Look At It!

Look at this beautiful, gorgeous, Gulf of Mexico sea water.

The white sandy beaches...

It looks like I'm holding up a disabled man.

 I am.

His brain doesn't work when exposed to large amounts of sunlight.

Well, I just wanted you to see it before the you-know-what-comes.
OIL.
Maybe it won't. I hope it doesn't. But until then, I'm going as often as possible.

 By next 'Pondering Tuesday' I'll look a 100 years old. And speak with an accent of unknown origin. You won't be able to see me at all when it's dark outside.   'A fine piece of oiled leather'...
 I may regret my 7X magnifying mirror at that point.

P.S. People. I wear sunscreen. I cannot help eet eef ther ees Brazeelian een my blud...
P.S.S. Okay,I made up the 'Brazilian' part. But I do tan easy. Chubby people look better tan, so its a good thing. Happy Memorial Day Weekend!
P.S.S.S. Talk to ya Tuesday

Pondering Tuesday...Very Important Message!

I Felt The Need To Frighten You Today

Sometimes it just happens.

 I wake up, jump out of bed and search frantically through my high school yearbook trying to find proof that I was once  young and beautiful.  I found this instead.

Somebody stop the madness.

 Hard to believe I've been able to get married not once, but TWICE. How many of you can say that? Huh, Huh, Huh?? (Trust me, I can turn anything into a badge of honor.)

And then I somehow miraculously produced three  little girly girls, while my Mother raised her fist to heaven shouting, "It's not fair!".
 *sigh* Oh, but it is. After all, I did have to sleep with pink rollers in my hair EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT of my growing up years. (bitterness seems to be lingering...I'll lay on the couch later and you can give me therapy)

Anyway, don't ask me where these 3 little princesses came from. I don't know how it happened. Just promise me you won't ever let me cut my hair THAT SHORT again.

Can you imagine how thrilled my girls are everytime they're out with me, and someone exclaims, 'You look just like your Mother!'

Found! Thurston Howell and His wife Lovey

When you live in a small town full of old people there's not much to do on a Friday night.

Except this.

Yes, folks. We've become sunset chasers. You've heard of storm chasers? Well, uh...this is exactly the same thing. I hang perilously out of the car window yelling, "Go, Go, Gooooo! We're going to miss it!"

And then because my adrenaline is surging to the max, I may even yell some more. HURRY!!! WE"RE MISSING IT!

Mr. Wonderful puts the pedal to the metal and by golly, another sunset is conquered! And then I always always say, "look at it, isn't it GORGEOUS!" He answers, 'yeah, it looks like that every time." I  gasp in horror and disbelief at his lack of amazement and remind him that he should never, never NEVER lose his sense of childlike wonder. I glare at him. He nods his head in agreement.

All is right in the world.

That's how we spend our Friday nights.

But then, Saturday comes.

This Saturday to add a little spice to our lives we decided to go to "Pirates Cove". Aye, mateys. It's basically a small dive with live music, 100 dogs laying on the porch, and  beer, tattoos and clouds of cigarette smoke.

I'm not sure we fit in.

 With two cups of diet coke,  and a strong fake English accent, he asks, "Lovey, where's our Yacht?"

P.S. Yes, he really is THAT white. His skin repels the sun.

  It was an adventure.  Surrounded by pirates on harley's, Thurston Howell and his wife Lovey had a marvelous time.

Help! I've Fallen And I Can't Get Up!

  Dark and  mysterious...what does it all mean? And why is there a neon light involved? Am I having an 80's flashback? These are the questions you're asking yourself.

No I'm not.

Yes you are.

No.

Yes.

Nooooo...

Whatever.

Aha! A clue! Yes, friends this is a skating rink. A rink so old, so dank and dark  I thought it resembled the bowels of hell. Plus, the floor was bumpy. Floors in skating rinks should not be 'bumpy'.  It makes it difficult to twirl. I'm all about the twirling.

Not.

See this man? This man is so much more than "just a man." He's a roller skater extraordinaire! He's poetry on skates, a ballet dancer on wheels. He's cool, he's smooth, he's FLASHDANCE and FOOTLOOSE all rolled into one. He is Skatecity.

C'mon, he says...It's easy. Nothing to it. It's FUN!

Lies. All lies, and he looked me right in the eye when he said it.

 

An innocent lamb led to the slaughter. Look at that face! So full of hopes and dreams...

What an idiot.

Two SECONDS later. That's how long I skated. It's hard for me to remember if it was fun or not. I didn't enjoy the "my life is flashing before my eyes part", but other than that I'm pretty sure I had a blast.

This is the last picture. I took it from the ground, whilst laying down.

 She remained upright at all times, all smiles and laughter.

Showoff. 

Mr. Skatecity couldn't even look at me, so deep was his disgust.

Or maybe it's that I requested the song "Dancing Queen" right in the middle of his leg lift, double axel, roller derby splits move.  It doesn't matter. Because let's face it, this activity has been ruled out as a shared life passion. Maybe we'll take up weeding together.

Take My Picture Already, Would Ya?

Brooke and I went to tea today. The tearoom was lovely, and I wanted to memorialize this moment for all time. I pulled out my trusty, cheap piece of Kodak Easy Share and held it up...

Say Tea!...No good. Let's do it again.

Say, Tea!...Uh, Brooke apparently you have a lazy eye. Funny, I've never noticed it before... Again.

Say Tea! Brooke...wow. Did you know that you're crosseyed? Or high. Or drunk. Honey, it's only 10am.

Again...*I know, I'll catch her by suprise, then she'll for sure have that wide-eyed bambi look...Mama's are so smart.

SAY TEA!... Good Lord...

Let ME show you how to do it...See? It's easy. Now, OPEN YOUR EYES AND SAY TEA!

Awww. Such a pretty girl...

*through gritted teeth* I hate you mom.

I know honey, I know.

Just Kidding! We love each other so much and had so much fun! Tea was DELIGHTFUL!

Brooke, age 2

Awww...such a pretty girl!

Pondering Tuesday...Where's My Job?

I Was A Fifth Grade Prom Queen

And Other Lies I Tell Myself.

Fifth grade was my best year ever. Which is kind of bad when you're 44 years old. That means I had my best year 34 years ago... At least I had one.

 I feel the need to share it with you. Because that's what we do. We share.  So here goes:

THE TOP TEN BEST THINGS ABOUT MY 5TH GRADE YEAR, AKA LIFE...

1. Jaunita...'nuff said.
2. Mr. Terbush. He was my teacher and I was madly in love with him. He was handsome and played the guitar and most important I was his favorite student in the whole world....Trust me, I  know these things.
3. I almost won the "princess" of our class contest. There was a tie between me and Angelina, and I graciously allowed her to have it. I humbly said, 'You darling, you be Princess.' Actually I couldn't face knowing I lost if I would've lost...so now I'll never know, and I'm at peace. It was a good call.
4. I received a couple of love poems from Richard, a short round boy who wore glasses. He was very sweet, and I was flattered.
5. Tim, the red-head  liked me. He was taller, so I liked him back.
6. I got to be crossing-guard at recess. A dream come true. It included a bright orange vest, an orange stick, and power. I took it very seriously.  I wish I still had the stick.
7. Mr. Terbush. I'm sorry, but he deserves to be on here twice. He was after all the first love of my life. I hated the weekends...I LOVE YOU MR. TERBUSH! WILL YOU MARRY ME?
8. Bobby, who I played 'foursquare' with everyday. And then I told him I liked him. And he looked horrified and said something like "ew, gross!" Oh, well.  Tim the redhead knew a good thing when he saw one.
9. I made a conservation poster and won an 'honorable mention' ribbon. I was thrilled.  Little did  I know I should have polyurethaned it and super-glued it to my body, permanently. This was before I clued in to the fact I wasn't crafty. Or artsy. Or musical.
10. I had to get glasses. And I tried my hardest to fail the hearing test, but my hearing proved fine. Bummer! What could possibly be more awesome? Glasses AND a hearing aid...

Yep, Fifth grade. I could still spit water through the gap in my front teeth. I told ya I was a prom queen!

Speaking Of Short People

My 3 kids...oldest is 5'10, middle is  5'10,...and thankfully the baby  is a petite 5'8, size 10 shoe.
My prayers were answered.


It's true. I've always wanted to be tiny. As in itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini. However, since I hail from the land of Largeness, I've instead developed an un-natural obsession for little people. Take my parents for example. They're fairly small. My dad is 5'9 and my mom is 5'6. And I'm obsessed with them. In that, how did you two do this to me? sort of way. My mom reminds me she had a brother who was 6'11.

Oh, so there's pure freakishness in my genes. That explains much, concerning my muchness.

It started in the fifth grade with my BFF Juanita.
After accepting the rejection of Holly Bashford,who wasn't that short anyway, I moved on and found a new friend I could keep with me at all times in my back pocket.

Juanita was my own little "polly pocket", and she looked up to me. Literally.

Actually, I'm pretty sure I was like a Mother to her. After all, I already wore a 'extra-support' bra, was taller than the teacher, and had the distinct ability of taking charge.

Juanita was the smallest kid in class, and I was the tallest. Weighing less than 40 pounds, her voice was no louder than a squeak, while mine was a deep husky boom.

Oh, how I loved her. My little Juanita was so cute and adorable and she was Mexican. When I went to spend the night at her house, I couldn't understand a word her family said to me. I only knew I'd had to duck to enter the front door.


Like two magnets irresistibly drawn together we were INSTANT best friends.
We had nothing in common, and I don't remember talking very much to each other. Did Juanita speak English? All I know is that we understood each other, sat by each other everyday at lunch, and were BFF's.

I love you short people...everywhere...if you need me to carry you on my hip somewhere I will. :)

Amazon Woman Goes Beserk!

Okay. It Has To Be Addressed:

What, praytell, must be addressed?
Oh, you know. The fact that I'm an Amazon.
We might as well discuss it and get it out of the way.

I'm sure you had no idea I was an Amazon Woman. You thought I was on the small, petite, short, cute, reasonably chubby side of life. Didn't you?
Or, you thought I was medium, beautiful, gorgeous, sorta kinda tall, and reasonably chubby. Didn't you?
But you didn't know I was gigantic, large, very large, huge, humongous, and almost beyond reasonably chubby. DID YOU?
Whew. I didn't think so. Because if you did know and you didn't tell me, why, I don't know what I would do...Prank call you? Saran wrap your toilet seat? Lash out and say ugly things? Yo mama wears army boots. But, you didn't know. Now you do. We all do and I feel so much better.
Thus, I give you proof.
Did I really just say 'thus'?

Look at the picture above.
No, stare at it.
Do you see what I see? My BOOBs are the same size as the new families heads. And, I'm 7ft. tall. I had to get on my knees just to be in the picture.
Shocking, isn't it?
I don't know why I'm so shocked. I've always been the tallest in my class. It all began at birth. Hospital nursery? Tallest. Entire human race? Tallest. New York City skyline? Tallest. Always the Tallest. And now the Biggest.
There are some benefits to being an Amazon. For example, I need not fear running out of gas on a lonesome, dark highway. I can pick the car up with my brute strength, which all Amazons possess, and carry it on my back to the nearest gas station. I can also carry 5 children on one hip at the same time. And cook supper while sewing matching denim jumpers for the family. Yes, these are the benefits. Who cares if I can't find a jogbra that fits even after looking for hours and going to thousands upon thousands of stores?

Let me know if you need help with any heavy lifting...

I Almost Shot Milk Out Of My Nose

It's true, I swear on my mother's grave, (except she's still alive) I ALMOST SHOT MILK STRAIGHT OUT OF MY NOSE THIS MORNING!!


THAT will wake you up...

I had just taken a sip of the special morning beverage which strengthens thy bones, and dove back into reading "Aunt Erma's Cope Book", written by the hilarious Erma Bombeck. Note to self: Don't ever do that again.


And that reminds me of second grade, when Holly Bashford, my best, best friend in the whole world (except I wasn't her best friend...I'm obviously still needing tons of therapy to get over it.) did shoot milk out of her nose while eating lunch in the school cafeteria.


It was a sight to behold. I wish I could see it again. And here's the part I liked the best. It happened because of something I said. Something funny I'd said, and then BAM!...a fountain of milk. I never felt so good in all my life and I've never been the same. It was Life Changing I tell you.

Right after that, at the lunch table, I broke out my ability to make a 'nub' and pet it with my 'crippled hand'. It was received well. Big laughs  and a few, 'oh that is weirds', but no more milk fountains.

So now I roam the earth, trying to recreate what happened in second grade. So far, no luck. Other than this morning...and that was only an almost, and its not quite as much fun being the actual milk fountain. I want to create one. I'm driven, in a psychopathic I won't stop 'til you do, type of way. Can you please start drinking milk when you read this blog and let me know if 'IT' happens? Because I don't think I'm going to feel complete in my life until it does.


Thankyou for your support.

  SECOND GRADE: My quest for another Nose Milk Fountain begins...

Okay, I'm Not Gonna Lie...

At first, it was bugging me...that these three daughters o'mine were missing in action on Mother's Day. They were hours away, spending the entire day, MOTHER'S DAY, with their father. And I don't blame them, if you catch my drift.

Gulp. Father, forgive me, for I am about to hurt somebody.

Yes, there were reasons. Somewhat valid reasons for this holiday, shall we say,  faux pas?
But for a moment, the reasons didn't matter. It bugged me. Something seemed wrong about it. 
Perhaps the simple  fact that it was MOTHER'S DAY and I'm the MOTHER?
I don't know, call me crazy.  

But the point is, I came to terms with it. And this is what helped me:

Meeting Bill Leonhard and his two daughters, Anna and Kessia. Bill and his wife, Penny are missionaries with Wycliff Bible Translators. They served in Ghana, Africa for 26 years. Penny, Bill's wife  passed away this February 2, from cancer. And of course, Bill and his daughters (there's 2 more not pictured, and 3 sons, not pictured, that's a total of 7 kids, just in case you're not good with math) are dealing with their grief and coping with their first Mother's Day without Penny. She was only 59, had served the Lord with all her  heart in Africa for most of her adult life, had adopted four little girls adding to their family of five, and was loved and adored by all.

Doesn't seem fair, does it?
But we who know and love God, trust Him. We trust that He knows exactly what He is doing. That He has a plan for our lives, and that He is, according to His word, working all things for the good of those who love him. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons neither the present nor the future nor any powers neither height nor depth nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

And so, I ended up having a marvelous Mother's day! Surrounded by new family and new friends, I can see that God is faithful and is always in the business of blessing our lives.

I'm happy  my children were able to spend the weekend with their dad. After all, they need their father in their lives and they miss him when he's not there. And yes, I'm pretty sure I might be a saint.

With love,
Reasonably Chubby
That's Saint Reasonably Chubby to you, Mister.

You Know You're Hormonal When...

I know for sure, with absolute certainty I'm "hormonal" when I find myself tearing up at Home Depot commercials. I mean, seriously? The people in their little orange aprons with big smiling faces...I wish they were my friends. *sob*. Hallmark card commercials? I'm on the floor, a puddled mess of a woman.

It certainly doesn't help that my middle daughter, my precious child, who was in Europe for 3 months finally came home and stayed with me for 2 weeks. And then she left. Some ridiculous, "but mother I do have a job waiting for me and I need to find an apartment for the Fall semester" excuse she's been using since she was 10.

Two glorious, enchanted weeks, where we laughed and played and played and laughed. And giggled. And cooked. And talked. And watched movies. And biked. And shopped. And loved on each other.

I must stop now before I hyperventilate.

It's not easy coming to terms with the 'empty nest' years.

I loved being home with my 3 girls. I babied them, saying things like, I wub oo.

"We wub oo too mommy." Poor little dumb kids. Then, we'd all pile up on the couch together, like puppies from the same litter, and watch Disney movies and eat candy. Or the girls would play dress up, and stay outside all day pretending the 'hot lava' was coming...ohhh, the scary hot lava! I know, it makes no sense. That they did this until they were in high school. Poor little weird kids.

Unlike the mothers of today, I didn't raise baby geniuses, toddler Phds, or Preschool Einsteins.

No, I talked to them in baby talk until last year. Would oo like a cup of wa-wa? "Es pwees".

And then I sent them to college.

I know they'll be back. Someday. When they need a built in babysitter, or a loan. And I'll be here waiting for them and their babies, and I hope I like their husbands and that their husbands like me. (although, evil mother-in-law does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?)

Until then, the Ford pick-up truck commercial just came on. I gotta go...

P.S. I wub oo ebbybody, Happy Mudders Day!

How Do All the Crazy People Find Each Other?

It's amazing, isn't it? The way crazy people always manage to find each other. Weird people attract other weird people, then mate, creating weird little children. Cool popular people find the other cool populars and ride off into the sunset together.

Oh. My. GAWD. My first Oprah aha! moment. (I was wondering if I would ever have one of those in my lifetime.) I think I've just discovered the REAL REASON my first marriage failed. I'm weird and husband #1 was quite normal. Husband #2 however...that's a different story altogether. More like a match made in heaven.

Lots and lots of stupid jokes, impersonations, idiocy, and nonsense does a good marriage make. When you're weird, I mean. And we are both very very weird.

If you're cool and popular then you need polo shirts, flashy cars and diamonds.

Crazy? Celebrate with the padded room, rocking, sucking your thumb activities you love so much. Do them together for a bonding moment.

Ahhh, life. Sweet, ironic, bitter life. Sorry, kids. I mated with a "normal", so two of you are weird(you know who you are) and one is not. Hopefully this insight will help you more than any college education you may get.

Go ye therefore and... mate? (But not before you're married, or I'll have to kill you.) And have a wonderful day!

I'm Not Crafty, So Shoot Me

I will never, ever, EVER get over the fact that I'm 'not crafty.'

It hurts bad, a throbbing not-tonight-dear headache sort of bad.

And I can't sing beautifully either. At least not well enough to audition for American Idol. *sigh*

I love music and art, but no. I'm unable to participate in these activities on any level other than below basic kindergarten. (Piano lessons for 6 years...I can't play a note or read music.) I'm only good at the kazoo, and even then I'm only ok, but drawing, painting, collage-making, sewing, CRAFTING? Fuh-get-about-it.

Why God why?

Probably because He gave me the 'fake English accent' ability. It's true, I do enjoy talking to myself randomly throughout the day as the daffy English lady, but still.

What if it gets cold outside and I outgrow all my sweaters and need to make one?

Or what if I'm the only one without laryngitis, and need to sing the National Anthem at the next Little League baseball game?

The quandaries of life. Some questions will never be answered. Thanks goodness for 'Pondering Tuesdays'. At least all the big, important questions get answered. The rest is just silly drivel and back-talk.

Let The Pondering Begin!

Hello friends! I've just come in from a very difficult workout...well, I went walking...so it's not your imagination. I'm in full glistening mode. And I wanted to be pretty! Sob!

Look at me... pondering my little brain out. It's the best I could do today, considering it took no less than 3 cameras, 8 hours, and quite a few four letter words, (not including the word love) to achieve this little piece of TV...doo-doo?

Hold me...

Dahlings, Put On Your Pondering Hats...

Good morning dears. You'll never believe what today is...why, it's Ponder Tuesday! Check back this afternoon for a wonderful pondering presentation that will blow your socks off!

P.S. that may have been a bit of an exaggeration... the it will blow your socks off...

Do We Have An Oldest In The House Tonight?

Oh, me! me! Pick me!

I'm an oldest!

Heard that before? Thought so. Once a teacher's pet, always a teacher's pet. I should know. Besides, that's how we oldest kids are. We like being first, we like being right, we like being THE OLDEST.

We live by the 'don't ask, I will tell you what to do, and when to do it' policy.

As in 'hey, we're going to the movie. C'mon, let's go.' There is no, "would you like to go to the movie?' Because of course you would, and anyway if I ask you then there will be all kinds of hemming and hawing, 'well what time is it?' and 'where is it?' questions I don't have time for.

I'm going, you're going, let's go!

We can't help it, we're born this way.

Ever since Mother birthed the motley crew that came after us and expected us to teach them.

We became BOSS. Happy to oblige ma'am, happy to oblige.

Siblings are used to it. Spouses are not. Research indicates oldest children should not marry each other under any circumstance. Too many pieces of chicken in the soup, not enough noodles. Or something like that.

Research Mesearch. Two marriages, and all spouses involved are THE OLDEST.

First Marriage: Uh huh...uh uh...uh huh...uh uh...UH HUH!... UH UH!

Second Marriage: Dearest, would you mind taking out the trash? If it's alright with you I mean...

Dearest, would you like me to massage your feet with precious oil and wipe it with my hair?

Even my daughter has noticed that things are different this time around.

"Wow Mom, you've changed. Things don't tick you off like they used to."

I've ma-toor-ed, that's what it is. Some day you will be ma-toor as well, which means you will have learned the great lesson of life: It's not all about yew.

"Sigh... You're still very weird."

I am?

Well at least I'm ma-toor now.

With that, she shrugged and went to the kitchen to cook us some supper. Not because I told her to, because she wanted to, God bless her.

How ma-toor.

If Loving You Is Wrong Then I Don't Wanna Be Right

There may be many things wrong in this country ...but this ain't one of 'em.


My middle daughter, the well adjusted pretty one, loves to COOK. Let us bow for a word of prayer and thanksgiving...

Hallelujah and Thankyou Jesus!

"Mom," she yelled from the den, "the cupcakes aren't cool yet. Don't eat one...I still need to ice them."

"Mom?"

My mouth was full at that moment so I couldn't answer. But trust me, I know how to ice a cupcake...

And eat it very very fast...

And destroy the evidence before anybody realizes what's going on.

And smile secretly to myself, knowing none will be the wiser.