normal went ahead and bit it

I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to write. I just don’t wake up with the same excitement and I’m not accosted with random thoughts that blossomed into hilarity in my own mind during the day the way it used to. (That is probably the stupidest sentence I’ve ever written in my entire life that I didn’t immediately want to end myself over.)

I know, I’m meant to be Sarcasma….Queen of the verbose universe. (Again, Way over the top.)

I’d love to come back. Here are my demands.

I need a home. My own. Tired to death of living without my glass rooster full of candy corn and Cadbury eggs. Because that’s hilarious.

And my vintage cabbage bowl. Full of more just really dumb stuff.

And the most amazing record player which happens to double as furniture. Pretty much stole that.

Honestly afraid to say more.

I’m not unhappy.

I’m unsettled.










imagine all the people

Imagine a room that you share with 3 teenagers. Imagine the pairs of shoes, full backpacks and that one beanbag we bought for Christmas, I think last year. Imagine that we thought to bring it on over here. And that they all fit in one room somewhat  successfully. And we still had  weeded out significantly.

Imagine a loft bed with a bed underneath. Imagine that their parents were the ones sleeping below.

Imagine that growing teens were pissed. So we cut the legs off, to make us closer.

The loft legs. Not the kids’.

Imagine that the teens began sleeping anywhere but. Front room seems  feasible. Anywhere. Bueller?

We are on yet another adventure, one I’ve been reluctant to share. It’s so unbelievably personal. And close. And sometimes embarrassing.

We are trying to save for a place of our own. It’s exhausting. It’s tedious. And it’s crowded.

Just saying…  I’m proud of my kids. This journey has literally been emotional, educational and…

Let them say.

We live in 2 rooms. 1 full bath. 6 or more. Mostly more.

But I love my kids’ friends. They never blink. Are never surprised.

B is a constant.

He hugs me and calls me Mama Riley.

His own amazing mama made a few dozen Vietnamese egg rolls for my family this Thanksgiving, Restaurant style.

Last I checked, he was draped over Max. And woke and put another blanket on him. 

He also, last weekend, made breakfast while I was out of town. 2 eggs were left… so  he made the sandwich for Max that I normally make for both of them. And then he made himself noodles. ( He loves them. He was fine.)

My point is I’ve been feeling lost this season, and a little bit sad.

And I shouldn’t.

B is a boy who is the third of 4 boys.  His father died in a car accident the year we moved here. Long story short, I could never let go of this family. And what do you know, Max and B became inseparable in 5th grade… no encouragement. They just were drawn to each other. They found out they both loved order and were unbelievably compatible. Brothers from another mother.

B is the most amazing example of love and thoughtfulness.

In that spirit, I had to tell my boys today that they were getting a few things for Christmas, but most of their stuff was coming in Jan.

They hugged me and told me I was an amazing mom…

My kids are amazing, I believe because they just understand their world and who is in it. And their favorite day is any day they can spend living life with the best people. They don’t want much more.


If you think about it, the word jipped might be the root word of gypsy.

Except in this case, it’s backwards.

Time to have a grown up talk about grown up things.

First of all, I got my bangs trimmed, and they look 10 times better than the first time I got them cut, so naturally I’m running around feeling fabulous and flipping my hair as often as possible. Female peacocking, except in color.

As you probably know, my favorite place on earth is for sale. Under contract. Out of the question from Aug. 5 forth. (Unless he is a fraud, in which case we renew our lease for at least 2 years. Crossing my fingers and sending weird mojo his way.)

I’m a little bit a lot sad. I’m not prepared since it happened in a matter of a few days.  And I’m way in denial.

Except when I watch the finches eat.

I feed finches. I have for 2 years. Brad is the genius who started it.

It started when the kids and I  went to visit in OK for a while and he got lonely and decided he needed company. So he bought a bird feeder and finch food.

It’s not complicated.

I of course took it on when he started traveling and now, we have at least 14,000 of them bickering and fluttering and barely noticing me when I’m sitting on the balcony with them. The babies are almost tame.

That’s my problem.

When I look out at them, I worry.

Which is stupid.

Because they will find food somewhere. Duh.

I just don’t want to leave them.

So I have a problem.

I’m truly settled for the second time in my life. I don’t want to budge. I normally live for this adventure.

Stupid finches.

(In case you are a literal thinker, the finches are a metaphor. Don’t make me hit you.)

Also, they aren’t. I really like them.


Mark calls it a skeez marathon

This is not going to take long. Mostly because I only have 15% left on my computer, and there is no way on earth I’m getting up again today. Because I can’t. Nothing moves anymore.

If there were ever a day I think I might have contracted a Thrift Store disease, today would be the day.

Crap. I’m at 13%.

No matter. I’ll probably kick the bucket in the next 10 minutes.

Let me start by saying I was the donations diva today from 10 – 4. This equates to running approximately 47 garage sales in one day. Most of the time I find the process a little bit exciting.

Exciting is all relative.

Bottom line, people brought us the grossest, nastiest, most creeping crud infested items you have ever seen.

And they donated them.

Like, “Hey, I brought this incredibly disgusting spider infested bed pan. You take those?”

or even better…

(D for donator… names were changed to protect the identity)

D: “So, my brother is a hoarder. ”

J: “Oh, well thanks for bringing his things in to us. Really.”

D:” So, here are some never opened items he’s had stored for a while. ”

J: “Thanks. We love new stuff.”

And here’s where the magic happens.

D: “Oh, and here is a toilet riser.”

Used. Plunked right onto the counter. Used.

Here’s a visual.

Except used.

Are you serious?

The rest of the story isn’t awesome other that the fact that I first screamed “we don’t want that” and then she said ‘but they can be so useful” and then I collapsed into irrational laughter. Because that’s what you do when you are knee deep in toilet risers.

The end.

For the love…

Okay, so this weekend I was away from home. For one night.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Brad and I took the liberty to go on a date. Away. No children were invited.

My kids are getting older and we basically live in a compound. Judge me on things that matter. Like the fact that I buy whole milk.

We came home next day and picked the kids up for Max’s basketball games. We weren’t halfway there when Tucker makes a confession.

T : “Mom, I have something to tell you. ‘BLANK’ threw up on our couch last night.”

Me: “Ewwwww. What part?”

T: “Don’t worry. I cleaned it up. It’s like it never happened.”

Which brings me to why I’m reminded.

It isn’t like it never happened. It’s like it’s still happening.

‘BLANK’ and I have a history of this.

Literally the grossest day of my life includes him.

Long story short, I took the kids to Chili’s when they were all around 10. Not all of them. That would mean I had quintuplets. And Taylor wasn’t even there.

Anyway, next thing I know, ‘BLANK’ is hurling out of my back car window. Which makes Torrie pretty sick. So she forgoes the window and chooses the floor. Which makes Tucker decide the best thing to do is follow her example. Which of course means Max needs to keep up with his big brother.

I’d love to tell you how I cleaned it up, but now I myself have thrown up on my couch.

No one will ever notice.


The problem is, every time I type it, it comes out eater or waster.

My bad.

True story.

Biggest Loser/ My Best Coach

Watching Biggest Loser with the kids and discussing my high school gymnastics coach Mr. Widman and his freaking circuit training AFTER our grueling 2 hour practices where you were afraid to ask to go to the bathroom.

Also, we had no fancy Worthington bouncy spring mats – it was gravity sucking staph infected wrestling mats for us in the inner city/ghetto. We would unroll them and then roll them back after our practice.

Mr. Widman was a very very pale man. And very, very small, but strong. Dude was hard core, and he didn’t really dish out the compliments. When he did, it meant literally everything. I probably remember every one of them.

I worked with his high school class during lunch my senior year. They were all special needs. I remember I taught them greater than/less than by making the sign into a hungry fish. I had read a book about special needs kids. I was a voracious reader, and had picked that up somewhere. Still am when I can be. He was annoyed that it was so simple.

And when he gave life advice, it stuck.  He told me high school boys wouldn’t ask me out because they knew I was too good for them. I believed him. It helped at the time and forever after.

I WILL fault him for the airbrushed MVP sweatshirt you had to wear around school after the meets, and the scores for the weekend said so. DUDE! Just occurred to me that might be why I was always tripped in the halls by upper class men. (every time I tried to type that, it said clansmen. I just have to say…)

It’s funny that he comes to mind. I guess most people who work with physical health and mean it, always consider the entire person. Or maybe I just got really lucky.

Anyway, my kids are getting tons out of this new season. And I am grateful for the coaching I got throughout my life.

Thanks, coaches. We are all pains in your buttocks.