Mandi & Shari's Day Off

What do two friends with King's Island passes, free tickets to a Cincinnati Bengal's game whose kids returned to school do?  We plan a Mom's Day Off, of course. 

There was some initial concern as to whether or not King's Island was still open during the week, but Mandi checked the calendar, then replied (and I quote)  "They open at 10."  Why would I question the person everyone would agree is considered "the stable one" of our friendship?

The day began with our first fork in the road decision:  Do we or do we not 'pack heat?' (With the CCW permit, of course.) It took us about 30 seconds to realize we'd be walking to our car alone in Cincinnati after a 7pm football game.  No brainer.  The heat's comin with us.  We are nothing if not thoroughly prepared for every scenario.

Except for the fact that as we approached King's Island, neither of us noticed the empty parking lot, nor did we wonder why zero rides were running.  (My excuse is that my bladder was coming seriously close to rupturing.  Not sure what Mandi's is.)  We passed the first closed gate without batting an eye.  We passed the second closed gate without even a question.  We came to the third and final entrance and pulled onto the property.  It wasn't until we drove past the front of the water park when we wondered why we didn't have to show our card at a gate...and why there wasn't a gate.  That's the moment we met up with the King's Island Security Guard.  Or should I say, he met up with us.

Mr. Hottest-Security-Guard-I've-Ever-Laid-Eyes-On walked toward the car...in slow motion while the Ferris Bueller song, 'Oh Yeah' played in the background.  Or at least that's how it happened in my head.  My mouth was still gaping open when he said, "The park is closed, ladies."  Mandi, oh Stable One, held it together and confidently argued, "You're joking."  (Insert the sound of crickets filling the awkward silence as the 3 of us looked around the empty amusement park that lacked only the rolling tumble weed across the deserted parking lot.)  We listened politely as he spouted some lame 'staffed by teenagers who returned to school' excuse before he turned and walked back to his car.

Mandi, rudely interrupting the 'Oh Yeah' chorus that had mysteriously resumed, turned to me and said, "I should have shown him the calendar" and she pulled it up on her phone.  "See?  It opens at 10."
Me:  "Well, the teal blue square opens at 10 and the navy blue squares open at 10, but the sky blue squares don't open at all."

Then she wondered whether or not we should have told him about "the heat" even though he wasn't a real cop.  My stance on the matter is that there were two things he definitely did not need us to show him:  the fifty shades of blue calendar and our heat.

She started making sense again when she asked if I noticed his eyes.
Me:  "They were the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen."
Mandi:  "I thought they were blue?"
(She also thought King's Island opened at 10.  Holy crap.  Maybe I'm the Stable One.)

We drove toward the front entrance of the park to solve our next problem.  Pee doesn't just go away.  Certainly, there's a bathroom at the front entrance.  There was.  It was located directly behind the giant chain fence that comes down when they're closed.  We had no choice but to leave the park and find the nearest bathroom.  Unfortunately, Mandi inadvertently got us barricaded in a fenced parking area, driving against all arrows pointing to an exit that didn't seem to exist, all the while my urine hammered relentlessly against the door threatening certain escape.  She finally stopped the car and said, "Use that tree."  I stared at the tree she was referring.  The tree standing directly beside the busy road that I'd have to climb through the fence and cross a deep muddy ravine to reach.  Add that to the list of things Mr. Hotty Guard didn't need to see.

And so the day began.  What do we do in Cincinnati with a mere 9 hours to spare before the Bengals were scheduled to kick-off?

 We daintily enjoyed a picnic in the parking lot of an outlet mall.

One of us, who shall remain nameless, forgot to pack a sandwich.  Let's simply refer to her as 'The friend formerly known as stable.'

We drooled over expensive shoes and took awkward dressing room pics wearing badass jeans and fancy boots.

We tapped into our inner train conductor and bull rider,

before moving on to the fascinating world of Ikea.

Trying out the merchandise is strongly recommended.

I think.

We drove down to the stadium where Mandi successfully navigated her way around the complicated Roundabout...eventually.

We avoided the $25 parking and found someplace "better" for $10.

Too bad stadium rules required heat to stay in the car...but once we made it back from the long dark walk alone through the streets of Cincinnati after the game, we were totally fine.

Screw you, over-priced safe parking scam.

We found our way to the Yard House, enjoyed delicious food and got carded when we ordered Southern Belles.

I don't care if that's "policy"... to women everywhere, that's a compliment.

While waiting for the game, we refreshed ourselves with drinks from the fountain and sat on a swing overlooking the beautiful city.

 Once we found our seats, Mandi settled in to watch the game.  I settled in to watch the cheerleaders, but kept getting distracted by an annoying growling sound.  Apparently, anytime the Bengals do something good the speakers growl.  Someone needs to tell them it sounds exactly like that annoying Dyer, Garofalo, Mann & Shultz commercial and every time it happened, all I could picture was that lawyer's head morphing into a tiger.

But back to the Ben-Gal cheerleaders.  It would be awesome if they actually, well, cheered...or danced...or did something.  I had high hopes of leaving there with some new Zumba moves.  Unfortunately, hair flipping and pom pom jostling doesn't burn near as many calories as you might think.

Then Mandi informed me that after a touchdown, we should be ready to jump up and celebrate.

FYI; Fist bumping strangers is acceptable; 

                                     celebratory Twerking is frowned upon.  

                                            Miley Cyrus ruins everything.

Ice cream cones for the drive home and our day was not only complete, but a success.  A closed amusement park will never hold us down.  We are nothing if not good on the fly.

Two women packing heat let loose on the streets of Cincinnati and we lived to tell about it.


So in case anyone is wondering:

Just In Case You Wanted My Opinion: My Movie Review of 2 Guns

2 Guns
Rated: R
Starring:  Mark Wahlberg and Denzel Washington

The Premise:  A DEA agent and a naval intelligence officer find themselves on the run after a botched attempt to infiltrate a drug cartel.  While fleeing, they learn the secret of their shaky alliance:  Neither knew that the other was an undercover agent. 

Let's be honest.  Denzel Washington was overdue for a good movie.  Looking back on his amazing role in The Book Of Eli compared to how I felt watching him in his more recent films, Safe House and Flight, I've come to a conclusion.  I cannot condone Denzel Washington playing the role of a bad guy and/or a drunk.  Don't even get me started on his performance in Training Day.  *Shudder*  A woman can only take so much.  So call this a spoiler alert, if you will, but Denzel Washington plays a good great guy in 2 Guns and fills the big screen with all the awesomeness we've come to expect in classic hero, Denzel.

I'm not saying I don't hold Mark Wahlberg to a standard, but let's just say Mark Wahlberg seems to get away with pretty much anything he wants.  I love to watch him play the good guy, but wouldn't ya know, I don't mind watching him play the bad guy.  Chalk up my hypocrisy to one of those questions on this earth we might never understand...or attribute it to his universal hotness in all circumstances...the bottom line is this:  I root for Mark Walhlberg regardless of whether he's playing a questionable cop in The Departed, the heroic brother-in-law who saved his family in Contraband or an unshaven, ball cap wearing, naval officer, with a habitual flirtatious wink and the ability to accurately shoot the heads off a partially buried row of chickens...I'll stop there, heaven forbid I slip another spoiler alert.
PETA:  Save it.  I didn't make the movie.

Denzel Washington and Mark Wahlberg are a match made in movie heaven.  This action packed story filled with humor, twists and turns will draw you in and hold you there till the end. 

My review for 2 Guns:  A+

To the woman sitting directly behind me who loudly asked questions nonstop throughout the entire movie, allow me to help you out:
Yes, those are good guys, some guys in the navy are bad, that was a setup, that was the burned down restaurant, they killed that lady, she's wearing that ring, why yes that is a box of Captain Crunch in that scene, yep that was a nipple...and while we're at it, yes, every single person in this theater hates you right now.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:
If you tend to loudly commentate throughout a movie in a theater,  
KNOCK. THAT. CRAP. OFF.

And, no, this isn't my PMS talking.  It's the consensus of movie goers everywhere who spend the movie listening to your voice while plotting parking lot revenge and when the credits roll lean over to their husband and ask,
"You've got my back if this goes bad, right?"

Ron:  "Oh gosh."

So This Is 41.

I recently passed the halfway point of my 41st year and am rapidly sliding down the slope to 42.  When I was in my 30's, I completely dreaded my 40's.  Let's be honest, the "experts" don't exactly paint a pretty picture of what to expect.  According to them, get ready for a decrease in eyesight, hearing, and height, an increase in fatigue and grey hair, as well as wrinkles, and thanks to a screeching halt in our metabolism, we should prepare ourselves for the middle-age spread, which is the sudden widening of everything...except our cleavage which mysteriously closes in to resemble less of a sexy V and more of a puckered butt crack.

But here's my thought on the matter.  I think they're wrong, and as long as my sense of denial is stronger than my ever decreasing hearing, I'm right.

Granted, it's an awkward phase of life when your period is 5 days late and you're unsure whether you're pregnant or menopausal until your husband finally tells you to go buy a test. 
FYI; they don't sell home menopause tests.  If I can spare even one person the humiliation of asking Ryan at Rite Aide, my job here is done.

Okay, so there are some things you can't fight, but there are some things you can.  Let's not take this aging process lying down.  We're only as old as we allow ourselves to act. 

So each time one of my daughters brings home her new cheerleading uniform, I  put on mine from 1989 and enforce mandatory Mother/Daughter cheer photos, because 1.  I know my daughters love it and 2.  Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader.

Speaking of the inner cheer girl, I was recently presented with an opportunity to become a Zumba instructor.  My repressed cheerleader sprang to the surface and (loudly) agreed (while jumping up and down and clapping) before my 41 year old insecurities...and body...had a chance to think it through. 

My point?  Let's all stop acting our age and start deciding that if God opens a door, we're gonna boldly run through it...possibly dressed in an old cheerleading uniform. 

Sure, physically I might be greying, fatiguing, spreading and puckering, but dag on it, I'm not gonna let that stop me from having fun.  I'll either go down dancing my zebra-striped-spandexed-butt off, stuck in the mud of a Warrior Dash or maybe face planting in the sand during volleyball tournaments, as happened 2 weeks ago when a sudden storm blew in and I was hit in the back of the head with a flying gazebo. 

That had nothing to do with my age.  I just didn't see the damn thing coming.  But before you blame that on decreased sight, when I opened my sand crusted eyes I clearly saw my 41 year old boob flopped out of my tank top and lying completely exposed in the sand like a dead fish.

Trust me.  My eyesight is fine.  Unfortunately.

I do this for them, really.

Hilton Head's Most (un)Wanted

 We recently returned from our annual family vacation to Hilton Head, SC.  It's an upscale island we've chosen to expose to some redneck fun a couple weeks out of the year.  We're generous like that.

I decided to kick off the week by getting a massage on the first day.  I have a favorite massage spot and look forward to it every year.  I called ahead and was told my therapist would be Peter.  The good news is that Peter is an amazing massage therapist.  The bad news is that Peter was the therapist I had last year when I'd gone without carbs for a month in prep for our trip, ate a pack of Oreos the night before my appointment and lay on the heated table for an hour, feeling my digestive system rebel with gurgling as I desperately clenched and prayed that my bowels didn't explode while Peter performed deep tissue massage on my back.  Hopefully, Peter didn't recognize me this year with my completely relaxed butt cheeks.

Off to a smooth start.  But when our condo phone began repeatedly ringing with hang-ups, a large yellow Caution sign appeared on our beach, and a sudden lightening storm cropped up while we were in the hot tub, all on the first day, I knew we were in for a typical week on Hilton Head Island.

This year, we escalated the hilarity by renting a tandem bike for Zac and me and learned the hard way that we needed to be in the lead position on our family bike rides because once we got on and started pedaling, we had very little control over the situation.  That led to being the cause of two barely missed car accidents, getting flipped off twice and loudly bursting through a clearing of the woods onto a playground and realizing we just crashed a child's birthday party.  Clowns are here, kids.  On the return trip, the obstacle became trying to squeeze through the security guardrails of our resort.  Individually, the bike fit through the crack, Zac fit through the crack and even I fit through the crack.  So it's a complete mystery as to why the three of us as a unit crashed into the gate, every single time.

By the end of the week, we'd been caught in torrential downpours while taking Senior pictures of Aubrey...in a white dress...requiring us to sprint 30 minutes back down the beach, we'd single handedly turned our neighbors against us when Zac saw a flock of ducks near our patio and took chase before realizing the people above us were actually feeding them, and we witnessed people even more irresponsible than us setting off fireworks on the beach.  I didn't think that was possible.

Yep, pretty normal stuff by our standard.  But there was one incident that was an absolute standout this year.  Just like last year, Zac donned his morph suit and stood outside one of the stores of an outdoor shopping center and pretended to be a mannequin, subtly changing positions or waving and enteraining the shoppers.  Everyone loved it.  Unfortunately, one of the employees called security.  Caymen and I were sitting on a nearby bench keeping watch and I saw the security guard talking to the employees and looking in Zac's direction.  We came up with a super-secret-unbreakable-code-phrase for just such an occasion.  "Dude, Security."  Complicated, I know.  And with that, the chase was on.  It was obvious this guy wasn't interested in giving Zac a friendly warning.  This cop wannabe had a real life super cool walkie talkie on his shoulder and he was out for mannequin blood.  He was living for a moment like this.  This was his time to shine and later tell his family how he single handedly saved the entire island from a living breathing mannquin...who by the time he exaggerated his heroics, was armed and dangerous.  I'm glad we could make his day.

In the blink of an eye, Caymen and I took off in one direction, Zac unzipped his hood and took off in the other direction, surrounded by Ron, Aubrey and Kearstin, and made his way to the parking lot.  By the time Caymen and I jumped into our mini-van-turned-getaway-vehicle, Zac was stripped down to his shorts and we were just another vacationing family exiting the plaza, leaving the manhunt in our wake.  Add "Successfully alluded the law" to his already impressive resume of life experiences.

The final touch to our week came on the last day when Caymen got stung by a jelly fish.

Looking back, I can say we learned 2 very important things this trip:
1.  Street entertaining is strictly forbidden on Hilton Head Island.
2.  Lifeguards keep a vinegar mixture on hand, which eliminated the need for anyone to pee on Caymen's leg. 

Both of which we learned the hard way.

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING:

Use extreme caution.  He's been known to wave.

May be working with an accomplice.

A master of disguise.

Morph-Squatch.  He does exist.

Well known for his highly inappropriate sense of humor...

...climbing trees...

...and tall structures...

...his mad dance skills...

...cat-like reflexes...

...hatred of ducks...

...getting high...

...flipping out...

...playing with his balls...

...and ability to levitate.

Description and sketch courtesy of Hilton Head's finest beach-cop.

Have you seen this man?

Consider him Charmed and Dangerous.

Just In Case You Wanted My Opinion; My movie review of White House Down

White House Down
Rated:  PG-13
Starring:  CHANNING TATUM and Jamie Foxx

The Premise:  While on a tour of the white house with his young daughter, a capitol policeman springs into action to save his child and protect the president from a group of heavily armed paramilitary invaders.

You knew this review was coming, right?  Despite my hesitation after negatively reviewing a string of Channing Tatum let-downs, I can't pass up the opportunity to see him via big screen.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't blame Channing for most of the recent disappointments.  It wasn't his fault that they completely misrepresented The Vow and I doubt it was his choice to get offed within the first 15 minutes of G.I Joe.  I do hold him somewhat responsible for the Magic Mike debacle, seeing as it was based on his life story.  I mean come on, even if a baby pig really did eat vomit at some point in your days as an exotic dancer, must it be included in your life story?  Your female fan base votes no. 

With all that in mind, the first time I saw the trailer for White House Down, I decided to stay level headed and not get sucked into those green eyes and bulging biceps, but before I knew what was happening, I felt my husband staring at me and realized my head was tilted all the way to the side with my jaw slightly dropped open and a glazed look in my eyes.  I guess my impartiality went by the wayside.

The premise of the movie is self-explanatory.  Tons of action and excitement that both men and women will enjoy, albeit for different reasons.  Jamie Foxx plays a great president and his comedic timing and natural rapport with Channing laces unexpected humor throughout the movie.  Realistically, Channing should have been killed during most of the shootouts, because I'm sorry, you just can't dodge that many bullets.  But if we're talking realistically, I would have rioted the theater had that happened.

We don't ask much from Channing Tatum movies.  We want to see him charming and funny, playing the hero, walking away from fire in slow motion and dive rolling through a spray of bullets.  We want to see him protecting a child, outwitting the enemy and fighting hand to hand, all while profusely sweating.  We want to see him driving fast, shooting automatic weapons, slowly climbing out of a swimming pool soaking wet and pulling on a bullet proof vest over a sweat-drenched tank top that's clinging to his chest.
 ...give me just a second here...

My Grade for White House Down:  A+
Because somebody finally gave us exactly what we want.

"And I Quote"... because unfortunately, we keep talking.

 Most of you are familiar with this by now.  My family talks and occasionally something...well, stupid, gets said that might fit the situation as a whole, but when it stands alone sounds really...well, stupid. If you hate this, turn back now and be thankful our home isn't installed with hidden cameras.  And if you're curious about any meaningful and insightful comments that we've made lately, you've stumbled onto the wrong blog.  Without further ado, here's the latest edition of our version of Live Feed:

"This is the exact opposite of Badass."

"Well that would explain the small black hairs coming out of the hole, not to mention the blood stain."

"She khadafied me at mid tuck."

"To my knowledge, God doesn't send or promote the sending of chain mail."

"I'm like a paraplegic except I can feel my legs."

"The accident broke me and now I leak."

"You can't just throw around the phrase Happy Trail in public."

"You're not being a toe.  You're being an ass."

"He knows not to talk torque to me."

"New rule.  Once somebody scratches their butt with it, it goes in the trash."

"He ran too hard and got the squirts."

"When this button pops, it's all gonna be set free."

"This is death."

"Well aren't we wise when we're delusional."

"False eye lashes could put me on the slippery slope to a boob job."

"You'll be fine.  Cheese can't get old."

"This has PMS written all over it."

"It's not that I wouldn't take a bullet for her.  I just don't think I'd have time."

"So that whole WWJD...?"
"Yeah, not my strong suit."


Just so we're clear, I'm usually the one quietly documenting and rarely the one doing the talking.  So if any of those quotes screamed Me, you're probably wrong...ahem...

Dream On.

Allow me to recap some of my life's bucket list:  Lose 100 lbs, check.  Run a 5k, check.  Skydive, check.  Acquire a taste for Vodka, check.  (That one was an accident, but it happens.)  Experience electroshock therapy...I didn't exactly choose that, but check and ch'check.  (The subsequent stutter and heart murmur were an added bonus.) Finish 2 Tough Mudders, check.  Host a slumber party with my friends, check.  (Took me 41 years, but worth the wait.)  Get a tummy tuck...countdown to check.  Get published...well, that's not a bucket list.  That's a dream.  And as far as I was concerned, the unattainable one.

My love for writing began in Ms. Carlson's 7th grade Language Arts class.  Every day she'd start the class by writing the beginning of a sentence and we spent the first 10 minutes of class finishing that sentence in a journal entry of our thoughts.  Some kids hated that class.  I hated every other class, but that one taught me something.  I have thoughts.  And I have a lot of them.  My next personal revelation came in Mr. Marshall's 9th grade Typing class.  Dude, I can type.  And I can type fast.  Mr. William's Creative Writing class my Junior year sealed the deal.

I spent most of my 20's trying to figure out exactly what to do with all of it. My creative outlets became long emails to friends and rhyming stories for our kids.  In my 30's, I took the leap into Facebook world, tapped into my inner sarcasm goddess, and realized that the majority were entertained by it.  The minority unfriended me.

So what do you get when you combine lots of thoughts, speed typing and sarcasm?  You get me. 

But, how does that serve any purpose whatsoever?  People kept telling me I need to write a book.  Well, that is easier said than done.  After spending years submitting my work and receiving rejections or promises of "publication for a mere $39.99" scams, I gave up.  Then a few years ago, my Aunt Joanie introduced me to the world of Blogging.  I was scared to death.  This would be a public forum.  Strangers would read my stories.  What if people hated them?  Or hated me?  So I built a few walls.  To the best of my limited ability, I closely guarded the identity of myself and my family.  Those who know me, know me.  But to strangers who read this blog, I am Sassy, the mother of Z, A, K and C and married to "my husband." At least then, readers wouldn't know exactly who they hated, right?

I'm content with my little blog and I enjoy writing it.  So when Mandi approached me last Fall and said she felt like I needed to try to get my work published, I explained to her that I've been there, tried that, and it's just not meant to be.  Then she said she'd pray about it and I thought, "Well, good luck with that, but I doubt God has a use for a smart-ass-speed-typing-story-teller."

Shortly after that, I was cleaning out my email and noticed one from the Erma Bombeck group I subscribe to.  The subject title caught my eye.  'Fifty Shades Of Funny.'  My first thought was, that is awesome.  My second thought was, I wish I'd thought of that.  I clicked on to discover a request from the creators of the 'Chicken Soup For The Soul' series.  They created a new series and needed stories.  Not inspirational stories.  They needed edgy stories.  Stories that toe the line.  Stories that would make people laugh while they cringe.  Holy crap.  They want my stories.

And so it began.  I started revising, editing and submitting my stories and a couple months later, in a complete state of shock, I was signing contracts for two of them.

As you might know, God sends a song to me every now and then.  I'd no sooner signed the 2nd contract when He started sending  'While I'm Waiting' by John Waller.  NO!  Not the waiting song!  Come on!
I knew then that I needed to sit back and get comfortable.
Months went by. 

Last Tuesday, I received an image in my mind of a hot air balloon and was struck with a realization.  I'd spent most of my life tethered to the ground where I thought it was safe.  I was tethered by fear, insecurity, conflict, worry, the inability to forgive and the need to control everything.  And God reminded me of the journey He's had me on these past few years and the painful process as I finally allowed Him to start releasing the tethers that were tying me down.

Last Wednesday I skydived.  I flew through the air under no control of my own, but in a literal leap of faith, blindly trusted the man attached to me who was the only one qualified to control the situation, and I came as physically close to feeling God as I've ever felt in my life.
That's when I decided, Lord I want to fly!  I trust you!  Lead me wherever you want me to go!

Four days later, I received official word that my first story will be one of the collection of stories published and released September 10th in the 'Not Your Mother's Book On Parenting' edition.  God handed me a gift.  A gift I didn't do anything to deserve.  A gift that quite frankly, I do not deserve.  He didn't give me this gift because I love Him, but rather because He loves me.  He just waited until I was ready to receive it.

I recently heard Chuck Swindoll speak on the battle of Jericho and how God capitalized on the strengths of a bunch of nomads to break down the walls by having them do what they did best.  March.  And without question, all glory went to God.

This time, God utilized the seemingly useless strengths of someone like me and again, all glory goes to Him.  He revealed exactly how Romans 8:28 works...'And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him and who have been called according to his purpose.'  

I have these stories because I live these stories because God allows these stories because He created me to tell these stories because He knew that these stories would someday serve a purpose in His will for me...and just maybe make someone laugh...or better yet, cringe. 

If this part of my journey ends after this one story is published, my dream came true!  If God opens more doors after this story, I'm ready.  What this past year has shown me is that no matter what it may be, if God doesn't want it for me, then neither do I.  All I know is that I'm not tethered and I'm certainly not the one in control.  I trust the only one who's qualified.  Where He flies me, I will follow.  That's what I know.  In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the ride!

I'd be remiss if I didn't thank my husband and children for providing the never ending supply of material that makes up our stories.  I wouldn't trade our fun and adventures for anything in the world.
Thanks also to everyone mentioned above who played a role in this crazy dream of mine.
And many thanks to all of you, who take the time to read this blog, and your encouragement as I wait and see what God has planned.
 
One last thing before I go and this terrifies me, but I've learned something else this year, too.  Sometimes God wants us to get a little dangerous.  And sometimes He needs to break down a few walls.  So for those who don't know, please allow me to introduce myself.  

Hi.  My name is Shari.  I'm the wife of Ron.  I'm the mother of Zac, Aubrey, Kearstin and Caymen.  But first and foremost, I'm the beloved daughter of the King Of Kings.

Ready or not, Dream on.