I'm baaaa---aaaack.

Dude.  I had to go and have another friggin' baby and now I'm back in the business of drinking box wine and so here I am.

Here's a picture of the baby I had.  I actually like this one.  The baby, not necessarily the picture, since he's being all DickCheneySerious.

Let me clarify:  I loved (love) the other baby I had too, but I wasn't at a point in my life where I could like him.  Sorry, but it's true.  Now that he's five, it's easier.

It doesn't help that he (the older one) is just so very intense and that other one up there in the blue chair is so easy and laid back. 

I paid $81.94 for a woman to follow me out in a field and snap these photos.  She hasn't sent all of them to me yet, but I have a feeling it's gonna end up breaking my credit card hiatus.

I mostly did it (hired a professional photographer) on account of my mother bitching about how I don't have any portraits of the children and me.  She wanted one of me in a white flowing gown cradling the baby and hugging the big one.  She wanted them to be wearing smocked fucking outfits. 

Well, this is the best I could do.  We just aren't white gown/smocked outfit people.  My cousin is.  Let her wear the damn gown and embarrass her children. 

We are overalls-wearing, outdoorsy types people.  Give or take.

So, when my mother saw these, I wasn't surprised that her only comment was, "Oh.  Well look at y'all out in the weeds."

I guess they are weeds, but the photographer and I actually liked the idea of long, unruly grass.  It's probably a nice parallel to my hair and my parenting style.

Truth be told, I'm not crazy about all this artsy, ain't-that-sweet stuff.  I really just wanted to get good close-up shots of the kids, but then I thought maybe I should get in one or two myself ... and look what happened.

I wanted her to capture the sweetness of siblings before they get older and it gets ugly.  I am exceedingly happy that my children have siblings.  I never had that and wanted it.  Now I can watch them have it and probably -- within a couple years -- figure out why it's overrated. 

Oh well.  What isn't overrated these days?  I mean, besides chemotherapy, people have a habit of making most aspects of their lives out to be either overly miserable or beautiful.  It's so easy to fashion ourselves into shitty or whole or holy or whatever ... pretty much at will.  I mean, as long as your status update on Facebook has a few "LOLs" on it, who cares, right?

LOL!

Seriously though.

This baby has given me a whole new perspective on things and unfortunately it's a whole new ability to fathom the possibility of loss. I know that most moms hover over their babies like fog, checking to see if they're breathing, making sure they don't have any weird stuff in their ears.

But I never could get there with my first baby. I was never able to settle enough to just breathe. Or even sniff his ears for funk. It was all I could do to get through the day and night with him. B would go and check on him and I'd be lying there in the dark thinking that there were two possible and horrible outcomes to all of this incessant checking:

1) He'd wake the fucking baby.
2) He'd discover the baby wasn't breathing.

And in my crazy, hormonal, fucked-up, post-partum mind, I disliked both of these outcomes with an almost equal fervor. I'd lie there thinking, "If he wakes that baby I'll kill him, but if the worst is true, shouldn't we at least get the luxury of facing that fact having had a good night's sleep?"

Sick.

But this baby is different. The caretaking is the same ... I nurse the baby, change the baby, speak Ridiculous-ese to the baby, bathe the baby, swaddle the baby, put the baby to bed ... but somehow ... amidst all that ... I am awash in contentment and gratitude and excessive fear.

Last night, at 3 a.m., I woke up in a sweat, convinced that the house was too hot, the swaddle was too tight, the baby was too dead.

Then he cried out. So I brought him to my bed to nurse but became maddened by the temperature, by the husband who had turned up the thermostat before going to bed, by my desire to have this baby, this precious, perishable treasure. By mortality.

I put the sleeping baby back in his crib and woke husband.  He used some shit we learned in marriage counseling several years ago:  "I hear you saying that you're really hot, so I believe that you are really hot, but it's cool outside, and it's cool in here."

"But the baby," I say.  "He's on his stomach, half swaddled, and the temperature ... it should be between 68 and 72 and it's not.  It's 76.8.  I checked."

"Kim, I know you're hot.  But just take off your clothes and uncover yourself and get a drink of water."

He doesn't know how boobs leak, how I love the weight of covers, how many drinks of water I've already taken.  He doesn't get how the baby is in serious danger, four feet away in his crib.

So I get up, fetch a wet washcloth and a cup of ice water.  Another cup of ice water.  I take off the pajamas, climb into bed, and bathe myself with the washcloth, trying to put out the fires.

And it works.  Sleep calls me; the baby doesn't.  And that combination lulls me into a dream about a mommy friend ... in the dream she has six pianos (two baby grands) and uses them only to play hide and seek with her three daughters, who have all been baptized.

Neither of my children have been baptized.

What if that shows a lack of gratitude? 

The baby calls me and I go.  Now it's 6:30 a.m., and the automatic coffee pot is perking.  I get the baby and take him with me to grab a cup and, hopefully, a lesson.

 

Where to find me

Well, it's been a while. And I have so missed writing here. But life has gotten in the way and I've been relocated to a place called G'bumps. There's no alcohol there, but there are pictures and commentary and sometimes, if you're lucky, attitude.

Maybe you'll come have a look see?

Puss in Boots

Well it is still March and I am posting again. I have lots of ammo because I have just returned from my parents house where NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS. While there, I attended a going-away costume party. I wore my red cowgirl boots, some cat ears, and a tail, so I was "Puss in Boots." My friends went as the cast of Brokeback Mountain (complete with stuffed sheep) and won the "Most Creative" award. During their acceptance speech they dedicated it to me because it was my idea. One of the guys had to be tricked into dressing up like a gay cowboy (he thought he was going as "Bud" -- as in "Bud & Sissy" from Urban Cowboy).

ION ...

I am wearing glasses ALL THE TIME now because next week my eye doctor is making a topographical map of my corneas in order to determine whether or not I am a candidate for lasik. I was very disappointed that I had to wear spectacles to a costume party, but, surprisingly, I had fun anyway.

It was the other aspects of my trip home that were ... ummm ... trying. First, The Goose got a cold and coughed all night every night which is what he always does in an attempt to get his grandmothers fired up about bird flu and the fact that we have chickens. Everytime we go to grandmas he coughs and of course I have to deal with all of this grandmotherly concern about his bronchials and allergies and humidity and mold and my mother's best line of the whole weekend, "I'm just gonna HAVE to get a better maid ... this house must be DUSTY."

Second, just before we arrived my dad poured gasoline in a mud puddle in my parents yard and forgot to warn me about this. The Goose of course got in the puddle and it was the biggest mess you have ever seen. Who pours gasoline in mud puddles??? Why would anyone pour gasoline in a mud puddle. This kills me. Besides a grandson, they have a CAT for crying out loud.

And then on Sunday I took him to their church. Lord help us all. I have gotten to where I hate going back to my hometown because I hate the pressure to "go see so and so." My Dad has always liked to show me off and now it's double trouble because of The Goose. So I practically have to go through a receiving line at church and this is so very painful. It is even more painful when you have a writhing 18 month old who is STARVING and anxious and exhausted from coughing all night. When we arrived at the child-care area we were met by approximately 14 women oohing and ahhing about how he was "just too perty to be a boy." And then I happened to have parked by Jill & Daryl Mabry (not their real names). I really was having to ask myself WWJD, because what took place as I was trying to get the heck out of Dodge nearly put me in the hospital. Here's how the conversation went:

Jill: Well look what the cat drug up and she's got that perty baby.

Kim: Yes, he's 18 months now, and quite the handful, as you can see. (Picture The Goose writhing and screaming in my arms as I try to carefully walk in my open-toed two-inch heels with FROZEN feet -- my mother was quite disappointed that I had to wear my glasses and asked that apply a little extra blush and lipstick to make up for it.)

Jill: Do y'all still live in Xville? You know who used to live there, right? She went to that big Baptist church over on X Parkway. Did you see my grandbabies here in the back of the van? (Picture me straining to hear any of this because The Goose has now ripped my glasses off my face and flung them. They land underneath the Mabry's front passenger tire just as Darryl puts the van in reverse. I am legally blind without my glasses and was suffering from temporary deafness due to the screaming.)

Darryl: Do y'all still live on that plantation?Isn't that off of X Road?

Kim: Ummm ... I can't, ummm, really talk because of ... well, as you can see, I sorta have my hands full. The Goose has now head butted me by using his back-arch move in an attempt to get down and carouse the parking lot. My blood pressure is skyrocketting. My mother is standing there smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding.

***********************************************

Maybe that doesn't really sound as annoying as it really was. It was really really annoying to have someone trying to talk to me while I have this screaming baby. I cannot stand crying. I just cannot stand it. I can't function when there is crying going on. I am getting an IUD because of this.

Y'all, I grew up there but that place is insane. They don't even have leash laws. You walk down the road and all these dogs come out and follow you around. It's insane. It's totally insane. And then there's the Mabry's. And it's a dry county and the liquor stores are not open on Sunday and so I couldn't just go get a drink and anyway I had to drive back here after church and I seriously thought I was going to disintegrate into a big heap of Sinaberry hair with a pair of glasses poised precariously on top. Luckily The Goose slept for an enormous time period on the way home. I drove 90 in the rain just to get out of there faster. Do y'all think that's healthy? Safe? Sane?

I do not care.

Here is a cheesorama picture of The Goose. Delicious.

That's all for now. See you next month.

March ...

... 2006.

... into battle. (Left, left, left, right, left.)

... madness.

The latter seems most appropriate ... let's go with it ...

1. Thank GOD our ports are safe from those damn UAE entrepreneurs. I can finally sleep.
2. Why is white rice with butter so good?
3. Why is BUTTER so good?
4. Butter is good.
5. Durn Laurie Berkner's hide for putting out a kid's CD with all those stick-in-my-brain songs. It's keeping me up at night.
6. I got a new fancy printer last weekend and have already used up all the ink printing out photos of my kid to send to people who may or may not care.
7. I still think it's really hard to raise a kid ... even just ONE kid.
8. My goal is ten.
9. Only one more.
10. See ya in April.
11. I'm totally Lame and you can berate me publicly if you want.

Happy St. Paddy's Day,

Kim

February Post

Title explanation: Just in case I never post again this month (hey ... give me a break ... it's a short month).

Can I please just start out by bitching a little? And let me preface my bitching with a sidenote about my church attendance. Of late, I have discovered that church really does help me to be a better person and to think about WWJD. Of particular importance has been my reacquaintance with a Jesus quote about how you should not pick out the SPECK in your brother's eye when you have a LOG in your own eye.

See, I am really good at finding specks! Y'all: There are so many fun specks to point out!!! Nevermind the fact that my logs are so big that it's surprising that I can even SEE the specks ...

Recently it has been drawn to my attention that educational multimedia for toddlers -- as in BABY EINSTEIN VIDEOS (aka digital board books) -- are suspected to cause ADD/ADHD when viewed by children under 24 months of age. So of course if you point this out to me 714 times then I will eventually acquiesce and agree not to allow my 17-month old to EVER watch anything so satanic. But allow me to put out there how I really feel about this whole situation:

1. There are SO many other really important issues in the world that should attract our attention (namely, about six million crises in Africa and the growing anti-American/European sentiments of Muslims around the world).
2. There are SO many other really important issues related to raising children ... like the fact that the World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding until AT LEAST 24 months. Research has proven so many benefits of nursing and yet no one is up-at-arms when people wean their kids early or never breastfeed at all. (Seriously y'all: I DON'T CARE ... there's more than one way to be a good mom, I'm just pointing out the double standard). The American Academy of Pediatrics (which recommends nursing exclusively for six months and then supplementally for at least 12 months) has reported that only 21.6 percent of mothers breastfeed past 6 months. Should we blame these Formula Moms for the increase in obesity, asthma, and diabetes that is plaguing our nation?
3. There are so many other important issues in the day-to-day life of parenting than whether or not your toddler watches approximately 15 minutes of a video PER DAY. The first is that allowing a toddler to watch a video might allow you, as a parent, to do something really good for your family, such as cooking a nutritious meal rather than just something else processed. The second is that if you don't show a video, then you have to find something else for this kid to do while you get something -- any number of things, really -- done (Oh, you're bored ... here, hold this steak knife!). The third is that likely the children whose ADD/ADHD is caused by some aspect of their exposure to multimedia are watching countless hours of videos and -- gasp! -- TV! per day rather than your toddler's average of 15 minutes of halfhearted attention.

Sorry, but I needed to vent.

ION ...

I don't have any time to write, but below is something I wrote about six weeks ago, just before I started working five days a week. And it's still dead on, so I've finally decided to be brave and put it out there:

****************************

TITLE: WHY DON'T I KNOW MYSELF BETTER?

Lately this question has become forefront in my mind. You see, I can't seem to stop getting myself into situations which call for a self-proclaimed, "I told you so," afterwards. Not small things like buying saltine crackers after making a New Year's resolution to stop eating so many of them, but BIG things. Life-size things. Case in point: My decision to stay home and be a full-time mom. All my life I have spent saying that I would go INSANE if I stayed home with a kid. And then I got pregnant. And I decided that of course it is RIGHT and TRUE that I should do what's best for him ... like ... staying home despite the fact that I haven't been really happy at it ever, or continuing to breastfeed despite the fact that my left nipple looked like "a piece of ground meat" (you can thank my mother-in-law for that lovely analogy) ... despite the fact that I got mastitis twice and once landed in the hospital because of it ...
despite the fact that I have been feeling the sanity slowly oozing out of me like runny poop from a leaky diaper.

It has taken me nearly 16 months to realize something that everyone who knows me has likely been whispering: SHE WOULD PROBABLY BE HAPPIER WORKING OUTSIDE THE HOME DURING THE DAY WHILE SOMEONE ELSE TAKES CARE OF HER SON. And that, dear reader, can be attributed to my lovely little knack for

P E R F E C T I O N I S M.

Not a small dose of the aforementioned malady, but rather, a deadly one. It has helped that I've been teaching a little at night, but the truth is that I have been afraid to admit how much time I need away from this house. I'm not sure why I'm using the word "afraid," except that now, all of a sudden, I'm going to be working five days a week (admittedly, only for two official student-teacher contact hours), and I'm alternately feeling Completely Guilty and Completely Elated. I'm not feeling guilty about having my son in childcare or not being his sole caretaker; rather, I'm feeling guilty about not recognizing sooner that I could be a better mom if I did this. Note to self: You may be eating these words by the end of this workweek.

Likewise, I'm not feeling elated about having my son in childcare or not being his sole caretaker; rather, I'm feeling elated about finally recognizing and acting on the fact that I think I can be a better mom if I do this. Self: see previous note.

Because, you see, if caring for a child becomes your CAREER ... and you just happen to be a P E R F E C T I O N I S T, then go tell your doctor to write you a prescription for Prozac because you are in for a long, long haul. You can't be perfect at parenting. My students in the Delta used to ask me, "Mih Pay, what are you gon' do when you have some kids of yo' own?" And I would haughtily think, "My children probably won't push me to this point of near-9th-grader abuse." It's so true that our students (and our children) teach us so much more than we can ever hope to teach them.

My dad has been asking me since Goose was born, "When are you gon' start thinkin' of goin' back to work?" And I would haughtily say, "Dad, I do work ... a lot harder than I ever have before." And then I would quote some statistic at him about how much stay-at-home moms are worth (an estimated $70,000 per year on average in the U.S.). Our parents do know us ... even if we don't share very many of their political beliefs. And this is not the first time this has happened. I have done this over and over in my life ... but it's useless to make a list since the past is, well, past.

So in this new year of 2006, I am resolving to NOT BE AFRAID to admit to myself that I am in over my head with certain things. I am resolving to NOT BE AFRAID to admit to other people that I am in over my head with certain things ... such as the fact that I can no longer bring myself to get out of bed, get Goose up, change his diaper while he writhes and screams as if I'm torturing him, fix breakfast for us, hose him off after breakfast, and then pick up an average of 10.5 crushed cheerios off the floor while simultaneously running to and from the living to monitor climbing on furniture, destruction of inkjet printers, swallowing of pieces of plants which may or may not be poisonous. And that's just until about 8:30 a.m. It's just exhausting. And no matter how much I say, "I'm going to do better about getting out of the house once Husband comes home from work. I'm going to make a habit of going to the bookstore or seeing movies or ... or ... or ..." I don't do it until I'm at the point of breaking down out of sheer exhaustion and frustration and then I'm too tired to enjoy it.

So I am starting a new job tomorrow where I leave the house at prime Goose waking hours, work a little, and then come home after having had several cups of coffee and some time to myself. I guess that wouldn't be true if I didn't love what I do, but since I have a nifty little dream job, then it all works out real nice like that . Note to self: Again, see previous note. This forces me to get out of the house and get some time away doing other things (at a time when The Goose is awake, which is key). I am too much of a P E R F E C T I O N I S T to have it any other way ... I convince myself that I CAN do it better next time if I just have lots of patience ... but every single next time leads to a bigger meltdown. I think this is a self revelation beyond any other. I'm just sorry it took me nearly a year and a half to figure that out. And I'm sorry for my Husband and other friends/family members had to deal with me bitching in the meantime.

And I'm sure that after this change I will still have some mental breakdowns and some days of feeling completely unsuccessful at my jobs. But I owe it to Goose to admit that I'm just the kind of person who needs a lot of breaks from him. I'm just the kind of person who needs an outside challenge. Lord knows that it's challenging enough at home with him. But the staying home challenge is one that I haven't made progress with. I haven't gotten better at it at all. Of course I'm not doing that weepy post-partum semi-depression stuff anymore, but I am having weekly battles with myself. Battles where I let my snotty, "You're just not very good at this" voice win.

Tomorrow I will get up and go to work. Husband will take care of Goose from the time he wakes up until the time I get home after lunch. And on the days that Husband can't do this, I will take him to school. And he will still know that I am his mama and that I love him. And I will come home ready to be a mom, having put my perfectionist drive to work in some less-important, less-consequential field where, at the end of the day, if I have tried and tried and sucked and sucked, then I don't feel like the future of the love of my life is at stake. Instead, some poor Asian kid just won't understand the difference between direct and indirect objects.
Maybe now I'll no longer be "The Bitch in the House," I'll be "The Bitch Working Outside the House Part-time During the Hours that Her Goose is Awake." We shall see.

************************

And now we HAVE seen but have yet to have time to think about it or analyze it closely enough to make heads or tails of it. But there it is, anyway.

Happy February,

Kim

Let's Get a Few Things Straight

What happens ... if ... ???

1. If your toddler gets dog poop on his shoes, just let him splash through a waist-deep mud puddle and that shit'll come right off.
2. If you got your left leg blown off by American-dropped bombs in Somalia and then you move here with a regugee relocation program and then you get a job as a taxi driver and then you enroll in my writing class at the community college and then you write your diagnostic essay about how you want to learn how to write better so that you can inspire young people to "take up pens instead of guns" ... then chances are good that you will get an "A" in my class and make me feel so lucky. Too lucky.
3. If you ask me if I am a good mom, I think I would, finally, answer "maybe" (rather than an emphatic "no") ... because now that I'm working, I'm better able to treasure each moment (even the bad ones). I only have so many of them left: between 1:00 p.m. and bedtime everyday I have to get in all the good stuff. There have been fewer tantrums in our house (not from The Goose, his are still Serious Competition for the World Record Number of Tantrums in One Day) ... MINE. I am no longer screaming, "This is all YOUR fault" at Husband at totally inappropriate times. I'm more patient, more compassionate, more motherly. And I'm happy about it.
4. If, when asked to write a paragraph describing one person in the classroom (without giving his/her name), you write a paragraph about ME (teacher) that includes the phrases, "She has sexy, wavy hair" and "She wears really tight pants" then you are NOT likely to get an "A" despite your pathetic attempts at flattery.
5. If you have some cute, big, teacherly pants for sale, I'll buy them.

Chiao.

Snippets

Y'all made me feel bad, so here I am back again after just having written that I was on hiatus. I'm such a pleaser. Snippets people. That's all you're getting:

• Star Spotting: Husband spotted Nicole Kidman running on the trails. He says she is stalking him. Her bodyguard parks at one of the other ranger's houses and watches her with binoculars from his car. I wonder if his binocs are strong enough to see me peeing in our backyard because I do that when it seems easier than trying to convince Cheese Man (to your right there) that we should go inside so Mama can use the toilet.
• Karate Chop Update: Some of you know about the recent incident wherein I nearly got karate chopped by a student. I'm not exactly sure he was about to karate chop me, but his body language (a startle, stiffening, an immediate rise to the feet, squatting, arms up with fingers extended, etc.) indicated that there may have been some martial arts training in his background. Dreadmouse, maybe you can advise? Anyway, he and I have moved passed the problem ... talked about it, analyzed listener interpretation against speaker intention, worked it out, and finally, there is peace in grammar class. We are now happily conjugating verbs everyday between 10 and 10:50 a.m. And just so everyone is clear, "chop" is a regular verb, which means it has the same past tense and past participle forms. Next week count vs. noncount nouns. Karate = noncount. We make it plural with a measuring word.
• Personal Goal: I really need to stop buying box wine.
• Movie Picks: Do not rent the movie MONSTER just because Charlize Theron got an Oscar for her role. If a gorgeous actress takes a role where she gains weight and acts/looks a little disgusting, vulgar, revolting, or just weird, then hands down she'll get an oscar ... think of it: Sally Field in that go-go unions movie from the 70s, Julia Roberts in Ellen Brokovitch, Nicole Kidman in that Virginia Woolfe thing, Renee Zellweger in Cold Mountain, and now this. I didn't make it through Monster because if I wanna see a really ugly person chop up some truck drivers I'd rather just rent some awful horror movie and pretend that it's all made up and not based on a true story.
• Personal Admission: Tomorrow is my birthday.
• Shout Out: Today is my friend Master of None's birthday. Happy Birthday out in Vegas!

That's all I've got right now. Oh! One more thing: one of Husband's co-workers is getting married Memorial Day Weekend and her husband works for a major country music label. They're having karaoke at the wedding reception and since I invited myself to the wedding, THIS IS MY BIG CHANCE. Now, I need y'all to vote on what song(s) I should sing. Here are my specialties:

1. Killing Me Softly (Roberta Flack version)
2. Anything by the Dixie Chicks
3. It Matters to Me (Faith Hill)
4. Jesus, Take the Wheel (Carrie Underwood) -- actually I've never done this one in public, but in the car I can totally rock the house.
5. I Touch Myself
6. Hit Me with your Best Shot
7. Fame
8. What a Feeling
9. Anything from the Sound of Music (except that Mother Superior song about fjording rivers)
10. Fancy (Reba) ... you know! "Just be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy, and they'll be nice to you!"

Vote! Vote! It's your RIGHT!

Hmmm ... let's see ... what else?

Nothing. Nothing else.

Happy Birthday to Me! 1-21-77

Notice of Hiatus

This is to inform you that Kimpossible will be on hiatus indefinitely while she deals with her newfound interest in Working Outside the Home. Lord, help us all.

Clarification

MORE DELICIOUSNESS
Originally uploaded by Kimpossible, HEM, PWTPI.

Seriously y'all: I am so in love with my husband. He is my truest friend and so much more of a kind, compassionate, patient person than I am. I mean, I think he's like The Buddha or Jesus or something.

I just have this theory that marriage is really about just CONSTANT COMPROMISE ... because everyone brings such baggage and even if someone is perfect for you, they still have their baggage (i.e., the "shit" in my previous post). Whenever I hear people talking about how they want out of their marriages I just think about how they'll get married again and discover the same thing in a different form.

I have only been married 4.5 years, but I have learned a lot about the nature of love in those years: It's WORK, it's a VERB, it's HARD sometimes. But it's always worth it.

ION ... above is a picture of my son, Buddy Snickums, aka Snickerdoodle Coochy Coodle. I know I've said it before, but it begs to be said again: DELICIOUS.

Post-Holiday Thoughts

.

Is there any excuse for the outfits that The Goose & I have on in this picture? Good Lord.

Can I please just share with y'all some of the conversations held between my parents and me during my parents' New Year's visit? Yes, let me:

Mom: You know you should really have that laser eye surgery. Sheryl and Addy have both had it and they swear by it. Not that it helps Addy. She is still gone from work half the week for her hemmorhoids or her sinuses or something. (Writer's note: Addy's name is Addy Earl Hamm and she dated a man named Junior who left her for his 20-year-old secretary. After this happened my mother said, "I could just skin him.")

Me: I'm not eligible for that surgery because I have a scar on my cornea due to getting a piece of lead in my eye in first grade.

Mom: I know, and I still feel bad about that ... we treated you for pinkeye for nearly a week before we figured out it wasn't working. And then that opthamologist sucked it out with a magnet. With a refrigerator magnet!

My dad: Huh?

Mom: We were just talking about her eyes.

Dad: What about 'em?

Mom: We were just wondering if she's eligible for laser eye surgery.

Me: I just told you that I'm NOT eligible because of that scar.

Dad: Remember the time you got that piece a lead in there? That scared the devil outta me when you had that lead in there. They were tossin' around the idea of surgery and all I could see was havin' a blind girl who could never be Miss Mississippi.

Me: Instead you got a seeing girl who could have been Miss Mississippi but chose to be liberal instead.

Dad: Huh?

Mom: Quit doin' that to him. You know his heart is bad.

Me: Mom, he can't hear anyway.

Mom: Well, he can hear a lot more than you think.

Me: Really? Watch this ... Daddy! George Bush sucks!

Mom: Don't say "sucks." It reminds of that New Kids on the Block concert that you made me chaperone when you were in 7th grade.

Dad: Huh?

Mom: Now she's talkin' about New Kids on the Block.

Me: I am?

Mom: Remember when they encouraged the whole audience to chant "DRUGS SUCK!"?

Me: Yes, I remember very clearly. I remember you leaning over two other moms to say, "We're leavin' soon and I better not catch you using language like that."

Dad: Huh?

Yeah. And when "Wheel of Fortune" is on, you can say just about anything to anybody and get away with it. You can even say things like ISN'T IT JUST TOO BAD THAT THAT SOUTHERN BAPTIST PREACHER GOT CAUGHT PROPOSITIONING AN UNDERCOVER POLICE OFFICER and no one will even notice.

Husband just came in and said, "With that cough, Kim, you really shouldn't be drinkin' wine. You should be drinkin' water."

Then the "f" word was exchanged a few times. Why is the "f" word so effective in expressing what we mean?

Anyway ... I don't listen to him a whole lot.

Can I just be real honest about marriage for a minute?

Marriage is really just about putting up with someone else's shit. So you better pick your shit carefully. I did pretty good at picking a minimalist who, by nature, has very little shit, so I'm proud of myself. But some of y'all who read this really have some SHIT to deal with. And I'm sorry about that. I'm thinking about going back to school to become a therapist and one of my ploys to get patients is to give discounts to self-proclaimed husband eaters. Because likely if you're tempted to eat him, then he deserves it.

I mean, really, I'm totally not complaining. Because Husband irons my clothes and shops for groceries and cooks most of the time. Not that that's ALL ... I mean, I like to hang out with him too ... I'm just sayin'.

Happy New Year y'all.