Jebb

Night before last Simon and I were reading his take home reading book...it was about a girl named Jill and a boy named Jebb.

Jebb?

Yes, Simon Jebb.

But that's not even a word.

Well, it's supposed to be a name.

But it's not. Is it a mistake? Is it supposed to say job?

No.

What about jab?

NO!

Well, jib is a real word.

I know, but this is a name and it's Jebb.

That's not really a name.

Yes it is ...it's Jill's hillbilly cousin who just came into town for a visit...they have weird names where he comes from.

And they don't know what bird cages look like either? (Jebb thinks the fan on the bus is a bird cage.)

Apparently not.

And they don't ride on buses? (Jebb thinks the bus has a face.)

No, that's where they make moon shine.

What's moon shine?

Forget, I brought it up...let's just finish this book...


***To any hillbilly's out there who may be reading this post...don't be offended we're probably related...on my husband's side of course.

***To any of my husband's family who may be reading this...well, who am I kidding, none of you are reading this and even if you were, you're stuck with me so there's nothing you can do except to avoid buses and drink some moonshine

World's Worst Social Reformer

I'm the world's worst social reformer.

Remember that complaint I filed about my local gas station firing all my beloved soda serving employees? Well, I got a response. Three of them to be exact. The company said that looked into my complaint and would be putting the store under new management (again), was very sorry for what had happened, and hoped that I would return soon.

Ok---so, I know that this big chain of gas stations really doesn't care about what I think or the nice people that got canned but, last Tuesday I stopped by to see if they really had changed things up like they promised. And to my surprise, they had.

A whole new, unsleezy crew was working there. And the thing is, if I started to frequent the place again I can see myself liking these people. But what about the ones that were fired unjustly??? Do I just forget them? Where are they? Why can't they just come back?

I swore I'd never go to the store again...but the company did try to fix what had happened...but I just want them to track down the old employees and rehire them. I know, I ask too much. And what makes everything worse is the fact that I'm tempted to go there again...the new crew seems likable and not all nasty and evil like the ones who came in and gave my buddies the boot.

AGHHHHHHH!!!!!

Am I making too big of deal out of this or is big business getting the best of me?

Will I ever be able to stand up for the little guys? Can a Dr.Pepper addict like me ever make a difference? Probably not, and that is why I will voluntarily declare myself to be the world's worst social reformer.

You know you've watced too much TV when...

...you become convinced that Cinderella was in fact, and animal hoarder.

That's right folks. Cinderella was an animal hoarder.

(That must have come as a real shock for poor old prince charming...what a shame, they should have dated longer.)

How did I discover this dark secret you ask? Well, I'll tell you. After hours of sitting on the couch watching cable classics like "Hoarders", "Confessions: Animal Hoarding" and "Hoarding: Buried Alive". I was watching Cinderella with Gracie one afternoon when it hit me....

...Cinderella has all the signs of a classic hoarder!!! Think about it. Many animals in a small confined space, animals in her bed and clothes. And let's not overlook the fact that she carries on conversations, sings, and makes clothes for all of them.

Then what about all that old junk she stores in her room? Hum??? How many of you have free standing dress forms, old trunks, dresses ready to be refashioned, and an army of sewing savvy mice at your fingertips? (And what about all those mice slinking around the house bringing back discarded items to add to the hoard? Looks suspicious to me. I'll bet they were trained...BY, none other than, CINDERELLA HERSELF!!!)

So really now that I am thinking about it that step mothers wicked bad rap was all wrong. What choice did she have other than to lock Cinderella up there in that tower? The animal stench alone must have been overwhelming! And then that whole dramatic story about her being made a slave in her own home...phooey! I bet that step mother was trying her best to break Cinderella of her unsanitary living habits.

Unfortunately, prince charming stepped in and "saved the day".

Happily ever after???
I seriously doubt it. If they were so happy why didn't we ever hear from them again?

OH! I'll tell you why! Because they all died of the plague carried in by the fleas on her rodents (and who ever was left alive were eventually done in by the predecessor to the bird flu). That's why.

Cinderella a poor neglected orphan? More like a raving animal hoarder with a serious tendency towards kleptomania.

And don't even get me started on Snow White...a new season of Sister Wives is starting and I can see some similarities there as well...man, I've got to turn off the T.V.

My First Filed Formal Complaint

This week I filed my first ever formal complaint against a company.

I may have felt very...I don't know justified...dignified...indignant...something if not for the fact that by filing the complaint I sealed my fate as a white trash champion forever.

That's right friends I lodged the complaint against the Chevron gas company.

And why you ask?
Don't I love my local gas station with their never ending supply of delicious, thirst quenching soda?

Why yes I do.
Or I should say I did.

But something rather unfortunate happened.

Recently the company came in and fired all the old and middle aged workers (...Crazy Eyes...Chain Smoker...The Guy That Needs a Shower...I'm Too Tired To Get Off My Chair Man...all of them whom I loved and gave Christmas gifts to...all of them that even my kids know on a first name basis) and replaced them with young, sour faced girls and creepy, younger men.

Why?
Who knows.

But I hate it.

And I don't go there anymore.
Seriously.
It makes me that mad.

Will my Dr.Pepper habit survive?
Will I ever love the gas station again?

Only time will tell.

Bix, Vin, and Tam

So Simon is bringing home his take home reading books. We read one incredibly mind numbing book every night and then return it the next day only to have it replaced by something else even more hideous than the first.

Who writes this crap?

Recently the characters in these masterpieces have had names that aren't even words...my personal favorites are Tam, Bix, and Vin. (Apparently the authors of these books haven't visited a suburb here in these United States...if so the characters may have had names like Sam, Tom, Tim, Ben, Jen, Dan, etc...)

Is it too much to ask for my kid to learn to read something where he may actually use the words he's learning to read?

Oh well, I suppose Tam's bird watching adventure was more exciting than tonight's selection where the exact same sentence was repeated on every page. By page 5 Simon lets out a giant sigh and says, "I know, I KNOW!!! How many times do they have to tell me that worker bees help their families?!?"

7 times Simon. 7 times. At least that is how many pages were in your book.

Oh S@#*%! I Need To Buy My Daughter Some Princess Movies!

Since my first child was a boy we are a little heavy on the made for boys movies. Most of our cartoons are DVD's like Robin Hood, Toy Story, Kung Fu Panda, Cars, etc. Then as he got older we bought movies like Honey I Shrunk the Kids, Jumungi, The Never Ending Story and of course...The Sandlot.

The Sandlot. It's a classic and one of my top ten favorite movies of all time. I just love it. And so do my kids. Especially Grace my lovely, beautiful, tiny 2 year old daughter.

She can't get enough of it. She would have it running all the time on every TV if we would let her.

But we won't.
Especially now.

See, there is this really exciting part in the movie where Benny "pickles the beast" at which point the beast (a giant killer dog gorilla thing that ate one kid already) leaps the fence and heads straight towards Benny. As Benny turns his head to see the approaching doom he yells, "Oh S#%*!" and takes off in a dead run.

Now, I don't blame Benny for his bad language or for his bad influence on Grace but for the time being Benny is banned from our house. Sorry Benny.

However, I think that everyone will accept the banishment as just when they learn (or hear or see) my delicate little blue eyed, blond curly headed toddler yelling "Oh S#%*!" and taking off in a dead run anytime something even remotely exciting happens. (Try laughing that off in the hallway at church...or the grocery store..or the toy section of Target.)

The evidence is clear.
It's time to invest in some princess movies.

(Oh...what was that? I could just be a better parent? Teach her better language? Make her use her imagination? Please. Do you even know me? sheez.....)

Does Every Creep Begin With Kay?

Is anyone else freaked out by the current Kay Jewelers commercial....attractive woman alone in a cabin in the woods with a serial killer? (Ok...so I don't know if he's a serial killer or not but if I was a betting woman my money would be on death.)

The weather is bad. In fact according to the boyfriend, it's the worst storm in years. The woman is scared. A boulder careens into the window which miraculously doesn't break. (I'm not sure how--- possibly it was launched by a remote controlled catapult for dramatic effect by said boyfriend.)

The woman jumps and then is grabbed by Captain Wet Hair who is wearing a sweater and holding a box (which to me is a far scarier combination than the storm with the flying foam boulders). "Don't worry, I'm here." he says in a soothing voice while pulling her closer.

Then enter the voice change...think Jack Nicholson in The Shining OR (no no no this is better ) in Silence of the Lambs when he says "Clarice"----yea, that's it...as you hear him end the commercial with "and I always will be."

AAAAUUUGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HOld on. Let me say that again...AAAAAUUUUGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Don't take the ring lady! DON'T TAKE THE RING!!!!
For crying out loud haven't you ever seen a horror movie? Where did you spend your teenage years? Under a rock? Watching the Sound of Music? This night will not end well. Do you hear me? THIS NIGHT WILL NOT END WELL!!!!

Ok, liz...calm down. It was just a commercial. No search parties will be formed in the morning. You can sleep easy. Just try not to think about the cabin with the man who will always be there.

I Can't Believe I Said It Again

This blog is named after an incident where I found myself yelling at Simon in my mother's entry way as he was opening a can of whoop on her giant poinsettia plants.

In fact that scene was the catalyst for the creation of the blog. I started thinking about all the insane things I say, do, and have happen to me everyday and I thought I better write this stuff down because when I tell my kids these stories later they'll never believe me.

Who knows, maybe they won't believe me even having them written down. Heck, I don't believe half of them myself and I'm the one they happened to.....

...like this one:

I said it again...

This afternoon I found myself walking into the kitchen and yelling "Gracie!!! Don't Punch the Poinsettia's!!!"

Who knew that would happen twice?

Not me.
(How was I supposed to know that my children have been genetically altered to hate poinsettias?)

But there she was, standing on the kitchen table going mid-evil on my brand new poinsettia plant. Fists flying. Leaves dropping. Me yelling.

Don't believe it when they tell you that lightening doesn't strike twice.

I'm just praying I don't start reliving all the incidents from this blog...the working at Hooters (which I never did), the cat getting stuck on my head, the mating of plastic horses (if you didn't read about it...don't ask), and, well, pretty much every other story I've ever chronicled....I just don't think I can take it again.

Oh and kids just wait...One day when you're grown, you'll find me in your home during the holidays and what will I be doing? I'll be giving your poinsettias the beat down of their lives. And that will be a story you can believe.

Fushigi!

So, I just bought Simon a Fushigi for Christmas. That's right, a Fushigi. "The As Seen on TV Magic Anti-Gravity Ball!" FUSHIGI!!!!

It was just sitting there at Wal-Mart next to the Sponge-Bob-Square-Pants-Made-For-Adults-Snuggies. (No, I'm not kidding. I can't make crap like this up.) And I bought it.

I had to.

It was either that or let Simon buy it himself.

You see, he is completly taken by the advertisments with the floating metal ball and the nerd-a-rific tricks it can do. He's been saving up all his chore money and counting it everyday to see if he has "only $19.99 plus shipping and handling" so he can "order one today!" And I don't want him spending his hard earned, base board scrubbing money on a lousy piece of shanaynay.

So I bought the lousy piece of shanaynay...

And it was kind of embarrassing....at the Wal-Mart in my pajamas next to the Snuggies buying a Fushigi on my way to the gas station to get a soda...
...I bet people were wondering how many snot nosed brats I had waiting for me back at my mo-beel home...

Oh well, Merry Christmas Simon....I hope your Fushigi is everything you dream it will be.

What the Hack?

About a month ago someone hacked into my dad's email account and sent everyone a very long very detailed testimonial about the benefits of using Viagra. Knowing my very conservative father and the ultra conservative cooperation he works for I found the situation hilarious.

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

This week someone hacked into my email account and sent everyone on my contact list a very long very detailed testimonial about the benefits of using Viagra.

People who received said information include Simon's school teacher, members of my church, and of course my dad...who laughed and laughed laughed.

Nobody Else Will Because I'm the Beast

Sunday was my last day as the children's chorister at my church. It was a hard position for me to fill. I can't sing, play an instrument, or even read music. I've never taken music lessons or been in choir. But, I like kids. They are horrendously entertaining. Hopefully my love for them helped balance out my lack of musical skill.

So, as I was saying Sunday was my last day and I was all emotional. (Just thinking about their crazy voices singing about our Savior gets me all choked up.) At the end of singing time I bore my testimony and told them goodbye. I was very sad.

Later that day I was blessed with little visitors, notes, etc. It cheered me immensely as did a card I received the next day. It read, in part: "I will miss you as our primary choruster. Even if nobody else does."

It reminded me of another note I received. This one was in my yearbook, written by one of my 8th graders, the last year I taught public school. It said, "Miss Evens, I will miss you. You are the beast."

Yes. I am the beast.
(Maybe that is why nobody else will miss me.)

A Clarification but NOT an Apology

My husband has requested that I clarify a little something from an earlier post. It seems I may have been wrong (and I use that term loosely because as we all know I am never wrong) about what our stolen money was spent on.

You see it went like this...I find out our account is frozen. Jon goes to the bank and starts wading through the mess. He calls me and starts reading off a list of charges made from somewhere that the US dollar needed to be exchanged for foreign currency. I am freaking out. How did someone overseas get our into our debit account?!? Meanwhile the kids are running around needing me (Can I play outside? Grace spilled her milk. Where is Fifi? Wipe my bum....etc...). And all through the chaos Jon is still reading the list.

So, I'm sure you'll understand that when he got to a patch of charges for some DVD's (I think?) that were called blah blah something ruther "4 Pay" blobbidy blah that I thought Jon said they were some movies entitled something like yadda yadda "fore play" somethin' somethin'.

Ok! So maybe you don't understand but that's what I heard and that's how it happened. But, come on now, give me a break! Some jerk wad just stole all the money that we had in our bank account and then racked up piles of over charge fees. And because he's a jerk I knew that the movies weren't going to be about golfing. He had to be some sort of weaselly sleaze ball. Right?

You better believe that's right.

Even if he didn't buy porn.
Which he didn't.
At least not with my money.

So now that I've got that cleared up I will now put an official done stamp on this subject and end this post by saying that: The guy may be a thief but he isn't a pornographer or a golfer. (That I know of.) However, if he is either one, I sincerely hope that my money didn't help improve his swing.

There. Clarification complete.

PS---To my neighbor out there who read the earlier post and talked to Jon about it...this may explain his confusion during your conversation and is actually what sparked this new post.

Tis the Season for Explanations

It's that time of year again...Autumn. Which means Simon's birthday party and Halloween. Which means the season for explanations is upon us.

I have big feelings about letting my kids choose what kind of costumes they want to wear for Halloween and what kind of birthday parties they have. I love giving them that freedom and helping them turn what they see in their minds into realities. The only problem is that while the kids love it, it leaves pretty much everyone else confused, and then the explanations begin.

For example this year Simon will be having a "moon" birthday party where we will be fighting aliens (aka---my husband dressed up in a costume while the kids pelt him with wire scouring balls we bought at the dollar store). Try delivering invitations for a "moon party". The only way it could sound weirder is if Simon called it a "mooning party". But I digress, so back to the subject...

Could he possibly choose something a little more traditional like a Buzz Lightyear or a Star Wars Party? No. So, it's a moon party with aliens and moon rocks and astro gloves.

And when I think about it, it really is a little more traditional than years past. For instance, last year we held the "Bad Guy Birthday Party" and the year before that it was an "Olympic Birthday Party" and the year before that we had a "Tiki Room Birthday". So in our party history this is the most "normal".

Simon's birthday party is the end all event of the year for him and he's so excited again this year. In fact, he so excited you could say he's "over the moon" about it. I hope it's all that he's imagined. Wish me luck. I've never made an alien costume before. (Let's just hope I don't have to explain what that is to.)

Oh---and with Halloween on the horizon I'm bound to be found in the yard with Simon working on the Homemade Robot Costume of Doom Part 2.

Pardon the Silence

It's been almost a month since my last post.
Would that be because I have run out embarrassing stories or things to complain about?
Not hardly.

It would be because:
#1. I've been ridiculously busy. AND
#2. Some creep stole our debit card number and drained our account. Before we even knew the money was gone our bills were bouncing rebouncing and our account became "frozen".

Our Internet provider put our payment through several times, it wouldn't go, so they turned off our service.

Today, after some headaches, we finally got everything straightened out. What a mess.

And at the end of it all I only have one thing to say: If you're going to steal my money at least spend it on something your going to use because, buddy, if you have to lift money from a middle class mom's bank account to buy a $40 How-to-Get-Past-Fore-Play DVD then that's just a waste of both of our money, because, quite frankly, you're never going to get the chance to use the information from that DVD. Seriously. Never.

And dude, here's some advice that you don't need to steal in order to get (and it will be far more beneficial than anything you bought with my money)...stand up, turn off your computer, and go take a shower. I'm serious about that to you smelly freak show.

Still Don't Like Her

Went running at the gym Saturday night. My IPOD was dead so I plugged my headphones into the treadmill's T.V. when who should appear?
None, other that Julia Roberts herself.

Then and there it was confirmed that I still don't like her. (She' even more annoying while running, if that's possible.)

A Shocking Discovery

The other day I realized...I'm UnAmerican.

I discovered this as I was going through photos of our recent trip to Yellowstone National Park. You, know our nation's most beloved national park. And anyways, I finally admitted it. I hate Yellowstone.

While we were there it was a million degrees and crowded. Like Disneyland in June crowded. Like Times Square on New Years Eve crowded. No matter where we went there were hoards of people and absolutely no place to park.

And then the people....stopped and out of their cars in the middle of the road hooting and hollering at the wildlife, walking off the trails, ignoring posted signs, littering. It was crazy. It made me crazy.

Combine that with the over powering sulfur smells and the knowledge that if your children take a wrong step they'll fall through the earth's crust and be boiled alive. Not my idea of a good time.

Like I said, I'm admitting it---I don't like Yellowstone and that my friends is, in and of itself, enough to make me a bad American. However, I also hate clowns, hot dogs, Wal-Mart, and Julia Roberts. So, looking at myself in the grand scheme of things I can now see that I am clearly UnAmerican...

...which is really a shame, because I love my country (except for the clowny, hotdogish, Wal-Martified Yellowstone parts).

White Trash

A little while ago I was pondering my progress down the slippery slope to White Trashhood. In fact it was the day after the rodeo as I was driving down to the gas station in my pajamas with my 48 oz. refillable mug. Which, looking back on the situation, should have all by itself cinched the deal for me but it didn't.

You see, I was thinking about the night before how we had attended a rodeo where we had snuck in treats, hooped and hollered at the cowboys, enjoyed a motor cross exhibition at half-time, and then let our kids fall asleep to a movie while we played games with my siblings. What have I become I wondered...

..white trash. Yes, white trash. It was confirmed this weekend in the Targee National Forest in Idaho.

Here are the facts:
me in my pajamas
driving a 4 wheeler
from the cabin to a gas station
to buy a giant soda.

me + pajamas + Idaho + 4wheeler + giant soda = White Trash.

There's nothing left to say.

A Tiger I am NOT!

So last week I got to be the director for a local art show. It was a lot more work than I anticipated but it was also a lot more fun.

The night of the artist's reception and awards ceremony I arrived early to set up chairs. As I carried chairs out of the library and over to the ceremony area I noticed a couple of teenage boys hanging out. But, this wasn't strange. The annual carnival was going on in the park next to the library and the entire area was literally swarming with teens.

Soon the boys started following me in and out as I carried chairs. They didn't seem like the kind of boys I'd want my daughter to date but still harmless enough. I started chatting with them a bit since they were there...are you here for the art show?...no?...the carnival?...it's starting to finally cool off...Pointless conversation.

I was just trying to be nice and besides I'd rather have weird teenage boys like me than try to mug me later when I'm walking to my car that night.

Then, as I turn the corner I over hear one of the boys (who by now have started to follow me inside the library while I'm moving the million chairs) say:

"OH YEA...she's a tiger!"
Then the other one says:
"It's called a cougar."
Then icky boy giggles ensue.

What the heck!?! I'm furious..for so many reasons. Not to mention creeped out. Tiger? Cougar? Whatever. I'll show them cougar. After I rip their limbs off and chuck their bloody corpses over into the cotton candy stands they'll think cougar. But before I get back to them they have been kicked out by a grumpy old art counsel volunteer. Lucky for them.

Cougar? Honestly. Did I look more available than one of the 15 year old carnies next door? Come on people! I wasn't wearing a tube top and my butt cheeks were tucked safely inside my old teacher lady pants. I was clearly dressed as to send off the vibes of suburban mom, community volunteer not freaky deaky middle age beast out on the prowl.

I'm still mad.

What's wrong with the youth of America? Resorting to harassing 30 somethings rather than the pool of ready and waiting carnival teens. It's shameful. Next time a teen age boy talks to me outside a carnival I'm just going to kick them in the gutt and point them in the direction of the Circle of Fire surrounded by a pack of scantily clad girls. And if that doesn't work I'll just bash them with my diaper bag and make a run for it.

Trapped in a Port a Potty

So there I am, all alone, trapped in a port-a potty unable to pull up my own pants.

What could have brought me to this lowly state? I've been in some ridiculous situations but seriously...how did this happen?

Well, remember that marathon I ran....

The morning of the marathon was cold, dark, and wet. After arriving in a pasture up a canyon at 3:45 in the morning and waiting in a freezing drizzle the race began. And 30 minutes later so did the rain, which lasted almost 2 hours. Then there was the wind. It lasted longer than that.

With water squishing out of my shoes and my jacket heavy laden with moisture I stopped at the half marathon point for a bathroom break. I was numb, cold, and shivering. Even my teeth chattered. (Even though it was June the temperature at that time was in the 40's.)

I staggered into the port-a-potty and with effort uncurled my frozen lobster claw hands enough to pull down my pants and make it to the bathroom. That's when the trouble began.

As I stood up I realized my hands were far more frozen than I had anticipated and far too frozen to grasp my soaking stretchy pants or the underwear clinging to my knees. Try as I might the paralyzed fingers were no match for wet clothing. Then to make matters worse as I'm bending over working on my problem my soaking hair keeps dripping into my eyes and freezing rain water pours out of the jacket and down my bare legs.

I'm cold, tired, partially naked and trapped in a plastic container full of other people's pee. What cold I do? I leaned my head against the door and cried. A more pathetic image of myself I can't imagine.

After a minute I pulled it together. This was not where I intended to stay. I let my pants drop completely to the floor of that filthy place and with gestures I can't even explain I pulled up those soggy stretchy pants and exited the potty.

I had overcome! I was victorious! Sure my pants were on crooked but who cares? I didn't have to finish the race with only Jon's jacket to cover my frozen rear end.

So, that's that. And this is my official marathon report post. In case you're wondering I did finish the race. And, I finished it fully clothed although later someone had to take my jacket off for me because my fingers were too numb.

The marathon was a funny thing. Horrible and wonderful and humiliating all at the same time. Here's to the St. George marathon coming up in a few months and here's to me wearing suspenders on my pants in case of inclimate weather.

Will Work For Rice Cooker

I just ruined like my 20th batch of rice. In row.
It's sitting on the kitchen counter. A giant ball of slimy goo stewed to gloppy perfection. Just the way I hate it---clumpy, bloated, squishy, wet, pasty---you know the kind.

I've made rice with out error just fine for the past 15 years and now I find it utterly impossible to brew edible rice.

So, goodbye lunch. I wish we'd have gotten to know each other better before I have to go back to sewing.

Possibly I'll use the money from this upcoming boutique to buy a rice cooker. Meanwhile I'll stitch away, stomach growling, wondering how this cooking anomaly has happened and why it has happened to me.