Holiday Memories

Get out the cocoa because it's about to get warm and fuzzy up in here, circa 1988!

I have fond memories of going to pick out a Chrsitmas tree as a child. My parents, my two sisters and I would load up in our hatchback and head out to what seemed like the wilderness. Most people bought their Christmas trees from a vendor in the Kroger parking lot or went to a tree farm, but not us. Years later I would realize that we had actually been tree thieving trespassers on some strangers land, but what the hay. It was quality time together and that’s what mattered.

One year in particular, we found the most perfect tree. It was just right in size and shape. My Dad cut it down and strapped it to the top of our car and the five of us loaded back in. We were on our way home when my dad slowed down and pointed to a different tree on the side of the road. “I think that one might be better than the one we just picked, but I’m not sure if it’s big enough. Lori, would you go stand next to it so we can see how big it is by comparison?”

“Sure, Daddy.” My sisters and I had been singing Christmas carols in the backseat but I was happy to stop singing and oblige my father. I even felt special that he had asked me, rather than my older sister. I jumped out of the car and ran across the dirt road. When I located the particular tree I turned around to face the car. At that moment I knew I had been set up. My entire family waved out the window at me and I could hear them laughing as my dad sped away.

I was eight years old and all alone, standing next to someone else’s tree, on someone else’s property like a big jackass. It doesn’t get much better than that. Down the road I saw my dad backing the car up to come back and get me. I considered not getting back in, but I didn’t have a lot of options. My family had a good laugh at my expense. “You should’ve seen your face,” and “That was so funny!” was heard a few times.

Yeah, I thought. Real funny. I wish the police had driven by. I would’ve told them what happened and my parents would’ve been in big trouble. I made the ride home as unpleasant as possible for everyone by singing Christmas carols non-stop at the top of my lungs. An hour and twenty minutes later we arrived home and they all clamored out of the car. It may not have been abandonment on a deserted road, but I had gotten under their skin and I took solace in that. My real revenge would have to wait, though. I knew there was a jolly fat man watching and I needed to act the part.

Flash forward about twenty years to a slight fear of abandonment. I can’t imagine why.

Happy holidays from my dysfunctional family to yours!

The Gift of Laughter

Like what you've been reading on Loripalooza? Give someone you love, or kinda like, the gift of laughter this holiday season by directing them to Loripalooza.com. It's sure to put a smile on their face. Happy Holidays!

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Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Luke (17 mos) inherited a pitching machine from our neighbors. You push a button and it spits out wiffle balls one after another. Luke isn’t really into it yet, but I am a wiffle ball rockstar. I’ve hit the ball onto the roof and over our fence several times, requiring a trip to Target to replenish our ball supply.

Over the weekend, Brantley, Luke and I were playing ball in the backyard. Luke had the plastic bat and was swinging at the balls on the ground as if he were playing hockey. The following conversating ensued.

Me: Strike three. He’s out. It’s my turn to hit.

Brantley: Are you seriously not giving him another chance? He’s learning how to swing the bat.

Me: Rules are rules. I didn't invent the game and he’s gotta learn sometime.

Brantley: Don’t you dare take that bat away from him.

Luke swung the bat again, completely missing the ball this time.

Me: (under my breath) We want a hitter not an underwear sniffer.

Brantley: What did you just say?

Me: I said, “good try.” Now it’s my turn.

The Ambien Chronicles, Installment Two

Following the nude peanut butter debacle, I swore off Ambien…but it didn’t last. I eventually needed sleep and sleep wouldn’t come so I became smarter about it, only taking it AFTER I was in the bed. It was smooth sailing…for a while.


By March my son, Luke, was 9 months old. He had just started getting up on all fours and rocking back and forth. Soon he’d be crawling. One morning he and I were in the laundry room. I was emptying the dryer and folding clothes while he played in the floor next to me. He began fidgeting with the ironing board that was against the wall. Afraid he would turn it over on himself, I picked it up and wedged it between the dryer and the wall.


I turned back around and to my surprise, Luke was gone. I panicked and ran for the door. That’s when I saw him. He had crawled several steps away from me and was perched on all fours at the top of the staircase. I shouted his name as I ran towards him. Startled, he rocked forward throwing his balance off and began to tumble. I tried, but ultimately failed, to catch him in time. Just beyond my reach, he hit every step on the way down. Seventeen in all. We were both hysterical but after a quickie neurological check I only found scratches and carpet burn. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to trust my instincts again, so I called his pediatrician and we were on our way to the hospital.

Two head CT’s and six hours later, he was cleared and discharged. Thankful that my boy was alright, we headed home. With a clean bill of health the worry was gone leaving plenty of room for its cousin, Guilt. How could I let this happen? Why didn’t we have baby gates? We’d been talking about putting them up for a week. Was Brantley secretly angry with me?

We settled in at home. Luke went to bed early from being obviously worn out and Brantley was going to be in charge of checking on him throughout the night. Despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. Brantley ordered me to take an Ambien and go to bed. Take an Ambien, I did. Go to bed, I did not.

The next morning came like any other, but a little more somber in the wake of the previous day’s accident. A few minutes into breakfast Brantley broke the silence with, “What’s up with you being such a jerk to your sister last night?”

“What are you talking about? I asked.

“The message you sent Leigh.” (I jumped up from the table and ran toward the office.) “It wasn’t an email. You sent it from your phone,” he said.

I grabbed my phone and scrolled to the sent messages. There it was. “Hey Leigh, thanks a lot for not caring that Luke fell down the stairs. We were at the hospital all day because of you. You have no idea what you’ve caused. He could’ve died.”

“What? There was no way I could’ve written that. It doesn’t even make sense. She lives two hundred miles away. Oh jeez, did she ever respond?”

“No. You gave her about fifteen minutes to respond before you started leaving her voicemail messages. It was more of the same.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “It’s a little late for that,” Brantley said.

“Why didn’t you take the phone away from me? I was obviously in an altered state. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I wasn’t coming near you. I’m not stupid. You were being crazy. Besides what kind of team is that? You act a damn fool and I try to fix it…Doesn’t sound like much of a team to me. We don’t even have a team name.”

“I bring plenty to the team! But you’re right about needing a name. I’ll have to think on it. A name like that will be pretty permanent and shouldn’t be taken lightly. Stop distracting me!” I tried to refocus on my personal attributes.

“Dang it! I’m a good wife and mother.” In light of recent events I felt guilty for calling myself a good mother until Brantley finished my sentence with,

“…who only throws her kids down the stairs once in a while.”

“Really? It hasn’t even been twenty four hours and you’re already seeing fit to make it into a joke.” He had dealt a low blow, but this argument had to wait. I had some smoothing over to do with my sister.

Still holding the phone in my hand, I pushed send to call her. Unaware that I still had my hateful message pulled up, instead of dialing her number, the message was sent to her AGAIN. I knew I had really screwed up. One time was explainable, forgivable even. Twice, on the other hand, was harder to sell as an accident. I had some ‘splaining to do but fortunately I have an understanding baby sister.

In fact, years ago she and I were still sharing a bedroom when I was attacked in the night by a fierce band of renegade pirate midgets that only I could see. I have no recollection of this, but she and my mother swear to it. Thereafter, my dose was halved and, to my knowledge, I haven’t been attacked since.

So maybe I get hungry and eat peanut butter with my hands in the night. And maybe I get a little mouthy after a tough traumatizing day, but it’s been over nine years since I was the victim of a midnight midget attack and I think that’s worth noting. As for Brantley, his punishment came in the form of our team name, Guy About to Get Kicked in the Nuts and His Smart, Funny Wife.

Shake Your Money Maker

There was a time when I wasn’t confined by the restrictions of a budget. When I was fresh out of nursing school, and both my husband and I were working full time, we had financial freedom. Our money was just that, our money. If I needed a pair of shoes I bought one. If we wanted beef tenderloin for dinner, we had it. Times were simple.

A few years and one kid later, I decided to quit work and stay home while hubby solely brought home the bacon. What ensued shortly after was a monetary culture shock. I learned to deal with our new financial situation and rather than following a traditional budget, we adopted what we called the “rich week/poor week” system. It was a pretty simple concept. The week after payday, aka rich week, we lived it up like rock stars, while the second week we had to be a bit more frugal. We most often made it through poor week by reminiscing about the good times from the week before when we had dined out, shopped aimlessly, and poked poor people with sticks.

Unfortunately, my waxing schedule fell on poor week and I could no longer handle choosing between a lip wax and a bottle of wine. It can damage your psyche to wake up day after day with a hangover, a mustache and an empty wallet. I knew this could only mean one thing. It was time to go back to work.

Luckily in the nursing realm, a job is but a phone call away, so I picked up the phone and the rest is history. Now, with a part-time job to add to mothering, writing and trophy wife-ing, it’s safe to say I’m spread a little thin. However, it’s good to know that when the situation calls, I can still put on my big girl panties and go to work, preferably in that order.

A Number One Story

Tonight I attended a very productive writer’s meeting. There was an informative guest speaker who has written over seventy books AND I barely broke out in hives when it was my turn to speak. The night had gone well. When the meeting drew to an end I excused myself to the restroom.

Side note: I have a condition called interstitial cystitis that flares up from time to time. The medication I take turns my pee blue and when it begins to wear off, yellow and blue make green. Bright, neon green.

While doing my business there came a knock at the door. “Just a minute.” I said. When all was said and done, I attempted to flush the toilet…but the toilet wouldn’t flush. I jiggled the handle, waited a moment and tried again. Still nothing happened. There before me was a commode full of neon green pee that wouldn’t go away while a fellow writer stood outside the door awaiting my exit. What would they think? I couldn’t go into my colorful explanation with a complete stranger. They would think I was crazy, not to mention disgusting.

After an uncomfortable amount of time had passed I tried the handle again which proved fruitless. Nervously, I ran in place and waved my hands a little, but the pee stayed put. This led to the presumption phase. Someone was probably outside the door wondering what the hell I was doing. I hoped they didn’t think I was making a number two. What if they heard me running in place and thought I might be dancing? What reasonable person would be dancing in someone else’s bathroom?

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The hives were now full blown and speckled across my chest and neck. It was a guilty look. I zipped my jacket all the way up to my neck and opened the door.

Waiting there patiently was the hostess. I sucked up my fear and explained the situation while vehemently denying any lewd and lascivious behavior during my elongated bathroom visit. She graciously said she understood and that the toilet malfunctioned from time to time. My anaphylaxis slowly subsided and when the meeting ended I walked out knowing I had left my mark on the group, literally.

The Ambien Chronicles

Insomnia has plagued me since childhood. In grade school, I remember lying awake all night, only to be exhausted the following day at school. It may have waxed and waned a bit since childhood, but suffice it to say I’m still an insomniac today. I’ve tried many different sleep remedies, but the one I always seem to go back to is Ambien. Before Ambien, no other sleep aid had allowed me such a peaceful and sound night sleep…or so I thought.

The following is (unfortunately) a true account of one of many Ambien experiences:


At first I brushed it off, thinking to myself that I didn’t remember talking on the phone the night before. So why was my phone in the bed? Oh well, I thought. It was time to get ready for work. Wait, what was that on my teeth? It was pasty and tasted like peanut butter. That’s when I saw the open jar of peanut butter sitting solely on my nightstand. Upon inspecting it I found a telltale imprint of finger marks where I had obviously helped myself to a couple of “handfuls” during the night.

I was puzzled by my peanut butter findings but didn’t have a lot of time to think about it because I had to leave for work. I walked in the hospital feeling extra chipper and rested. I couldn’t believe how soundly I had slept the night before. I passed people in the hallway, even stopping to say hi to the people I didn’t like. I had gotten a full eight hours of sleep and I felt like a new woman.

I turned the corner and saw my boss, John. “Hello!” I said. “It’s such a nice day outside.” With a puzzled look he asked if I could come speak with him in his office. “Absotootly!” I replied.
We sat down in John’s office and he remained silent for a moment. I could tell he was trying to think of what to say. He finally mustered, “Is there anything you want to explain to me?”

“About what?” I asked.

He then proceeded to dial his voicemail on speakerphone. What I heard next sounded an awful lot like me.

“Hey, it’s Lori. It’s about eleven thirty at night and I just remembered that earlier today you had a message to call the lady in accounts receivable. I forgot to tell you about it so I figured I better call you at home.”

I was mortified. I had absolutely no recollection of calling him and certainly not leaving a message. I tried to explain but he shushed me and said, “Wait, that’s not all. Next is the part where you thought you hung up the phone.”

I shrunk into my seat as I listened to a loud rustling and what sounded like the phone being dropped on the floor. Then, “What? That’s weird…why am I nekked with my socks on?”

John pressed seven to delete the message. “It pretty much ends after that,” he said. There was a long pause while I tried to think of something to say. He went on, “So if you could refrain from calling my house at midnight with non-urgent work messages that would be good.”

“Yes sir, I’ll do that. I think I’ll go ahead and delete your home number from my phone too, just in case.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Now get to work.”

We never talked about it again. Realizing what a great boss I had for not firing or berating me, I swore off Ambien…but it didn’t last. I eventually needed sleep and sleep wouldn’t come. However, I became smarter about it, only taking it AFTER I was in the bed. It was smooth sailing for a while. No midnight snacks or embarrassing phone calls made for at least two or three months, but the rest is a story for next time. Until then, ladies and gentleman…

Meet Joyce

Last week the Wescotts were stricken with illness. Brantley and I had strep throat while Luke battled a double ear infection. After a couple of days, Brantley went back to work while I struggled to take care of Luke and myself. Frustrated, sick and exhausted I did the only thing left to do. I picked up the phone and called my mom.

Ladies and gentleman, meet Joyce. She’s an amazing wife and mother who loves grandbabies like a crack head loves an eight ball. Her two biggest fears are chickens and quicksand, and she knows all the words to the Hillshire Farms meat song. With the ability to turn anything into a song, you should hear her rendition of, “please take the trash out to the street, honey,” to the tune of “What ya Gonna do When the Well Runs Dry?” She would give away her last dime and if you ever catch her topless, cut her some slack. She most likely just gave someone the shirt off her back.

By trade, my mom is a reading coach at a public school in Alabama. She has lots of students and lots of responsibilities, but within minutes of my phone call she had pushed everything aside, put her life on hold, and was headed to Tennessee.

As soon as she arrived she was doing our laundry, walking our dog, and cooking our meth. She was a saint sent to save me from my own demise. I’ve always been thankful for her, but there was something about this act of selfless maternal heroism that left me full of something and this time, instead of crap, it was pride and inspiration. I hope to one day return the favor.

My mom is a special and unique lady. She definitely can’t hold her wine and she sometimes laughs until she pees, but I wouldn’t have her any other way. To the students who missed her last week while she took care of us, I say get over it. She’s my mom. Get your own.