Mama's Boy / Friend

Regardless of how well you know us, it usually doesn't take long to realize that Zac is not only my son, but my boy. 

I think we have a typical mother-son relationship, in the sense that we have always loved hanging out together, talking and laughing about everything.  I look at him and see my 2nd best guy friend...my husband being 1st, of course.

Ron says Zac's a Mama's Boy.  If by Mama's Boy he means that I'd, oh let's say, jump out of an airplane or put my body through a Tough Mudder for him, then yeah, he's a Mama's Boy.  And I'd do the same for any of our daughters, but so far they seem to have a little more sense than that.
Kudos to them.

Ron, Zac and I played together on our church co-ed softball team every summer for several years.  That's Zac and me at Christmas with our matching ball gloves Ron got us because that's what super-cool moms and sons want, okay?

My boy is now a married man with a son of his own on the way and working full time on 2nd shift.  So for now, gone are our days of playing softball together and as our summer church league is drawing to a close, I've been thinking a lot about all the fun we've had in the past.

So if you'd like to stroll with me down memory lane for a quick second, let me recap the domino effect that led to what happened last year.  Ron heard through the grapevine that his company's fall men's league needed another player.  Ron did not volunteer himself.  He volunteered Zac.  When one of the players on that team told Zac they were short-handed on their co-ed team, Zac volunteered himself.  And me.

Basically, Zac and I infiltrated a co-ed softball team, mid-season, full of people we didn't know who worked together at a company we didn't, none of which is surprising to anyone who knows us.  We're not ones to get hung up on minor technicalities. 

We showed up at our first game dressed in the only thing we thought to wear.  Our matching navy blue church jerseys.  He with his baseball pants and head band combo;  me with my yoga pants and pony tail.  Cue the bad-ass-slow-mo walk as we approached the dugout side-by-side wearing our cleats and carrying our matching gloves. 

The fact that the rest of the team wore shorts and orange t-shirts was neither here nor there.

Zac took his position in right field and I took mine as Catcher, squatting behind home plate.  Three innings later someone on my team said, "You know you don't have to squat, right?"
That tidbit of info would have been awesome 3 innings ago. 

But it was the question I was asked during the 6th inning that got my attention when the umpire said, "Is that your husband or boyfriend?"  Thinking Ron had shown up, I looked around and said, "Husband.  Where do you see him?" 

You know that special effect in movies where everything takes on a blurry spin and the voice talking gets really deep and drawn out?  That's what happened when my eyes followed the umpire's pointed finger as he said, "R-i-g-h-t f-i-e-l-d."

Holy crap!

After the inning, I ran back to the dugout, pulled Zac aside and said, "Dude!  That umpire thinks we're a couple!!"  Then our heads turned simultaneously as a player on the bench said, "Oh, you're not?"

With a stone-cold expression, Zac turned to me and said, "One of us is never wearing this jersey again" and then he walked away.  Why was I the only one flattered here.

Gone are the days when mothers can dress like their sons and not be mistaken for their significant others.  Sigh.

We finished out the regular season (me in my jersey, he in a t-shirt) and tournaments were held on a blustery cold Saturday in October.  That morning, he rushed me out the door as I finished putting on my make-up and grabbed my 'I'm too sexy to be 40' mug. 

When I yelled at him for abruptly changing gears and almost making me spill my coffee, he lectured me on the habit of filling my mug too full.

I stepped out of the car in my yoga pants and super-cute-off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and realized I was completely under-dressed for a bitter cold day at the ball fields and when my hair whipped over my face, I remembered the hair band that was still laying on the bathroom counter.

As our team watched, Zac stormed off toward the dugout while I trailed behind with my hair blowing in the wind, arms full of softball equipment, walking as fast as I could without spilling my coffee and yelling, "You look like a really bad boyfriend right now!!"

Surprisingly, they contacted us to play for them again this year.  Zac's work schedule doesn't allow time for it and I regretfully declined as well. 

I mean, it just doesn't feel right to play without my boy...friend...buahahahahaha!!!

A (Mon)Day In The Life

The Monday after returning from Vacation is pretty much destined to fail.  So I was pleasantly surprised last week when mine was going flawlessly.  At least until 1:30.  That's when Caymen, who's going on week 4 of sporting a giant glob of dried bloody suture glue above her left eye from a trampoline accident, popped in to my office and excitedly said, "Notice anything on my face?"  I swiveled my chair to see that she'd applied huge tattoos to her cheeks.  Visions of this face dressed in a beautiful white flower girl dress preceding Aubrey down the isle flashed through my head.

But first there was the matter of her dentist appointment at 3:30pm.  Maybe if I started scrubbing now, the 7 year old's fresh facial tatts would be but a distant memory...unlike the eye wound.  That's when the phone rang and my daughter-in-law, Barbara said "What are you doing right now?"  I looked down at Caymen's gangsta face and went the easy route.  "Nothing."  Zac's car broke down in the parking lot where he works and she was stranded.

We picked Barbara up and headed straight to the dentist to meet up with Ron for our cleanings.  But shortly after Caymen was taken to a room, the dentist came out and said, "We have a little problem."  My immediate thought was, 'So, you've seen her face.'  He went on to explain that one of Caymen's back teeth is cracked and he needed our help to hold her still so he could numb her.  Having just barely survived the ER visit where they tried to numb her forehead for stitches and finally resorted to the now infamous glob of super glue which Ron claims he could've done at home for free, I knew this dental visit had the potential for disaster.  I wasn't disappointed.  Five minutes into the chaotic scene, the doctor inadvertently pushed the needle full of numbing fluid into his own left hand.  The procedure (and possibly the remainder of his afternoon), came to an abrupt end.  She was immediately referred to a "specialist" and I'll be watching the mail for his announcement of early retirement.  Sometimes "We're really really super sorry" just isn't enough.

Next stop, loaning Barbara our 2nd van and then all of us driving over to take a look at Zac's broken down car.  It didn't take long for Ron to realize that the clutch is blown.  Thankfully, his car broke down just one parking lot away from the service center.  It was already closed for the evening, but they had a locked drop box for just such occasions.  Thank goodness we're having so many strokes of luck here, unlike the dentist who's probably home hittin the sauce pretty heavily by now with his one usable hand.

Barbara filled out the service note, sealed the keys in the envelope and dropped them down the slot.
Our VAN keys. In envelope.  Down slot.

Flash to Ron on the phone with Security while he worked a stretched out coat hanger down the slot like a toilet plunger, Caymen laying across the counter with everyone trying to convince her she wouldn't get her arm stuck...she wasn't buyin it...and Barbara digging things into the lock explaining that she's "really good at lock picking."  I don't even wanna know.

Security finally arrived and busted up our little party.  I thought, please don't ask about the child laying across the counter with her arm crammed in the slot, or about her face, or the fact that I just realized she's not wearing shoes. 

Guard #1 dressed in a florescent green vest that screamed rookie, showed up only to announce that he doesn't have a key.  Welllll, thanks so much for stopping by.  Security guard #2, dressed in a legit uniform, saved the day with a key and retrieved ours.  Barbara handed me our van keys, dropped Zac's keys down the slot, Security went on his way and we went on ours.

That's when Ron asked Barbara, "Do you have your apartment key?"

Apartment key.  In envelope. Down slot.

The pregnant Barbara and barefoot gangsta child tore across the parking lot, chasing the security car and wildly waving their arms while I silently prayed that Zac wasn't witnessing any of this from a window. 

The security guard returned, escorted us back to the drop box, allowed Barbara to retrieve her key...again...drop keys down the slot...again...and then he sent this freak show on our way...again.

If I knew where the dentist lived, I would've driven to his house to join him.  But that didn't stop me from having the drink.  An aptly named one, at that.

Screw you, Mondays.
From now on, I'm skippin straight to Tuesday.

The Change Of Life

My top 3 fears.
1.  Rabies.
2.  Electricity.
3.  Change.

So far, between Zac's marriage to Barbara and their pregnancy, Aubrey's high school graduation, purchase of a house and upcoming marriage to Nick, and my unfortunate encounter with an ungrounded hot tub, 2014 has bombarded me with 2 of the 3.  (I still have 6 months to avoid rabies.)

When Summer rolled around I assumed things would get easier.  Easier meaning, calmer.  Easier meaning, less chaotic.  Truth be told, easier meaning, easier to accept.  My family is moving out.  My family is shrinking.  Dear God, my family is changing.

For so long we were 'The Courters'.  Said by others with deer-in-the-headlight eyes and slow knowing nods.  That crazy family of 6, some who wear shoes, some who wear pants and one who refuses to remove his ball cap, all of whom operate under zero adult supervision.

We offer no explanation or apology for who we are because throughout the past 20 years, when everything around us changed, we were the only constant.

But these days, much of our time is spent as a family of 4 having only Kearstin and Caymen at home with us now.  We fit in a booth at a restaurant.  We make it through most outings without causing a scene or disturbance and can interact with the public without anyone disgustedly asking, "Are all of these yours?"   Apparently 6 Courters have the ability to create Duggar-size scenes.

I find myself in the midst of this hurricane of change and there's a level of pain in it so you might have to bear with me while I try to adjust.  I remind myself that this is good change.  It's natural change.  This is the way God intends for it to change.  Therefore, I'll fight through my 3rd deepest fear and not only accept the change, but embrace the change.  Because even though it didn't feel like it at the time, easy was when our kids lived at home.  Now we dig deep into the world of intentional.   It's a little harder but we're deliberate in scheduling our family time now and it's worth it. 

In turn, God is navigating me through these scary changes with comforting glimpses of normal...ok, sometimes not so comforting and you might not consider it normal.

For Father's Day, the 8 of us piled into an old school bus with giant tubes before being dropped off and left at the mercy of the river current to make our way back to where we started.  I looked over to discover my future son-in-law on all fours on top of his tube as it slowly spun toward a small waterfall with his flip flops floating behind him while Aubrey stood stuck knee deep in the water screaming and Ron debating jumping ship to look for his sunglasses that he was sure were caught in a tree before Kearstin discovered them dangling off the back of his shirt.  We are the epitome of the Red Neck Yacht Club.  Then afterward, we gorged on giant cheeseburgers before dropping like flies around our living room in water-logged-junk-food induced comas. 

The week before last, a hose on our pool pump burst, flooding our barn and spraying directly at the light switch and yours truly (with cheeseburger in hand) ran in to see what happened, blindly reached in to turn on the light, felt that old familiar feeling before catching another glimpse of the afterlife and losing my cheeseburger.  Lord, if you could just tell me what you'd like me to learn here, that'd be awesome.

Last week on Hilton Head Island, Zac and Barbara decided to use the beach (and fire) to reveal the gender of our grandchild, beach fire being strictly prohibited on the island, but that's neither here nor there.  They carved GIRL and BOY in the sand and lined it with string, having saturated one with fuel so that it would be the gender to ignite.  Then we watched as Z lit the end of the string and it started to spread as families began to gather and watch.  And then we watched the bottle of fuel ignite into flames in Barbara's hand so she threw it down.  And then we watched people scatter and run as far away from us as possible.  (We're used to that.)  So we kicked sand until the flames smothered out and then stood silently looking at each other. Well that was terrifying...and disappointing.  So we regrouped and then the girls and I started digging while the guys ran to Walmart for lighter fluid and we set the beach on fire again.  And when that ended with frantic sand kicking, the spectators became "potential witnesses" so they waited a few days before they set a fire on an abandoned tennis court that took a bottle of water and several minutes of stamping with shoes to put out.  The end result was effective, albeit violent.

So what am I freaking out about here?  'The Courters' aren't shrinking.  We're expanding...and multiplying.  I shouldn't be the one in fear.  The world should.

So watch out everybody.
Here comes #9...

It's a

MAYhem

Every blog entry starts with a title.  With Aubrey's senior prom, Mother's Day, Kearstin's 15th birthday, Aubrey's high school graduation, and the preparation for a reception we hosted for Zac and Barbara this past weekend, let me assure you, the fact that it's been a month since my last entry speaks more of my lack of time than lack of titles.  So allow me to compile a couple of May's entries into sub-titles, that coincidentally happened simultaneously. 

 Amazing Race
Ron signed up to participate in the first annual Honor Ride, a 35 mile bike race in Columbus.  It was a spur of the moment decision that led to the purchase of new racing bike (read:  tiny seat that inserts deeply into butt hole by mile 3), the borrowing of a bike helmet and exactly 2 bike rides around our block to "train."  He tried desperately to get me to do it with him, but I adamantly refused.  (Those are the fork in the road moments where you look back and see God's protective hand in the preservation of a marriage.) 

Ron predicted he'd have it completed in roughly 2 hours.  But in full-on Courter fashion, several things went disastrously wrong.  It started with a volunteer at a pit stop pointing him in the wrong direction, escalated with pranksters switching some of the route signs around, proceeded downhill when he got lost, stumbled into an area that had no phone signal and had to flag down an elderly couple in their car to ask directions only to discover that he was inadvertently halfway through the 70 mile bike race course.  This would've been the point where my seething rage turned into a puddle of tears and urine on the ground alongside the road until either God or Care Flight delivered me home. 

But Ron persevered and rode all the way back to the pit stop, where my first order of business would've been to kick some volunteer ass, but Ron opted instead to hitch a ride.  Nine hours, 55 pedaled miles and 15 miles riding in a u-haul later, my husband completed his Honor Ride, with honor and testimony intact, and was rewarded with every free t-shirt, ribbon and medal they had on hand. He arrived home, climbed directly into the hot tub and said, "So what did you do today?" 

Funny you should ask...

Dress Up
*No picture to accompany this story.  You're welcome.*

You'd think with as much trouble as Ron and I get into together, we might do better apart.  Turns out, that can actually be worse.  While my husband pedaled for his very survival through the streets of Newark, I decided to try on a dress Lissa gave me.  (Note, once again, the involvement of Lissa.)  Caymen and Kearstin were both asleep and this should've been a non-event.  Try on a dress.  Like it, keep it.  Don't like it, pass it on.  I unzipped it to the seam that ran across the middle of the back.  Stepping into the dress wouldn't work so it had to go over my head.  Not a Claustrophobiac's ideal scenario, but I'm a 2-time Tough Mudder and I will not be intimidated by a dress.  Cue Mandisa's Overcomer as I bunched the dress up as tight as I could, quickly rammed my head and arms through the hole, fought off tears when it got stuck above my chest and danced around hyperventilating while I frantically pulled it over my bare boobs, because heaven forbid I be prepared for an emergency. 

I successfully squeezed everything into their proper compartments, checked out the end result in the bathroom mirror, and decided the dress was a keeper.  Then I realized I had to do everything in reverse to get the thing back off.  I pulled the dress up and struggled until my boobs finally plopped out of the bottom.  That left me with the dress bunched up underneath my armpits and my arms hanging over the top cocked at weird angles.  The goal was to cross my arms in front of my face, grab the bottoms of the dress and in one rapid movement, whip it off over my head.  I counted to 3, yanked it up and got stuck.  Really really stuck.  Like, arms straight over my head, dress tightly wrapped around my shoulders, face and arms stuck. 

The panic that had been rising to the surface finally bubbled over the top and unable to see anything except the inside of the dress, I literally bounced off walls as I ran through the house until I found my way into Kearstin's room and screamed for help until she woke up to the sight of her headless, naked mom, frantically flailing her hands straight up in the air through the top of a dress. 
A therapist is in her very near future. 

I couldn't see her, but by the disgusted sound effects, I could tell she didn't want to become involved in whatever twisted nightmare I had going on here, but she had no choice.  She didn't ask me what happened.  That was pretty obvious.  Her only question was, "Why are you wet?!?"  That would be profuse sweating, can we please save the interrogation for another time. 

Our first attempt was for me to get on my knees and she yank it off the top.  Fail.  Second attempt was for me to lay on the floor and yank it off the top.  Fail.  Third and final attempt before resorting to calling 911 and then changing our identities in the Witness Protection Program, was for her to slowly push the dress inch by inch, shoulder by shoulder, until it finally released over my head.  A brutal 5 minutes later, I finally broke free and she made me promise never to climb into that dress again. 
Um, obviously.  I'm not an idiot, ya know. 

She went back to bed and I untangled the dress to return to Lissa when I noticed a detail on the zipper that I'd missed before.  As it turns out, it actually unzips past that seam all the way down to my butt.  Deal changer.  I stepped into the dress, pulled it over my chest and slipped my arms in...then I walked into Kearstin's room and asked her to please zip me up.

She opened her eyes, looked at the dress and said, "Get out."

Teenagers.  Geesh.

Dog Days

If you've followed my blog, you might know we had 3 dogs.

Summer, the high-strung Beagle/Dalmation we cleverly titled, Balmation.  A rare breed, if I do say so myself, which made it surprising when the Vet highly recommended we have her fixed so as not to repeat that again.


Quincy, the 13 lb Llassa-poo...a Llassa something mixed with, well, poo.  Notorious for bringing us carcass parts from our surrounding fields.


 And then we had Caymen's beloved German Shepherd, Axel.  Or as Caymen pronounced it, Asshole, thus disqualifying her from Kindergarten show 'n' tell last year.





Axel was tragically hit and and killed by a car in November and Caymen's heart was broken.  We thought we'd found an acceptable replacement we named Rosey.  She was much darker than Axel and Caymen immediately noted that "she looks like a muddy a-hole."

Unfortunately, Rosey hated Quincy.  We had Rosey for a 5 day period of time that spanned my tummy tuck recovery and the details are blurry, but I vaguely recall a horrific scene on our bed involving Rosey, Quincy, Caymen, Kearstin and Ron, as I sat drooling in a Vicodin induced stooper from the safety of my recliner.
Rosey was returned to her previous owner.

We decided that maybe we didn't need a German Shepherd, after all.  That is until BFF, Lissa, told me about the litter of German Shepherd puppies her Mother-in-Law was selling.  (You might've noticed the starring role Lissa plays in many of my life's....adventures.)

Two weeks ago, Tia joined our family.  Ron chose her name.  He wanted it to sound "feminine and simple."  Code for; can't be mispronounced and/or mistaken for profanity, as visions of show 'n' tells danced in his head.  Who could've predicted that Caymen wouldn't be able to remember the name Tia and ended up telling her 1st grade class that her new puppy's name is Ta Tas.  (We're not really cut out for show 'n' tells anyway.)

That brings us to what happened last Friday.  Tia had been in our home 9 days.  At 1pm, exactly one hour before the first of my afternoon massage clients was scheduled to arrive at my home, I found all 3 dogs excitedly gathered around something in the kitchen.  I shooed them away and saw an old box of rat poison.  A now empty box of rat poison.  Oh...nooooo....and I grabbed my phone. 

The veterinarian's elderly secretary had barely finished her friendly greeting when I rambled the situation hoping she'd understand my rush of words.  When she responded, "Oh...dear..." I knew I'd gotten through.  The first recommendation was to bring them in immediately, but we live an hour away.  No good.  That's when she told me what I'd have to do.  Cue the super low slow mo voice effect when she said, "In-duce vommmmmitting."  (This had all the makings of the bathroom scene when my tucksticle fell to the floor at Caymen's feet after my surgery.)

For those of you who've never been required to induce vomiting on all 3 of your dogs simultaneously, and I can only assume that's pretty much all of you, here's what I had to do.

1.  Close myself into the garage with all 3 dogs.
2.  Pour Hydrogen Peroxide down their throats (2 TBS for Quincy & Tia, 1/2 cup for Summer).
3.  Wait for vomit.
4.  Track who vomits what.
5.  Make sure no one eats the vomit.
6.  Call Vet and report detailed description of vomit.
7.  Repeat Step 2 every 5 minutes until Vet tells you it's okay to stop.

I'll admit, sometimes I'm not exactly grateful for the writing material God provides.

Forty-five minutes, 7 hydrogen peroxide doses, countless piles of decon-filled vomit, 4 bitten and bloody fingers, 3 traumatized dogs, 2 cancelled clients...and a partridge in a pear tree later...I was sitting in the grass crying for the dogs who'd taken off deep into the fields refusing to come to my calls because clearly Satan had stolen mommy's soul.

I waited a week to write this because, you know, I had to make sure I had an accurate ending.  I'm pleased to report that all the dogs are still alive.  They have to take pills every day for another week that neutralize any effect of poison that might've gotten into their systems before I...um, got it out.  They seem to have forgiven what I did, although they are certainly no closer to forgetting it.  Let's just say, I'm not welcome to give them their pills...or treats...or water.  Basically, they refuse to ingest anything from my hand.  I understand.

As for my inconvenient last minute massage cancellations, they understood.  Clients generally frown upon being rubbed with bloody fingers and noises made from 3 violently heaving dogs is not equivalent to relaxing nature background sounds.

People can be so picky.

Tia:  Poison Control Paw-trol.

{{{HOT}}} Tub

Once upon a time, there was a wonderful generous husband who bought his wife a hot tub, it was delivered to their home, they plugged it in by the pool and they lived happily ever after.  The End.

If anything in our lives ever goes so smoothly, I'll be rendered speechless.  But in the meantime, I blog.

The story begins accurately.  There was a wonderful generous husband who bought his wife a hot tub. 
And then things went all...'Courter-Style.'

The purchasing of the hot tub went exactly as I'd expected.  Meaning, the salesman made an immediate (bordering on creepy) connection with my husband and began telling him his life story, complete with a mid-sentence belch, followed by his detailed explanation of the spicy sub he ate for lunch.  I'm so accustomed to people latching onto my husband's ear that I never leave home without a library book and have no problem making myself comfortable until their lengthy convo finally comes to a blessed end.  (You might be surprised to learn I'm not what you'd call a people-person...more details on that coming soon to a blog near you.)  Two hours of reading later, Ron was helping me out of the display model and we were on our way.

The delivery date arrived, but the hot tub did not.  We did however receive a phone call from the delivery company asking us if our hot tub would break if they turned it on it's side.  Let's not find out, okay?  The pool company intervened and successfully delivered our hot tub, right side up, the following day.  I answered the door in my pajamas, because I didn't realize I'd need to answer the door at all, but apparently they needed me to show them where it goes.  "See that brand new giant plastic outlet box on the back of the garage?  Well, there it goes."  And my fuzzy flannel Hello Kitty jammies and I bolted back inside.

That night, Ron filled the hot tub, put the chemicals in, and cranked it to 105.
...And then it heated up and we lived happily ever after.  

In your world, maybe.  Not mine.  In my world, I suggested to Kearstin that we go outside and feel the water the next day.  In my world, I unclipped the lid and watched the steam rise from the beautiful clear water.  In my world, I plunged my entire arm deep within the inviting surface.  And then my world got jolted with volts of electricity that started with my arm and ended with a thump in my chest that landed me straight on my ass with a thud beside my hot tub.  It was my unremembered scream of profanity that stopped Kearstin barely fingertip deep and spared her the electricity-induced backward flight to the ground. 
You're welcome.

To add insult to injury, I looked down to see a bloody gnawed off raccoon paw that our dog brought in from the fields laying right beside my hand.  (Cue profanity #2 and violent gagging.)
Welcome to my world.

Ron arrived home from work and said he'd check it out.  And by "check it out" he meant taking off the cover and plunging both of his arms into the water.  And to my surprise and horror, he not only stayed on his feet, but yelled, "It's fine!  Come try it!!"  And then he tried to convince Kearstin and I that we didn't really get shocked.  "The water was probably just sooo hot" he said, as he happily splashed his arms around.  Hey super-mudder, I don't know why you're not lying in a pile of your own drool right now, but not on your freakin life am I putting my body or any of my children into that hell tub.  Then I glanced down at the rubber soled boots on his feet. 

A minute later, my barefoot husband stuck his hand in the water, yelled "son of a ....!" and started making phone calls.  That's better.

The electrician came the following day and fixed the problem.  It seems there was a broken ground.  (Referring to wires within our walls, not the spot on the concrete where my butt landed.)

Friday, two guys from the pool company showed up to make sure it wasn't a malfunction with the tub itself.  They knocked on the door and called me outside.  They showed me how they tested the water with their fancy machinery and said "it all looks good" and tried to convince me that it was safe to use and one even tried to get me to touch the water.  I firmly explained that he will never get me or my fuzzy Hello Kitty jammies anywhere near that water.

Then he asked me, "What do I need to do to convince you to use this hot tub your husband bought you?"
I glanced down at his boots.  Well, since you're asking...

Two minutes later, his young assistant was hesitantly stripping off his boots and socks, stepping into a puddle of rainwater and hovering his arms over the hot tub trying desperately to look confident about what he was about to do while I moved off to the side so he wouldn't land on me in a heap of chattering teeth and steaming flesh.  (When it comes to electricity, you can never be too dramatic.)  Just as his fingertips touched the water, the other guy...the one willing to sacrifice his own assistant...made a loud "ZZZZZT" noise from his mouth.  I'm not sure who crapped their pants worse, but my money's on the assistant who jerked his arms out of the water faster than I covered my head with my hands and screamed.

I informed 'zzzt guy' that he's a terrible human being because I felt like he had a right to know.  He said, "I have an ex-wife who'd completely agree with you."  I didn't find that news anywhere near as shocking as the tub of death we'd just purchased for our backyard.

But all hope is not lost.  One week later, there is finally a happy ending to this Courter-Style fairy tail:

....and then her wonderful generous husband bought her something to put her mind at ease and she donned her rubber swim fins and floated happily ever after.  The End. 

Well, hopefully not the end end, ya know?

That Phase Of Life

Recently I've had people ask me, "Why aren't you blogging as often?"

The easy answer would be the busyness of life that everyone can relate to.  And that would be partly true.  But a slightly more accurate answer would be that this year I've been smacked in the forehead with a phase of life...or should I say, multiple...

In January, my best friends talked me into joining Pinterest.  Not fully comprehending how it worked, I 'Liked' and 'Repinned' every single pin they sent me, regardless of how f-bomb-dropping-inappropriate, without realizing that anyone and everyone could see it.  I set a record for most followers lost within the first 3 days of joining and realized that I'm in that embarrassing phase of life where I say, 'Those young whippersnappers and their fandangled technology" as I unknowingly drag a string of toilet paper from the back of my stretchy pants.

In February, I took my daughter Aubrey shopping for her wedding dress.  That night, my best friend Lissa came over and we squeezed ourselves into our old wedding dresses and then the 3 of us ate pizza while everyone made fun of the super-cool-puffy-sleeves on my 21 year old dress. It occurred to me then that I'm suddenly in that inevitable phase of life where half of my children are grown adults moving on to start families of their own...and my totally awesome wedding dress resembles something out of the wardrobe closet on the set of Falcon Crest.

In the wee hours of March 1st, Caymen brought me a baby doll as Zac and Barbara watched from the couch.  I took the doll into my hands, noticed the pregnancy test attached to the front and realized I'm going to be a Grandma.  Ron saw the test and whipped his head around to me with an accusatory look mixed with sheer panic before I put his mind at ease with, "Dude. That's not our stick."
We're just in that confusing phase of life where we could either have a baby, or a grand baby.

Twelve hours later, Ron and I were checking into a hotel for a quick getaway carrying only toothbrushes and multiple packs of Oreos because we're in that selfish phase of life where a getaway sometimes means we just don't want to share our snacks with the kids.

At dinner that night, Ron ordered a beer and I ordered a margarita.  The waitress asked me for my id.  I thanked her for the flattering formality, explained that I didn't bring my purse, and then told her please and thank you hold the salt on my rim as I handed her the menu.  And then she refused me my drink.  Torn between hugging her and strangling her, I began rambling about Oreos and pregnancy tests before she eventually agreed to let me prove my age by showing her my date of birth on my Facebook page.  Five minutes later, she returned without my drink and said, "You're not an undercover cop, are you?"  No, you see, I'm just in that all-too-temporary-phase of life where I'm either a 42 year old grandma or an underage drinker trying to pull a fast one on a Red Lobster waitress.

The following week, I was sitting in a tiny 1st grade chair across a tiny table from Caymen's teacher as she said she'd like to ask me a personal question.  (Oh gosh.)  She went on to say that Caymen arrived at school and announced to the class that she had very important news about her family, (Oh...no...worst...nightmare...ever) and then excitedly proclaimed, "MY MOTHER-IN-LAW IS PREGNANT!!!"  Holy crap, I'm in that humiliating phase of life where my 6-year old's teacher has to ask me who exactly is pregnant at home.

Three weeks ago, I was sitting at the bar at an adult version of Chuckie Cheese reading a library book while the kids played arcade games for Aubrey's birthday, because as it turns out, I've entered an intolerant phase of life where I don't function well with noise...or people. 

One week later, Caymen was sobbing as we were leaving for her 7th birthday party at the bowling alley and Ron yelled, "STOP CRYING ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!" followed by Kearstin quoting Clark Griswold, "We're the hap hap happiest family this side of the nuthouse."  I think we've entered into that unstable phase of life where we should probably reconsider public parties.

Last week we went shopping for supplies for my new home office.  (aka; Zac's old bedroom.)  I found a beautiful wall hanging, but the back was badly damaged.  I sent Ron to ask if they'd knock the price down to $5.  He returned and said, "The lowest they'll go is $10 or they're throwing it away."  WTH?  As we returned to the front counter, I asked him how he played it.  "Good Cop" he said.  So I put on my Bad Cop face as we approached the manager, but before I could say a word, Good Cop blurted out, "I'm sorry about this."  So I simply handed her the wall hanging and said, "I guess you can go ahead and pitch this."  Clearly we're in that PDA (public-displays-of-anger) phase of life where we're not above fighting in the Big Lots parking lot.

Two hours later, I was waiting at the front doors of the gym when Ron exited the locker room and extended his hand.  "Here, I found this in the sleeve of my shirt" and he handed me my black satin thong as the front desk worker's jaw dropped.

Hey.  We're in a phase of life.  We're not dead.