Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Sassy-ness.

When the "c word" debacle of 2020 (aka; that which I dare not let myself write about...yet), hit full throttle and I lost all of my fitness jobs, my husband decided to pull the trigger on an idea we'd been tossing around for several years. 

He built me a building on our property. My very own place that will never shut down. A place for me to work out, dance with my friends, host our family gatherings, and give the grand babies the best playhouse I could possibly dream up for them. 

Ron and a contractor spent 3 months building my vision, and in May 2021, 'Sassy's Bounce House' was born. (My grand babies call me Sassy in case you're new here.)

It's everything I hoped for and I'm so grateful to have this place to share. So when my son-in-law Nick mentioned looking for a sponsor for our 5 year old granddaughter's soccer team that he and his dad were coaching, it was a no brainer. "Sassy's Bounce House will sponsor you!"

I know what you're thinking, right? 'Sassy's Bounce House' on a bunch of 5 year old's soccer shirts might raise questions. 

Calm down. We'll get there.

My main responsibility as the sponsor was designing and buying the t-shirts. Designing t-shirts is nowhere in my wheelhouse, so I handed that job off to my super crafty and hilarious daughter-in-law Barbara, and this is what happened.

Not exactly a Zumba dancer, but considering she almost used a silhouette of a lady upside on a pole to represent my FlyFit Bungee classes, I thought this was a great choice.

The t-shirt lady asked if I wanted to include my phone number.

Good lord, NOOO. Suddenly I could see one of 2 things happening.

1. I'd start getting phone calls for children's birthday parties.

2. I'd start getting phone calls for bachelor parties. 

So I added the words 'Zumba Fitness' below it because I've learned to think ahead and proactively avoid involving myself in anything scandalous, right? Let's keep telling ourselves that. 

The shirts arrived in time for team picture day. I asked Nick what time I should be there and he slowly and awkwardly explained that sponsors don't usually participate in team pictures which was fine because I was totally kidding and never mind that I ordered myself a matching shirt because I'm just a jokester like that.

But thankfully I wasn't there, because that night Nick received a text from the head of the league stating there had been "multiple complaints" about it appearing his team had been sponsored by a strip club.

Ok. Let me stop you right there, "head of the league." FIRST of all, if I were a stripper (and let's face it I could be), I wouldn't sponsor my 5 year old granddaughter's soccer team. That'd just be inappropriate. SECOND of all, and let's be clear on this point for anyone in the community who has questions on the topic, I'M NOT A STRIPPER. Making money dancing fully clothed is totally different, obviously.

I sat staring horrified as Nick told me what happened and I said, "Oh my gosh. Is everybody going to be thinking I'm the slutty grandma at all the games now?" To which my son Zac replied, "I thought that was a given."

Who raised this kid to think he's funny?

Ron tried to put my mind at ease and said, "It's not like anyone will look at you and know that you're the Sassy of the Bounce House."

Well. Except...I might've gotten carried away at the t-shirt counter. I pulled out my shirt.

Ron- "Well there goes that then."

Nick returned to the t-shirt place with Addie's shirt and asked if anything could be done to appease any parents who might have a problem with the decal on their kid's shirt. He sprayed it with something and off came the stripper dancer. That night at practice, he went to each parent and explained that if they're offended by the picture, the t-shirt place will remove it. And guess what- NONE OF THEM WERE OFFENDED BY THE PICTURE.

Hold up. Did we just discover that the ONLY person offended by a picture of a leaping dancer on a 5 year old's soccer shirt was the "head of the league" who misled my son-in-law with the phrase "multiple complaints" when in fact she was the only one who had a problem with it?

That's exactly what we discovered.

She thought my dancer was bad? How I would've loved to see the look on her face when one of the 5 year olds on our team nicknamed our team "The Booty Holes" and it stuck. 

Flash to our team in their huddle yelling, "Goooooo Booty Holes!"

My stripper shirts don't seem like that big a deal now, huh?

But to everyone's credit, nothing more came of the scandal, the kids learned a lot and made many fun memories. Nick and his dad were rockstar coaches who taught the kids how to play soccer AND have fun at the same time, and my business carries on as usual- successful and seemingly untainted by it's name and I have what I hope is the first of many sponsor plaques proudly displayed.

And of course the trophy my daughter Aubrey had specially made...

I have just one thing to say to the easily offended of the world. Thank you! Nothing like an unnecessary scandal to boost my business and expand into a line of Sassy's Bounce House Merch, coming in January. 

Speaking of the easily offended,

LETTTTTSSSSSSS GOOOOOOOOO.....

Booty Holes.

Bet'cha thought I was gonna say Brandon, huh? 

Carpal FUN-nel

You know how it goes. You're going about life, minding your business, and WHAM...you wake up feeling like your right hand fell into the depths of hell at 2am every night. That's called Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and 18 years of doing deep tissue massage is the culprit. 

When I scheduled my surgery, I was given 2 options. I could go to the hospital and be put under anesthesia like a normal person or I could opt to have it done right there in the office, fully awake. 

With flash backs of my emotional instability from anesthesia side effects that became known as The Mrs. Grass's Soup Incident of 2016 (that Kearstin caught on video and still plays at parties) and since "like a normal person" never describes any decision I've ever made, I opted for the stay awake thing. 

The closer the surgery date came, the more nervous I got. What does a needle in the wrist feel like? What if it doesn't totally numb my hand? Do they check first or roll the dice and slit my wrist and see if I scream? These are things not even google can answer.

They said my husband could come in with me as a distraction which raised a whole new set of questions. Distract from what? Do they want him to distract me or them? Have you met my husband? Do you realize the magnitude of the distraction you're inviting into my surgery here?

I needed to calm my nerves. So I decided to trust them and show up for surgery like they told me to let Ron run experiments with CBD oil and then document the effects it has on my anxiety, as you do. And don't even sit there and act like you've never thought about letting your spouse dose you with over the counter marijuana plant oil. Or maybe you haven't. Don't get hung up on this one point because there's far more important questions you should be asking.

Where did he get CBD oil? His toolbox in the garage. 

Why does he have CBD oil in his toolbox in the garage? Approaching 29 years of marriage, I've learned the fewer questions I ask him, the better. 

Where were we? Ah. Calm my nerves experiments. 

I filled the dropper. He told me to squirt it under my tongue because it would "probably take effect faster." I lifted the dropper to my tongue, asked him what it tastes like, and as I squirted it into my mouth he answered- "I've never tried it before, but it probably doesn't have a taste."

That's the last thing I heard before the house echoed with the sounds of me violently vomiting into the bathroom sink while Ron screamed from the bedroom- "DON'T SPIT IT OUT! YOU'LL RUIN THE EXPERIMENT!" 

When he finally heard silence, he walked into the bathroom and found me on the floor beside the toilet with my shirt pulled over my head. He asked- "How do you feel?" From under my shirt, I replied- "Like killing you."

He said- "It's ok. I've got this." And he pulled out a tub of CBD cream. This quote from the movie 'Meet The Parents' came to mind as he began rubbing it on my wrist- Are you a pothead, Focker?

No more marijuana supplements. 

I briefly entertained the possibility of leftover codeine, but the last time I took Codeine after a surgery, Ron found me patrolling the house protecting our family from the BTK killer. You know, the guy who's been in jail since 2005. 

It's almost like I'm overly-susceptible to addictive substances or something. 

So I did the one thing I knew was a safe and fool-proof relaxation technique and at 9:30am on the morning of my surgery, I drank a margarita for breakfast, and besides Ron asking the surgeon if my feet should be in stirrups during the surgery, it was smooth sailing and drama free. At least that's how 'Tipsy Shari' remembers it, anyway. 

That should be where the story ends. This is us. The story never ends where it should...

The following day, we left our house for 2 hours. When we arrived back home, AFTER TWO.SHORT.HOURS, we found our pool halfway empty. After an in-depth investigation, we discovered that in those 2 freakin' hours, a wild animal roamed into our yard, fell into our beautiful salt water pool, and clawed it's way back out, leaving behind a shredded pool liner. 

Before you wonder if it was one of our dogs, we thought about that. But all of our dogs were completely dry and if you know anything about German Shepherds you know that it takes them at least 3 days to dry after they swim. Or fall off the boat into the lake. They ran their own stupid experiments to teach us that.

The following TWELVE freakin' DOG DAYS (AND NIGHTS) OF SUMMER consisted of DRAINING our 36,000 gallon pool, patching countless RIPS, TEARS, and CLAW HOLES all over the liner, then REFILLING our 36,000 GALLON pool with WELL WATER, from our GARDEN HOSE, then REPEATEDLY vacuuming and emptying the PILES OF IRON off the bottom of our pool, trying DESPERATELY and UNSUCCESSFULLY to return the pool to BLUE, with ONE USABLE HAND and RON OUT OF TOWN for SEVEN of those days (and nights!).

I don't know what the animal was, but I've cursed the existence of every coyote, possum, raccoon, and cat just to cover my bases. How 'bout next time you use the stairs you stupid son of a b****. 

So I don't wanna hear any lip about cancelling my 2 week post-op appointment because I removed my own stitches with a pair of scissors on day 10. Considering my state of mind, I didn't trust myself to sit across from a medical professional when they ask me if I've been taking it easy since my surgery.

As for the pool, in a moment of sheer disgust at looking at the color green with a test strip that read perfectly balanced chemicals, I dumped in 4 giant bags of salt and then when my husband got home I sat silently listening to him lecture me about never pouring in that much again.

But the very next day, the pool was blue.

Moral of the story: Don't ever tell an Italian woman she used too much salt.

The 4th of JuWHY!?!

Last year, we made it through July 4th with no gaping wounds, public intoxication, or run ins with the boat law...looking at you 2019...So I mistakenly thought we'd graduated to being like a normal family.

Enter 2021. 

On Friday the 2nd, we participated in a sunset kayaking photo shoot. With 2 dogs even. Other than Kearstin and Caymen being unable to steer their inflatable kayak and having to be towed behind Ron all evening, it was smooth sailing. The girls blame the kayak. Let's just say the rest of us...don't blame the kayak. 

And if you happened to be there, there were 12 of us, so don't come at me if we bumped into your group and ended up in your sunset pictures. We can't control everything and it could've been way worse. Just ask the paddle board lady wearing the giant hat.

But let's not digress.

The 3rd was a typical Saturday around here- all the kids were over, tons of food, swimming, volleyball, and hanging the babies from the ceiling on bungees. 

I said typical, not normal.

That night, we took the boat to watch the fireworks and nothing eventful happened. No, seriously. We didn't even get called a**holes. Oh, wait. There was that guy recklessly speeding through the anchored boats not paying attention, so Zac blasted our insanely loud Trump Train horn as he passed and the guy almost jumped out of his boat...and from the look on his face, might've crapped his pants. He probably called us a**holes, but don't start none won't be none is our motto. 

My point is, there was absolutely nothing abnormal to report that day.

On the 4th, we took our new tube out for the first time. Yes, it looks like a giant couch being pulled behind our boat, but that's the consequence of Ron letting a 6 year old boy choose whatever tube he wanted at the boat show. Ridiculous, yes. Also normal.

For dinner we boated to a local burger place on the water, parked beside a boat that had 2 dogs, and our 4 dogs wreaked havoc and turmoil on their dogs until they finally left. 

I never said our dogs weren't a**holes.

At 10:30 that night, we boated back to our dock and everything went great, right? 

Of course not, why are we here?

Ron pulled the boat into the dock. Close enough to the side dock where we could get off the boat, but he kept it pretty far from the front dock because our engine was still down. Zac was the first person off the boat because he helped guide it into the dock. 

So. Knowing the drill, the dogs raced to the front of the boat to get off next. Quincy led the way. Then I saw Zac look down into the water between the boat and the front dock and yell, "Quincy!"

 And I calmly said, "You're lying."

Here's what you need to know about Zac.  He knows my dogs are my babies and both Bam Bam and Emma still have PTSD from last year when on separate occasions, they each ended up in the dock water trying to get off the boat. Also, he pushes my buttons every chance he gets and he has a poker face to back it up. Thus my reply. "You're lying."

But then he disappeared with a splash into the water between the boat and the front dock and everybody started screaming. 

Okay. He's probably not lying.

I threw my stuff down, climbed off the boat, knelt on the side dock, and began trying to pull my soaking wet grown man/son out of the water while he clutched my soaking wet Quincy.

That's when we heard the second gigantic splash followed by a second round of everybody screaming.

Before we could say what the hell, we heard a third giant splash as Barbara plunged into the black water after Emma, the 150 pound German Shepherd who had either panicked and tried to make the jump from the boat to the front dock...or she was trying to help. 

My money's on panic. 

There was no "third round" of screaming, because everybody was still screaming from the second round, except now there was crying and also peeing. 

Listen. Two of my kids were in the bottomless black dock water saving 2 of my fur babies while I was on one dock trying to pull 2 out and Caymen was on the other dock trying to pull the other 2 out and the rest of my family was on the boat screaming and there ain't a Kegel in the world strong enough to hold a bladder's worth of urine under those circumstances, so yeah. I began peeing freely on the dock and that was the least of our worries, so no need to focus your judgment on me.

Ron was finally able to get off the boat to help pull everybody out. Emma being the biggest issue as she rapidly absorbed the lake and bloated to a hefty 300 pounds of wet fur and water. Poor Barbara came out of the water bleeding from the sharp barnacles on the dock as she fought to keep Emma's head above the water. 

Where's the boat police when everybody's sober and you actually need 'em, am I right? 

So that's how our 4th of July weekend ended...5 of us riding home soaking wet and smelling of lake, wet dog, and urine. 

Nothing new here. Just us being normal.

Happy Mudder's Day To Me

It was Mother's Day weekend and all the kids and grands were coming over on Saturday to celebrate. Incidentally, that was the same day we were having concrete laid in front of our new outbuilding beside the pool. The concrete was being laid at 8am. The kids were coming over at 2. 

Charlie the concrete pro mentioned doing a broom finish, but we said no because we didn't want a broom finish around the pool. We wanted it smooth. So he instructed us to stay off the concrete for 24 hours and he left.

Quick backstory. The last time Charlie told us to stay off the concrete for 24 hours, he returned to find we'd carved our names into it. Alllll 17 of us, including 4 dogs and 1 boyfriend who's now committed to marrying our daughter because it's concrete official. I don't make the rules here Trevor.

But speaking of the dogs, that's where our Mudder's Day story begins...

This is Emma, nicknamed Menard, because on Black Friday 2019, Ron was at Menards browsing through the box of dog sweaters, as you do, when a lady approached him about a dog who desperately needed a home and voila. Home comes this gentle giant, with hypochondriac tendencies, who sheds clumps of back hair, fakes ear infections for attention, complains of hip pain to get massaged, and prefers laying down to eat when at all possible. 

Good lord, Ron found his canine twin at Menards. 

She gets her perpetual state of worry face from my side of the family.

Where were we? Ahh. Yes. Concrete.

We did a really good job of keeping the dogs inside until the kids arrived. It had been 6 hours since the concrete had been laid, which in dog hours is practically like 24, and they have a huge yard so it's not like they're just gonna be drawn like magnets to the one strip of fresh concrete, right?

Yeah. About that.

By around 6pm, we'd eaten our 30 inch pizza, opened all the Mother's Day gifts, and things were winding down. The girls headed out to sit in the hot tub when someone mentioned seeing foot prints in the concrete.

That's not possible because Concrete Charlie told us not to do that and we can be trusted. Sometimes.

But to our shock and dismay, deeply embedded into the hardened concrete, were prints from a giant animal who'd very obviously and methodically paced back and forth across the concrete in every direction, and from the size of the prints we could narrow it down to either a full grown polar bear or more likely, Menard. 

I desperately tried to rub them away with my hands, but they were already dried.

What now?

Plan A:  Text Concrete Charlie and admit what happened.

Don't be stupid.

New plan A: an electric sander. That's right. I took an electric sander to our fresh concrete and you're in no position to judge me until you've walked a mile in Menard's crater prints. But it didn't work and I was as surprised about that as you are right now.

Plan B: Text Concrete Charlie and admit what happened.

I'm not gonna tell you again.

Another plan B: Suggest we hose down the concrete while everybody stares at me like I just said something stupid. 

Noooo. Stupid is suggesting we drag Concrete Charlie into this.

The new plan B: Panic uselessly while my son in law Nick runs to his house to get some old concrete tools he's never used before, my husband leaves for Lowe's to buy a trowel, and then I'll burst into tears when Zac tells me that Concrete Charlie has been texted and he said there's nothing that can be done because it's completely ruined. 

And then he tells me he's just kidding.

If your kid doesn't try to make you cry on Mother's Day for no reason, does it even count?

When Nick returned, the tedious process began. I'd squeeze a sponge full of water into each paw print and then Nick would scrape over it with his concrete floater tool while I furiously wondered what in the crap was taking Ron so long at Lowe's.

But miracle of all miracles, it was working...with a few minor glitches of running out of daylight and having to work by way of Kearstin's phone flashlight while Zac, Aubrey, and Caymen ran amok looking for our outdoor work lights, leaving new dents in the concrete with the plywood Nick was kneeling on, and the frustration of turning around to discover all the dogs back on the concrete every time the grand babies would let them out of the house again. But it was working!

We were almost completely done by the time Ron arrived back home with a new bucket, a lid for the bucket, and a super comfy knee pad. 

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I sent you to Lowe's for SAND TOYS!!!

For our finale, we wetted down the entire surface and our daughter in law Barbara went over it with a giant push broom. Then she turned around, accidentally knocked me in the back with the broom handle, and my life flashed before my eyes as I barely escaped falling into our pool. And I do mean barely. 

Party's over, everybody. 

The next morning, I forced myself to go look at the concrete in the light of day and I've gotta tell ya, I was pleasantly surprised at our job well done.

That broom finish around the pool is just what it needed. Glad we thought of it.