When You Wish Upon a Disney

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There are a few things in this life that I would officially label as Annoying but Necessary.

  1. Swim suit shopping
  2. Customer representatives
  3. Kale
  4. The DMV

I have news, y’all. It’s wondrous. Like, the kind of information that makes the sun shine through the trees and little birdies alight on your fingers and then you break into song… I dunno… like a DISNEY PRINCESS MAYBE??

If you Netflix, Disney will come. And Disney will actually manage to redeem the DMV. I thought it could never be done… but yes.

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September 20th is already HERE, ya’ll! I know this because I checked. Knowing the date is important.

Anyhow, Disney cometh. All sorts of other movies are heading our way. Fishes with memory issues. Large talking bears. My childhood favorites, and new ones, for my boys to love.

Watch and wait, as the magic happens.

Ok, and while you are waiting, I will provide you with one other option for you. And stay with me here, because I assure you, this one will NOT be family viewing. But, did you know…

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Oh yea. It’s on Netflix too. You’re welcome.

But, if you don’t really like the whole shark with big pointy teeth thing? I provide you with THIS: *Dramatic flourish*

“A curious shark, with a curious talent…”

 

 

 

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I Went Away and Came Back Again. Episode #34

I think I’ve written about this before. But you guys. It is SO exciting! I went away!

And! Double bonus! I came back!

Last weekend I went away to write.

Does that not make me sound like Zelda Fitzgerald? I mean, without all the booze and angst about her husband and all. But still. It sounds so… writerly, doesn’t it?

Ok, so I packed my stuff:

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Important! Always include incredibly soft Netflix shirt (jammies) in blog post as Shameless Plug.

Also, I didn’t read Big Magic at all. I meant to. It is a great book and I will… but really, all I did all weekend was write or watch You’ve Got Mail. And Jaws 3. Which is in 3D, may I remind you, and has some really awesome acting in it. Basically, people shouting “Get out of the water!” and staring at horror as a gigantic fake shark slowly 3D’s its way towards them. I had forgotten how good that movie is. The shark was a little stiff but perhaps he just needed to work on his motivation.

Anyhow. I also wrote. I went to a hipster coffee shop, plunked my stuff down, and wrote my hands off.

I wrote. I wrote like the wind.

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The poor focus on this picture is not because I am a bad photographer. It’s symbolic. It’s showing you, dear reader, the very writerly PROCESS I struggled THROUGH to try and make this book something with some SORT OF FLIPPING POINT BECAUSE MY GOD PEOPLE I AM SO STUCK. I HAVE WRITER’S BLOCK. IT’S NO LONGER A BLOCK IT IS MORE LIKE A BOULDER. HELLLLP.

 

 

 

So, then I administered about six cups of very strong coffee:

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And after a lot of flipping back and forth between my writing timeshare with the Facebooks, I then spread my crap out even MORE (All the while muttering: “I don’t CARE if it was annoying fellow coffee shop hipsters, this is IMPORTANT. I am a WRITER, people. THIS IS MY CRAFT.” Which really worked because people kept moving away.)

AND VOILA!!!!

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It’s my book, see! SEE! In post-its!

And also, then:IMG_5709.JPGI celebrated with carbs.

I now notice that Porters, next door, was offering nachos and a pitcher AND hiring… which I could always pursue, you know, if I can’t make it as a writer.

IMG_5724.jpgAs I had not had carbs in over a week, it’s possible this was a mistake. But I only at ONE. I promise. (Lower right, lemon cream. Oh my goodness. Heaven.) The rest of the box I faithfully shlepped home to mah babies.

Yes. I did come back to them.

And now the book is well underway, the blockage is over, and I am just spewing writing all over the place. Lovely analogy, isn’t it? Really has great imagery, doesn’t it. That, my peoples, is what we writers do.

We constantly attach too much meaning to everything and end up with poop metaphors.

It’s our thing.

So, The Second Book is on its way. I now I am thinking of some possible titles. What do you think?

All about MEEEEEE!  Part 2.

I Know I Have a Lot to Say, Don’t Leave

or maybe?

Being Me is Very Difficult Let Me Tell You Why

or my favorite:

Bottled in THREE D. THE SAGA CONTINUES.

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There is no crying in T-ball.

 

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For the most part, I do happen to function normally.

But every once in a while, I take leave of my senses. It’s like a vacation.

So, recently, I was humming along, all normal and ignorance is bluss stuff, and then, I thought, “Hey! Why don’t my husband and I coach T-ball this summer!”

I know, right? NUTBALL. Just like that, BOOM. My senses just up and left the building.

It started out ok. We have a team of ten five-year-olds, and their cuteness kinda makes me stop every once in a while, put my hands on my knees, and take a breath. Also, I am completely out of shape, so there’s that.

It’s a good thing they’re cute. Because y’all, they are no Lorenzo Cain.

Ok, but the truth of it is, the kids have heart. They are all Bad News Bears and totally into the hustle and the love of the game. One kid who looks EXACTLY like Charlie Brown hit the ball, fielded it himself, and then proceeded to slide into home base (completely foregoing those pesky second and third bases because who needs ’em?) with straight-up flair.

“You, kid,” I said, as I stood over him and his cloud of dust, “You, kid, have got heart.”

We are not short on heart. We are, however, a bit short on stellar coaching skills.

When I first informed the husband about this, he, of course, was all, “Yes! Sure! Let’s coach T-ball! Great idea!” Have I mentioned, he’s a golden retriever husband? Everything in his life engenders tail wagging and a lot of happy panting.

That sounded rather saucy. Anyhow. It’s not that kinda blog.

So, I threw the ball at the husband, and he gleefully galloped out and retrieved it, all thrilled with life. We’re gonna coach T-ball! This will be a blast! Family time! Togetherness!

And then, he left me. He left the togetherness.

And our team. He left us.

The husband left us to do this nutball thing called Bike Across Kansas. It’s when a bunch of people get together and ride their bikes across Kansas. If you wanna read about adventures with this last year, click here.  I kinda think all this is crazy, but hey, he wasn’t the one to volunteer us to coach T-ball.

I did hope that maybe this year they would bike across the upper eastern corner of Kansas because, if you know your geography… making it across our state wasn’t gonna end anytime soon.

So he’s… in Kansas. On a bike. For a while.

And lo, I am now the coach of T-ball. All by myself.

This is the part of the blog where you need to cue the scary music in your head.

You know the movie, Jaws? You remember at the beginning where all those inebriated tan kids are sitting around the campfire, and it’s all so mellow and kinda… groovy? And then, WHAMMO, that poor blonde girl becomes a shish kebab for Jaws and the movie kinda takes a difficult turn?

Well, that’s how it was at our last T-ball practice. Except there was no skinny dipping or bad 70’s hair or, well, a gigantic man-eating shark.

But other than that, it was the SAME. I mean it!

So, anyhow. Practice.

Started out just fine. We did some stretching… did a few jumping jacks (which is hilarious, by the way. Five year olds often look like jack rabbits on crack when they do these), and then we ran bases. We even ran them in the correct order! It was awesome!

We were a well-oiled machine, people. Poetry in motion. It was all very The Natural home run scene, I tell you.

Until I decided to actually get balls into play.

You see, up until then we had been using imaginary balls. Imaginary bats. It was PERFECTION.

As we all know, real balls do cause trouble. And again, I know it’s not that kinda blog.

So – I put a ball on the T… and stepped back, and then watched as all of my five-year olds lost their little minds. Bases were stolen. No, I mean LITERALLY stolen. Balls were fought over. One kid had a solid hit to center field that no one really saw at all. No one. Not one of them. AS IT FLEW OVER THEIR HEADS THEY DID NOT SEE IT. Some of the kids totally shut down and just started picking flowers. There’s a lot of flowers in the outfield, so it was really quite absorbing.

I too considered picking flowers in the outfield.

In case you didn’t know, “Picking flowers in the outfield,” is grown-up code for “Taking leave of my senses.” Which, neatly and oh-so English teachery takes us back to the introduction of this post!

Wow! Full circle! Perhaps I haven’t lost my mind after all!

One can always hope.

 

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Our first game is tonight. Stay tuned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S = Snark Attack!

tiger_shark_2012_by_feeves-d5b9lyhSo… last Sunday my women’s Sunday school class wanted me to make a Pact with them.  I love Pacts.  They keep it real.  And they add a degree of suspense to my day that otherwise would be, you know, laundry and Connect Four.  Pacts are all Survivor-y and Hunger Games-ish.  I like to dial-up my inner Katniss.  So I was all, I’m IN!  The odds are ever in my favor!  And I look so CUTE in a side hair braid anyhow!Katniss-Everdeen-the-hunger-games-fan-club-30601998-530-725

But. I digress.

Here’s the Pact:  We would not say anything negative TO or ABOUT our husbands for an entire week.

I’m already trying to test the fine print on this one.

It’s just…  he’s cute.  And as far as easy prey goes?  He’s a baby turtle buffet.  I love, LOVE teasing the man.  Just adore it.  It is the wind beneath my wings, the Snark attack.  It gives me such great joy.  I KNOW Jesus would understand.  I mean, really, He SAYS we are to choose joy, right? That’s in the bible somewhere*.  Right?  And Snark is my love language.

Sigh. Perhaps I have gone on enough about levels of Snark of which I am capable.   It makes me sound… callous and uncaring.

Nah, I got more.

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In this picture my husband is clearly indicating his love and devotion and patience. And, that he might qualify as a hipster.

I was thinking about how we operate, we Snarkalots.  We circle in.  We do a lot of side eye-ing.  We wait for it…  and then, BAM!  We find fresh meat.

Generally speaking, Snark attacks work best in packs.  (A pack of Snarks is called a Snack, by the way.)   Snarking alone?  Possible, but not as…  satisfying.

For those of you gentle souls who are on the baby turtle side of life, the following is a helpful tool for keeping the Snarks at bay.  With Snarks, sometimes the best bet is simply:  Don’t go in the water.  Stay away.

The hubs is really good at this.  He simply smiles, and wanders off whenever the Snark fin appears.  He then settles down on his beach (couch) with lots of sports, ESPN, and some chips, and in all his affable detachment he just doesn’t even let me BITE.  Maddening.  But smart.  Snark repellant.

Momsie’s Dictionary of Snark Terminology:

There’s a Snark in the water:  The ominous Snark music is cued, and one should start heading for dry ground.

Bull snark:  The snark is recognized as being very very full of poop. Note:  This does not deter the Snark.  Of course.

Snarknado:  When other Snarks join in, and it’s a frenzy of Snarkism.     It’s more fun this way.  See also:  Marital Discord.

Snark Tank:  An attempt at Snark that just… fails.  As in, hits bottom.  Sinks.  Goes belly up.  Note:  This does not deter the Snark.  Of course.  A Snark’s gotta keep moving.

Snark Week:  Generally this week is fueled and fed by crazy hormones.  It is best not to speak of this week.  It’s too graphic.

Great White Snark:  Snark’s first appearance at the pool.  Other snark mommies show up. It’s paleness all around.  See also:  Pool Snark.

Pool Snark: a special breed of Snark that wears the “Mom suit,”  lots of SPF 50, and downtime.  Snark usually increases exponentially at the pool due to heat and glare. It’s easier to Snark behind gigantic, dark sunglasses.

Killer snark:  You know when you really are SPOT on with some snark and it just is sooooo perfect?  The zinger?  The APEX of snark?  Note:  Can have harmful side effects on marital relations.  See Jumping the Snark.  and Marital Discord.  Again.

Basking snark:  Summer Snark is finding her tan.  Also: A Killer Snark just surfaced and Snark Momsie is basking in the glow.

Jumping the Snark:  Snarking has gone too far.  The end is near.  Your relationship with your husband (main Snark recipient) has decided to cancel your show.

CLAWS:  70’s blockbuster about a snark with a particularly evil set of claws.  And yes, I know we’re mixing metaphors here but stay with me.CBM001_i_can_has_cheezburger_magnet_madison_park_group_funny_lol_sarcasm_sarkasm_just_another_service_i_offer_cat_kitteh__57961.1336510338.1200.1200

And finally…

“We’re gonna need a bigger gloat”:  The Snark has become so full of herself that she uses movie quotes to savor the moment.  See Basking Snark.  And also:  Marital Counseling .

 

After all this, there is really only one final term that any good Snark needs to know:

Remorsa:  Uh, this one kinda speaks for itself.

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Sorry sorry sorry… I love youuuuuuuuu.

*The Momsie Bible maybe…  the Newly Organized and Paraphrased Edition ( or  the NOPE ) is my go-to bible for highly doctored, often massively inaccurate mutations of verses so I can prove a point or make my life easier.

Oh my friends.  Try to tame your inner Snark.  Or your husband will eventually start acting like this guy:

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Cranky.

Of course, I have to leave you with this:

You’re welcome.

H is for an American Horror Story. As written by a mom of two toddlers.

*small h says in a small voice*  "I'm skeered."

*Small voice. Small h.* “I’m skeered.”

I once watched an entire, well half, OK maybe about 20 minutes, of a scary movie.  All  from my kitchen.  And the television was around the corner.  It’s confusing to describe, and there’s some physics involved, so I’ll spare you the logistics.  Also, “watch” is a relative term.  I listened to it, and I actually just watched some bits in the reflection in the hall mirror.

Mostly, I hid behind the refrigerator door and nervously scarfed pudding while the creepy girl got all, “I’m gonna show you some really bad hair and get all slow walky” and OH HECK NAH.  SHE JUST CRAWLED OUT OF THE TV.  I gotta go mow the lawn. Or clean out this ‘fridge.   Maybe go find my old Disney records and try to wipe out my brain.  But first I gotta prance it across the living room and turn OFF the TV ’cause she has got to GO.  Back in the Netflix envelope for YOU, creepy bad hair girl.  Be gone!

I’m just not one for scary movies.  Life is scary enough.

At my house, there are enough scary movie moments to put the creepy bad-haired living- in-a well girl to shame.  Creepy girl?  You wanna piece of me?  Come visit my  house and watch from the kitchen!  BECAUSE…  (wait for it) SOMETIMES MY TODDLERS SCARE THE HOLY CRAPOLA OUTTA ME.  (*Be warned: I am going to throw about a majillion scary movie references at you.  I might have watched more than I like to admit).

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Case in point:

My story starts in the shower.  I know, right? I don’t even have to write it.  It writes itself.

Scene:  Showering.  Sorta muttering, again.  Talking to God.  You know.  Thanking Jesus for hot water and some alone time.

Cue scary violins.

There’s this  CLAW THING grabbing at my calf. Followed by a gutteral “wheeeHELLO GOD BLESS AMERICA WHAT IN THE  DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS WAS THAT?” (Could have been me. Could be the owner of the CLAW.  I don’t really know.  All I know is that profanity’s got nuthin on me.)

And then,  “Mommah? Mommah??  What you doin’?  Why you on da floor?  You taking a bath?  Whaaaaaaaat you DOING IN DER MOMMAH???”

At this point I was kind of flattening myself up against my tiled shower wall anywhere AWAY from that skittery clutchy little hand.  The Redhead had broken a big rule:  You just DON’T grab at people in the shower!  Not unless you want a lot of screeching to follow!  Mommah saw Psycho!  She’s got a nervous tick already!  She’s jumpy!  She ’bout passes out every morning just when she looks in the mirror!  Her nerves are SHOT.

…And there was not much else to that part of the story except that I realized I really needed to do something about the grout in our shower; it’s disgusting.  That’ll be the sequel:  Toddler American Horror Story Part 2.  GROUT.

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This is a stunt toddler. No actual toddlers were used in the making of this post. They refused to re-enact anything. It was beneath them. Artistic integrity and all that. Pfft.

Then.

Later in the day there was this simple yet eerie non sequitor: “Mommah?  I’m sorry.”

I had wandered in on the redhead who had used the facilities (yes, we’re back in the bathroom) with not much accuracy.  I was all, “Oh honey, that’s all right, we all have- ” and stepped in pee.

“I’m sorry. Mommah.  I peed a little. Der.  On da floor.”

“It’s OK honey, we’ll just get that all cleaned up, oh MY WHOA-”

“And Der.  I peed der too.  A widdle bit.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s, well, it’s ok, let’s just get over to the bathtub and –  WOW. Really?  Over here too?”

“Yep.  Der too.  Sorry.  Sorry ’bout that.”

“Uh.  It’s all right.  Really.  Just… wow, you musta been aiming for something I’m thinking?  Or just, twirling around maybe? OH GREAT HECK HERE TOO?”

*quivering lip*  “Ima sorry…”

“NO. No, honey, it’s ok.  It’s just, wow.  You have a future in the fire brigade I’m thinking.  And, you know, it’s just a bit ucky.  Mommy shoulda worn shoes at least.  But really. It’s ok.  Urine is sterile.  Or so I’m told.  It’s just kinda hard to keep my footing.  Wow.  And yep.  There’s more.”

Silent awe.  From both of us.

“Wow.  Wow.  I’ll get a ladder.”

“Yep.” Red looking up.  “Der it is.”

And:

Resolution scene:  Nighttime.  Momsie is gone.   Zombie Mom is now in charge.  This happens pretty much every night after 7  pm.  But nobody seems to mind the moaning and lurching about as long as each gets his dinner.

So… at bed time, I used Redhead’s toothbrush.  I don’t know why.  Just wanted to have a mouth full of plague-ish toddler germs I guess.  Oh, and did I mention he has a smoker’s cough?  Well, we don’t smoke or anything but seriously, he sounds just someone’s leathery old Auntie  who is stained brown from nicotine and despair,  I tell you.  So there’s that little nugget of disgustingness to end my day.

And FINALLY:  (CUE BIG SHARKFEST AT THE BUFFET MUSIC)

I got my period today.

The end.

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MOMMY? MOMMAH? WHAT YOU DOIN? WHAT YOU DOING IN DER? MOMMY? MOMMAH? MOTHERRRRRR???

* Did you catch all the movies?  Sweet dreams.

And I just realized too that my setting for my entire movie is the bathroom.  Overshare?  I think not.