Up yours, Murphy!

Murphys LawOur smoke detector’s low battery alert started chirping:

A) during the evening hours when everyone was home (and still awake)
B) in the afternoon when no one was home (with the exception of the dog)
C) about ten minutes before my alarm clock was about to go off (about 5am-ish) when everyone was still sleeping soundly and the house was dark and since we have high ceilings, it’s not easy (for Gerald) to get to the ‘hush’ button
D) all of the above

The correct answer is C. And I am certain anyone who has ever lived in a house/apartment with smoke detectors knows damn fine the answer is C.

Years (and years) ago, when I was late junior high to early high school age, we went on our yearly family summer vacation. My paternal grandparents were also on this trip. There was lots (and lots) of driving and I remember my dad and grandpa were using CB radios to communicate. No cell phones back in those days! I swear I think my kids would be asking me what a CB radio is right about now. The radios mainly were used for the men to talk “trucker” talk. Breaker one nine, breaker one nine, I got a breaker one nine. Ten four, copy that. Okay, this post is so NOT about CB radios and their entertaining (?) lingo, but I thought I’d share that little tidbit. I can look back and laugh now, but at the time… well, anyway, where was I?

While on the trip, my dad and grandpa started declaring “Murphy’s law” on just about everything. Oh, this road is closed? Murphy’s law! We just missed this tourist attraction’s operating hours by five minutes? Murphy’s law! The gas station’s restroom is out of order? Murphy’s law! It started raining as soon as we pulled up to our hotel and we have to unpack our bags in the rain? Murphy’s law!

You get the idea. At first it may have been a little amusing, we all chimed in with our own Murphy’s law observations, but by the end of the trip, I know my sister and I both felt Murphy could take his law, roll it up into a tight little scroll, and shove it where the sun don’t shine. We never needed to hear the expression again.

So now we’re back in modern times (i.e., my adult self, married with children) and, try as I may, I’ve never been able to shake Murphy. Smoke detector battery beeping in the middle of the night? Murphy’s law, of course. Just my youngest and me traveling home from a weekend at the river and my son is spewing it out both ends? Murphy’s law strikes again. The dog rolling in poop minutes before bedtime? Yep, damn that Murphy.

Can’t escape Murphy’s law? Must be Murph…


Free clutter!

credit card doohickey
See? So sparkly!

I am a Hallmark Gold Crown member (impressive, I know!), and they send me a flier for a free something or other on my 1/2 birthday. The last freebie was for this cute credit card wallet thingamajig. I went in the shop to get some cards for upcoming occasions and I went ahead and got my free credit card holder doohickey. As soon as I walked out of the store, I questioned why I wanted this thing. I’m not going to use it. I have a wallet that holds (more) credit cards, cash, and then some (drivers license, insurance card, etc.). Why did I feel the need to acquire this extra accessory I’ll never use? I figured I could see if anyone at work may want it. It is cute. Or I can always put it in the next bag we get ready for charitable donation.

But WHY did I get it in the first place if then I had to figure out what to do with it? Is it because it was “free?” Is it because it was cute and sparkly and I just had to have it? I mean, it’s not like I had to pay anything for it. I started thinking about it and realized this isn’t the first time and it most likely will not be the last where I get something, whether for free or for a price, where the acquired object simply adds more clutter to my purse, my house, my life.

I often complain to Gerald (shocking, I know!) that if I could just declutter the house, I would feel so much lighter, I would feel better. I wouldn’t be so stressed, so time-constrained. I’ve always figured it’s a matter of getting organized, getting everything in balance. And then this life balance would start with a major decluttering effort. So I have yet to start a serious clean-out effort, and it’s like we get more and more junk that just clutters up the house. And it can start at an early age, ya know. For instance, the best kid parties are the ones where you leave with a really cool party gift. But what are you gonna do with that goodie bag once you get it home (and once you’ve eaten all the edibles that may have been in there)? If you’re my kids, you’ll keep the bag and any wrappings and whatever around forever. A broken piece of a plastic toy plane? Check. A cheap printed pencil that no one will ever use? Check.

My parents happened to be around while I was working on this post. I read them what I had so far and was hoping to get some ideas on where I could go (because it’s going nowhere fast), and my dad starts listing items he has acquired and has had a hard time letting go of. Gee, I’m starting to see where I get this urge to retain retain retain. Some of the items my dad doesn’t want to chuck include: a small amount of foreign bills that would probably equate to a whole 50 cents if he were to ever take it all to a bank to have it exchanged; some wooden nickels (huh?); parts to this and that broken this or that because you just never know if you could use that part for this, but I’m betting you’d forget you even have that part if this something or other broke and you could use that part, but see, you forgot you had that part so what’s the point? Why are you keeping it around again??

As I sit here with some wine trying to wrap things up, I realize there’s just too much clutter, people! Too much going on in my head, my home, my life. And as soon as I’m able to clear out all this clutter, I’ll be able to come back and finish this post…

To the tune of Ice-T’s Colors:

Yo Gerald let’s do this…

Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter.

I am a hoarder hoarding, clutterbug talking
Queen of the castle an organized wannabe stalking
Living life in a messy house quick is my mess
Then dead in a garbage pile the survivors picking up the rest
Free or costly, duplicate or cheap, it just don’t matter
Clutter for your life and everything scatters
We clutterers will never die – just multiply

Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter. Clutter.


Forcing it


A recent Dear Abby conjured up some old memories for me. The letter writer was a mom whose 11 year old son was told by a playmate that he was only friends with her son because he was being forced by his mom. This made me think of the time when my family moved to a new town when I was around 8ish, 9ish. There was this girl at church, Stacey, who was one grade ahead of me, and she eventually started asking me to go to church functions and even slumber parties at her house. We were never friends who clicked. Our personalities didn’t mesh, we didn’t run around in the same circles, and we had no mutual friends. But she would invite and I would go. I suppose I had an okay time but I could leave the whole friendship if push came to shove. I definitely was not what you’d call vested.

I don’t remember when it was or how I heard this, or from whom, but apparently, Stacey was only nice to me because her mom had told her to be. Her mom had instructed her to befriend the new girl in town. Even though I never felt any real connection with Stacey as a friend, I admit that this news hurt my feelings. Once we were in high school together, I would see her in the halls laughing and carrying on with her friends and she wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I thought it was weird. I mean, we didn’t have to be best buds by any means, but why would you totally snub someone? What a bitch. Oh sorry, did I type that out loud? And it’s not like you could’ve called her Ms. Popularity. She wasn’t. She had her friends and I had mine and that was that.

So let me give Stacey’s mom a little straight-talk — Lady, you weren’t doing me, the poor little new girl in town, any favors by forcing your daughter to be friends with me. What did you possibly think you were going to achieve by trying to fit something together that just wasn’t meant to be? Perhaps you wanted the feeling of doing a good deed. Well good for you, lady. Those hours spent at your daughter’s lame ass slumber parties, I’ll never get back. And no one wants to feel like the odd girl out, and I was. Such a good deed. Gee, maybe this bothered me more than I realized. Ya think?

Several years ago, I was guilty of a similar parenting move. When my boys were still young enough for me to pull it off, I would throw them a two-for-one birthday party. The dates of their birthdays are very close so I would usually combine the celebration into one big blowout to save a lot of headache (and money) and make it more convenient for family and friends as well. A friend of mine’s daughter attended the same daycare as my kids. Her age is right in the middle of theirs. I asked my boys whom they wanted to invite from the daycare, but as you can imagine, caution is advised when handing out selective invitations in such a setting. You don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, you don’t want anyone to feel left out. But at the same time, I wanted my kids to be in charge of their guest list. The exception was my friend’s daughter. I mean, it only made sense to me to invite her, my boys had been invited to some of her parties, but I didn’t let them have any say. I didn’t think it was even necessary, I didn’t think they’d really care one way or the other actually.

But come to find out, my oldest didn’t particularly connect well with my friend’s daughter. Oh, and don’t get me wrong here, my friend’s daughter is a great girl and she’s smart as a whip. But my oldest took it upon himself to pass this sweet girl an “uninvite” to his party. ?? If memory serves me correctly, the daycare director was involved and all that. Now, I don’t think this little girl was particularly fond of my son, and she most likely still isn’t, but I believe her feelings were hurt. She probably didn’t feel unlike I felt when I found out the truth about Stacey’s “friendship” to me all those years ago. It’s not a good message, no matter who the deliverer, your like or dislike of them.

At first I was mortified my child would hand deliver such ugliness to another child. But then I had an epiphany–picture the whole light bulb over head and clouds opening up thing–Gulp, this whole thing was my fault. If I had respected my son’s guest list entries in the first place, there would have been no ugly note, there would have been no hurt feelings, and there would have been no embarrassing hoopla at the daycare.

I believe apologies were given along with discussions of sensitivity. Yes, your mom should not have invited someone without checking with you first, but it still should have been handled differently, better. From that day forward, I’ve always checked first before adding someone to an invitee list for anything in our family.

So… discoveries made here — I guess all things considered, the good intentions may be there, and Stacey’s mom probably did have good intentions, and I had good intentions as well, but ultimately it’s up to the kids if they will become friends or not.


I know I’m not, but what aren’t you?

I am not

There are so many areas of life where one makes positive affirmation after positive affirmation. I’m this, I’m that (I’m an accidental shit storm starter, I’ll give you that, although I suppose that’s not very positive). Blah blah blah. I started to think of all the things I’m positive I’m not.

I know I am NOT —

Monetarily rich – I suppose it’s all about the perspective. I don’t consider myself rich because I am unable to live my life on a whim and just buy buy buy to my heart’s content. Now, can I go out and acquire nice things (house, car, etc.)? Well, yes, but until I win some big lottery like I plan to do someday (but I suppose I should purchase at least one or two tickets to increase my odds a smidge), I still have to work and save my dollars and budget and plan for large purchases.

Monetarily poor – The same as the “rich” category, this one is also in the eye of the beholder. I am not poor by any means, but maybe to spoiled, silver spoon born movie star celebrity types (cough… Gwyneth Paltrow), my family and I would look poor as dirt. Hey… maybe I can send a sad story, along with plenty of supporting pictures, about my life as a full-time working mom who also has to keep up with household chores and schedules and a poop rolling dog and etc, to a ridiculously rich celebrity type (cough… Gwyneth Paltrow). Gwyneth, oh I mean whoever this celebrity type person is, would take one look at my meager 2,100 square foot home and the clutter in said home and declare some special televised fundraiser to help get me and mine out of such poverty, such deplorable living conditions.

A lesbian – Let’s shoot it straight here (yes, sure, the pun can be intentional), Gerald probably wouldn’t be against me having lesbian urges. I found this out on our first date when he pretty much admitted he wouldn’t be opposed to a threesome. But the first time he took me to Hooter’s, I knew. I realized I could care less about the waitresses’ body parts; I spent more time checking out the menu, which Gerald says Hooter’s philly cheesesteak sandwich is to die for (uh huh), and more time checking out the girls’ hair and makeup, than checking out butts and boobs. Sorry, Gerald, it is what it is.

Clinically depressed – I believe I have come close several times to being on the verge of mild depression, but after reading some real doozy bloggers’ stories of dealing with their depression, I realize I am truly a lightweight. And for this I am thankful. Full on depression sounds like a bitch and I cannot claim to ever have suffered like true depression victims.

Tall – Most members of my family are what you could call height challenged, and I am okay with this. I’ve never seen my shortness as anything bad. Well, unless you count the times I’ve been at the store and end up asking whomever is near, and taller, for assistance getting something that of course is on the very top shelf and out of my arm’s reach. A year or so ago, my oldest was all insulted that some classmates were calling his dad short. Gerald and I just looked at each other kind of puzzled. Gerald is short. That’s not an insult, it’s a fact. Not that I couldn’t see these little assholes being the assholes that they are, hurling their stupid insults and all. But we were wanting our son to see how stupid the other kids’ comments were. Let it roll off your back, dude!

Athletic – No one, and I mean no one, has ever accused me of being athletic. I played soccer in my elementary school days and if my parents wanted to identify my small dot of a self on a large distant soccer field, all they had to do was look for the girl who was skipping. I didn’t run. I still don’t know how to run, by the way. I still skip around with my hands close to my sides looking like a damn fool I’m sure.

An alcoholic – I’ve had my fair share of drinking too much where I am disgusted with myself, not to mention hungover, the next morning, but I can definitely leave it. I don’t have to have that beer, wine, or hard liquor. I sometimes think it would be nice to drink a glass of wine come evening but then I’ll totally forget. Some of the stories I’ve read about alcoholism are heart wrenching. The disease seems so cruel to its victims. It’s painful to read and probably more painful for the alcoholic to share. I can say with certainty that that’s not me and my heart goes out to those affected.

A morning person – If Gerald and my boys had to describe one thing their wife/mother is NOT, morning person would probably be right there at the top of the list. Since our kids came into the picture, Gerald and I have been early risers during the work week. I really thought I would get used to getting up so ridiculously early, I thought maybe I’d even come to embrace it. Umm.. nope. This has not happened, and we’re now 13 plus years into it. And I don’t know if you could officially check off “morning” on our (imaginary/virtual) daily checklist of to-dos without me yelling/screaming at least once at someone in the house about something, it really doesn’t matter what. And then of course when I fly off the handle about whatever infraction someone has purposely done to me (I’m sure of it), this puts everyone in a foul mood. Mission accomplished. Anyway, no excuses, but I’ve told my boys they should be used to it by now and not to let it bother them, but easier said than done, I suppose.

Graceful – Maybe this one goes up there under “athletic.” I’m not compared to Elaine on Seinfeld for nothing. You want crazy, jerky dance moves? Well, boy do I have some priceless moves for you! When someone starts shouting “Go white girl! Go white girl!” I may just be in attendance at whatever gathering it happens to be.

A cheater – Nothing gets me riled up more than someone accusing me of something I didn’t do. If you’re looking for a way to really stick it to me, to really hurt me, just accuse me of cheating. I play games straight up (and the time my sister and I were playing the old hard-as-Hades Trivial Pursuit game against our dad doesn’t count! huh humm…), and my expectation is that all other players play straight up too.

I could go on (and on and on and on…), but I’ll wrap things up. Interesting how I’ve found that things I am NOT, have, for the most part anyway, revealed things I am glad I AM.


Crankotloud presents Rerun Thursday!

Forget Throwback Thursday, it’s time for a new trend. I present to you Rerun Thursday! No matter “rerun” really doesn’t sound as nice as “throwback” with “Thursday.” Okay, I admit, it’s not so much attempting to start a new trend as it is running out of time to prepare any new blogging material. It’s been a bit stressful this week. It’s been busy at work; the kids have their activities; Gerald and I have been scoping out home improvement projects; and I’ve got the “cleaning” service coming so I’ve been scrambling to get the house picked up (so the ladies can come in and “clean”).

I’m kind of taking a cop out, yes, but… here’s the awesome news: This is a post from Crankoutloud’s early days and I’m almost positive 99% of you haven’t had the privilege of reading it. I know, you’re welcome!

(FYI: No cop out for the bloggers participating in Jessie Reyna’s experiment (starts Thursday, April 16th). Be sure to check it out!)

Now, without further ado, I give you COL’s He’s got smooth moves, originally published September 25, 2014 —

I started thinking about my Gerald and his smooth moves.  Gerald said he can count his smooth moves on two fingers.  I bet I can come up with a few others.  Let’s see…

Smooth move #1
Both still singletons and not yet officially dating, Gerald walked me to my car after a night with friends at the pool hall.  I was just about to get in my car to leave when he asked if I wanted to stay and talk for a while.  Talk about what? Talk about this.  And he moved in for a kiss, our first kiss.  Yes, Gerald, it was a smooth move.  I confirm this every time you bring it up.

Smooth move #2
Picture this.  First date.  Gerald and I were leaving the movie theater after watching Liar Liar with Jim Carrey–what a God awful movie–and Gerald stopped me and said let’s just get this out of the way.  And he kissed me right there in the parking lot on the way to his truck.  Smoooth.

Smooth move #3
A third smooth move, a third…  Oh, I got it — The underwear toss.  Every morning when Gerald is about to get in the shower, he slides his skivvies down and does this foot kick thing that tosses his undies up into his hand.  Now if he could just get them from his hand and into the dirty clothes basket.  Maybe not really a “smooth” move, but definitely a “cute” move.

Smooth move #3 or #4 (?)
No, Gerald, I wouldn’t call your brutal honesty on our first date a smooth move.  Heaven only knows how the topic had come up, but I asked Gerald if he would ever want to have a threesome and he answered affirmatively and claims to this day that there’s not a straight man alive who wouldn’t answer the same, if he was being honest.  Umm… maybe I should have titled this post “Unsmooth moves.”  <sigh>

Okay, moving on…
Smooth move #4 (or is this still only #3?)
I was handing him the bucket of beer and asked for a light and he said he would let me borrow his lighter if I gave him my phone number…  Pretty smooth move…  Oh, wait a second, I don’t smoke and I’ve never worked as a waitress; this was Gerald’s brother’s smooth move with a cute waitress.  Sorry.  Gerald’s brother never did let us forget that move and it was a pretty good move so I guess I got it confused.

Smooth move #4 (?) #5 (?)
Did you want to help me out here, Gerald?  No, the naked helicopter is not considered a smooth move.  How many times do I have to tell you this?

Okay, well maybe it really is only two (“official”) smooth moves, and perhaps my husband is no Rico Suave, but do I still love Gerald anyway?  Absolutely.  And I wouldn’t want him any other way.

Rico Suave


Pump you up!


Recently I finished a 90 120 day stint of Beachbody’s Body Beast workout program. It’s a decent program, but like all the in-home workout DVD programs I’ve done, they all have their little annoyances. Take Body Beast’s trainer, Sagi, for example. He gets so confused. One minute he’s talking about how safety is the most important thing, only to turn around and say having fun is rule number 1. Huh?? What’s an exercise non-guru (read: me) to do? Is safety, form–because he throws ‘form’ in as rule #2–, or fun the most important workout rule? Which is it, Sagi?? But regardless of the rules, you can be sure the Beast is feeling beasty! Yes, Sagi actually says this, along with other bizarre statements.

Not only is there the whole rules confusion on Body Beast, there’s the Eric guy in the cardio video. Oh. My. Word. I don’t know how to describe it except it would be totally appropriate for Sagi to pat Eric’s head and give him a treat after each set. The guy acts like a puppy dog, all eager to please. And he makes these awkward noises like he’s either on the verge of some ecstasy experience or he’s about to just pass out right there at the feet of his master trainer, the Beast himself, Sagi. Even though I watched the cardio DVD many times, each time I expected Sagi to give Eric some much needed coddling and a Scooby Snack. And Eric is just a little too enthusiastic for my taste. I mean, sure, give it all you got, Eric, but please stop hopping around like a dog trying so desperately to get your owner’s attention.

Some of the other workout programs I’ve completed/attempted — Tony Horton can be annoying and can waste too much time with his wise-cracking, but at least he has a personality. Jillian Michaels really likes herself (A LOT) and actually purrs during cool down. Tom Holland (Supreme 90) is good, but kind of bland. I already described a little about Sagi (Body Beast), and he’s alright but he can’t run/jog for shit; he’s too damn big. Maybe he should take a steroid vacay.

I’m always looking for good in-home workout programs, and for me to even consider taking on a new one, it has to meet the following three requirements:

1. The workout cannot go over 50 minutes. P90X has a 90 minute yoga workout. Umm.. no.

2. The workout must incorporate free weights. I want to be able to increase/decrease at will and I’ve never figured out those freaking bands. The bands seem too complicated and I’ll find any excuse to blow off doing my workout.

3. The workout cannot include any complicated moves. I did the Brazilian Butt Lift program and I cannot dance to save my life. When it came to the cardio dance routine, I gave it all I got and was throwing my arms around like a wild woman. I think Gerald hid behind the door a few times just to snicker. Thankfully, no one captured any blackmail video (that I know of).

I’m currently in the midst of another Supreme 90 stint. It’s okay, but I’m still keeping an eye out for my next workout challenge. Suggestions are welcome and appreciated (as long as there is no running involved)! Leave any suggestions (or snickers!) in the comments!


Just a hop, skip, and a bus ride

Fairy godmother
You get one wish, kid

My oldest is in his last months of middle school (silent “thank you, Jesus” prayer and silent “so help me God, he’s headed to high school soon” prayer), and the 8th grade dance is just a few weeks away. Okay, first off, 8th grade dance? Back in my day, we had no stinking dances in junior high! I’m looking at it this way–because I’m pretty much the pessimist Gerald claims me to be–not only do I have to prep for my child’s high school prom when the day comes, I’m also required to get my kiddo ready for a formal (yes, you read that right, formal) 8th grade dance?? Hmm… okay…

Let me provide some description and discussion of this 8th grade “dance” adventure (thus far) —

My son (right before bedtime): Do you have money?

Me: No.

He is asking for money to purchase a ticket. Mind you, I have to pull information out of this kid, he doesn’t give anything up willingly. He didn’t come home the day he heard about the dance and exclaim, “The 8th grade formal is coming up and I need to buy a ticket. May I go, Mummy? May I? And may I have money to purchase the ticket, please?”

Nope. He stays mute. I believe he is working it all out in his head and thinks things will magically work out. What?? Why would I need to give my mom notice to shop for appropriate clothes!

Me: What are you supposed to wear? A suit? A tux?

My son: I dunno.

Now, the conversation regarding transportation options really got interesting.

My son: We’re going to rent a party bus.

Me: What?

My son: Or a limo.

Me: What?

My son: …

Me: I don’t think a group of 8th graders can (legally and from a reputable company) rent a party bus or limo. And why would you need either of these things?

My son: How else are we supposed to go to dinner?

Me: Dinner? Who said anything about dinner?

My son: Well, what are we supposed to do after the dance?

Me: Come home?

The school is literally around the corner from our house. My son said his group of friends is planning to meet at the school and then have the party bus take them to the dance. Umm… the dance is going to be at the Catholic church which happens to be smack dab next door to the school! Did I mention this is all around the corner from our house??

It will be interesting to see how this whole shindig pans out. My son does not own a suit, and I don’t see “tuxedo” wear being the norm here. No ticket has been purchased. No date has been secured (as far as I know, because obviously my son tells me very little). Actually, there was a whole separate disastrous “date” argument discussion. Pick up/drop off times (because, no, you’re not taking a party bus!)? Possible carpooling and/or sleepover plans with friends?

Do you see? None of these details have been planned out. But who knows? Maybe I’m as stupid as my son claims. Maybe some 8th grade dance fairy godmother will drop out of the sky and provide everything he needs for his special occasion, right down to the effin party bus.



Race ya to 100

100 cake
For me, it’s more a question of if I WANT to make it to 100

Gerald is certain he is going to outlive me. He truly expects to make it to the ripe old age of 100. I’ve always told him to be my guest. Thus far, most of my aging experiences have been nothing but sucky. I’ve barely hit the forties, why in the world would I want to drag out my life into the hundreds?

In my early thirties I was able to get my body back after having my two boys. It was great. I was showing off my washboard stomach and popping my biceps at every opportunity. But then I turned around and saw that while I had worked so hard on my abs and arms, my butt had all but disappeared. Where it went I’m still not sure. It was a little late in the game to find out that’s what all the talk about “squeezing” is when you’re working your butt/legs. Who knew? Apparently, not me. But you see, losing the perk in your backside doesn’t happen when you’re still in your twenties. So be warned, young’uns, don’t lose your ass! If you’re not careful, it could happen to you.

Then the forties started creeping in. Hey, where did they come from? No one invited them here to start turning me older. I already have enough on my plate, thank you. I’ve noticed my memory isn’t as sharp. It’s still okay (for now), but thoughts often vanish. I’ll be thinking about something and then Boop! It’s gone, just like that. And I’ll have to fess up to my thought train derailing while in the middle of a work conversation no doubt. People my age or older usually offer understanding and sympathy. I believe they can relate to my plight of the disappearing thoughts.

My forties also introduced me to my first back outage. Wow, that was a bitch. I hope to never go back there again. I have also lost muscle. You know how I carried on about my big biceps and tight abs up there at the top? Yeah well, they’ve shrunk a bit since then. Well I guess the stomach hasn’t actually shrunk, quite the opposite, but you know what I’m talkin ’bout. I’ve also noticed my skin has lost some of its elasticity. Wrinkles, funky skin colorings, eyesight is going to pot. Aren’t the forties fun?

My mom used to keep me informed of her aging adventures until I told her to please stop. I don’t want to be looking (and most likely with paranoia) for these inevitable events to occur. Pretty sure I’ll get a chance to experience them, I’d rather they come as a surprise though. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. Could indecisiveness also be a sign of getting older? Oh wait, I’ve always been indecisive. Never mind.

But back to the whole Gerald thing — Gerald is facing his own aging challenges as well. I know because I have to hear all about them. So while the hubs is all gung ho about making it to 100 and plans on leaving me well behind in the process, I can’t even imagine the sorts of challenges, both physical and mental, one faces in “centenarianhood.” I for one expect to croak by at least my mid nineties. Sayonora, Gerald. (And no matter what you say, you know you’ll miss me!)


I can be fun

It’s true, kids. Really, your mom can be fun. Take the April Fool’s pranks I planned all out just for you. I can’t take credit for coming up with the ideas, I saw them on Facebook, but I should be given credit for actually putting in a little forethought and effort. I even made a purposeful trip to the craft store to get the right supplies. Gerald was especially impressed that I didn’t stray from my shopping list AT ALL. I’m actually pretty surprised by that myself.

Oh but anyway, where was I? Oh, back to fun and how I can actually be fun (yes, sometimes!).

Prank #1 — The fridge is always watching, always watching…
Picture it, you open the refrigerator and you have all these eyes staring right back at you. Googly eyes, lots of googly eyes. The execution was a little messier than I thought. I used regular Elmer’s glue to adhere the eyes to whatever items were in the fridge and I ended up getting it on my fingers and some eyes dropped and got a little glue on the refrigerator shelves. And who knew that some of the eyes would start sliding down the condensed side of the milk carton? Anyhoo, my youngest was the first person to open the fridge on April 1st. He stood there for a while just taking it all in. Then he laughed. Then he thought his mom was wacko. Little did he know that his snack bar would be staring out at him come lunch time. I googly eyed his Kind bar too.

They're watching you...
They’re watching you…

Prank #2 — Brown E’s, not to be confused with brownies.
Got Gerald first. I told him I made brownies and he was actually annoyed because we’re trying to eat a little healthier around here. And I go baking some temptation like that? He goes to look at the “brownies,” and is met with the brown E’s. What? Haven’t you ever seen a brown E before, Gerald? My oldest was next. Now he thinks his mom is wacko. Before the jig was up with Gerald and my oldest, my youngest had told me he wanted me to pack a brownie in his lunch. Gladly. But Gerald let the cat out of the bag before I could pull the lunch stunt off.

Cutting E's out of brown paper was harder than I thought it would be
Cutting E’s out of brown stock paper was harder than I thought it would be


The resulting Brown E's
The resulting Brown E’s

I admit, I rarely take part in pranks. I’m betting it’s because I do not like to be the victim and if I were to prank others often, I would surely become a victim myself. Yes, of course it’s funny when some silly prank falls upon some unbeknownst victim, but I draw the line at me being the prankee. Nope, if anyone knows what’s best for him/her, I will be asked to be one of the instigators or I will smile in glee at the poor targeted sap (who’s not me).

Actually, now I’m kind of nervous wondering what the boys may do to seek revenge on me for not making real brownies.