Last evening we were on our way to the final Kid Book Club meeting at school.  Sonny was sitting in the front seat getting up close and personal with three bouquets of daffodils, one for each group leader, as our thank you to them for putting up with the lunacy.

We pull out of the driveway and start heading out of the ‘hood when Sonny says, “Hey Mom.  These flowers smell like your breath!  Originally I thought it WAS your breath.  But then the smell went on and on and I realized it was the flowers.  Which smell like your breath.”

I’ll just let you sit with that for a sec…

Still sitting….

Yep, still sitting….

You also were stunned into silence, weren’t you?

Because if you’re like me (Twinsies in the HOUSE!) you think that daffodils smell like Spring.  Initially.  But the more you keep smelling them, the more you realize that they ACTUALLY smell like spring flowers a dog pee’d on.

So, in order to find out if my son thought my breath smells more like spring – or more like DOG PEE – I voiced my theory on what daffodils smell like.

Sonny’s response?  “Yeah…I agree.  But in the case of your breath, it’s not as heavy on the Spring as what you were just saying.”

Oh.  My.  LORD!!!!!

All this time my breath has smelled like PEE (heavy on the PEE, apparently) and no one told me?!?  I hate you all!  Why did I have to wait until my son turned 11 and was holding daffodils before I ever heard about my breath from anyone??!?  WHY?!??!!!!!

Stung and wanting to lash out at someone else, and now thinking of dogs, I adult-ly said, “Yeah?  Well…YEAH??  Well, I think the DOG’S mouth smells like FISH CHOWDER when you kiss him.  At least my mouth doesn’t smell like FISH CHOWDER! It smells like FLOWERS!!!”

The kids were silent after that.  I’m not sure if it’s because they wanted me to just stop clouding up the car with my PEE BREATH, already? Or if it’s because MY breath sometimes smells like FISH CHOWDER when you kiss me too!!!!?

Ugh.  Sigh.  Come up close to the screen so I can exhale right at YOU.  A full, deep-throated exhale so you get gassed by the fumes for not telling me already about the way things are with me.

President Snow and I have more in common than I initially realized.  So even though I’m a stay at home mom and he’s the president of Panem, responsible for the Hunger Games and completely FICTIONAL, we both have signature flowers.  His signature flower is a rose, which he pins on his lapel in order to cover up the stench of death coming from the unhealable sores in his mouth.  My signature flower?  A daffodil.  Which I will now begin carrying around so as to cover up the smell of dog pee (or possibly fish chowder) coming from my mouth.  Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [that’s me breathing on you]

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [still breathing on you]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [yep, still breathing on you]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

With a title like that, you’d think this blog would be about a man who voyages to a distant land where he eats a magical berry and falls into a deeeep sleeeep.

But you’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

This blog is about how I am the most snakebit person my husband knows. And when he married me, he became the second most snakebit person he knows – due to close physical proximity, he became infected with my snakebittedness. You’re welcome, Sweetie!

[And if you’re like me and thought being “snakebit” is code for “lovely young woman who gives off just the right amount of good-girl-gone-bad vibe,” you’d be wrong.  Dead wrong.  It means you’ve got bizarrely bad luck. Apparently boys from Colorado DO still say the word “snakebit” in this day and age to their lady loves.  So romantic, no?  No.]

Remember all that talk from the other day about how I wished I were wearing LaToya Jackson’s captain’s hat in my driver’s license picture because it would have matched perfectly with my shoulder pad/epaulet combo?!  That all had the unfortunate consequence of reminding me of that time, early in our marriage, when my husband & I had to get new passports…

Apparently, during the lamination process at Passports R’ Us, they accidentally caught some small, roundish piece of lint in between the hard plastic shell and Hubby’s picture.  So his passport came back looking like he had a mole the size of a largish blueberry on his face, right in the crevice between his cheek and the corner of his nose.

Try explaining words like “accidental lint” “during the lamination process” “feel the page, not my face, it even sticks out of the page” “it’s not a REAL mole!” in a foreign language to customs agents who are ready to cavity search you at the drop of a LaToya Jackson captain’s hat.  If you can picture that nonsense, then you’ll realize why it eventually just became easier for my husband to travel internationally pretending he had recently had cosmetic surgery to remove his berry.  This can be accomplished by blinking, nodding and making scissor cutting motions at your cheek.  It helps too if your wife supports the pantomime by doing her own scissor cutting motions at your face while smiling.

And THAT, my friends, is the Snakebit Take Two version of the tale of the Traveler and the Berry.  Sweetie, enough…you’re welcome already!

I recently handed a waitress my driver’s license, to which she replied, “Oh my GAWD!  What are you WEARING in this PICTURE?!?”

Aw, no, Home Slice.  You don’t get to say that to me.  Because what I’m wearing completely rocked the house.  Back in the year 2000.  But still… 

I had just moved to Colorado and I was on my way to a job interview when I had to stop off at the DMV to get my license.  So I’m wearing my very best Banker’s Blue double breasted skirt suit (complete with blue spectator pumps but those don’t show in the picture) and a scarf with cream and blue circles on an alternating blue and cream background.  Awesome Sauce!  And yes, we were very matchy-matchy then.  I know we’re not as matchy-matchy now, in modern times, so it’s something I’m working on, thanks for asking.  I was also just getting used to the weather in the new state, so my hair is a disaster and looks like I have a head full of jacked up dolly hair that was styled with the wrong brush.  In addition, I wasn’t sure where to look during the picture so when the DMV employee told me to look “there,” I asked, “where?” and she caught me with my mouth open.  Again – it bears repeating – Awesome Sauce.  Yes, the more I say it, the more you’ll believe it.

But what you (and the waitress) don’t know is that the State of Colorado, in some license anti-fakery move, put two gold state emblems on either side of my scarf.  Set just…right.  So in low light, at the proper angle, it actually looks like I’m wearing HUGE 80’s shoulder pads (I…AM…Iron Man!) topped off with epaulets dripping gold fringe everywhere.

In fact, I onetime saw LaToya Jackson at the Straw Market in Nassau, Bahamas circa 1989 and she was wearing this EXACT blue-blazer-with-shoulder-pads-and-epaulets combo.  And a cruise liner captain’s hat with insignia and gold braiding. 

So “THAT” is what I am wearing for all of posterity.  Except for the captain’s hat.  That wasn’t me, that was LaToya.  But I see now I SHOULD have been wearing a hat.  It would have covered up my totally ratchet wig.  And?  It also would have “brought out” the gold in my epaulets in just that matchy-matchy way I like.    

From: “Ryan Jensen” <aspen2325@aol.com>
Sent: Tuesday, February 24, 2015 6:47:08 AM
Subject: Terrible Incident!!!

I really hope you get this quickly. I could not inform anyone about our trip, because it was impromptu. we had to be in Manila, Philippines for Tour.. The program was successful, but our journey has turned sour. we misplaced our wallet and cell phone on our way back to the hotel we lodge in after we went for sight seeing. The wallet contained all the valuables we had. Now our passport is in custody of the hotel management pending when we make payment.

I am sorry if i am inconveniencing you, but i have only very few people to run to now. i will be indeed very grateful if i can get a short term loan from you ($2,950 USD). this will enable me sort our hotel bills and get my sorry self back home. I will really appreciate whatever you can afford in assisting me with. I promise to refund it in full as soon as soon as I return. let me know if you can be of any assistance. Please, let me know soonest.

Please let me know if you can help..

Ryan

_________________________________________

Did you get that urgent email from our ol’ pal, Ryan Jensen?  The one titled “Terrible Incident!!!” (complete with three exclamation points)??

Yeah.  Yeah, me too.

In which case, I think we can agree that Ryan is such a tool.  We always did say that about him and this just confirms it.

If he had pretended he was a wealthy foreigner from Nigeria who needed help from L’il Ol’ Us to get his multi-millions out of the impound lot, we would have been more likely to help him, I think.

But no, Ryan’s up to his usual tricks – “we misplaced our wallet and cell phone on our way back to the hotel…”

“Misplaced” my big Aunt FANNY!

I guess you shoulduv kept WAAAAAY better track of that loose $2,950 you needed to get home, RyRy.  And that soft-shoe business about how “the journey went sour” while you were sightseeing?  That’s not helping.  You probably shouldn’t mention that, because that’s not helping.  That’s not gettin’ me on board with giving you $2,950 because A) Quite frankly, you always were a bit of a jerk and you are, in fact, “inconveniencing me” as you so politely put it with your money request and B) I didn’t have the $2,950 to GO sightseeing with you in the Philippines (not that you asked) – and I sure as shoot don’t have the $2,950 to give you now that you lost YOURS while YOU were sightseeing in the Philippines.

So…good luck to yer bad self.  And next time you email, more caps please.  The whole e.e. cummings vibe you’re giving off in your email just adds to the Annoying Factor.

But all of that aside, I am happy to meet you at the corner bar when you finally get your “sorry self back home.”  You’re buying, right?

When my daughter was maybe 6 months old, she would use the quietest times of the day (after communion prayer in church, for example) as the perfect foil for her overly loud exploration of the sound duh-duh-duh-duhduhduhduhduhDUHDUHHHHH!  She would bust out with the noise while wearing a huge grin on her face, chubby cheeks pumping furiously.  Coincidentally or not, there always seemed to be an inordinate amount of drool flowing down her chapped chin at times like these.  New baby toofuses much?

Anyway, for our family, that sound has come to symbolize being overly excited at questionably appropriate times, apropos nothing.

Case in point?  Have you heard the new recommendations which indicate that 3-5 cups of coffee per day is ok for you?

duh-duh-duh-duhduhduhduhduhDUHDUHHHHH!

I am frickin’ PSYCHED about this!  I LOVE me some joe.  Boyohboyohboy!  Do I LOVE me some JOE.  And I have NO time for those schmoes who droop around declaring they don’t NEED caffeine because they have NATURAL joie de vivre.

Shut!  SHUT!  SHUT.  IT.  Joie de vivre my a$$!

But that’s fine.  I’m fine.  That’s fine.  Because now?  Now the government says it’s ok for me to consume MY wakey juice AND joie-de-vivre’s wakey juice while I’m at it.

This approach in turn helps me enter my day with my heart in my throat and my hands grasping invisible shake weights.  MymommysaysItalktoofast.  DoYOUthinkItalktoofast?!?  As I stagger off the cliff of life every morning, you can hear me shouting the whole way down…

duh-duh-duh-duhduhduhduhduhDUHDUHHHHH!

And if you say ANYTHING here about my chubby cheeks and my excessive drool, I’ll drink YOU’RE java too.  IwillIwillIswearIwill, so help me…duh-duh-duh-duhduhduhduhduhDUHDUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Hey – I’ve got an idea!  Let’s review what everyone got for Valentine’s Day…

Ok, well really this is only going to be a review of what I got for Valentine’s Day.  Just wanted to level-set.  If you want to review your stuff, get your own blog.

Let’s see…

There was the dozen hot pink roses from Hubby, actually put in a vase of water, and waiting on the kitchen table along with a card when I came down that morning.

Then there was the championship basketball game that Sissy gave me.  Listen, I’ve thought a lot about the technical foul called against me during the last game and I’ve concluded it was the result of me wearing the wrong shoes on the court.  So for the big Valentine’s Day championship game, I switched it up and wore something more appropriate.  Then, when I spotted coach that evening, I told him I was wearing the right shoes and to put me in!  Hahahahahaha.  Then I laughed maniacally like that which caused coach to back up slowly.  No matter.  We won!  This was most likely because I was wearing a thematic red scarf AND the right shoes.  AND because I’m funny.  AND because the girls played their hearts out.  It was Valentine’s Day afterall so the heart thing tied in nicely.

Finally, there was the gift from Sonny I’ve come to call: The Ninja Deathstar of Love.

Show of hands, who else got a Ninja Deathstar of Love?!?  Come on!  I know you’re out there.  By all accounts, Sonny led SEVERAL boys in the making of these.  During school.  To the exclusion of actual classwork where Sonny could have learned spelling and such.

But pay that no never mind because this thing is an engineering marvel!  With a few tugs in all the right places, it transforms from Ninja Deathstar of Love to Ninja Octagon of Love, complete with heartfelt messages on each of the eight sides.  Things like: “With a great mom comes a great kid,” (not to put too fine a point on things) and “Thank you for everything,” or “Your [sic] the best thing that ever happened to me.”  Why yes.  Yes, I AM the best thing that ever happened to you.  And also?  Ninja Deathstar/Octagon protocol allows for crying during message review.  So go ahead if you’re so inclined.  I’ll join you.  Waaaah!

The only message that gave me pause and maybe wasn’t the hugest tearjerker of the bunch was: I’ll still love you no mader [sic] how big or small.

Hmmmm.

I might be over-interpreting things here, but does this valentine make me sound…big?  Like I’m big and bordering on house-bound??

Not trying to be all judge-y or anything.  Or trying to make YOU be all judge-y or anything.  I’m just saying that even if I WERE big?  I’d still be loved.  No mader what.

…This is an open letter to the person or persons who have the Prank Camera trained on me while Hubby is out of town…

Dear Sir or Sirs,

I have been aware of your existence for a while.  Seems like every time Hubby is out of town, something totally crappy happens.  This could only be the result of you causing the awfulness, then monitoring me for my reaction via your hidden cameras so as to get outstanding YouTube footage.  This is a completely natural assumption on my part.

And while this has all been absa-frickin-lutely hilarious; can we be done now?

Take, for example, the ol’ flat tire hijinks from this morning.  At first glance, there’s nothing funnier than coming out of the house with the massive backpacks and the kids belonging to same only to find the back right tire on the car is completely flat.  Nothing.  Funnier.

But what you weren’t privy to was the ominous black pick’emup truck randomly parked in front of our house all night long.  When Sonny noticed it this morning, all frost covered, that naturally meant that the person who drove the truck was somehow now in our house, and had been all night long.  So my comment as we were heading out the door about how, “we had better hurry up and leave before the man in our basement wakes up,” already had everyone nervously tittering while anxiously glancing at each other in a Heavens-to-Betsy-I-hope-there’s-not-really-a-man-sleeping-in-our-basement sort of way.

Unless YOU were the man in the pick’emup, then in our basement??  Could be.  That seems just like something you would do to “amp up” the fun factor so as to get even better footage.

So we were already on edge even BEFORE the mad dash on the tire rim to get some temporary air so that we could then bust across town to school, hopping out at every stoplight to make sure the tire wasn’t shredding as we went – hopping and hoping.

Because, you see, it’s annual nationwide testing time for the kids.  And they can’t be late to school, because if they are, they have to sit out the whole morning and then have to make up the testing some other time.  And no one, NO ONE, has time for that nonsense.

This entire scenario basically had us ALL chumming in our mouths from nerves by the time we got to school.  I can’t even IMAGINE what the kids’ scores are going to look like from today.  Thanks a lot.

Also?  That whole “screw in the tire which coulda been repaired if a ‘certain someone’ hadn’t driven on the rim??”  That was a nice touch.  You owe me two hundred bucks.

And as I’m posting this blog, I notice your truck is now gone.  So it seems like you’re getting the message that we’re done.  [insert Jersey Girl thumb-to-throat slitting motion here]  DONE!

You could have at least made the bed in the basement before you packed up your cameras and left, though.  Rude much?!

NOW?!?  You’re asking me for my most embarrassing moment NOW???  You could’ve asked me YESTERDAY and I woulda trotted out my hilarious story about a breast pump and a software training class where the instructor thought I said, “Come and take a seat,” and therefore hustled on over when what I REALLY said was, “Can I have some privacy?!”

See?!  Hilarious!

But TODAY?!?  Today it’s a whole different story that ends with, “Parent on the court…TECHNICAL FOUL!”

Before we get there, though, let me mention that Thursday, Sissy got this thing in her mouth called a Herbst Appliance.  It’s meant to correct her overbite and it looks exactly like a twin set of Swannington Incline Engines complete with piston valves.  I’m not even joking.  And if you don’t know anything about the Swannington thingy I just mentioned, then you’ll just have to picture a horrific torture device-looking appliance in her mouth which actually made a classmate CRY yesterday as Sissy was displaying it because the whole scene gives off a Cyborg Jaw vibe.

So, anyway, we’re in the final minute of Sissy’s basketball tournament game today.  A swirl of activity passes around Sissy and she’s left standing at the top of the key, holding her throat using the international sign for choking.  Her head is jerking up and back rhythmically.  This continues for a full thirty seconds while all THREE refs on the court allow the game to play on.  My husband and I are yelling that there’s a player hurt, yet the game continues.  At that point, I’m convinced that something terrible has happened; perhaps a piston has come loose in Sissy’s mouth and is blocking her throat which means she’s gonna face plant to the floor from lack of oxygen and let fly with the other piston.  So I go running down the bleachers, on to the court and throw my arms around her, ready to support her in case her knees give way, yelling all the while to the refs, “This player is hurt!!  STOP PLAY!!!!”

Turns out she got an opponent’s wild elbow to the larynx and couldn’t draw breath.  So…no broken piston?   But still.  The game continued on for WAY too long with a player hurt.  Surely one or more of the refs – whose priority should be to ensure the safety of the players – could have noticed.

Anyway, I held Sissy for a few more seconds until she was able to draw breath again, then she looked up wild-eyed, realized her MOTHER was on the COURT and HOLDING HER in front of EVERYONE!!!  So she SHOVED ME away, all the while GLARING at me and furiously whispering, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!?!”

Oh, no reason other than I thought you had metal clogging your throat.  I see now that you don’t, so I’ll be leaving.  Exit, stage left even. 

So me, my hot pink sweater and my leopard print shoes mustered our dignity and walked off the court, the closest ref staring me down the whole way.  Once I passed him he called, “Parent on the court…TECHNICAL FOUL!”  The opposing team actually MADE the resulting free-throw which tied the game in the last few seconds of regulation play and the whole thing went to overtime.

Oopsie.  Not many parents were meeting my eye after that, although a few moms did agree with me that a mother’s heart trumps all ref calls.  Yeah.  Yeah it does.  I even got a low, sliding five from one mom for that.  Hubby on the other hand told me to shut it, sit quietly for the rest of the game and…DON’T MOVE.

But Sissy’s team won.  Phew!  More parents were meeting my eye after that.  During the last few minutes of overtime, Sissy personally drew the fifth foul from at least three opposing players causing them to leave the game completely.  She also made two more free throws and one more basket.  An elbow in the larynx inspires you to greatness, I guess.

And she IS great.  In fact, she was great BEFORE that whole parent-on-the-court-technical-foul biz went down.  She’s a great athlete.  AND she’s absolutely a great person.  I’m proud to know her and to call her mine.  Bet SHE never had a most embarrassing moment.  If she did, I can’t imagine what it would be.  Can’t.  Even.  Imagine…

Can you tell what this is, sitting upside down under 6 inches of snow?  Nooo??!

Well I’m completely shocked because it is – quite clearly – the boot bin that sits outside our trampoline, waiting to receive boots that the kids aren’t wearing while they’re jumping on the trampoline and which they don’t want the dog to get at because he then runs around the yard with them.  And once the dog runs off somewhere with their boots, they can never descend again from the trampoline and come back into the house because gasp! they’re in their SOCKS!!!  So they just sit in their big giganto crib calling, calling, then waiting for mama to come get them and carry them to the changing table.

Flashbacks aside, how’s the “trampoline boot bin” concept working for us so far?

And when I say “us” I mean me, and obviously it’s not working at all.

And yes, it was my idea.  And it was brilliant.  Because the “boots” the kids were wearing to the trampoline* were actually MY winter boots, every pair of winter boots I’ve ever owned in my life and which I’ve kept because you never know when they’re coming back in style.  The problem was that when the kids would wear them on their hike to the tramp, they were squelching through a back yard filled with bloody snow (now melted and turned to bloody mud) and a winter’s worth of dog poop.  This then caused horrible “things” to become stuck to the bottom of the boots.  (You know you’re in real trouble when it’s your dearest hope that it’s just bloody mud on the bottom of your boots.)  And when the dog would steal the boots from beside the tramp and romp around the yard with them, they would get tooth punctures and bloody mud (hoping…fingers crossed) all up and down the sides of the boots and bloody mud (come on bloody mud!) even IN the boots on two occasions.

That’s when I came up with the brilliant Boot Bin Plan so as to save all of my soon-to-be-fashionable-again boots from total destruction.  The Boot Bin Plan dictated that when the kids mounted the tramp hee hee hee and you know why I’m giggling, you dirty bird they were to put their ok, really my boots in the bin which had been placed strategically up and out of the way on the side of the tramp where the dog couldn’t get to them/it/anything.

Boot Bin Plan ENGAGE! happened a grand total of ONCE.  Then the bin got knocked to the ground after everyone got their my boots back OUT post-tramp activities.  Where it calmly sat, minding its own business, until the dog pee’d into it.  Then, because a boot bin full of dog pee is completely gross and deserves to be pitched further into the yard and never cleaned out, it got pitched further into the yard and never cleaned out.  So there it sits.  Out there in the snow.  My brilliant plan.  Just sitting there.  In the snow.  No boots in it.  Just frozen dog pee.  Upside down.

So again, I ask, how’s this plan working for me so far?  Yep.  That’s about right.  Just as well as every other plan I’ve ever had which involves cooperation from kids, dogs and boots.

*The kids call the trampoline the “tramp.”  This adds a whole level of hilarity (for me at least) when they call their friends to ask them if they want to come over and jump on the tramp.  Ha ha ha.  It’s funny.  Now bug off, I’m busy.  I gotta go get a certain bin outta the snow and clean it.  I hope I only get bloody mud on my boots while I’m doing it.  Hoping…hoping…