Wigapolooza!

I have this fear.

My big fear is that somewhere, someone is throwing a party. And its a lot of fun. And I'm not invited.

Brrrrrr.....chills just thinking about it.

So this year I decided to face my fears. And throw the party myself so I would be sure not to leave myself off my list. And it worked!

So on Saturday night, me and 113 of my closest friends gathered in the pasture beside my house (because that's how you do it in the 75904) and partied like we weren't really white Christians who don't believe in smoking, drinking or dancing, but do like to party down to some Micheal McDonald and Greatest Hits of the 80's.

Okay, it wasn't that white.

Yeah, okay, it sorta was.

We didn't have a bonfire because the State of Texas called a state-wide burn ban and I didn't have $500 to pay the fine if I were to obtain one. And also because it was a wig party, and if one little flame got loose, trust me, that place would have gone up like a March wind. So instead we had three flaming fire pits. Twelve people nearly died but the s'mores were excellent. (Kidding, Rick Perry.)

We also had volleyball. And hayrides. And an 18 foot bouncy house slide that I cannot believe we ever debated on getting because oh, it kept those kids busy and oh, how they stayed out of our wigs and oh, how nice it was!! And we had music and we had food and we had fun.

We also had some great wigs....

Great costumes...

And a surprise appearance from the pervert who you always see in the starring role on Law & Order: SVU.

Aren't I brave for facing my Halloween fears? See you next year!

I'd Like My Drugs To Come With Flour Tortillas. Thank You.

Red Ribbon week is enough to make me want to snort something.

I don't know about you but this is how I see it: while the whole idea of Red Ribbon week is devised to keep our kids off drugs what it does instead is casually remind our kids that "Drugs Aren't Cool - Stay in School" (or my personal favorite, "Don't Do Drugs - Give a Hug") while momma's run in 400 different directions to facilitate their children in the "themed" days that Red Ribbon week calls for therefore causing families across America to spend money they don't have on camo vests they'll never wear again inflicting pain and financial ruin to a sweet momma who by Thursday openly admits, "If I weren't so broke from dressing her up every day I'd buy something from that kid on the corner that wears the toboggan in mid-July and just chilllllllllll out."

Good grief, I'm tired.

Let's put it this way. If my kid ever takes up drugs the first thing I'm going to do is beat her to a pulp, but the second thing I'm going to do is lay my hand out and demand she pay me back for one pair of Scooby-Doo pajamas, a camo vest, a pair of crazy socks that she gave to the little girl who sits beside her in the lunchroom, a tye-dyed t-shirt that she thought I had spilt something on and a 50's poodle skirt that will probably never again see the light of day.

Let's see how long she can afford the good stuff. Goodness knows I can't.

I wanted to go out to eat Mexican food tonight but the AG told me, "No."
"Why not? I've worked hard this week. Remember? Stupid ol' Red Ribbon week; our governments initiative to keep kids off drugs while simultaneously getting parents hooked on them."
"I know, but financially I don't think we should. Let's put it this way: she's wearing your fajitas."

What she was wearing was a poodle skirt. Which I feel fairly certain never kept a kid off of drugs but did keep me from ordering cheese dip.

And that is my drug of choice.

Apparently, My Love Really Doesn't Cost a Thing.

I hadn't been on a date with my husband in a really long time.

Oh, sure, we'd been together: Home Depot runs and grocery store pick-ups. Three weeks ago we even went to a football game together, but we went, we won, we came home. I wanted a date with him. The kind that comes with a restaurant with a menu - not a menu board. The kind that comes with holding hands in the car. The kind that comes with telling the sitter, "I don't know when we'll be home, if they get tired, put them to bed."

Saturday I got my wish.

Oh, sure. Dates when you are young and childless look much different than when you are old and have children.

Our dates used to be on Friday nights.
Now we get tired too early. So we decided to go out on a Saturday afternoon.

Our dates used to be to little cafes where we would order wine and listen to Jazz.
Who are we kidding? We split fajitas, had two unsweet teas and it tasted maaaaahvelous!

Our dates used to be to plays at the theatre. And sometimes, they still are.
But sometimes a well-reviewed movie at a matinee price are just what the doctor ordered.

And so Saturday we kissed our kids goodbye, kissed my parents good-luck, and strolled to the car. He opened the door for me (as he still does even after 16 years) and we took off for Mexican food. We sat at a table and talked about life and work and jobs and friends and church and kids and shoes and everything else under the sun for almost two hours. And I loved ever single second of it. Then we went to the movies to see The Social Network (which we loved) and the day was looking good.

But the movie didn't start for 25 minutes and we had a little time to kill.

And I just happen to have 50 cents in my purse.

And that is when I fell in love with him all over again.

Because for the next 15 or 20 minutes 50 cents proved to be all we needed to be back in college again. For those few minutes we didn't have kids to worry about, bills to pay, cars that needed repair or teeth that needed cleaning. Prescriptions didn't have to be filled. Letters didn't have to be mailed. All that was needed was for me to beat him at Ms. Pac-Man.

And I did. Royally.

But that isn't the point. For those few minutes we just laughed and laughed. I screamed when he died, he pushed me out of the way when I died. We talked trash and rooted for each other all at the same time. And if I had to forgo the whole movie going experience I would have just to have played another round with him. But I didn't have two more quarters.

So we left the Ms. Pac-Man game, hand-in-hand and strolled in to our movie. And I remembered why it is that I adore that man. And it only took two quarters to figure it out.

The Potty Wars.

Well, soldiers. I'm goin' in.

Wish me luck.

Hand-made. Heart-felt.

Remember when it was that simple?

Remember when wearing a hand-made necklace home from Sunday School was all you needed as a reminder to simply obey?

When did it get so stinkin' hard?

I watched Remi wear her necklace to the car on Sunday with pride. I watched her show it off at lunch to anyone who even glanced in her direction. I watched her look at it and repeat the words over and over, "I will obey God." The necklace symbolized what obedience looks like to a 4 year old. Simple. Plain. Easy. Colorful. Lightweight. Homemade.

I thought to myself, "You wanna see a necklace, Remi? A real obedience necklace? Let me show you mine." And then I imagined what it would look like. Heavy. Dark. Weighted down. Missing pieces. Uneven edges. Of course I didn't say this to her because after all she is only 4 and it seemed a little heavy to someone who was picking their nose and eating mac & cheese at the same time.

But my obedience, at least right now, is not pretty necklace. Its heavy and it costs me something every time I wear it. Which is why, more times than not lately, I leave it on my dresser at home and think, "It doesn't go with these shoes....maybe next time." But every time I leave it, it gets easier to leave the next time.

Which is why I wish my necklace looked like hers. Easy. Bright. Simple. Then perhaps I would wear it with as much preciousness as she did.

Perhaps.

If you (really) love me you will keep (obey) My commands.

John 14:15

I Wanna Come!

Here's the rule: If you want me to come to your party, don't invite me.

If you don't want me to come to your party, invite me.

See? Its as simple as that.

If I find out there's a party and I'm not invited I'm like that little green monster on that TV commercial that gets under your toenail and starts to grow. Oh, you can bet I'm comin'. Whether I was invited or not. I'm the Vince Vaughn to your wedding. Perhaps it was because I was raised with just a tad too much confidence. But I firmly feel like it is not a party unless I am there. People have tried to tell me differently lo these many years. But I refuse to believe them.

However, if you don't want me to come then all you have to do is simply extend me an invitation. You'll never see my face. Why would I want to go where I'm wanted? Besides, like everyone else in the free world, I think I am sooooo busy. I think I have soooo much going on. Truth is, I don't. I have time to come to your party. But if you invite me then I have to go to the trouble of writing it down on my calendar, finding something to wear, and God forbid, perhaps buy a gift. Its just much easier to stay home.

But if you don't invite me? I assume I'm missing something and that you probably meant to invite me and are at your party that very second wondering where I am.

So here was my offering to last nights shin-dig.

Was it my party? Nope.

Was I invited to it? Nope.

Did I show up anyway? Yep.

Was everyone glad I did? Uhhhh.....yes

Oh, and the last rule of a party crasher. Never go empty-handed. It's tacky.

This Is What Happens When A Man Wants A Younger Model.

Wow, has it really been that long since I posted something?

You know it's been a long time when they ask for your username and password when you log on. Normally, it's like I'm on the VIP list at a hot club and Blogger just lets me right on through. Not this time. This time it asked who I was and what the password was, what my natural hair color was and how much I weighed. And well, that's when things got ugly.

So my post today is supposed to be about The Attorney General and what he did this weekend, but honestly, I don't know that I have the strength to post it. It wears me out just thinking about it. It is just so far out of my element; it would be the same as if I tried to post about a friend running the Boston Marathon or someone I love trying their hand at scrapbooking? What? Huh? Blacking out now. Exhausted.

And this is how I felt this weekend when my father called my husband and it went like this...

Dad: Hey man, my new TV came in.

AG: You got a new TV?

Dad: Yeah.

AG: Why? Did the other one break or something?

Dad: No. Its fine. The new one is just bigger. 13" bigger.

AG: Niiiiccce.

Let's stop here, shall we? Because at no point in my natural life can I see me having a phone conversation in which my mom calls to tell me she bought herself a new diamond ring, not because she LOST the one she had, but because she found one....and it was bigger. See, this is a conversation women are not allowed to have. But a bigger TV? Men are totttaaaallllly allowed to have this conversation.

Sexism at its finest.

Dad: So I was wondering if you wanted the one I'm taking down?

AG: The 52"? Yeah, I'll take it!

And here's where I get really tired and just want a foot massage. Because what followed that "meeting of the minds" phone conversation was the most exhausting part of my weekend. Which is really saying something because I kept 6 kids in my home all weekend and it looked like I was running a small orphanage.

Allow me to give you the play-by-play:

The AG took down my Dad's 52" to make room for his new 65" (yes, the AG put the 65" up for my Dad too).

The AG took down our 42" over our mantel to squeeeeeze in my dads 52".

The AG then proceeded to remove our perfectly fine 32" from our bedroom wall to replace it with....you guessed it....the 42" he just removed from our mantel.

And our kids who up to this point have had a 27" hanging in their room (bless their poor souls) now have our former 32".

Where will the 27" go? Uh, duh. Who reads magazines in the bathroom anymore?

Of course, I'm kidding. Unless the AG is reading this right now and a light bulb is going off in his head. Which who am I kidding? It is.

I would like to state for the record that if we didn't tithe to our local church, support our community, sponsor a child and give alms as Jesus commanded then this would be the most horrific post. Ever. But we do, so I am allowing some room for the Attorney General to just be a boy. And enjoy a TV the size of the space shuttle; which we will probably be watching as it takes off from Florida on its next journey into outer space. That is, if we happen to be in the bathroom at the time.