HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

This is my son last Halloween, as Magnum P.I. Please note the chest hair. Due to time constraints this year, I wasn't as creative with his costume, but hopefully there will be some funny pics to follow. Trick or treat!

Brantley-isms

Brantley walked into the kitchen after a long day at work, and sat down at the table with an exasperated sigh. "Once again, breast cancer has upstaged pharmacist's month."

What could I say? "Oh, honey...those awful women. I'm so sorry."

What the Cat Dragged In

Staying true to my new year’s resolution of trying new things, I ventured out over the weekend to a drag show. This was a first for me and I didn’t really know what to expect. Upon walking in the door, I immediately noticed lots of good looking guys, some of which were shirtless. I thought it a bit cold outside to be sporting this look, but then what did I know. Different types of people were all hanging out together. I sat at a table with my friends and took it all in.

At the bar were some very pretty girls wearing outfits much cooler than mine. I wondered if they too were straight girls who had come out with their gay friends to see a show. The next group I encountered was the lesbians, and I’m not talking about your average, “I wonder if she’s a lesbian,” lesbian. These ladies were hardcore and representing in full force. Mohawks, wife beater tees and all. This group scared me as it always has. Throughout the years I’ve had many gay male friends, but never the other way around. I’ve always thought of lesbians as being very intense and ready to fight me at a moment’s notice. I left them alone.

We ordered a drink and the show began. Imagine my surprise when, onto the stage walked one of the pretty girls from the bar. She was still pretty, but this time clad in sequins and lip syncing to a Lady Gaga song. My mouth undoubtedly hit the floor, because my friend immediately leaned over and said, “Look at her feet. It’s a dead giveaway.” Lo and behold he was right, but “Deception” did have a body to die for…minus the hammer toes, lipo scars and penis.

Next up was the vocal stylings and suggestive shtick of comedian Carmella Marcella Garcia, a full figured gal who’s been in the business for over thirty years. She was very funny, very entertaining and had a very hairy back. All in all, it was a fun night. I helped celebrate the birthday of a dear friend and laughed harder than I have in a long time. I give it four out of four sparkly, sequined stars. Here's to trying new things.

Brantley-isms

• I had just lost a temporary crown for the ump-teenth time, yet Brantley was eager to get out of the house and go to lunch. After telling him I didn’t want to go out in public missing my front tooth, like a hillbilly, he asked, “How about Cracker Barrel?”
  

• I was in the laundry room emptying the dryer when I overheard Brantley talking to Luke in the next room. “Go tell mommy you have a chunky in your pants.”
  

• After mentioning that I was considering a nose ring, like my friend Myrna's, Brantley remarked, "It's totally up to you...if you want to call more attention to your nose." Thanks, honey.
  

Guest Blogger Robin O'Bryant

Allow me to introduce one of my favorite peeps. Her name is Robin O'Bryant and her website is called Robin's Chicks. This girl is hilarious, and it doesn't hurt that she has the funniest kids in the world. I hope you enjoy, "Fire the Ho" and "Effin' Egg."


Fire the Ho!

I was feeding Sadie(3 mos) this morning and Aubrey(4) walked in the den, fresh out of the bed and yelled, "Fire the ho!!!"

"What?"

"FIRE THE HO!" She screamed again, this time sounding a whole lot like Yosemite Sam.

"Fire in the hole, you mean???"

"NO, FIRE THE HO!" She said, for the third time.

I just shrugged and hoped she wasn't talking about me.


Effin' Eggs

Zeb had to work on Saturday a few weeks back. Because he is the most awesome husband alive (or possibly because he feared for his safety and the safety of his children), he stayed home until around 8:30 so I could sleep late. (Yes, people without children. 8:30 is late.)

I get up, get my coffee, check the email, update the FaceBook status...all of the important things you do first thing in the morning. My four year old, Aubrey, comes over and asks me if I'll make her pancakes. I told her I would be glad to as soon as I finished up on the computer.She said, "But Momma, there's only one effin egg...."


I'm still not really awake. (In case you don't know me, I prefer not to speak OR be spoken to until about 11:30am, but I have 3 kids under 4, so rarely do I get my way.)

I wasn't sure I heard her correctly...."WHAT did you say?" I asked her.

"THERE is only ONE EFFIN EGG!, " she is definitely screaming at me now.

This cannot be. Where would she have heard such language?

"Aubrey, what did you say?" Shaking both of her fists in the air, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "DADDY WAS GOING TO MAKE PANCAKES THIS MORNING, BUT THERE WAS ONLY ONE EFFIN EGG!

"Nice. I called Zeb and asked "Was there only one effin egg?"

His deep philosophical response..."oops." Lovely.

*Disclaimer- She did say "effin" and not the actual "f-bomb", it's my silver lining.

About 2 days later Aubrey walks in the kitchen while I'm washing dishes and looks me square in the eye and says "skid mark," My turn to scream.....ZEB!


Click HERE to read more from robinschicks.com.

Take Two of These and Call Me in the Morning

I was feeling rather puny with a sore throat and possible fever. I grabbed a thermometer lying on the counter and stuck it right in my mouth. I immediately noticed an awful taste and realized I had forgotten to use a plastic thermometer cover. “That tasted like ass,” I remarked.

Brantley was standing nearby and hadn’t been paying any attention. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The thermometer,” I told him.

“Oh, sorry I left it laying out. I took Luke’s temperature earlier. I know it’s gross, but I couldn’t find the probe covers so I just stuck it right in his booty. I was going to clean it with alcohol but I got distracted.”

I suddenly felt worse, but it soon passed along with the aftertaste. It’s amazing what you’re able to get over when you’re a mom. Somewhere along the way I developed an immunity to the grotesque. Years ago this would’ve landed me on the bathroom floor, calling to the porcelain gods. Instead, I just shook it off and brushed my teeth, hoping that I used the right toothbrush.

Although I was unable to legitimize my illness with an actual fever, I didn’t let that stop me from whining. I went straight to my sick day catch phrase: “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
Hearing this, Brantley rolled his eyes.

I laid it on thicker, “If I don’t make it, I won’t you to take all my stories and…”

“Set them on fire?” Brantley asked.

“No. What the hell? Why would you even say that?”

“I was just trying to finish your sentence.”

“Well you didn’t. Never mind. Just forget it. I changed my mind. I’m no longer bequeathing my stories to you. Consider yourself un-bequeathed.”

With a disgusted look on his face, he remarked, “Oh, that just sounds nasty.”

Worst Case Scenarios

We’ve all fallen victim to unavoidable and awkward situations, whether it be your dreaded yearly review at work, or the second time you had to tell your mom that you had the clap. There are times when we would give anything to be somewhere else. If this sounds like you, then put down the bottle and listen up.

By inserting the worst case scenario method of coping (WCS) to any awkward situation, you can instantly go from mortified to made. The concept is simple: hope for the best but expect the worst out of every situation. You will never be disappointed if you consistently under-expect.

Example: “My blind date, Ricky, did floss his one tooth on the way to Sizzler, but at least I didn’t fall victim to a prison gang bang like I expected. This night turned out better than I thought it would. Thanks, Lori!”

Give it a try next time you go to the gynecologist or have to turn your head and cough. You may leave with a disappointing diagnosis, but chances are your leg won’t be gnawed off by a bear in the process.

Brantley-isms

• After announcing his departure to the little boys’ room, I asked Brantley to please use the overhead fan. I am after all, a fecal-phobic. His response, “I can’t crap with all that racket.”
  


• After gawking at a half naked woman on TV, Brantley decided to smooth things over with me. “I love you just the way you are…more or less.”

Life's a Beach

The sky was completely gray like one massive cloud hiding the sun. A light drizzle was falling and it was a breezy eighty degrees. Since when had this become a perfect day at the beach?

Oh, how drastically my life, and subsequent beach criteria, has changed since I birthed a person fifteen months ago. In my pre-baby days, clouds and rain would’ve rendered me land locked, most likely spending my time shopping. However, now eighty degrees and rainy means not having to slather Casper in SPF 50 every thirty minutes and being able to chase him down the beach without popping a lung.

Rather than fret over getting and keeping a tan, I think I’ll leave the sun worshipping to the teeny boppers, along with miniskirts, wine coolers and dry humping. Being covered in baby oil while carefully undoing my straps to avoid tan lines…quoth the mother, nevermore.

Morning Timeline, by guest blogger Jodi Burrus

Three Short Hours

5:45 — Triplets are up. Jack is still asleep. Consider waking him up just so we can all suffer together.

6:00 — Potty time finished and new pull-ups on. Sam and Tom immediately pee themselves.

6:15 — Breakfast on the table. Two Apple Jacks and One Cheerios. Still no sign of Jack.

6:45 — Jack shows up and demands sausage biscuits instead of cereal (@#$%!!! I know where this will lead).

6:48 — Trips see Jack’s sausage biscuits and each want one of their own despite the fact that 1) they’ve just eaten cereal and 2) they all hate sausage biscuits.

6:50 — Prepare more sausage biscuits and distribute to Sam, Tom and Will only to be told immediately, “I don-wike-it, mommy.”

7:00 — After suitable waiting period in which no food is consumed, throw uneaten sausage biscuits in garbage.

7:15 — Enjoying the cartoon hour by catching up on e-mail, blog comments (I LOVE blog comments).

7:16 — Will re-enters the room sans pants. Notice both he and Sam are soaking wet, and there is a tell tale sign of poop lingering on Will’s bum.

7:16 – 7:30 — Retrace their path. Find pooled water around bathroom sink and dog’s water bowl. Cannot locate dirty pull-up but am assured through limited vocabulary and expansive sign language that said pull-up is now in the garbage and it’s contents flushed down the toilet. Clean up of Will, Sam and bathroom floor complete.

7:30 to 7:45 — Mommy breakfast. Warm SlimFast. Mmmmm. (*gag*) And more cartoons.

7:45 to 8:00 — Outfits assembled for all four boys. Underwear donned. Socks and shoes distributed.

8:00 — Just finishing dressing the last boy in line when Sam shoves a crumpled paper towel under my nose, narrowly missing my face. Inside?–a turd.

8:00 to 8:20 — Hysterical screaming. Fruitless demands to be apprised of any further hidden turd locations. Current turd placed in garbage and all garbage removed to outside cans as a precaution.

8:25 — Notice Sam is eating a sausage biscuit. Weren’t all the sausage biscuits in the garbage with the turd?

8:25 to 8:28 — Hysterical screaming, followed by discovery that Sam actually hid his sausage biscuit ration in the kitchen, and so it’s probably o.k. to let him finish it.

8:29 — Realize I need to use the bathroom. Determine that there is no way I’m leaving these crazies unguarded so plan to put it off as long as possible.

8:35 — Decide wetting own pants a possibility. Opt to risk a bathroom break. Warn Sam not to feed the dog the rest of his sausage biscuit.

8:35:30 — Jack barges into the bathroom to inform me the dog has just thrown up. Guess why.

8:36 to 8:45 — Hysterical screaming.

9:00 — School Dropoff. I shed tears of pure joy as I drive away. Realize it’s only 4 hours until pickup. Progress to uncontrollable weeping, then head home to spend two of those precious hours disinfecting the entire first floor of my house.

Isn’t it 5:00 SOMEWHERE????


Click HERE to read more from Jodi Burrus.

Brantley-isms

After last week’s dental implant surgery I made an appearance in a friend’s wedding as a swollen-faced, matron of honor. Unable to smile, I made it through the festivities with the help of Percocet. At the reception, I was practically assaulted by my husband on the dance floor. Gyrating, grinding, doing the Hammer shuffle, and jiggling his belly to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard,” Brantley really outdid himself. My face said it all. Yep, he’s going home with me tonight.

Later that evening, someone made reference to our readily approaching seven year itch. While scratching his neck Brantley remarked, “feels more like a rash to me.” Lovely.

For his final hoorah I overheard him tell the father of the groom, “I told him not to do it (get married).” I decided then that it was time to go (read: re-medicate). And with that, we said our goodbyes and left before he had a chance to do the electric slide.