Ahhh ... carb heaven...

I'm not going to carry on too much about our glorious Thanksgiving tradition -- heading over to our friend Amy's house for a potluck dinner -- for fear that illness will strike again.'

Any gathering coordinated by Amy seems to guarantee that some strange, horrible plague will strike '

Her college graduation party: I was on my way to my parents' house, but stopped at hers on the way to partake in the festivities. While a group of us sat in the garage at Amy's Dad's house, drinking moonshine and laughing over our recently acquired wittiness, the flu was taking down Amy's sister, niece and nephew. By the time I staggered out to my car the next morning (WARNING: Moonshine. Chug it, feel the burn, pay for it later. Ugh.)

Anyway, many guests were stricken that weekend with the flu.

At Amy's recent wedding, the flower girl fell ill. Scarlet fever, it turns out. Mothers of children present at the wedding were duly notified.

And then there was last year's thanksgiving, when Amy called to tell me that several of her family members had been throwing up all evening. I hung up the phone and waited. Sure enough, E-Man followed suit.

The next night, Tootie.

So while I had gloated earlier about how little I would have to do -- fix a couple of sides and a dessert --- well, it seems there was a price to pay.

So this year, I'll just say the food was fabulous and a good time was had by all.

To anyone who has fallen ill -- my karma did nothing to yours. Leave me alone. I paid for my gloating last year by cleaning puke off the couch cushions, carpets and bed linens.

I'm going to close right now, thanking Amy profusely for another wonderful turky and party.

(Amy, if anyone get sick this year, don't tell me. I'll find out soon enough on my own, probably 5 minutes after Hubs heads to Louisiana to cover the LSU game.

If you're watching the game and happen to see a tall silver-haired man in a dark green shirt hanging around the endzone with his camera -- that's Hubs.

Me, I'm going to resume sprawling on this comfy couch. My poor digestive system is on overload today. Maybe I'll be able to lay down by midnight.

Happy Thanksgiving, all. Hope you're as stuffed as I am.

Wordless Wednesday

(Photo by Hubs)

Not a fan of the crawlspace

Shortly after moving to Arkansas, I noticed a funny little door on the side of Ex-Boyfriend's house.

"What's that for?" I asked.

In response, he opened it. There before me was a huge dark, dank earthen hole underneath his house.

"It's the crawlspace," he said. "Very common here."

NOT WHERE I COME FROM.

It creeped me out then, and it creeped me years later when Hubs and I moved into our little house -- which also boasts a cave underneath.

Ugh.

The thought of living over a hole doesn't appeal. Oh, sure, there's a liner down there, but still -- the potential for mold, insects and animal nesting really skeeves me.

And the things the previous owners did down there ... The phone wiring is totally screwed up. And our dryer? It vents down there. Hello mold.

That's Hubs' next project -- redoing the vent, which we couldn't even find until the phone company guy crawled around down there in an effort to do something about the wiring.

"Yeah, whoever lived here before has lines running up over your vent," the repairman said.

I all but lunged at him.

"YOU FOUND THE DRYER VENT?! WHERE? WHERE IS IT?!"

Who knows what else is down there?

I was complaining about the crawlspace a few days ago -- I blame the wee crawlspace door that often blows open for the giant rodent that moved in -- when a co-worker overheard.

"Oh. Crawlspaces," she said with a roll of the eyes.

Apparently, she frequently loses cats to them -- not only hers, but also those belonging to her neighbors.

L. is a kind woman who has adopted several strays. When one disappears, all the neighbors head down to their respective crawlspaces armed with flashlights.

L. has ventured down into her own on several cat-rescuing missions. Very difficult to find a cat tucked away under your house, she says. Even more difficult is retrieving a feral cat.

My friend Cindy and her husband must contend with possums that take up residence in their crawlspace.

"He's still traumatized from the last time," she says, describing the discovery of a possum carcass.

Can you imagine? Crawling under your house with a flashlight and finding a dead, rotting creature? *shudder*

So.

While I find the old houses charming and quirky, I would happily fill in that blasted, creepy hole so that I could live on top of a slab.

Where I come from, little doors don't open to your home's nether regions.

Concrete. Give me blessed, rodent-resistant concrete.

I can't help but laugh...

... when I listen to Hubs describing his chagrin on learning that our son watched Bambi on Movie Day at the daycare.

"I don't want him thinking about poor Bambi when he sees me skinning a deer," he said. "I mean, what am I going to tell him?"

Uh, maybe that the "Daddy S'getti" the E-man's so fond of is made from venison? Hell, I don't know. I'm not the hunting fanatic. (Of course, I'm not going to turn down Deer S'getti or Deer Chili either. Yum.)

But you can't have it both ways. At some point, the kids are going to find out what's in the cooler when Daddy comes back from his "trips."

And they're also going to figure out what's really in their pasta sauce.

Sheesh.

Ride along with me and the Huzzer

CATHY: Do you have to drive so close to people? You're riding that poor woman's ass.

HUBS: There's plenty of room between us.

CATHY: No there's not. If I lean forward two inches, I can see the driver's footwear. Prada. Very nice. Like the red.

HUBS: I am not riding her ass.

CATHY: No, because now you are all the way up her butt. Look, the shade of her toenails matches the shoes. Admirable color-coordination. SLOW DOWN! You are making me nervous.

HUBS: (sighs, shakes his head, keeps following too closely.)

CATHY: Look, you hate it when other people get too close to you. So why do it to them?

HUBS: There's plenty of ---

CATHY: (shrieking) She's stopping! She's stopping! Slow down!

HUBS: I am slowing down.

CATHY: You are not. That wasn't slowing down. That was slamming on the brakes because there wasn't enough space between you.

[Sunday-afternoon drive continues, with Cathy chastising and panicking, and Hubs becoming increasingly defenseless.]

CATHY: Look, would you slow down? Just because you're pissed at the other drivers doesn't mean you have to fly around them.

HUBS: Everything is fine. Let me drive. You're starting to really annoy me.

CATHY: I just want you to slow down and give people a little breathing room.

HUBS: I know what I'm doing.

As he approaches a four-way stop sign, a cop coming from another direction motions for Hubs to roll down his window.

COP: Sir, you are going too fast. Slow it down.

HUBS: Uh. OK.

CATHY: (to herself: Do not say anything. Hold back the gleeful laughter.)

HUBS: Why won't people just let me drive. Why does everyone have to tell me what to do?

CATHY: I can't imagine, honey.

To the police officer who reprimanded my husband today in the mall parking lot: I love you.

I didn't know rats came super-sized

This morning, Hubs knocked on the bathroom door.

He was jubilant.

"Come see what I caught underneath the sink."

I knew better than to look. I did.

But I couldn't resist taking a peek at whatever had been causing all the ruckus in recent weeks.

Somehow "eek" seems inadequate.

Turns out a huge mutant rat has been living with us. The thought of that ... beast ... romping through my house makes me want to never take off my shoes again. Or open the sink cabinet.

Still, ding-dong the rat is dead and all that.

Oh, and Hubs shot another buck. Quite a week for him.

Current tally: Two deer and Rambo the Rat.

p.s. Remembered this morning -- Traci was Posh, not Sporty.

Email exchange between old, long-distance friends...

... in which our vanity gets away from us:

From: Cathy
Sent: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 1:57 PM
To: Traci
Subject: Any idea when and where this photo was taken?



I'm finally going through the thousands of photos stored on our
computer. Some of them are so old, I can't remember the circumstances
behind them! Sad, I know.


On Nov 14, 2007, at 2:00 PM, Traci wrote:

I want to say Riverfest, but I can't really remember. I know it was some kind of festival down by the river and I know it was between Tootie and E-man cause I remember Tootie being there, but not the baby. Does that help? And by the way, I kindof look like I'm wearing too much makeup, don't I? What's that about?

Traci Staff Writer
-----Original Message-----
From: Cathy
Sent: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 2:11 PM
To: Traci
Subject: Re: Any idea when & where this was taken?

Just checked, and the photos following it show a toddler Tootie
eating an ice cream cone. I think it was Riverfest. I didn't even notice your makeup. I was too fixated on my weird sunglasses and how much skinnier I was back then.



From: Traci
To: Cathy
Subject:RE: Any idea when & where this was taken?
Sent: Wed, 14 Nov 2007 14:20:07 -0600

Me too. And my hair looked better too. Everyone keeps talking about how being pregnant makes your hair look better, but I'm not seeing it.Course it might have something to with the fact I get irritated far too easily to actually try to fix it anymore.
-------------------------------------
Oh, that Traci! Thick, glorious, wavy hair -- and still she complains. Traci was Sporty Spice the year we all dressed up for Halloween as the Spice Girls. I was Baby Spice. I bought a shiny, rubbery mini and lace-up top to wear as a costume. Didn't realize until AFTER the party, when I was looking at pics, that the outfit changed colors whenever (and wherever) my skin heated up. In every photo, you can see two dark silver circles caused by my breasts and two more dark circles created by my overheated ass cheeks. Those pics, unfortunately, I haven't been able to locate. Once I do, I'll post them, risking the wrath of Traci and other friends who would prefer to forget that year's shame.

Dreading the holiday shuffle

The main problem is this:

For years, my MIL was the mother of three divorced men with children. Every holiday season, she hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas, much to the relief of these single fathers.

Problem is, even though two have remarried, she still expects to play the role of matriarch presiding over the festivities -- at her house.

My in-laws currently live 3 1/2 hours away. During the year we lived in San Antonio, they were 7 1/2 hours from us.

I don't mind visiting the weekend before Christmas. But Christmas Eve and Christmas -- well, I want to spend those days at our home, cultivating our own traditions. I get the impression, however, that my in-laws are not happy with this arrangement.

I spent my childhood traveling during the Christmas holidays. I hated it. During my Santa-believing years, I worried each December that he wouldn't find us. And these were long trips. My mom's family all live in Kentucky, my dad's in east Tennessee. Usually, we traveled by car, which meant a two-day road trip on either end.

Hence my aversion to celebrating away from home.

My adamant stance has created some tense moments in the six years Hubs and I have been married.

During the two that Christmas fell on a Saturday and then a Sunday, my MIL couldn't understand why we didn't visit on the actual holiday.

Before that, in 2004, during our stint in San Antonio, I refused to go at all because I was nearly 8 months pregnant and NOT willing to sit in a car for 7 1/2 hours.

This did not exactly endear me to the in-law crowd.

The worst, however, was one of those Christmas-on-the-weekend years -- 2005, I think. Traditionally, we go to the in-laws the weekend before the holiday. That year, however, my stepkids weren't going to be with us until Christmas weekend. (They were going out of town with their mom and stepdad.)

So we shuffled everything around and told them we'd visit the weekend after. (This maneuver involved asking my parents to wait an additional week before they visited us.) Despite our efforts to placate and please, the in-laws remained upset.

Stricken with guilt, Hubs decided at the last minute to race down to their house -- the day before Christmas Eve. He took Stepdaughter and Stepson with him. I, however, refused to go. There was too much to do here -- wrapping, last-minute shopping, etc... and besides, I had no desire to be on the road Christmas Eve. I wanted to be at home, with my little ones, playing music and decorating cookies for Santa.

So Tootie, E-man and I stayed behind, while Hubs promised to be back with the older kids by 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

My in-laws were pissed.

When I called to wish them a merry Christmas, my FIL answered.

"Hi," I said.

Without bothering to move the phone away from his mouth, bellowed to my MIL: "Hey! You'll never guess who's on the phone!"

In a very sarcastic tone.

It was yet another awkward moment.

I hate these annual battles. It's already difficult enough to plan holiday celebrations because we are a stepfamily and have to factor in when the older kids will be with us. Making travel arrangements isn't always easy, because their mom and stepdad also are trying to make the family rounds.

My in-laws, however, can't seem to understand this. Nor do they understand my desire to be in my own house Christmas morning, watching the kids open presents under OUR tree, the one we decorated.

This year's holiday planning looms, and I am dreading it.

Thankfully, we don't have to factor my family into all the planning.

I haven't spent a Christmas at my parents' house in years. As a single reporter, I often worked the holidays, so I would head to Mom and Dad's in early January. When I married, Hubs and I simply continued this tradition.

There's no pressure from my family to get there earlier. (Turns out my parents also hated all that holiday traveling of my childhood, so they understand and have even encouraged me not to worry about what day we make it to their place.)

But Hubs' family -- oh, the resentment each year brings.

So -- how do you, dear readers, handle holiday expectations? Do you stay home? Travel? Travel but resent it?

Oh, the humiliation...

You remember how I was annoyed because Hubs and I didn't talk for 48 hours when he went on his recent hunting expedition?

Well, after coming back for a few days -- to drop off his deer at the processors and attend a Thanksgiving lunch at Tootie's school -- he headed back down to the woods this afternoon.

"Call me tonight at Grandma Hattie's house," he said as he left.

"OK," I replied.

I didn't get Tootie into bed until 8:30 p.m. Didn't eat dinner until almost 9:30 p.m. Had just settled down in front of the television, sprawled on the floor with my dog, when I heard our storm door creak open. Then someone rapped on the front door.

We don't get drop-by visitors at 10 p.m. So I immediately assumed that the two scary guys who whistled at me earlier today while driving by our house had returned ...

... because, you know, I'm so irresistible, what with the extra 30 pounds and gravity-stricken boobs.

Eek! Oh my gosh! Someone's at the door! Eeek! Eeek!

I scampered in circles around the living room, wearing nothing but an oversized softball shirt.

I'm not answering. No way am I opening the door at 10 p.m. Yikes, there's another knock! Maybe I can sneak back to the bedroom and peek out the window.

Just as I fled the living room, flapping my arms and squawking quietly to myself, a voice outside said, "Cathy?"

Wait a minute. I know that voice.

More knocking.

I opened the door and there stood Jo, a good friend of ours, who, at Hubs' frantic request, had driven over with her boyfriend Staton to see if I was OK.

Because it was almost 10 and Hubs hadn't heard from me.

He had tried to call, Jo told me, but I hadn't answered.

She laughed. "Did you guys have a fight or something."

Oh, how embarrassing.

"No," I said. "Our phone hasn't been working. I think the kids keep messing with the ringer volume. Or something."

In the midst of this explanation, the phone rang.

"Oh. Heh. That's the phone," I said.

Jo left while I stood laughing sheepishly in the doorway. Then I called Hubs.

"You sent our friends over at 10 o'clock?" I asked incredulously.

"I was worried," he said. "I hadn't heard from you."

Hmm. During the last trip, he didn't hear from me for 48 hours due to the lack of cell service and he didn't act at all worried then.

Further discussion, however, revealed that he was concerned about the deer antlers he had left drying in a tree in the backyard.

"I knew you had storms there today and I was worried the wind might have knocked them down and maybe Molly was gnawing on them."

I am, perhaps, the only woman whose husband isn't worried about whether she's been robbed or is entertaining male visitors during his absence, but rather that the dog is chewing on his precious antlers.

Hmph.

OK, OK, maybe he was a little worried about me...

Open letter to my terrified spouse

Dear Hubs:

First, I mean "dear" in a totally unsinister way. Really.

I know you do not understand why an approaching period would make someone so cranky. Why, you wonder, must this be such an ordeal every month?

I'm not even going to attempt to explain hormones and their effects. Instead, here are some pointers to help ensure your survival during this time:

1.) Do not attribute my bad mood to PMS. I know I'm in a bad mood. Even when I'm ranting at you for daring to exist, I'm thinking: Wow, I have reached a new, all-time high in irrationality. By pointing out the obvious, you will put me in a worse (read: scary) mood.

2.) Instead of inquiring when my period is due, the implication being that I am acting like an irrational beeyotch, you would be better off volunteering to feed and bathe the children while I brood over how certain people (you) have wronged me in recent days.

3.) Definition of "wronging" me:
a.) Breathing in my direction
b.) Looking at me
c.) Making any references, joking or otherwise, to S-E-X

4.) Speaking of, do NOT ask how many more days "we" have to go because you are wondering when marital relations will resume. I am already bitter about my six-day period. I do NOT need you to remind me of just how freaking long it is.

5.) Do not EVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN eat the last chocolate chip cookie.

6.) What part of SUPER ABSORBENT do you not understand? When I specify SUPER ABSORBENT, I am, indeed, requesting that you purchase industrial-strength tampons. Do not take it upon yourself to decide I might like to "try something new."

7.) MOST IMPORTANT RULE: When in doubt about what constitutes appropriate behavior (from you), simply nod and say, "You're right. I understand."

8.) Remember our friend Cindy's theory about PMS: Sufferers are not experiencing irrationality, but rather, moments of sudden clarity.

I'll sign off now so that you can process that last part.

Ever So Lovingly and With Only Good Will Toward Man,

Your Wife

No need to call child protective services

They were virgin daiquiris. Son, however, had to be toted away after he came perilously close to touching the bride's gown.

Can this marriage be saved? Depends on whether there's a dead possum within the next 24 hours.

Let's say you love to deer hunt, so much so that this really isn't a hobby, but more of an obsession.

Let's say the last time you had a conversation with your wife was, say, Friday evening, as you hurried out the door for the deer woods.

Acceptable: Calling the wife after you get to your destination.

Not acceptable: Calling periodically over a 48-hour period and leaving messages for your wife on voicemail. Because you refuse to use a landline, even though numerous phones are available at various relatives' homes, your messages -- delivered from an area with virtually no cell service -- are barely understandable.

"Hey! It's [crackle, buzz, static] me! Got a [crackle] 7-point this [buzz] morning! Going [static] back out this evening. Bye!"

"Hey, [crackle, static, buzz], it's me! Saw two doe today [crackle] Going back out [buzz] this [static] evening! Bye!"

Let's just say your wife is at home with two children who are both suffering from nasty head colds. Between them, they've produced 12 gallons of snot and are not sleeping well at night due to hacking coughs. Your wife also is not sleeping well because when she's not tending to the children, she's up at 2 a.m. Googling "whooping cough" and "TB." Or she's listening to a large animal scuttle through the attic.

If these are the circumstances, you should not be surprised to call home and get the following greeting on voicemail:

"Hubs, if this is you, call me on a damn landline. Your cell phone isn't working. If this is anyone else, please leave a message and I'll call you back."

Tonight, for the first time in said 48-hour period, I had a real, live two-way conversation with The Deer Hunter. It went something like this:

"So today I saw one doe and --"

"Honey, just a bit of context: I'm at home with two sick children and a wild animal is throwing nightly frat parties in our attic. I DON'T CARE HOW MANY DOES YOU SAW IN THE DEER WOODS! They're DEER WOODS! That means there are DEER! DUH! So enough about the damn does. Let's talk about the Bud-swigging raccoon hanging out over our bedroom."

"The kids are sick?"

"Grr."

"What animal?"

(Lengthy description of children's illness and the competing racket from our mouse-turned-rat-turned-raccoon-or-gasp!-possum ensues.)

"Oh. Well, here's what I would do. Just pull down the trapdoor to the attic and leave it open for awhile so whatever it is can hear people beneath it. That'll scare it away. Or you could go up there and turn on the light, maybe hang out up there and yell a little."

hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!! ---

"Are you fucking kidding me? Why don't I just invite it down for tea and crumpets on the off-chance that it's not carnivorous?"

"Oh. So I guess we won't be having sex first thing when I walk through the door?"

Click.

Something in the attic creepeth ... ugh.

This morning Hubs shot a 7-point buck.

While he was traipsing around his deer camp in the pre-dawn hours, I was awakened by a scratching noise here at home.

I assumed it was the dog, who is not the quietest of nighttime companions. After drowsily hissing, "Molly, stop it!" -- which is quite pointless, really, given that the dog is deaf and cannot hear anything but shouted instructions -- I realized that the sounds were coming from above.

I shot up from my pillow and turned on the lamp. Given the volume of the scrabbling -- seriously, it sounded like something was tunneling its way through our unfinished attic -- I half expected to see a hole in the ceiling and some rodenty creature falling through.

I lay there for a half-hour while the mouse-rat-squirrel-whatever romped though the attic.

This evening, while folding clothes in our bedroom, I again heard something -- large -- scuttling overhead.

So yes, while it's all well and good and lovely for Hubs that he got a deer on opening day, I am NOT happy about the wildlife that has infiltrated our home.

As you'll recall, Hubs was on a mission weeks ago to capture whatever has moved in. But after several days of no activity, he lost interest.

In my opinion, the thing was merely biding its time until Hubs headed down to the deer camp, knowing that I wasn't about to set foot in that attic, where I might lay eyes on some beady-eyed and clearly aggressive squirrel. Or possum. Or raccoon.

I no longer harbor any hope that we are being visited by a tiny mouse. Whatever is up there is large.

Whatever is up there must go.

I am officially old

<
For years, I've balked at getting a headset for my phone. I've questioned its usefulness and made fun of the reporters who use one.

Part of my issue is that you can't tell who's on the phone and who isn't, as many people leave their headsets on even when they aren't on the phone.

And besides, they just look ... silly.

In the past few weeks, however, I've spent more hours than usual interviewing people by phone.

Yesterday, after I couldn't uncrick my neck, I caved.

I am now the proud owner of a headset.

And yeah, I feel like a hypocritical geek every time I use it.

EDITED TO ADD: I'm not talking about a cell phone ear piece thingy. This is a headset for my desk phone. I don't even own a cell. (Another form of rebellion, yes. HATE the cell phones.)

Here's how it looks ----

What's with all the preteens in preK?

A few nights ago, Hubs and I finally had the discussion we've been tiptoeing around for the past several months.

About our 4-year-old. And how she seems so much younger than her classmates. How she seems, by comparison, socially stilted.

Is it her? Is it us? Is it these little girls, who look and act more like savvy Bratzy first-graders than preschoolers?

They dress older. They talk older. They act older. Hell, they're more street smart than some 30-year-olds I know.

And I realize I'm being totally unreasonable and totally overprotective and all rabid-mama-bear-like, but -- deep breath, here goes -- I don't like some of these girls. I think they're little snobs, just a bunch of Heathers in their formative years. And I don't like the fact that there is a social hierarchy in freaking preschool that rivals that of junior high.

Since when did the horror that is seventh-grade-girl-bitchy-behavior manifest itself in 4-year-olds?

I see my daughter wandering around the "socially acceptable" perimeters, confused and puppy-dog eager, and it bugs the hell out of me.

And it probably doesn't help that I totally DO NOT GET THEIR MOTHERS. They are not my peeps. I do not know how to relate or talk to them and therefore sound like a blathering oh-please-like me idiot every time I bump into their manicured, perfectly accessorized persons. Flashback to seventh-grade math and Heather Monroe and Heather Monroe's groupies.

Of course my child is having trouble. She's watching my ridiculous attempts to be sociable and socially acceptable.

What really disturbs me is that this isn't just her classmates or her school. We've been in other environments or social situations involving different groups of preschool girls and every time, I'm thinking Hello? What's with all the miniature 14-year-olds in here?

I might as well stuff myself into a pair of Jordache jeans and load up my tennis shoes with friendship pins -- right before I buy my kid a pair of Candies and a toe ring. Because, yes, it really is that bad.

How weird and neurotic am I?

I am married to a photojournalist

We have hundreds of pictures of the kids, pictures that are better than any taken by a studio photographer.

And yet --

Today, the first day of fall portraits, the kids' school mistakenly put them together for a sibling picture, even though I had specified separate sessions.

E-man was supposed to be photographed today; Tootie tomorrow. He was dressed appropriately. She was not.

My freakout episode this evening involved much fretting over their attire -- "Oh how embarrassing! I wouldn't have sent Tootie to be photographed in a year-old shirt WITH STAINS! Do you think they thought I wanted her picture taken in THOSE CLOTHES?" -- and -- "She's wearing a shirt with horizontal stripes and E-man's in a shirt with vertical ones! What if they refuse to re-do their pictures?!That's like ... so ... clashing!"

Oh, and -- "See, Hubs, look at this form. I specifically said we wanted E-man's picture taken Wednesday and Tootie's taken Thursday. See? Right here. This is what I checked."

I nattered and I fretted. Finally, Hubs said, in this wounded tone, "You know, it's not like we don't have pictures of the kids."

Like these --






or these --






Which is why I've decided that there should be meds not only for angst-ridden people like me, but also those who marry us.

Party-turned-surprise-wedding pics

Here are a few of the happy event, taken by one of the people present:









Why do I look to be squatting awkwardly on the floor? Because my children were circling the cake table like wee predators, fingers outstretched, prepared to swipe the groom's cake.

And yes, that is a Razorback hog.

The not-so-mighty hunter

Each year, Hubs heads into the woods and — with the exception of one terrible, never-to-be-mentioned-ever-again season — emerges with at least one buck.

After driving it around so that everyone can ooh and ahh over its magnificence, he takes it over to Uncle A.J.'s, where the deer is hung upside-down on some hook-thing.

I will spare you the details of what happens next, but let me assure you — it's a gory business, this hunting.

I have, on one occasion, helped Hubs drag a dead deer out of the woods. (But only because I was so desperate to pee that I would have bagged Bambi myself if it got me to a potty.) I do not, however, hang around while he dresses his kill.

Ick.

So, no, deer-hunting's not my thing.

I indulge Hubs in his hobby, however, because for the next year, we will use up every bit of venison — deer spaghetti, deer chili, chicken-fried deer, deer sausage biscuits ... etc... etc...

What I do not condone is the Deer Hunter's wussiness, which flares up whenever he encounters vomit, a bloody nose or a particularly scary diaper.

Sunday morning, I raced to E-man's bedroom after hearing Hubs' frantic calls.

The blasted man was retching — RETCHING! — over the poop stench.

"Here," he gasped, shoving the box of wipes at me. "I have to get out of here."

And he fled.

The night poor Tootie threw up in her bed, Hubs left the room dry-heaving while I cleaned up the child, gathered the puke-covered sheets and mopped the floor.

The night she fell out of bed and bloodied her nose, Hubs took one look at his red-splattered T-shirt and freaked.

"Is that blood?" he yelped, thrusting Tootie at me. "Oh my God!"

And let's not forget the toenail incident, when Hubs called me to Tootie's room in a panic because an injured toenail had started to come off.

"Look," he said, pointing helplessly. "Half of it is standing straight up! What are we going to do with it?"

And yet — despite these many examples of faint-heartedness, Hubs has the nerve to make fun of his younger brother Burt, who, on his first (and only) hunting trip, ended up straddling a deer and trying to finish it off with a box cutter he happened to have handy because of his job at Piggly Wiggly.

(Burt was so traumatized by this event, that he has never set foot in the woods again.)

But then there is Hubs, who goes on multiple hunting trips each year. And even if he doesn't get a deer, he always helps dress other people's kills.

If not for this, I might — might — give Hubs a little leeway when it comes to scary diapers.

But he doesn't get to SHOOT A DEER and then go weak at the knees over a little poop or vomit.

I mean, really. Am I being unreasonable here?

Noooooo....! Not the treasure chest!

What happens when preschoolers who have behaved over the course of a week are allowed to dip into the classroom "treasure chest" each Friday:

TOOTIE: Mommy! Look what I got from the treasure chest!

(Excited preschooler holds up a plastic paratrooper/cardboard sunglasses/fake ice cream cone with a scoop that shoots into the air before popping back into the cone...

CATHY: Oh, that's great sweetie! Let me see it...

E-MAN: I want paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream too!

TOOTIE: (snatching away her prize) NO! It's my toy. I got it from the treasure chest!

E-MAN: I get one too! I get one too!

(wails and bickering punctuate the ride home)

TOOTIE: Mommy, can you help me unfold the parachute/put on the sunglasses/make the ice cream popper-thingy pop?

CATHY: OK, let me see it.

E-MAN: I get a turn! My turn!

TOOTIE: NO! It's my toy! I got it from the treasure chest!

(Bickering continues after dinner. The new wails of anguish, this time from Tootie.)

TOOTIE: The parachute/sunglasses/ice cream cone broke when I was playing with it!

(disappointed sobbing ensues)

TOOTIE: Why *sob* did it break *sob* Mommy? Can we go find another paratrooper/pair of sunglasses/ice cream cone tomorrow? I loved my paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream cone. *sob*

Damn freaking cheap plastic toys. I get the concept, I do, but whatever happened to gold stars, happy face stamps and sticker charts?

----------------------------

And now ....

.... let's pull those broken cardboard sunglasses out of the trash can because -- people, the bling you are about to behold is blinding! Or is that sparkle coming from Mike Rowe's teeth?



This here is the Mike Rowe honor bestowed upon me by Janice over at Twist & Skewer.
Heather, you've got competition, honey, because Janice didn't tap just little old me for this one, no siree. I think there were ... uummm... maybe three others? And now I get to pass on the Mike love, which means Mike is about to wonder how he became the red-hot fantasy of the mommyblogger set.

So, for those who like it a little dirty -- just guessing, really! -- I'm sharing Mike love with: Jennifer aka Binky Bitch. Because she lives near Heather, and hell, I do love making things interesting! May I suggest you join forces and teach Mike the importance of maintaining skid-free undies? As Sponge Bob the annoying bath toy given to my children by my MIL likes to say: "I'm a dirty boy!"

Ahem. OK, moving on. Blue Momma declared me fab, and I am fab, because I once made my husband wait 2 1/2 months for marital relations and never gave in, not once, despite the incessant whining. He refers to that as "The Dark Time." Yeah, I rock.



Anyway, I'm passing this one on to Colleen, who is grappling mightily with an alarming revelation that Lance Armstrong, once Colleen's sex-god survivor, tough-guy hero, is now dating a praying mantis. (That would be Ashley, not MK. I know, one twig looks like another, especially when they decide simultaneously to live on nothing but non-fat Starbucks lattes.)

This award also goes to Queeny because she totally rules her home and I'm hoping she will mentor me.

And also to Heidi, because she's taking all of us on her family adventure! Just imagine, a spouse, two boys and a trunkful of bloggers. Talk about some scary-ass baggage to drag all the way to Norway. (The bloggers, I mean. I don't know her husband or children well enough yet to deem the frightening, judging from their photos, the kids look totally harmless.

Lastly -- Misty Dawn ever so kindly passed on this Bloggers with Integrity, which I do possess, as evidenced by my willingness to lie to three-fourths of my friends and co-workers so that my closest friend could pull off a surprise wedding.




I'm awarding this one to Julie, Flutter, Mrs. Chicken and Paige because their blogs remind me daily that there are good people, thinking people out there, people who aren't afraid to pose difficult questions and or offer their own equally difficult answers.

Whew! Perhaps I should retire for the evening now, given that Hubs is getting up some ungodly hour to go bow hunting. More on that tomorrow.

Or I could stay up late and read blogs...

... as soon as I make a nice cup of tea.

Party morphs into surprise wedding!

I believe I've said before that I have blabbermouth issues.

So imagine my consternation when, four or so weeks ago, my closest friend Amy informed me that she and her fiance had decided to turn their engagement party into a surprise wedding.

As in -- only the hostess of said party and yours truly were privy to this decision.

Oh, the agony!

The paranoia that I would slip up and accidentally refer to the party as a "wedding."

Somehow, I managed not to screw things up and then suddenly it was the night!

As people gathered in small groups, gossiping and laughing, the groom remained in constant phone contact with his bride."Where are you?" he whispered. "Everyone's out here waiting --"

Then he stopped in front of me.

"OK, Amy's on her way. You have GOT TO TALK TO ME because I am sweating through my tie and I think I'm going to pass out."

Hey, inane chattering is what I do best. I know just how to handle this -- watch his glass to make sure the beer level doesn't drop too low.

Five minutes later, the groom announced to the crowd that the party was really a wedding. And then, as the crowd cheered, the minister -- aka our beloved newsroom editor's assistant Earlene -- swept into the backyard, her long white robe billowing around her feet. The afro she'd been growing out for this event looked freaking spectacular billowing around her head.

I love Earlene. She's this loud, ballsy earth-mothering woman who drops endearments right and left. No one, not family, not my husband, has called me sweetheart more times than Earlene. But lord have mercy on your soul if you ever fall out of Earlene's favor. Only a few of us realize it, but she's really the one running the newsroom. Oh, and her deviled eggs and green beans -- to DIE FOR!

And she's also a minister with dreads-turned-fro. Groovy, huh?

So, anyway, after Earlene blew in, someone started the music and Amy walked tentatively into the backyard.

Now I'd already seen her dress, having helped her pick it out a few weeks earlier. And I'm not a crier at weddings. But she looked so damned beautiful, I let a few tears roll.

A friend nudged me. "Did you know about this?" she asked.

"Yep."

"You knew?" someone else chimed in. "Hey, is Amy knocked up?"

"NO!"

"Awwww..." the crying continued.

"Hey, you guys heard me, right? No knocked up, no pregnancy, no baby due in 9 months...

Amy, if you return from you honeymoon to hear you're 5 months pregnant with rabid triplets, well, that might be possibly due to what I said at your wedding. Thankfully, I wasn't under the influence as I had to chase, and then drive, the children home.

But anyway -- the wedding was beautiful and fun and sooooooo Walt and Amy.

Thanks for trusting me with your secret, guys! I was smoooooooooooth, let me tell you. Although, due to my many lies, one friend now thinks I suffer from some form of agoraphobia, another thinks I'm hopelessly socially insecure, and a third thought I'm going to announce my pregnancy at the engagement part. (I AM NOT PREGNANT!)

So. We are home. My son is a walking advertisement for stain removers, courtesy of the virgin daquri machine and a chocolate fountain. Bleh. Will deal with stains tomorrow.

This was such an incredible evening!

And hey! I kept a secret. I can do it! I knew it!

But however will I cope if she ever tells me she's pregnant and that she's not announcing anything until she at 13 or 14 weeks.

If I barely survived a month of keeping someone's secret, how would I manage THREE months?