Brantley-isms

• After announcing his departure to the little boys’ room, I asked Brantley to please use the overhead fan. I am after all, a fecal-phobic. His response, “I can’t crap with all that racket.”
  


• After gawking at a half naked woman on TV, Brantley decided to smooth things over with me. “I love you just the way you are…more or less.”

Life's a Beach

The sky was completely gray like one massive cloud hiding the sun. A light drizzle was falling and it was a breezy eighty degrees. Since when had this become a perfect day at the beach?

Oh, how drastically my life, and subsequent beach criteria, has changed since I birthed a person fifteen months ago. In my pre-baby days, clouds and rain would’ve rendered me land locked, most likely spending my time shopping. However, now eighty degrees and rainy means not having to slather Casper in SPF 50 every thirty minutes and being able to chase him down the beach without popping a lung.

Rather than fret over getting and keeping a tan, I think I’ll leave the sun worshipping to the teeny boppers, along with miniskirts, wine coolers and dry humping. Being covered in baby oil while carefully undoing my straps to avoid tan lines…quoth the mother, nevermore.

Morning Timeline, by guest blogger Jodi Burrus

Three Short Hours

5:45 — Triplets are up. Jack is still asleep. Consider waking him up just so we can all suffer together.

6:00 — Potty time finished and new pull-ups on. Sam and Tom immediately pee themselves.

6:15 — Breakfast on the table. Two Apple Jacks and One Cheerios. Still no sign of Jack.

6:45 — Jack shows up and demands sausage biscuits instead of cereal (@#$%!!! I know where this will lead).

6:48 — Trips see Jack’s sausage biscuits and each want one of their own despite the fact that 1) they’ve just eaten cereal and 2) they all hate sausage biscuits.

6:50 — Prepare more sausage biscuits and distribute to Sam, Tom and Will only to be told immediately, “I don-wike-it, mommy.”

7:00 — After suitable waiting period in which no food is consumed, throw uneaten sausage biscuits in garbage.

7:15 — Enjoying the cartoon hour by catching up on e-mail, blog comments (I LOVE blog comments).

7:16 — Will re-enters the room sans pants. Notice both he and Sam are soaking wet, and there is a tell tale sign of poop lingering on Will’s bum.

7:16 – 7:30 — Retrace their path. Find pooled water around bathroom sink and dog’s water bowl. Cannot locate dirty pull-up but am assured through limited vocabulary and expansive sign language that said pull-up is now in the garbage and it’s contents flushed down the toilet. Clean up of Will, Sam and bathroom floor complete.

7:30 to 7:45 — Mommy breakfast. Warm SlimFast. Mmmmm. (*gag*) And more cartoons.

7:45 to 8:00 — Outfits assembled for all four boys. Underwear donned. Socks and shoes distributed.

8:00 — Just finishing dressing the last boy in line when Sam shoves a crumpled paper towel under my nose, narrowly missing my face. Inside?–a turd.

8:00 to 8:20 — Hysterical screaming. Fruitless demands to be apprised of any further hidden turd locations. Current turd placed in garbage and all garbage removed to outside cans as a precaution.

8:25 — Notice Sam is eating a sausage biscuit. Weren’t all the sausage biscuits in the garbage with the turd?

8:25 to 8:28 — Hysterical screaming, followed by discovery that Sam actually hid his sausage biscuit ration in the kitchen, and so it’s probably o.k. to let him finish it.

8:29 — Realize I need to use the bathroom. Determine that there is no way I’m leaving these crazies unguarded so plan to put it off as long as possible.

8:35 — Decide wetting own pants a possibility. Opt to risk a bathroom break. Warn Sam not to feed the dog the rest of his sausage biscuit.

8:35:30 — Jack barges into the bathroom to inform me the dog has just thrown up. Guess why.

8:36 to 8:45 — Hysterical screaming.

9:00 — School Dropoff. I shed tears of pure joy as I drive away. Realize it’s only 4 hours until pickup. Progress to uncontrollable weeping, then head home to spend two of those precious hours disinfecting the entire first floor of my house.

Isn’t it 5:00 SOMEWHERE????


Click HERE to read more from Jodi Burrus.

Brantley-isms

After last week’s dental implant surgery I made an appearance in a friend’s wedding as a swollen-faced, matron of honor. Unable to smile, I made it through the festivities with the help of Percocet. At the reception, I was practically assaulted by my husband on the dance floor. Gyrating, grinding, doing the Hammer shuffle, and jiggling his belly to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard,” Brantley really outdid himself. My face said it all. Yep, he’s going home with me tonight.

Later that evening, someone made reference to our readily approaching seven year itch. While scratching his neck Brantley remarked, “feels more like a rash to me.” Lovely.

For his final hoorah I overheard him tell the father of the groom, “I told him not to do it (get married).” I decided then that it was time to go (read: re-medicate). And with that, we said our goodbyes and left before he had a chance to do the electric slide.

Balance…what’s that? by guest blogger Angie Mizzell

I used to work in TV news, and during that time, I developed an ear for “sound bites.” I could instantly detect when the person I was interviewing said something meaningful in 15 seconds or less. It didn’t matter what they said before and after that; if I got the sound bite, I was good to go. So today, when someone asks me, “What do you do?” I feel the pressure to answer in a simple sentence, before their eyes glaze over and they start searching for a stiff drink and someone more interesting to talk to.

The short story is I’m a mom of the 3-year-old and 3-month-old, and I’ve finally figured out I want to be a writer when I grow up. The whole story is so much bigger than that, but I want you to stick around, so I’ll spare you the gory details. I guess this is my payback for cutting out huge chunks of other people’s stories to fit the allotted segment time.

In my late 20’s, I left my TV news job in the pursuit of happiness. I didn’t have kids yet, but I knew I didn’t want to be married to my pager and forced to work nights, weekends and holidays after I started my family. At the time I was clueless that having kids was also a round the clock job.

I’ve been self-employed ever since. This is the part where I leave out a lot of details. Come to think of it… it looks like I’ve had a few stiff drinks when I wrote my resume. As I’ve tried to find balance between living the dream and paying the bills, I’ve changed my mind, and my direction, a lot.

Life teaches me something every day. One thing I’ve learned, balance is overrated. The older I get, the more I realize life is messy. It’s one thing to say I want it all, and it’s another to determine what that really is. Each day I must choose what’s really important and let go of the things that are not. To me, it’s like a dance. Feeling the rhythm, not controlling the steps.
The occasional cocktail helps, too.

You can follow my journey and join the conversation at my blog, Under the MAC.

(Thanks, Angie!)

Blog Tour

Starting tomorrow I will be participating in a blog tour. This means my blog will be visited by three, insightful guest bloggers over the coming weeks. You can expect the first guest blogger entry tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Public Restroom Confessions

During a family road trip over the weekend I found myself in the unavoidable situation of needing a public restroom. My mission was to pee and get out while touching as little as possible. I pushed the bathroom door open with my hip. The stale stench, drab décor and dim lighting would’ve made the perfect setting for a scary movie.

After much deliberation, I chose the stall farthest from the door. It should have the least germs, I thought. Dirty, lazy people would most likely choose the stall closest to the door. I would at least forego contact with their germs.

I use my sleeve to latch the door shut and commence my business, while hovering over the toilet. That was when I heard the door open and the scurrying of anxious feet. To my astonishment, I looked to the floor and saw two bare feet coming from the stall next to me. Even more disturbing was the condition of the feet. They were dirty on top, too.

Getting the bottoms of your feet soiled is understandable, especially considering someone who doesn’t wear shoes. But dirty on top could mean only one thing. They hadn’t seen a bath in days. Yikes.

I had no sooner finished my paperwork that I heard my neighbor to the left let out a loud moan, which was followed by, “Ohhhhh, Jesus.” I knew one thing. I had to get out of there and fast. So desperate to flee, I forewent the usual aseptic technique that I use to exit such a place. I placed my hand directly on the latch, opened it and went straight to the door. Grabbing the handle directly, I swung it open with such force that it banged against the wall.

As I walked back to the car I couldn’t help thinking about all the germs now residing on my hands. I could almost feel them. Rotavirus, swine flu, booty funk. Who knows what I’ll come down with in the coming days? Unfortunately, some things are worth it.

The 2007 Teddy Grahaming

Guest blogger- my little sister, Leigh

I was working my shift at the pharmacy when a lady pulled up to the drive-thru window. She had two young kids in the backseat who were bickering and snacking on Teddy Grahams. The customer told me she was picking up a prescription for Lortab under the name Murphy, but when I went to the bin to retrieve it, it wasn’t there. I questioned the pharmacist regarding the location of the missing prescription and she informed me that Ms. Murphy had gotten her Lortab refilled just two days prior and should have several tablets left.

I reluctantly walked to the window to deliver the bad news. “I’m sorry, Ms. Murphy but you can’t get your Lortab refilled for two more days.” She immediately became very upset and started shouting expletives at the top of her lungs.

I apologized again to Ms. Murphy and noticed her reaching into the backseat. Before I knew it, I was being hit in the face with something. Unfortunately, my quick thinking didn’t kick in because I was pummeled with three or four handfuls of Teddy Grahams before it occurred to me to close the window. Once the window was closed, she continued throwing gobs of the tasty snack to no avail. They ricocheted off the glass and a few even landed back in the car with her.

Although I was hit several times, I escaped with only minor injuries. Had the police been called I think the news story would’ve read something like this, “Officer Jones was quoted as saying that this was the worst Teddy Grahaming since the infamous Teddy Grahaming of 1988…but it could’ve been a lot worse.”

I offer you a word to the wise. Be careful out there on the streets because you never know when you might be the victim of a drive-by Teddy Grahaming.

More "Brantley-isms"

· After seeing an ad for Playtex “sport” tampons, he turns to me and asks, “Are those supposed to exercise your hoo-ha?” The sad part was I didn’t know what to say.


· While riding in the car, he checks himself out in the rearview mirror and remarks, “Damn, I’m a good looking man! You married up.” Nice.

· I was in tears one night, reading a sweet poem written by my friend, Myrna, when Brantley interrupts me with, “I sh*# a turd so big today that I almost fainted.” I suddenly wanted to cry for different reasons.

Great Balls of Fire!

Serena Williams has made a multi-million dollar career out of playing with balls. How ironic that hers would finally descend during last week's U.S. Open semi-finals?

After being the victim of a poor call by a line judge, Williams, who was overcome with testosterone threatened, "I swear to God, I'm f------ going to take this f------ ball and shove it down your f------ throat, you hear that? I swear to God."

Hellooooo, roid rage!

Forget insincere apologies, it’s time to pee in a cup, already. And while we’re at it could someone at the lab please verify that she is, indeed, female. I’m beginning to have my doubts.

PS: Serena, if you're reading this please know that I'm totally kidding. Did I mention that I really like your headband? Please don't hurt me.

The Seven Year Itch...and no, I don't mean crabs

“I moved all my stuff into the guest bathroom,” Brantley (husband) mentioned in passing. “Excuse me?” I asked. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You take up too much room. I want my own space.”

Our master bathroom houses a double sink with a large vanity and from time to time, my things may, sort of, somewhat, encroach (slightly) onto his side of the counter. So what? It’s part of being married.

“This is absolutely unacceptable. We’re approaching our seven year itch. You can’t bathroom divorce me. I’m already under a time crunch to decide whether or not we’re compatible. How can I do that if we aren’t even using the same bathroom?”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a very big deal! Today you stop sharing a bathroom with me, and the next thing you know you’re clad in a tight Ed Hardy t-shirt and neglecting your eight kids. Damn it, I will not be your Kate Gosselin!”

“Stop being dramatic. You’re just mad because you won’t be able to use my razor and mooch my shave gel.”

Busted. He had me. No one replenishes toiletries the way that man does. He’s a fiend when it comes to bathroom stock. By the time the bar of soap gets a little too small to handle, it’s whisked away and magically replaced by a shiny new one. He has a constant bathroom inventory going and I wasn’t ready to take on that kind of responsibility.

I tried the guilt route.

“I really miss you. It’s just not the same. I feel like we don’t see each other as much. It’s like we’re out of sync.”

“When we shared a bathroom I would go in and close the door, come out about ten minutes later and you would gripe at me for not striking a match. Do you miss that?”

I thought hard. “Umm, yes.

“Too bad.”

I could tell he was enjoying this. It was time to give in and stroke the ego.

“Ok, yes. Fine. I miss your bathroom management. Without you my bathroom has no system. My biggest fear is that, without your leadership, it will fall.”

Gloating, he agrees under the condition that I move all of his stuff back into our bathroom. I reluctantly oblige.

I realize that I reduced myself to shameful groveling, a condition I abhor, but I had ultimately won the war. I knew this for certain the next morning when, upon entering the shower, I discovered shampoo on the left, conditioner on the right, clean towels on the rack and a brand new bar of soap.

I was so gleeful that upon exiting the shower I almost forgot to passive aggressively leave everything in disarray. With the soap on the floor, the conditioner on the left and shave gel squirted on the glass, the world was as it should be. Finally, things were back to normal.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

It was Sunday morning and my husband, Brantley, was at work. I had a lot to accomplish around the house, and with Luke (14 mos.) in tow, I knew finishing all my chores would take the better part of the day. Early on I decided that I’d put my hygiene on hold until he went down for his noon nap. What did it matter any way? We had nowhere to be and weren’t expecting company.

When I got Luke out of his crib, he was his usual jovial self. He wiggled and squirmed around while I attempted to change his diaper. I could tell he was looking for something and I knew exactly what it was. He finally locates his tube of thermometer lubricant and immediately puts the cap in his mouth. Since his lower teeth came in, he’s been obsessed with using them to pry things open. A habit that has earned him the title of “the can opener.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him continue playing with the tube o’ lube or carry it downstairs, but I was desperate to keep him happy and occupied this morning because I had a lot to do. After breakfast we went outside to begin watering the plants. I wouldn’t normally be seen outside of my house bra-less in my mismatched pj’s and rat’s nest hair but it was eight o’clock Sunday morning and no one was out yet.

I was watering the last basket of geraniums when I heard a voice from behind. “Good morning, Wescotts!” It was my neighbor, Margaret, from down the street. Margaret is one of those people who is always put together and this morning was no exception. Clad in a cute outfit and sporting a new do, she looked ready to take on the world, as did her one year old son who sat quietly in his stroller.

“Hey, Margaret. How’s it goin’?”

“Oh just great. Isn’t this weather perfect? I got up at five this morning and went for a run then drank my coffee while I watched the sun rise.”

She then looks down at Luke, who still has ketchup on his face, a pajama top covered with breakfast and a saggy diaper with no pants.

“Hey, buddy. Whatcha got there? Wait. Is that…KY Jelly he’s holding?”

Having totally forgotten about the tube o’ lube, I look down at Luke and see that he has the top off and is actually squirting it into his mouth. There was even a little residual on his left cheek. I cower defenselessly. “Yeah…it is. We were out of Smuckers.”

With that, the conversation ended and they were on their merry way. Luke and I, then managed to finish our chores. He napped, I bathed, and by the time three o’clock rolled around, we were rested, dressed and presentable.

My family can look put together too, you see. It just takes a lot of time and a little KY Jelly. I mean, elbow grease.