life's little surprises

Finding money in a pocket.

A phone call from an old friend.

Waking at 9:30 am on the weekend, and your kids are still in bed.

A card in the mail.

'I love you's' from the kids.

A penny on the ground.

Jeans that fit.

A shoe-sale.

A lemonade stand on the side of the road.

Breakfast in bed.

Catching a foul ball.

Lollipops at the bank.

The person in front of you at the drive-thru paying your tab.

A smile from a stranger.

eavesdropping on my children

7-yr-old: Wow, do you see that Hayden? See that baby spider? It's trapped between your bedroom window and the screen.

4-yr-old: Awwww, hi baby spider. You're so cuuuuuute. It's ok baby spider. He's probably scared because he can't find his family.

7-yr-old: Wow, if you look really close, you can see his face. Hi spider. Isn't that cool?

4-yr-old: Yeah, way cool. Hi baby. Hi little guy. Hi cutey spider. We'll take care of you. Don't worry. Awwww...

7-yr-old: Yeah, we could help free you. Let's lift the screen and help him get out so he's not trapped.

4-yr-old: Yeah, let's do that. We'll get you out, baby spider.

7-yr-old: Oh, but wait a minute. Then the spider might come on in your bedroom. What will we do then?

4-yr-old: Oh, then I will KILL HIM.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

slow down

Boy if that fortune isn't the truth.

Tonight, I had been playing baseball with the kids and later rushed upstairs to fix up a bit before heading to dinner with the family. I told Greg to give me five minutes since I was sweating more than my husband sweats at Disney, and that's a lot. No pictures to prove it, just take my word for it, the guy gets hot.

So I ran some pomade through my locks, threw in a squirt or two of hairspray, a swipe of deodorant, and wondered why the lid wouldn't fit on the bottle of hairspray.

That's when I realized I was forcing the lid to my Secret over the much-smaller nozzle. Not exactly a match and a good reason to question my sanity. Same thing happened yesterday.

We made homemade pizza, with enough left over to feed the gazillion girls who cry at a Jonas Brothers concert, so I wrapped the extra slices in foil. I meant to grab my cell from the counter and take it upstairs, instead I walked into my bedroom and found myself with a handful of foil-wrapped pizza...

...and my phone chilling next to the milk.

Better get some sleep.

not too impressed

Tried brussel sprouts for the first time today in the studio. Another item to cross off my list of NEVERS. Will I have them again?

Don't think so.

I hate ants, I hate ants, I hate ants

Sorry for the repetition.

Just trying to get my point across that I really hate ants. They give me the creeps, especially when they are in droves. One or two, MAYBE, but three or more and I get the shivers. Totally makes my skin crawl. Same feeling I get when I find a hair in my food, and it's not mine.

So you can imagine my less-than-calm reaction when I saw a minimum of 14, yes I counted, crawling over a piece of candy in our garage. The boys nanny had given them suckers, and my youngest dropped a piece. So I did what any reasonable adult would do, I reached for the nearest liquid material in a bottle with a spray nozzle...Windex.

Let's just say the glass-cleaner won that battle.

When Hayden asked what I was doing, I told him cleaning up one of Momma's biggest fears, right behind restaurant booths and something else I won't mention, (Note to sisters: no need to comment), and that he needs to be careful about leaving food on the floor.

Hayden's response?

'Oh, that? I meant to. I was feeding the aunts, Mom. They were hungry.'

Kellie Pickler Did WHAT?

Came across this tonight.

Our pal Kellie Pickler ran out of gas...in a mall parking lot. I couldn't help but laugh when I saw the pic, and what looks to be two very compassionate women helping her out.

Hey, it happens.

I've been known to run a bit low, translation: come to a stop, when I let my fuel gauge get below the red. Yes, I know better, it just happened. More than once? Well, yes, but that's not important. And if Greg is reading this right now, quit rolling your eyes.

Glad to know Kellie is safe and I'm not the only one who pulls stunts like this.

Procrastination at its Best

The nightstand by my bed.

It's loaded with...according to Greg...junk. So, my first stop after posting this entry will be the trash can so I can start the cleaning process. Greg calls it junk, but it's not really. It's stuff. My stuff. You know, random things. Like six magazines that are neatly stacked, ones I've yet to finish and may take several months before I do, and in the meantime I'll just keep restacking while they collect dust.

What else?

An almost-empty jar of peanuts that I snacked on last night as I lay in bed working a crossword puzzle, and no...I still can't figure out the 5-letter word for 4 DOWN...which is 'dog-tired.'

My frozen entree tray from lunch today that still has a fork laying inside. Yes, I ate my lunch while laying in bed. That way I could nap sooner, after all 12 stairs would have been a big delay.

A rubberband to pull back my hair and an elastic band to keep that annoying strand of bangs out of my eyes, the one that is too short to tuck behind my ear.

About 4 post-its of 'Things to do' lists that, not surprisingly, I never got around to. I'm an expert at jotting them down, just not always good at following through. Now that I think about it those lists should be called 'Things I'd Like to Do.'

And finally, a pic of me and my pal Nickie at her wedding, in my pre-backfat days. Guess that's what happens when we have kids...things shift, right? RIGHT?

Better get to cleaning. Rest assured, it's not like this all of the time. But, I do have my moments.

live and die by the ice cream guy

The ice cream truck.

Does your neighborhood have one? We get sporatic visits from the guy who drives the truck full of tasty frozen treats, with photos of each item plastered on the side of the vehicle that blares 'Pop Goes the Weasel' from two neighborhoods away. Funny how as an adult, I tend to get the same treat that I bought as a child, patriotic-colored Bomb pops that turn my lips an interesting shade of Smurf-blue.

The boys go into sheer panic mode as if they'd not eaten in days over the sound of the truck's music indicating that A) if you're lucky and make a run for Dad's wallet you B) just might get the chance to buy a Drumstick. I laugh at the wails that could shatter glass in our home, 'Mom...the ice cream truck...he's in the NEIGH-BOR-HOOOOOOOOD!' I remember that excitement. There was something about buying ice cream from a complete stranger that made it seem special. Something about this ice cream tastes better than what they sell at Kroger down the street. Sure, you can buy a box of ice cream sandwiches there, but where besides the neighborhood ice cream truck can you buy just one? And not just one, but one that was handed to just you?

And so it goes in our home, the constant wondering if today's the day we'll receive a visit, or if we missed him while out at dinner, because how dare we eat. We've even hopped in the car to go searching after picking up the faint hint of his music being drowned out by lawn mowers and kids on scooters, only to come up empty-handed. Eventually, our two dejected boys return home to stare at a box of freezer-burned fudge bars in our kitchen.

Until last Saturday, when our ice cream man, who in our opinion beats out the Schwan guy in popularity, drove up and I told him the kids had been looking for him all week, and were about to sign themselves up for some sort of frozen dairy support group. 'Save yourself the stress, I only come on Saturdays.'

Now you tell me.