An Ode to an Oldie

I’m his favorite sister.

And he’s unquestionably my favorite brother.

This may be largely due to a technicality, but I’m pretty sure it still counts.

It’s sort of a process of elimination by default.

But I have to admit, it sure makes it easier when you only have one sibling to choose from.

It’s about to big a huge milestone birthday for this favorite brother of mine.

The big 4-0!

And with that said…

Happy Birthday, Dante!

My awesome, absolute favorite brother.

He is every bit as unique as his name.

But then, it’s not like anyone in my family is capable of doing normal very well.

He and I are obviously related.

Despite the fact he used to try to convince me I’d been adopted.

(News flash: We look far too much alike for that to have been true. So there!)

Sure, he’s more than a whole foot taller than me.

(He enjoys teasing me about how I’d clearly stunted my growth by becoming a vegetarian at too young an age.)

But we both like to write.

(Yup! He writes, too!)

And we’re both funny.

(His favorite word is haha.)

At least, I think I’m funny.

Hmmmm…

I must be pretty funny, because he’ll typically reply to my texts with one of three responses:

  1. haha
  2. lol
  3. funny

He’s got a delightfully dry sense of humor, but he truly is a man of few words.

For this reason, we tend to text far more frequently than we talk on the phone.

Whenever we do have an actual phone conversation, he’ll mutter an occasional word here and there.

Which helps reassure me he didn’t get eaten alive by his feisty dog mid-conversation.

And then he’ll proceed to breathe intermittently into the phone like Darth Vader.

Oh, well.

Some people just don’t know when to shut up.

Growing up, he was paradoxically my best pal…

And worst nightmare.

Thanks to my favorite brother, I learned how to swim.

Or perhaps more accurately…

I learned to swim because he’d otherwise have kept trying to drown me in our backyard pool.

For fun, of course.

Because this, apparently, is what bored children do to keep themselves entertained.

(Note to parents: Think carefully before you send your kids outside with painfully vague instructions, like “Go find something to do”. Nothing good ever comes out of this.)

We’d make the most of our excruciatingly short pool season in New York by excitedly jumping in as soon as the pool temperature warmed up to a bone-chilling 59 degrees.

Hey, it seemed like a totally bright at the time.

But this may well be one factor in why there are clearly some things wrong with us.

Bloodlines run deep, but crazy runs deeper.

He also got me permanently banned before I’d ever had the chance to play an instrument.

My parents made the fatal error of allowing him to play a trombone in the school band.

He wasn’t exactly what one might call a natural.

The odds of him winning a medal for his performance weren’t sounding very favorable.

And I suspect I wasn’t the only one who’d felt that way.

A year or so later, we ended up selling that trombone to the first person who showed up at our garage sale, just to make it go away.

But alas, so started my future path to choir.

At least I wasn’t making everyone’s eardrums bleed.

And then there’s what I affectionately call Dante’s Shop of Horrors.

He used to set up shop in his bedroom, with an assortment of toys, stuffed animals, and other goodies on display, in an attempt to make a few quick bucks.

Did I mention most of the items in his shop already belonged to me?

But I’d always feel sorry for him, and so I’d end up buying my own crap back out of pity.

After all, the boy had a real hunger for life.

He’d count his earnings and walk to the store to stock up on more crap.

Including an assortment of treats, like dozens of those cheap apple pies that contained no real apples.

Money well spent, I know.

But then he would always surprise me with cute little stuffed animals he’d won from the claw machine.

Which made up for a lot.

Like when he’d change the channel on the one tv in the house and kill my few remaining brain cells with never-ending marathons of Beavis and Butthead.

(Those brain cells have yet to return.)

Or when he’d blare Metallica’s Enter Sandman on repeat, shaking and rattling the house all odd hours of the night until the vibrating floor would eventually lull me to sleep.

(I’ve known every word of that song by heart since 7th grade.)

But I think of him affectionately whenever I hear She’s a Maniac.

(It’s one of his favorites.)

And whenever I hear Journey’s Any Way You Want It, I can’t help bursting out in laughter.

(I still can’t figure out why he hates that one with such passion.)

I can’t help myself.

I always crank that one up and sing along at the top of my lungs whenever it comes on the radio.

I wonder if, subconsciously, I like that one only because I know it annoys the hell out of him.

It’s entirely possible.

Aren’t siblings the best?

Anyway, I’ll leave you all with this wonderful picture of baby me playing nicely with my big brother.

(And just to be clear, I was sooo not adopted.)

~Happy Friday, friends! Hope you all have a fantastic weekend!~

Don't feel too bad for him. He probably started it...

Don’t feel too bad for him. He probably started it…

Sadistic Shopping Frenzy

God, no.

Not this again.

How is it already that time again?

I’m just not ready yet.

And I’m pretty sure my kids aren’t, either.

Want to know the secret to blowing through loads of money in a matter of hours?

Have kids!

Have lots of kids!

And then cram those crazy kids into the car and go shopping for their gazillion back to school needs!

I don’t even want to think about how much we’ve already spent.

And I only have two kids, not a whole busload of them.

Yeesh.

With a week and a half until school starts, we hadn’t gotten around to shopping for most of the necessary school supplies.

Until yesterday.

Prior to yesterday, we’d only managed to shop for underwear, socks, and shoes.

And very little else.

Because last week was far too soon to even think about all this back to school nonsense.

And because I’m clearly a glutton for punishment, we went to Walmart.

Or, more specifically, we went to Walmart twice.

In one day.

So much for one-stop-shopping.

The only redeeming thing was that we’d gone to two different locations.

Walmart #1  had most of what we needed…

 But it didn’t have much of a selection of binders.

Who knew it was so difficult to find the perfect binder?

One that zippers shut and doesn’t pop open and create an explosive mess?

Is that too much to ask?

And we just had to have pens in a minimum of 5,000 different colors.

And that mini automatic pencil sharpener…

Because who in their right mind enjoys the tedious task of sharpening six dozen pencils in one sitting?

It was either that, or pay five times the price for the convenience of pre-sharpened pencils.

At least the pencil sharpener will pay for itself soon enough.

If it lasts long enough, that is.

But at least I knew better than to wait until tax-free weekend to start shopping. 

I can barely handle Walmart on a good day.

An hour of pushing and shoving my way through Walmart is almost enough to drop me to my knees in the center of the wine aisle while hyperventilating into a paper bag.

So there we were at Walmart, smack in the middle of the chaos.

Like that’s ever a good idea.

And then those boys of mine did what they do best:

They wandered off to the electronics department. 

So much for that.

Ten minutes later, they were busy trying on new heads.

Plush mascot heads, that is.

For whatever unfathomable reason, there was an enormous bin of assorted animal heads by the checkout area.

Such an interesting choice of so-called impulse items.

Was Walmart getting ready for Halloween?

In August?

As if back to school madness wasn’t already maddening enough.

But at least I managed to buy myself some cool new notebooks. 

Because why the hell not, right?

Besides, I needed a few more notebooks.

It sure beats scribbling my jumbled, random thoughts on toilet paper in the middle of the night.

Anyway…

A few days earlier, I had taken my younger son to Dick’s Sporting Goods to look for clothes.

Usually, he’s all about Nike.

Nike, Nike, Nike.

And nothing else will do.

But he didn’t like a single article of clothing at Dick’s.

He did, however, see exactly one backpack he liked.

An $80 Under Armor monstrosity.

More heavy-duty weapon than child-friendly carryall, it resembled The Hulk, condensed and smashed into a sturdy, yet incredibly unsightly, backpack.

Its water-resistant properties and ability to take out a large rodent obviously justified the exorbitant price tag.

I would have considered spending that much on a single backpack…

If- and only if- my child would’ve been willing to walk to and from school every time it rained.

You know, to get our money’s worth.

Oh, and it would’ve also needed to last until he’s 18.

At the very least.

Sounds reasonable enough, no?

Needless to say, we left without getting a backpack.

He didn’t like anything else there…

But he did buy a plush deer.

Priorities, priorities.

I suppose there’s no need for shirts or pants when he’s perfectly content wearing nothing but shorts and his favorite hoodie, anyway.

But alas, it’s almost time again.

Back to the madness.

Back to school.

As long as we make it through the year without telling everyone to Go to Michigan, I’m sure we’ll be just fine.

~Happy Friday! Can you believe it’s August already? Where is the time going? Geez! Anyway, hope you all have a fantastic weekend and enjoy the last few weeks of summer break!~

This, apparently, is what school supply shopping looks like...

This, apparently, is what school supply shopping looks like…

Going La-La-Loco

I don’t know if there’s such thing as a good kind of crazy…

Or if crazy is just crazy.

All I know is I’m kind of pissed and frustrated with myself.

Up until now, I’ve prided myself on writing a blog post every single week, come hell or high water.

And last week?

Well, I’m not entirely sure what happened.

I wasn’t on some fabulous island getaway or anything fun like that.

The thing is, I had a humorous topic and all these great ideas…

But it just wasn’t coming together.

And I simply refuse to hit publish on something that is total crap.

So here we are.

Quirky’s gone crazy.

Chalk it up to exhaustion, mental block, or a temporary lack of motivation.

It happens to the best of us, I suppose.

The sad reality is that there’s no luxury afforded for the nervous breakdown I am perfectly entitled to.

But rather than sit and dwell on this disappointment, let’s take a moment to find the humor in insanity, shall we?

(Truth be told, you’re probably better off not coming along for the ride. But at least you’d be going with someone with a warped sense of humor, so that’s gotta be pretty enticing…)

(It never hurts to have a friendly face on your journey to insanity!)

(Going cuckoo in the grandest manner possible? Now that’s impressive!)

(Hmmm. Is it really that obvious?)

(It’s like haunted Halloween maze meets acid trip glow party in here!)

(Losing your mind is one thing. But literally losing control is a far greater issue, as far as I’m concerned.)

(Always, always a silver lining.)

(Team work is dream work, or so they say…)

(Discussing your inner crazy with outer crazy is guaranteed to be a fascinating, if not exactly productive, conversation.) 

(Going ballistic is surprisingly exhausting.)

(I can’t decide whether to be envious or to feel pity for such individuals.)

Sure, I may be one step away from going off the deep end some days.

But at least I’m not in straitjacket territory.

Yet.

Disappointment, overwhelment, and moments of failure are inevitable parts of life.

You get through it and you keep going.

Because that’s just what you do.

Things aren’t always going to go exactly as planned.

Life happens.

Plots change.

So just take a deep breath…

And remember…

You are awesome!

And maybe just a tiny bit crazy, too.

But that’s probably not such a bad thing…

Is it?

~Happy last Friday of the month! Hope your weekend is crazy… in the very best way possible, of course!~

My Cup No Runneth Over

What could be better than a memorable evening of family fun?

Well, family fun minus most of the family, anyway.

There’s nothing like a bit of quality adult time, where you can sit back and enjoy a drink.

Or two.

Or, you know, none.

Ever been someplace where the service was so painfully slow that you almost forgot why you left home in the first place?

Welcome to Main Event, a  so-called family entertainment place where you can eat and play!

At least in theory, anyway.

If you ever want to ensure you don’t overindulge in alcohol (or anything else, for that matter), Main Event is the place for you!

At any rate, my husband DJ and I decided it would be nice to take my brother in-law Mike out for a fun night while he was in town.

Main Event seemed like a good idea, and I’d been there many times before with the kids.

But only to play games rather than to eat.

If the comical pairing of bull riding on a 110-inch tv with Lady Gaga blaring over the speakers was any indication, it was undoubtedly going to be a memorable night.

I started off with a Bahama Mama, and DJ ordered beer.

Mike made the mistake of asking our young waitress if they make White Russians.

A little food for thought-

When your waitress asks you what exactly goes into the drink you’re about to order, just remember two things:

  1. You are not the bartender, and it is not your job to be a walking encyclopedia of alcoholic concoctions unless you are getting paid to make that drink yourself.
  2. The bartender will probably be using you as their experimental lab rat, so do yourself a favor and order something else. From the menu.

I get that mixed drinks can take a few minutes to…

Well…

Mix.

But how long does it take to pour freaking draft beer?

Were these people growing fresh fruit for the cocktails out back?

Painstakingly harvesting wheat for the beer?

Our delightful waitress finally brought our drinks out half an hour later.

Mine might’ve been a Bahama Mama…

But it took so damn long to get there, I couldn’t be sure if that’s what it really was, or just Kool-Aid spiked with a touch of rum.

Mike’s White Russian had a disproportionate amount of vodka.

Could’ve been worse, I suppose.

Hopefully it was the good stuff, at least.

More bang for your buck, right?

We’d also ordered onion rings, which arrived shortly before the drinks.

Minus any plates, napkins, or utensils.

We stared and stared at the onion rings.

A few moments passed before we redirected our intensely disgusted gazes in the direction of the bartender before DJ got up and demanded plates and napkins.

Our ditzy waitress came over a few minutes later.

Oh, so that’s why you needed plates! 

Ya think?

Come on, did we look like complete savages?

Plates and napkins are somewhat of a necessity when it comes to eating.

Especially in a restaurant, for crying out loud.

Unless you’re a child.

But we didn’t bring the kids, so I was kind of planning to eat like a civilized human being that evening, thank you very much.

A different waitress arrived at our table with a large tray containing our entrées a while later.

We watched in disbelief as she dropped off my hummus and vegetable platter and DJ’s steak…

And then she looked at the remaining entrée, looked at Mike, looked back at the entrée…

And then took off like a possessed hamburger-snatcher.

We continued to watch in part curiosity, part horror as she strolled aimlessly from table to table with that hamburger before returning wordlessly to our table.

What the hell?

Perhaps that’s why our drinks had taken so ridiculously long.

Maybe this other waitress had gulped them down.

All of them.

Then Mike asked for ranch dressing.

We started taking bets on how long it would take for the dressing to materialize.

I contemplated ordering another drink, but then thought better of it.

We were ready to get out of there.

But our waitress was nowhere to be found.

DJ set the timer on his phone to five minutes.

Five minutes until we were going to bolt out of there like a trio of bandits?

I can’t be sure.

Finally, DJ about had it.

He stormed over to the front desk to see if they could be bothered with something so trivial as allowing us the honor of paying for that bizarre dining experience.

Perhaps we should’ve run out of there.

Well, okay.

Fine.

That isn’t something I’d ever done before, nor could I do anything like that in good conscientiousness.

We finally moved on to the games.

I over-enthusiastically whacked some moles.

DJ and Mike played a few intense rounds of Rambo.

Then Mike moved on to a game where he got to repeatedly kick the crap out of a soccer ball.

I think it’s safe to say we all had a tiny bit of pent up aggression from our dining experience. 

Oh well.

We all needed a break. 

And what we got was a good laugh. 

Along with a fairly good idea of where never again to go for dinner.

Ever.

~Happy Friday, everyone! Hope you’ve had a terrific week, with an even more fabulous weekend on the way!~

Why so sad, little drink? Is it because you've been waiting so long to be served that you're crying tears of condensation? Yeah, me too.

Why so sad, little drink? Is it because you’ve been waiting so long to be served that you’re crying tears of condensation? Yeah, me too.

Gratitude with a Twist of Attitude

Happy 2nd Anniversary to me!

Yeah, I know.

Way to be subtle, right?

Well, here’s the thing.

This is milestone is dedicated to YOU, my dear friends.

Your unwavering support helps make Comically Quirky a fun and whimsical (and possibly slightly unhinged) retreat from reality.

So…

My fabulous, incredible, amazing readers…

This one’s for you!

(It’s unquestionably gratitude; that warm, fuzzy feeling of overwhelming gratitude. Either that, or I’m on fire…)

(You guys brighten my day a million times over when my twisted sense of humor brightens your day. It’s true!)

(It takes far too much effort to act not only normal, but in ways that are also socially acceptable. Pftt! Where’s the fun in that?) 

(This ties into the whole socially acceptable nonsense. Remember Uncle Jack and his horse?  Yeah. You’re welcome.)

(Ha! This world couldn’t possibly handle that much crazy, and so a “limited edition” I am. On the positive side, I suppose this just makes my writing style that much more, uh…entertaining.)

(This must be why I’m able to make people laugh. Insanity is inherently humorous. Speaking of which…)

(Might as well admit it- you’re probably almost as crazy as I am if you find me even remotely humorous. And that, my friends, makes you amazingly awesome.)

(You- my friends, family, and fellow bloggers- make writing even more enjoyable and rewarding.)

(Because I unwittingly seem to find myself incorporating cows into my writing, what better way to express my gratitude than by saying mooooo-chas gracias!)

(Yeah, you! You rock!)

Seriously, thank you.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being a part of Comically Quirky.

I’m honored to be part of such a wonderful community.

~Happy Friday! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend! If you’d like to read my very first post that started all the insanity, please click here.)~

Reeling and Rolling

Heads might roll.

And some of those heads might eventually find themselves hanging on a wall in a restaurant.

Especially if one of those heads happens to belong to a doe.

Or a buck.

Or a moose.

Or whatever other animal carnivores love to hunt.

Do people hang bear heads?

Or do they just make creepy rugs out of the carcasses?

I really don’t know.

When I was a kid, I didn’t realize those tanks at the grocery store filled with banded-clawed lobsters weren’t just funky pet displays.

I never gave it much thought, one way or the other.

All I knew was that those sure didn’t look like something I’d want to purposely ingest.

But then the day came when I suddenly became hyper-aware of everything, and I literally couldn’t stomach anything that once had a face.

As the sole vegetarian in my family, this is not always a picnic.

Years ago, we made the mistake of going to Red Lobster.

Yeah, it’s a stretch,

But even most steakhouses have at least one thing I can eat.

Or, at the very least, they usually have a killer drink menu and can make some sort of badass mixed drink to make the visit worth my while.

But not Red Lobster.

I do have to give them some credit, though.

Having had not even a single vegetarian option listed on the menu, they graciously offered to create something for me.

That should’ve been my cue to turn and run.

But I didn’t, and they brought out the oddest monstrosity I’d ever seen:

Salad vegetables heaped, and I mean heaped, on top of a massive mountain of spaghetti.

Suddenly, those lobsters almost looked like a more appealing prospect.

Almost.

To this day, that was still one of the most disturbing things I’d ever witnessed.

Some people choose not to eat meat for health reasons.

But I can’t eat it because it truly bothers me.

It feels wrong.

I’m not even the world’s most animal-loving person.

I mean, I obviously care about animals and their well-being.

I’d just rather have an herb garden than a herd of cows.

Especially in my stomach.

Anyway…

Earlier this week, we ended up at a barbecue restaurant, for lack of other options, during an out-of-town venture.

Yes, a barbecue restaurant.

And this one had deer heads all over the walls.

There was easily a full dozen of those things hanging throughout the restaurant.

The place smelled all smokey, which is obviously to be expected in such a place. 

And the restrooms were labeled for bucks and does

Or rather, as the signs actually read, “buck’s” and “doe’s”.

That right there was yet another huge strike.

Restaurants demonstrating poor grammar usage on signage and/or menus make me want to turn right back around and run out the door.

But it was already too late.

We had already ordered.

As my older son so eagerly exclaimed:

“Wow! This place is your worst nightmare! Bad grammar, meat, and heads everywhere!”

A good half an hour later, the “freshly made” coffee finally arrived.

And by “freshly made”, I can only assume the coffee beans must’ve just been harvested out in the parking lot by the dumpster for it to have taken so freaking long.

The milk for the coffee arrived, too.

In a cup.

Because who needs a pitcher?

Oh, that’s right.

I do. 

I spilled milk all over the table as I attempted to carefully pour it without making a mess. 

But at least I’d managed to find a couple of acceptable vegetarian options for lunch.

Namely a baked potato and garden salad.

A butterball blob topped with sour cream and shredded cheese arrived for the potato…

Along with radioactive neon green salad dressing that I was informed was avocado ranch.

Hopefully, that’s really what it was. 

In an attempt to avoid Milky Lake in the middle of the table, I soon found myself licking green dressing off my arm in my tightly crammed corner of the table.

In a place with deer heads lining the walls.

Upon leaving, we were greeted with the sight of a stunning rainbow that appeared to start all the way at ground-level and artfully faded into a fluffy cloud.

And then I stepped in dog poop.

Oh, well.

That’s the thanks I get for sparing the life of an animal by eating a salad.

Crazy is as crazy does.

Or doe(s).

This poor sucker's expression says it all...

This poor sucker’s expression says it all…

The Perilous Piñata Beatdown

What could beat a whacking, smacking good time?

Why, whacking and smacking a helpless piñata, of course!

But not just any piñata.

cheeseburger piñata!

On a crazy child’s birthday!

Stegosaurus Boy celebrated his birthday in his typical bat-swinging style earlier this week.

He requested a Calvin and Hobbes theme.

Which, evidently, fits our typical pattern of choosing the most obscure themes possible.

No cake decorations, no paper plates, no banners, no nothing to be found on the face of this earth.

Not on Amazon, Etsy, Party City, or anywhere else in the world. 

Well, besides on eBay. 

For thousands of dollars.

Like that’s gonna happen.

Sorry, boys.

I love you, but no way will I be spending more on birthday party supplies than I did on my own wedding.

Last year, my older son begged for a WWE-themed party.

Easy enough, right?

Oh, but he had a special request for his cake design:

John Cena vs. Bill Nye.

Bill Nye?

The Science Guy?

Hmmm.

Interesting matchup, but okay.

I’m always up for a challenge.

Especially with a couple of great sidekicks, namely Google and my printer.

Unfortunately for Stegosaurus Boy, I was not able to find a Calvin and Hobbes piñata this year.

Nor was I able to create his requested life-sized Hobbes plush out of God-knows-what on six days notice.

I also couldn’t find a Stegosaurus piñata.

That would’ve been the next best thing.

After all, my boy likes Calvin and Hobbes, and Calvin likes dinosaurs, and so does my boy…

See where I’m going with this?

Yeah, well.

Excuse my far-fetched logic.

At least I try.

But fortunately, there was a fascinatingly unique one at Target that caught my eye.

A cheeseburger!

A freaking adorable smiling cheeseburger piñata.

And so I bought it.

And then I stuffed it with glow sticks and plastic dinosaurs and Dum Dum pops.

Because I’d long learned my lesson about stuffing Matchbox cars into piñatas.

Bad idea.

Especially if you’re not a fan of having dozens of small metal objects raining down on you like the dangerous little projectiles they truly are.

Whack, smack, whack!

In this household, it’s just not enough to whack the crap out of a piñata, collect all the candy, and happily move along.

Nooooo.

These boys have to tear the piñata apart like maniacs with a prized wishbone for the grand finale.

No one is content until the poor thing looks like it’d been ripped apart by a pack of feral wolves.

How’s that for a cheeseburger-smashing celebration?

~Happy Friday, everyone! Hope you’re all enjoying the first few days of summer so far! (Or winter, if you’re lucky enough to be chilling in the southern hemisphere.) Have a great weekend!~

The "before" picture. Look at how happy this sweet, smiley cheeseburger was...until my boys came along.

The “before” picture. Look at how happy this sweet, smiley cheeseburger was…until my boys came along.

Jarring Judicial Jitters

Augh!!!

It’s the single-most dreaded piece of mail to ever plague humanity.

That’s right.

A jury duty summons.

So many ponderings raced through my brain.

But luckily, No Man’s Land offers an exemption for parents with kids under the age of 12.

Twelve?!?

Are you kidding me? 

Have you seen my kids in action?

While I’m fortunate that one of them is indeed still younger than 12, they’re both probably going to require constant and direct supervision for a long time.

Like, until they’re 30.

At the very least.

I can’t, in good faith, leave them unattended for prolonged periods of time to burn the house down or clear out all of the neighbors’ refrigerators.

Uh uh.

Yet, there are seemingly no provisions for a lack of remaining sanity, other than the requirement of having sound mind and good judgment.

But isn’t this all relative?

I mean, my own questionable judgment leaves me scratching my head at times.

But am truly I insane in the brain?

Or insane in the membrane?

Probably not, by any clinical definition.

(Sorry, Cypress Hill.)

I’ve been told some people actually enjoy jury duty.

This is difficult to fathom, but more power to those good citizens for carrying out their civic duty without complaint.

For me, though, I can think of a whole host of reasons for why I personally might not be a good fit once I no longer qualify for an exemption.

I’d probably start off by pretending I’m anti-everything-under-the-sun.

Do you believe in justice?

I don’t know. Maybe?

Are you a fan of leniency?

No.

Are you for the death penalty?

No.

Do you even like people?

Hell, no! 

Ah, so you’re an antisocial people-hater.

That’s right! But at least I’m an equal opportunity people-hater!

Alrighty then… consider yourself excused. Seriously, please go ahead and show yourself the door.

Okay, so this isn’t exactly true.

I am not a people-hater.

I do like (most) people well enough.

Along with peace, rainbows, butterflies, and all that good stuff.

Ooh, a butterfly!

Did I mention I have the attention span of a flea?

It’s true.

I can’t sit still for five minutes.

And my overactive, imaginative mind is also prone to wandering.

Big time.

Should I show them I’m a raging psychopath by pairing a badly painted on Joker-like smile with completely mismatched shoes and a pair of Depends over my pants?

Or start roaring like a stegosaurus?

Or make a show of entering the courtroom while head banging to Let the Bodies Hit the Floor?

Or better yet…

Sing a catchy duet with a scruffy stuffed teddy bear that’s perched on my shoulder.

And if that doesn’t work, I could claim that the stuffed animal is actually a service pet, then bring it into the courtroom and proceed to defiantly whisper garbled, jumbled nonsense to it throughout deliberations.

Oh, yeah!

Or why not employ serious Valley Girl talk?

Like, oh my god!

He, like, did what?

Like, oh my God!

Oh my God, oh my God!

That meany man, like, totally maybe, like, killed somebody, and stuff! 

Hmmm.

Act smart!

No, pretend to be stupid!

No, just act totally average!

Say what?

It’s all such conflicting advice.

Well, when in doubt, why not mix things up a bit?

No comprendo!

Me not be get it!

What is this ‘reasonable doubt’ and ‘guilt’ you be speaking of?

Me still don’t not get it!

Or why not break out in laughter at totally inappropriate moments?

Or demand to be exclusively assigned to incredibly bizarre cases?

Preferably one about a guy who stole a Blue Ribbon winning pot belly pig named Bacon and then really turned him into bacon.

Or a case with an old lady who ran over a farmer’s favorite cow when the cow stuck its head out of a fence and into traffic to eat greener grass.

Or what about the true story of an elderly gentleman in Kansas City who robbed a bank…

And then stuck around until the police arrived to inform the cops that he’d only robbed the bank because he couldn’t stand to spend another minute at home with his wife.

Must’ve really been a match made in heaven for a guy to decide he’d rather go to jail than be home with his own wife.

But unfortunately, it didn’t turn the way he’d hoped, because along with probation and community service, the guy was also sentenced to 6 months of home confinement.

Well, so much for that.

Oh, but I really shouldn’t worry so much.

After all, I have virtually no sense of direction, so it’s unlikely I’d ever find my way to the courthouse, anyway.

If I truly had to go, that is.

Although…

To be fair, escaping to jury duty when you’ve got wild and crazy kids might not be such a bad thing.

Hell, it might even be the next closest thing to a vacation

Especially if there are spinning chairs involved.

Wheeeeee!!!!

~Happy weekend and Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there!~

As fun as this looks, why add to the mayhem? I think it'd be best for me to do everyone a favor and keep my hyperactive, overactive-brained self safely at home.

As fun as this looks, why add to the mayhem? I think it’d be best for me to do everyone a favor and keep my hyperactive, overactive-brained self safely at home.

Rowdy, Rawring Stegosauruses

Rawr!

Fear me!

I’m a Stegosaurus!

Um, yeah.

Okay.

My cute, cuddly Stegosaurus Boy stands in the backyard, wielding a neon orange baseball bat.

Keeping himself occupied, he pitches himself a Nerf football while waiting for me to hunt down an actual baseball.

I like squirrels and Stegosauruses!

I wonder if he’s forgotten that he also likes cheese with his squirrels?

Eat my cheese! It’s spoiled!

First of all, eww.

And secondly… what?!?

I’m a Stegosaurus!

Fear me, foul creature!

I pitch him a ball.

He lightly grazes it with a foul.

Come on, you sweaty savage!

He’s clearly talking about himself.

It may be 90+ degrees out, but I don’t sweat.

I sparkle.

Cheeseburger! Cheeseburglar!

Did I miss something?

Is Cheeseburglar McDonald’s new counterpart to Hamburglar?

I want to be hit by the ball. I want to be harmed!

Sorry, but going to the hospital isn’t on today’s agenda. So pay attention and use the freaking bat!

Yay! That’s harassment!

We switch up, and crazy Stegosaurus Boy refuses to wear his baseball glove.

Swing, batter batter, swing!

He pitches to me.

Crack!

The ball soars over the neighbor’s fence.

I didn’t know girls could hit like that!

Oh, but I’m not just any girl.

I’m apparently the mother of a crazed Stegosaurus.

I’m freakishly powerful.

His next pitch is hurled in the general direction of a plastic bucket.

The bucket misses.

Bucket, you suck!

Sniff my butt!

By this point, I can’t be sure whether he’s trash-talking the bucket, the innocent ladybug sitting atop the bucket, or me.

Rawr, rawr, rawr!

I think that’s our cue to go back inside.

So Stegosaurus Boy goes inside to continue a riveting game of The Sims.

Come on, you freaking deranged lunatic! Get up and go find a job!

Unemployed and stressed out, one of his poor Sims putters around a humble little house with a dozen wild cats.

The possessed cats were peeing everywhere in this house lined with toilets, treadmills,  and foosball tables.

Puddles of cat pee spread across an alarming portion of the floor.

I gave you toilets! Toilets! Use the toilets!

Meanwhile, my other son keeps himself occupied in a similar fashion.

Playing Disney Infinity, he’s clearly the master of chaos.

At the bottom of an ocean lies Fear from Inside Out, a horse, spinning teacups, monster trucks, flying beds, bulldozers, an elephant, a Muppet bus…

And a wrecking ball.

Such torturous carnage.

So much for being a G-rated game…

What is it with boys?

They both wake up and start shooting and destroying everything in sight on games like Deer Hunter and Roblox the moment they awake.

Which, ironically, seems to be earlier than they ever got up for school.

Is this what summer vacation is all about?

And I’m pretty sure the only reason they haven’t been eating cookies for breakfast is solely due to the fact that we’ve run out.

Because they’ve eaten them all already.

Ah, the glorious start of summer.

~Happy Friday, friends! Have a fantastic weekend!~

Rawr, rawr, rawr! We're all a little crazy around here.

Rawr, rawr, rawr! We’re all a little crazy around here.

The Big 1-0-0!

Woo hoo!

Today was the last day of school!

And, coincidentally…

Today also marks my 100th blog post!

I realize that I’ve been blogging for nearly two years, and some people churn out 100 posts in a single month…

But unless you want to read about my daily adventures of unclogging the toilet during mealtimes or dodging armadillos near fields of cows, one post a week from me is in the best interest of us all.

Seriously.

Anyway, what better way to celebrate this milestone than by honoring a remarkable lady with a tremendous talent for witty humor?

A woman whose views on domestic pursuits meshed beautifully with my underwhelming domestic ineptitude.

Her wisdom was unparalleled, and her ability to find humor in the most ordinary and extraordinary circumstances makes her a true gem.

Ladies and Gentleman, presenting some of my all-time favorite quotes from none other than the incredibly hilarious Erma Bombeck!

(That’s right- an animal doctor for kids who behave like wild animals. Or better yet, deduct the cost of that toy from their allowance and wait for it to pass through their digestive tract.)

(The moral of the story? If tomorrow comes, great. But if it doesn’t, you’ll regret leaving this world without having one final slice of quadruple chocolate cake.)

(Much like Lewis and Clark were famous explorers of land, some of us enjoy exploring the depths of our refrigerators.)

(It’s a futile attempt in productivity and there’s nothing to show for it. The more you clean, the bigger the mess becomes.)

(While humor itself is funny, the circumstances that it stems from aren’t necessarily all that humorous at all.)

(Seriously, the stress from excessive happiness is downright overwhelming!)

(I wholeheartedly agree with this handy guideline. It really puts things in perspective.)

(If I were to take myself seriously, I’d probably become seriously depressed.)

(I love this motto. Besides, “self-cleaning” ovens are anything but self-cleaning. Why is that?)

(And that’s the truth!)

(It’s like running on a hamster wheel. You’re actively doing something, but you’re not getting very far.)

(Tell me about it. There’s more food on the floor than in anybody’s mouth, and whatever isn’t on the floor is going to waste because no two people in this house like the same foods.)

(But I didn’t do it! I swear, it was him! Really!)

(Hell yeah! Besides, prolonged streaks of cleaning leaves me feeling like a sweaty hog, and there’s definitely nothing godly about that.)

(Okay, so I wouldn’t go quite that far. But there’d be consequences, for sure. Like screaming until I pass out, for instance.)

(Don’t get me wrong. I like things neat and tidy. But mostly, I just don’t care enough about domestic pursuits to worry myself over something so trivial.)

(Laughter is always the right medicine. It’s been scientifically proven!)

(I knew it! There’s a reason cookbooks and I don’t get along…)

(When I can’t figure out if an article of clothing at the store is meant to be a shirt or a dress, I don’t dare try it on for fear of unintentionally injuring myself.)

(Always full of surprises. That’s the beauty of humor.)

(Hey, wait a minute! I’m a vegetarian, but I’m more lion than hippo! Clearly, those hippos must be supplementing their diet with red-meat-eating lions.)

(Using mad ninja skills to bust down the door has some pretty cool dramatic impact, too.)

(Now that is a memorable and highly effective way to get a point across. In your face, doubters!)

(They may not lack self-esteem, but they are kind of lazy. Shouldn’t they be a bit more self-conscious about that?)

( I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can tell you this: eating takes precedence of 99.9% of everything else in life, especially if you don’t want to see me become crazy hangry.)

(I find myself on that very same figurative treadmill, going nowhere while getting very little accomplished.)

(I mean, yeah, I do find myself swatting flies some days. But I also manage to do this while carrying a load of laundry and balancing a pile of dirty dishes, so I earn all my meals, thank you very much.)

(Humor plays an understated, yet vital, role in civilization that cannot be underestimated.)

(Yes, but it’s a vicious cycle. It’s challenging to try to hug a child when they’re shooting Nerf darts at you.)

(It’s crazy how true this is. One minute, we’re eagerly awaiting a child’s first words. The next minute, we’re telling them to shut up.)

(Especially if it’s being passed off as “lemonade”.)

(Can’t go wrong with this philosophy. Although, in my case, it usually seems to be the other way around…)

(I be a goodly fine example of this here quote. Clean no more!)

(I wonder if this is also true for ulcers?)

(I wouldn’t know. Some days, I have my doubts about making it out of motherhood alive. But it’s good to know there’s a reward for those who do manage to survive.)

(Or a tornado. Or a tsunami. Or a typhoon…)

(All I know is, that first one is never mine. Then again, neither are any of the subsequent 78 pieces of luggage…)

(While not exactly funny, this one is 110% true.)

(I’m also an expert worrier. Yes, I’m good at it, but it brings me no joy. Perhaps I should find some new, more productive hobbies.)

(Which might explain the clouds of smoke coming out of my ears. System overload!  Reboot! Reboot!)

(This is actually the title of one of Erma Bombeck’s books, but I frequently find myself wondering the exact same thing.)

(Time sure does fly. Fortunately, almost any note can be salvaged using this clever approach.)

(This is much harder than you’d probably expect. I mix up my boys’ names on a daily basis, and there’s just two of them. I can only imagine the struggle for parents with twice as many kids.)

(We all fail, from time to time. And to be successful, one must learn from their failures. So learn from your mistakes, then get out there and do something amazing!)

(The way I look at it, my kids didn’t come with warning labels at birth. I think any future spouses of theirs ought to find out what I figured out for myself. From experience. Good luck with that!)

(The fact that I’m still alive means I must be doing something right…but evidently, that something isn’t housework.)

(Sounds good to me! I laugh a lot. Mostly at myself, but I’m pretty sure it still counts.)

(That’s really not so bad, is it? I mean, I’d personally rather be a majestic tree than a cow.)

(How I love this one! It makes me laugh every single time.)

Erma Bombeck.

Proof that humor transcends time and change.

~Happy Friday, my friends! I hope you’ve  enjoyed reading these quotes as much as I enjoyed sharing them with you. Have a fabulous weekend, and remember to always, always look for the humor in life.~