Garage Nonsense

This last weekend ushered into our area a storm the likes of which is only known in nightmares. I thought the wolf was huffing and puffing to blow my house down. I was up during the night, but I'm guessing I wasn't doing what all of my neighbors were doing. Because once I fall asleep, storm or no storm, I sleep very soundly. And when I am rudely awoken from my slumber, I do not participate in logical reasoning. Which is why at 3 A.M. things around this house got a bit strange.

I heard from my soft, comfy bed a strange noise. A noise different and louder than the constant thunder. So I shot out of bed and ran into the front yard. But then I was confused because the noise was not in the front yard. So I ran back inside and figured out that the sound was my dog. He was howling and barking from his bed out in the garage. Since he was recently attacked by a bulldog that lives down the road, I decided that he must be under attack at that very moment. Vowing to rescue the poor creature, I ran to the mud-room, but then I stopped in my tracks. Because what if it wasn't the bulldog? What else could it be? Right then I reasoned out the possible scenarios Arrow might be experiencing out in the garage and decided upon 3 likely situations:

1. Bulldog attack
2. Thugs from the mafia killing my dog
3. Horrible slimy monster from the otherworld eating my dog

I began to sweat worrying about how I might fend off such frightening creatures. Then I developed a brilliant plan. I reached for the doorknob on the door between the mud-room and the garage, took a deep breath, told myself to be brave, and then swung the door open. Then immediately swung it shut. Then open, then shut. Then open. Then shut.
"What are you doing?" the scariest voice ever heard by humans said from behind me.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I yelled back, because repeating monsters when they talk to you seemed like good idea.
"I'm checking on Arrow," my logical third child said calmly.
"DRAKE?" I shouted even as I told myself to calm down for pete's sake.
"Yeah?"
"Oh, I was just opening the door quick so I could see what was going on in the garage and whatever was in there would know that I know they are there."
"Okaaaay... but why don't we just go in there and see what is wrong with Arrow?"
"Um, good idea."

So I opened the door, ran fast as lightening to our jeep, got inside and locked the door.
"I think he is just scared," Drake said from way across the garage by Arrow's bed. "Mom? Where are you?"
"In the Jeep! You should get in!"
"What are you doing in there?"
"Flashing the lights on and off!"
"I can see that, but why?"
"So whoever is hurting Arrow will go away!"
"Okaaaay...," again with the long okay. "He is just scared because of the storm."
"Well, hug him," I said, offering my first bit of helpful advice of the night.
"Yeah, I did. I'm going to bed and you should go to bed too," Drake told me like he was the boss of me.

"Did you sleep though that storm last night," Mike yawned the next morning as I was just beginning to stir.
"Yeah, but Arrow was up at 3:00."
"Really? What was wrong?"
"I don't really remember, but I opened and shut the door."
"You did what?"
"Um, well, I'm not sure why I did that, but he was making a lot of noise and I was worried about him and thought someone was hurting him so I ran down to the garage and it seemed like a good idea to open and shut the door over and over."
"Why would that seem like a good idea?"
"Well, now it doesn't really seem like that good of an idea, but Drake was there so we went into the garage to check on Arrow."
"Was he okay?"
"I didn't see him."
"Was he gone?" Mike asked, worried.
"No, but I was in the Jeep so I could flash the ..."
"Flash the what?"
"Um, I mean, maybe you should just ask Drake about it."
"I can't wait to."

Mean Girls

My son spent his spring break away from us. We gave him the choice of hanging out with his parents and siblings on an exciting adventure to visit Great Grandma and Great Grandpa or taking a lame trip with his boring old band friends to Orlando to march at Disneyworld in a parade and then visit the stupid theme park followed by swimming in the drab old ocean. He didn't choose us.

When he returned we all got excited and wanted to hear all about it. His blistered and peeling face told a sunny story of its own as he stirred up our jealously with tales of ocean waves and Harry Potter roller coasters.

"What was your best experience and your worst experience?" I asked, expecting the ocean to be his best experience (because once that boy enters the water it takes a pry bar to get him out) and the bus ride to be his worst experience. Because bus rides always are. He did not fail to surprise me.

"My best experience was a text I got from a friend. I sat by him on the bus, but I had never really talked to him before. We got along fine, and after about twenty hours he texted me even though he was sitting right beside me. I'll let you read it," he said as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his text messages.

HIM:  I know you don't know me that well, but I have Asperger's Syndrome. Basically it is just a disorder that makes me awkward in social situations. You probably noticed something was weird. Thats just how I am. Anyway, will you be my friend? I know it is awkward to ask that, but will you?
ME:  Sure thing
HIM: Really? 
ME: No problem, bro. Its all good.


"What was your worst experience," I asked, proud as a peacock.
"When we had to watch the movie Mean Girls."
"That is a good movie," I told him.
"Well," he explained, "we got to choose a movie and there were a lot of good choices, but then some girls in the back of the bus just put in Mean Girls so we ended up watching it."
"What is the movie about," Drake asked.
"It was about the girls in the back of the bus," Josiah answered.

Davey Jones Trauma

When a mom awakes early in the morn to ensure her children are fed, clothed, and schooled, she is probably tired. When she swings by the gym on her way home and ends up getting involved in the movie showing in the cinema room and rides that orbital machine into the ground, she is probably tired. When she pulls the car into the garage after honking, shouting, and flicking of headlights to convince the garage-dwelling husky that he and the car cannot share the same space, she is TIRED.

She does not deserve to be scared witless by the undead.

So, whoever hung the scarier-than-death Davey Jones mask on the garage wall by my car door (DRAKE AND JOSIAH) can rest assured that their prank succeeded beyond any of their wildest hopes, and the scream the mask elicited probably reached the space station. And it also got the husky to run, because he is a big chicken who I know now will never protect me from undead pirates.

I feel that, although my reaction might have been a tad over the top, I had every right to karate-chop that thing into oblivion.

I WAS TIRED.

Church No-No

There is a time and a place for everything. Church is usually not the time or the place for most things.

While in Texas visiting family, we visited their church. We were guests attempting to reflect positively on our regularly attending family. We failed.

Like all churches do, we stood to greet those around us.

Can I just say that I really hate those greeting times, and, to be honest, that is one of the main reasons I hate visiting new churches. I feel as if I am expected to excitedly greet someone who I know will never remember me and who wouldn't actually be talking to me at all if not directed to do so. We both feel the pressure to be chipper and clever in thirty seconds or less. It is like a giant social experiment that I didn't mean to sign up for.

Which is probably why things went so badly.

Reflect, if you will, upon the times in your life when you have had conversations with married couples. I'm sure it is not uncommon for the couple to stand near each other. Especially if they are from someplace else and don't know anybody. One of them, say the husband, might even place his hand on his wife's back for encouragement. He may even give her a small back massage while enduring the social awkwardness of carrying on a conversation with a person he doesn't know and will never see again.

Which is what Mike did that Sunday.

What he didn't know, though, was that while he was greeting those in front of us, I had turned around to greet those behind us.

My husband groped me during church. While greeting strangers.

We didn't make many friends.

Don't Startle The Dragon

I remember times in my life when I wasn't tired. Like when I was 11. Those were great times.

When I first married my sweetheart, I used to love the late night hours when the neighborhood was silent. In the dark, we would talk for hours. I would share my most special memories and deepest dreams about our future. He was usually asleep. I didn't know that then.

The point is that I was awake. And alert. I even remember laying in my bed wide awake just wishing I could fall asleep as I watched the time on the clock get later and later. I was alert. Was is the word I would like to stress. Because that hasn't happened for awhile.

Nowdays about 2 in the afternoon I begin counting the hours until bedtime and wondering if I will be able to make it. I fall asleep instantly, and good luck trying to wake me up in the middle of the night for any type of emergency.

We took a trip to Texas over spring break, and it was wonderful. We had some great family time that included one member of the family laying on an exercise ball while the other members of the family kicked the ball. We aren't hard guests to entertain. While we were there, Mike and I decided to go for a drive by ourselves. I was the navigator as we boldly faced the Dallas traffic, and everything was going smoothly. Until his phone rang. And he answered it. At that moment I considered myself off of navigator duty. He was otherwise occupied, and I know from many years of marriage experience that talking to him while he carries on a phone conversation is impossible. So I shut my eyes.

But I opened them very wide when Mike violently shook my shoulder.
"DON'T STARTLE THE DRAGON!" I yelled.
"What?"
"Oh," I said, slowly realizing that I was looking into my husbands confused face. "I mean, why did you shake me?'
"Because you're the navigator and I think we just missed our turn! Why are you ignoring me?"
"I didn't see you."
"You were staring straight ahead."
"My eyes were shut."
"With your sunglasses on I couldn't see your eyes. Didn't you see me gesturing to the road?"
"No."
"Didn't you see me pointing to the signs and asking which exit we wanted to take?"
"No."
"I was wildly and frantically pointing."
"I was asleep."
"You couldn't possibly have fallen asleep in the amount of time it took me to answer the phone, tell Danny I'd call him back, and hang up."
"I think I did."
"You were asleep? In like 3 seconds?"
"Apparently."
"And dreaming about dragons?"
"APPARENTLY."

I guess I am tired.

Sad Phone

My cell phone has me convinced that I am a raving drunkard.

The strongest drug I indulge in is Advil, and when I am in need of a good buzz, I partake of a Cherry Coke. All that sugar makes me crazy. So, there is really no reason to believe that I slur my speech or mumble incoherently. However, my phone seems to disagree.

Voice commands and voice texting are well and good. In fact, it is one of the most useful features they have recently added to phones. But when I text my husband that I am going to do errands on this side of town until Drake is out and the text actually tells him, "I'm just Gonna Nuzum errands over on this Phaethon until Jacobs out," he gets confused. He doesn't know how where the Phaethon is. Likewise, he had no idea where to pick up the "phone brushes" my text asked him to remember to bring home. When I was supposed to meet him and was close but going to be late, he was really thrown off with, "The closer and I Gonna be great." When Makenna asked where I was and I texted her, "I am homepage," it caught on and now she has checked in with me while she was at "schoolpage" and "workpage."

Voice texting has also come back to bite me when my brother tried to teach me all about a voice texting app. Apparently it works similar to a walkie-talkie. I thought I had the hang of it and tried to teach it to my husband later that night. Although I was sitting next to him on the couch, I told him to watch his phone for the alert, and I whispered a sultry, romantic message into my phone. He never got the alert, but my brother, whose name is also Mike, hasn't been the same since. I made it worse by messaging my brother the instant I discovered he had mistakingly received the steamy message meant for my husband and attempting to explain. The situation struck me as hilarious and I only ended up being able to laugh into the phone, which sounded a lot like heavy breathing. Then I deleted the app. I can't be trusted with it.

Since planning is really not my thing, I have been trying to take advantage of the reminder system my phone came installed with. I can simply say to my phone, "Remind me that Josiah has a doctor's appointment at ten on Tuesday," and my phone will willingly comply. But, the system is flawed for me. Because my phone believes I slur and mumble. Which is why I now am questioning whether rehab is for me.  My phone has reminded me to Boil Mange when I was supposed to get my oil changed, Memoree On Fence when I was supposed to go to Emery's conference, and Kick Up Fake when I was supposed to pick up Drake.


I have to admit that when these reminders pop up, it takes me a very long time to figure out what I am supposed to be doing. Since the reminders were made days or weeks before they pop onto my screen, I am usually at a loss.

And one time my phone threw me into a panic.

I rushed out to my car with my arms full when my phone made the cute noise it makes when it is trying to tell me not to forget something important. Juggling all the stuff I was carrying, I craned my neck to see over a sack full of items to return. There in black ink on the screen of my phone was the reminder nobody wants - Meeting with death.

I didn't throw it, but I did drop it. I don't think that phone will ever say a thing like that again.

And I totally missed my meeting with Beth.

Pajama Shoes

Life gets crazy with four kids. And two injured dogs. And a new house in need of a remodel. So I am not to be blamed for my actions.

My son has been mysteriously and alarmingly sick. This is a kid who mowed four yards in 100 degree weather and asked to take a nap in the bed of the pick-up over lunch because his throat was "weird." He had strep throat and a temp of 103. So when he says he feels sick, we panic. So I drove him to the doctor and they grabbed a sample of any form of liquid his body contains, did x-rays and an ultrasound. With assurances that the doctor would be in touch, I drove him to the last half of his day at school. As he hopped out of the car he spun around and said, "By the way, I don't know what time, but I have a band concert tonight." And with that he slammed the door and was off.

So I hurried home, sanded and painted five doors, installed some towel bars, took a shower with my injured dog so that I could pour hydrogen peroxide on her wounds, picked all the kids up, shoveled food into their bellies, sent Mike with Emery to her concert, tied Josiah's tie and sped off to his concert.

Josiah was dressed perfectly, for once. He usually is missing a bow tie or wearing white socks or something else I don't notice until I am sitting in the audience saying, "Yeah, my son is the one who doesn't look like all the other correctly dressed kids up there." But as he told me, "It's not that I forgot to wear my tie, it is just that everyone else accidentally wore theirs."

Also, how did I give birth to Thor?

My relief at Josiah wearing his complete uniform was short-lived because I soon noticed something terrible. But the problem wasn't him. It was me. I was still wearing my slippers. Slippers aren't shoes. They are fuzzy. They are pajama shoes. You don't wear them in public. At your kid's concert. Among his peers.

Unless you are me. Then you do.