I Like My Bralettes With A Side of Texas Toast.

Here, I provided a link for you.....because I'm really accessible like that.

http://lifestyle.msn.com/your-look/everyday-style/staticslideshowinstyle.aspx?cp-documentid=29457591&gt1=32002

Go to it. Go to it and read what made InStyle magazines Top Bras of 2011.


Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.

Did you read it? Did you notice that there were a lot of great bras that look really good worn under Gap t-shirts? Because as you know, nothing says "Middle-aged-mom-of-two" like a form fitting see through t-shirt from Gap. For pete's sake.

Oh, and also one was called a Bralette. Ummmm, girls like me don't wear "bralettes" - and not because it sounds like a vegetable that tastes better when fried ("oh yeah, I'd love some bralettes. Do you have ranch to dip them in?") - but because Bralettes don't work for any and all girls that have graduated from 8th grade.

So now, on to my list. Oh no, don't worry, I'm not coming up with a list of The Best Bras of 2011A. Nope. Been done. I'm doing my very own...

Melissa's Top Five Worst Bra's of All Time

working title: Melissa's Top Five Worst Bra Moments and if You've Had Them Too,

I'm Sorry.

(Here they are in no particular order):

1. If your Granny tells you she wants to take you bra shopping....and you let her....I'm sorry. If she proceeds to take you to one store....in Diboll....I'm sorry. If there is not a bra within a fifty mile radius that has less than six hooks on the back.....I'm sorry. If the only way the store owner can gage your size is by cupping your bosoms and yelling out, "We're gonna need that box in the back!" I'm truly, very sorry.

2. Do not watch infomercials on Sunday afternoons. You know you're tired. But you will be easily swayed by the bright lights and all the women smiling and their super white teeth. And then you will go and get your credit card - just like the robot they have brainwashed you into being. And then you will order what they're offering. A buy 3 for $20 special on Aah Bra's. And from the moment you put them on you will regret that $20 because you could have easily spent $8.99 on mosquito netting and produced the same results. But you still wear them. Only you have to wear all three of them at once. The ladies with the really shiny teeth never had to do that.

3. If it is your birthday and you're mother hands you a check for $50 and says, "Take this check and cash it. Put the money in your purse. Don't pull in to a movie theatre or a Chik-fil-A, do you hear me? Put the money in your purse. Drive straight to Dillards and buy you a bra. A real bra. For big boobs. Because you aren't kidding anyone. Find one that fits and that doens't embarrass your daddy. And then wear it. Day and night. Happy Birthday." Just save yourself the heartache and do it.

4. If your search for a new bra gives you three "Are You Sure's" then chances are you are barking up the wrong tree. Case in point: I bought a beautiful new summer outfit that I just loved and I wanted to wear it to a special event. I tried it on for Meridith who asked what bra I would be wearing. I told her it would only work with a strapless bra, she replied, "Strapless? Are you sure?" Later that evening I tried it on for the Attorney General. He did a once over and said,

"Are you wearing a..."

"No, because I need to go buy a strapless one."

"For who? For you? A strapless? Are you sure?"

Upon entering the store I asked the saleslady to direct me right to the strapless bra area. She mentioned that they had a new line of underwires in; they were in my size and had been made from prison wire from the gates of Alcatraz no doubt. I reminded her I was there for strapless.......she simply asked, "Are you sure?" Turns out strapless bras don't keep me in the game, ifyouknowwhatImean. And yes, I'm sure.

5. It is Christmas. You are at a party. In fact, you are about to sing at said party. Your cousin, who shall remain nameless (MERIDITH!) asks you, "What bra are you wearing?" You know there is likely to be trouble.

"Why?"

"Because I can see right through your shirt and I'm pretty sure I see..."

"I have on a bra. In fact, I have on a cami over it."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Yes."

"Fine." I raise my shirt.

"I can see through this, Melissa! You can't go out there like this."

"But I have on a cami..."

"That I can see through."

"And I'm wearing that over my bra..."

"Which I can see through."

"And I'm wearing my bra over those three..."
"Not the infomercial bras. Enough with those. Throw those away! So you have on three Aah Bra's, a normal bra and a cami? Did you have nothing else?"

"I had a strapless."

"YOU have a strapless? Are you sure?"

Uuugghh.

"I don't understand how I can still see through all FIVE layers, Melissa. Where is the good bra your mom bought you for your birthday?"

"I drove past a Chik-fil-A."

So Many Things. So Very Many Things.

I always say, "I have nothing to write about on my blog anymore, Attorney General. You are providing me with no real life-experiences. Take me on a vacation. Take me out on date. Just drive me around the neighborhood!" And then he reminds me, "Did I take you to Dairy Queen last night?"

And I am reminded, once again, of his never-ending and abounding love for me.

And I thank God for him.

And then I roll my eyes at the atrocious lack of real-life experiences I am being given on a daily basis. (Though, for the record: I am taking my mother to see her doctor in Houston on Wednesday. So stay tuned. Surely to heaven something wonderful will come out of that little excursion.)

So, in a fashion that isn't fit for print, here are a couple of things I'd like to say before I close down my blog for another 14 days. Oh hush...I'm kidding.

~~~

My family has often joked about the fact that I tend to have some difficulty in "following along." I don't ever understand rules to games. I have yet to understand one single thing Jason Bourne is doing or saving or killing or shooting at. And I usually sit straight up in bed 20 minutes after Law & Order is over and shout, "I knew she did it! I knew she did." Even though I had watched her be convicted some 30 minutes earlier.

So, what I'm saying is....it takes me a bit.

Take this weekend for instance. We saw Cars 2. For all of those out there who care, I don't like Cars. Not a big fan. Love Toy Story. Adored Nemo. But Cars? Aah. So imagine my delight when the AG took us all to see Cars 2 this weekend. Which I was fine with. There was popcorn. It was air-conditioned. And we enjoyed ourselves. But I will leave you with this: If you have to look at your husband 1 hour and 14 minutes in to a Pixar movie and ask, "I don't understand what is going on. I don't even know who the bad cars are. And I hate anything even remotely having to do with James Bond."

Did you know that James Bond has absolutely nothing to do with Cars 2? Well, he doesn't - even though people are talking in a British accent and driving cars that have guns on the side of them. So even at this moment, I'm totally confused.

~~~

How is y'alls summer going? Mine is okay. We swim alot.

Remi is a great swimmer. Really great. She can dive and hold her breath for a long time and float and do the backstroke and she's really really good. Honest!

Rocco is 100% completely mesmerized by "oobies."

This presents a problem.

We may have to stop swimming for a while.

~~~

I heard a story the other day that has stuck with me.

My Pastor went and preached a wedding in a trailer house to a couple who had just gotten saved. They had been living together and once they gave their hearts to the Lord they wanted nothing more than to do right by Him, so they got married. When the wedding was over they gave him the only "payment" they had.

A bag of cucumbers and tomatoes.

I miss the simplicity of giving sometime. The excitement of taking what I have - as little or as much as it is - and giving it. To God. To others. To my family. To my friends. To those who need it.

I over think it. I balance it in my checkbook. I consider it when payday comes. I add it up in my head and deduct it from my monthly. I set aside time to figure out when I can set aside time. I make a plan to make a plan to make a plan to give. Of myself. Or my time. Or my talents.

And I forget that sometimes cucumbers and tomatoes in a brown paper bag are plenty. When given with a level of obedience and excitement.

It's that simple.

~~~

And lastly, on a completely unrelated note: George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend.

I found out this news on Thursday at Chili's as I was eating lunch with some friends. And for one pretty long moment I felt this level of excitement. The kind of excitement you feel when they guy you wanted to ask you to prom asked the girl with swan-like neck instead but then you found out she had a 4-wheeler accident and was going to be in a wheelchair during prom. (TRUE STORY!) And so you get all overcome and excited again because - there's still a chance!!! And that is honestly how I felt before I remembered that I was
a.) married
b.) the mother of two small children
c.) eating at Chili's

Chances are he's not a fan of any of the three.

But my friend brought me back to life when she said the article she read said that if you want to get lucky with Clooney you need to make sure you're a "little-known brunette." That is his apparent taste. So I suppose I will continue to stay married, parent my children and dip my chips in Ranch dressing because I'm a "well-known blond" and I don't see that changing any time soon.

G'day, my lovelies.

Somethin' Bad's Goin' Down At The Maxx.

We have a joke in my family. And by "family" I mean, me and the Attorney General. And by "joke" I mean, he laughs - I do not.

Here's the joke: Give Melissa five minutes in a Lifeway Christian Bookstore or a Marshalls and she'll be in the bathroom before you can go "Look! This shirt was originally $40!"

There's just something about those places that have an effect on me.
A big effect.
A big, bad effect.

Yesterday we didn't so much go to a Marshall's as we did a TJ Maxx. Have you ever been to those two stores? They are exactly the same. Marshall's is like the older, classier sister and TJ Maxx is like the younger, slightly prettier but not quite as demure, young sister. And Ross is like their white trash cousin that their momma made them put in their wedding.

Now that we understand each other...

Yesterday the AG dropped me off at TJ Maxx while he went to park. I walked in. I grabbed a buggy. I walked to the sunglasses. And within 3 minutes I was sprinting - SPRINTING, I TELL YOU - to the restrooms. There was not one single modicum of class or self-respect in that sprint. It's a full out, supporting my body weight on the buggy, sweat beads forming, kind of run. At one point I touched an Asian woman on the shoulder and said "Bathroom! Where is the bathroom?" To which she replied, "I no work here."

Ugh.

Finally, I found them. By the men's section - because nothing says "Hey bro, look at that sexy thing over there pushing her cart with her boobs and wiping her sweat from her upper lip at the same time" - like a woman in an IBS emergency.

I made it to the restrooms without a moment to spare. And thankfully, there was one lady in there who was finishing up washing her hands and drying them. "Oh good, she can't be in here long," I thought. Wrong!

For the sweet love of bread, what is taking this woman so long? I wonder what there is left to do? Her hands are clean, they were dry. Her hair was a 1/2 hour and a good hairbrush away from being reparable. So what is this woman doing?

I sit in the stall. Quietly. I wait.

But I got no more time. Time is not always our friend. Sometimes it marches on. Sometimes it stampedes. This was more of a stampeded than a march. So I did the only thing I could think to do, besides, I didn't know her and as I always tell myself, "Melissa, you'll never see that person again for the rest of your life." So I mustered up the courage and with sweat pouring down my face I bellered, "LEAVE!"

And she left.

And then...a bunch of stuff happened and none of it was pretty and none of it should be repeated for fear that it might land me in some IBS experimental testing - for it was not normal and almost otherworldly.

And I'm not being dramatic.

And now I'm going to "cut to the chase" as the folks say and jump past the part where I pulled myself together and wiped my brow and made my way out of the bathroom. And I'm going to skip over the part where I found the AG shopping without a care in the world. And I'm going to forgo telling you how it hit me - again! - within minutes and how the last words I heard the AG saying as I fled down the Men's Active aisle was, "Will this shrink if you dry it?"

And I'm going to go right to the part where this time when I entered the bathroom there was another lady in there. But she was in the stall. And apparently - apparently - something bad was goin' down with her too. Poor lady. You know she wanted to tell me to "LEAVE" but she was wise enough to know she might bump into me again in the housewares aisle.

So there we were.
Just the two of us.
In a two stall bathroom.

Her with her black patton pumps and navy slacks and me with my Irritable Bowel syndrome and my need for complete privacy.

The silence between us would have been deafening had it not been for the fact that nothing, and I do mean n-o-t-h-i-n-g, about her restroom experience was silent. She was apparently from the old school of thought that says, "If you feel it - then feel it. All of it. Deeply. Loudly. Let it out. It's good for the soul." Because she did. And I wondered if I was being punked. Might this be Eddie Murphy sitting next to me making some of his inane bodily sounds? Had I walked in on Tyler Perry doing something as Madea?

But I hadn't. I knew I hadn't. She was as real as I was. And truth be told, she didn't want to be in the stall next to me any more than I wanted to be in the one beside her. But we were two strangers......in a terrible bind. Two strangers.....one with a penchant for poor retail bowel performance and one who had apparently overeaten Chinese that day. But we were there nonetheless. And had the moment not been one of the most awkward of my entire life I would deem it silly. But it wasn't silly, it was real. She was real. She was really hurting. And so was I. And she was, in a manner of speaking, screaming out for help. And so was I. Only I wasn't. I was mortified. I was also quiet. She wasn't; for pete's sake, at one point I thought there were two of her in there. Are you getting the picture here?

A few minutes later I left that bathroom.

I walked out.
I leaned against my buggy.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took a few slow, deep breaths.
I gained my composure and began looking for the AG who was no doubt looking at more golf shirts, and I saw a young mother with her sweet little 2 year old headed into that bathroom and felt the overwhelming urge to warn her......"LEAVE!" But why take away a story from her? Who's to say she's not at her house right this very minute writing a blog, too?

And who's to say next time it won't be about me? The poor woman in the stall next door. Though if I'm wearing black patton pumps and navy slacks I may be deserving of all that's coming at me.

The End.

I Know Very Few Things.

Today was a different kind of day.

I knew that it was the last day of the school year. Oh sure, I go tomorrow and watch Remi "graduate" from 4K into Kindergarten, but that doesn't count. Today was the last school day that started at 8am and ended at 3pm. So it was the last day of down time.......for me.

What to do? What to do?

And as I sat and thought about what to do on my last day of personal freedom I realized something....

Some things never change. And some things change drastically.

There really is no definitive. Some things change. Some things don't.

What changes?
The season I'm in. I've never been in this one before. Its new. Its shaky. At times its terrifying. At times its hope-filled.

What never changes?
Whom I put my hope in.

What changes?
My prayer life. Like anyone with a pulse, my prayer life goes from good to great depending on my season. Depending on my need. Depending on my urgency. I am wishy-washy. I am like the wind. I wonder if He gets as sick of me as I get of myself.

What never changes?
Who I cry out to. It has always been Him. It always will be.

What changes?
My family. They grow. They get older. My babies get bigger and The AG finds grey hairs. They drink chocolate milk and suddenly desire Coke. He used to take me to movies, now he takes me to Little League games. We grow and adjust and shift and....change.

What never changes?
My need for my "home" to be in order. I found myself on my last day of sweet freedom, dusting, vacuuming, Cloroxing the counter tops and folding the laundry. I may be a mess but my house must still feel like a home.

I picked Remi up from school today and just like every single day she says, "So mama, what do you want to talk about?" And I said, "You know what never changes Remi?" And my desire was to talk to her about God and His sweet faithfulness, but I figured it too much for a 5 year old wearing a Super Woman cape.

And sweetly she answered, "Yep. The fact that you can't put a collar on a snake."

Some things never change.

A Long Time 'Coming.

It made me sad today when I pulled up my blog.

There it sat. Untouched. Dusty. No action. No upkeep. For over two months.

Nada.

My history would tell you that if I don't post for a number of weeks then I will be reappearing with a baby in tow. Yeah, I've been known to do that. Disappear. Then re-appear with a baby. Its kinda weird, but I've done it twice and it seems to pay off.

Don't get your hopes up. No baby here.

Just life. The hard kind. The keep-you-up-at-night-kind. The kind that the woman with the issue of blood must have been having when it said...

“As Jesus was on His way, the crowds almost crushed Him. And there was a woman there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her. She came up behind Him and touched the edge of His cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped. ‘Who touched Me?’ Jesus asked. When they all denied it, Peter said, ‘Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.’ But Jesus said, ‘Someone touched Me; I know that power has gone out from Me.’ The woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at His feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched Him and how she had been instantly healed. Then He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace’” (LUKE 8:43-47).

I find it interesting that nowhere does it say she walked steadily up behind Him, gently eased her way through the crowd and tapped Him on the shoulder.

Anybody can do that!

But she (much like myself) wormed her way through the crowd. Chances are she (like I feel I do on occasion) knelt down and crawled through the legs and the feet. Until she (like I am attempting) reached and grabbed hold of the edge of his clothing. And then refused to let Him go until He noticed her.

Here this, my lovelies, I'm not letting go. Not until He's done. I'll crawl on hot pavement, through legs and over limbs, I'll drive Him nuts and I'll beat down His door...but I won't leave Him alone until He has heard my plea and has answered it.

So when you all, my friends, leave me postings that say, "Where are you?" "We're worried..." "I'm praying for you..." to that I say:

Thank you. Its good to be missed. I won't stay gone that long again, okay friend? Because I've missed you, too. So let's crawl along this pavement together. Let's reach Him together, shall we? I'll pray for you. You pray for me. And I'll see you on the other side.

Love,
Melissa

Men are from Tuscon, Women are from Jersey.

I'm not really sure how men work.

In fact, men seemed to have really raked in the dough over the years publishing everything from books to videos to movies to cartoon strips about how hard women are to figure out. They're no piece of cake, themselves!

That's why the book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus makes reference to the fact that men are from Mars. If men were relatively easy to figure out and completely simple to understand then the book would be called Men are from Idaho, Women are from Venus. Doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

This weekend was "spring cleaning" weekend. Or at least it was to me. I bet if you had asked the Attorney General on Friday morning, "Hey, Attorney General, what do you think your weekend will be termed?" He would have said, "I think it will be called college-basketball-and- driving-range-weekend." And we would have laughed and laughed. He would have been laughing at how fun his weekend sounded and how it would look cute on a bumper sticker and I would have been laughing at how simple-minded he looked when he was optimistic.

I once heard that anger is what comes when you have unmet expectations. If that definition is true then it would reason that if he spent all weekend driving golf balls into the abyss I was going to be....you guessed it....angry. So I had to come up with a plan, and fast. I needed the man to work this weekend. And not just because it was a wonderful weekend to do all the spring weeding and trimming and mowing and mulching. But also because I had to do all the inside stuff and I'll be darned if I was going to do it while he screamed at Kansas and UConn.

So here are six easy steps to get your man (husband, boyfriend, fiance, any other type of man and your on your own) to do what you need them to do:

1. Make sure that on the Friday before they are met with some unexpected surprises. I started by taking him to lunch on Friday. (And even though my Granny and my mom showed up at the exact same restaurant at the exact same time and even though they waved at us and had the waiter seat them at our table, I was not undeterred. It just meant I had to come up with extra bonuses later in the day.)

2. At some point in the course of the meal he will ask you about money. Its inevitable. Whatever the question is act as if the last thing on earth you want to do is spend more money. "No, I don't want to go shoe shopping. Who has time for that right now?" "Please don't take my car in to be fixed, I'm sick of spilling money into that thing." "Yes, I'm running a fever, but you're crazy if you think I'm giving more money to the medical industry."

3. Arrange a sitter for Friday night and let him pick the movie. Yes, Jane Eyre is playing but tonight he gets to choose. Besides, its only 2 hours of your life. Surely you can watch a bunch of cars explode and a bunch of people die for 2 hours of your life. Surely.

4. If I have to explain number what to do for him at the number four mark then you need to stop reading this altogether and take a long look in the mirror. And be ashamed.

5. Friday night, as your just about to roll over, kiss him goodnight and rather quickly say, "Thank you for being willing to help me get all of the things done around the house tomorrow that we need to get done. Night." He won't know what your talking about but he will momentarily be proud of himself for being so willing.

6. Here is our sixth and final step. Saturday morning when you start to lay out the days plans, "I'm going to start cleaning out closets in here while you start weeding that flower bed right there..." be prepared for some opposition. And when it comes at you, and it will, you can make it all go away with this one little sentence: "That's fine, if you don't want to do it, I get it! But just keep the kids out of my way while I work, okay? Keep them with you."

I worked steps 1 through 5 like a pro this weekend. But I won't lie, step 6 got me fresh mulch, weeds trimmed, new flowerbeds AND a barbecue dinner.

I don't know why men say they can't figure us out.

What A Sweet Heart.

If you don't hear from me over the next couple days never fear. I've just taken a few days to go and bask in the glory that is Spring Break with a little get-a-way vacation with the AG and our kiddos. Now, if you don't hear from me on Monday then go ahead and set your TiVo's to record Dateline because it will no doubt be a story on how a mother from a small town in East Texas was found hanging upside down on a roller coaster at Six Flags with a sign around her neck that reads, "Trust me, this is better than going back to a hotel room with them!"

Hey, it could happen.

~~~

So last week my Granny had a small heart-attack. Now, now, before you start going on over her let me assure you she has been well taken care of. She has been cooked for and cared for and cleaned for and has had someone do her hair and her laundry and her grocery shopping. She's been treated like a Queen, I assure you. And it's not because we're scared of her.

Uh, huh. No way. Nope. Not us.

She's not scary. Not at all.

But despite the discomfort of a heart-attack, despite the pain of having a stint put in, and despite the stress it can put a person under, my Granny just keeps knocking 'em outta the park! Here are a couple of things you might have heard my Granny say had you been standing within 50 feet of her (because the woman cannot whisper.)


"Did you hear that I became friends with one of the nurses? Your Aunt Melba didn't like it one bit. She said I take up with all sorts of stragglers, but what I wanted to tell her was 'SO DO YOU!' She takes up with people just because they're funny - but really they make NO SENSE! And she got mad at me for being nice to this nurse but I really liked her even though her son has long hair like a girl. She works hard and is saving her money for a cow."



"Annette, who is that Doctor? I think he's a foreigner!"



"Meridith, what is that smell in here?"
"That would be you, Granny."
"Well, spray something."
"Well, you're surrounded by oxygen so I don't know if I...."
"Fine, I'll tell Annette to bring a candle and burn it."
"I'm pretty sure that could be fatal."
"Sit down and hush."
(Annette brought a candle. They burnt it until the Hospital Administrator asked them to blow it out considering the oxygen tanks sitting around the room.)



"When they were putting that stint in me I looked around the room and though, 'Good grief, everyone here is so fat.' "
(This is coming from a woman who has never once shopped in the petite sizes.)



And my personal favorite...

(My Granny was assigned a male nurse her first day in the E.R. He was Asian. Bless his heart.)
"You know I haven't stepped foot in this hospital in two years!"
"Is that right, Miss Willmon?"
"Nope. The last time I was here y'all killed my husband!"
"Ohhh...uhhh.."
"You did! You killed him! Gave him all that terrible medicine from CHINA!"



Yep, she's doing juuuuuuuust fine.

Well, That Was Odd. (Bachelor Recap)

For some of you, you'll be happy to know The Bachelor is over. Therefore Tuesdays on this blog can go back to fancy titles like, "Someone Give Me A Chicken Recipe - STAT!" or "You Pulled What? Out of Where?" I know you're on the edge of your seat, aren't you?

But until then, humor me once more, won't you? For you see....I'm kinda dying inside.

For the past ten weeks or so I have gotten together with eight other women. We've popped popcorn, we've added M&M's to it, we've discussed our children, our weight and how our children effect our weight. But more than all of that - we have intently watched as Brad fell in love with Emily. And because our lives don't have a whole heck of a lot going on in them right at this moment, we invested something in to this show.

Call us silly.
Call us romantics.
Call us idiots.
We don't care!

So needless to say we were just a teensy bit excited about tonight's Finale episode.

So excited, in fact, that we decided to start our evening off with some Italian food.
And so excited, in fact, that we decided to wear matching shirts that we made just for this occasion.

And now that I look back at those last two sentences I can see where only the Italian food sounds like a good idea to most of you. Yes, I can see that. But I cannot tell a lie : I loved that shirt!

Oh, the excitement of seeing Brad choose Emily. We screamed and screamed and screamed some more! But then our hopes seemed a little dashed when The Bachelor: After The Final Rose came on. (Stupid ABC execs, don't they know we don't want to see what happens after the rose? We only want to see the champagne and flights of fancy up to that point?) But to then see Brad and Emily come out and look so.............real. It kinda stunk. I wanted them to look deliriously happy. I wanted them to look intoxicated. I wanted them to look like a couple just starting out is supposed to look.

But instead they kinda looked a little too real. A little scared. A little thrown in to the fray. A little dazed and confused.

And I don't watch reality television for the reality. Sheesh.

So there, just below this blog is a comment box. Leave your comments. Tell me how ridiculous shows like this are. Tell me how the couples never make it and they are a lower class of people to have to even go on reality television. Tell me how the women make fools of themselves and lower the standard by which other women are measured. Tell me how foolish Brad is and how he will never allow himself to be happy.

Go ahead. But just know...I've heard it all. And none of it has mattered. I love the show. Its my guilty pleasure, just like reading US magazine in a steamy bubble bath. Dropping a little bit of ice cream into my vat of chocolate syrup. Ordering room service when I'm not even hungry. Or having my hair colored when I'm clearly not THAT blond.

That's what guilty pleasures are: something one enjoys without feeling guilt for it.

Today I woke up to the real world. My daughter in between us in bed because she threw up all over hers. A husband with a nagging cough. A son who wants chocolate milk when I clearly forgot to buy milk. And forty errands I have to run all before noon. I also have a $20 in my pocket that I have to make last for a week.

Now that's the real world.

And if Brad and Emily can make it in that, then more power to 'em! Who's to say they can't? Who's to say they can? Certainly not me. I wouldn't want that job anyway. I just simply want to get together with friends, drown my priorities in some Alfredo sauce and sit back and gab.

Yep, I'm guilty. Who cares!

P.S. To our other 3 compadres, you were sorely missed. (They are school teachers. And apparently at Spring Break school teachers like to run for the border. Who knew!)

Spring Broke.

It's Spring Break. The time when the sun stays out longer, becomes bolder and moves in as if to say, "Come. Bask in me. Allow me to move you from melancholy to pleasantly perky. Put on your shorts. Let's frolic."

Spring Break problem #1: I don't wear shorts.

I always look at this week like this, "What can we do? What can we do? We got nothin' planned...what can we do?" Then I do a lot of crying and whining and begging the AG to give me some money, give me some money, give me some money. And he does. And I blow it all the first afternoon at Target and Chik-fil-a.

Spring Break problem #2: I need more money in order to entertain these children.

We actually do have a couple of things planned that we are holding in our back pocket like a Full-House for fear that springing it on the kids too early will result in our favorite series of questions, "is it tomorrow yet?" Followed by the ever popular, "So I'm going to bed tonight and then what happens?" And the one that never gets old, "But you said we were gooooiiinnnngggg..." Ugh. So later in the week we will be taking the kids to Houston for a couple of days where we will (in my mind) pack picnic lunches and spend afternoons frolicking in Herman park and riding the train. But will, in reality, carry a spanking spoon into public restroom where we will not "spare the rod or spoil the child" while their daddy orders 2 Coke's to make up for the ones that are lying on the floor of his car and orders mommy a large fry and a shake...just because.

Spring Break problem #3: I once read where anger comes from unfulfilled expectations. It is highly probable that this will be one very angry Spring Break.

In truth, I like Spring Break. There's a lot of needed laying around the house. Eating lunch with the windows and the door wide open. There is a lot of grilling when daddy gets home and walking down to the pond to feed the fish. Sure there are lots of brother/sister wrestling matches. (But look at the glass as half full, people, that is some free entertainment you might not otherwise get!) There's also time for momma to hold babies while they watch their favorite cartoons and there's always a reason to spread out a blanket in the pasture and pack our favorite lunch of Cheez-Its, M&M's and applesauce.

So this Spring Break don't worry so much about entertaining your little ones. Instead of going out of town - read them a book. If it's too cold to swim - pack a picnic lunch instead. And if you know me AT ALL then you know what I really meant to say in those last few sentences was, "If your husband hands you a $20 scream 'THE LAST ONE TO CHIK-FIL-A HAS TO WASH THEIR HANDS!' and get the heck outta Dodge!!

~~~

What are your big Spring Break plans? Oh, and I only want to hear them if they are sad and depressing. If they, in any way, involve white sand or a child-free vacation then I ask that you please post your comment on someone else's blog. Don't take it personally. Thank you.

Unfortunatly, The Women Tell Nothing (Bachelor Recap)

Enough!

Enough with all this procrastination! What is my problem? Why don't I want to write my Bachelor Recap from last night?? Why? Why?????

Oh yeah...because it makes women look like idiots. Now I remember.

So last night was The Women Tell All. It would have been more aptly titled had it been...
"The Women Put On the 8th Grade Production of: Dumb as Dirt."

Oh sure, I suppose I enjoyed hearing from The Dentist, about how she never could show her true feelings to Brad and then she went home and cut her bangs, yada yada yada. But I couldn't help feeling the rest of it was just sillyness.

So some girl with a face like a Rubix cube was mad at another girl who waxes men for a living.

Who cares!

So some girl who tends bar thinks her mom raised her better than 30th Birthday is raising her daughter.

Who cares!

So 30th Birthday really doesn't want apes to attack My Daddy Owns A Car Lot.

Who cares! (Well, My Daddy Owns A Car Lot probably cares, but other than her, no one!)

So I will be honest and say that I never really care a hoot about that particular episode every season, but my girlfriends still wanted to get together and watch it and who am I to say "no" to Oreo's and cheese dip? I'm not that strong.

So stay tuned for next week when Brad makes his final choice. If you step outside your door at just the right moment chances are you will hear us screaming. IF he chooses Emily.

Our plan is to meet at Olive Garden at 6pm wearing our TEAM EMILY shirts. Our only two rules:
1. Don't bother coming if you aren't wearing your t-shirt.
2. Don't bother coming if you don't eat your weight in breadsticks.

We will then file back to my house, gather around the television like its the moment those two old guys walked on the moon, and sit motionless waiting for his final decision.

Then, the next morning we will wake up and pretend to move on with our lives as if The Bachelor never even happened.

See? We don't take this stuff too seriously.

Not like those girls last night. Oh, the drama. Sooooooooooooooo NOT my thing.

Cough. Cough.