Balance…what’s that? by guest blogger Angie Mizzell

I used to work in TV news, and during that time, I developed an ear for “sound bites.” I could instantly detect when the person I was interviewing said something meaningful in 15 seconds or less. It didn’t matter what they said before and after that; if I got the sound bite, I was good to go. So today, when someone asks me, “What do you do?” I feel the pressure to answer in a simple sentence, before their eyes glaze over and they start searching for a stiff drink and someone more interesting to talk to.

The short story is I’m a mom of the 3-year-old and 3-month-old, and I’ve finally figured out I want to be a writer when I grow up. The whole story is so much bigger than that, but I want you to stick around, so I’ll spare you the gory details. I guess this is my payback for cutting out huge chunks of other people’s stories to fit the allotted segment time.

In my late 20’s, I left my TV news job in the pursuit of happiness. I didn’t have kids yet, but I knew I didn’t want to be married to my pager and forced to work nights, weekends and holidays after I started my family. At the time I was clueless that having kids was also a round the clock job.

I’ve been self-employed ever since. This is the part where I leave out a lot of details. Come to think of it… it looks like I’ve had a few stiff drinks when I wrote my resume. As I’ve tried to find balance between living the dream and paying the bills, I’ve changed my mind, and my direction, a lot.

Life teaches me something every day. One thing I’ve learned, balance is overrated. The older I get, the more I realize life is messy. It’s one thing to say I want it all, and it’s another to determine what that really is. Each day I must choose what’s really important and let go of the things that are not. To me, it’s like a dance. Feeling the rhythm, not controlling the steps.
The occasional cocktail helps, too.

You can follow my journey and join the conversation at my blog, Under the MAC.

(Thanks, Angie!)

Blog Tour

Starting tomorrow I will be participating in a blog tour. This means my blog will be visited by three, insightful guest bloggers over the coming weeks. You can expect the first guest blogger entry tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Public Restroom Confessions

During a family road trip over the weekend I found myself in the unavoidable situation of needing a public restroom. My mission was to pee and get out while touching as little as possible. I pushed the bathroom door open with my hip. The stale stench, drab décor and dim lighting would’ve made the perfect setting for a scary movie.

After much deliberation, I chose the stall farthest from the door. It should have the least germs, I thought. Dirty, lazy people would most likely choose the stall closest to the door. I would at least forego contact with their germs.

I use my sleeve to latch the door shut and commence my business, while hovering over the toilet. That was when I heard the door open and the scurrying of anxious feet. To my astonishment, I looked to the floor and saw two bare feet coming from the stall next to me. Even more disturbing was the condition of the feet. They were dirty on top, too.

Getting the bottoms of your feet soiled is understandable, especially considering someone who doesn’t wear shoes. But dirty on top could mean only one thing. They hadn’t seen a bath in days. Yikes.

I had no sooner finished my paperwork that I heard my neighbor to the left let out a loud moan, which was followed by, “Ohhhhh, Jesus.” I knew one thing. I had to get out of there and fast. So desperate to flee, I forewent the usual aseptic technique that I use to exit such a place. I placed my hand directly on the latch, opened it and went straight to the door. Grabbing the handle directly, I swung it open with such force that it banged against the wall.

As I walked back to the car I couldn’t help thinking about all the germs now residing on my hands. I could almost feel them. Rotavirus, swine flu, booty funk. Who knows what I’ll come down with in the coming days? Unfortunately, some things are worth it.

The 2007 Teddy Grahaming

Guest blogger- my little sister, Leigh

I was working my shift at the pharmacy when a lady pulled up to the drive-thru window. She had two young kids in the backseat who were bickering and snacking on Teddy Grahams. The customer told me she was picking up a prescription for Lortab under the name Murphy, but when I went to the bin to retrieve it, it wasn’t there. I questioned the pharmacist regarding the location of the missing prescription and she informed me that Ms. Murphy had gotten her Lortab refilled just two days prior and should have several tablets left.

I reluctantly walked to the window to deliver the bad news. “I’m sorry, Ms. Murphy but you can’t get your Lortab refilled for two more days.” She immediately became very upset and started shouting expletives at the top of her lungs.

I apologized again to Ms. Murphy and noticed her reaching into the backseat. Before I knew it, I was being hit in the face with something. Unfortunately, my quick thinking didn’t kick in because I was pummeled with three or four handfuls of Teddy Grahams before it occurred to me to close the window. Once the window was closed, she continued throwing gobs of the tasty snack to no avail. They ricocheted off the glass and a few even landed back in the car with her.

Although I was hit several times, I escaped with only minor injuries. Had the police been called I think the news story would’ve read something like this, “Officer Jones was quoted as saying that this was the worst Teddy Grahaming since the infamous Teddy Grahaming of 1988…but it could’ve been a lot worse.”

I offer you a word to the wise. Be careful out there on the streets because you never know when you might be the victim of a drive-by Teddy Grahaming.

More "Brantley-isms"

· After seeing an ad for Playtex “sport” tampons, he turns to me and asks, “Are those supposed to exercise your hoo-ha?” The sad part was I didn’t know what to say.


· While riding in the car, he checks himself out in the rearview mirror and remarks, “Damn, I’m a good looking man! You married up.” Nice.

· I was in tears one night, reading a sweet poem written by my friend, Myrna, when Brantley interrupts me with, “I sh*# a turd so big today that I almost fainted.” I suddenly wanted to cry for different reasons.

Great Balls of Fire!

Serena Williams has made a multi-million dollar career out of playing with balls. How ironic that hers would finally descend during last week's U.S. Open semi-finals?

After being the victim of a poor call by a line judge, Williams, who was overcome with testosterone threatened, "I swear to God, I'm f------ going to take this f------ ball and shove it down your f------ throat, you hear that? I swear to God."

Hellooooo, roid rage!

Forget insincere apologies, it’s time to pee in a cup, already. And while we’re at it could someone at the lab please verify that she is, indeed, female. I’m beginning to have my doubts.

PS: Serena, if you're reading this please know that I'm totally kidding. Did I mention that I really like your headband? Please don't hurt me.

The Seven Year Itch...and no, I don't mean crabs

“I moved all my stuff into the guest bathroom,” Brantley (husband) mentioned in passing. “Excuse me?” I asked. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You take up too much room. I want my own space.”

Our master bathroom houses a double sink with a large vanity and from time to time, my things may, sort of, somewhat, encroach (slightly) onto his side of the counter. So what? It’s part of being married.

“This is absolutely unacceptable. We’re approaching our seven year itch. You can’t bathroom divorce me. I’m already under a time crunch to decide whether or not we’re compatible. How can I do that if we aren’t even using the same bathroom?”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a very big deal! Today you stop sharing a bathroom with me, and the next thing you know you’re clad in a tight Ed Hardy t-shirt and neglecting your eight kids. Damn it, I will not be your Kate Gosselin!”

“Stop being dramatic. You’re just mad because you won’t be able to use my razor and mooch my shave gel.”

Busted. He had me. No one replenishes toiletries the way that man does. He’s a fiend when it comes to bathroom stock. By the time the bar of soap gets a little too small to handle, it’s whisked away and magically replaced by a shiny new one. He has a constant bathroom inventory going and I wasn’t ready to take on that kind of responsibility.

I tried the guilt route.

“I really miss you. It’s just not the same. I feel like we don’t see each other as much. It’s like we’re out of sync.”

“When we shared a bathroom I would go in and close the door, come out about ten minutes later and you would gripe at me for not striking a match. Do you miss that?”

I thought hard. “Umm, yes.

“Too bad.”

I could tell he was enjoying this. It was time to give in and stroke the ego.

“Ok, yes. Fine. I miss your bathroom management. Without you my bathroom has no system. My biggest fear is that, without your leadership, it will fall.”

Gloating, he agrees under the condition that I move all of his stuff back into our bathroom. I reluctantly oblige.

I realize that I reduced myself to shameful groveling, a condition I abhor, but I had ultimately won the war. I knew this for certain the next morning when, upon entering the shower, I discovered shampoo on the left, conditioner on the right, clean towels on the rack and a brand new bar of soap.

I was so gleeful that upon exiting the shower I almost forgot to passive aggressively leave everything in disarray. With the soap on the floor, the conditioner on the left and shave gel squirted on the glass, the world was as it should be. Finally, things were back to normal.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

It was Sunday morning and my husband, Brantley, was at work. I had a lot to accomplish around the house, and with Luke (14 mos.) in tow, I knew finishing all my chores would take the better part of the day. Early on I decided that I’d put my hygiene on hold until he went down for his noon nap. What did it matter any way? We had nowhere to be and weren’t expecting company.

When I got Luke out of his crib, he was his usual jovial self. He wiggled and squirmed around while I attempted to change his diaper. I could tell he was looking for something and I knew exactly what it was. He finally locates his tube of thermometer lubricant and immediately puts the cap in his mouth. Since his lower teeth came in, he’s been obsessed with using them to pry things open. A habit that has earned him the title of “the can opener.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him continue playing with the tube o’ lube or carry it downstairs, but I was desperate to keep him happy and occupied this morning because I had a lot to do. After breakfast we went outside to begin watering the plants. I wouldn’t normally be seen outside of my house bra-less in my mismatched pj’s and rat’s nest hair but it was eight o’clock Sunday morning and no one was out yet.

I was watering the last basket of geraniums when I heard a voice from behind. “Good morning, Wescotts!” It was my neighbor, Margaret, from down the street. Margaret is one of those people who is always put together and this morning was no exception. Clad in a cute outfit and sporting a new do, she looked ready to take on the world, as did her one year old son who sat quietly in his stroller.

“Hey, Margaret. How’s it goin’?”

“Oh just great. Isn’t this weather perfect? I got up at five this morning and went for a run then drank my coffee while I watched the sun rise.”

She then looks down at Luke, who still has ketchup on his face, a pajama top covered with breakfast and a saggy diaper with no pants.

“Hey, buddy. Whatcha got there? Wait. Is that…KY Jelly he’s holding?”

Having totally forgotten about the tube o’ lube, I look down at Luke and see that he has the top off and is actually squirting it into his mouth. There was even a little residual on his left cheek. I cower defenselessly. “Yeah…it is. We were out of Smuckers.”

With that, the conversation ended and they were on their merry way. Luke and I, then managed to finish our chores. He napped, I bathed, and by the time three o’clock rolled around, we were rested, dressed and presentable.

My family can look put together too, you see. It just takes a lot of time and a little KY Jelly. I mean, elbow grease.

Picture-Palooza

I wanted to take a moment and share with you some humorous photos that I've come across. I hope you enjoy.

Pet mullets -

The latest in maternity wear -














Nashville's very own version of Flava Flav. This was taken at a Tennessee Titans football game, and yes, it's a spinner -

Tenessean Article

Bonnie Burch of the Tennessean newsaper interviewed me recently regarding the America's Funniest Humor Writing contest. Click HERE to read the full article.

Worst Day Ever!

It was nine thirty in the morning and Luke and I were on our way to Sam’s. Brantley and I were to be hosting a wedding shower the next night and we needed a few more items. Not long into the trip I was shocked to see flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I was being pulled over.

I began to panic and it was in no way rational. “Keep it together. Keep it together. I can’t go to jail. I don’t want to get tasered. I wouldn’t last one minute in jail. Keep it together.”

I rolled down my window and began looking for my insurance card. That’s when a voice boomed in my ear, “Good morning.”

Standing next to me was the police officer. I hadn’t heard or seen him approaching my car and his greeting startled me. What resulted was a long scream that didn’t cease until I clapped my hands over my mouth. Afraid to let my hands off my mouth, I talked through them. “I’ve never been pulled over.”

“Calm down. Everything’s ok,” he says. “I just need to see your license, proof of insurance and registration.”

Unfortunately for me, my current insurance card was at home on my desk. I told the officer that the insurance card I had in my wallet was two weeks expired and that the most recent one was at home. He told me that he could let me off with a warning for speeding but he had to issue me a citation for not having proof of insurance.

“I’ll be right back with your license,” he said as he began to walk away. Then, suddenly he stopped and looked back at me, “Is there anything I’m going to find when I look up your driver’s license?” he
asked.

Panic set in all over again. “Find? I have no idea. You’d know better than I would. What are the possibilities? I mean I’ve never been arrested, or anything. Well, ok, I know I said that I had never been pulled over before, but actually there was this one time when I went through a traffic stop that was set up on the highway. They just let me through though because I wasn’t drunk. And, ok…I did smoke pot twice in college, but I never got caught or anything and I’m really sorry.”

I could tell by his face that I had said too much. He started backing away and waving his hands a little. “No. That’s not what I meant. You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.” he said.

Great, I thought. Just great. I had spilled my guts for no reason. A couple of minutes later he returned with my citation and Luke and I headed back home to get my insurance card and change his diaper. While gathering my insurance information Luke fell and began to cry. That wasn’t unusual. Babies are unsteady. Babies fall. Babies cry. I couldn’t find a scratch on him so as soon as he calmed down we headed back out the door.

However, on the drive there, Luke became fussy. I realized it was eleven o’clock. He must be hungry, I thought. I decided I should go ahead and feed him so I swung the car into a drive through right across the street from Sam’s. Our destination was so close I could see it. We would grab a quick but to eat and be on our way. I turned around to hand Luke a chicken strip and I couldn’t believe my eyes. On his forehead, right between his eyes was a blue lump the size of a lemon. I did a quick pupil check which was normal, but decided to play it safe and take him to the doctor anyway.

The doctor was impressed with his horn, but ultimately diagnosed him with only a hematoma (aka big, ugly bruise). She said he would be just fine, other than a bad headache for a couple of days. By the time we got out of there it was noon, which meant it was time for Luke’s three hour nap. We headed home. Sam’s had evaded us, yet again.

When Luke woke up from his nap, my in-laws were there to pick him up for an overnight visit. Finally, time to do a little party planning. I decided to head out, yet again, to Sam’s and was elated to
have made it there and back in one piece.

Once home, I heated up a quesadilla (from Sam’s, of course) so I could snack while I got the house ready. Halfway into my dinner, however, I bit down on something really hard. What the hell? Is that a bone? I spit the object out and could see something small and white. It was a tooth, and not just any tooth, but a “lateral.” Laterals are normally located on each side of your front teeth…not your kitchen counter. What was supposed to be a permanent crown had just found a very inopportune time to become less than permanent.

Having had my teeth cleaned the week before, I knew my dentist was at Disney World with his family and wouldn’t be back for a week. Awesome. Hey Doc, say hey to Goofy for me because that’s who I f@!#$*%^ look like right now.

So there I was with a court date for not having proof of insurance, a baby with a horn, and an achy breaky smile. It had been a very bad day. However, to make a (really) long story short, I found another dentist the next morning who was willing to help me on a Saturday AND I didn’t have to change the wedding shower from a luau to a hoedown to match my teeth. In the end, I hosted the shower with my tooth intact and without having been tasered or going to jail.

Brantley-isms and Other Funny Stuff My Husband Says

-- “Will you go downstairs and get me some popsicles?”

-- (Referring to a 60 year old car hop at Sonic.)
Brantley: She totally wanted me…
Me: (eye roll)
Brantley: …and I might just let her have it.
Me: Good. Hand me my corndog.

-- (Following my appointment at the allergist)
Brantley: Your ailments are really bringing me down.
Me: Really?
Brantley: That’s what I said.
Me: Just so we’re clear, if I didn’t have this mold allergy you’d be sailing your yacht around the world or living it up at the Playboy mansion right now?
Brantley: Something like that.
Me: Well that’s a shame. I really suck.
Brantley: I know.

And my personal favorite,
-- “There’s some turds under the dining room table.”

And this is just one day’s worth!

Breaking News

It was just announced that TLC's the Duggar family is expecting their nineteenth child. I've searched high and low for any indication that I give a crap. So far I've come up with nothing, but I'll keep looking. Will keep you posted.