Santa Is Hiding Behind the Turkey

It's that time of year. With a wonderful smoky chill in the air, the snap of coming snow making you shiver, dry leaves crunching under your feet or tires as you go about your daily business. Autumn is a gorgeous season, the heat of summer finally easing and the excitement of winter quick approaching.

That also means that the main trifecta of holidays has us right in its grip. Three major holidays in three months, quite evenly spaced, and all of them carrying with it an excess of everything from fun to stress. It is simultaneously exciting and exhausting, and it is debatable that Christmas is the biggest of the three. It is for me, anyway.

Halloween is past, and carried off without too much of a hitch this year. Little Tinkerbell's costume went great, didn't look too stupid, and I got to wear 3 of my different costumes this year. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving, which isn't really stressful for me at all. Because I am not hosting or cooking. I'm sure if I was, I'd be catatonic right about now like my poor mom who is doing both of those things.

Oh no, so far the holidays of Autumn and Winter have been fantastic. It is the one looming up in December that has me panicking today. Yes. Christmas. In four and a half weeks is my favorite holiday, which is incredibly exciting since I've been waiting for it since about, oh, last February. I'm totally ready for the music, the movies, the decorations, the trees, the lights, the wonderfully fattening food, all of it.

However, there is one aspect for which I am so not prepared. Presents. OMG. I am freaking out. I have presents for my little family, my husband's family, and my family to figure out, and probably presents for some of my friends too! Holy crap! I'm gonna die! Now don't get me wrong, I've been throwing around ideas for presents since about September, but nothing concrete. Shoulda started sooner and poured some quick-dry cement into my thought process. Because now I'm totally having a fit because Christmas is FOUR AND A HALF WEEKS AWAY and I have PRACTICALLY NOTHING DONE!!!!

*Has a seizure*

See? I'm panicking. So today, while dinner is simmering in the crock pot because I actually managed the foresight to prepare for that, I am gathering my scattered brain from wherever it has all wandered off to and forcing myself to get right down to business! I have so much to do! I have so much to prepare! Why did I wait so long?!

I dragged out a handful of my craft items to work on at least 2 presents, and so far we've had nothing catastrophic to cause problems. Of course this is only 2 out of 7-13 presents I'm going to have to do, but still. I guess it's headway. Now I just need to figure out what in the world to do for everyone else and get right to work on it! Don't get me wrong, I still have little snippets of ideas at work here, but nothing actually viable in an "I can do this today" sense. I'm beating myself over the head about it right now, with a Christmas stocking filled with rocks. You'd think I'd learn, but noooooo.

*Sighs* Anyway, I'm pretty sure the paint is almost dried on Phase 2 of today's present concocting, so I'm gonna get back to that now. Wish me luck, and next year please remind me in August that I need to get my brain together so Christmas doesn't sneak up and attack me like it did this year!

Do NOT Pick Up the Plunger

See that picture? See how cute and trustworthy that darling spider is? Couldn't you just needlepoint that on a pillow and display it proudly on your couch for Halloween? Precious, isn't it? Well I'll tell you what.

Fricking. False. Advertising.

You want to know the truth about spiders? Oh, I'll tell you. But first, a story. A couple weeks ago I went into the bathroom with a sense of peace about me, one with the universe, doing just fine. As I pass the toilet on the way to the mirror, something on the floor next to toilet catches my eye. I glance down, figuring that it's a clump of dog hair or one of my hair elastics. No. It's a FREAKING GINORMOUS SPIDER. Just sitting there, cozied up against the wall, not even moving.

I froze, so as not to startle the cute little thing before I could call for help and kill the darling. One problem: It was at least after 10 at night, and Sammy was asleep. And Pete was in our room with the door closed. That's two closed doors and half the hall between me and him, and one wall between me and the sleeping child.

Dilemma. Because, as everyone knows, Standard Spider Protocol, or SSP, states that once you spot an unwelcome eight-legged guest on your premises, you DO NOT LOOK AWAY. Seriously. Because the second you do, that sucker will disappear. Sure, you might find it again in a minute, but that is not the nightmare that keeps you up late at night freaking out because you've got a case of the creepy-crawlies and a bug loose in your room. So, rule of thumb in the SSP, DO NOT LOOK AWAY once you find the spider.

Well, guess what. I looked away.

What was I supposed to do?! I couldn't yell for help, I didn't have my phone, and I was barefoot (AKA, no way to kill the freakishly large arachnid). I did try kind of quietly screeching for help, but that didn't work out and the spider twitched. We weren't doing that again. So yeah, upon close scrutiny and making sure the spider was not moving, I opened the door, poked my head out into the hall, and yelled for the John McClane of the spider world, my husband (ask me about his other Die Hard spider moment. It ROCKS!). I went back across the bathroom to where I'd been before, checked on the immobile spider, and guess what.

It was gone.

Poof, disappeared. I had been looking away for maybe 3 seconds, tops. Well, spider didn't need that long. So I'm standing there in my robe and bare feet, checking the floor and my feet and legs and robe and trying to find that &%$@$!& spider. Pete arrived in the doorway, armed with a shoe like the knight in shining armor stud that he is. So I, in my damsel in distress way that I have, pointed at the floor where the creepy thing had been hiding and said, "He was right there, but he moved."

There was a good deal of shoe action around the toilet (apparently spider had hidden behind the toilet where it was nice and dark and hard to get to), but the shoe was too big to get back there (Pete has quite large feet) so then there was toilet plunger action.

After a minute during which I just huddled in the corner and stayed out of the way, Pete stood up and I peeked over his shoulder hoping to see the squished remains of an epic battle on the floor.

"Did you get him?" "He's trapped under the plunger, and if the smell doesn't kill him, nothing will."

I was a little touchy about leaving it at that (what if he escaped?), but left it at that. No way he was going to get out from under the plunger (please don't get out from under the plunger), and either way he'd suffocate eventually. So I put it out of my mind.

May I remind the assembled that this was two weeks ago. Ok? Two weeks. During that time, once or twice I have toyed with the idea of lifting up the plunger just for the satisfaction of seeing a curled up spider carcass on the floor under it. But I didn't. Just in case. Because on the off chance that it was still alive (*shudder*), there was no way I was getting anywhere in the path of a spider that hadn't eaten anything in that long.

Today was the first time the plunger was needed (Sammy did it. Do not ask me how that girl plugged up the toilet because the scientific measurements of that just blow my mind), and I belatedly realized that the plunger was in use. So I checked the floor where it sits, and . . . nothing. I brushed it off, figuring that, seriously, two weeks. The thing was dead. It had probably just died trying to gasp a breath of air from under the edge of the plunger and stuck to the rubber.

So I'm vacuuming after dinner, making my way down the line of rooms, and I get into the bathroom. I'm vacuuming up all the dog hair off the floor, I go into the room to get the corner by the tub really good AND ON THE WALL RIGHT THERE ACROSS FROM THE TOILET IS A FRICKING HUGE SPIDER!!!

I did not panic. I was armed, and I sucked that puppy into my vacuum hose with a slightly maniacal smile of satisfaction. I also did not turn the vacuum off for a good 15 minutes. Good thing I still had Sammy's room and the rest of the hall to vacuum.

Which brings me back to the truth about spiders. Here it is: those buggers are immortal. There is no way, in a similar circumstance, that a human could survive in a big rubber dome for two weeks without food or water and likely no air. No way.

I'm sure some of you are rolling your eyes right now, thinking, "There's no proof that was the same spider." WELL YOU CAN JUST SUCK MY TOE, DUDE! It was totally the same spider! No dead spider carcass + spider sighting within two hours of previous trapping spot being opened = SAME FRICKING SPIDER.

It's a conspiracy. All you aracniphobics out there, listen up, because this is important. The spider population of the world that probably outnumbers us humans about a billion to one is breeding a new kind of super power spider. And they are planning on taking over the world, one bathroom at a time. Think I'm wrong? Exhibit A: Immortal Plunger Spider. I don't feel that I need more evidence to support this.

Now, I am going to distract myself for awhile. Listen to soothing music and do some relaxing breathing. While wearing shoes. With a fly swatter and a can of Raid in my hands. And a shotgun in easy reach. *Shivers with creepy-crawly sensation skittering all over my legs, keeps eyes peeled watching the perimeter*

Come to mama, freakies. Come to mama.

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This . . .

No, really, I can't believe it. I am pimping myself out/advertising on my blog. Ok, so technically I've wondered about this for quite awhile now, and this is me pulling my balls together and finally doing it.

So, I have created another blog, under my same profile and all that jazz (at least, I think so, I'm still pretty much new at this whole blog thing). But on that one . . . *starts to blush and fidget* I am going to start putting up different selections of the writing I've done. *Mumbling to self that this looks extremely, shall we say, CAN I GET ANY MORE EGOTISTICAL THAN THIS?!?!*

In all actuality, I'm quite insecure about my writing, and if anyone is getting a different impression, it's just the other 85% of my online personality that is all fake swaggering bravado and a whole bunch of arrogant fluff that I like to imagine makes a more endearing picture of myself. At least, more endearing that the somewhat cute fat girl sitting on her bed with her jeans unbuttoned and her bedroom in shambles around her because she's spent all day doing what she loves (writing) instead of doing what she hates (cleaning).

Anyway, I'm going to shut up this fountain of verbal diarrhea before I embarrass myself further (it is actually possible). And just leave you with the address to my other blog (http://smilingmuse.blogspot.com/) and say good night!

*Slaps self for being a retard and wanders off while muttering to self about what to do about the collective idiocy in this brain*

A Word On Fries . . .

There is something magical about the French Fry. A potato, one of the world's most wonderful foods, from such is brought magic things like the chip, mashed potatoes, au gratin potatoes, and a whole host of other delicious things, can also be manipulated by a thread of genius and turned into a french fry. Slice that puppy up, deep fry it in oil, sprinkle with salt, and you have a food so glorious that you just know God loves us if He gave us such a miraculous edible.

There is really just one problem with this perfect food. And it is that, after about 15 minutes, a fry transforms from a hot, crispy, salty, mealy, wonderful snack . . . to a limp, soggy, cold, pasty mouthful of yuck. In a matter of minutes. It is astounding how fast this happens. Good to evil, just like that. And once they go evil, there is no bringing them back. You can't microwave cold fries and bring back their fabulousness, and why would you bother sticking them in the oven and hovering around it for up to 15 minutes trying not to burn them but trying to get them warm enough to tolerate? It's just not worth it. Not when you can just go back to McDonald's and get a whole 'nother box for less than two bucks.

Seriously, dogs won't even eat that stuff. I know, I have two of them living with me. Today, twice now, I have come to my room to find the contents of my garbage can spread all over the floor. The empty soda cups from Dairy Queen and McD's were licked clean, a couple tissues were ripped apart, the empty box which at some point last week encased a paper wrapped burger was torn apart and licked clean. But the bright red carton half full of cold McDonald's fries? It wasn't touched. The thing was not even tipped over!

Ok, we are talking two Labradors right now, these dogs routinely swipe food off the counters, Sammy's plate, and the garbage when they believe they are hungry enough (they really aren't), but they didn't touch half a carton of cold fries! I was a little astounded (when we say astounded, I mean I sat there with a handful of damp dog-chewed tissues for a solid ten seconds with my mouth hanging open) until I remembered the occasions when I have been silly enough to give cold fries a try. Gag me.

It is fascinating to me the shocking difference that only five minutes of room temperature can make on fries. Such manna from heaven, turned vomitious. It's so sad. I mean, chocolate doesn't go bad. You can unearth a bag of Hershey's Kisses form your cupboard left over from last Halloween (or even the one before that) and eat them with a smile on your face. It's so bizarre.

Anyway, thank you for reading tonight's episode of "Junk Food Theater". We hope you join us next time, best wishes and good night.

Not Quite a Baby

So, last week I had a little round toddler living in my house with a softball shaped face (barely discernible chin)and little fat legs and baby feet and sparse hair that liked to get snarled while said toddler was asleep.

This week, I all of a sudden have a tall, almost gangly little girl, with a thinner face, long lean legs and the kind of feet that love to walk on tippy-toes and pose, and hair that still gets tangled and snarled in a mess, whether she is asleep or awake. Um, where did the time go? It was like when she was a baby, and the most adorable thing about her was her big toothless cheeser smile, then suddenly she had teeth and she wasn't a baby anymore, she was a toddler. The new phase was fun, in a lot of ways much funner than the baby stage, but the baby was gone.

Now the toddler is gone, and in place there is a little girl that will be turning four in a couple months and going to preschool. A mouthy and stubborn little girl, to top it off (yes, Mom, your curse worked and she's just like me).

A little girl that loves cartoons and Disney movies, mainlines Nesquik chocolate milk, string cheese, and hot dogs. A little girl that has, over the last year, become the dog's little master and best friend. A little girl that is so smart she can play games on Bumpa's old laptop on the internet and work the buttons on the remote control. A little girl that loves to play outside, rain or shine, and has no problem whatsoever with becoming absolutely filthy in the process. A little girl that loves to hand out hugs and kisses and high fives to everybody, who has inserted her bossy little self into all the lives around her and nestled in permanently.

It is amazing, considering the scope of change a little bitty baby has on a person's life, that they don't require background checks at the hospital after you have one. Competence testing. A whole slew of ability and aptitude tests to see if a person is actually prepared and capable of handling the cute soft thing wrapped in the blanket in the corner making cooing noises. You'd think they'd make sure you can handle it before just handing it over and sending you on your merry way!

Also, on a side note . . . I just cut Sammy's hair. Yeah, me, with no hair experience at all aside from the odd hack job on an unfortunate other person or myself, I cut my daughter's hair. I think it looks ok . . . at the moment it looks a little uneven, but I'm pretty sure that's just the way her hair lays. That, or I just destroyed her hair and this is going to be a horrible phase in her life where we don't take pictures for a few months and never speak of it again.

Well, the little girl is currently eating all of my coveted cheddar and sour cream Ruffles potato chips and watching Fantasia and tossing around her new short hair, so I think I'm going to join her.

Keep a sharp eye on your kids . . . next week they aren't going to be like they used to anymore.

Computer Games. Ugh.

Sammy has discovered, through the magic of the internet (yes, my 3 year old plays around on the internet), computer games. So far, she has discovered a Winnie the Pooh game and a Tangled game. Now, see, this is a problem for me. Because I am not a video/computer game girl. Like, at all. Want to know what computer games I play? Solitaire. Mahjong. Spider Solitaire. Purble Place if I'm feeling really crazy. The last time I played a video game, it was Halo. I spent the whole whopping half hour I played looking at the pretty scenery after getting lost and not being able to figure out where the crap I was. And the time before that? I spun around in circles firing my big gun before one of my team members shot me out of pure annoyance. And before that, let's see, there was a failed attempt at Super Mario Bros and before that . . . Battleship on Super Nintendo. Yeah.

Now Pete, on the other hand, he is a video/computer game guru. He plays Halo like he was the one that created the game, he's got almost as many computer and Xbox games as he does movies, and I don't think the guy could live if he didn't know that he had the option to play some kind of violent, shoot-em-up game somehow. I'm sure if he were home, we could figure this out.

You see, this is the point we keep getting stuck at: Pooh gets stuck on a cliff, and Flynn gets stuck on a rock. I don't know how to make the stupid things jump! The last time I played a computer game on a regular basis, I was six! Our game involved blocky boy and girl characters that roamed around collecting alphabet letters and buckets of pink goo to dump on the monsters that were after the book worm. And it took me a long time to master the jumping technique, which was pushing the up and right arrow buttons at the same time. I used to make my dad do that part. For a long time. We're talking years.

Anyway, if only Pete were here, he would not only get Flynn Rider to jump, but he would also find him a jet pack, win a lasso of Rapunzel's hair, earn 5 extra lives, and get a coupon for Starbucks. I kid you not! Winnie the Pooh would end up living in a honey tree with bees for servants, an all-you-can-eat honey buffet, and a Lamborghini. And I don't care if all of those things are available in the game or not, but Pete could probably do it.

This is such a problem. Because Sammy gets so frustrated and insistent when I tell her I can't do the game. She looks at me like I'm so stupid. Hey, kid, I could talk your ear off about a million things on this planet, most of which I know how to do, but I cannot do computer or video games. It's just not in my genetic makeup. I can do archery on the Wii, that's about it. And I recently figured out how to make the Xbox do Netflix, which I consider a major accomplishment. Other than that? You're SOL.

Now . . . if I could just figure out how to make Flynn Rider jump . . .

You Might Be A Redneck If . . .

I realized something a little disturbing a minute ago. While I was listening to a country song about a trucker. You see, country music is pretty much the staple music for rednecks, and I have always been a country music fan. More so the stuff from the 90's to now, but still. So, I'm listening to this song about a trucker, and my husband is a trucker, and I'm thinking to myself, "Ha, kinda makes us a little redneck-ish."

And then I considered something.

Here's some info I know about rednecks. They live in the country, you know, rural areas. They own horses, and the smell of manure in the morning is like a breath of fresh air. Hand-me-downs are almost as good as shopping at Walmart, which is the mecca of a redneck when there is one in the area. Rednecks love country music, play guitars, drive pickup trucks, and eat fried chicken. A lot of rednecks are truckers. Sometimes their family tree is a little bit . . . skewompus.

So . . . for a good portion of my life I lived in an apartment building next to a field, in which there lived horses, in a smallish town that always seemed really Mayberry to me. I even rode one of the horses once when the neighbor kids and I jumped the fence. The smell of manure, to this day, is still a bit homey to me. I'm very careful when walking through tall grass to avoid cowpies and other treasures that might be hiding in the grass.

I love hand-me-downs, and my mom and sisters and I play the pass-along game very well. My daughter, for her whole life, has been wearing some of the same outfits I wore when I as a baby and toddler, and I always pass on my nice clothes that don't fit me anymore to my sisters who are all smaller than me.

I also love shopping at Walmart, that is like my favorite store ever. I am hard on clothes, especially shirts and jeans, so I can't afford to spend half a paycheck on a new pair of pants every six months. $20 jeans at Walmart, come to mama! And $4 t-shirts? I'm so there! I also know where to find all the food stuff at Walmart, especially the snack aisle.

I LOVE country music, it is by far my favorite music genre ever. I love most kinds of music, with the exception of rap, most hip-hop, most jazz, and soul and stuff (I never grew up with it), but country is my music. Love it, love it, love it. I also play guitar, and someday I want to have my own pickup truck that makes the other little four door sedans on the road look little and scared. I also want a nice little car with amazing gas mileage, but my heart's desire is a really big pickup truck. And I love fried chicken, KFC is one of my favorite restaurants.

This is practically irrelevant, but I have a cowboy hat too. It's my favorite hat. And I recently bought cowboy boots that match it.

My husband became a trucker at the beginning of this year, completely with the insane facial hair and one arm tan, the other not. It took a lot of self-control not to pin him down, sit on his chest, and take a razor to his face and scalp. It was long enough that you could almost pull it into a ponytail in the back.

And as far as my family tree goes, my psycho uncle was once married to my sister-in-law (big disaster, don't ask), meaning my uncle was my brother-in-law, my sister-in-law was my aunt, my mom was my sister-in-law's sister-in-law, and my husband was his sister's nephew-in-law.

Now, I've always considered myself a country girl at heart, but holy cheese balls.

I'M A FREAKING REDNECK!!!!