Coconut Mocha Coffee Completes Me

Remember how I love my Keurig? I do.

My sister introduced me to something that made it even better. Possible, you ask? Indeed, it turns out, it was.

It's called Coconut Mocha. I love it. She told me she had only ever seen it at Target.

She made me a to-go cup before I left for the airport.

Did I mention I love it?

So much so, I began texting about it the first morning I was home:

Off to Target I went. And, this was what I found of their Keurig coffee selections:

She tried to be helpful:

And, then. Then?! This:

Some people have fame and fortune. I have good Walmart karma. And, Coconut Mocha coffee. Win/Win!

(And, notice that it was still the only thing on my mind the next morning? I *heart* Coconut Mocha.)

"Shawn's Massage" or "There Once Was a Little Stool"

Like I said a couple of days ago, I got a Deep Tissue massage.

It turns out I go to a massage to be pampered. I don't want to hear things out of my therapist's mouth like,

"You're going to need to focus on breathing through this part."

Or, "Drink lots of water. That will help you be less sore the next two days. But, on the third day, you should feel really good and relaxed." [I'm sorry. Say what?!]

I want to leave a massage feeling like angels just played with my hair, not like a surprisingly strong woman just used me for her strength training.

And, this made me think of "Shawn's massage." It is one of my favorite stories.

Shawn's Massage
We traveled with another couple to Cabo San Lucas. The other couple and I made arrangements for massages at the spa. Shawn had never had a massage. We convinced him he would love it and he should get one.

Well, first, we were all sitting in the "Relaxation Room" together. And, Shawn's robe? Barely covered his upper thigh.

And, then? His therapist came for him first. She was the tiniest little Mexican woman I have ever seen. As they walked away, the remaining three of us may or may not have laughed and made a few comments that if Shawn rolled off the table he would crush and kill her.

We all got our massages and we regrouped for lunch. While we sat and ate, we asked Shawn what he thought of his massage.

He answered, "Y'all? That little Mexican woman kicked my ass."

We laughed.

He said, "She even got a little stool out..."

We all paused with our food mid-air between our plates and our mouths and slowly turned toward him with horror in our eyes.

And he continued, "...and she climbed up on it so she could dig in with her elbows."

Once our hearts started beating again... And we could catch our breaths through the laughter... And, one or two of us had picked ourselves up off the ground... We explained to Shawn that the term "stool" has a completely different connotation in the medical community - one he was, up to that point, wholly unaware of.

But, now I see his story in a whole new light. Maybe he got a Deep Tissue Massage. And, maybe she did "get a little stool out."

Massages and Panties

I don’t get massages very often. Usually just when we’re on vacation and there’s a spa.

So, I’m no novice. But I’m also no expert. And, here’s what always stumps me: Panties. On or off?

One time, on vacation, I thought to myself, “I need to stop being so immature. I’m sure my underwear just gets in the therapist’s way. So, I took them off. Well, evidently that was a code to this particular therapist to go to town on my gluts. There was a point where I wanted to yell, “Dude! Get off my ass!”

[Pausing while you get all of your inappropriate rebuttals and laughter out of your systems. All better now?]

Lately I've had this "twinge" under my right shoulder. I've been thinking I should get a massage. But, you know. Whatever. Then, on Monday, while I was getting my teeth cleaned, my dental hygienist said she was taking the next day off for her birthday and she was going to get a massage from her very favorite, highly certified, massage therapist. Well, I accepted this as the clear sign that. it. was. that I should get a massage from this woman.

I saw her today. She was very nice. I'm sure she could have cared less about whether I was pro or con underwear-during-massage. She even told me to "undress to the level I'm comfortable with."

Now. If I'm going to keep my underthings on, I want them to be as benign and clinical as possible. I hadn't thought that through when I dressed this morning. My choice was a little, let's say, sassy. Nothing I wanted to show a complete stranger.

And, anyway. I'm mature. I'm sure my underwear will just get in the therapist's way.

So, when she continued with, "Take your bra off, but you can keep your underwear on if you prefer," I responded a little to enthusiastically with, "But, it's okay if I take them off, right?"

[This is the point where the voice in my head starts screaming: "OMG. I just made it sound like panty-wearing was a deal-breaker. She thinks I'm a pervert."]

She was very nice and didn't act overly scared of me from that point on. But...

Then the massage began.

I had chosen to have a Deep Tissue Massage as opposed to a Swedish Massage. I've never had one before, but I wanted her to really "get in there" and get the knot that's been bothering my shoulder. Well, hear me now: Deep Tissue Massages are not for the faint of heart. I had no idea the sumo wrestling match I was about to enter into - a match in which the other person is pre-determined to win.

I also didn't know how much my legs would be moving.

She did, though. So, as I lay on my back and she moved to lift my thigh perpendicular to the table, she first made the appropriate adjustments of the sheet... for the average person. I, however? Am very flexible. I'm sure most people's thighs stop perpendicular to the table. But, by the time my knee was up near my armpit, it was clear that her sheet calculations had been... slightly off.

She was as professional as could be about it.

I, however? Will be wearing underwear for every massage from now until the day I die.

"Aaaaaay"

My washing machine started giving me an error code when I tried to start a load of laundry.

So, I tried to fix it the way I fix most broken things in my life. I googled it.

It turns out that "F-dl" on a Whirlpool Duet washing machine means the door lock is malfunctioning. The internet also taught me that the door lock is in the upper back right corner of the washer. You can use gravity to help the lock latch. As the lock is trying to latch, you can "assist" it by pounding the machine with your fist.

Are you picturing this?

Please picture this.

Sometimes, to make my washing machine work, I have to hit it with my fist.

I. am. Fonzie.

Our Christmas Card 2011 Keepin' It Klassy

The story behind that picture?

We were getting "respectable" family pictures taken and in the middle of taking pictures in this pose Shawn said, "Hurry up. Spencer's tooting on Mama!"

Lulu looked over at him and said, "Ewwww! Stop tooting on Mama!"

*click*

As Anna, our cousin the photographer, was editing the session she sent us this one in an email because she thought it was so funny. Shawn and I agreed it was a pretty funny picture and that was that.

But, that night as we were getting ready for bed I said, "You know what would be a funny Christmas card? If the front said, 'This holiday season may you never have to wonder...' then open it up and it has that picture with the words..."

And, Shawn finished my sentence with, "Who cut the cheese?!"*

We knew it had to be.

I have to admit to just a few reservations as I dropped these bad boys in the mailbox. But, it turns out that the people on our Christmas card list are just as irreverent as we are. We got more comments on this Christmas card than we have ever gotten - and many thanks for the laugh.

If people were offended, at least they didn't say anything about it. I'm sure they've just quietly removed us from their list of friends...

*It should be noted that Spencer is certain that, because I'm laughing so hard in this picture, I must be the offending party.

Learning Valuable Life Skills: The Barfing Version

Lulu's sick - throw up sick. Poor girl has skipped dinner the past two nights and she asked to go to bed last night at 5:30.

But, come the mornings, she feels slightly better.

Yesterday, she followed me into my bedroom when I went to get dressed.

"Mama! Since there are no boys around, we can have 'Girl Talk!'"

"Yes. We can! What would you like to talk about?"

"Ummm." And, then she left the room.

About ten minutes later (I have to believe it was just because there wasn't anything good on the television), she came back.

"Mama! You got dressed without me!"

"I'm sorry! Did you want to help me pick out what to wear?"

"Yes." [Evidently "Girl Talk" = "me telling you what to wear."]

"Oh. I'm sorry. But, is this okay, what I chose?"

"No."

Oh.

At least she was willing to compromise from the short-sleeve cotton shirtdress that was her first choice - seeing as how it was 40° yesterday. She really did make me take off the boots, tights and sweater dress that I was already wearing. Although, she did thoughtfully tell me, "You can keep your underwear on."

Well. Thanks for leaving me that little piece of dignity.

But, I'm am proud to tell you, this girl is a champion barfer. She'll run herself to the bathroom (or grab her bowl), throw up, rinse her mouth and go back to the couch to lie down. The most she'll ask for is someone to "hold [her] hair."

Why do I think this is giving us a terrifying glimpse into her college years? I never really thought that I would be bragging on my daughter's ability to "puke and rally."

Shawn is out of town [I think I'll save him some barf, though, so he can have the full parenting experience]. I had book club last night. Don't worry. There is no part of my maternal instinct that considered missing my night out because I had a sick child. But, I did start to question whether I was a good mother when I left the babysitter with the words, "If she throws up, I promise I'll pay you extra!" But, I felt confident that Lulu was in capable hands when the babysitter responded with, "Don't worry. I'm sure little kid barf is way less gross than drunk college girl barf." And, I told her that, just like a drunk college girl, Lulu would really just need someone to hold her hair.

*clink clink* (That therapy fund is just growing and growing.)

Thanksgiving Recap

So. Thanksgiving.

It began Friday when the kids got out for the holiday after the special Grandparents' Day chapel service. Shawn and I started preparing for all the family that was willing to come to us, to come to us.

But, then we realized they weren't coming until Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. And, my step-sisters and their families would be down at my mom and step-dad's come the Saturday before Thanksgiving. There really wasn't anything keeping us from going down for a little visit save a two-hour car drive. But, we can make that interstate drive with our eyes closed by now.

We did have to stick around for Lulu's finger check on Monday. But, come Monday evening, we were a-visitin'! And, Tuesday, we had Thanksgiving. (My mom is so good about "the date on the calendar doesn't matter. We can celebrate whenever we're all together!") And, so, we all stood around the kitchen on Tuesday and cooked a Thanksgiving meal together. It was awesome.

Also, while we were there. We stumbled upon Uno Attack. Do you people have this game?! Well, you should! It's plan ol' Uno but instead of a "draw pile" there is a machine that randomly shoots cards at you - it will give you no cards up to, well, we got twelve cards one time. So fun for kids 6 to 96 to be able to "attack" their loved ones!

Quote of the visit: "Come lick my finger and tell me what it tastes like."

We awoke Wednesday to hit the road home and welcome our own guests: Shawn's cousin, David, his wife, Anna, and their little girl, Cora; Shawn's aunt and uncle, Reda and Bill; Shawn's brother, Will, and his son David; and, of course, Shawn's parents live here, David and Marie. (Notice there are three Davids? One would assume this would cause mass confusion. But, somehow we manage. I guess because there's Little David and the two Big Daves have different last names. Or we, as a collective family, are brilliant and not very prone to confusion. One of those...) Shawn's other cousin (Reda & Bill's daughter) and her boyfriend would have been here but there was a little too much vomit coming out of them to make for a pleasant car trip... wait... I've probably said too much... And, Will's wife and daughter, Cynthia and Kristen, didn't make it this time either. We'll give everyone a pass... this time... but, we expect bright, shiny (vomit-free) faces at the next family-gathering!

This little group of Shawn's family have always been so gracious to come to our house for Thanksgiving the past... four... or is it five?!... years. And, they made no exception this year even though we moved the party two hours further away from them!

They kept saying we were the best hosts. But, seriously. They are the best guests. Case in point: I tried to rescue this mangy, little, mean, rat dog that was wandering the neighborhood one night. But, it wouldn't let anyone touch it, so I just lured it into the garage with a piece of turkey and trapped it there. However, by the time we figured out it didn't belong to anyone to whom we thought it belonged and was really just a mangy, little, mean, rat dog, it had torn open all the bags of Thanksgiving trash that were in the garage with it. However, somewhere in the time that I was told of the mess and turned around to deal with it, Shawn's uncle and cousin had cleaned up every ounce of the mess. Now those are good guests.

And, that's just one example. That doesn't include the hostess gifts, the laundry, the counter cleaner because they noticed we were out, the cooking, the taking us out to dinner, the fun games of Uno Attack (Oh yeah. We bought our own.), the black-Thursday night/Friday shopping adventures, or Anna, the professional photographer, taking our family's picture as a "thank you" again this year...

I'm telling you. Good guests.

And, cute kids.

Quote of the visit:

This one needs a little background.

We needed bread to make sandwiches from the Thanksgiving leftovers. So, after Anna took our pictures, we stopped by Walmart. I ran in while the kids, Shawn and Anna waited in the car.

I came back and announced to Shawn and Anna, "I think I made a new best friend. He was wearing a skull cap, had a crazy eye and I think he was a little bit drunk. But, we had a great time in the check-out line together."

Shawn asked how I knew he was drunk and I told him that he was buying mixer and, when asked (by me) if it had reached the point of Thanksgiving when it was time to start drinking, he replied, "Oh it already reached that point a long time ago."

Spencer piped in, "What's mixer?"

I said, "The stuff you use to make 'grown-up drinks.'"

Spence said, "What's drunk?"

I said, "When you drink too many 'grown-up drinks.'"

And, I truly believe Spence's next statement was meant to demonstrate how he could use his new-found word in a sentence. But, what came out sounded for all the world like he had just figured out his mother. Like all his many, many questions were answered when he looked right at me and said,

"You're drunk."

What's the Statute of Limitations on Suing a Pair of Skates?

She was just a little girl circa 1980. A little girl with new roller skates. She lived in a green house with a steep driveway. She fell on her face while trying to skate up the driveway. But, don't worry, she caught herself. With her front two teeth.* One was chipped. It got filed flat again.

Over the next thirty years, though, those teeth slowly... well... died. There was some cosmetic dentistry involved so she wouldn't look like this:

source

But, overall, she and her dead teeth got along quite well.

Until. Last week. And, the dentist said, while looking at her x-ray, "See this dark area? That could be where it's beginning to necrotize because your body is trying to reject that tooth."

Awesome.

[I'm tired of talking in the third person...]

So, I went to the endodontist (Fancy name for "Root Canal Doctor." I think they're smart to go with "Endodontist.") They performed a test wherein they applied what I can only assume was liquid nitrogen sprayed on a gauze to my front two teeth while asking, "Feel anything?" Nope. They pressed the same gauze to my "live" teeth. I sat up out of the chair it was so. freakin'. cold. I lied back; they applied the gauze to the dead teeth for.ever. while it sizzled. Nothing. They finished. I lowered my lip over my teeth. My teeth were TOO COLD FOR MY LIP TO TOUCH. I had to let my teeth warm up before I could lower my lip over them. Those are some dead teeth.

But, as the endodontist said, "Dead teeth do not necessarily mean infected teeth... We might just watch them... Call you back in in six months." Yay!

Then he did an exam. And, up on my gums where they hook to my lip. Hurt. Like a bruise. He said, "I take it back. You have to have a root canal." On Friday.

Or be the girl who one day just has a tooth fall out of my head.

I blame the roller skates.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*I asked my sister if she remembered the roller skating trauma.

She said, "Yeah. I think I dipped my toe in your puddle of blood in the driveway."

"Oh my gosh! On accident?!"

"No... Not really..."

So. So. SO. Disturbing.

Kids at Play (WTH?!)

I was eavesdropping as my kids played.

They were playing "ambulance" - I could tell by the siren.

Elizabeth instructed Spencer (playing the Paramedic), "Pretend you dropped the patient on the ladder."

Then she (playing the patient) said, "Ohhhh. Owwww. My face..."

Sucks to be Spencer's patient.

Then things took a turn. I still heard the ambulance siren, but I heard her say, "Pretend you saw our dad was disgusting because he was a Vampire Dad like our mom." Hey. Wait a minute here.

(Please hold for this brief interruption to your blog reading while I defend our parenting. Our kids have a children's book called Vunce Upon a Time about a shy, little, Trick or Treating vampire - they do not watch True Blood, nor are they familiar with the Twilight book series. Ok. Misunderstanding averted. Parenting honor vindicated. I will now resume your regularly scheduled blog post.)

"Pretend we're playing dodgeball..." *ambulance siren* *vampire snarl*

Ok. Wait. What?!

I don't think I'm creative enough to play pretend with my children.

That.

And, I'm a little scared.

The Lost Puppy

I'm not ashamed to say that I only just emptied the kids' backpacks from the last day of school. Well, actually, I am. I just thought that if I used a lot of bravado you wouldn't judge me. You should judge me. There were things in there... I had to throw away a lunchbox because... well... it was better that way.

But, I was rewarded for my efforts by finding this little gem.

The Lost Puppy

By: Spencer

(translations follow each page)

There was a dog with its owner and its owner was
talking to some people. And the dog got free.

Should we be worried that the dog was evidently in captivity and yearning to break "free"?

And the dog is gone. And after the owner
turned around the dog was not there.

I'm sad to say that this scenario is probably a representation of some of Spencer's real-life experiences in public places; wherein he plays the poorly supervised dog and I play the easily distracted, talking pet owner.

Anyway. Who are they all waving at? The long lost dog? Bye, dog.

Have you seen my puppy? she asked a man.

I'm starting to think the dog was trying to escape from the trick leash the woman was using. Or she's swinging it in the man's face to prove that she actually has lost a dog. Either way.

And she looked high and low.
But she could not find her puppy!

Notice the exclamation point that escaped from the previous page. This is a very emphatic story!!

Notice, also, the illustrations for searching "high and low." Evidently, when you search high, you grow significantly. Conversely, while searching "low," you get teeny tiny. You should probably carefully consider your surroundings before you decide to search in this manner.

Then she went to the park to play. She saw
a group of puppies. She counted them.

And she took them home. The End.

So the moral of the story seems to be: When you lose something, just find another one somewhere else. And take more than you lost. Because more is better.

Ed note: There was one page of completely erased words. Evidently, there was an initial version that had the girl "earning" one of the dogs. But, the other dogs didn't have a home either. The girl didn't want to take them all, but she did. It seems it was originally a much more altruistic story. I'm guessing it got the Reader's Digest condensed version because all of those words were too tricky to write. That's okay. It's way better this way. I like the thieving, bad pet owner. She's gritty and real.

There's a Cake in Your Car

Some of our friends moved on to our street. Their house is still being remodeled even though it was supposed to be finished months ago. But, that's okay. Who doesn't like to look at a porta-potty on their driveway every day?

So, I thought they could use a "Welcome to the Neighborhood/Try Not to Lose Your Minds" cake. And, I a) must really like these people and/or b) must really feel sorry for these people because I decided to share "the" banana cake with them.

Licking the Bowl
I told y'all it was good.

The kids grabbed their scooters, Shawn grabbed the cake and we headed down the street. We got there just in time to discover... they weren't home. *cue sad clown music*

Elizabeth pressed her face to their door and tried to will them to be home. Spencer took the opportunity to practice scooter daredevil tricks on their driveway. And, Shawn and I stood there looking at each other.

Finally, Shawn walked over to their car parked in the drive.

I said, "What are you doing?"

"Seeing if their car's unlocked."

It was.

"What are you going to do?! Call them and say, 'There's a cake in your car'?!"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

And, that's exactly what he did.

I saw the dad at school drop-off this morning. He said he was going to keep leaving the car unlocked  just so he could see what else showed up in his backseat.

So, there you have it. That's how the Johnsons roll. Welcome to the neighborhood! There's a cake in your car.

I Just Say What Everyone Else Is Thinking

My friend told me to come to the "Hard Core" class with her at the new gym I joined. Hard Core is an hour of 30 second, 1 minute and 2 minute intervals of exercises that, as far as I could tell, are designed to make you cry. Or puke. Or both.

We were doing Scissor Legs (while holding a dumbbell in the air - because regular scissor legs are for quitters) and the girl next to me called the instructor over. She told him, "My lower back hurts when I do these."

Now, my friend Springer would have warned this man to approach the area near me with extreme caution, kinda like a new dog - you should let it sniff your hand first. Unfortunately for this unsuspecting instructor, Springer wasn't anywhere to be found. He walked in blind. And he answered her with:

"It's because right now your hips are too tight. And what we're working on is opening them up."

I stopped scissor-kicking and said, "Why do you sound so much like my husband right now?"

This poor, poor, unwitting straight-man and his 2% body fat stopped talking while his mouth fell open and all the women within earshot started laughing. He blushed. And he walked away.

Poor guy never saw me coming.

To his credit, he regained his composure (after he tattled on me to the other instructor) and said, "So, is that how it's gonna be, Ali?"

I responded with, "Yes. It's nice to meet you."

An Epic Quest for Car Keys

"Does anyone see Mommy's keys?"

"No." "I don't!"

"Well. Let's go out to the car and see if Mommy left them there. Surely, Mommy didn't leave them there."

"What? Why wouldn't you leave them there?"

"Because that would mean I locked them in the car and that would be bad. Then Daddy would have to leave work and go home for the spare key and drive all the way to bring it to us...

There are the keys."

Locked in the car.

Spencer: "Mom, the top window is open; we can climb in there."

Sure enough. The sunroof was open.

"Spence? Can you climb in there and open the car?"

"Yes!"

He got one foot on the front wheel and one knee on the hood and he froze. And, I mean, froze. I was behind him trying to help him up and he almost knocked me over coming back down off that car.

"Come on, Spence, you can do it! I won't let you fall."

One more attempt. One more "flight response."

It is moments like this that convince me this cautious boy is an old soul. I mean, what seven-year-old doesn't dream of the day that he is given permission to climb up the car and through the sunroof?

Mine. That's which one.

I looked at Lulu. I considered that for about half a millisecond before concluding that that would just compound the problem. I was pretty sure that she wouldn't know how to unlock the doors; and then the keys and my daughter would be locked in the car. And, as my sister pointed out, it probably would have ended much worse than that. She probably would have started the car and driven off yelling, "See ya, suckas!"

So. That left me.

As quickly as I could, I put a foot on the front wheel, a knee on the hood, and tried to get my foot up to the roof so I could completely bypass the windshield (because that's all I needed - to go through the windshield). This pretty much resulted in me doing the splits over the windshield of the car. I hoisted myself up. Then, holding the edge of the sunroof, I swung my feet under me and into the opening so I could go in feet first  (because that's also all I needed - my feet kicking out the top of my sunroof while I gracelessly flopped into my car).

But, then I was in. I got the keys. I opened the driver's-side door. And, the car alarm went off.

Did I mention that all of this happened in front of the kids' school? At pickup.

I'm waiting to hear the word around school that the new family is a bunch of car-climbing hillbillies.

I ♥ New York (kinda)

Shawn had a meeting in New York. I got to go. Rocks to be me! He had a meeting. I had a spa appointment. I should probably feel guilty about that... I'll work on it. (We actually got to go to this particular meeting because Shawn is very good at what he does. But, he wouldn't like me bragging on him like that... so I won't... but, he is. ;)

He took me shopping because, well, because he's the greatest husband in the world. That, and he's tired of me buying my clothes at Target. Snob.

But, had we not been shopping, we wouldn't have ended up helping the nice man who was choosing between a silver and black watch for his wife (I was leaning toward silver). We also wouldn't have been there when his 20-year-old daughter's text came through saying, "silver! silver! silver!" And, I wouldn't have heard Shawn say, "Dude. You gotta go with silver now."

And, did I mention the man happened to be a Hasidic Jew? I have not stopped laughing that Shawn called him "Dude." Shawn's response is, "What? I'm sure he's heard the word 'Dude' before!" Yeah, but I'm just gonna go out on a limb and say that he's never been called "Dude." Can't. stop. laughing.

But, the highlight of the trip... the thing that made me shriek in the middle of the restaurant where we were having lunch... He TOOK. ME. TO. SEE. WICKED. I honestly didn't know how badly I wanted to see that show until I knew I was going.

The moment I stepped in the theater, I became the quintessential New York tourist. I was snapping pictures. I was buying souvenirs. I LOVED it.

And, the musical? O! M! G! Do not read any synopsis with spoilers - just see this show (there are travelling performances, too). I will never look at the Wizard of Oz the same way again. SO. GOOD.

Anyhoo. As quickly as we got there, we were headed home again (so, all you friends who live in the NY area just keep your scoldings to yourselves - xoxo).

But, I gotta say. There are a lot of people on that one, little ol', polluted, loud island. My sister would live and breathe New York every day of her life if you let her. Me? I prefer peace and quiet and some wide, open spaces. I think New York is a great place to visit. But, I'm always glad to be going home.

To each their own.

Random Thoughts (because they rattle around in my brain so you have to listen to them, too)

ON PUBLIC APPEARANCES:
This girl was wearing this at the zoo when we went there last week.

This girl should not have been wearing this at the zoo.
(Also? I was pretending to take a picture of the lion when I took this picture. As soon as I snapped the picture, Shawn said, "I know exactly what you just did.")

ON CLEANING:

I just cleaned the kids' bathroom. Wouldn't you think I would have been aware, before this moment, that I sprung forth livestock from my loins?

I bet I've sucked enough Legos to build a city into the vacuum cleaner over the course of my motherhood.

My grandma used to drink a six-pack of beer while she cleaned the house. My grandma loved to clean house.

ON PARENTHOOD:

You know what people never tell you about before you have a baby? What it will do to your body. I never dreamed there would come a day when I would have to choose between coughing and peeing.

My child told me this: "Mama. I need to go potty, but I don't want to get up." Um. Seriously? I was baffled into silence. I had no idea what was being asked of me.

It's a little disconcerting to be driving in the car while your four-year-old plays on her iPod and hear Lady Gaga start to play. What happened to The Wiggles?

A conversation between Shawn and me about children's gifts:

Me: "Do you want to go to Target? We could get some Bakugans and Zoobles while we're at it."

Him: "I don't know what any of that means. But, we can go to Target."

ON CANTALOUPES:

Are cantaloupes related to pumpkins? Seriously. They have to be. They're both orange. They both have seeds you have to scoop out... Actually, that's all the similarities I can think of. But, I still think they're related.

He has trouble with the "C-K" combination, too.

"Mama? Why is B-I-C-H a bad word?"

My head snapped up to look across the counter at Spence who was having his after-school snack. All the while "Logical Ali" is screaming inside my head, "Be Cool! Be Cool! Be. Cool. You want him to come to you with all his questions and concerns; and he won't if he thinks he's going to get in trouble."

So, I say, "Wow. That is a bad word. It's a very, very ugly thing to call a girl."

"Why?"

So, we discussed it (during which time I craftily discovered who taught him this word, too - now, I've got my eye on you, potty-mouthed kid...). I also told him there was a time people might use it when it wasn't a bad word - if they were talking about a female dog. But, I emphasized, people might not know what meaning he was using if he said it, so it would just be best if he never used the word. Ever.

He understood. I answered all his questions. I felt like the lines of communication were open and healthy at the Johnson house. Parenting Win!

And, then I said...

"But, it's spelled b-i-T-c-h."

As soon as it was out of my mouth I thought, "Wow. Did I just correct his spelling of a cuss word?!" I think I forfeit my Parenting Win.

Who knew a sprinkler head could be holding back SO MUCH water?

When your seven-year-old comes running in from where he was playing outside and calmly says, "Um. Mom? Could you come here? Quick," you should be alarmed.

I was when it happend to me yesterday. I dropped everything, trying to quell the terror I felt at the fact that his little sister was nowhere to be seen. But, before I got out the back door, she came rounding the corner of the house exclaiming, "Brother kicked the soccer ball into a stick and now there's water everywhere!"

Come again?

By this time, I had rounded the corner of the house to see the neighbor's (that's right! the neighbor's) two-foot tall sprinkler head had been broken off and water was shooting like a geyser at least twelve feet in the air.

I ran over and rang their doorbell. No one was home. Of course they weren't. Thank goodness we had exchanged mobile numbers when they came to welcome us to the neighborhood.

I called the missus. No answer.

I called the mister. He answered. And, with more patience than I can conceive, he walked me through turning off the water. (My description of this would be that I lifted a manhole cover and reached my hand into the sewer to turn a dirty knob with a hole in it. I know that's not what happened. But, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

He said he would fix the sprinkler when he got home; that he needed to put some kind of guards around those heads; that kids were going to play with balls - that was a given. I told him to please tell us what it cost to repair it. He said no. I live next to the nicest neighbors EVER.

I got off the phone and turned to the kids - who were splashing their feet in the river of water that was making its way down the drive. I told them to get their balls and come inside. New rule: when you break the neighbor's stuff, outside playtime is over.

I told Spence, "You need to write them an apology note or drawing." He sat down and made this:

Note: There was no dog involved. That must be artistic license. Look at everyone's serious faces - that just cracks me up. And, notice the ball at the top of the fountain of water (not to be confused with the sun that is also up in the sky).

I texted Shawn:

We texted back and forth as I told him the story and he concluded with:

We saw our neighbor out (fixing the sprinkler!) as we went on our after-dinner walk that evening. Spence did a good job of apologizing. By that, I mean he spoke loud enough so the man could hear him (seriously, a feat for this shy child). The mister was very kind to him. And, the missus called me later to say how much they loved the picture and she really admired how we were raising our children. Are you kidding me?! Nicest. neighbors. EVER. I think I'm going to have to make them a banana cake.

So, I tried to make the whole ordeal a "learning experience." I told Spence that we will make mistakes. What's important is how you react after you make a mistake. No excuses. Just do what you have to do to make it right.

He agreed that he understood and then said, "Mom. It was really kinda cool. That ball shot straight up in the air on top of all that water!" Awesome. It's a trick he'd like to see again!

What Would It Look Like If A Man Made of Sloppy Joe Threw Up All Over Your House... And Then Exploded?

I held a serving bowl of fruit salad in one hand and a serving bowl of Sloppy Joe meat in the other. Now, when I tripped backward over the three-foot-tall mechanical dinosaur, which bowl do you think I would throw like a frisbee in a 135° arc across the house? Do you think it would be the bowl with twenty pieces of easily-fetched fruit? Or do you think it would be the bowl that would make the couch, floor, counters, refrigerator, trashcan (the list goes on and on...) look like they had been privy to a grisly murder?

You know the answer here, right?

Luckily, my in-laws were over for dinner that night (all the more people-to-treat-to-manual-labor-at-your-house-when-you-claim-they-are-"guests" the better, I say). So, everyone grabbed a Clorox wipe/paper towel/mop and got to cleaning. We were pretty effective (and disturbingly sticky) by the time it was all said and done.

The episode was slowly becoming nothing but a nightmarish charming anecdote.

Until.

Today. I threw my head back to take the last drink out of my can of Coke Zero and what should I see?

On the ceiling.*

I feel like MacBeth's wife. "Out damned spot! Out, I say!"

*I tried to take a picture for your viewing pleasure. But, evidently you need specialized CSI equipment for sloppy joe to appear visible on film. Maybe some sloppy joe luminol, too.

Name That Rodent

A few days ago I posted on Facebook that Elizabeth had come in from playing in the yard to announce, "Mama! Me and Brother found a dead hamster in backyard!" I commented that I didn't know what I was about to see, but I was sure I wasn't going to enjoy it.

For all the world, what I saw looked like a hamster. I even made Shawn come investigate later. He said it didn't "have the coloring of a rat." ?! I don't even really know what that means. I don't think I want to know what that means.

A couple of smart alec friends of mine suggested that they wouldn't believe it until they had photographic evidence. So, Lin and Yvette, be careful what you wish for.

You look. And, tell me that's not a hamster.

I know I don't have a size reference. Just think Zhu Zhu pet.

It seems too fluffy and brown to be a mouse. It even has ears like a hamster (but, to be honest, I don't know that hamsters and mice don't have the same ears). I feel like I need to start polling the neighborhood kids and asking if any of them have lost a pet recently... and then tell them I have some bad news... and a picture.

A Tale of Banana Cake

I had bananas that had gone far too ripe. I was sick of banana bread. So, I turned to trusty allrecipes.com to look for a banana cake recipe. I found one. It had a four and a half star rating (out of five) with 700 reviews. I thought surely it couldn't be that bad.

As it happened, just as the cake was coming out of the oven, I found out a friend of mine was coming through town. I told him I had banana cake and I was willing to share. We took some to him. Then, and only then, did we come home and try some of the cake ourselves.

Y'all? This was God balancing things out for allowing my family to suffer through The Fish Stick Po'Boy debacle of '11. Shawn and the kids are still mad at me for sharing. They unanimously decided that I should make another one. And, they made me vow to never share banana cake again.

So, the kids are home from school today. I thought we could make banana cake together, but then a thought struck me. We're going to Lubbock this weekend. We will stay with my parents. Wouldn't it be nice to arrive with a fresh cake in hand? Maybe I should wait a few days before I whip up this next batch.

I texted this idea to Shawn. The immediate response I got was, and I quote, "Are you high?!?!?!"

Really, y'all. This is good cake.

So, without further ado.

Banana Cake VI from allrecipe.com

Ingredients

3/4 cup butter

2 1/8 cups white sugar

3 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 cups buttermilk

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 1/2 cups mashed bananas

1/2 cup butter, softened

1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened

3 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

Preheat oven to 275 degrees F (135 degrees C). Grease and flour a 9x13 inch pan. In a small bowl, mix mashed bananas with lemon juice, set aside. In a medium bowl, mix flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream 3/4 cup butter and 2 1/8 cups sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time, then stir in 2 teaspoons vanilla. Beat in the flour mixture alternately with the buttermilk. Stir in banana mixture. Pour batter into prepared pan.

Bake in preheated oven for 1 hour, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Remove from oven and place directly into freezer for 45 minutes. This will make the cake very moist.

For the frosting: In a large bowl, cream 1/2 cup butter and cream cheese until smooth. Beat in 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add confectioners sugar and beat on low speed until combined, then on high until frosting is smooth. Spread on cooled cake.

[I'm sharing this with those of you who are sweet enough to read this here little ol' blog day in and day out. Consider it my gift to you. To the rest of the world, I'm going to act like this is a secret family recipe - and make them beg for it!]