Warning: The following post contains images of bug bites that may be disturbing to some viewers. In other words you may not want to look at this while you’re eating.
If you follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, you’ve probably noticed there’s been a flurry of activity in our lives the past few weeks. Two weekends ago Brian and I attended BloggyCon ’14 in Sandusky, Ohio. In the middle of last week, we drove to Birmingham, Alabama for Brian’s first grown-up interview. We remembered that the last interview he had was in 2001 at a bookstore in Athens, Georgia. He was hired to remove stickers from the textbooks. That interview probably went something like this:
Interviewer: “Son, have you ever sniffed Goo Gone?”
Brian: “Not that I recall.”
Interviewer: “Well, today is your lucky day.”
I’m pretty sure he was high on Goo Gone that entire summer.
In all the excitement of my in-laws’ visit, I didn’t have time to share with you what happened the day before they arrived.
Two Thursdays ago, around 6:30 p.m., I sat down at a favorite, local restaurant all by my lonesome. All by my glorious lonesome. Brian and I try to set aside time each week for me to run away from home so I can write, and I generally prefer restaurants over our local Starbucks—mainly because there is a “regular” at this Starbucks who insists on wearing headphones and singing Italian opera at the top of her tone-deaf lungs.
[Tone-deaf lungs? That makes no sense.]
If lungs could be tone-deaf, this woman should donate hers to science.
This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
I got a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law last Tuesday that cut right to my heart. Now, a two-sentence e-mail from me would mean that 1) I am sad/disappointed/angry about something or 2) I am sending the message while simultaneously wiping urine off our bathroom wall and my face (true story). However, a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law means something else entirely. It means that he is reaching out without wanting to seem intrusive. It means that he took time out of his work-filled schedule to let me know that he’s thinking about me. It means that I had better get back to blogging.
So, when I read, “How are you? Haven’t talked to you lately,” I knew exactly what he was trying to say.
Warning: The following post may be disturbing to some readers. Particularly those with a weak stomach. Reader discretion is advised.
If you caught Wednesday’s post about our exciting car ride on Monday afternoon, then you can probably guess how the rest of my week has been. I have cleaned up vomit 5 different times. FIVE. That’s about five more times than I would have to do it if I had that live-in nanny Brian promised me before I agreed to marry him.
Yesterday at 5:45 a.m., I awoke to JJ’s blood-curdling scream and the reconstituted remnants of his evening meal. I think Bill Engvall is so right about this one: someone should invent an alarm clock that sounds like a baby vomiting because there is NO snoozing!
So, as I watched 12 solid hours of kid-friendly programming yesterday, I put a great deal of thought into Mr. Engvall’s words. If I’ll never have that live-in nanny, then I should probably consider how I can turn these unpleasant moments into a lucrative business opportunity.
My Super-Simple, No-Fail Diet Plan
I hopped in the car with the kids on Monday for a week-long trip to the booming metropolis of Knob Noster, Missouri. Yes, since you asked, we do lead glamorous lives.
Brian is working in Knob Noster all week, and I thought it would be a sanctifying experience if the kids and I joined him there for five days in a military hotel. I woke up with no alarm at 6:30 a.m. on Monday (seriously, that’s a miracle in and of itself) with a list of things I needed to accomplish before our 4:00 p.m. estimated departure. I wanted to wait until after Averi’s nap to hit the road, and I knew I would need every bit of the morning and afternoon to pack for a week in a hotel with two toddlers.
Did I mention it is a one bedroom hotel?
I was shooting for super-sancitifed.
Guyyyyyyyys, WHERE have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!
[Huh? Wait a minute…SHE'S the one who didn't post anything for a week! So, why is she looking for us?]
I’m confused. Have you been looking for me?
[Why does she keep having these stupid conversations with herself?]
Have y’all seen my medication lately?
If you’re one of my lovely gentleman readers who is squeamish about “female things,” now would be a good time for you to find something a bit less unsettling to read. Like 2,000 pages of ObamaCare legislation.
Take care, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Or after the next election.
It’s weird to live in a place where snow just isn’t a big deal. Where we’re from in Georgia, a snow day is almost as thrilling as a Honey Boo Boo sighting.