Home of the Motherhussy

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Michele, Eric, Rich, Ernie, Nichole, Charise, Suzanne

It's Like the House Keeps Throwing Up...I'm Waiting for the Dry Heaves

So, as you all know, over the weekend I had the pleasure of unearthing my mother from her tomb of a home in good ol’ Lehi, UT. Buried within the brick walls called “home”, were boxes and boxes representing years of wedded/family dysfunction. Millions of pens, colored pencils, and sheets of paper slept in plastic container tombs all over the house. Newspaper articles from 1994-2002 were still in circulation in her home as if they were “of interest" to someone. There were "of interest" to no one, so they were trashed. They were trashed along with so many other things. Some unique specimens found in the rubble were:

A 12 oz. Black Widow spider (alive)
A 10 lb. hornet’s nest (hornets—all alive)
A stethoscope (I didn’t know Mom made house calls)
A large chunk of the Berlin Wall
Propaganda for the Baptist Church
One million crappy rock tapes (Marc, all your fault)

After everything was moved (moved in less than 10 hours—I forgot to mention that), Nichole, Suzy, and I sat in a thick silence. We knew that any words that came out of our mouths at that point would be like a mouthful of wet tar--nasty and hard to comprehend. We were all veterans of an emotional war. Nobody else except the ones who were there would understand.

Among the understanding was our surrogate brother Rich. An excerpt from an email conversation is documented below to show how interesting the day really was (*of course, read from bottom up and ignore grammatical/spelling errors):

From: "Richard Gamonal"
Date: Tue, 30 Aug 2005 07:57:38 -0600
To:

Subject: Re: Thank GOODNESS that is over

The part that did set uneasy with me was your mother's willingness to stockpile and keep all her "daily affirmations", 15 year old Sunday School plans and scraps of yarn, paper and paste. She was willing, without a moments hesitation, to discard baby photos from the 70's, childhood memories and cutesy student papers (marc's leftist paper about eye pecking rich and poor turkeys). Ernie summed that paper up nicely - Marc is currently experiencing economic self-loathing. Marc, don't hate your class. Embrace your race... err, I mean class. Momma asked me to pretty much torch those fine remnants of Hanson lineage. Yes, Ernie and I had to dumpster dive for the "gold" as it were. Yes, the fun house full of circus mirrors that is the core of the Hanson Family History is a fine place to linger, study and observe. Only spouses of Hanson's (and of that, there have been plenty) get dished up such fine morsels of childhood trauma. I did dig me some of the madness within. It explains a LOT !!!

Nichole Hanson
Let me again echo Suzanne's sentiments - we couldn't have done it without you, matt, and ernie! Next rounds on me boys!! We been through "Nam" and back and toured the Hanson "House of Freaks" and lived to tell the tale.
Sigh! This one will go down in History.

From: "Richard Gamonal"
Date: Tue, 30 Aug 2005 07:57:38 -0600
To:

Subject: Re: Thank GOODNESS that is over

Dear Hanson's,

The pleasure was all mine and mine brother's. I was glad to see such
a show of force in attendance for the mighty heist. Although, I think
Ernie said it best to Suzanne, "How many brother's do you have?" - "I
have three..." - "Oh really now, I don't think so - I don't see 'em
any where... they under this box? Kurt? You there? No, under here maybe... Marc? Where you at? Eric?
Where you at - Suzanne seems to believe you exist? I don't think you
have three brothers... I ain't believing it."

Suzy was a machine ! Dedicated to the cause. You did your momma right Suzy.
Your momma's proud of you.

Yes... no other way to spend a fine and beautiful Saturday afternoon.
I like Michele's eloquent comment on the phone, "Rich - I never want
to see that *&%$'ng house again". Ahhh, brings a tear to the eye.

Eric pulled a hap-hazard dual move with Clint/Jess and Me and bro hit
up my Dad's digs after enjoying such fun times with Big E. Two moves in one day.
Although, daddy didn't move - just needed some HEAVY lifting done.

By the by - Ernie is digging your momma. He has never met her before.
Those two hit it off quite nicely on the car ride over to the new
digs. She gave us quite the tour. I'm happy for her. Hopefully
Ernie put her mind at ease about the "new ward".

Told ya Matt can lift his weight in donuts and gold. Build 'em up
strong, kids. Can't let 'em wander off cause "they want to". How
many of us were afforded that luxury? We give no quarter...
yessireebob - me and matt drank our first beer together after that move ! Just like Vacation - just like..

Lovely, just lovely,
Rg

ps: Where were representatives from Kurt's, Marc's & Michele's
respective crews? When a member can't make it - they must afford the
remaining peeps a representative. This is so scribed in the charter
and bylaws (Ch. III, a.1.e.).

"Hanson, Suzanne"

Rich, thanks again for all your help this weekend! You and your bro
are my heroes! Can I get your address so I can send you a homemade
thank-you, probably constructed from crepe paper and magazine
clippings? Also, I still want to read your resume!

---Suzy-----

Friday, August 26, 2005

Inhale, Exhale--Inhale...........

Utah. Utah, Utah, Utah. For some people, Utah is a place to go and ride mountain bikes—EXTREME mountain bikes. Or ski. For others, it’s Mecca for the Mormon culture, which so many people have blogged or written about already. Totally old hat, so I’m not going to go in to that.

For me, Utah was home. Now Utah is just becoming the place I have to go to be punished for not living up to my expectations. If I had lived up to my expectations, I would be too busy running my successful law practice that my mother would understand why I couldn’t be there to help her move. Alas, there is no law practice—or law school for that matter. Hell, I haven’t even made it through JR College! This is why I am heading to Utah this weekend to dig through boxes of “memorandum” (a.k.a: shit). Personally, I would rather be whipped with a cat o’ nine tails. A cat o’ nine tails made out of burning metal. Just kidding, but seriously folks—I’m not looking forward to this. For more information on my visit and my duty to my mother, please visit MOMMY DEAREST. That will give you and idear of what I’m diving in to.

On the other hand, I’m going to get to spend some time with my two sissies. One is older, one is younger. The older one is a version of my former self: Free spirited, loves alcohol, and won’t be tied down. The younger one is a version of me that I should be, but never will: Kind, sweet, attends all her church meetings, never smoked (except for that one time Michele and I tricked her in to smoking—remember Suzy?) I think it’s a good thing I’m in the middle of those two—I like to think of myself as balanced, although I’m sure they may think of me otherwise, especially since I was the bad influence on both of them in my younger years. Remember your first cigarette Nick? I do. Remember the house parties Suzy? I do.

So this weekend should be interesting with the three of us all together. Nick sitting on one of my shoulders in a sexy red devil outfit equipped with pitchfork and martini, Suzy sitting on my other shoulder in a cute, yet modest angel outfit eating a bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese spread on it. HAR! I can’t wait by golly!

A good time will be had by all, except when we’re at mom’s house.

To ZION!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Tolerate THIS!

Okay, I admit it—I’m a lazy mother. The boys returned from Utah August 2nd and not even a month later I want to ship them back to the ranch. Most normal mothers (mothers without ex-husbands, the poor things) don’t EVER get month long breaks from their children. I should be happy. I should feel refreshed. I don’t. Right now, as I type, I’m actually sitting in an uninspired stew of sweatpants and body odor. BECAUSE I DON’T FEEL LIKE SHOWERING!!! That’s why. They have sucked the life out of me, at least this afternoon they have so I’m protesting. We’re not doing anything fun today—because I’m a bad mother.

Well, I’m not that bad I guess. At least I did shove some education and experience down their throats the other day in the form of the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles. I’ve wanted to visit the Museum ever since I saw the signs for it on our way to Santa Monica. I would always think to myself, “The Museum of Tolerance, now that is a place where a cool, hip mother would take her kids.” By damnit, I’m a cool hip mother, and I just adore the idea of tolerance, so I took my kids there. Little did I know that it was going to be I who needed the lesson in tolerance—not the boys.

We left the house around noon, and for any of you who have driven the freeways in LA you would know that noon is not a good time to be on the freeway. However, I’m not a local, and I was desperate and on an adventure kick. So there we were, stuck in the noontime traffic when the inevitable hit--

“Mom, I need to go to the bathroom,” I heard from the backseat. It was Colton; apparently the Sprite with his Happy Meal had gone through him in a matter of minutes and now his little bladder was begging for reprieve. Reprieve from the pain of a bladder full of bubbly beverage.

“Colt, we’re on the freeway. There obviously isn’t anywhere I can pull over unless you are ready to die young, which I don’t think you are—you don’t even own a PSP yet. You’re going to need to hold it.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” was his brave little response.

It took us about 20 minutes, which felt like a millennium, before we actually got off of the 110 and onto the 10. While on the 10, Colton actually got desperate enough to ask if he could pee in a cup in the backseat.

“Colton, I don’t think it would be a good idea to pee in a cup that has a lid and a straw,” I counseled. In my head I did the math:

Happy Meal Cup Full of Warm Pee + Two Restless 8-Year Olds + Long Drive = DISASTER!

Yes, I stood by my decision—he would have to wait until we were all the way off the freeway. No Cup O’ Pee for me.

When we finally made it off of the 10, we were dumped into the heart of the city. Okay, I thought, there should be a cornucopia of restrooms around here. Little did I know, a restroom cornucopia was not to be.

First stop: 7-11. I rush Colton through the doors into the air-conditioned, fully stocked 7-11. Several hobos are milling about, looking shady and questionable—your typical convenience store. I look around feverishly for the little restroom sign. No restroom sign. NO RESTROOM SIGN! Before panicking, I approach the woman behind the counter, a young acne riddled Indian woman.

“Can he use your restroom?”

“No. No public restroom,” was the stony response.

“Please, he’ll be quick.”

“No. No public restroom.”

Apparently the third eye on the bitch’s head did not give her enlightenment to the critical situation my son’s bladder was in.

“F*@! you then,” I mumbled under my breath. Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, I told a 7-11 clerk to “eff off.” If you were me you would have too. If I had known which car was hers in the parking lot, I would have had Colton pee on it too. (Heaven help me if my children ever read this post—like I said earlier, I AM A BAD MOMMY!)

Next stop, The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf—now here was a place that was sure to have a restroom. I mean, have you ever drank coffee or tea and not had the urge to urinate ten seconds later? Have you? I didn’t think so. Unfortunately my restroom radar had been wrong again. Scrawled in coffee-jittered handwriting was a sign on the restroom door that read,

restroom OuT of Order

So close, yet so far away. Much to my luck though, the nice barista behind the counter tuned in to my pending bladder disaster and told me Office Depot next door had public restrooms. Bless you barista! May your days be filled with happiness and the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed expensive java!

Out of the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and into Office Depot. Quickly, we weaved our way through the maze of pens, pencils, and three ring binders to the Mecca called the “Mens Room.” Colton was a new boy seconds later, and we could continue our trek towards tolerance.

Once we got to the museum the boys were subdued for a good two hours. Nothing like mass graves and baby killings to quiet restless children. Although it was a wonderful experience for the boys, and it taught them how to “tolerate” one another—I did leave feeling a little guilty. For some reason, the majority of the time they ran reels on hate crimes and intolerance, the main perpetrators were white—that and the fact that I was the only blonde-haired blue-eyed person in the tour group. Can you say “Über Race”? I would have been prime pickings for Hitler’s New Germany. Well, except for the fact that I’m American. Huh, maybe I would have been gassed too. Who knows? My point is, weeeelllll, I don’t really know what my point is. However, I did gain a little tolerance myself. Maybe the next time a bitchy foreign 7-11 employee denies restroom access to one of my offspring, instead of telling her to “f-off” I will only think it in my head.

One small step for Charise, one giant leap towards world-wide tolerance.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

I was going to post about my sister's "ex" boyfriend and how sick he makes me, but I won't today

I am an admitted starer. A “starer” is one who indulges themselves by unapologetically staring at others for amusement. I’m addicted to it, almost to the point of embarrassment. Almost, but not quite. Many times my husband thinks I’m checking out other guys, when in reality, I’m just staring at other guys. “Checking out guys” and “staring at guys” are two are completely separate activities. Ask any blue-blooded starer and they’ll agree with me.

This morning while I was taking a walk down by the beach, I stared at a lot of people and a lot of things. I think some of the people may have thought I was weird, or rude, or a pervert—or a weird rude pervert. I am and was. So, to make myself feel better about being so weird, and rude, and perverted, I have written the following explanations/apologies to some of the many victims of my malicious gaze:
______________________________________________________________________

Dear Lady Jogger Wearing a Hurley Tee Shirt,

I am very sorry I stared at your boobs while you were jogging past me. Yes, I am a woman. No, I am not a lesbian. But, yes, I was looking at your boobs. I couldn’t help it; they were round and huge and resembled overfilled water balloons. The way they stood guard above your sickeningly tiny waist made me uneasy. The way they preceded they rest of your body by 30 seconds almost made me consider crossing the street before we crossed paths. But I couldn’t…stop….staring. And, okay, maybe I was a little jealous too. Until I have a pair of my own, fake boobs will continue to fascinate me so please ignore the next time I stare you down, because it WILL happen.

Yours Boobly,

Charise
________________________________________________________________________

Dear Hobo Lady Sleeping on the Bench,

I know you were asleep, so you may not have noticed me staring at you. I was. I even slowed my speedwalking pace down a notch so I could get a better gawk. I don’t know if I was as interested in you as I was with what was in your shopping cart. Indeed, I did find the many layers of your soiled clothing intriguing, and I would love to know how you got your hair to do that, but more so I MUST KNOW WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PACKING IN THAT SHOPPING CART? It hissed at me as I walked by, yet I saw nothing more than a tangled maze of paper bags and old Tupperware. You were more disturbing than the lady with the big watery boobs. Congratulations.

Affectionately Yours,

Charise
________________________________________________________________________
Dear Blubbery Guy with the Thick Lenses and Balding Spot,

It always worries me when someone stares me down while I’m staring them down. You did that. Yes, you in your bug frying lenses and faded black tee. Were those stretch jeans you were wearing? I am over the age of twelve so please don’t look at me that way. Just by looking at you I can tell that you spend half of your day prowling the beach checking out the little boys, the other half of the day you spend online in Disney chatrooms. You will be caught.

Prosecutingly Yours,

Charise
________________________________________________________________________
I guess three out of 103 is a good start. There are just so many people to stare at and so little time. I can’t wait until my trip to Utah, I get to fly out of LAX—it’s an invariable cornucopia of oddities for me to dissect with my eyes.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Just Stick It In My Veins!

Sunday Survey II

Four out of four family members did not go to church today. This being the case, I was sure that Satan himself was going to show up at my doorstep any moment, cloven hoofed and red tight-ed, to proclaim that he now had 100% claim to our souls and to pack our bags for an eternity of unrefined wool turtleneck sweater knitting and "home cooked" meals at MiMi’s Cafe (my idea of hell). Unfortunately, he never did. I was looking forward to the prospect of some excitement today. On the the other hand, the CEOs of Sony (makers of Playstation® and Playstation® products) did show up to let me know they had official claim of Cody and Colton’s souls, so if Satan did try to claim their souls in the future, he was S.O.L. I was like, duuuuuhhhhh, tell me something I don’t already know!

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Too Long of a Post--Or--El Camino Community College Can Eat A Fat One

In an attempt to save myself from dying an uneducated woman, I’ve been trying to register at the local community college—Mecca for the poor and degree-less. Sounds simple enough, right? Apply, register, and voila—a cheap, but nonetheless, college education. I’m obviously not educated, or I would know that my community college plan was a joke. But, because I don’t have the holy paper that says, “The Worst Years of My Life Weren’t Spent in High School,” I’m obviously a retard that doesn’t know how hard it is to get into the local community college.

My experience began a couple weeks ago when I called to make an appointment with one of the school counselors to see how my credits from my previous school would transfer to their school. I thought it would be like making a hair appointment or something—I call, I get an appointment, I make the appointment, and three hours later I’m a natural blonde! I thought the appointment would go a little like that, sans the blonde. Unfortunately, some retarded college student with a degree in Ebonics answers the phone. (I can imagine she is at least 37 lbs overweight, wearing stretch jeans, and eating something, licking her fingers off in between bites.)

“Hi, I’m new to the area and would like to make an appointment with one of your counselors to see what classes I need to register for,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.
“Ya need ta be a student to get in with tha counsalar,” the retard on the other line says.
“Uhhhh…” I was a little caught off guard. “How am I supposed to become a student if I don’t know what I need to register for?”
“Ya make an appointment with the counsalar.”
“But you said I have to be a student to make an appointment with the counselor.”
“Yeh, ya do.”

After another few minutes of trying to figure out what in the hell the voice on the other line was trying to tell me—I figured it out. I had to apply first.

So, I apply, get my student ID, and call to make an appointment with one of the counselors. I give up trying to get someone on the phone after calling several times and waiting on hold over 30 FREAKING MINUTES and still getting NO ONE! I decide it’s time to get personal. By “personal” I mean driving to the counseling office and making the appointment in person. So I load the boys into the Jeep, equip them with their MP3 players and Gameboys and head off to the community college.

On my way there, I get a call from Nick who tells me that I’m in for a treat. A very annoying, verge of tears frustrating, waste of my time, treat. It’s the community college “treat”.

After maneuvering the campus maze like a mice after a cube of aged cheddar, and feeling like a total SUV-driving Mom dork, I find where I need to be. I stride across the campus my legs doing double time because I need to get there, take care of business, and get back in 40 minutes, while the little guys follow behind asking, “Mom, do you know where you’re going?”

We take a short pit stop at the “Manhattan” (a sad eatery containing shelves of overpriced, dusty commodities such as band aides and sanitary napkins) so the boys can empty their microscopic bladders (I wonder who they got those from?). From there we motor to the Student Services Building. It is there, I’m told, that the mystical counselors reign over all desperate-to-register students. Once inside, my stress level goes down a notch. I’m told by a gaunt Asian woman wearing a purple pantsuit and cheap pearls that I need to stand in line to make an appointment with the counselor. So I get in line. I’m surrounded by bulbous black girls with slick hair, HUGE earrings, and too-tight of clothing, mean looking Hispanic girls who are probably thinking about kicking my ass, and post-rehab 40-somethings. Yeah, I’m going to fit right in.

After waiting for about 20 minutes in line, all the while trying to keep Cody and Colton from breaking the transcript kiosk, a man who looks like he knows something approaches me and asks me, “What do you need?”

“I need to make an appointment with the counselor. Not for today, I just want to schedule it.”
“Well, this line is closed. It’s not going to be open again for another 45 minutes.”

My instant reaction it to claw the guys face off, clamber over the plexiglass protected counter, and sign my name on the appointment book that I KNOW IS SITTING ON THE OTHER SIDE. I don’t do that though. I ask, “There isn’t anybody here that I can just make an appointment with?”

“No,” the guy answers coldly like a Nazi prison guard.

And, like the inhibited pansy I am, I suppress my tears of rage and calmly walk out the door. Immediately after, I’m on the phone tattling to Anthony about how “crappy” and “ghetto” this school is and how I never wanted to go there anyway. I know that Anthony has the balls to call and chew someone out. Even if his call gets me nowhere with the school, at least I’ll know there was some minority with a superiority complex on the other line getting the wrath of Ant.

I don’t know, I guess Community College is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I would rather pay exorbitant amounts to be coddled and hand-held until I reach my goal. El Camino Community can eat a fat one because I’m going to take my money elsewhere!

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Holy Hair

I took a quick poll in my head at Relief Society today (wrote the results down on the back of my checkbook, I did):

26 out of 30 women had short, curly hairdos that were shaped and hairsprayed so perfectly that you would think they had invisible hair nets holding them together.

I was one of the outcast women who did not have an invisible hairnet around my head. I wonder if that hairdo will be a prerequisite for getting into the Celestial Kingdom. Kind of like shaving your head before you enter the military. If that’s the case, I figure that most employees at Fantastic Sam’s and Dollar Cuts hold a golden ticket to enter the Kingdom of God.

Yes, I had to take this survey in order to keep myself from dying of boredom in Relief Society today. I was almost certain I was going to die of boredom, or die from the freezing A/C; somehow I made it out alive.

Just thought you should know.

I will do another survey next Sunday, stay posted.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Top of the List

A List Por Vous

Nothing really exciting happened today. Well, that is, nothing hilariously funny and scary happened today. But, for the sake of moving my last post (the one about the man-wiener zit) further down on your internet browser, I needed to post something. One of the golden rules of internet blogging (OMG, the word “blogging” just got rejected by my spell check—Bill Gates has got some catching up to do!) seems to be—

When You Aren’t Feeling the Creative Juices Flowing, Write a List!

So, here’s a sappy little list I felt like writing:

Things I Missed About Cody and Colton When They Were Being Wild and Carefree Rednecks in Utah

1. Having a sense of purpose beyond “tidying” the house and going to the gym.
2. Making sandwiches out of .65 cent wafer meat and getting compliments like, “These are the best sandwiches ever!” and “Mom’s secret sandwiches are so yummy!”
3. I have to sit outside in the beautiful sunshine all day and watch the boys ride bikes to make sure they’re safe.
4. I realize, once again, that I may not be as young and as hot as some of the teenage girls at the beach, but I am much younger and hotter than most of the moms on the block.
5. I get big hugs and sweet little kisses several times a day, even while Anthony is at work!
6. I have an excuse to buy sugary cereal, popsicles, and chips every time I go to the grocery store.
7. I am continually reminded that, even though I’ve screwed up on a bunch of things in the past, I definitely did something right by having them.
8. When I sit down to relax, I REALLY sit down to relax.
9. Tucking them into their cozy beds at night.
10. Being able to use their cute little phone voices to manipulate my family into coming to visit me in California. Yes Nick, that was my agenda.
11. The daily First Aide refresher courses. Refresher One: Superglue © will close that gash in your son or daughter’s head.
12. CODY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
13. COLTON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
14. And a million, bazillion more reasons……………..

Happy Friday Everyone! And to all a good night!

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Someone Explain, Please

Why would I have a dream last night that I was squeezing a zit on my chin, and when the zit popped, the puss came out looking like a wiener? Not an Oscar Meyer wiener, A MAN WIENER! I need therapy to get me through this morning just because of that dream.

Also, explain to my why, in my dream, did my sister (Nick) fly to Virginia to hang out with my childhood friend Carrie Egbert? And when I called to see if I should come out and join in on the fun, you replied, "I guess, if you want to." Sure, keep Carrie all to yourself--Virginia fun-hogger.

I need answers.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

(From L to R) Danny, Cody, Colton, Justice. AKA: Our Gang.

The Boys Are Back In Town

As I write, there are four boys in my house, five bikes in my yard, and three skateboards on the sidewalk out front. The yard somewhat resembles a post apocalyptic playground. It’s officially official now; the boys are back in town! Since eight o’clock this morning Cody and Colton have been like little schizophrenics, bouncing from one thing to another from the Playstation 2 to the bikes, to the skateboards, to the couches, to the kitchen—I’m just waiting for them to realize how much they want to lay down and take a nap. That hasn’t happened yet. Please happen.

Yesterday I was on the verge of breakdown, so worried that they wouldn’t be happy to be home; that they would want to continue the Hollywood redneck lifestyle they had been living in Utah for the past month. I was so wracked with guilt and emotion that I almost killed Anthony—twice. The first subconscious attempt was on our way to meet with “Dollins” our financial planner. I really don’t know why we have a financial planner at this point, I guess he’s there to laugh in our faces when we tell him that we’re trying to save for a house—in the South Bay area.

“So, how long are you looking at buying?” he asks.
“Oh, maybe in five years or so,” we answer.
“Excuse me for a moment, please,” Dollins politely says as he steps out of the conference room.

Why did he even bother leaving the room? We can hear his mixture of insane laughter and snorts combined with his failed attempts at subduing himself. Not encouraging. But I digress. I was talking about killing my husband.

While I’m driving to pick up Anthony, my mother calls to inform me of the horrendous things my babies have been subjected to in Utah: Boxing, Rated M video games, nights of un-brushed teeth, bratty stepbrothers. Oh the humanity! I’m so involved in this torturous tale that as I pull up to the curb to pick up Anthony, I don’t fully stop. Anthony had a hold of the open car door and was being drug along at the dangerous pace of .5 mph. Oh the humanity—again! Needless to say I got an earful about it.

The second time I tried to kill Anthony yesterday was upon approaching a two-way stop. I almost didn’t stop. It was the piercing shriek that assaulted my ears like tiny pickle forks that stopped me. The piercing shriek came from my dear husband. Needless to say, I heard it from him again the second time. I heard it from him as I stopped the car, got out, and let him continue the drive to Dollins’. Apparently, I was a sniper behind the wheel.

I guess I can’t blame him, he must have been thinking that I was strapped for cash after my binge at the farmer’s market last week. His life insurance policy would have covered the cost of fresh corn—and then some! But I actually love him and wasn’t trying to kill him. Blame it on the ADD, I blame everything else on it.

Although yesterday and this morning’s events proved to be traumatic, I’m still surviving. Cody just came in with a wounded knee from a bike accident. I don’t think we’re going to have to amputate, but I’m not sure. I think the fact that he wants to go to Target and buy cards is a good sign and I’m going to go with it. I just hope I can get to the car through the tangled overgrowth of wild bikes and skateboards.

Observation

The boys are coming home this morning, and I noticed a new crease in my forehead. Coincidence? I think not.

Motherhussy