NOT SO ADVENTUROUS ANYMORE

Back when I was dating Big Daddy, I had very few expenses and a very spoiled pooch.  Malik and I had matching coats and sweatshirts (yes, I was one of those people).  I used to take him to PetSmart and buy him whatever he sniffed interestedly.  I also used to get him all manner of gourmet dog treats: carob-dipped rawhide lollipops, vanilla yogurt drops, doggy breath mints.  And, Big Daddy used to make me laugh by sampling every pet treat I brought home.

Big Daddy was always an adventurous eater, whereas my family and I were run-of-the mill eaters. Big Daddy would try things at restaurants that I would never dream of putting in my mouth!  I, on the other hand, would find one dish I liked and order the same thing every time.  After we got married, I would impulse-buy little interesting tidbits for him at the grocery store (like alligator and stuff).  And I was always experimenting with our gourmet cookbooks; some of the meals were disgusting, but some were really good.

I guess Big Daddy has lost some of that adventurous culinary attitude in the past few years, because he was less than impressed when I came home with these:

Those would be frog legs.  And they looked like someone had cut a very little person in half at the waist.  There were even little toes *shudder*!  But, because he loves me, he reluctantly breaded and fried them up.  Let me just tell you, I have never smelled anything quite so objectionable!  And I live near cows and horses!

I, of course, refused to taste them, but Big Daddy tried them.  He said they tasted like a chicken wrapped in a fish.  The spectre of a frog was with him the entire time he tried to eat them.  We ended up throwing them out and spraying copious amounts of Oust around the house.

And, thus ends the era of adventurous eating.

MY OWN PERSONAL DON KING

When I was younger, I always said I wanted to marry a guy with curly hair.  When I met Big Daddy, his hair was short and straight.  Little did I know that his sister, a cosmotologist, had recently straightened it.  I remember seeing the roots start coming in curly and yelling, "You have naturally curly hair?!"

Needless to say, I strongly urge him not to get his hair cut short (even though he frequently comes home with drywall dust or fiberglass stuck in his 'fro), because I think his hair is so beautiful.  Occasionally, he'll go all out to make my day by doing something like this ...

How awesome is that?!

IS THAT ... IS THAT A COMPLIMENT?

Big Daddy likes to roll around on the floor with the cherubs, tossing them in the air like bags of flour. Bean is a big fan; Cakes can take it or leave it.

The other day, Big Daddy was rough-housing with Bean. She suddenly stopped and said, "Daddy, you smell bad!" After a short pause, she continued, "But, you're really handsome!"

NO NEED TO PANIC, EVERYONE!

I grew up in the Northeast. So, we endured regular blizzards and Nor'easters as I was growing up. Of course, since these blizzards and Nor'easters were regular, the Department of Transportation was very efficient at getting the roads cleared within 24-48 hours of the storm hitting. And anyone who lived in the area knew that.

The funny thing is, every time the weatherperson said there was a winter storm coming, these same people would head out to the grocery stores in droves, buying out all of the bread, eggs, milk, and (inexplicably) ice cream in the store. It seemed a little ridiculous to me. I mean, it wasn't like we were living in North Dakota in the 1800's. I'm sure that these people were not going to starve to death in the 24-48 hours it took the Department of Transportation to clear and salt the roads. And, I think I would buy something tastier than bread, eggs, and milk if I were going to be housebound for a significant period of time. Tastykakes, anyone? The ingredients for Pioneer Woman's enchiladas and chocolate cake?

You know what else the populace at large bought in mass quantities? Snow shovels. What happened to all the snow shovels that were bought during the last panic before the storm hit? I mean, Big Daddy and I had the same snow shovel for five years.

Anyway, I'm sure you've heard on the news that Hurricane Ike has made gas a little scarce here in the South. But, really, people are taking it a little to the extreme, if you ask me. It's not like we're never going to have gasoline in the South again. But, just like in the Northeast during the snowstorm, people flocked out to gas stations with their largest vehicles packed full of gas cans, trying to horde as much gasoline as possible. There were two-hour lines, fistfights, and extra security at all the gas stations in the area.

Big Daddy happened to be trying to get into Home Depot when he witnessed the Great Southern Gas Scare of 2008.

So, poor Big Daddy amused himself with his camera phone while he waited a ridiculous amount of time to pull into the driveway of Home Depot to get some plywood.

WHY MOM DOESN'T BUY STICKERS

Big Daddy's twin sister (Tracy) and her husband (Matthew) are moving near us from out of state. They will be living in our house for about three weeks while they find work and a place to live.

A short aside - the fact that Big Daddy is a fraternal twin has me panicked. I do not want to give birth to more than one child at a time. First of all, being pregnant with twins has to be like having a circus in your uterus. Second, it's hard enough pushing one kid out. Third, I already haven't had a full eight hours of sleep since I was in my second trimester with Bean. How much more sleep deprivation can a person survive? That being said ...

Aunt Tracy does not have children; so, she has taken it upon herself to spoil mine. The upside is that the cherubs are worn out before energetic Aunt Tracy is. The downside is that my children are showered with such parent-reviled things as Play-Doh and stickers. Here is the result of two sheets of stickers in the hands of my cherubs (and the reason why I don't give my cherubs stickers):



And, Mr. David (here doing estimates with Big Daddy) was not immune.

MOMMY, THE PRINCESS

Let's get one thing clear. Mommy is not a princess. I don't like to do my hair, wear make-up, wear dresses, wear shoes that are not flip-flops .... I do like to bathe every day, but that doesn't always happen with two toddlers constantly craving my attention or trying to kill each other when my back is turned. Somehow, though, I ended up with two very girly little girls. They opt for dresses when given the choice between dresses or pants/shorts. I don't even own any dresses! Okay, I own some maternity dresses, but that is only for convenience when I'm huge and have an 8 pound kid punching my bladder. Given the choice, I will always choose pants - jeans to be exact.

At any rate, I've had to learn to do some girly things with my cherubs. So has my husband.

When my husband and his afro are not available for hairdos, I am the one that gets my hair done. After this particular hairdo, Bean declared me to be a princess. So, here is our self-portrait (note, no make-up, hair not done, etc.).

Check out my forehead. Here's a true story for you:

Big Daddy and I honeymooned in Chicago (Big Daddy loves jazz, and I'm not a big fan of sand and/or tropical locations). We spent one day at the Navy Pier. There was a German guy there doing caricatures and singing opera. So, we got in line to have our caricature done. We waited patiently, chuckling at the cartoon portrait of the couple in front of us. Suddenly, the German guy whirled around and said to us in a thick, German accent, "Please let me draw you! You are a cartoonist's dream!" (Just what everyone wants to hear). He looked at Big Daddy and said, "Zat nose!" Then, he looked at me and said, "And zat forehead! You could put another face on it!" Yeah. I've got a big forehead. And that has nothing to do with the title of my post, but there it is.

And that reminds me of when Bean got her first Barbie for Christmas one year. She unwrapped it, gasped in delight, held it up, and said, "Look! It's Mommy!" Gotta love kids, don't ya?

GROCERY SHOPPING

Today was grocery day. I usually try to go by myself (anyone with toddlers knows the joys of grocery shopping with them); but, my husband thinks it's a fun family outing. So, after taking the usual precautions (pre-shopping pizza, snacks for the store, toys ...), we headed out for our adventure.

I used to praise the genius of the person who invented those toddler-sized shopping carts that make toddlers feel grown up and helpful in the store. Now, not so much. Each cherub immediately requested a cart of her own. About two aisles into shopping, Cakes started running into canned goods and into my ankles. When I told her to stop, we had an instant meltdown that continued throughout our hurried trip through the store. I carried a screaming Cakes, Bean pushed one miniature cart, and Big Daddy hunched over the other miniature cart like Magilla Gorilla.

After a while, Cakes started gagging from all her screaming, and that was when we were bum-rushed by a seemingly endless stream of elderly women, offering an hysterical Cakes everything from candy to toys to money in an effort to quell the dry heaving screams. Nothing was effective, of course, and I ended up going out to the truck with Cakes while Big Daddy stayed in the store, buying bags of lollipops (aka "suckers," to the Southerners) and Skittles for Bean, the non-screaming cherub.

I know that the "polite" thing to do when your cherubs begin shrieking in a public place is to exit that public place. But, we live in the middle of nowhere. It took us half an hour to get to the grocery store, and I'm not about to waste my time and gas money. I'm getting my groceries, darn it!

I MARRIED A VERY PATIENT MAN

Being a new, small-business owner is nice, in that you can set your own hours, you can pick and choose which jobs to go for and which to pass by, and you don't have to answer to one or more bosses. But it can be rough, too. I mean, you can set your own hours, but you don't make money if you don't work. You can pick and choose jobs, but you can't guarantee that the client is going to pick you, and you have to constantly be looking for new jobs on which to bid. You don't have to answer to a boss, but you have to answer to sometimes very picky clients.

At any rate, being an owner of a new business venture, my husband works some long hours. Then, it's home to the mini-farm to help with the yard and the gardens and the cherubs. So, I like to let him rest on holidays like today. The girls don't always have the same mindset, though. So, Big Daddy will lie on the couch, trying to catch a little shut-eye, while two toddlers crawl all over him like a jungle gym.

Today, Cakes was napping, and Bean wanted a snack. So, I gave her some Goldfish (we should buy stock in Pepperidge Farm just for their Goldfish) and sent her to torture my longsuffering hubby. She was actually relatively calm at the time, and snuggled up on his sleeping frame to munch her cheesy treat.

Later, I went to check on Big Daddy. He was lying on the couch, his arm up under his head, nodding off occasionally to the Rachael Ray Show and muttering something about chili cheese fries. I knew in an instant where Bean had been sitting as she ate her afternoon snack.

Nothing like waking up with crumbled Goldfish in your armpit (note the 18-inch biceps - he's very handy when I have to lift heavy things).

I SLEEP WITH A SNORER (or THE ANGEL OF DEATH CAME FOR BIG DADDY)

As you can surmise from the title of this post, my husband is a snorer. Now, some snorers will stop if you roll them over, some will stop with Breathe Right Nasal Strips, some will only snore when they're sick or when their allergies are acting up. My husband, as he is well aware, is a freight train no matter how he's positioned or what he puts on or in his nose. To help me sleep through the roar, I wear earplugs and sleep with my head inches from two loud fans.

I even have a portable fan that I keep in the car just in case I get separated from my beloved green fans for the night. It wasn't always this easy, though.

When we first got married, I had an extremely hard time getting to sleep and staying asleep with the chainsaw going all night. I actually resorted to sleeping head to foot with him. So, there I was, my head at the foot of the bed, with earplugs, a box fan about half an inch from my head, and my husband's black hooded sweatshirt on, with the hood pulled up. We slept this way for ... oh, for probably the first six months of our married life. If my patient and ever-accommodating new husband wanted to cuddle with his bride, he got to do so with my feet. He also got kicked in the face quite a bit (I'm an active sleeper).

One night, I woke up to use the facilities (in other words, I had to pee). When I came back to bed, I saw my beloved lying there asleep, and I thought he looked so adorable! I was flooded with affection for him, so I walked over next to him and bent down, slowly, to give him a gentle kiss on the forehead without waking him up.

My lips were just about to make contact with my husband's cute, sleeping face when his eyes popped open. If you look at the photos in my Mother's Day post, you will see that I am not married to a small or feminine man; but, the shriek that came from my husband was the most womanly and bloodcurdling scream I have ever heard come from a grown man. At that moment, I was very happy I had just emptied my bladder.

And now for my husband's perspective. He was sleeping peacefully, when he sensed something near his face. He opened his eyes to see a figure with a big, black hood leaning over him (aka, the Angel of Death). Positive that he was on his way out, his only recourse was to ... scream like a girl? I don't know how that would have curtailed the Angel of Death, but ....

Needless to say, I no longer try to kiss my husband while he's asleep.