Raging FLUnatic

I don't get sick. No, seriously. I.Don't.Get.Sick.

I might get a rampant staph infection in the side of my head, lose vision, and blow a hole in my cornea every once in awhile, but I wouldn't count that as "sick" would you? I didn't think so.
(The blown cornea happened in August when the scar tissue ruptured. I would've written 'Half Staph Part III' and filled you in if I hadn't been so busy lying in the fetal position, sucking my thumb, and repeatedly banging my head against the floor. You understand.)

So back to it. Me no sicky.

Until 4 days ago. Super Bowl Sunday, 2018, to be exact. I arrived home from Kangoo jumping with my friends. Those are spring loaded ski boots you bounce in. If you didn't know that, we maybe shouldn't be friends. Anyhoo, I got home and BAM! Fever. Aches. Chills. Cough. Suicidal thoughts and tendencies...no, never mind, just maybe some slight delirium. No need to go into the details of all the dys-bodily-functions. I had the flu. Fill in the blanks with what that means to you and let's move on.

I spent the first 2 days in bed drinking Fireball, because my daughter-in-law said it would help, and she knows things. Two days straight. Sweat, freeze, sweat, freeze, sweat, freeze...I could go on, but why.

Day 3 showed slight improvement and I graduated from Fireball to Nyquil...until the freakin' This Is Us, Jack's freakin' Funeral episode where I silently freakin' sobbed for an hour and then started my freakin' period because my body didn't know how to handle the sudden overload of Estrogen and it turned against me.
I ain't wired for that sh*t.

Today was Day 4 and things got really dicey. The fever was broken, which sounds like a good thing until you realize that despite feeling better, you're still too weak to get out of bed. Add to that, a snow day for the non-stop-chatty-opera-singing 10 year old, and you've got a recipe for certain disaster.

Can I not simply lay in my bed alone researching whether or not Bruce Springsteen really held a concert on Saturday January 31st, 1998 in hopes of giving myself permission to be utterly disappointed with the inaccuracy of the This Is Us Writers, lose all respect, and write off ever watching another episode again? Is it not enough I've lost trust in my crock pot?? How can I ever fully enter Menopause as long as that Estrogen-inducing crap stays on the air???

But no. Instead, she sat right beside me in my bed, eating pizza in my ear, (mis)reading things out loud over my shoulder, so I decided that washing my hair for the first time in 5 days seemed like a less painful thing to do. So of course she followed me..."Mommy! My birthday is in 36 days! Tomorrow it'll be 35 days! The next day..."
That's when I slammed the bathroom door.
I have no doubt she talked herself all the way down to March 16th. Reading my vibes isn't part of her repertoire yet.

An hour later, I left the bathroom and found my bedroom blessedly empty. I crawled into bed, turned on the tv, and that's when I found it. The new TLC series. Seeking Sister wife. Meet the 3 brand new hot messes of reality tv; the Alldredge's, the Briney's, and the Snowden's.

Kody? What? Brown? Who?

So I binge watched all 3 episodes available. You would've too.

Then Ron came home from work.
"What'd you do today?"

Oh my gosh, you're not even gonna believe it.
Jeff, Vanessa, and Sharis have been video chatting with a new chic that Jeff and Sharis really like but Vanessa isn't sure but she's pregnant so she's not sure about anything right now but when they went to the airport to meet her she never showed up anyway, so win for Vanessa. Drew and his 3 wives just moved into the same house together, Auralee is wife #2 and says she talks with a lisp, but really she just can't say her 'R's' so she lies to people and says she has a Danish accent and she teamed up with wife #3 Angela to gang up against wife #1 April because April wanted to give the used mattresses to Auralee's kids and keep the new mattresses for her own, which I'm not condoning, but I think the deeper issue is April hates polygamy, as she should, and so HashtagTeamApril, and don't even get me started on the Snowdens because all Ashley really wants is a live-in housekeeper and nanny for their kids but Demetri has her convinced that that's called "polygamy" and they just met up for lunch with a 22 year old flight attendant and then Demetri took her out on a date ALONE for dinner that night! It ain't gonna end well. I'll find out for sure Sunday at 10.

Ron: "Wow."
Stop looking at me like that, I have the flu.

Ron: "So are you recording that show now, too?"
It's called follow-through and it's not like I really have a choice at this point.

Don't let him fool ya. He'll be watching it with me.
It'll be good for him to realize how normal he has it by comparison.

Courter of a Century

Last year, I posted about our wedding.
This year, I thought it'd be appropriate to post about our marriage.

There's a big difference, ya know.

If you read my post from last year, you know my regrets about our wedding. Even 25 years later, we still wish we'd eloped by ourselves.

But that same 25 years of marriage later, I can honestly say, I'd do it all over again. I'd do some things differently, but every moment of every day of every one of those 25 years has brought our family to where we are today, and I wouldn't change anything about that.

So if you're single, maybe this can be a heads up. If you're married, maybe this can be a reminder.

You know that show 'Say yes to the dress?' Well that's a bunch of crap.
Believe it or not, that dress is gonna get boxed away, forgotten, faded, outgrown, and one day you're gonna pull it out to show your kids and they're gonna laugh at the 1990's puffy Dynasty sleeves on that dress you dreamed of your daughters wanting to wear someday and then you're gonna realize you have way too much back fat for it to zip properly, you'll emotionally spiral, end up having a pity party with your best friend who's 12 years younger than you, and she'll be standing in your living room wearing her way cooler sleeveless dress eating sympathy pizza together...er, so I've heard...totally hypothetical here...ignore the picture.

So, not to steal your thunder or anything, but when you accept that ring he gives you, you ain't sayin' yes to a dress. Sister, you're sayin' yes to the mess.

Marriage isn't clean. He's a mess. Admit it or not, you're a mess. And together, you make an even bigger mess. And that's before the mess of babies, bodily functions, and then the baby's bodily functions.

On January 30th, 1993 Ron and I both said yes.
On January 30th, 2018, we can both tell you exactly what we said yes to.
Hindsight and all, y'all.

I said yes to a loud eater and drinker.
He said yes to me loudly yelling knock it off during every meal.

We both said yes to occasionally eating a cake by ourselves for dinner. In our bed.
(No regrets.)

He said yes to someone he accuses of "always assuming the worst" because I refuse to answer phone calls.
I said yes to someone who stashes loaded guns around the house, arms himself, and then sits in the rec room until the guys he hired to paint gets it done.

We both said yes to our kids sleeping in our bed with us for an average of 10 years each.
(Okay, we might have a few slight regrets.)

I said yes to an extrovert unable to stop himself from making eye contact with the timeshare salesman standing outside the Walmart in Hilton Head.
He said yes to an introvert with social anxiety who keeps walking with her head down until she gets to the van before realizing her husband is still back there talking to the timeshare guy.

We both said yes to allowing him to decide the length and color of my hair at any given time.
(Not that I had much say in that matter.)

He said yes to a woman whose trust is easily broken.
I said yes to a man who trusts everybody.

We both said yes to me being the one to answer any and all calls from telemarketers. Which means we don't. Ever.

I said yes to Good Cop.
He said yes to Bad Cop.

We both said yes to occasionally switching up roles just to screw with people.

He said yes to a woman who will tell people the blunt, honest, truth if they ask her a question...and sometimes even when they don't.
I said yes to a man who's motto is 'If I can't dazzle them with data, I'll baffle them with bullsh*t."

We both said yes to frequent apologies to each other and to our children.

I said yes to a  man who loves to take me away on getaways.
He said yes to a woman who finagled the Orkin inspector into giving her his private cell number so I could periodically text him pictures of suspicious looking bugs I find in hotel rooms.

We both said yes to lavishing our kids and grandkids with absolute UN-conditional love, no strings attached. Forever. Always. Period.

He said yes to a woman made up of many broken pieces.
I said yes to a man patient enough to stand by my side and help me heal.

We both said yes to saying I love you every single day.

I said yes to a man who shows little emotion.
He said yes to an emotional basket case.

We both said yes to refusing to ever allow our feelings to dictate the success or failure of our marriage.

I said yes to a man who fills up on pop at a restaurant and needs a take home container for his food.
He said yes to a woman who can easily polish off a pound of beef on a bun with one sip of water.

We both said yes to never sharing our meal. Seriously. Reach for a fry, lose a finger. Try me.

I said yes to a man who would get me anything I asked for.
He said yes to a woman who never asks for anything...except sex...and the occasional cosmetic surgery.

We both say yes to the sex...and the occasional cosmetic surgery.

He said yes to choosing to stay married to me through the good, the bad, and the mess.
I said yes to choosing to stay married to him through the good, the bad, and the mess.

We both said yes to making that choice. It's not a choice we made once. It's a choice we each have to make every single day. And trust me, it's not always an easy choice for either of us.

But when we said yes at that "wedding" 25 years ago, we weren't just saying yes to each other. Twenty-five years later, we have 4 children. Two of them are married. Two more that probably will be in the future. We have 4 grandchildren at this point and hopefully many more to come. So that yes isn't just about us and quite frankly, it never was.

That yes was to honor a commitment and covenant...to God, to each other, and to every generation that follows after us. It's not easy. And it's not clean. He's still a mess. And I'll always be a hot mess.

But daaamn...together?...What a perfectly beautiful mess...

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymtexAkc-0c&sns=fb

Panic-aZac

A day in your life can be altered with one phone call.
And yesterday, I received one.

I was having a great day. Sitting in the hospital, happily rocking our newborn granddaughter, while a team of student nurses went through some assessments on my daughter for practice. I was half listening to Aubrey answer their series of questions. They'd just begun asking about any family history of mental illness and/or emotional instability when my phone rang.

Since I know you're wondering, we always answer no to those questions and go ahead and wipe that surprised look off your face why don'tcha.

So my phone rang. I was receiving a call from Sexy. (That'd be my husband, Ron, if you're new here.) He was in Missouri on a business trip, so I quietly answered the call. Then a strange man's loud voice told me that he found that phone in a restaurant and got my number in the contact list. THEN, he demanded that I meet him somewhere with $50 to get it back.

So let's review. Me happy, holding newborn, in front of student nurses, no (documented) family history of mental illness and/or emotional instability, husband out of town, stranger calls from my husband's password protected phone, and demands $50 ransom.

This could only mean one thing. My husband had been kidnapped in Missouri. Obviously.

And I responded appropriately.
Cue hysteria.

I don't remember much of what he said or what I said. I think I asked what restaurant? I think I told him Ron's name?

I've seen kidnap shows. Make him real to the kidnappers. He's a person that I love and his name is Ron, dammit...all the while thinking, I don't know who you are, but I will find you, and I will kill you.

Then I basically broke every rule of negotiating with terrorists and hung up.
CURSES! I should've kept him on the line so we could trace the call! *Shaking my fists to the sky*

I broke down and started sobbing and the student nurses mysteriously vanished, probably to avoid having to investigate that whole "mental illness" line of questioning.

I was trying to tell Aubrey and Nick what had happened and realized I needed to call somebody. I couldn't for the life of me remember what co-workers he was going to Missouri with, had no clue where exactly he was, and wasn't about to call his phone back because I don't talk to strangers.

Take note, kids. 46 years old. Rule still applies.

So I called Ron's boss. He'd know what to do.

While I was doing that, a call from my daughter-in-law's phone beeped in.
I didn't answer it.

Ron's boss's voicemail came on just as Barbara's phone began beeping in again and I thought, what if they got her number out of Ron's phone and called her too?

Without leaving a message, I clicked over to answer her call.

It was my son. Laughing.
"Mom? Did you just receive a prank phone call from me?"

Turns out, he'd been sitting in his house eating a bowl of chili, forgot his dad was in Missouri, forgot that I'd be spending the day at the hospital, of course had no way of knowing I'd be sitting in a room full of student nurses, and he decided to use a prank app on his iPhone to hijack my contact list and send me a pre-recorded male voice who wasn't really having a conversation with me, but it just sure as hell seemed like it. It makes sense, doesn't it?

Then it sent him a recording of how the call went, because what fun would it be not knowing how I responded? And then he listened to it. And heard me hang up before I knew it was a prank.

Had I stayed on the line but 2 seconds longer, I would've heard it say I'd been pranked, butttt, my zero family history of emotional instability combined with domino effect...and well, see, some bells can't be unrung.

So he called me, and when I didn't answer, he knew I'd be on the phone calling somebody else.
Now, who would mom call?

He knew I wouldn't call Ron's phone back, because strangers, which left 2 options.
Ron's boss. Or the police.

Both would be bad. One worse than the other. Debatable which one that would be.

Thankfully, I never got a chance to leave his boss a message.
Unless heavy breathing, semi-silent sobbing, and a hiccup constitutes a message?

Ron, who sat completely clueless and un-kidnapped in Missouri, was shockingly unsympathetic to what our boy had done.

"Why didn't you just call me?"

*sigh*
STRANGER.DANGER!

I think I'm beginning to pinpoint that whole family history of mental illness thing here.

Deck The Brawls. Part II

 When we left off, Ron had decorated our house in white Christmas lights and I'd apologized for not finding a wrench because he has two tall toolboxes beside two different garage doors and I'm the bigger person. There. You're officially caught up.

The following morning, I was greeted with the beautiful lights on the house, glowing in the dark of the early morning, when I walked outside to climb into my mini-van (because the mystery death smell did indeed go away), to leave for my annual appointment with my gynecologist.

Granted, you don't really need to know I was on my way to the gynecologist, but considering what happens next, I think knowing I had to then turn around and go get cranked open and violated with a super-long q-tip should garner me a bit of sympathy, so please keep that in mind.

As a cradled my steaming travel mug of coffee, I was gazing up at the lights, took my foot off the brake, and began backing out.

No, I wasn't looking behind me, because why should I? Nothing is ever behind me. It's my driveway. Yes, my new van has sensors that began beeping, but it's also always beeping right now because my oil needs changed, so maybe my mini-van should stop crying wolf. And since you're probably wondering, yes, there is also a camera view that appears on my dash when I'm in reverse, but again, I was looking at Christmas lights, in my own damn driveway, and why do I feel harassed by you right now?!?

When I crunched into something, I snapped out of my Christmas trance, jumped out of my van and that's when I remembered. My daughter Aubrey left her vehicle parked in our driveway the evening before. A luxury, fully-loaded, vehicle. Also, it's not actually hers, but a rental. Probably should've led with that. And I had just scraped the dark burgundy paint off the side with my new van.

A Christmas season laced with profanity. My wish list complete.

So I started frantically rubbing it with my hand, because that obviously makes paint grow back.

Then I gave up and left for my pap smear.
(Your sympathy would be appropriate right about now.)

As the doctor walked me back to the exam room, she asked, "How's your day so far?" And then before I could answer, she followed it up with, "Well, I guess it's only 7:30 in the morning, how bad could it be?"

Oh, you'd be surprised.
So I told her I crunched into my daughter's luxury rental car, then she stood me on the scale, and then took my now hypertensive blood pressure because that's what those people do there. It's almost like that system should be fixed.

On the way home, I called Ron. He told me he'd take care of it and then he earned major supportive husband points when he said, "I almost hit it this morning, too." Then it occurred to us that I should call Kearstin and warn her not to hit it when she left for work. And then I went ahead and texted Zac and Barbara, because what if they decide to come over and ram into it a few times, too? Can't be too careful in our family.

I also broke the news to Aubrey's husband, who took it like the patient and understanding champ that he is, and then he mentioned that Aubrey should have never parked behind me in the first place. I knew I loved that guy.

Later that evening, I came out of Zumba to find a text from Ron that he fixed the rental car.
Wow, how?
"Spray paint."

Remember that part in Meet The Parents when he spray painted the dude's cat and you sit there covering your eyes because you just know that's not gonna end well? Welcome to my life.

Apparently calling our insurance company and filing a claim would've been far too easy. And legal.

For future reference that I hope you never need, spray paint from Walmart will never dry to match the color of a luxury rental vehicle...unless it happens to be Pepto Bismol pink, in which case, maybe.

He worked on that thing for several days and then returned it to Aubrey who looked at it and wasn't convinced. Neither was I. Then he explained his options of either returning it in the dark of night...or he could spray paint the whole car...and that's when I put my foot down. It was time to call in a professional.

My daughter-in-law voiced her concern that it might go against the rental agreement to allow a professional to paint a rental car before returning it. I pointed out that it was probably already breaking the rental agreement to crash into it with a mini-van and spray paint it, too. Some ships have already sailed, my dear. Best just get on board at this point.

So Ron texted Dylan the car salesman.
"My wife ran into my daughter's rental car in our driveway with her mini-van."
Because getting Dylan the car salesman to add 'Total flake' to his ever-growing list of adjectives for me was all Ron wanted for Christmas this year.

Dylan gave him the number to their detailer, Ron scheduled it to get repaired, took 2 hours vacation time, and drove an hour to get there, and then the detailing guy said he didn't have time to do it.

Ron was fuming and everyone involved should rejoice that I wasn't the one who took it there to get fixed, as was the original plan. The odds of me bursting into tears would have been astronomical.

So it sat in our driveway untouched, undecided, and due to be returned to the rental agency whenever they called.

In an unrelated twist, Caymen arrived home predicting the rapture because she heard trumpets at school and she was pretty convinced it was Jesus and not the high school band.

As Ron sat contemplating driving the car through the cornfields to "dust it up," Caymen was explaining to him that Jesus is on His way to pick us up.

Ron replied, "Well, He better hurry, because I need Him to get here before we have to return that car."

So. The rapture hasn't happened yet.
BUT. As it turns out, perfectly timed snow and dirty road salt are an effective disguise for a scraped up, spray painted, luxury rental vehicle.

 And you don't believe in Santa. Psh.

...over salt on the roads,

under hard falling snow,

back to the car rental place they did go.

They dropped it off in the dark,

and then sped outta sight,

Merry Christmas to all,

and to all a good night!



Deck The Brawls. Part I.

Christmas season has been pretty exciting around here. I'm not talking parties and Christmas parades exciting, although we've had a lot of that too. See, when I say exciting, I mean Christmas lights, public fights, and fender benders in our driveway, exciting.
It's the Courter way.

Here's what you need to know. Ron refuses to hang Christmas lights.
He's scared of heights, the lights blow off, the ones that don't blow off need taken back down after Christmas, you get the picture. But I love Christmas lights. ALL white lights. Nothing against the multi-colored lights, but those are obviously Christmas lights. But white lights can pass as 'New Year lights', and as far as I'm concerned, you can squeak by with 'Valentine's lights.'
(That's where I draw the line. 'St Patrick's lights' is stupid. Take 'em down, already.)

Anyhoo, his answer to me is always forget it.
A long time ago in our old house, I tried hanging lights by myself, ended up trapped on our super tall 2-story roof afraid to climb back onto the extension ladder, and begging him to call the fire department. He refused. A fight broke out. Our marriage survived. Barely.

But this year, everything changed with one word. Grandchildren. They hold all the power, in case you didn't know. And on Thanksgiving Day, our neighbor's house lit up with Christmas lights and their little toddler eyes lit up right along with them.

Chuckles, who refuses to be outdone by anyone, came home with bags of Christmas lights the following day. (White ones, obvi.) Then he went to work. He put up his ladder, filled a cooler with the lights, attached it to a long rope, climbed onto the roof of our garage, and pulled his cooler of supplies up to join him. He's slightly redneck, albeit a brilliant one.

Awhile later, I heard him yelling my name from the roof. I figured he needed his cooler refilled, but no. (And here's where the story takes an unfortunate turn.) He remembered that our chimney grate had blown off a few weeks ago and asked me to hand it up to him. No big deal. What became a big deal was when he asked for a wrench. And a certain sized one at that.

*sigh* So he's decided to punish me and test our marriage all in one moment. Merry Christmas.


He gave me detailed instructions: In the big toolbox by the garage door, in the 2nd drawer down, I'd see a set of wrenches neatly fanned out. Then it was simply a matter of choosing the one that fit around the screw he'd tossed down to me from the roof. The screw that I caught. On the first try. Not that I got any credit for that, but let's not digress here.

I went to the toolbox by the door, opened the 2nd drawer down, and found total chaos. Neatly fanned? What the hell's he smokin'? I dug
through, found a few little wrenches, none of which fit around the screw (that I caught on the first try), so I reported back to him. Can't find it.

He then enunciated every word...toolbox. by. the. door. 2nd. drawer. neatly. fanned...he might've still been talking when I walked away. I retraced my steps, followed his instructions (again), and voila. Still a drawer full of crap. So I checked every drawer because maybe he was confused, but all of them were in a state of upheaval.

I went back outside, told him he'd need to come down and find it himself, and that's when the 'Christmas Lights Fight Of 2017' officially broke out. Not to be confused with the 'Christmas Lights Fight Of 2003.' Equal amounts of screaming and yelling, but this time, I was on the ground, and he was on the roof. And just between you and me, I wouldn't have called the fire department if his life depended on it.

Him yelling about my inability to find things.
Me yelling about his piss-poor idea of what neatly fanned means.

Be jealous you're not our neighbors.

Things escalated to a final blow when he said to me, "You're better than this."
Why, you son of a .....

Between gritted teeth, I calmly said, "Get your ass off that roof, come show me your organized wrench drawer, and I'll say I'm sorry right here right now." Then I crossed my arms and waited while he slowly made his way down the ladder, both of us gloating, because he was sure he was about to get an apology from me and I knew we were approaching a major milestone in our marriage and I was about to never ever ever apologize to him about anything ever again. Ever.

Then he walked to the tall toolbox by the door. A different toolbox. A taller toolbox. By a different door.

Sh*t.

Then he opened the 2nd drawer down. Of the different taller toolbox, by the different door. And he turned to me and said, "Come here."

I don't wanna play anymore.

But he insisted that I come over and look in his drawer of wrenches that could only be described as neatly fanned, and then I had to tell him I'm sorry because sometimes he's a jerk and marriage isn't fair. 

But our house is trimmed in beautiful white lights, complete with frighteningly bright and distracting rapidly blinking lights around the trees at the end of our driveway that most certainly draw the eyes of our grandchildren, if  not run the risk of receiving a cease and desist letter from the mayor when accidents happen and the Amish start to complain. It's only a matter of time.

And speaking of accidents, you may remember me mentioning a fender bender.
Well, unfortunately this entry is already a bit long and I've starred as the family moron enough for one day, so I think this calls for a Part II.

Tune in soon for tales of collisions, spray paint, Jesus, and more fighting. Because, you know. Christmas.

Man Demands

You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
But what if your second impression is actually worse than the first? And then every impression after that sucks even more than the one before?

Lemme cut to the chase. I think our car salesman hates me. These are things I think about.

So why is this bothering me? Well, it has nothing to do with the fact that he's hot. Not like hot hot, but hawwwt. So forget that. And while we're at it, let's forget that I'm old enough to be his mother and probably too old to say things like hawwwt.

It's not like I'm new to haters, but this one bugs me because he couldn't be more wrong about who I think he thinks I am, but in every interaction we've had so far, my husband proves him right.

Are you confused? I feel like you might be confused.
Let me clear things up and get this on the record for you, me, and Dylan the car salesman:

I am a stable, low maintenance human being, whose only requirement for a vehicle is that it runs. I'm nice (unless provoked), kinda smart sometimes, I may have a sensitive gag reflex, but I do NOT cry easily, dammit! I'm also not spoiled and I dance hard and massage people for money to contribute to our income, but I realize how unfortunate that sounds, so we'll strike that part from this particular record.

So, why do I think he thinks otherwise? Well, partly from bizarre circumstances and then also because every time my husband interacts with Dylan our car salesman, he sets me up for failure.

It started uneventfully. Ron wanted a Pilot. He got connected with Dylan the car salesman who found him a Pilot. We met with Dylan, Ron test drove the Pilot, and he bought the Pilot. After we left, Ron told me I'd need to bring it back to the dealership to have the luggage rack and DVD player installed, and the nicked windshield replaced. No big deal. It might surprise you to know, when it comes to Ron, I generally do what I'm asked.

Feminists don't want me as their spokesperson, nor should they.

I knew it'd be an all-day thing, so I took plenty to do to keep me busy. Everyone at the dealership kept apologizing for the time it was taking, but I patiently put their minds at ease. I expected this. No big deal. See? I'm nice. Stable. Low.Maintenace.

But things went south at the end when a female employee I'd never seen before found me in the waiting area and dramatically told me that the luggage rack and DVD player were installed, but I'd have to take the Pilot to a different location to get the windshield fixed "and HURRY, because YOU'RE late."

Nice, stable, and low maintenance aside, I have buttons and I have limits, and within a matter of the 2 minutes it took her to rush me to the car, she'd pushed and exceeded all of them. Then in a lame-ass attempt at "customer service" she asked "Do you have any questions for me?" The only thing that came to mind was, do people frequently punch you in the mouth?

But before I could ask, she walked away. Probably for the best.
I opened my door and that's when I saw all the trash. It would seem that every part of the DVD system came wrapped in tiny pieces of plastic that had been strewn all over the seats and floor of Ron's new Pilot. And an hour later, I was calling him. Crying. And moments after that, Dylan the car salesman was receiving an enraged text from my husband demanding answers as to why his wife left their dealership crying today.

Piece of free advice? Don't make me cry. You're welcome.

The following day, we returned. They fully detailed his Pilot again and then I was sitting in the front seat with Jordan the tech guy as he carefully answered any and all questions I could possibly ever have about every single feature on the Pilot and DVD player while my husband silently supervised from the back seat. Not a great demonstration of my stability.

So, I can't make a worse impression than that, right? Hold my beer.

Recently, we needed a newer mini-van. Ron contacted Dylan with what he was looking for, and when Dylan found one, we went to take a look. He took us around the van, noting all the special features, while directing them all to me specifically, making special mention of the color of the van and "key-less locks so you never have to fumble in your purse."

Hold up. Purse? Do I look like someone who carries a purse?

I listened politely and oohhed and ahhhed, because nice.stable,low.maintenance. Not crying. 

We decided to buy the van and agreed to pick it up the following week to allow them time to install the luggage rack and hitch Ron wanted. On our way out the door, Dylan told Ron to please make sure we come on a day he's there to "ensure that everything goes smoothly for her." Oh lawd, he thinks I'm a crier. And hello...I'm standing right here.

On the way home, I asked Ron if he noticed how Dylan was describing all the van details to me, specifically. He replied, "That's because I sent him a list of all of my requirements for you." And then he showed me the text:
2015-2018 Odyssey, any color (except black, brown, or white), heated leather seats, Navigational system, luggage rack, hitch, sunroof, DVD player, and premium sound.

So, now he thinks I'm a crier and a spoiled brat??
And I decided to make it my goal to casually mention to Dylan that I don't even know what "premium sound" means, and too bad the van's not black...*sigh*...

The following week, while Dylan finished up the paperwork, he told us to go wait in the van and he'd bring Jordan the tech guy out to explain everything to me. Poor Jordan...stuck with the job of programming my phone contacts into our vehicles and then inevitably having to say the words, "Call Sexy" when he demonstrates how to call my husband while I'm driving. I should tell him I'm normal, too.

But, I never got the chance, because in a horrible twist of fate, I climbed into the front seat of the van, caught whiff of the smell, and jumped back out dry heaving.

When Dylan and Jordan walked out of the building, Ron was sitting in the backseat sniffing deeply, and I had my back against the wall of the garage, covering my mouth and nose with my hands.

Dylan's eyes got big and he asked, "What happened?!" as I'm sure visions of losing this sale spiraled through his head.
Ron answered, "She smells something."

If dude continues to throw me under the bus here, he's gonna find himself permanently riding in the backseat of my not-black-brown-or-white, heated leathered, sun-roofed, premium sounding van.

This was followed by Dylan sitting in the backseat, with Jordan leaning through the front, breathing deeply. Dylan agreed with me that something smelled "off" but I'm also pretty sure Dylan is under the belief that agreeing with me is a general rule that must be adhered to for survival.

He asked me what I thought it smelled like.
I said, "Death."
Because heaven forbid he think I'm dramatic on top of everything else.

Ten minutes later, the vents of the van were covered in brand new air fresheners and a manager was assuring me that if I still smelled death in a few weeks, I could bring it back and they would "neutralize" the smell, which means I'd smell nothing, which he went on to explain that the smell of neutralized nothing can sometimes be off-putting.

As opposed to the smell of death.
Quite the convincing argument.

Before I could burst into tears and say, then I guess I'll just overcome the smell of death through happy thoughts and yoga, I heard my husband cheerfully respond, "Ok! I'm sure it'll go away."

Then we left the dealership and lived happily ever after.

He in his mini-van.
And me in my Pilot.

She Would Be Proud...

My mom ("Mamaw" to her grandchildren) passed away on October 14th. Ironically, she died on what would've been my Mamaw's ("Mamaw Putter" to her great-grandchildren) birthday. I'm not gonna lie, it's been a rough couple of weeks.

But if you're expecting a serious reflective post right now, feel free to turn back, because that's not what this is. I've cried a thousand tears and mourned privately, maybe harder than I've ever mourned before. And now it's time to heal. For me, laughter brings healing and no one understood that better than my mom. She absolutely loved to laugh and had a delightfully inappropriate sense of humor. So in her honor, I'm gonna start the healing for myself right now, find the humor in sadness, and in the process, make her proud.

Speaking of making her proud, so many times over the course of these 2 weeks, I found myself remarking to my family, "Mom would be so proud right now."

Roughly 36 hours before she passed away, my 2 sisters and I were together with our husbands at a Schuler's bakery buying all of their remaining chocolate cream-filled donuts and eating them straight from the box on our walk back to my nephew's soccer game.
She would've been proud.

On the morning she died, I woke to a voice-to-text message from my dad. Had I listened to the voicemail first, I would have heard him say that my mom is in heaven now. But I read the text translation first, which said that my mom is in the oven now. So in a disturbing sort of way, it kind of acted like an ice breaker, cuz heaven is way better than the oven when you stop and think about it. She would've laughed. It made me laugh, too.
And she would be proud.

The Monday after she passed away, I ate a chocolate cake for breakfast. Not some chocolate cake. A chocolate cake. She would be proud.

I spent 3 hours in my pajamas crying over my computer keyboard as I tried to sum up my mom's life in obituary form. And then I ate a whole pizza by myself, because it seemed like the right thing to do. And she was always a fan of "the right thing to do." She would be proud.

I refused to cut her obituary short, but my sisters and I also refused to pay the $10.80 cents per line that the newspaper charges, because our mom never condoned highway robbery. So her obituary is now partially listed on roughly 7 different memorial sites that claimed to be free, and then they'd ask for our credit card number because the "free" only lasted for 14 days, so we'd abort mission and move onto the next site, until we finally ended up posting it as a facebook status. She would be proud.

I didn't cancel any of my Zumba classes that week, because:
1. Music speaks to my soul
2. So does sexy dancing cardio
3. In light of my newfound 'if-you-don't-cut-something-into-slices-it's-considered-a-single-serving' philosophy, life needs to go on...and unfortunately for everybody, so do pants.
She would be proud.


My younger sister and her family came over for dinner and we planted "Mamaw trees" at the end of our driveway. None of us have ever planted trees before. We're on day 11 and both trees are still standing upright.
She would be proud.


If at any point a tree tips over, I'll imagine her boisterous laugh in my head, and know that she would still be proud.

I served biscuits with dinner that night and periodically a clump of dry bitter baking powder would burst into my mouth when I took a bite. She would be proud.

I didn't accidentally use baking soda in my biscuits, a mix-up she was notorious for. Let's be honest here...she would be slightly disappointed I didn't inherit that super-fun-at-dinner-parties trait.


My dad and older sister held my mom's memorial service in Texas yesterday. I didn't attend. Instead, my younger sister and I hosted a balloon launch and family get-together last Sunday in her honor. We each feel the void in our lives, everyone mourns differently, and I'm deeply grateful that all of my family members understand and respect each other's need to say goodbye in our own way. She would too. And she would be proud.


Someone I barely know, who was also planning on attending the service in Texas, approached me at our balloon launch and excitedly said, "I can't wait to get up and talk about your mom during the service next Saturday." I wasn't sure a live mic was going to be a thing, so I messaged my niece to warn her...*flash to her 6'5, 300lb husband in a suit with an earpiece in his ear and the visible bulge of a gun on his thigh guarding the microphone from hijackers...* My mom would be SO proud.

Speaking of my niece's husband, during the service at the Baptist Church full of old people, he explained about the toilet my mom kept in her front yard and used as a flower pot. She would definitely be proud. But he saved the pooping her pants at a Chinese buffet and all of the stories involving profanity for the private brunch afterward with family. Dammit, man. We're supposed to be making her proud.

It's been 2 weeks. I'm still mourning. And I'm laughing. And I'm crying. And of course dancing, because, you know...cardio. Basically, my emotions have turned into a day in the life of Ecclesiastes 3. It's a fun ride for one and all.

But at the end of each day, when it's all said and done, I hold on to the things I know to be true:
I miss her. I know where she is. Our family is here for each other.

And there's no question in my mind...she would be proud.

I love you, Mom.