I'd like to mow that lawn

Lawn maintenance... ugh. We live on an acre of mostly lawn which consists mainly of weeds, dirt, crabgrass, toads and a wee bit o' decent grass. That is not a lot of land if you are from the Midwest or have a second home in Aspen, but when you are the gardener, the landscaper, the cook, the maid and the nanny, one acre can feel overwhelming. Did I mention that I have to drag hoses to water? I also have a blister. Do you want to see it?     ..... No? Okay.

Before children (BC), I used to do ALL of the mowing and weeding here. We had an ancient push mower with a pull start that was about as easy as a scornful nun. I may or may not have a temper and consequently, may or may not have thrown that thing a time or two. Then I mysteriously started having back problems. Then I got knocked up. Then I was caring for a newborn WHILE having back problems. That is when Brock finally started doing most of the mowing and watering. That is also when we got a new push mower, new hoses and new sprinkler heads.

Last year, our friend gave us a riding "tractor" mower that was in pieces in her barn. It didn't run and her teenage son was going to repair it. Yet, instead of fixing the mower, he became frustrated and cut a bunch of the wiring. Then he proceeded to beat the crap out of it with a hammer. My friend donated the abused lawn tractor to us, and after working on it all last summer, Brock got that beast running. So what if it has no headlights, is half painted, has unidentified wires hanging by the seat and backfires every time you turn it off? It cuts our mowing time by a third and doesn't hurt my back! Yeehaw!

 I call him Frankenmower.

Doesn't it just scream femininity?

I do feel frustrated by the condition in which Brock leaves Frankenmower, and I never feel like I can just walk out to the barn, turn it on and mow while the kids are napping. Instead, I have to figure out which gas can to use, which wire is disconnected, why the hood is off and how to reattach it and so on and so forth. Naturally, all of this fills me with peace and joy.

I informed my darling husband of this common predicament last night and he said, "It's in the barn! Just turn it on! It's ready!" I narrowed my eyes at him in distrust.

So I mounted Frankenmower and by golly, it started! Then I pushed the gas pedal down and nothing happened. Then I stepped harder.... and still nothing. Then I yelled delicately, like I always do, "BRRRAAAAAWWWWWKKKK!"

Brock came to see what I required and scratched his head when I stomped on the gas and threw my hands up in the air in the always delicate universal gesture of WTF?. Then he instructed me to stand up and he lifted the seat and fiddled with something. When I sat down and pressed the gas, it magically moved forward. I glared at him so hard that I think I burned a hole in his shirt. Then he smiled sheepishly and said, "Darned kids." Darned kids my mayonnaise white ass. The man left it, once again, in a state of disarray. And you people wonder why I drink.


I proceeded to drive Frankenmower around the yard and mow the grass while Brock weeded one of the flower gardens. This image of the woman on the tractor and the man weeding the flower beds struck me as amusing, so in my mind, I imagined what one of my favorite people on the planet, an authentic good ole boy, would have to say about our picture. In honor of said good ole boy, I started muttering to myself, "Damned woman don't know her place!" And by golly if I didn't mow our entire lawn/weed patch with that phrase running through my sick mind and a satisfied smirk plastered on my face.

As soon as I start making "My Own Money", I am buying myself my very own lawn tractor. I am painting it pink and airbrushing a purple unicorn and rainbows on it and attaching a silver horn on the front. I will call it "DreamWeaver" and she will only run for those damned women that don't know their place. Women like me. Now, please excuse me while I clean my pistol.

Peace out mother-truckers,
Johi

Just another evening of vaseline, rubber gloves and novocaine

Yesterday I had three whole hours to myself. It sounds magical, doesn't it?

Well it wasn't. I was at the dentist.

Three hours away from my house/children/chores usually equals me returning refreshed and ready to dust the ceiling fans! Instead of feeling revitalized, I feel like I was on the losing end of a fist fight with three truckers and 380 pound drunk hooker.

I used to really like going to the dentist... when I was six, because my dentist was also my Grandpa. I called him Papa. He gave me sugar free candy and showed me the variety of color that teeth could be, which was when I decided never to be a smoker.

Yesterday's experience was less pleasurable than the dentist visits of my youth. Although the staff is super and my dentist is funny and competent, it was still not a joyful time for me. Especially since I didn't get nitrous. Seriously, if you are a parent of small children and someone is using metal tools on your teeth, you should get some sweet air on the house. It's the right thing to do.

Also, my mouth was cranked open for an hour or more and I haven't seen that kind of action since the late 90's. Come on people, I'm a married mom now. Bring on the house dress, the hair rollers and the chocolate. I don't want to work that hard... no pun intended. Now not only is my face swollen from having one filling and another tooth drilled down and a crown installed, my jaw hurts as well.

It seems that as sensitive as I am to many drugs, novocaine isn't one of them. I had to have three injections on the site of my crown because I was burning through that painkiller like Charlie Sheen "banging seven-gram rocks". I also had novocaine in both the top and bottom of the other side of my mouth because of a filling and a tooth so sensitive to cold that I feared that I was going to throw a punch during the constant icy air that was blasting on it. After I had a needle injected in at least five places (one of those went through a fair amount of what I will call gristle), I was finally numb enough to have the work completed. At the end of the day, I had no control of either side of my face and I looked like a stroke victim...or Joan Rivers. Then I tried to drink water. As you might assume, it did not go well. And yes, Brock laughed at me just before he asked me what I was making for dinner.

Apparently one of the perks to getting older is that your teeth start falling out of your head. Here, all this time I was looking forward to getting boobs, high heels and lipstick, when in reality "aging" is only a code word for "decaying". Many of my girlfriends have had a lot of dental problems since birthing their babies. I would like to blame my tooth rot on pregnancy hormones, but I can't. I must be honest and blame bad genetics. Thanks MOM, more shit to tell a therapist about someday. Or maybe it was the hard candy addiction I had in my childhood. I didn't matter if it was a Werther's, a lemon drop or a root beer barrel, I would mercilessly chew it up just moments after popping the delicious goodness into my mouth, undoubtedly leaving some petrified corn syrup stuck in the crevices of my molars. Do you remember the "How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?" commercial? One, two, three, crunch, THREE. Well, f*ck that noise, I could get there on number one. And I don't even like Tootsie Rolls. I just did it because I had the power.

When I was a kid my best friend was named Heather. Like normal children, she and I use to play on the playground at recess. Also like normal children, we were teased mercilessly by our peers. Like abnormal children, in brave anti-bullying fashion, we would run around like Avengers, throwing the mean, obnoxious boys off the metal merry-go-rounds and rusted monkey bars and onto the hot pavement below (and we laughed when they bled). We would scratch and bite our way through those horrible games of Red Rover. We basically had capes that no one else could see. Heather always had super strong, long fingernails; earning her the Superhero name of Catwoman. I had a super strong bite, earning me the Superhero name of Snapping Turtle Girl. I'm pretty sure Heather beat me on the cool factor when it came to our names.  Just as I am certain that she was the one who thought of my superhero name. Seriously, a lot of awesome animals have severe teeth: tigers, alligators and bears, to name a few. Or even a beak, like an eagle or a bad-ass BlueJay, would be better than a snapping turtle.

Let's all take a moment and get a mental picture of Catwoman....

Sexy, sassy, strong.

And now let's think of a snapping turtle....

Just scary. Really scary.

Then there is always the Mutant Ninja kind of turtles, which I'm pretty sure weren't invented in 1982, when all this bad-assery was going down on the playground at Harmony Elementary School.

Somewhat cooler, but I don't even think these dudes are of the snapping variety.

It seems I took my strong teeth for granted and now I no longer have all of my real teeth in my head, unless you count a nubby version of your former tooth under a crown a "real" tooth, which I do not.

Shady Acres, here I come. Someone get me the number for Hoveround.

Peace, Love and Unicorns,
Snapping Turtle Girl

What was your worst/most memorable trip to the dentist?

Keeping it Real and "Handling your Sh*t"

It's true, I was feeling stabby yesterday. Let's blame the fact the my treadmill is broken and leave it at that. I'm pretty worthless without my hamster wheel. *Must keep spinning...*

I hauled my butt out of bed earlier than usual this morning and took Red Dog on a walk. It was the last walk that she will be taking for awhile with a full coat o' hair, for later I delivered her to the vet tech up the road, the one that also babysits the Things, with the instructions of, "Please shave her hide".

"It won't look good. I'm not a groomer.", she said.

I replied, "Anything will look better than this junk yard dog/dread lock/no one loves me thing she has going on. Plus it's hot and she'll feel better."

Then I added with a tight smile, "Feel free to sedate her."

Because what I didn't tell the vet tech/babysitter is that Red Dog is a Freakazoid Drama Queen when you try to do anything to her that doesn't include throwing a ball or a stick. Seriously, you have to have stealth ninja skills to even pet her because her tongue is on rapid fire and she will get you. Don't even think about brushing the little hussy, because she cries, moans and yelps like you have hung her up by her toenails and are extracting her teeth, or worse yet, giving her ball to another little bitch. Plus, I have to hold her head away from me because with all the commotion, I almost expect to be bitten. I combed a grocery sack full of hair out of her the other day and it sounded like I was weaning piglets in my yard. I know that sometimes she behaves better for people who aren't her "mother", so I tried to get Brock to brush her and he went at her matted hair for about... oh.... a minute and he declared it to be "too much work" and went back to reading the paper. Thanks honey.

"I may bite off your face if you come at me with that brush again.
Ball?"

My friend found this saying "Handle Your Shit!" She loves it. I am more inclined to be drawn to sayings like "I'm not ready." or "Oh honey, what were you thinking? Bless your heart." or just a good old fashioned "Back Off". So, like a responsible adult, I'm paying someone to "handle the shit" that I no longer desire to handle. Come to think of it, there is a lot of shit that I just don't want to handle. A shit ton of shit, if you will. I wish that I could have paid someone to "handle the shit" earlier today when Thing 2 was hitting Thing 1 in the head with a stick, which caused him to flip over backwards in his chair, which was naturally in the wading pool, thus crushing the side of the pool. Or later, after Thing 2 smeared mud all over his face like warpaint and Thing 1 decided to "help" clean off little brother's face and attempted to hold Thing 2's head under water until it was clean. Yes. Too bad I couldn't pay someone to handle that shit.

Just look at the sheer joy that whacking his brother with a stick is bringing him.
And yes, I am taking a photograph instead of parenting. Someone call the POlice.

I call this "Warpaint".
He had this dazed expression pre-head-under-water.
I'm thinking that he needs MORE oxygen, not less.

I would also like to pay someone to go to the dentist for me tomorrow. Because the thought of it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and rock myself to sleep in a corner somewhere. Even in a barn filled with newly weaned piglets.

Out of motivation from this post from fellow blogger and mother, Get Real Mama, I want you to know that I shared the majority of this fascinating information with my facebook friends today, because, if nothing else, I like to keep it real. What you all did not see was a picture of me because sometimes "real" is just "too real" and I want people to maintain as much of an appetite as they can in this 100 degree heat.

Thanks for stopping by. There is a chance that I will show you a post shaved Red Dog, as long as she isn't too embarrassed. I'm sure that she will be simulataneously relieved and ashamed, as she is an Australian Shepherd and apparently those dogs have a hefty dose of Catholic guilt bred into them. Anyone with an Aussie knows exactly what I am talking about.

Tell her that she looks pretty.
Do it.

Peace, Love and OMG! STOP HITTING/DROWNING YOUR BROTHER!
Johi

Time oh time, where art thou?

I just finished reading Stephen King's book On Writing. It was excellent. I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in writing and/or learning more about Stephen King. There is solid information on the craft of writing woven into an entertaining tale of his life, from his boyhood through the many stages of his writing career. It is part memoir, part handbook and I loved it all. Buy it. Read it. You will not be sorry.

Mr. King... and his little dog, too!

There was only one part of the book that left me feeling.... isolated or disconnected? I'm not sure. But when I stepped back and thought about it, I know that I am probably not isolated in this feeling of disconnect at all. In fact, I am most likely the majority. In On Writing, Mr. King talks about scheduling TIME to write. He sets aside every morning to write. Then his afternoons are for naps and letters, followed by family time in the evening. Doesn't that sound dreamy? In my (our) current world of over scheduling, sleep deprivation and constant distraction, I find TIME to be the main thing that I dream about, drool over and desire (step aside, Mr. Jackman). I recently "got away" from my house, the kids and the seemingly constant chores of my life and spent one night in a friend's cabin in the mountains. I took my laptop with every intention to write. Do you know what I did? I hiked (because I need nature and exercise to recharge my batteries) and then I slept. Then I ate and slept some more because this momma is apparently pooped.

Then my family showed up and all opportunity to write vanished, as did my hopes of showering alone, exercising, having a quiet moment to think or sleeping past 6 am.

I actually have a story in my head that I would LOVE to puke out into a book. What I do NOT seem to have, is the time to sit and write it.

I know what you are thinking, Yet you sit and write this crap, Johi. So THERE is your time. True. I have been finding the time to write on this blog about one day a week. I spend maybe an hour plunking out extremely unedited versions of the shit that floats around in my head. One hour a week. One... hour... a... week.
At this pace, I would be 876 years old by the time I finish my book.

So here is what I propose to the universe: you show me the time, give me the funds (hello housekeeper and part-time nanny?), and I will write down more of the glorious shit that is floating around in my head so that the world can be graced with something that I will refer to as My Book. Until then, I would actually love to have a conversation with Tabitha King, Stephen's wife, as to how her writing career went while she was raising the kids, doing the laundry and scraping the oatmeal off the floor from underneath the dining table.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have dog shit to remove, clothes to fold, dishes to wash, more laundry to rewash because as soon as I hung it to dry the smoke from the High Park Fire shifted and engulfed our house, floors to sweep, furniture to dust, groceries to purchase, meals to prepare, gardens to water and toilets to clean. I guess I should go to FlyLady.net (see K? I read your Christmas letter)and spend two hours reading about how to get it all done with a smile on my face, great shoes on my feet and love in my heart.

Seriously, I probably will, because so far the highlight of my day has been blowing kisses to Thing 2 and watching Thing 1 sound out words in a book, which are pretty good highlights, but I still want some part of my day to be about me. ME ME ME! Because if I get this time FOR me, YOU will get something (pretty awesome, I'm certain) FROM me.

Wish me luck and may the Time Fairies bring a little something extra, just for each of us, but mostly for me because I'm kind of a fucker like that.

My chores are calling and I still haven't showered.

Peace and Love,
Johi

Whatever you do? Do it with confidence!

I was out riding on Sunday, feeling utterly at home and peaceful on my horse (who no longer lives with me but I don't want to talk about it because I'll cry), when some standard, socially acceptable conversation shook me out of my zen space. Someone asked me a very simple question. They said, "Hey Johi. So what do you do?"

Shit. THE question. My mind immediately ripped through all the things that I DON'T do and was left feeling like a failure at life and a sad loser. I quickly settled on a very shaky, "Umm... I write.... ? "

I could feel my friend smirking in front of me, knowing that it is hard for me to give myself credit for what I do, so I said it again, with a little more confidence, "I write. I like it. I would like to make a career out of it, and by that I mean that I would like more people to give me [a lot of] money to do it."

Then I added quickly, "But I mostly stay at home with my two kids." Because somehow, in my mind, being a stay at home mom is more of a life path than some "creative hobby" that I am pathetically trying to pursue.

This entire 15 second conversation was both a step forward and a step back for me. You see, it has always been entirely too easy for me to admit my failures. It is how I relate with people. Self-deprecation is a huge part of my personality and my humor. I told someone once that I wrote satire and he asked me to elaborate on the types of things that I find annoying; what things do I mock and write about. I thought about it for a moment and tilted my head just like Red Dog when she is willing you to throw the stick for her, then said, "Mostly I make fun of myself, with sprinklings of stupid shit that my husband says and does."

This self-deprecation is not to feed some narcissistic tendency to try and draw attention to myself. My writing style and subject matter is merely what feels "right" to me. It is also because I really don't like to be mean and all that I can do is share my own flaws with the hopes that people will relate, laugh, shake off their own day and go a little easier on themselves. That's all. My writing is not for world domination, it is simply for me and you, with the hopes that it will bring a little joy and a much needed dose of lightheartedness to a world full of serious problems. Problems like giant wildfires that are ripping through the foothills west of Fort Collins. Problems like cancer and starvation and sleep deprivation and dandelions. Problems like which man the bachelorette will choose, why Nathan Fillion won't just hold the motherfucking twine for the Bloggess and how many pieces of chocolate you can eat and still maintain your daily calorie count.

So, damn it, I'm going to start owning my positive qualities as well as I do my flaws! The next time someone asks me what I do, I will tell them, "Not only do I spend a great deal of my time scraping dried oatmeal from under the kitchen table and picking up after everyone, I mostly WRITE! Because I'm a WRITER!" BAM! Chuck Norris can eat my shorts because I just roundhouse kicked the shit out of that. Kind of like when the hummingbird attacked me the other day when I was hiking. I showed that little winged devil all of my athletic prowess! Here's proof!

Hi-yah! Take that, you tiny Kamikaze bastard!
Apparently red isn't the only color to attract hummingbirds.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to go wash out a bowl so that no one discovers that I was eating ice cream in the middle of the afternoon.... again.

So here is my challenge to you: Admit to something that makes you special or that you do well and own it. Wear that positive attribute/ talent with honor!*
*Because I told you to do it, and this is all part of my master plan for tyrannical world domination. Muahahahahaaha!

Peace, Love, and Spellcheck,
Johi
(a.k.a. Writer!)

(Inappropriate) Conversations with strangers and other people, but mostly strangers.

I have put in many hours of "Stranger Danger" instruction with Thing 1. I even set up hypothetical situations, offered in increasing lure. First I talk about when the stranger is in a windowless white van and they gruffly whisper, "Come in here little boy, I have something to show you." Thankfully, that is never appealing to my child and he tells me that he would scream and run away. Then I say the stranger is a pretty, friendly lady who needs help finding her puppy and is offering candy to all eager helpers! I am always satisfied when Thing 1 answers with, "You yell 'NO! YOU'RE A STRANGER! and then you run the other direction and find a parent." Very wise young grasshopper. Very wise. Then I ask, but what if the man offers you ice cream and pony rides? "NO! YOU'RE A STRANGER!", says Thing 1 with confidence. Then I raise the stakes with, "What if they are giving away free designer shoes?"*, which causes Thing 1 to look at me in a confused way and ask if he can go play with that cardboard box in the backyard.

Aaaaand my work as a parent is done. Who needs social training and extra curricular activities when you have awesome stuff like cardboard boxes?

Why would I pay for soccer when we do fun stuff like THIS at my house?
Next we are pulling weeds! Wahoo!

*I would totally go for the designer shoes, by the way, but I am almost always armed with some sort of a weapon, a mind blowing loud 'man voice' and my ninja skills. Don't tell Thing 1.

I may or may not break rules all the time. For instance, I have a STRICT no animals on the couch policy.

Absolutely NO ADORABLE PUPPIES allowed....

I NEVER allow dogs on the furniture, especially dogs who rest their furry
heads on my throw pillows.

NO NO NO! NO ANIMALS ON THE COUCH!

I really NEVER (hardly ever) talk to strangers....unless I'm at the grocery store, or Target, or alone in a dark alley, or I'm out with my girlies. Because I'm street smart. And I'm a lady. I certainly would never walk by a window display of Buddhas and yell, "That's a shit ton of Buddhas!"



Or like when the guy walking his bike followed me through two crosswalks and around a corner and joked, "I'm not following you, I swear!" and I walked five steps as if I didn't hear him then looked over my shoulder and slyly said, "I'm not worried. I'm a Ninja." No way, I would never say that sort of nonsense.

And my friends would NEVER yell things like, "This martini is going straight to my nipples!" or "If I don't stop eating this cheese I am going to be in the bathroom all night." Nor would they say things like, "I don't do quotes. I just fart a lot."  Nope. Never.

We only quote Jane Austin.

Never ever would I talk to strangers while hiking on an isolated trail. Like when the two women asked me if I heard the howling and I may or may not have furrowed my brow and said, "It was probably just a werewolf. In fact, it was most likely TeenWolf making a comeback. Michael J. Fox is out here gettin' all hairy and stuff." Then I used my hand to emulate growing a beard and I hiked away, because I'm a lady.

And NEVER would I tell people that their destination was "Only 4.5 Land Units!". Nope. Because I would never talk to strangers and I would most certainly never fuck with them. Never.

I'm far too sweet and shy to mess with unsuspecting people.

And I would NEVER adoringly stalk Justin Bieber when I was out riding my horse. That would just be inappropriate because I don't personally KNOW The Bieb, which means that he's a stranger.

I'm only doing this so Thing 1 knows how wrong it is. I clearly have his attention.

What?

I'm so glad that I am here on this planet to help lead people on the path of KLASS, Good Karma and Righteousness. You. Are. Welcome.

Peace, Love and Unicorns,
Johi

Striking fear into the hearts of many

Today I made an executive decision to transition my baby, my Thing 2 who is now two years old, to his new and wonderful "big boy bed"! I filled his tiny adorable head with excitement surrounding this change as I felt my own anxiety about him falling over the edge of his crib as he reached for a book melt away. I did not achieve my goal. Instead, I started out excited and he was anxious. Then he was sad. Then he was scared. Then I think he was really really pissed (I am checking under his pillow tomorrow for a Voodoo doll with my hair on it). Then we were both exhausted and delirious. Then he finally passed out and I folded three loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, watered the plants, packed a bag for tomorrow and wrapped Thing 1's birthday present (and wrote this post). Tonight was merely another example of change with all the best intentions that was very poorly received. Parenting fail #346. My kids will either be well-prepared for the curve balls that life throws or they will have a lot to blame me for in therapy. I'll hope for the first...

Tonight, as I listened to Thing 2 shriek out of terror (and anger and willfulness?) for well over an hour, I was reminded of my own childhood and the dark times that it held.

I have one specific memory that haunts me to this very day. Just stirring up the thought makes my eyelids sweat and the hair on my neck stand up. Just like all nightmarish occurrences in B rated Horror flicks set in Iowa, it happened after dusk on the farm.

Every night in my childhood there was a requirement called "barn chores". The idea of walking into a quiet barnyard to give the animals their evening meal seems like it should be a soul-restorative, soothing activity. For the most part, it was. I would take turns with my sister doing these chores. The path from the back door of the house to the barn was about 200 feet, and when you were headed toward the barnyard in your Carhartt jacket and work boots, you never walked the path alone. Always faithful was my dog, Bobbie Sue. She was directly at my heels for the walk out to the circle of buildings that held hay, grain, horses, 156 inbred line bred, half feral barn cats and a variety of small birds and rodents that those cats stalked to the death. She was consistently behind me for every step I took during the chore process. She was steadfast and true. She was my pal. True Blue Bobbie Sue.

The air was always thick with the sweet smell of the Midwest at night. That dewy air clinging to my face and filling my lungs often was refreshing as a conclusion to some long days of schoolwork, sports and teenage drama. The horses were serene once tied in their stalls, and would munch their grain with contentment. The friendlier cats would weave themselves between my legs, hoping for a plate of scraps from the house, and my loyal dog was ever present at my heels.

Once the corral was cleaned and the horses had finished their dinner, it was time to turn them into the paddock for the night. It had also gotten dark during this time. In Iowa it doesn't just transition to nighttime, it gets pitch ass black; so black that you cannot even see your own hand in front of your face. When all the horses were loose for the evening and the halters and lead ropes were hung on the proper pegs, I would close up the barn. When I flipped the wall switch to turn out the lights, that is when the reality of the sticky tar black darkness would set in.....

I would slide the big metal doors closed and start my short trek back to the house. My unreliable, good for nothing canine companion was always mysteriously vanished for this part of the journey. All alone, I would jam my hands in my pockets and attempt to casually saunter back to the old white farmhouse. It glowed like a beacon in the night, with the twin upstairs windows glaring at me like a pair of knowing, warning eyes. I would will myself to walk slowly, as if I was going to enjoy the still, creepy, cursed black night. I would hear a rustle in the grass and instantly I would feel a clammy wetness spring to life in my pores, yet I would force myself to calmly walk as if I heard nothing. Then something else would move behind me, causing me to clench my jaw, my arse cheeks and my fists. As I dug my fingernails into my own palms, I would feel myself start to lose control and my stride would quicken. More noise would follow and I would swear that the gentle rustling turned to heavy footsteps, most likely belonging to a giant, grotesque man with one eye, more hair on his back than on his head, and a mouthful of rotten teeth. He probably had huge gnarly hands, to match the sound of his gargantuan boots, and I was absolutely certain that he was carrying an axe which he intended to throw into my back, or maybe an anvil which he would use to bash in my skull..... or a scythe with which to whack off all my limbs. By this time, my brow was soaked and I was not just speed walking with clenched cheeks, but I was all out mothereffing sprinting. Somehow, probably because of my stellar luck and extreme speed, I would reach the storm door just in time, just before the hatchet fell, and I would lock the bleepity bleeping kitchen door behind me.



Whew. Those cats must have been eating some giant dammed rodents to make that kind of noise.


So.... with that, I hope that Thing 2 adjusts to his big boy bed with sweet dreams and some new found big boy power.  I also hope that I can sleep tonight after digging through my own nightmarish childhood. I didn't even tell you about the clowns....

Peace, Love and Don't Let Your Kids Watch Horror Flicks At Slumber Parties,
Johi