5 things you need to know about Billy

Billy Currington visited with us last week.

Besides the fact that I could easily be President of his fan-club, or a stalker, not sure which, I learned some things I didn't know about the shy Mr. Currington. So, here's 5 things that may tickle your fancy:

Billy runs barefoot. As in 11 miles barefoot...on pavement. Ouch.

Billy is homeless. No home. No apartment. Just hotels, busses, or crashing 'at a buddy's place.' Plus, a few storage units.

Forget the suitcase, Billy tours with a backpack. Talk about low-maintenance.

Don't look for Billy to try his luck on Dancing with the Stars. He says it looks too difficult and he'd be an easy target for laughs.

Finally, Billy is no hoarder. (Doesn't have a place to put it!) He says he's seen the show, and is quite the opposite, with a former roomie once telling him, 'This ain't gonna work. You can't be THIS neat.'

here's what you missed today

Producer Gator answered calls on a megaphone???

First Lady Cheri Daniels stopped by!

what boys talk about

Oldest: Hey, Mom...

Me: Yeah?

Oldest: Look under there.

Me: Under where?

Oldest: He, He, He. You said 'underwear.'

finding life's pleasures in the rush

Did a marathon grocery run the other night.

One of those nights when bedtime is approaching, so I literally do a sweep of the store, grabbing anything that looks remotely close to what's on my list. Jelly, but no time to search for my favorite Blackberry flavor, bottled water but not the ones on sale since I don't have seconds to spare looking, and you get the idea. All that's missing is my running pants and an ipod, it's that quick.

The store employees must think I'm a maniac though I don't waste time looking, after nearly crashing my cart through the Twinkie display and self-checking my own items quicker than the chick at register 4.

And would you believe I actually get a kick out of trips like these? Something inside me sort of enjoys adrenaline-shopping, as if my life is really that boring. I promise it's not. I just work better under pressure. Kinda like the days I get to work early, and get nothing done. As in, absolutely nothing. The extra time will instead be spent engaging in a Jim and Kevin gabfest, and then it's showtime, and guess who vows to sleep in the next morning?

Back to my grocery aerobics, I threw things in the pantry upon arriving home and realized in my rush that I purchased Crunchy Peter Pan, as opposed to its Creamy rival. I loved Crunchy PB as a child, so yay for me. My hurried approach paid off.

It's how I roll.

just another busy day at work

got myself a part-time job

Not one that has me on the payroll, of course.

As a mother, we all work the late shift in our homes, doubling as a part-time nurse. A nurse without training. No ID badge. No scrubs. And no clipboard to record notes about the patient.

That was me last night, as my 5-year-old woke in the night screaming and tugging his ear. God love him, but I must admit the boy is a shoo-in for worst patient of the decade. He may be five, but any patience he had prior to catching this bug apparently took the day off. Grouchy kid aside, my husband and I were like tag-team wrestlers minus the tights in a ring, taking turns on Motrin runs downstairs and hoping our oldest son didn't wake from the circus.

Wasted thoughts.

Our little guy had only a few requests. He doesn't want to be bothered with meds but wants to feel better yesterday, wants a drink but not that one, agrees to numbing drops in his ear but now it's clogged, wants his back tickled but no talking please, and you get the idea.

One thing was clear by 1:00 am. He'll need a good wife when he's older.

Preferably one who wears scrubs.

not a yes, not a no

'No promises.'

That's the response I got after lying in bed with my oldest last night, recapping his day, the good and the bad and the silly, then telling him with a wink 'not to come home with a girlfriend tomorrow.'

'No promises,' he chimed with a devilish grin that said it all.

No promises. It's a phrase we could substitute for almost anything, really. Wouldn't it be nice to rattle off those two simple words when asked to commit to something we dread? It could apply to all unenjoyable moments in this thing called life.

Being asked if you can work overtime.

Being reminded to show up for your appointment with the girly doctor.

Being told to put your check in the mail.

Being asked to share a cookie with a friend.

Being told to clean your room.

And the list goes on and on. I might just try it.

When Greg asks me tonight if tonight's the night I will finally get around to buying that alarm clock, since I'm still using his and waking him up at 3 am, I might say yes. Or I might say...

No promises.

overheard from the backseat

'Ahhhhh...my first chest hair.'

-5-year-old Hayden

7 things I don't get

Kids running barefoot around Chick-fil-A on Kids' Night. Free meals and a No Shoes policy in the play area shouldn't mean dirty piggies on a restaurant floor. Not too appetizing.

The toaster that went missing at work. That frozen whole-grain waffle does nothing for the taste buds as it thaws over a three-hour period.

The constant calls for 'Phillip' on my work cell. You'd think after a few months, these people would get that he's not answering. Or here. Or even within reach, so no, I can't take a message.

High heels you can barely walk in. When it looks as though you're desperate to get to a bathroom, what's the point?

How I survived 30 years without Starbucks? Pretty much self-explanatory.

At drive-thrus, why...after I say, 'A large diet, and that's all,' will they still say, 'Okay, anything else?' Never fails.

My husband using more bubble bath than I do in a year. And...

...admitting it.

cousins...it's what life's all about

Thanks to my sister for sharing. She filmed my 2-year-old nephew getting 'tackled' by my boys, and it brings tears to my eyes. Brown grass and all.

Good times.

forget the pantry door, call 911

Decided to grill out for dinner last week.

Which may very well be the last time such a thought pops into my head. Ever.

Dinner was good, chicken breasts that had been brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with seasoning. I even managed to keep the corners from getting too black and crunchy, something the boys call 'crispy burnt.' There's a lot going on during the dinner prep hour, if you think about it. Kids in and out of the house, the dog wanting to take care of business, phone ringing, etc had me focused about 30-percent on the grill.

Imagine my surprise when the meal still turned out great, no crispy burnt pieces thank you very much, and I was quite the proud chef as I turned off the tank and attempted to the shut the lid.

Attempted. As in, it wouldn't close.

Turns out, in my rush to whip up our meal, I didn't move the grill far enough away from the house. So, visualize the lid melted to the siding of our home. While you're at it, visualize Greg's face when he observed the damage.

I was somehow able to visualize the number for the local pizza place, should I ever get the idea to grill again.

we need a new pantry door

Came home from work last week, fixed lunch and it wasn't till a good 3 hours later that I noticed something odd in our kitchen.

A hole in the door.

The outer paneling had literally been torn through and I immediately assumed there had been some sort of light saber war that morning after bowls of Lucky Charms were downed. Not the case.

The culprit was my husband, Greg.

He informed me that he had tripped over our black lab, who often resembles a cozy rug on the floor, only one that's breathing. Greg put his hand out in front of him, hoping to catch himself, when it went through the door instead.

A dual with light sabers sure sounded a little more interesting.

cars, sports, and...brasierres?

It's not every day you walk in on your two boys talking about undergarments for ladies. Here's the skinny on what I overheard:

5-year-old: Hey Griffin, what's a brasierre?

9-year-old: Oh, it's like a bigger word for bra.

5-year-old: You mean, those things mom wears.

9-year-old: Yeah, girls wear 'em. A brasierre is what Mom's putting on when her bathroom door is closed and she says you can't come in.

5-year-old: Got it.

You can't make this stuff up.

maybe I need to relax

Not sure about you, but something tells me I need a break.

To put it mildly, I made a complete fool of myself at Starbucks during my daily trip for the usual caffeine needed to keep me from slurring my words during the show. It's a routine I can do with my eyes closed, though I won't since it requires driving up to a window. The routine is nothing out of the ordinary.

Order.

Pay.

Brief wait.

Leave with beloved drink in hand.

Until this morning. I ordered the very same drink, same size, to the same barista, pulled up in the same car, handed him the same debit card.

Just as I put my card back in my wallet, I turned back toward the window, only to find Dave, the friendly barista, leaning out with my beverage, which caused me to jump out of my skin and scream loudly.

Appreciate the prompt service, but I wasn't expecting my drink to be ready so quickly, or even for a recognizable face to be lurking so closely.

He got a good laugh, and I...well, I'm looking forward to a few days off.

Maybe I'll go inside next time.