The sin of gluttony is a bad one

Last night, we got a rare treat with the Husband actually being in town.  We were sitting in the back yard together, relaxing, catching up, and more than a few of us were craving something sweet.

The Husband said he had an idea for a fabulous dessert and ordered all of us in the car.

He refused to tell anyone where we were going, even me, and the suspense in the car was palpable.  We threw out possible guesses and named several ice cream parlors, bakeries, and restaurants along the way.

With each passing mile, our mouths just salivated.  I expected at any moment for us to pull up to a new, untried place, and was giddy with excitement.

Not to mention, by this time, extremely hungry.

Imagine my horror surprise when we pull into the parking lot of Burger King.

I half expected him to yell "Gotcha!" as we pulled back out again and headed to our real destination.

Sadly, that WAS our destination.

Shock turned to annoyance as I said, "Burger King?  What. the. eff?"

Annoyance turned to disgust when he told me what he wanted to order from there.

Internet, I give you the worst dessert in the history of mankind:

image via

On principle alone, I refused to try it. Even when the gluttonous sounds of pleasure emanated all around me, I did not give in.  There are just some things that should not meet.  Some worlds that should never collide.  I might eat my weight in cookie dough, but I certainly never do it with cured salty meat in the batter.

I do have some class.

And I will never know what possessed the people at BK headquarters to combine ice cream and bacon.

Probably the same mental illness that possessed my Husband to drive 20 minutes to buy it.

Celebrating the important holidays

 

Yesterday was a big day.

In case you didn't know, it marked its 68th year.

Around here, this holiday is probably second only to Christmas for one of my children.

Still clueless?

Then you must be new around here.

You see, every year, on June 6th, we celebrate the allied invasion at Normandy during World War II. Otherwise known as D-Day. Or Operation Neptune. Or Operation Overlord.

I know all these things, you see, because he tells me.  Every year.

Whatever you call the day, it's a big deal in the heart of my boy.

First thing out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, his face is in mine, as he wishes me a Happy D-Day. He then proceeds to follow me around the house, sharing time lines and details from that morning long ago. He doesn't just find it interesting; he breathes it in his soul. His passion spills over to the rest of us, and we can't help but get caught up in it, too.

(Though, for his brother and sister, I suspect a lot of the enthusiasm comes from the annual cake that Chase makes to celebrate.)

This year, it was a tank, made up and created entirely by Chase.



So, fallen brothers at Normandy, let your souls be at peace. All the way across the pond, in a little suburb of St. Louis, a 12-year-old boy remembers your sacrifice.

And makes sure that none of us forget it either.



I think it's pretty freaking awesome.

The Va-Jay-Jay Cheerleader

Note to any men, male relatives, or easily offended readers of this blog:  The following paragraphs will contain references to lady bits, va-jay-jay's, and other mysteries of the deep.  Please feel free to hunt off elsewhere for something to read.

For the remaining eight readers, let's discuss OB/GYNs.

I have been going to my current one for about four years.  Originally, I had seen someone else, but she no longer became an option on my insurance, and her practice offered up my current physician as a replacement.

After baring my lady bits to the world not once, not twice, but THREE times with the birth of my children, I stopped really caring too much about who takes a peek at my hoo-ha.  All I really need out of a GYN is a cervix swab and the daily prescription that keeps me from single-handedly maintaining the profits at Tampax, so honestly, one pair of hands is just like the other.

I should say, one speculum is just like any other.

Cue my introduction to the current lady bits inspector.

The first time I met her, I waited for the real doctor to come in and wondered if she was a high school student interning for the day with the nurses.

I'm not kidding.  She seriously looks like she is 15.  She is perky, chipper, and annoyingly adorable.  She could easily pass for a high school cheerleader, and at any moment, I half expected her to lead the room in a cheer for my excellent va-jay-jay.

But instead, she hiked up her shirt sleeves, slapped on the rubber gloves, and went deep into female territory.

Through the always-pleasant cervix swabbing conversation, I learned that she was only a year into her practice.

By my calculations, that would make her roughly the same age as my children.

Okay.  Maybe I exaggerate.

But only slightly.

It is a little disconcerting to start being older than the doctors that are taking care of you.  You expect wisdom to come with age, and assume that you automatically know more than everybody else who is younger.

You don't feel any older, yet almost overnight you become a woman with grey hair, wrinkles, and cobwebs on your uterus - all while kids that were born while you were in middle school suddenly are licensed physicians patting your hand and mumbling, There, there.

It's the stupid circle of life.

And next week, when I'm sitting in the stirrups, clapping along to the chants of, "Go!  Vagina, Go!" I will take comfort with this one thought:  I might be getting old, but the only hoo-ha I spend any time with on a daily basis is my own.

I can't say the same for the va-jay-jay cheerleader.

You could set your watch by it

It's not the warm, muggy weather that is starting to creep in and make you sweat all over.

It's not the lack of homework or plethora of school functions four out of the five nights per week.

It's not even the sudden urge to stop eating and drop 40 pounds because OH MY GOSH it's time to get into a swimsuit.

Though that is a serious problem.

How do you know that summer is almost here? These fabulous hair cuts, that's how.

Six years running, people.  That is a lot of hair history.

I give you the Mohawk Brothers of 2012.

Before:

And after:

I was hoping to find an explanation for behavior like this, but sadly, I don't think we can blame it on the mohawks.  I think we can blame it on the fact that they are boys.

And boys will always be boys.

Welcome back, summer. It's good to see you, old friend.

A post! Don't die of shock

You wouldn't know it because I haven't posted since Adam and Eve were disciplining that little rascal Cain, but there is actually a lot of stuff that has happened around here recently, most of which is blog worthy.

I know!  Try to contain the excitement.

Tragically, I have had no internet all week to share any of it with you.

Or a home phone line with which to call and whine to you about.

(Provided, naturally, that you're one of the three people in my life who I'm actually willing to talk on the phone with in the first place.

A phone girl, I am not.  Give me email or give me death.)

But stay tuned.  There are things coming your way.  I succeeded in functioning as my own I.T. guy and the technology in my home is back up and running.

(No thanks to you, AT&T.)

Hooray for a belated return to blogging!  And thoroughly embarrassing my kids with tales from their real life!  And narcissistic posts all about ME that are sure to annoy my brother!

I. really. can't. wait.

DIY Bulletin Board

Want to learn how to make this cute bulletin board in just a few easy steps, one which does not require a can of spray paint and costs less than $20?

Step one: Buy a really ugly large print on clearance at Michael's or some other craft mecca. This one is 24x36. Large. And freakishly ugly. Unless black and white abstract leaves are your thing. In that case, never mind. You go back to enjoying your colorless, boring life full of leaves. And I'll try to stop judging you.

Step two: Remove the offensive, abstract leaf artwork, the accompanying mat, and, ever so carefully, the glass. Discard all of these items.

Step three: Insert 12x12 squares of cork board, also purchased at craft mecca. My print was a multiple of 12, so my squares fit evenly without having to cut any of the cork squares. If your frame is odd sized, just cut the cork to fit.

Step four: Using the double-sided tape tabs that come with the cork, secure all of the cork pieces to each other on the edge.

Step five: Using the thick backing that came with the print, flip over the newly joined cork squares. Lay fabric of your choice on a flat surface, and flip cork and backing over the top, with the cork facing down.

Step six: Pull tightly and staple edges of fabric to thick backing. I used a regular stapler because I'm lazy klassy like that. You could use a more advanced stapler, but mine worked just fine.

Step seven: Cut off excess fabric, and put inside your frame.

Step eight: Hang the bulletin board on your daughter's wall, and feel like an extreme crafter. Refuse to succumb to your husband's taunts about your lack of proper staple usage. Know deep down that your improper usage is what makes you awesome and distinguishes you from other DIYers and their fancy equipment.

Step nine: Stand back to admire your handiwork. Reward yourself with some chocolate and a diet coke.

Any questions?