, I've got stuff to bitch about.
• Desperately wanting to buy a bag of chips and 2 liter of Coke but I can't take the risk of running out of gas since I didn't stop this morning and someone stopping to help me and seeing that I am alone with the entire convenience store stuffed into my car.       

 Oh and it's raining, I have curly hair and ran out of mousse this morning.  Perfect.              

Breathe if you can hear me

There was a time when I thought my purpose in this life was to have children so I could nurture them as they grown into lovely, kind and generous adults, basking in the glow of their beautiful lives knowing I had a small part in their happiness.  #1 I watch too many Hallmark movies and #2 I've booked too many flights to La La Land because nothing could be further from the truth.  

I have been given a permanent position in an evil scheme called Opposite Day.  Maybe you have heard of this exhaustive (for me)  little game; the newest version of waterboarding and all the rage with my kids.  No?  My little ratfinks think that it is a hoot and my only defense  is to ask of them what I would like not to be done, all the while praying in return the complete opposite "what I do want/need/like" will be greeted with full-fledged eagerness to hopefully irritate Mommy.  A request for them to stay inside is happily ignored and out they go to play while I relish some much needed silence.  "You don't have to eat dinner now" results in a scampering to the dinner table, "Yes you can stay up all night" equals a delicious murmur of "Mommy I'm ready for bed" and announcing I don't mind if a wet towel remains on a bedroom floor quickly becomes a mad dash for the bathroom towel rod.  Dr. Spock forgot to add a chapter on this delightful little game that could have really come in handy while I was choosing college courses and I might not have skipped over that Creative Thinking seminar.  Child Expert my big toe.  Hmpf

The cherry on top of this daily dose of fun fun fun is the I know you are talking to me because we live in a birdhouse where you can hear every little peep and also because you are looking directly at me and called me by name but I am going to pretend that I am deaf game.  Disney World has jack on this treasure trove of never ending good times, enjoyed by all ages.  Just ask my husband.  I know for a fact my children do not have the slightest hearing problem.  Should you utter the word "candy" within a 100 mile radius of where they are standing they will seek you out like a heat missile.  Once found they will pester you for some until you are scrounging for last year's Halloween treats hidden behind the All-Purpose Flour that was purchased for some long forgotten recipe.  Truth.  I will ask the kids 1,000 times to help with a simple chore or to even just brush their teeth and they will continue on with whatever they are doing at that time as if I never uttered a word.  An hour long conversation will have passed between my husband and myself (or so I thought) when I will realize he hasn't paid attention to not one syllable.  I could make plans to sell all our belongings and sail to Narnia in my 1975 Sunfish with him sitting right beside me and when I mention it again not a day later he looks at me as if I am crazy.  He's lucky I didn't mistake his silence for agreeing with me and sold all our crap in the meantime.  I bet if I peppered my sentences with the word sex I may just get a whole lot more accomplished around here.  "Hey Babe, you know the outside building sex really needs to be sex organized.  Would you sex please help me sex fold that basket of clothes that have been sex that you keep sex walking around?"  It's worth a try. 


Good times at the Stidham house.  Good Good Times.

Out with the old box of old stuff, and in to a new box filled with more old stuff that I put in a new box filled with more old stuff.

I am an unbalanced person.  Not "unbalanced" like I'm going to freak out on someone for cutting in line at Walmart by walloping them in the noggin with my bag of frozen peas, more like bananas-weird-slightly not normal "unbalanced".   On a side note: thank freaking 
Merriam Webster dictionary Gwen Stefani sang that stupid bananas song or I'd never spell that word correctly.  Ahem, as I was saying ...

Hello my name is Sarah Alice aka Sally and I am a judger.  I judge others.  Yeah, I said it.  I judge, judge, judgey - judge - judge.  Not proud of it but I'll admit to it, I totally do.  Yes I know perfectly well that Noah or Peter, maybe Paul, Owen or Jessie Mae in the Bible said not to judge others but I cannot help myself.  One of my worst offences involves me sitting on my couch and letting out a guffaw or smirk at those bat-shit crazy people on Reality TV.  Please excuse my language but some of those cats are mental, and I can't get enough of it.  Some nights I find myself 1/2 box of Wheat Thins deep into Mob Wives, This Ain't Yo Mama's Street Corner, Kitchen Nightmares Part 1,000, My Maid of Honor Married Her Dog or some other trashy show that is playing at 3 am.  There I perch in all my judging glory shaking my head at the poor nutcases that 20 years ago were just known as that wacky dressed lady or redneck moonshiner that lived in the trailer down the street you would never think twice about.  Now you will find me completely engrossed for the duration while they take front row seats in my living room and I just stare in wonder.  And Judgement.

Hoarders is without a doubt the most unbelievably mesmerizing television show I have ever seen.  There I sit dumbfounded by this terrible mental disease these poor people suffer from, thinking out loud how in the free world does someone allow themselves to accumulate so much STUFF!  This is being shouted towards my husband who stares back at me in total bewilderment while we are surrounded by all of my stuff.  The only difference between me and poor Pennsylvania Linda from last night is that my crap is nicely tucked away  ... in boxes, baskets and cabinets.  While I am wild-eyed and snurking at Linda last night, there sits a basket beside me full of blankets!   There's the one my Grandmother made, Oma made, 2 fuzzy Christmas ones, the blue fleece, a fluffy plaid number, First Methodist from Lake Waccamaw throw, Dora, Elmo .... you get the picture.  We are a family of 4.  Just 4.  Not to mention each time I decide to weed out old books, Tupperware, laundry room junk - you name it, I just replace the old crumpled box they sit in with a new box and keep it all.  Nevermind the fact that I'll just add more old to the new box and nothing ever really gets thrown away.  The box is new, the junk is contained and it's up on a shelf, under a table, in the storage room, back of closet, in a basket, cabinet, car trunk or under the kid's bed just as pretty as you please. 

Don't even get me started on the Nanny shows, boy do I have a spoon full of advice for those parents who let their kids run the world.  I'm an expert on having perfectly disciplined children, even have the crown to prove it.

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.