Poked & Choked

Quick life recap. Last fall, I started choking on meat.

And just like that, you're all caught up. 

(Click the link for the official back story.)

After I posted that blog, my helpful and knowledgable readers began suggesting I get my esophagus stretched, to which my reaction was 'absolutely not and let us never speak of this again' because having my esophagus stretched sounded worse than let's say, choking to death or something. Better the devil you know, ya know?

So I went on living as normal a life as possible for someone whose family no longer trusted leaving me alone in a room with a steak.

Then I went to my annual ob/gyn appointment and noting that I'm 50 she informed me that it's time for a routine colonoscopy screening, assuring me that I'd be under sedation during the entire thing. 

First of all, I see through your attempt at putting my mind at ease with your word "routine" madam. Second of all, Ron woke up in the middle of his first colonoscopy screening 5 years ago so let's not throw around assurances willy nilly. Consider yourself on notice. I'd hate to have to put you outside the circle of trust.

The problem arose when I mentioned refusing my screening and Ron thought that gave him a free pass to refuse his next one. Three weeks later we were both sitting in the colon doc waiting room angrily filling out our medical history forms. When he noticed I was done, he asked "Did you see the question about having trouble swallowing?" 

Let me ask you this. Did you ever hear about minding your own business? Or HIPPA? Or we're at a butt doctor so how does my swallowing apply here? 

The doctor was very nice, said he'd schedule me for a colonoscopy, and asked "Anything else?"

I replied, "Will I wake up in the middle of it, because (jerking my head toward Ron) he woke up during his"....and feeling Ron's stare burning into the side of my face, I casually threw in...."and sometimes he has to give me the Heimlich because I choke on meat, but that's probably not even relevant here." *awkward psh* "Right?"

After a brief silence he said, "That's not good. I'm glad you told me because I can help that." Me- "I didn't realize you work on both ends."

Somebody had to say it.

He made a note and told me he'd stretch my esophagus while I was under for the colonoscopy and again asked me, "Anything else?"

As I fought off mental images of me hovering over the surgical bed, slowly spinning like a hog on a rotisserie spit, I said "You'll use different scopes, right?"

He shouldn't ask "anything else" if he doesn't mean it.

He replied, "Oh yes. They're even completely different sizes. Anything else?"

Nope. I'll be damned if I'm gonna ask which hole the bigger scope's going down. Or...up.

I stressed again that it's imperative I stay under deep sedation the entire time, because in case you hadn't heard, Ron woke up during his colonoscopy. He lived to tell about it. I would not.

As the day approached, I seriously debated cancelling, but Kearstin's getting married in October, we're serving meat at her reception, and although her wedding will be well outside the box of "traditional" she made it abundantly clear that the father of the bride inducing vomiting on the mother of the bride with a sudden punch to the sternum during dinner is too far outside the box for her. 

FINE. I'll get gagged and bagged. Happy?

Now let's talk about "the pre-probe cleanse" otherwise known as a diet of jello and chicken broth while using medication to liquify your solids and then projectile crapping everything you've eaten in the past week. Intrigued? You seem intrigued. With just 4 laxatives and 64 ounces of a Miralax/lemonade cocktail in a 24 hour span, you too could lose 6 pounds overnight and risk getting excited enough about that to consider flirting with an eating disorder. But heads up. You'll spend your days parked on the toilet with your feet on a footstool and unable to leave the house because a high probability of crapping your pants comes with the territory, and is that really where you wanna be when Jesus comes back?

I don't know about you, but sitting on the toilet every 20 minutes isn't my idea of fun. It was almost like spending a day in the life of my husband. 

The following day on the way to the hospital, we saw a rainbow and Ron said, "See? It's a sign you're not gonna die during your colonoscopy." I said, "Or it's a sign I'm going to, because if I wake up in the middle of it, they're gonna have to kill me on the spot."

When I arrived, I took every opportunity to tell everyone that I needed to be put under deep enough that I wouldn't wake up, because 'he woke up' I'd tell them as I pointed my thumb in Ron's direction and they all assured me that I wouldn't wake up. But can the volunteer at the front desk and the lady checking me in at registration really make such bold claims? And don't act like you know either, parking lot construction worker guy, but nice try.

The nurse called me back and since my reproductive system is the only part of my anatomy that hasn't realized I'm 50 and still works properly, she required me to pee in a cup for a pregnancy test because let's drain her of every last drop of bodily fluid while she's here, shall we? Vampires.

An hour later, I was being wheeled into the procedure room and explaining to the anesthesiologist that deeper is better for me. Then they taped a plastic tube into my mouth, which begs the questions 'why am I awake for this part and are you even listening to me?' 

He told me I'd feel a burning in my hand, but it'd be temporary. Then the burning started and I waited for it to stop, but it was getting worse, and I realized that the burning would probably "stop" when I gave in to the sleep, but I needed to stay awake as long as possible to prove that I'm stronger than most and therefore needed extra strong doses, so I kept my eyes wide open because mustn't risk a long blink lest they think I'm under and they reach for my holes, but the tube in my mouth, and that burning, and SON OF A....

I opened my eyes and Ron asked, "Did you sleep through it?"

I said, "Yes, but only after they muzzled me and set my hand on fire."

I think he thought I was hallucinating.

After being discharged and eating my weight in pancakes, I was home in bed and Ron was across the hall where he works from home. Suddenly my eyes popped open in a panic and I ran into his office yelling, "I JUST POOPED MY PANTS!!" not realizing he was in the middle of a business meeting with a live mic.

Discernment has left the building.

Horrible timing and public humiliation are my new spiritual gifts.

When his meeting was over, he found me back in bed with my head under the covers.

He a little too calmly said, "ALL the senior management...and ALL the suppliers..."

I interrupted him with my head still under the covers, "Feel free not to tell me everything!"

And he said, "You started it."

Touche. 

Then he said, "Anything else before my next meeting starts?"

.....long silence....

"What if he stretched the wrong tube?"

Eventually, people are gonna stop asking me if I have anything else.

His and Hers Colonoscopy Screenings.

Dating at 50.

(((SHOUT OUT))) to Dawn P for the title idea for this blog entry.

 

Mothers and Duckers

I'm not a normal mother. 

I know, hide your shock as you note scenes from our family's Mother's Day party bus below. 

There are far too many reasons why I am the way I am to go into here, but my therapist has most of it on file, so it's in writing in an undisclosed location and probably under lock and key. Just know that if you're trying to figure me out, don't do that to yourself.

Now combine me with Ron's personality (undiagnosed officially due to refusal of therapy), then throw in all of our kids and their kids, and together we make up an extremely fun, tight knit, loving, and very poorly supervised party. 

Did I mention we're hilarious? Like, 60% of people who meet us would agree. The other 40% get blogged about. You see where this is going now, right?

*Cue the Fresh Prince Theme Song*

Now this is a story all about how 

my week got flipped- turned upside down

and I'd like to take a minute

just sit down y'all

I'll tell you all about the drama surroundin' dodgeball

I'll stop before Will Smith shows up and smacks the funny outta me.

On Friday April 29th, Caymen came home from school and said that the school was having a dodgeball tournament on Monday and she was told that she could come up with their team name. She chose- Mother Duckers. She texted her team, they approved, and the Mother Duckers were born.

Now. I obviously can't tell you how a "normal" mother would react to that. I can only tell you what I did with it. I made a Facebook post, because clever humor is my greatest of love languages, not counting sex and cake...also words of affirmation if you wanna get technical about the actual love languages.

From that Facebook post came a Mother Ducker team sponsor. Seriously. A lady I've never met in Louisiana contacted me and sent a generous amount of money for my daughter Aubrey to make shirts for each person on the team, as well as one for herself and she even had one made for me too. 

(((HUGE SHOUT OUT TO DANA O.)))

Aubrey made the shirts and delivered them to me on Sunday morning, because when it comes to humor-  we don't, we don't, we don't mess around HEY! I don't know where that's from, but I feel like you should be chanting that in your head as you read it.

So I wore my shirt to help our daughter Kearstin move into a new super fancy apartment complex and our entire family jumped in to help because that's how our family rolls. So 13 of us altogether, including 4 highly charged babies ages 4-7. (I've always called them "the babies" and probably always will.)

Some shots of a few of our moving crew for your enjoyment:

With 13 people and a 26 foot moving truck, we made it in one trip, and 6 hours later she was settled in and we were chilling out and eating pizza in their beautiful new apartment complex, which Scarlet (one of my 4 year old granddaughters) was convinced and subsequently convinced the others, had a playground down there. 

"Down there" was a long strip of straw covered grass leading from Kearstin's outdoor patio, past a row of neighboring patios, and over a small hill. Being only one way to find out, the 4 babies and I headed that direction...until an older couple came running out of their apartment yelling "WE'RE TRYING TO GROW GRASS!!!" 

Cool. We're trying to find a playground. We've all got goals.

They looked me up and down and then from me to each of the babies and asked "Did you all just move in?' and the looks on their faces told me they were scared to death I was about to say yes. As tempting as it was to totally screw with them for fun, I told them the truth and regretted it as soon as they looked so obviously relieved.

After 7 minutes of my life I'll never get back listening to them drone on about "the rules of the housing association" we returned to Kearstin's apartment where we spent the next 20 minutes feeling bad about trespassing over their straw grass imagining all the hilarious things our family could do to torment the living crap out of them and laughing about it until we cried. 

People should stop triggering us. We have entirely too much fun with that.

Not for the first time, I wondered how our first impressions go so terribly wrong and Kearstin said, "For starters, look at your shirt."

Well, there's that. Refer back to the opening sentence at the top.

MEANWILE...during the move, Caymen was receiving texts from a girl on their dodgeball team allllll day about the dodgeball shirts, and wanting to see pictures of the shirts, because her mom could make everyone shirts if they buy their own shirt. 

Quick review: Dodgeball was the NEXT day, WE ALREADY HAD SHIRTS, and thanks to our generous sponsor, they're FREE. But this chick would not let it go.

The following day, Caymen wore her shirt to school and gave the rest to the "texting girl" to pass out to everyone else on the team. Caymen received many compliments from students AND TEACHERS who appreciated the clever humor because how could they not?

BUT THEN...and if you've been here before you know that no good comes from BUT THEN...

Caymen was informed that the dodgeball tournament wasn't that day, but the FOLLOWING Monday.

Everybody think it together now: SH*T.

For those who don't understand the problem here, that gives anyone with no sense of humor 7 whole days to cause us trouble about this harmless fun that hurts absolutely no one. 

*side eyeing you, texting girl.*

So surprise surprise when Thursday evening rolled around and "texting girl" began texting Caymen that she showed the Ducker shirt around and was told they couldn't wear them, so her mom was going to make new shirts and Caymen would need to buy one, so of course we disregarded everything she said. 

The following day she returned all the shirts to Caymen, having never even passed them out, and then took it upon herself to change the team name to 'Complete Chaos' which is not only dumb, but 100% appropriate since that's exactly what she caused for no other reason than to stir up unnecessary drama and be in control of something.

Monday was D-Day...Dodgeball Day...

Since we never heard about any changes or complaints from anyone in an actual position of authority at the school, Caymen stuck with Plan A and wore her Mother Duckers t-shirt to school and I spent the day wearing mine, just in case I got a call from the school saying Caymen was wearing inappropriate humor and I needed to bring her a new shirt. (On the off-chance they don't yet realize how short a distance that apple fell from the tree.)

So that morning, texting girl approached Caymen in the hallway with a new team shirt. *Cue the western showdown music and rolling tumbleweed* 

Texting girl said, "Here's your dodgeball shirt."

And Caymen removed her hooded sweatshirt revealing her Ducker and said, "No. Here's my dodgeball shirt."

That was followed by a disappointed but anti-climactic "okay" and a walk away. Well that was easy.

So texting girl wore her Complete Chaos shirt for the game and Caymen wore Mother Duckers and everybody else on their team wore their regular clothes because texting girl ruined it for everybody. 

All of which brings me to this. I now have in my possession 4 un-used Mother Ducker t-shirts that I'll be giving away. (1 Small, 1 Medium, and 2 X-Larges). So if I happen to have 4 crazy readers who appreciate our hilarity and would like a free, albeit scandalous t-shirt, message me to enter your name into a drawing just in case I have more than 4 crazy readers. I'll contact you if you win to set up delivery or shipping details, depending on where you live. (I'll draw the names on May 21st.) If you don't win and would still like to order a t-shirt, my daughter will happily hook you up for $15. Bonus points if you message me a picture of yourself wearing your t-shirt and, you never know, possibly a feature in a follow-up blog post.  

Remember the last time one person stirred up an unnecessary t-shirt scandal with us? 

It turned into a successful line of 'Sassy's Bounce House' merch.

So now we gonna spread some Mother Ducking love. 

Who's in?

Choked Up

I turned 50 in December. Ron rented a party bus for our family to ride around pole dancing for 3 hours because he knew that would be my party dream come true, as I assume would be everyone's.  

Despite turning half a century old, I have only two significant life changes to report:

1. I got Invisiline braces. I lived my first 50 years with the big split between my two front teeth so I figured I'd spend the next 50 without it, just to keep things even. 

And:

2. I choke on meat now. 

What were you expecting, menopause? Stop. I still dance for a living over here.

The choking thing presented itself on Friday October 29th on the way home from an amusement park at roughly 10:15pm. Ron was driving, I was in the passenger seat, Zac and Caymen were in the seat behind us, and Ace and Scarlet were in the very back. 

Why so much detail? Because you remember details when you almost die and your family sits there and lets it almost happen.

We were riding along eating Wendy's and Zac and I were having a conversation. (That's an important detail.) I had just asked him a question when I swallowed a bite of my double cheeseburger and felt it get stuck. Not in the back of my throat stuck, but down past my neck and deep into my windpipe stuck and I could kind of sort of breathe around it, but barely. So am I choking? Am I not choking? Grabbing my neck and doing the universal 'I'm choking' signal seemed dramatic when I still hadn't decided what constitutes an actual choke.

Zac answered the question I'd asked him, but I didn't reply back, and I always reply back, so surely he'll notice something is wrong with his mother, but I turned around to find him staring down at his iPad not even waiting for a reply to his reply. 

I began shifting around in my seat while my mouth filled up with saliva and I looked over to see Ron double fisting French fries into his mouth from the Wendy's bag so I knew that was a lost cause. I could've nudged him and did the 'I'm choking' thing, but I knew that would leave me at the mercy of Zac and Ron on the side of the road doing who knows what they'd think up to me to inflict vomiting, while the children watched through the windows.

The children. CAYMEN. Caymen loves me and will notice that mommy got quiet. I craned my neck around to see her staring at her phone and I decided that on the off chance I survive the night, I'd be limiting her screen time forever.

FI-NA-LLY, as tears streamed down my cheeks imagining the coroner signing 'cause of death: Wendy's double cheeseburger and probably Covid', it slid down. I gasped in relief, took big gulps of water, and turned to calmly address my oblivious family members. 

"SO NOBODY NOTICED ME CHOKING TO DEATH???"

They seemed surprised. Zac asked, "When did you choke?" 

WHEN DID I CHOKE?  "After I asked you that question!" 

He calmly said, "Wow. That was a long time ago."

YES. I KNOWWWWW. 

Everybody take note, because THAT'S why choking is called The Silent Killer and just like the time I was having an allergic reaction to a hazel nut in 2007 and Ron told me to wait until the Ohio State Game was over, God saved my life all by Himself while probably shaking His head in disappointment at my family members.

And they wonder why Jesus loves me more. M'hm.

Now fast forward to January 22nd. I had just returned home from an Emmaus team meeting, where a lady stopped me in the church bathroom and said to me, "You're always so put together."

It's refreshing to meet new people who have obviously never read my blog.

And three hours later I was watching myself in our laundry room mirror with Ron's fists on my sternum while I vomited Salisbury steak into the sink, because this is what we trained for.

Shout out to my new friend Holli. Sorry to shatter my first impression for ya. Now excuse me while I google esophageal tumors, because I refuse to believe my family is right and I just need to take smaller bites.

So last week I asked Ron where he wanted to eat for our 29th Anniversary and he suggested Texas de Brazil.

Oh. You mean that all you can eat MEAT place? That's how you want this to end?

We opted for Plan B. Longhorn Steakhouse. Still has meat, but not as upscale so slightly less embarrassing if we end up having to perform our little Heimlich/Vomiting demo. Also it's portion controlled as opposed to endless visits by a waiter carving me slabs of choking hazards served table side.

I think through every possible scenario now because that's what 50 year olds have to do.

Our dinner was served and the ribeye I ordered medium arrived well-done. I'm not a fan of sending food back, but if I'm going to die from a ribeye on our anniversary, it's going to be cooked the way I ordered it, it's the least they can do. When the waitress returned and I showed her my steak, she turned to ask if Ron's was cooked to order and his plate was empty. Like, SCRAPED.CLEAN. 

And I'm the one who needs to take smaller bites? Right.

Twenty minutes later, I was the only one eating while Ron sat across the table watching for signs of my eyes bulging and darting and trying to convince me he wolfed down his food for my own safety, lest he be distracted.

When I finished my meal, the waitress brought us free dessert because I ate alone on our anniversary. I looked up from my strawberry shortcake to see the top of Ron's head as he scarfed down his cheesecake.

Apparently his protection only extends to the main course. 

If dessert ever turns against me, I'm screwed.

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.