I live with a family of allergy babies.  And by babies, I mean whiny, cry-baby, wimps.  It’s a beautiful spring day.  Can I open the windows and let the breeze in?  Nope.   “Close that window!  You’re going to let all the pollen in!”  Owww… There’s an extra couple of bucks in the check book, maybe I can buy a new read or some yarn.  Nope.   “My throat itches.  Where are the allergy pills?”  There goes another $30 on stupid allergy meds just so you can breathe better, whatever.

I’ve always felt pretty lucky to have escaped the trappings on their season pity party.

Unfortunately, it looks like they are going to have to make room at the table for one more runny nosed, itchy, sneezing complainer.

I was pleasantly minding my own business on Sunday night when it all began.

Rub eye.  Rub it again.  Blink, blink, blink.  Rub eye.  Rub other eye.  Eye begins dripping.  Drip, drip, drip.  What the hell?

Itch arm.  Itch arm again.  Scratch the heck out of arm.  What are those bumps on my arm?

Drip, drip.  That darn eye.  Wait, that’s my nose.  Oh hell….

I’m going to go to bed and pretend none of this is happening.

Wake up Monday….  Sniffle, drip, sniffle, drip.  How can a nose be clogged and runny at the same time?  Itch, scratch, itch, scratch.  Great, the bumps are still there.  If the bumps are on my arm, why does the back of my throat itch?  Can I even scratch that?  Crap, now my eye is leaking again.

This is stupid.  I don’t have allergies.  This is NOT happening to me.  It’s just a spring cold.  People still get those, right?  Yes, spring cold.  I just need some extra sleep.  I’m going to bed.

Wake up Tuesday….  Now I know I’m awake, so why can’t I see anything?  What’s on my eyes?  Sweet, they are crusted shut.  Is crusted a word?  It is now.  I lose few eyelashes, but I finally get my eyes open.  Now I’m wishing I hadn’t.  Not only are my crusted over, but they are also swollen.  The left one more so than the right.  Uneven, swollen, puffy, crusty eyes….very attractive.  And to add to the look, the crustys have traveled to my nose where a mixture of a running and bleeding nose has created a Jackson Pollack-esk rendition on my face and hand.  My throat still itches and I still can’t scratch it.  Plus, now my head feels like it’s in a vice grip.  Ugh!

At that exact moment, my super sensitive husband walked in.

Me – “I feel like shit.”

IP – “You look like shit!”

Me – “Thanks”

I see IP has been attending his charm school classes again.  Heck, with wooing words like that, he could teach the courses.

Now, could someone please point me in the direction of the nearest bottles of Zyrtec and Allegra…. and close that window while you’re at it!


The solution!

It’s a common experience.  You’re sitting in some location of your house, minding your own business, doing whatever to darn well please, because it’s your house and you can, when you start to feel the inner workings of nature calling you.  A quick scan of the area shows that all the little people you have brought into this world are actively engaged, maybe it’s in Frozen for the 800th time or they are texting that drama queen from school you’ve told them to stay away from, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. Screen time be damned!  They’re busy and the coast is clear for you.

Or so you think.

The minute you steal yourself away to take care of business, they find you.  They always find you.

I’ve experienced it. I’m sure many of you’ve experienced it. Heck, I’ve even blogged about it before.


What I present for you today friends, is a sure fire way to earn some peace and quiet and take back the sanctity of your thrown!

Warning:  The use of this method will require to leave your modesty and inhibitions at the door as you are about to intentionally embarrass yourself and mortify your children.  P.S. – You might also want to make sure those little rugrats don’t have a camera running, as no one will want to see this in replay.

Step on – Take off to the bathroom to do your business.

Step two – Complete said business.

Step three – Wait for the interrupting knock on the bathroom door from a child needing to ask you a completely useless question that didn’t need asking 30 seconds ago but is now a matter of life and death.  (Step three is slightly unnecessary as we all know there was no need to wait.  Said child knocked on the door the minute your cheeks hit the seat.)

Step Four – Tell child you will be out in just one minute.  (Use that sweet, singsongy, mommy voice.  It really lays the trap for what’s coming.)

Step Five – Emerge from the bathroom pants less and barrel towards your offspring at full speed in your underwear while loudly announcing, “I went poopy!  I went poopy!”

I have yet to have them bother me again while I’m in the bathroom.  Of course they don’t quite look me in the eyes anymore and might have to use some of their college money for therapy, but whatever….  All I know is, the bathroom it all mine right now!






Happiness is….

I had an incredible childhood.  When I think back about being a kid, my mind gets inundated with pictures and images of all the awesome things we did and the incredible times we had.  Family camping trips where we would wander and explore the campground for hours.  Making cut out sugar cookies every holiday with my loving and ever patient mom.  Vacations to Worlds of Fun where I would tease my dad about his endless trips to the bathroom, joking it was his favorite ride at the park.  Neighborhood wide water fights usually started by said father who is known to have an ornery streak, leaving no wonder where I get mine from 😉 .  Marathon Monopoly games and Clue nights.  I still have nightmares about what Colonel Mustard did in the Conservatory with the candlestick.  My brother, two of his friends, and I giving a full on KISS tribute band performance for the neighborhood kids complete with full make-up and fake wood guitars.  I was Gene Simmons.

But some of my favorite memories circle around Strawberry Shortcake. Strawberry Shortcake of the 80s was awesome.  She had a killer puffy pink hat, a smile that could melt butter, and she smelled like sunshine.  No really, sunshine…and joy…. and happiness.

And love.

Strawberry Shortcake reminds me of love.

Prior to her arrival into my world, I’m sure I had a very lovely bedspread and nicely decorated room, but I don’t remember it.  What I do remember is I was allowed to have a Strawberry Shortcake bedspread set and was over the moon about it.  My mom, being the incredible and crafty person that she is, didn’t settle for just buying a bedspread and sheet set, oh no.  She bought extra sheet sets and created a Strawberry paradise in my room.  Drapes, doilies, lampshade covers.  Heck, she even recovered the top of a stool I had in there.  But it didn’t stop there.

I had a Strawberry Shortcake doll house (of course I did, duh!) and she used some of the extra material to make miniature bedspreads, drapes, rugs, and lampshade covers, so the house could match my room.

I literally lived in a Strawberry Shortcake heaven as a child and I loved every minute of it.  And mom my even more for making it all for me.

So imagine my joy when I was wondering through Wal-Mart yesterday and stumbled upon this little slice of heaven.

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I think I stood there for five minutes, lost in my own brain as I was flooded with a sensory overload of memories.


Whoever said you can’t buy happiness never experienced the sheer, pure bliss of Strawberry Shortcake and is dead wrong.

I bought happiness yesterday and it’s sitting on my kitchen counter today.

That’s one way

To me, it seems like God created the little webbed space between my pointer finger and my thumb as a perfect natural note pad.  On any given day, you can find me with little notes or reminders wrote there.




I’ve actually joked about getting a ‘To Do:’ tattoo in the area just to give it a more cleaned up and formalized look.  But that would be silly…….

I’m always curious, as I watch my children grow, which of my obsessions idiosyncrasies will rub off on my them.

Apparently T-Dog is received my list making gene.

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I guess that’s one way to do it!



For the longest time, I just didn’t get Twitter.  I mean, I had one.  I’d been on it a few times, but I was a solid Facebook junkie.  I’d done the MySpace thing.  Then I jumped ship to Facebook.  I wasn’t about to leave my friendly news feed and pointless poking just for this sure-to-be, flash-in-the-pan tweeting whatever.  Plus, I didn’t really understand it.

Then I got a teenager and learned that Facebook is where all the “old people” are.  What?!?!?  Well I am definitely not “old” (at least not in my mind), so it was time to get hip again and figure out what all these hashtags and retweets were all about.

(Plus I’m nosey as hell.  If the kids are all moving to Twitter, I will just have to learn some new tricks and stalk them there.)

Full disclosure, the more I’m on Twitter, the more I really enjoy it.  I’m not stuck with just my feed and my tenth grade Chemistry lab partner.  If no one on my list of besties is making witty comments about the latest Bachelor jaw-dropper, I’m one #Bachelortrainwreck away from finding my people.

As will all new and fun things, someone has to take it  too far.  Hashtags on Twitter.  Excellent.  Shows you’re creative, plus helpful when searching.  Hashtags on Facebook.  Ok.  I mean they are unnecessary, but I get it, you’re letting us know you are hip to the new scene.  Hashtags in talking.  Completely unnecessary.  Go punch yourself before I do it for you.

And then there’s this….


Now what good does a Hashtag do for me here in this text?  I mean props to Mini Me for the creative usage, but come on.  I can’t even tell if it’s trending.

Be careful what you wish for

“I wish he’d put the seat down.”

“I washed the clothes.  The least he could do it fold them.”

“Would it kill him to wash a dish every now and again?”

Ask any woman and she will tell you that she would love to have her man help out more around the house.

Well I have a confession to make.  As much as I like to make IP the butt of my jokes, he does help out around the house as much as he can.  Unfortunately, it’s not always as much as I’d like it to be, but, hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Ever since the beginning of our wedded bliss, IP has been the duster of the family.  He was born with a dominant ‘love of dusting’ gene.  Which is good, because I carry a ‘I could care less how much dust is on the end table’ gene.  My vice is vacuuming.

In equal symmetry, IP prefers to cook dinner, especially Sunday dinner, if his schedule allows.  This trait meshes perfectly with me since I loathe cooking.  Maybe, if I was good at it or could dream up inventive meals, I might care more, but I don’t.  Strangely enough, as much as I hate cooking, I equally enjoy doing the dishes.  (I know.  I know.  There is something wrong with me.  Heck, we remodeled our kitchen and I didn’t even put in a dishwasher.  I still scrub everything by hand.  Add it to my list of issues.)


Well, yesterday I came around the corner and found this sight to behold in my kitchen.

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Marinara anyone?  Who wants a meatball?

Now this is a Sun-day

Typical Sundays in Nebraska in January usually consist of layers, scarfs, and playing ‘1-2-3 Not it’ to see which sucker has to go warm up the car.  The most I see of my neighbors is a wave through a frosted window or a quickly shouted ‘Hey’ as we dive in and out of our doors.

No joke.  Two weeks ago, with the wind chill, it was -35 degrees here.  MINUS 35!

Well what a different 14 days can make.  Today it is a glorious 66 degrees outside.  You read that right; POSITIVE 66 degrees.

When God hands you this gift in January, you take full advantage.

Coat – Nope

Scarf – Not today

Sweatshirt – Even that’s staying inside

The neighbor kids started a pick-up game of B-Ball in the circle…in shorts and T-shirts, of course.  My grumpy teenager emerged from her cave, still dawning ear buds and a scowl, to take the furrriest member of our family on a long-awaited walk.  Heck, one of my neighbors just fired up his lawn mover.  (I’m officially concerned about that guy.  I get it’s nice, but the sub-zero weather I previously mentioned may have done something to his neurons.)

As for me, I dug a dusty lawn chair out of the shed and have set up camp in the yard with a beverage and a book.  Oh, and my sunglasses.  I’m enjoying every second of this that I can!

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What’s wrong with this picture?

I walked into the mini me’s bedroom today and found this.

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What’s the big deal you ask?

That is a dirty lunch box. 

Today is January 4, 2014.

The last day she was at school was December 20, 2013, but it was a half day.

The last day she took her lunch to school was December 19, 2013.

Did I mention how much fun teenagers are???

I guess you’re forgiven

I said no.  I repeatedly said no.  I even screamed it.  It sounded something like this.


To what am I referring you ask?  Well to the repeated begging and pleading from the smaller humans in my house to let a xbox 360 darken my door.  And all was going pretty well in my house until my sneaky little male offspring decided to call an audible at the line of scrimmage, messing up my whole game plan.

You see my little man decided to ignore the calls from this sideline coach and take his request to the big man.  No, not God.  I don’t think he really has a dog in the dreaded xbox fight.  No I mean the big, fat man.  The one with the red nose and jelly belly.  The man who grants all the ridiculous wishes of children when their mean, fun-killing parents say, ‘No.  I mean No.  NNNOOOOO!’

And do you know what that jolly ol’ elf had the nerve to do?  He brought those blasted games made from videos into my house.  Wrapping it in pretty, shiny paper and leaving it under my tree.

And do you know what happens when your kids open said banned item and scream with elation?  Well you are forced to open the darn thing and hook it up.  (I guess I could have refused to let them have it and sent it back up north, but my Grinch suit was out at the cleaners, so I, well, I caved.)

I was enjoying my sixth day off of work today (Did I mention how much I LOVE working for a school?), when I heard screams coming from the basement.  I ran downstairs and found this.

The blackmail evidence I am going to collect far outweighs my anger.  I guess you are forgiven fat man.



Gobble, gobble

People are constantly complaining about how Christmas is crowding other holidays out.

“Turkey before tinsel!”

“It’s too soon!”

“One holiday at a time.”

I believe I have stumbled upon the reason for this increasing encroachment of sleigh bells into your cranberry time……

Lack of ascetically pleasing Thanksgiving decoration in the marketplace.


I rest my case.