The Annual Stalking of Bambi

Today is Testosterone Day in Ohio. More conventional people may also designate it as Orange Day, but I'm not real conventional. When you can sense it just by opening a living room window, it's T-Day.

I'm referring, of course, to Opening Day for deer hunting season.

It's guaranteed that if I drive anywhere in the next week, I will see several deer hanging from trees, dripping on garage floors, and lolling over pickup tailgates. (Especially the bucks. You NEVER put your tailgate up when you get a buck!)

Life demanded that I make an errand run today. My route took me past a house that is apparently a hot spot for hunters. Two mega-duty trucks pulled out in front of me, thick black exhaust rolling from the jumbo pipes rising above the cabs. Two more trucks waited for me to pass, so they could join the cavalcade. The drivers and passengers were sporting the universally recognized neon orange. One by one, they all turned the same corner. I envisioned fourteen overgrown boys piling out of the monster machines, smacking each other on the back, popping the lids off their Michelobs and reliving the take-down of the 12-pointer swinging from the tree in the front yard.

These men may or may not have surprised their wives with a bouquet of roses in the past fifteen years or spent a dime on a family movie night. Vacations to Disney or the Grand Canyon may be a foreign concept. But! By golly, they've had this week of vacation approved at work since the first of January. Every year. Without fail.

When I was in high school, all of my male classmates who hunted were allowed to take a free day on Opening Day. The notion of allowing the females the liberty to enjoy a day for shopping wouldn't have been entertained. Sure, the men were hunting and providing for the family. But we all know that's not why men pull on their boots and Carhartts and perch precariously in homemade tree stands in subzero weather waiting for the elusive stag to have an unfortunate meeting with the wrong end of a shotgun. The fact that the family gets a little deer jerky and enjoys a steaming pot of venison stew is a side benefit.

Several months ago, Tom brought home an eight point buck head that one of his friends at work had parted with. The friend was cleaning out the Man Cave. I'm not, by far, the best decorator in the world, but our house is not a log cabin or in the country. I wasn't thrilled with this monstrosity hanging on my wall. I appreciate benevolence, but...

Tiffany was even unsure what to think about it.




We recently came to an agreement, with the help of an acquaintance. This guy had reason to step on our front porch while the Thing languished in the bad weather, and upon noticing, he declared an immediate need for it. He desired to own it to the extent that he offered us his own deer, should he get one this year. When we didn't respond to his offer quickly enough, he increased it to include a really nice Pack-n-Play for Tiffany.

The Pack-n-Play is lovely girly colors and suits Tiffany perfectly. We're waiting for the call that will fill our freezer. And somewhere, there's an eight point buck hanging on a cabin wall, with a bunch of strong, tough Davy Crocketts beating their chests and telling fish...I mean...deer stories.

My BFF, Revisited

Lots of people say they don't care what people think, but few people actually manage to live that statement. My husband truly doesn't care. He will never be accused of being Politically Correct. He has no desire to Keep Up With The Joneses. It doesn't bother him one smidgen that he doesn't have Friends In High Places.


He is fortunate to not be bothered by other's opinions, but this is sometimes seen as nonchalance regarding people's feelings. He has occasionally found himself in the doghouse because of his bluntness. He doesn't deliberately hurt people, because he's actually very kind-hearted. He doesn't tolerate public stupidity well, but he's reasonably social and friendly.


He's well aware that his supposedly-cavalier attitude is misunderstood by most of society. He even gets enjoyment from that realization at times. That's when the fun begins.

Tom is the kind of guy who will use Duck Tape to fix things, without regard to how it looks. He will rig something up to save the cost of a Professional Repair Job. Remember his car and his football?

Well, his car is currently under the weather. (Most people would say it was junk-yard bound when he got it, but most people aren't Tom.) She's a faithful little thing, requiring little more than a quart or two of oil every once in a while, very few gas refills, and a couple tomato soup cans and coat hangers to repair muffler damage. Even the best of friends, however, occasionally get sick. LC's brakes have been balking for several weeks, and Tom has become quite adept at down-shifting to stop her.

As luck would have it, his parents were at our house when the brakes quit completely. (I should probably point out that Tom's dad is one of those people that just Don't Get Tom. His mother - TOTALLY gets Tom! He came by his nature honestly! But Dad...nope, just doesn't...never has, never will, doesn't even try.) They had stopped by for a few minutes, just before Tom got home from work, and were in the house talking to the kids. I was standing where I could see out the front door, but they couldn't.

I heard Tom's car coming down the street. I heard the engine shut off, thinking it sounded a little closer than normal. I looked out the window just in time to see LC bump up onto our curb and into our front yard. Just as quickly, the engine restarted, and I saw LC rolling back off the curb at an odd angle.

Taking everything I know about my husband into account, combined with the knowledge that he just narrowly missed hitting the back of his father's truck was hilarious. I was laughing like crazy, and didn't bother to explain to them, because I knew that his dad wouldn't find it amusing. This just made it more funny to me.

The problem of the car not having brakes means that either Tom has to fork over some money to a Professional Repair Man, or he has to find another mode of transportation if he intends to keep food on our table. Since there is no more snow on the ground, his choice was to save money right now.

We were fortunate to find some really nice, used, PLAIN bicycles about a month ago at a very nice price. I don't like speed bikes. I just want a normal bicycle that will move in a forward motion when I peddle. I don't need fancy-schmancy. We bought a bike trailer/stroller combo for the little ones, and now we can go for rides on nice-weather days. Free entertainment is right up Tom's alley. Also up Tom's alley is biking to work.

It's 6 miles to Tom's place of employment. He goes in at 6 AM. He's been riding in 33-degree, rainy weather. He doesn't mind the cold OR the rain. He just has to prepare, which is yet another source of entertainment.













Never one to let a Make Deanna Laugh opportunity slip by, this is the point where he yells, "I'm Crowning!!" (Yeah, yeah - I got yer CROWN right here, buddy! Don't even GO there with me!)







Genius. Ingenious. Depends on your perspective. I happen to think he's not only amusing, but pretty darn fun to be around.

My BFF

For inquiring minds who wonder what kind of man would find amusement in being married to me...

Meet my husband - a very patient and long-suffering person. His dry sense of humor and lack of tact sometimes land him in hot water, but like me, he can fit in with polite society if necessary. (For more info on how he accomplishes that, see his Genius Tom label in my sidebar...)


1)Husbands Name: Officially, Thomas Scott. I call him Honey. He calls himself ELH when he writes something to me. Ever Lovin' Husband

2)How long have you been married?: 18 years on August 30.

3)How long did you date?: 4 months

4)What did he want to be when he grew up? A Preacher. He thought they only worked one day a week.

5)Who eats more sweets?: Oh most indubitably me.

6)Who is the better singer?: Ya know that song about singers who can't carry a tune in a bucket? He's a selective bucket carrier. He has better luck not sloshing the contents out if he's listened to the song for 29 years. Every once in a while, he'll hit one spot on, though. Jimmy Buffett seems to be friendly to his singing ability. Otherwise, I'm the better singer. "But after one round with Jose Cuervo..."

7)Who is smarter?: We're both pretty intelligent. He's just more gracious about it.

8)Who does the laundry?: He can, but I'm home, so I
do. He doesn't fold it the way I like, anyway. But I appreciate the effort. And the kids can refold.

9)Who pays the bills?: He brings home the bacon, I fry it up in the pan, the creditors enjoy the taste.

10)Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? It's closer to the door, so I do, because the kids always want Mom if they need something at night.


11)Who mows the lawn?: We have teenagers.

12)Who cooks dinner?: We share this responsibility. He cooks alot more in summer, because he's the grill chef. I make the sides.

13)Who drives?: He does. All the time. I don't like to drive. He doesn't like for me to drive. It's a mutual thing.

14)Who is the first to say they are wrong?: Oh brother - this is very hard for both of us. Fortunately, we rarely disagree. Life taught us it just ain't worth it. We split this, too. There's benefits to makin' up......

15)What is his favorite TV show/movie? He made me watch Duel. If your spouse ever suggests that you watch Duel, claim PMS and go to bed with the heating pad and a really, really, really long book. Unless, of course, you're in to sagas about middle-aged men being chased across the desert by demon-possessed truck drivers hellbent on bringing destruction to earth by eliminating the middle-aged man. And you never see anything but the truck-driver's boots. He dies in the end. At least it looks like he dies, because his truck goes over a cliff. Claim PMS. Unless you're a guy. That would be weird. And you might actually like the movie, anyway.

16)Who kissed who first?: He says I kissed him first. I deny that, because I don't actually remember. And Mr. Edwards would have a FIT if he thought the girl made the first move. So, Tom kissed Deanna first.

17)Who asked who out first?: He called me and asked me out. Blind-date. He was my third blind-date Tom. He is by far the best blind-date Tom.

18)Who wears the pants?: We both wear pants. I grew up being told Christian Women Didn't Wear Pants. Hooey! OH! You're asking Who's the Boss! He's the quiet boss. The kids ask me, generally, if they can do something, and he's fine with that. I keep track of the calendar. It just makes sense. But don't question his authority. That doesn't turn out well for the child questioning.

19) Who cuts his hair?


....um....



























20) Name one of his favorite people (besides you)? Billy Graham and Morry Hummel.


And now you know!

Dumpster Diving

OK, so I'm gonna break down here and admit that every once in a while, something comes across my path that just grinds me.


Normally I can deal with these rare occurrences and no one is any wiser as to the wrestling in my brain. I am no Monk by any stretch of the imagination (my clutter would push the poor man into a permanent catatonic state), but I do have a couple squeamish tendencies that make Tom refer to me as a germ-a-phobe, in a very loving sort of way. I use hand sanitizer the minute I exit Walmart, I use my own pens to sign papers at the doctors office, and I hold the electronic stylus pen at RiteAid with my sleeve when I sign for prescriptions. I think that's only logical! Who goes to the doctor and pharmacy? Sick people!! (I also prefer my kitchen cupboards to be organized by food group, can size and labels turned OUT, and my bathroom closet to have all towel edges turned IN - does this indicate a need for psychological evaluation?)

Despite what you may be thinking right-about-now, the subject of this post really isn't my minor OCD issues. No, the subject - the daily grind, if you will - is TRASH CANS. In particular, OUR trash cans.



Our kitchen trash can being full doesn't bother me. The fact that I'm the only person in the house who routinely notices that it fills up bothers me. The fact that I am still, after nearly 17 years, explaining to my children the task of properly taking the trash to the outdoor trash can and REPLACING THE BAG IN THE KITCHEN TRASH CAN bothers me.




The lid doesn't bother me. We utilize the trash receptacle so often that I generally don't even keep the lid on it. It's stored near the trash can, and prior to company coming over, we'll dust it off and dutifully slap it on top of the (hopefully) empty can. It bothers me that I don't have a "place" for my trash can other than way-too-near my kitchen table, but it works out great for tossing the dry pizza crust and chicken wings and flipping the Corona bottle tops without getting off our chairs.




Dirty trash cans REALLY grind me. Growing up, my mother used paper grocery bags to line the trash can. Paper bags are shorter than the average kitchen trash can, so this effort really did nothing to keep the trash can clean. Emptying all the trash cans in the house was one of my routine chores, so you can imagine my displeasure at having to haul a nasty can outside to the burn barrel and watch the days' disgust roll down the side of the stained, formerly-white-now-dingy-gray can into eternal ashy oblivion.

As you can see in this picture SOMEONE didn't bother to make sure there was a trash bag in the can before tossing a few coffee grounds in, or else SOMEONE ripped a hole in the bag that was there, and a few coffee grounds slipped through. However, my solution to this problem is this: when I mop the floors, I use my kitchen trash can for a bucket. It keeps it nice and fresh. The bottom of my kitchen trash can is NOT stained, and in fact is so clean, that I wouldn't cringe if a piece of chocolate fell in - I'd probably consider the 30-second rule, blow off the imaginary germs, and depending on the day of the month, yes, I would probably eat it. Because I use a botanical germicidal spray on my trash cans, they are actually pretty clean in between changing bags. So that the other trash cans in my life don't feel left out, I let them masquerade as mop buckets every so often, too. My house may be a mess, but by golly, the trash cans are gonna be clean!



Something else that bothers me is the price of trash bags. Have you bought them lately??!? A couple years ago, I could get 96 quality bags for under $5. Now it will cost me almost $8, for 80. And the box they come in is flimsier! It's not even heavy cardboard, it's barely cardstock weight! So I had to salvage the last heavy box we had. When I get ripped off buy a new box of trash can liners, I toss the box they come in, and put the roll into the old box. I have nightmares that someone with lesser trash can liner fears than mine will toss the old box and I will daily, sometimes more than daily, have to face the fact that I no longer can purchase 96 bags at one time. Seriously, I'm tossing money into the trash can! It's preposterous!



This is my saving grace, though. It proves that I'm not a complete lunatic. It proves that not all trash cans are created equal. It proves that I can find ways to stick it to the man save money.







This came with our house. We bought this house and moved in 5 years ago today. Upon arriving in our new God-provided home, I was pleasantly surprised to find a couple outdoor trash cans loitering around the back door. Great, I thought. Wonderful. I won't have to buy new ones. So I didn't. I didn't care that this one didn't have wheels. I just prop it against the house, or the other trash cans. It works fine. It has serviced our dirty diapers, tomato soup cans (that don't get used on Tom's car), moldy bread, junk mail, used coffee filters, and empty Hershey wrappers faithfully for 5 full years.

But now...after 5 full years ... I have been put on notice. Apparently not everyone appreciates my money-saving finesse.

I've been served collection notices in the past, but they've never made me laugh. Until now... and they have a new twist. It's a NON-collection notice! Yahoo!



Two weeks ago, the trash guys left one can untouched on Trash Day. Sitting there so neat and orderly by the street, they abandoned it! We happened to have some extra stuff out that day, so I thought we were over our "limit", although we typically are and nothing ever happens. They're so nice, and they need our junk so much, they just take it for us. Our solution was to have the boys haul a couple of extra bags over to a neighboring house which never puts ANY trash out, because it's owned by a church and not occupied. The pastor's wife told us years ago if we had an occasion where we had extra trash, we were welcome to put it out at that curb, because the church pays for trash pickup for that location anyway. This was the first time we've taken advantage of her offer. (This pastor's wife had some of her own trash disappear a year or so ago, and she thought she was losing her mind. As it turns out, the police had swiped her trash bags from her curb in an effort to nail some drug dealers they thought might be dumping evidence in other people's trash. Ha!)

Voila! Problem solved. But wait! Two days ago, Preston Savannah brought in this lovely little green sticker from the handle of our free trash can. Now we know the real reason they left us in a lurch for trash space!




Have I mentioned we've lived here, and used this very same trash can, for 5 years???!??

I'm not sure why we're getting a sticker from the "Village of Delta" trash collectors. Tri-State Waste has always provided trash pickup for our village, to my knowledge. So I'm going to defend these guys by assuming that Tri-State must have subcontracted that day out to Delta, a town some 30-odd miles away from us. These guys would have no knowledge of my aversion to spending money on new trash cans, and as Tom pointed out, it is slightly difficult to keep the can standing up, with no wheels on it. This might explain why there was a dirty diaper left lying in my front yard after the truck pulled away...

But do you think I'm spending money on a new trash can now?

Think again. If I can screw a piece of wood onto the bottom of this puppy and stabilize it, I will not be replacing this trash can any time soon. The Trash Gods can just deal with it.

Gabe Should Consider a New Workout Routine

He's fine. Bruised and sore leg, but he's bearing weight OK.





Males respond so differently to traumatic situations than females do. Here's what happened today at our house, following Gabe's adventures at the Y with his school mates.

Mom and Savannah were just relieved that Gabe is OK, and both chuckled at the vision of people scurrying out of the building due to Gabe's Gym Faux Pas.

Synopsis delivered to Bucky and Preston:
Gabe fell at the Y today. Down the stairs. He pulled the fire alarm and the building had to be evacuated.

Bucky's response: "Alright, GABE!!" - round of raucous laughter

Preston's response: "Gabe set off the fire alarm??!?? Alright, GABE!!" - second wave of laughter

Dad saw the bruise when he came home from work. He asked me what happened. I told him.
Dad's response: "Alright, GABE!!" - 3rd round on the house

Imagine the testosterone if these three blokes would have actually been involved!!

Cream and Sugar?

It's not much of a secret that I have an addiction to coffee. To make it easier to justify, I like to call it a healthy love affair rather than an addiction.





(It just wouldn't be healthy or proper for me to stalk this man.)


I didn't always drink my breakfast, but as I apparently am required to be awake to sufficiently care for my family, I caved to genetics* and began consuming the energizing beverage several years ago.

*My mother always had a napkin with a coffee cup ring on it sitting on her sewing machine table. My sisters and I would come home from school and there would be 3 matching dresses hanging on the sewing room door that had not been there when we left at 7:30 that morning. The dashboard of my father's pickup was littered with Styrofoam cups. I can almost smell the faint scent of McDonald's coffee that permeated the cab of his work truck. He convinced me when I was a kid that his vehicle just automatically turned into the drive-thru every day on his way home from a paint job.

Tom and I had a coffee maker that sat, unused except for company, for a few years after our wedding. Then along came the babies, and after the arrival of Savannah, Mr. Coffee became a permanent fixture on the counter top.

Tom worked 3rd shift the first twelve years of our marriage, so naturally he drank a lot of the sludge. He needed it to stay awake, and it really does smell good - I'll blame him for a portion of my problem. We both love to wake up to the smell of fresh coffee. He, more than I.* My addiction used to be more pronounced in the winter, so I kept a "winter" (12 cup) coffee maker, and a "summer" (4 cup) coffee maker available. Preston and Bucky occasionally like to partake of a cup with us, so we just use the big one all the time now. (I also now drink just as much coffee in warmer weather as I do in cooler weather, but who's counting??!?)

*For a short period of time, Tom decided we should have a Bed-n-Breakfast bedroom. His version was simple - take










the summer coffee maker















upstairs and keep a supply of ground coffee, filters, and a gallon of water under the bed. The preparations would all be in place before he went to sleep at night. In the morning, his alarm would go off, and without a word being said, he'd roll over. I'd hear him hit the snooze with his hand and start the coffee pot with his foot. In a few seconds, I'd hear "pssssssssss...." as the water began trickling into the carafe. This went on for several days, until one morning, listening to the chain of events take place in the darkness that is 5:00AM, I could contain my mirth no longer and simply burst into laughter. Shortly after that, he quit making coffee upstairs, and our bedroom returned to it's previous place in our domicile as Just the Room in Which We Sleep. I have no idea why.

I used to just drink the plain stuff, and while I still like a simple cup of coffee every now and then, my disease has progressed to the point that I now require special treatment. Where once I used to be able to survive on this,







now I use this.




Where once I used to speak daily with Mr. Coffee, my husband knew that Mr. Coffee could no longer fulfill the requirements I have for kitchen appliances, so he enabled me with this.





And you almost ALWAYS find something like this in my fridge.



Every once in a while, usually on a blustery winter evening when I happen to have time to read a good book, I might stray off the beaten path and shake things up a bit with some of this.







But lest you think I've drifted so far over the edge of sanity there's no hope for my return, be assured that I find useful ways to recycle various coffee-related articles. For instance, the larger containers of the plain-jane coffee make excellent storage devices for baby bottles.



Aware of the need to become more "green", another efficient use that I've discovered for run-of-the-mill coffee buckets is composting. Keep one of these suckers sitting by your kitchen sink, and toss in your leftover scraps from making juice, scrambled eggs and ....are you ready for this??....COFFEE!! Voila! Instant mush for your garden!




Now on the off chance that you think I'm not treating my body in a healthy manner, let me just say that I drink all this in an effort to retain my brain power. Granted, it would help if I could actually FIND my brain to begin with, but if I am ever successful at that endeavor, at least I'll be geared up for making sure I don't wind up suffering with dementia when I'm 80. And I've got proof!!!

So! Back off, all you naysayers! I'll be just fine.

Now...
where did I set my cup down?

LC

Once upon a time, a lady and man decided they needed one more child to complete their family. They kissed, and 9 months later, in the spring of 1969, a bouncing baby boy was born. They named him Tom. Being typical parents, they had dreams for their child. They envisioned him reaching adulthood and settling into a comfortable life with a beautiful wife who would cook gourmet meals for him. They anticipated the day when this lovely couple would produce grandchildren and carry on the proud family name.

Their wishes were met. Kinda. The son did indeed marry, and he assures his wife often that she is beautiful. The baby puke on the faded sweatshirt doesn't detract from her smiling face. He is grateful for the lukewarm hotdogs and mushy french fries she points out to him when he drags himself home from his 14 hour work day. The children this couple created prove that the lineage hasn't disintegrated.

What the parents didn't have knowledge of is how thoroughly entertaining their daughter-in-law would find their son. Or how specifically he would learn to pray to God for needs in his life. Or how their son would grow up to be a man who truly, absolutely, without a doubt, honest-to-goodness, 100% could not care less what people think of him. Or how those three things would intertwine to present themselves available for this post.

------

About 4 years ago, gas prices began to increase. Tom's day job is only 6 miles away from home, but the extra jobs are a much greater distance. He was looking for a vehicle that would get better gas mileage. His prayer was for "a car that gets at least 40 miles to a gallon, and isn't more than $300".


Meet LC. Short for Little Car, she's a Tri-tone Ford Festiva. She gets about 44 miles to a gallon, and she was purchased with $300.



She came to us with exhaust needs, chipped paint and rust spots, misapplied primer, numerous scratches and dents, a glittered Jesus window decal, and a KILLER stereo system.

He threw in the pose for free.




A consultation with the local repair shop informed him that the proper requirements for the exhaust system would run roughly $300. Tom invested in some metal ductwork straps, a tomato soup can, a $30 part from Auto Zone, a few coat hangers, and an afternoon lying in the muddy front yard with his new purchase propped up on blocks.

For the record, yes I do think this is a sexy man.




He talked about painting the car. We warned him that he might come home from work one day and find himself a victim of a homemade version of Pimp My Ride, except I can't stand that phrase, so we'd have to call it something else.




But wait, you say. It's impossible to take a 4 passenger Festiva and convert it into a 52 passenger school bus. You would be correct in that assumption, as far as I know. This school bus created some problems for the good citizens of our town - and specifically our home - one sunny summer day in 2006.

Tom walked outside to collect Gabe from the school bus following his summer day program, and when he didn't return after several minutes I went to look for him. Imagine my surprise when I opened the front door and was greeted with Tom's legs - hanging out the passenger side door, car rolling backwards down the street. Attached to the driver's side...the school bus.

Apparently, after letting Gabe out of the bus, the driver was attempting to back up in the street as there was a vehicle too close to the front of the bus. He unknowingly locked on to the front left side of Tom's car. Upon realizing what was happening, Tom tried to reach in his car and put it in neutral, but the bus driver didn't wait for him, so the car, and Tom, were being dragged backward. Since the door was open when the car started moving, and Tom's weight was on the curb side, the door caught in the grass, and bent the door back. This was the point where I exited the house. This was the point where I panicked. This was the point where Tom managed to get out of the car in one piece and commence to speaking a wee bit forcefully to the driver. Which was the point I disappeared into the house to see if the kids were located within, or out of, earshot. Which was the point I began stiffling my laughter.






A few more dings and dents, but the door was still in working order.



What's a little bumper damage when you already have the license plate wired on with a coat hanger? And the window duct taped to keep out the snow? And the headlight shrouded in clear plastic to keep the rain from pelting the bulb so hard it needs to be replaced after every storm?

For 3 winters, the heater hasn't worked well enough to even defrost the windshield, let alone keep Tom warm. He finally decided to shell out the $91 dollars and get the blower fixed so now he won't freeze to death driving in the winter.



There was a new bus driver the next day. We think it might have something to do with the fact that we pointed out to his superiors that the offending driver was wearing big, black sunglasses - the kind that the eye doctor gives you after your eyes have been dilated. The kind that Stevie Wonder wears. The kind that might have drawn the attention of the police that day.

For two hours, the bus sat in front of our house while the police gathered the information they needed. A second school bus had to be summoned to finish delivering the remaining students. Our street was front and center in our quaint little town.

As for the car...well, she's still puttering around just fine. She's racked up a quarter million miles. She leaks oil. She has a fresh set of 12 inch tires waiting for her in the basement if she needs them. She even faithfully sports Ron Paul messages. She is a trooper.

And my husband...give him duct tape, xray film separators, wire and tin snips and he's a happy man. Throw in his Jimmy Buffett CDs to crank on the amazing stereo, and he's ecstatic. And he's aaaaaalllllllllllll mine.

Noon. This Saturday. ABC. Be There!

I told you I was thinking about it. I did it. I waited until after the obnoxious lying political ads ceased, and I made the call.



I kindly explained that I wanted the cheapest, most basic of packages available. For a mere measly 15 bucks a month, we now have Time Warner Cable. Gabe can now enjoy quality commercials like Party in My Tummy and other motivationally-intended nonsense.



Savannah has been a bit under the weather over the past few days, so the Cable Guy showed up just in time to keep her mind from being completely bored out of it's skull while she convalesces.




We all know why the cable was really installed!




Never let it be said that people in this family can't multi-task while watching the Buckeyes!




Yes, Gabe - as a matter of fact, we DID kick Illinois' butt!




Ah, Uncle Jim! So good to see you again, even with the black smudge across the screen. I've missed you!




We teach our children at home. The important stuff, naturally!




Straight home from work, pick up the baby, plunk onto a chair - no rabbit ears required. Maybe now the neighbors can return to their delusions that we're normal.

Probably not - one of Bucky's friends told us last weekend that his mother had said to him earlier in the week..."You should tell them to take down that Ron Paul stuff from their yard."



"No, they won't. It's their revolt against the election results."

She still let him spend the weekend with us, though.

And for a fitting ending...




Bring.It.On.





(sports images courtesy of google images)

Recently Overheard or Seen

I have a very hard time - OK, it's next to impossible for me to put on a front when I'm really thinking about the stupidity level of whatever/whomever I'm dealing with at the moment. I have learned that it is truly best if I RUUUUUUUUUN as fast as I can away from the situation, because otherwise I will wind up in very hot water.

Last week, I was (not surprisingly) sputtering about a conversation I'd had with someone and (not surprisingly) I was irritated. Last straw. Flabbergasted. Disgusted. Sitting on my hands so I don't punch someone. That kind of conversation. I was relaying this conversation to Tom, and also relaying (as if he doesn't actually know what I'm thinking!) what I was actually thinking.

His response...

"When diplomacy fails, it's good to be married to you."



-----

This week, following our wonderful election process, Tom and I ran into an acquaintance at the library. This guy and I have been debating politics for a year. We weren't in the library for a minute before we got wound up. The librarians, having been witness to our scuffles in the past months, laughed and told us that guns aren't allowed there, and neither is patron harassment. This goof dared to tell me I wasted my vote, because I didn't vote for McCain. (As he did, to keep Obama out of office - yeah, we see how THAT turned out!)

When Tom went to work yesterday, he was talking with this guy's wife (who works with Tom) about our library discourse.

"If your husband and my wife have many more political discussions, one of them is gonna wind up dead."

Her response...

"Oh please, let it be my husband."

Hey! The guy isn't all bad! He let us borrow his truck to bring home a fridge!


------

A neighbor stopped by last night. Bucky inhaled his taco salad and disappeared out the door. The minute he closed the door behind him, it opened again and in walked little Abby and her Mama, Crystal. Little Mister D. was happy to see Abby.

Later when Bucky came back in the house, he was standing staring into the kitchen cupboards because apparently the taco salad had worn off - it had been an entire hour, after all! We were sitting at the table, having a nice after-dinner conversation, and Crystal happened to say "I have a yard that needs raked."

Bucky's response...

"I have a wallet that needs filled."


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Savannah is so disgusted about the election results that she can't speak. Her solution?

Tonight, she raked the front yard. Then she dug around in our shed and found 2 large Ron Paul signs and 1 small one, and stuck them up in our front yard.

This empowered her so much, she took her rake and broom and cleaned up the very nasty neighbor's yard as well. (They don't like us. Not a bit. We don't really care. We ain't movin'!)

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Gabe has been working very hard at school. Everyone is trying to get him to use some basic modified sign language.

He can sign "Candy" and "Ball" fairly well. He waves goodbye to me every morning when he heads out the door to school.

One night last week, he was sitting in his wheelchair waiting for us to finish eating dinner. I noticed his hand was on his throat. (sign for thirsty) We asked him if he wanted some water. Tom gave him a drink, and the whole time he was drinking, he kept his hand on his throat. Eventually he turned his head away from the cup. When Tom tried to get him to drink more, he jerked his head to the side (always his cue that he's done). But this time, he also flung his hand away from his throat. He followed this with his hilarious guffaw/evil giggle.

Yeah for Gabe!!!



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Preston is quite quiet most of the time. He is a deep thinker, and often prefers to be alone. I don't get it! Tom does.

He decided to go to youth group tonight. When I picked him up, he told me...

"I talked to a couple people. That's pretty good for me. I'm not very social."



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Little Mister D. is developing into a very well-rounded boy. He's most assuredly into the "Why?" and "NO!" stages. Recently, after flinging crayons all over the place, he was told by Dad to pick up the flung crayons.

"NO! YOU pick up cwayons!"

Dad - heading toward D. with a determined look on his serious face...

D.'s response...

rush..rush...rush as fast as those short little legs can rush in cute little jeans to pick up the cwayons...

Seriously, She Should Pay Me!

My wonderful, darling husband laughs every time I put my hair up like this. He tells me I look like Sarah Palin. Apparently he feels the urge to irritate me. I'll be so glad when this election cycle is over, and my hair style is no longer being hijacked by the Republican National Committee. I sure enough didn't get any of that $150,000 for her makeover last month!!

Bits of Odd Ends

First, I would just like to say that although I did not vote for Congressman Bob Latta, I find myself today sorta liking the guy for actually representing his constituents properly. He voted NO on the Exceptionally Egregious Shysters Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008. (If only his coworkers would have accommodated the wishes of the larger American sector.)

It would take a bit more than that to make me consider voting for him in the future, but at least today he didn't dip his fingers into my precariously positioned bank accounts. For that, he got another phone call, this time saying "Thanks!". His office staff was wonderfully pleasant.

Mr. Latta, when you come around these parts, perhaps we can schedule a visit to discuss other concerns I have with our country. I'd like to start with Congress' apparent broken promise to adhere to the Constitution. I also have a message you could deliver to President Bush, Mr. Bernanke, Mr. Paulson,...pretty much everyone in Washington... "You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

Turning now to other not-so-political news -

Tom was a little upset that Steve Fossett's plane was found. He was really wishing that the guy had decided to skip the country, for reasons known only to himself, and simply vanished into thin air. I think it was a rather romantic notion, actually. I doubt the man's widow would agree.

It's official - at 2.5 years old, little Mister D. has officially started the "Why???" stage. Three days into it, it's officially driving me nuts. "Because I'm the Mom, and I SAID SO!!!! Now go to the corner!" He has also become quiet proficient at tattling and lying!! Lying to get other people into trouble! I simply can't believe some of the stuff this child concocts! Two days ago, he was sitting at the table eating breakfast. The older kids weren't up yet. He started whining, and when I asked him what was wrong, he said "Uh, Buh...Qwes pu me." Translated? "Uh, Bucky...(pause to reconsider which older brother to blame this time)...Preston pushed me."

He shares a room with Bucky, so he hadn't even seen Preston yet!

The following morning, he was knocking on the bedroom door for me to come get him. He can't turn the knob by himself - a small miracle for which I offer daily thanks. I didn't scoot right up the stairs to collect his hungry little body, so naturally he started bellerin'. By the time I got to him, he was in full panic wail, tears just running off his little cheeks. (He cries actual real crocodile tears when he's fake crying!) Upon opening the door and being prepared to attack the monster threatening him, I asked him what was wrong. "Buh...(sob)..pu...(heart-breaking deep breath sucked in)...me!...(wail)..." Of course, I growled at Bucky. "Did you push him??!?" Bucky, not even out of bed, muttered, "I told him to shut up." The kid blames his poop on the dog, his farts on Gabe's home health aide, he knocks his head into the wall when he gets sent to the corner so it looks like I pushed him...I guess I just can't trust him! But he's so darn cute!

Christmas is coming - what are you doing this year? Does your church or school group collect Christmas shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child? If not, it's not real time-consuming to coordinate the project. If you want to participate but not coordinate, you can find drop-off points near you on the website, and just take your own filled shoeboxes to one of those locations.

Speaking of Christmas, I don't usually say much about what I'd like. But this year, I've stated my desire for one of these. Oh, how I'd love to have one of these! This is a Cuisinart Coffee Grinder/Brewer. Mmmmmmm.


I do not need one of these, but I would looooooove to have one of these. I also would like to have a Mother's ring. I have been asking for a Mother's ring for quite some time now. The challenge is this: I currently have 4 children I get to keep and 2 I'm certainly hoping I can keep, but that isn't up to me. I also am not opposed to getting more children for keeps. See the problem?



It's October 3rd. We have an unwritten kinda rule/guideline in our home that we don't turn the furnace on until November 1st, and we turn it off May 1st or sooner. It's been pretty dang cold the last few nights, and right now my hands are a little chilled. We have babies in the house now. We just might have to break our rule. The kids will be happy. But first I have to buy some new slippers. Mine are shot!

Monday we have a 6 month caseplan review for D... - Time flies.

And because it does, I'm going to bed.

Tune in next time.