I Just Want To Be Alone!

Luke: "Mom, will you help me make a sign for my bedroom door?"

Me: "If I can coordinate the colors to match your bedroom and mount it on card stock?"

Luke: "What does that mean."

Me: "It means I'll help you if you let me make it pretty."

Luke: "No!"

Me: "Then, no. I won't help you."

Luke: "Ok, fine. But, not too pretty."

Me: "Deal."

I didn't realized at the time that I had just agreed to make a sign that had the sole purpose and intent of keeping ME out of his bedroom. However, I didn't fret over it for too long because truth be told, I appreciate space and privacy just as much as my five-year-old son. Maybe more...

This is one of many examples of why I am delighted to be a contributing author in the soon to be released book, I Just Want To Be Alone.

Jen of People I Want To Punch In The Throat is a blogger that people love to love and love to hate, depending on who's receiving the aforementioned throat punch. Last year, she released the wildly successful precursor to this book- a hilarious view of motherhood entitled I Just Want To Pee Alone. However, when Jen asked who would like to take part in a second volume which was to include the topic of husbands I raised both hands and a foot. 

You may have read the bit of husband bashing I wrote about in "You Have Lipstick On Your Teeth" last year, but something tells me you'll have my back once again after reading my chapter, "Rehearsal Dinner Roofie." 

Pre-order your copy today!

Lori

Loripalooza Valentine's Day Edition: Love Hurts

It's been said before, but I'll say it again. I'm not big on romance. I don't want anyone to gaze endearingly into my eyes unless they have challenged me aloud by shouting, "Staring contest!"

Valentine's day for the husband and I involves zero expectations. It isn't like Christmas when we say we're going to keep our gift exchange low key, then both of us secretly and simultaneously do the opposite. We literally don't observe it and I LOVE that. 

Our son on the other hand is a hopeless romantic. 

"I love valentime's day," he tells me. 

"What do you love about it?"

"Because it's all about love. I can't wait until me and my wife live here without you and Dad."

"Why can't your Dad and I stay here. This is our house, too."

"Mom, you have your own husband. You need your own place."

I ran up the stairs and before slamming my bedroom door I shouted, "I hate you! You're not even my real kid!!!" 

OK I didn't actually say that, (to his face) but lately he's been obsessed with talking about his wife and I'd probably be more concerned if it weren't for the fact that his wife is a stuffed dog. 

It makes absolutely no sense, but a few weeks ago he announced that he had a wife and that she was coming for dinner. She has been at the table for every family meal since then. She's proving to be a persistent gal.  

I do my best to ignore it when he talks about her, but this week he insisted on taking her to school for show and tell. Believe me I tried, but there was no talking him out of it. 

When I picked him up from school his teachers were very amused. They had been hearing great things about his wife for weeks, so naturally they were excited to finally meet her. 

On the ride home I said, "How was school?"

"It was good," he said nonchalantly, "except that Owen punched my wife."

I spit coffee all over my steering wheel as I guffawed with laughter. 

"Mom, it isn't funny."

Of course it wasn't. There's nothing funny about domestic abuse. BUT IT WAS because his wife is a stuffed pug. I don't even mind admitting that I've punched her a couple of times, myself. She's mouthy. 

Thankfully, I'm friends with Owen's Mom. When we got home I sent her a text explaining what had gone down and to let her know that her son was a wife beater. No big deal. Thankfully, I had relocated myself to the office where I was pretending to check my email so Luke couldn't hear me laughing. Owen's Mom responded back with, "Tell your son to keep his wife at home from now on unless she wants to get punched again."

The mere image of his Pre-K classroom being rocked by such a scandal had me laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face and I could barely catch my breath. 

They grow up fast in Brentwood, TN. 

How do teachers manage to keep it together? I bet it's alcohol. 

Happy Valentine's day!!

xoxo

Lori

I'm a Co-Author of "You Have Lipstick On Your Teeth!!" #ITPRlipstick

When Editor-In-Chief of In the Powder Room, Leslie Marinelli, asked me to contribute to their first ever anthology I was ecstatic. In fact, I read the email three times just to make sure she hadn’t sent it to the wrong person.

My next task was to write a funny and honest story that I’d only share with my closest girlfriends. When Leslie gave me the ok, and even the encouragement to write a PG-13 story, I knew immediately which story to choose.

To my husband, Brantley’s surprise and disdain I had actually shared these boudoir stories with my best friend, and judging from the amount of Merlot that shot out her nose I knew it would be a good read.

I won’t spoil the details because I want you to buy the book, but suffice it to say that our marriage has changed over the course of ten years. Our likes and dislikes have changed, as well as the effort we sometimes put forth in the romance department.

Whether you're looking for a fun beach read, or just something to pass the time in the car-pool line, then look no further than "You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth" and Other Things You'll Only Hear from Your Friends In The Powder Room.

However, if you’re wearing a white blouse while reading this book, then I recommend you wear a bib. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

You can click here to read more about the book and the other awesome contributors. I'm proud to be in such notable, talented company!

*Also, stay tuned for details on book signings and events!!*

Post-Valentine Confession

Now that Valentine's day is over I can stop pretending that I have a perfect marriage and tell you what happened the week before. Ermahgerd!!

So ok, I got really mad at Brantley Wescott two weeks ago, and I can't remember the details right now, but trust me that he was being a total douche. I know I have it all written down in text messages to my friends. Hang on while I look it up. Here it is. (Oh, Jesus take the wheel! I'm angry again!!)

He wasn't being a good communicator and he said, "Shut-up," to me.

I'm not kidding. I was furious.

Later on, but before he apologized (that detail is crucial), I ran errands that landed me near in proximity to Green Hills Mall, specifically Nordstrom. I can honestly say that I've never been revenge shopping before, but I did it that day and it felt good. At least, until check out time when the girl ringing me up (who I realized by engaging in not-so-small talk with, is someone who I was almost related to by marriage, briefly, but still. Small world!!) said, "I need your address so I can send you a thank you note in the mail." I asked her to forego the formality and just say it to my face, but she insisted and I wasn't far enough along in my friendship/almost kin-ship with her to tell her that I was shopping on the down-low, not to mention my mail phobia. I mean, if I don't know who licked it, or recognize the handwriting on the envelope, then it goes straight into the pile for Brantley to open. Because of this, I have an open mail policy with my husband, and there is a good chance of him intercepting said "thank you" note. Rats!!!

I then added that I'm a terrible liar, and that there was very little chance of making it through the day without spilling my own beans, anyway. Brantley always knows I'm lying because I have a tell. It consists of me speaking in a loud-monotone voice while gazing directly into his neck. I swear it's like he's in the CIA, or something. He always knows.

Anyway, a few days later this envelope came in the mail and it made me chuckle.

Clearly, it's NOT from Nordstrom.

Bicentennial Period

This post will be written as delicately as possible because there are still people out there who think having your period somehow involves pouring a blue liquid from a beaker onto a maxi pad. I'll do my best to not blow their empty skulls minds.

After Luke was born I was fitted with an amazing birth control device called Mirena™. It's an IUD which keeps me from being able to make a baby for five years. I'd prefer longer, but for now that will do. If I had another kid right now, or any time or any time in the future it's name would be Cutter, regardless of the gender, but I digress. Another lovely add-on to having this IUD is that I have no monthly reminder of how much I hate everything, but chocolate.

I've reaped the benefits of this month to month freedom for four years in a row. That is, until yesterday. To be honest, it has left me in a state of uncontrollable wrath followed by tears, hunger, and more wrath. My husband is handling it as best he can, despite receiving some very bipolar test messages from me yesterday. The first, "DO IT YOUR ^%$#@!* SELF!" was followed by, "Please bring home any type of roasted nut, and a real coke. It better not be diet." He complied out of fear of the next message saying, "It puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again."

I awoke this morning angry because the sun had risen again despite everything going on in my life. This left with me with no other choice but to make a raised middle finger my first form of communication for the day.

I will now share with you a list of things that make me angry, followed by a video that really captures my sentiments.

(Say I won't)

Things That Make Me Want To Cut A Ho

• People who leave their windshield wipers on after it has stopped raining, causing them to skip across the windshield with a, "bump-ump-ump-ump-ump," sound. 
• People who use umbrellas to block the sun when they're NOT at the beach. "Hey lady waiting for a bus, it's called vitamin-D. Cover your melanoma with a band aid and get some."
• People who disagree with me.
• People who agree with me. Get your own opinion. This one's mine.
• People who walk through a door that you held open for them and don't say, "Thank you." Your welcome, your majesty. Shall I help you blow your nose, as well?
• Autocorrect for changing the spelling of my bad words AND my good words. I really appreciate it when I type, "Well," and Autocorrect changes it to, "Wellbutrin." 
• People who chew with their mouths open. You know who you are. 
• Ghost, Big Foot and chupacabra skeptics. How much more evidence do you need?
• Coupon scammers- because that's what they are.
• Things that are too high for me to reach. I'm 5'3" and I will most likely get shorter with age. Get a clue. All I want is olive oil to cook our dinner and the note clearly reads, "Hey dildo, don't put anything above this shelf." Was I too vague?

• Puppies

Please enjoy the video while I cry into my pillow for now reason at all. 

My Journey to Independence (through a list of parts marked AA-EE)

If you heard crying and swearing coming from my backyard yesterday it's because with Luke's help, I put together a fire pit. To be quite honest, his help was minimal and came with a little bit of back-talk so I'm going forward with taking sole credit for this project.

With several sheets of instructions, tools, and many, many parts I was able to complete my task in about two and a half hours. (Please re-read the last sentence for effect.) Not to brag, but I'm a pretty big deal around my house this morning. My husband, Brantley said he was impressed and seemed sincere. His only criticism was, "I can't believe you used the crappy wrench that came in the box. Classic rookie mistake."

Half-way finished in this photo, and it was taken
right after I figured out how nuts and  bolts
work together. It makes so much sense now!!

I garnered so much respect out of this accomplishment that Brantley even sat through half of the telling of my dream from last night. I got all the way through the bear attack and my escape through a koi pond, but not quite to the volley ball tournament before he walked out saying, "Oh my God. I don't care." That's progress, folks and for the record he should NOT ask why I was sleep screaming again unless he is willing to hear the WHOLE story.

Wobbling is cool, right?

Check and mate. Lori- 1. Brantley- 0. 

Marital Banter

Brantley: "Who tore all my whole wheat pitas in half?"
Me: "Lucas did it."
Brantley: "Lori Lyle, I'm tired of your lies."
Me: "And, I'm tired of telling them, but you keep asking me questions I don't want to answer."

Almost Wordless Wednesday

Yes, I just realized that today is Thursday (oh, the plight of the stay-at-home Mom) which, for the record makes me lazy AND absent-minded. I make up for it by being really honest, though. 

Here are a couple more photos from the Muddy Buddy race. 

Not cute.

Brantley- "I put my chapstick in my mouth so it wouldn't get muddy in my pocket."
"Of course you did."

The Columbia Muddy Buddy: A Marriage Boot Camp

Today is Monday and my energy level has only now returned enough to rehash Saturday's race known as, the Columbia Muddy Buddy. As the name suggests it was a buddy race. My partner was, you guessed it, Brantley Wescott. Suffice it to say, it was a dark day for our marriage. 

When we signed on to do this crazy thing the description said it would be somewhere between three and four miles, so I trained by running three and a half miles at a time. Finding out two days before the race that it was going to be four and a half miles was a little discouraging, but what was one more mile, right?
I started out strong and steady. We paced ourselves so as not to run out of steam too early. I had to save energy for the ten military style obstacles that were ahead. About every half mile there would be an obstacle. We climbed up and over several cargo nets, scaled an eight and a twelve foot wall (read: Brantley threw me over an eight and twelve foot wall), as well as a few other things that are hard to explain.
Another thing that wasn't mentioned in the race description was the mountain we had to climb. You'd think they'd remember an enormous detail like that. To take it a step further, the entire race was a path that had been cleared going up, down and around a mountain. This made it impossible to run, even for the show-offs who would cling to this tree or that to keep from sliding back down. All up and down this mountain people were seated or leaning on a tree trying to catch their breath. This is the place where things got ugly for me. I failed to mention that the night before I had tripped and broken one of my toes. I have great timing. There was nothing I could do but tape it up and go. It hurt but wasn't excruciating, that is until I met the mountain.
As I chugged slowly forward following several steps behind Brantley, he turned around to look at me. "Come on," he said. "Put the move on it."
"Ok, look. I'm not going to make it off this mountain. You go on ahead for supplies. Bring back something to make a hammock."
He wasn't being sympathetic and the space between us had widened. "Oh, stop it. Just come on," he said and with that began climbing even faster.
"Screw you and screw this mountain!"
Brantley had heard enough and proceeded to ascend all the way to the top without his buddy. My tortoise pace continued up the mountain when I saw what angered me even more. Brantley had become bored from waiting on me and was on his way back down to get me and climb back up again. I said some very bad words, but ultimately put him to use by pushing me from behind. That was all I needed, just a little help for the last fifty or so feet. When we finally made it to the top I turned to look at all the people still climbing up behind us. Losers. But, the celebration was over. We still had two and a half miles to go.
There came a point around the last mile and a half when I began having cold chills. There were goose bumps all over my arms and legs. I was fairly certain that it wasn't a great sign, but we were in the middle of nowhere and there was no telling where the next water station would be. So I kept going. The next obstacle was a giant inflatable slide covered by a cargo net. I climbed the cargo net to the top then went down the slide. When I lost my stomach on the way down a wave of nausea hit me. I walked over to the water table and started drinking. One of the volunteers said something to me to which I replied, "I'm sorry, but I can't hear you because my ears a ringing so loudly."
"Hurry up and come on," my partner urged, so off we went. "Why are you shaking?" Brantley asked ever so insensitively.
"Because I'm cold," I said with a look that meant, "Don't ask anymore stupid questions."
The next obstacle came about a half mile later. It was a balance beam. I was in no shape to balance on anything, so reluctantly I had to pass. Fortunately, there was only another mile to go and we finally made it to the end. The very last obstacle was the giant mud pit through which you had to crawl under a net. Mud had never felt so good.
And that was the Muddy Buddy. It was over. Believe it or not, I had a good time. As awful as I made it sound, there was never a point when I regretted being out there. I did regret not having trained in the heat more (I trained mostly in the early morning). Heat intolerance was a definite factor in my performance, but we finished and we weren't last. Even though I hadn't completed every obstacle and I had to be partially pushed up a mountain, I was proud of myself. I may even do it again one day.

Starting line

Finish line in the distance to the right

Before the race

After

Everyone hosing off after the race

Brantley Don't Read This! It's About Girl Stuff You Wouldn't Care About

It's been a couple of years since my husband's dramatic weight loss. I've never written about it...or, at least I don't remember having written about it. I have a really crappy memory. Anyway, I DO remember him saying that I wasn't allowed to write about his transformation from Brantley to Brantley-2.0, but I'll be honest, the shit has gotten real lately.

While I wholeheartedly respect him for having the chutzpa to lose 110 pounds by portion control and exercise, I am creeping closer and closer to my wit's end and it's due to two words. DIET FOOD.

Brantley does most of the grocery shopping, as well as the laundry (shut-up, I'm a princess). Those are great things, but the food he comes back with has grown increasingly harder to force down. Aside from produce, we have no normal food in the house. Everything has the words, "high," or "low" on it. For instance, I just ate a turkey and cheese high-fiber wrap that consisted of low-sodium turkey and low-fat cheese. The fiber is what's killing me. I'm breaking wind every time I move. Luke doesn't even think it's funny any more.

I went to the fridge this evening to fetch the ice-cream that I requested per the grocery list. Words cannot express the feeling of a soul being crushed, but I tell you that I felt it when I read the words, "Fat Free Chocolate." I forced it down, but I didn't enjoy it and I voiced my opinion on the matter.

I like being healthy as much as the next person, but I still need my comfort food. I'm ok with having a figure that says, "I workout sometimes, but yeah I eat cornbread." My best friend calls this being "supple." Yes, I can handle being supple, but it's growing harder and harder considering my lack of supplies.

So I'll be packing away emergency rations starting tomorrow. Each one will contain Little Debbie cakes, buttered popcorn, honey roasted peanuts, and of course, Diet Coke.

July 4, 2010

October 3, 2011

Marital Banter

Brantley had just fixed himself a fine looking turkey sandwich. I can't explain it, but I was feeling the overwhelming urge to bully someone. So without giving it too much thought I punched his sandwich flat. The bread was soft, and it felt great. Brantley expressed his disapproval. "What the hell was that for?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just saw it and felt like punching it."
"I see something I feel like punching too."
"Point taken. You complete me."

Happy Anniversary!! A Marriage Nine Years In the Making

On May 10th, 2003 Brantley Wescott made the smartest decision of his life by way of marrying me. Congratulations to him on managing to hang on to me for nine long years.
The following is a poem that, I think, sums up our marriage thus far.

I was twenty when we met, and I asked him on a date,

But he almost blew it, showing up an hour late.

We were babies when we married, although we felt quite grown.

23 and 26, our wild oats not even sewn.

Five years later we found out that we had a baby brewin’.

Then along came a Lucas, who did my pelvis ruin.

Nine years we’ve been married now. It’s come and gone so fast.

Suck it, all you haters who said we wouldn’t last.

Now times are even better. Can’t wait to see what else is in store.

I think we’ll stick it out and see at least a few years more.

I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I had the chance, because

He still fits me better than my favorite sweat pants.

He’s my best friend and husband who romances me with the quip,

“Why spend money on a divorce when we can use it to take a trip.”

The Wescott's 2011

Being a good Dad.

Now, here are some pictures of him with his clothes off.

Handsome enough to be a part-time sock model. Can anyone else say that about their husband?

Not him, but someone on a cereal box that resembles him.

I'm also going to include the Thunderballs video to give you an idea of what he's like in a live action (surveillance) situation.

Happy anniversary, Brantley Wescott! And, don't ever make me angry.

Brantley-isms: Valentines Shmalentines

I believe Valentine's Day is a made up holiday perpetrated on consumers by the candy, greeting card and medical industry in an effort to have us needlessly spend money. Those with partners fall for it hook, line and sinker with Godiva chocolates, and cheesy cards about love. Those without partners unnecessarily decide they must have a partner, if only for one night. That person then goes home with someone from the bar, catches a germ that won't wash off, and shows up at their doctor's office for treatment three to four days later.

One of the many things I love about my husband is that he is as unromantic as I am. Most women would've been appalled at the question he posed to me last week regarding Valentine's Day.
"Hey, instead of getting each other Valentine's Day cards this year, can we each throw five dollars in the garbage can? That's where it'll go the next day, anyway."
My heart swelled with pride. "You complete me."

I don't need a specific day of the year to remember that I have the most wonderful husband in the world (when he isn't being a butt hole). Happy VD everyone.

Luke-isms

Luke (3 1/2 yrs.) has become very interested in the subject of marriage this week.
"Mom, am I meh-weed?"
"No, you're not married."
"Oh, good."
Proof positive that men are born into this world with the presumption that marriage is something to be avoided.

Practicing being married

Yesterday I remarked to Baxter (our bi-curious Yorkie) that if he ran into the woods one more time he would be eaten by a coyote. Luke saw fit to correct me. "Mom it's pwo-nounced kwy-woah-tay. Try it again."
*sigh* "Kwy-woah-tay."
"Good job, Mom."

David Beckham Sexiest Man! Poppycock

I was driving down the road today when I heard a celebrity news bulletin on the radio. The DJ explained that David Beckham had been named Sexiest Man on the Planet for 2012. "How can this be?" I shouted. "They have not even met my husband. They don't know what they're missing." I knew then and there that it was my job to reach the nations with the glory that is Brantley L. Wescott.

Step 1: (There's only one step, actually.)
Flood the internet with attractive photos of him

Here you see him catching up on some beauty rest. It takes work to look that good, people. Work and face cream. I believe I have made my point (and quite possibly, laid the ground work for him to file for divorce). David Beckham has nothing on my Valentine. 

Brantley-isms

We were discussing the early start to my day when Brantley asked, "Why did you get up at 3:30 this morning?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just woke up and couldn't turn off my brain, I guess."
"Hmm, I never knew you turned it on."

The Devil Wears Osh-Kosh

I was so excited when Luke (3 yrs old) learned to talk. I remember thinking, "When, oh when will it happen?" but gone are those days. In their place I have been left with Mr. Comeback. This snarky little fella always has to have the last word. If there is a button to be pushed, rest assured he will find it and mash it until it's broken. I can't blame myself for everything he's learned. After all, what kind of wife would I be if I didn't blame my husband for 99% of my son's bad behavior?
My dear husband, Brantley, introduced Luke to Looney Tunes. It seemed harmless enough at the time, until Luke discovered Fog Horn Leg Horn, and I say, I say that chicken has one smart mouth on him. Luke usually has a hard time interpreting exactly what this character is saying, but the sentiment is the same. Case in point, I was told yesterday to" keep your big mouse shot." I gave him exactly two warnings before introducing him to a bar of lemon glycerin soap. Now, before you go calling me a child abuser, let me say that it's organic, and therefore healthier than a Happy Meal (which by the way, I would NEVER let my son eat), AND it's not like he's belching bubbles. I guess you could say that my method worked because he hasn't repeated the phrase since. He did, however, ask me to go snipe hunting last night. I'm pretty sure he's plotting revenge.

Marital Banter

The phone rang this morning and it was my husband.

"Hey, I just wanted you to know that the doctor is going to take this thing off my face, and there will be a few stitches," he said.

"What thing? I didn't know there was a thing. I thought you were at work."

"Well, you should pay better attention."

I could tell from his tone he was nervous."Wait," I said. "Are you at my plastic surgeon's office? Ask him if he got our Christmas card."

"He did. I'm looking at it right now."

"Oh, good. Tell him that if anything happens during your procedure they can go ahead and pull the plug. Hello. Hello??"

Rude.

I chose this photo because the photographer had forced us to hold hands, and the awkwardness is palpable. Brantley actually said the words, "Please make it stop."

Crank Calls

There have been times when my crank calls have gone terribly wrong. Those are stories for another day, but suffice it to say I haven't learned my lesson. Crank calling Brantley at work is one of my favorite pass times, and some would argue (ok, just me) that it's a legitimate hobby. When crank calling gets recognized as an Olympic sport I will wave my gold medallion in your faces.

The art of CC'ing requires a good bit of work. There are disguised voices involved, not to mention the back story and the slightly ridiculous request or complaint I will call with. Up to ten minutes can be spent at one time just to get lucky enough for Brantley to answer the phone. When I hear the voice on the other line say, "This is Brantley. May I help you?" that's when I pounce.

The following conversation occurred two days ago.

Brantley- "This is Brantley. May I help you?"
Redneck lady- "You sure may. This is Eunice Petty. Do you all sell Massengill?"
Brantley- "Only by the gallon."

At that point the line went dead and I can only assume that he hung up. We haven't had a chance to discuss it since then, but I'm fairly certain he knew it was me. I will spend some time this week cultivating my character a bit more. Perhaps she wears a hat, or sounds a little more downtrodden. One thing is certain, and that is Eunice Irene Petty better be receiving her gallons worth of feminine care.

Luke-isms

Brantley and I are a little leery when it comes to exposing Luke (3) to computer/video games. We realize that there are valuable motor skills learned with some games, but for the most part they just fill up spans of time that should be spent playing outside. Don't worry. We aren't going to let Luke be the odd kid that shows up for the first day of school and says, "What's a video game?" So he's allowed to play certain ones that are deemed educational.

He and I were playing one such game yesterday. The premise of the game is to count apples, and thus help you practice counting. I noticed that he had gotten pretty good. He added one plus one, and one plus two. Then he got confident. He clicked six apples plus three more. He got discouraged and shook his head.

"It's ok, Luke. Let's think about this. What do you get if you have six apples, then you add three more?"
"A big mess. Wet's go outside."

(Keith Glines photography)