Brantley-ims

The last couple of weeks have been pretty hectic for me and combined with a sick baby, I was a bit overdue for a hair appointment. I emerged from the bathroom yesterday morning flustered after a fruitless twenty minutes of trying to fix my hair. Brantley handled the subject with as much sensitivity as you would expect. "Are you getting your hair done this week?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. He went on, "it's not the style that's bad, but your roots would make Kunta Kinte blush."
Thanks, honey. I hadn't noticed.

Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bull @#$!

The circus is in town and forgive me if I don’t wet myself with excitement, but I HATE the circus. This is a problem. It’s a problem because I have a kid that will undoubtedly want to go one day. If I have my way, my son will never learn about the circus. It is a stupid and overly elaborate place where you sit in uncomfortable seats and smell elephant crap for three hours.

And we can’t forget the clowns. Tell me something, why is it that a grown man is allowed to parade around in a costume and a perma-smile for the sole purpose of entertaining children and he doesn’t get arrested? A priest could never get away with that.

Somewhere along the way a mother told her child that she’d be proud of him no matter what, and this is the result. I don’t care how many of you freaks just climbed out of a clown car in full costume. That’s not talent. I once saw twelve Mexicans climb out of a Geo Metro in front of Home Depot and they were all wearing steel toed boots. Top that.

Suffice it to say, if your forty year old son is performing for a crowd in oversized shoes and too much lipstick, you failed as a parent.

Lastly, a trip to the circus wouldn’t be complete without an overpriced hot dog or snow cone. I don’t know if it’s the music or the lights but something convinces you it’s alright to pay sixteen dollars for a funnel cake.

Hey everybody, want to see me ride my motorcycle in a tiny round cage while I dodge two other people on motorcycles? No, not at all. You can keep your animal excrement, your epilepsy inducing strobe lights, and your acrobats…and don’t you dare tell my kid about it, either.

Deep Thoughts by Lori Wescott

What a cruel twist of fate it is that the word, “lisp” has an “s” in it. Everyone should be able to thay their diagnothith.

My Kid is Better Than Yours...

I was bragging at work last week about my brilliant son, Luke (18 mos). At his young age he loves to turn things upside down and see how they work. One of my co-workers chimed in, “I had a nephew who used to do that but he’s grown now.”

“Really,” I asked. “What did he grow up to be?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s on disability for alcoholism.”

Terrific! I can't wait for that.

A Little Somethin' to Get You Through the Week

If ever you're having a bad day, you should visit http://www.awkardfamilyphotos.com/. Their laughable Kodak moments are sure to please. Here are a few for you to enjoy.

Suzie was only allowed to go without her helmet at birthday parties.

"...and the dish ran away with the spoon."

Bedtime stories

Have a great week!!

A Bit Nippy

Every Wednesday morning the public library in our town hosts story time, and yesterday I decided we would try it out. We took a seat and shortly after, the librarian began to read a book about turtles. There were about fifteen moms and twenty or so children present.

Luke was much more interested in the people than the book. He was feeling a little feisty and required redirection and shushing several times, but I expected as much from an eighteen month old. He expressed a desire to sit in the floor with some of the other kids so I allowed it. He gradually began making his way closer and closer to the librarian before finally going for it. The next thing I knew, he was standing in front of her with his hand on her leg.

I ran up to the front to retrieve him when he was suddenly stricken with with limp legs and collapsed to the floor. He thought this was very funny and chuckled as I began to get angry. Other moms were staring at us with eyes like saucers. Jeez, I thought. You’d think these women had never seen a temper tantrum before. I looked down with the intention of showing Luke a really serious, “I mean business,” face when I saw my right boob hanging completely out of my shirt. I’m not just talking about a nipple slip, either. I’m talking full on areola exposure in front of complete strangers AND their young kids. In a flash I had transformed a sweet and innocent story time into a peep show suitable for a Harlequin romance novel. Apparently, when I leaned over to try and pick Luke up, my fun bag had come out of my camisole (with a “built in bra”). After a few mere tugs of my sweater from Luke, the ground hog popped out and saw its shadow. (Looks like we’re going to have six more weeks of winter.)

I let go of Luke and collected myself, putting everything in its proper place. I held Luke’s hand as we made our way back to our seats with my free hand laid securely across my chest. We had almost made it to our seats when I stumbled. Unwilling to bear my goods twice, I used both arms to secure my top which left me with nothing to catch myself. I luckily landed without a face plant and ended up with only a bruised knee to add to my bruised ego. Soon after, it was craft time and we made a quiet exit.

I think it’s too soon to say if we’ll go back again, but if we do I’ll probably wear pasties. You just can’t be too careful these days. You never know what kind of trouble you can run into at the library.

Storm of the Century

We were warned about it for days. It was to be the first winter storm of 2010 for Nashville. Every grocery store in middle Tennessee was ravaged and raped of milk, bread and toilet paper, but in the end we only received two or three inches. It was, however, enough to close schools for a couple of days and gave everyone a little something to play in.

Being eighteen months old, it was the first snow that my son, Luke, was able to really enjoy. That alone made it special. When he awoke from his nap on Thursday the ground was finally covered and we suited up to head outside. Unfortunately, most of our winter gear was in my car, which Brantley had taken to work…so we improvised.

I ultimately decided that A) if you wear enough layers you don’t really need a big coat and B) tube socks pulled up your arms is a fine substitute for mittens. Luke didn’t seem to mind. Just compare his state of happiness in the photo of him wearing socks on his hands versus real mittens. No contest.

Wouldn't it be Funny if...

My older sister, Heather, and I used to play a game. In the game we would imagine doing absurd things during inappropriate times. I hate to say it, but the game was most often played during church (sorry, Mom and Dad).

Heather would start, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took off my clothes, ran up to the pulpit and started doing jumping jacks?”

“Yes!” I’d say. The answer was always yes. It was my turn. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took that man’s wig off and put it on his wife?”

“Yes!” “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took off my shoe and threw it at the preacher?” she’d ask.

“Yes!” “Wouldn’t it be funny if I reached over and slapped the person sitting in front of Leigh (our youngest sister) and they thought she did it?”

“Oh, yes!” she’d answer…and so the game would go.

Thankfully, we never acted on our ideas. Even then we knew the idea of our mischief was much better than the consequences of the real thing. As an adult I will occasionally surprise myself with a “wouldn’t it be funny if..” thought. While jumping on a trampoline with my son today I thought, wouldn’t it be funny if I was doing this with crutches and a cast on my leg? Now that I think about it, maybe not.

Misunderstand-ification

Please enjoy the following story as told by my mother. She recounted this to our family over the holidays. How could such a funny story have escaped her memory and not been passed along before now? Makes me wonder what other tricks she's got up her sleeve.

Guest blogger, Joyce-

My upbringing was pretty typical for the south in the sixties. My parents worked hard. My father worked night-shift at a paper mill while mamma took care of things at home. Mamma was a Christian woman with a kind heart and a stern hand. She never missed a prayer meeting on Sunday and was always first in line to help a friend in need. All in all, she was a classy gal.

I came home from school one day and found her, as usual, in the kitchen. My best friend, Judy, was with me. Mamma was stirring a pot on the stove, “You girls be really quiet.” she said. “I don’t want you waking up your daddy. He hasn’t slept well the last couple of days and when he came home from work this morning he was so horny.”

“What?” I asked, not believing my ears.

“He was. I’m not kiddin’. I said, Murphy you’re gonna have to stop this but he was so horny he wouldn’t even listen to me,” she said.

Judy’s eyes were as big as saucers and I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t fathom my mother speaking of such a thing. It wasn’t proper.

“Mamma," I asked. "Do you know what horny means?”

“Of course I do. It means stubborn and bull-headed.”

“No.” I told her. “It doesn’t mean that at all.” I delicately explained the accepted definition and it was met with a harsh rebuttal.

“It does NOT mean that!” she barked. “They wouldn’t have a word for that!”

She completely disregarded what I had told her. It was, I guess, unfathomable and so she continued to use the word incorrectly.

Years later we were in the grocery store when we ran into, Mrs. Peterson, one of her friends from church. Mrs. Peterson was a sharp lady who still drove herself to church every week despite being well into her eighties.

“We missed Murphy today in Sunday school.” She told mamma.

Mamma put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “I tell you what, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that man. I tried like everything to get him up this morning but he was so horny I just left him in the bed.”

Mrs. Peterson raised one eyebrow and smiled ever slow slightly. “See you next week,” she said as she shuffled away.

“She wasn’t very talkative,” mamma remarked as we continued down the aisle.

“She didn’t know what to say, because you made her uncomfortable! You can’t use that word anymore. It means something ugly!” I told her.

She responded with a “Hmmph,” but there was no argument to follow. I could tell by the look on her face that she finally understood.

It had taken many years and one awkward encounter with a church member for her to get it, but it had finally sunk in. From that day on the status of my father’s horniness remained behind closed doors, where it should be.