Not your average suburban mom. I’m more your typical, normal, commonplace, everyday, garden-variety suburban mom. With a thesaurus.

Friday, November 22, 2013

You're All on HIGH ALERT

I know as a professing Christian I'm supposed to be filled with grace and mercy. However, as we are suffering day five of the most violent stomach bug I have experienced (with my sweet six year old getting the worst of it) I send out this as a warning to whomever spread this virus our way and to the virus invading our lives:

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

Are you scared yet? Good.
Oh, and Happy week before Thanksgiving, y'all. I hope it's a blessed time filled with being thankful that you are not throwing up. ;-)

Monday, November 18, 2013

Case of the Mondays: Some of us do *important* things with our free time.

There are two types of people: the doers and the watchers. Today's post is a tiny slice of encouragement pie made by someone who uses their time wisely ... doing things. Important things. Things like making sure Barbie and Ken have a wedding album. Because honestly? No bride should be without a wedding album.

Click here to see more evidence of the big day.

So go forth, friends, and do. Society will thank you.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Then our house (almost) exploded

It was just an ordinary Sunday morning.

I was calmly and leisurely getting myself ready for church. While I chose pearls and impeccably made up my face, the children sat scrubbed and shiny in their Sunday best, reading peacefully to each other in the family room. I can't be certain, but I would wager it was fine 19th century literature they were enjoying. Brian was busy digesting the hot and delicious breakfast I'd lovingly prepared.

No? Not buying it?

So maybe what really happened is that I was frantic, because although it seems like every Sunday I fear I will be attending church in my birthday suit with my sopping hair dripping down my back, this Sunday threatened to realize that fear. We were late. Like, "MOM WHERE IS MY HAIRBRUSH / TOOTHBRUSH / SHOES / FAVORITE PACK OF MARKERS THAT I ALWAYS TAKE TO CHURCH / UNDERPANTS / SANITY" late. Also, I might add this was my first Sunday on crutches, which may have contributed to us being a bit behind schedule.

The kiddos gulped down Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Kelly crushes dreams with, "NO! We don't have time for Toaster Strudel today!" because I am the Worst Mom in the entiiiiiiiiire world) while Brian controls chaos so I could take a shower. Once I was "ready" (consisting of black skinny jeans and leopard flats *with inserts, Sarah*)(because that is what matched my crutches obviously) I switched with Brian so he could get ready. The kids were fully ready to go when Brian came and gave me A Serious Look.

"Hey, Kel? Can you come here and tell me if you smell gas?" I laughed and replied, "There is no way I am falling for that again." He gave me a sigh of exasperation (does anyone else ever feel like they are married to their mom?) and said, "No, I'm serious this time."

I went to our master bath and confirmed with my gas expert olfactory skills, "Yep. That's *totally* gas."

That's when all hell broke loose.

I guess I wasn't prepared for the seriousness of the smell of gas in the house. I was all, "Hey, that's weird," and planned to go about our day. Brian reacted more along the lines of, "OHMYLANTA THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BLOW UP! GET THE KIDS OUT OF THE HOUSE NOOOOOOOOOW!" as he shut off our furnace and ran outside in his pajamas.

The kids were all, "Is our house okay? My blanket is inside! Where are Dad's clothes?!" I was a picture of calm, definitely not speaking in a too bright voice while trying to make sitting in the Ford Flex in front of our neighbors house a few doors down the street seem like a fun little excursion. Brian went to get our neighbor, and these brave souls walked into our death trap of a house to check for gas.

Within five minutes Brian stood at the drivers window, a sheepish expression on his face as he stood in his jammie pants like he was ready to shop at Walmart. (Sorry, Walmart, that was completely unprovoked and uncalled for.)

"We're okay. Come on back to the house; I have to go get dressed."

I turned around and parked in the driveway. I followed him in to get the details of how we knew our house wasn't going to explode. (And to ask a few timely questions about homeowners insurance that had been tickling my brain for, I don't know, the last five minutes.)

When Brian and Don went into the house they smelled all the places you should check when you smell gas. After a thorough search it was determined that the smell of gas was isolated to the toilet. And while a few things can cause the smell of natural gas in a toilet, most of them involve a gradual breaking down of parts with a progressive onset of the aroma, and only one seemed a proper explanation for the abrupt onset of stench.

Or maybe our house is just haunted?

Apparently, sometimes leftover waste in your plumbing can release pockets of vapor as they decompose. Those vapors are as pleasant as you would imagine them to be. The general consensus is that this is what happened in our master bathroom. Which, if you break it down (a decomposition play on words?! Ridiculous!) means one thing:

Literally, our crap farted.

And *that's* how our house almost exploded.

Monday, November 11, 2013

A Case of the Mondays: The Privilege to Whine

When you see it ...
My internet is currently working in 3-4 minute windows. I want to go all rage-fest about this, but I don't know enough about computers to know if this is a modem, router, or provider problem, which leaves me completely without a target to blame. Instead I've chosen to be pissed at the world in general, because suddenly my life has become 1996 all over again, which honestly (with the obvious exception of Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise) was not that great the first time around. In the last few days I've been forced to call someone for directions, use a cookbook to make dinner, and physically drive to the library to look up a book in person.

I'm sure my lack of computer usage is becoming a problem for you. I'm sure those that follow me on Pinterest are like, "What the heck? Did Pinterest shut down?" due to the decrease of new pins in your feed. I'm sorry. I assure you I am working on it. Especially if "working on it" means unplugging my computer 50 times a day and whining to Brian to FIX IT ALREADY.

Since my first two paragraphs were probably the most First World Paragraphs in the history of modern civilization, I'd like to dedicate the rest of my post to the men and women serving to protect the privilege I have to live in a place where shoddy internet connectivity is viewed as a travesty problem.

I am quite thankful to be an American, in all of our flawed glory. I do not take for granted the lifestyle and luxuries I have been afforded, simply because of my nationality. I never worry my children will have enough food. I can go to church, or to temple, or to mosque, because I have the freedom to choose who/where I worship. The only bombs my children have been exposed to are in the context of my amazingly resilient 90's slang. (Which? *Was* da bomb, yo.) All these freedoms were put in place by our forefathers and are protected by the men and women in uniform.

Thank you for your choice to serve, your time, and your dedication. Thank you for your lives.

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