life

Stupendously Speedy Stipends

/ Quirky Girl / 39 Comments

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

Ha!

Like I had much choice in that matter.

I mean, short of bolting off on an attempted high-speed chase.

Which surely would’ve been quickly thwarted by the abundance of farm machinery and construction vehicles that typically dominate the roads out here.

Apparently, going to Walmart wasn’t punishment enough for one day.

I got carded for purchasing canned air as I was checking out.

Little did I know I’d be whipping out my driver’s license again 10 minutes later.

I guess I should’ve stayed home.

Who needs toilet paper and laundry detergent, anyway?

“Do you know why I pulled you over today?”

“Oh my God! Is there somebody under my car?”

Okay, no.

I did not actually say that.

I merely shook my head no in reply.

I don’t drive on the sidewalks.

I don’t plow over pedestrians.

I keep my vehicle out of cow pastures.

I’m fairly cautious, I’d say.

Minutes from home, I’d been driving up and over a teeth-jarring railroad track when I noticed telltale flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

Of course, it would be an unmarked police car.

On a one-lane road.

With no shoulder.

And no place to turn for at least half a mile.

Nothing but a long stretch of nothingness.

What was I supposed to do?

Pull off the road, into a field of hay barrels?

Preferably one full of disgruntled Longhorns?

So I crept along with those obnoxious lights flashing behind me until I pulled up to an industrial park.

Right between the shift from a 30 mph zone to a 45 mph zone, the officer’s trusty radar gun had clocked me at 43 mph.

In the 30 mph zone.

Coming down a steep hill, it’s easy to quickly gain speed if you’re not paying  attention.

He asked for my license, but didn’t bother with proof of insurance or registration.

Must’ve had sufficient time to run my plates as he was coasting along behind me, waiting to see if I’d eventually pull over.

I’m sure the motorcycle endorsement on my driver’s license didn’t earn me any brownie points, either.

Sergeant Scowly Dude didn’t look like a guy who believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt and sending them off with a warning.

I’d never, ever gotten a speeding ticket in my life.

Twelve years ago, I had been pulled over at 4:30 in the morning on the way to my final shift of work before maternity leave by an officer who had been pacing me.

At 39 weeks into pregnancy with my younger son, I nearly knocked myself out by hitting my head on the visor when asked for my license, registration, and insurance.

The officer looked on in a mix of sympathy and pity while toy airplanes and diapers flew out of my glove box as I attempted to dig out the requested paperwork.

In all fairness, I hadn’t slept in nine months, which might have been a factor.

For the whole incident.

That kindhearted officer let me off with a warning.

But this guy?

It wasn’t looking promising.

And with a mess of frizzy hair from an unfortunate combination of high humidity and rain, my typical adorableness wasn’t likely to do the trick, either.

This would’ve been a good time to have my charming kids in the car, surely?

Or my sweet, affection dog?

I’m usually sandwiched in traffic between tractors and cement mixers.

Or the occasional runaway cattle who manages to wedge, squeeze, and squish his way through narrow wire fencing to freedom.

And so I consider myself fairly lucky on days where the opportunity allows me to go more than 15 mph behind a bulldozer.

I’ve actually been passed by a semi truck a time or two.

A semi truck, for God’s sake!

Do I sound like the maniac here?

And yet, I received a whopping $250 fine.

Yikes.

I have nothing against cops.

There are countless decent ones out there who do good deeds and give back in immeasurable ways.

At any rate, I’ve been brainstorming less traditional modes of transportation.

Ooh!

I’ve got it!

Nobody ever gets pulled over on a cow!

At least, not to my knowledge.

Unless, perhaps, by a cop on a galloping horse…

The only problem is, I don’t have a cow.

And I would hate to end up with an even heftier fine, or worse yet, behind bars, for alleged cow-snatching.

Perhaps I ought to find me a Longhorn.

Nobody in their right mind is gonna want to mess with that.

Just strap on a backpack with a skunk inside for extra good measure, and voilà!

Good to go!

As a bonus, fewer suicidal animals would have the opportunity to make me an unwitting accomplice as they attempt to nosedive/hop/slither to their death at the hands (or would it be body?) of my vehicle if I’m not actually in a vehicle.

So there is that.

But I suppose this whole situation could’ve been avoided in the first place if I’d been riding a skunk or an armadillo.

Or if I’d stayed home.

And believe me, I’d be perfectly okay with not going back to Walmart again anytime soon.

~Happy Friday, everyone! Have a great weekend, and drive safely!~

Hint: It's not actually a ticket (or two) to paradise...

Hint: It’s not actually a ticket (or two) to paradise…

A Breath of Not-So-Fresh Air

/ Quirky Girl / 46 Comments

Nature freaking sucks.

Seriously.

It hates me.

And the feeling is quickly becoming mutual.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t hear.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t think.

I can’t even go outside without hacking like a geriatric geezer about to keel over on the sidewalk as a single delicate breeze threatens to collapse my lungs and suck the sole remaining ounce of life left in me.

But then, it’d probably be just as well.

After all, I doubt I’d be looking forward to going back indoors to face the equally suffocating mountain of laundry that typically awaits me.

Ah!

There’s nothing quite like a breath of killer fresh air.

Fresh air is good for you, people always say.

Ha!

Fresh air, my ass.

It’s bad for my health.

Plain and simple.

Sneeze, sniffle, honk!

Wheeze, gasp, choke!

It ain’t pretty.

Oh, what’s wrong?

Nature! That’s what’s wrong!

Sure, there are stunning mountains, oceans, and other incredible scenic wonders in this world.

But some days, those natural beauties don’t even begin to balance out whatever toxic crap permeates the air.

Speaking of nature…

The sky is the limit when it comes to the range of possible allergens just waiting to wreak havoc on the already inefficient human body.

What do flowers, cats, and dairy have in common?

They’re all plotting to kill us, that’s what!

From respiratory to food to skin, there’s a unique allergy out there for everyone.

But air?

Seriously?

Air is an essential element of life.

Yet, it’s trying relentlessly to kill me.

(Much like the water I frequently find myself nearly choking to death on whenever I attempt to have a sip.)

I haven’t been able to hear out of my left ear for days.

Then again, I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, what with all the chaos around me.

And I’ve gone through enough tissues this week alone to take out an entire forest.

One thing’s for sure:

There’s no inner peace when one can’t inhale or exhale.

But meditation and guided imagery can be quite helpful, from what I understand.

Except for the fact that all I can envision is hopping on the first flight out of town to a remote tropical island to escape it all. 

I’ve tried everything under the sun for relief.

Lavender and peppermint oil in a diffuser.

Sudafed.

Vicks VapoRub.

But nothing has been working.

At least, not long enough to help get me through the day.

Or the night.

So I shove a pillow over my head.

Suffocation might at least grant me some much-needed rest.

Breathe in, wheeze out. 

Repeat for maximum exhaustion.

I’m beyond help.

And the stress from all those sleepless nights only exacerbates things.

Stress?

Bad for one’s health?

No way!

It’s a proven scientific fact that stress compromises the immune system by lowering immune response.

And the only solution, it seems, is to escape to a land far, far away.

To a peaceful, allergen-free life on that aforementioned deserted island.

Perhaps I ought to wear a full face mask whenever I brave the outdoors.

That ought to make a great impression with the neighbors.

Bird flu?

No, nature.

Here’s the biggest irony of it all:

I don’t litter.

I always recycle.

I’ve been known to pull recyclable objects out of the trash can, rinse them out, and place them in the recycling bin, for God’s sake.

I freaking care about the environment.

I try my damnest to do my part to save the earth.

And, in turn, the environmental does its best to kill me as a way of expressing its gratitude.

The great outdoors ain’t so great when it’s undoubtedly trying to do me in.

But, as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished.

So maybe the next time a passenger attempts to toss trash out my car window, I might conveniently pretend not to notice, instead of threatening to stop the car and dump the offending litterbug off on the side of a busy highway.

Take that, nature!

Oh, who am I kidding?

I can’t help myself.

I’ll continue to try to save this freaking planet, even as it continues to try to choke the life out of me.

Sniff, cough, wheeze!

~Happy Friday friends! Hope you have a wonderful, allergy-free weekend!~

Po somehow manages to enjoy a moment of inner peace in nature. Unlike me. There's no peace for me among the pollen.

Po somehow manages to enjoy a moment of inner peace in nature. Unlike me. There’s no peace for me among the pollen.

Gone with the Whim

/ Quirky Girl / 41 Comments

Experience is the best teacher.

Or so they say.

But do human beings ever truly learn from experience?

Judging by my decision-making skills, I’m gonna go with no.

Had I decided I’d been lacking a sufficient amount of insanity in my life?

Seems to me on any given day, I’m personally not lacking for ways of keeping myself sufficiently occupied.

And yet…

After writing a goofy rant about extravagant child-related expenses last week, my family and I went out and did the most logical thing possible a mere two days later.

Now, we aren’t particularly spontaneous people when it comes to making big decisions that require serious commitment.

But my younger son had recently written a compelling letter about a very specific concern related to the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey that set the madness into motion.

So, last Sunday afternoon…

We took a drive to a local pet shelter.

Just to look around, of course.

And then we somehow walked out of there with yet another mouth to feed.

We drove home with a delightful Border Collie rolling around in the backseat, wedged between my ecstatic son and me.

What did I know about dogs?

Not a whole hell of a lot, that’s for sure.

Yet once again, I found myself permitted to bring home a living thing…

With no clue as to what I was doing or getting into. 

Sensing a pattern here?

I’d only owned a small handful of pets in my life.

We had a few gerbils and hamsters when I was little.

I thought they were creepy and was terrified to ever go near them.

When I was 12, I desperately wanted a kitten.

And as luck would have it, we ended up getting one for free.

She was part Siamese, and far bigger part crazed alley cat.

When she wasn’t busy trying to stuff live birds and butterflies in her mouth, she’d move on to picking fights with the neighborhood cats.

She also tried to kill us on a daily basis as she hid at the bottom of the stairs with the hope of catching a leg or two on the way down.

And then there was our more recent failed venture in fish ownership.

The first-ever pets for my boys, the never-ending cycle of birth and death in that tank of inbreeding fish should’ve, at the very least, taught us a lesson in setting a solid case for avoiding future pets at all costs.

What were we thinking?

I’ve never been much of a dog person.

Large dogs freak me out.

Loud dogs don’t do much for me, either.

But this guy…

He’s no ordinary dog.

He’s sweet.

He’s quiet.

He stands on his hind legs and gives gentle hugs. 

He’s calm, happy, and entertaining.

He loves to be loved.

He’s our 5 year old puppy.

Most of the other dogs at the shelter were barking their heads off and bouncing off the sides of their cages like crack-fueled maniacs.

But not this guy.

He sat there quietly, gazing at us with a look of pure happiness and contentment.

As if he knew the key to being a winning prospect was simply to not look like a raving lunatic.

And so now here we are, going for walks and peeing in neighbors’ flower beds.

The dog, I mean.

Not me.

Definitely not me.

He’s also taken a liking to pooping in my herb garden.

Well, they do say pets enrich lives.

I guess the extra fertilizer must be the enriching factor.

Hopefully those herbs will really start flourishing now!

For someone who never cared much for dogs, this sweet boy managed to win me over in a heartbeat.

I’m still not sure how to feel about all the face licking and crotch sniffing, though.

But at least he doesn’t ask me when I’m going grocery shopping again since he probably won’t be the one eating us out of the house.

~Happy Friday, friends! If you’d like to read my son’s compelling case for getting a dog, click on the picture below for a larger view. I think he might have a future in persuasive essay writing. Either that, or he’ll make a disturbingly fine attorney… Have a fantastic weekend!~

The letter that led to it all...

The letter that led to it all…

The Madness of Momming

/ Quirky Girl / 32 Comments

Oh, the memories.

The marvelous, glorious, wonderous memories.

With my oldest son’s recent birthday, it’s fair to say I’ve been reminiscing a tiny bit.

Especially after rummaging through both of my boys’ baby boxes yesterday afternoon.

Sure, it’s been 15 years since I first became a mom.

But one question still lingers:

How the hell was I ever allowed to leave the hospital with a small, helpless, living human being in the first place?

Did I look like I had any clue as to what I was doing?

If I did, it must’ve explicitly been the pain medication talking.

Would you believe I’d actually packed an Eeyore rattle toy in my hospital bag?

In case my newborn child wanted to play, I reasoned.

Oh, and I’d also brought along a book.

You know, for the downtime following that whole childbirth drama.

Clearly, I was delusional from the very start.

Sure, I’d skimmed through the suggested reading material on pregnancy and babies and all that fun stuff.

But really, how hard could it be?

Right?

Did I mention I had zero experience?

Seriously, not an ounce.

I had no younger siblings.

No younger cousins.

No babysitting experience.

I mean, I worked in a toy store for a brief stint when I was in high school.

But that only served to reinforce the fact that I surely wasn’t a fan of screeching, demanding, whining little monsters.

And so my baby was the first baby I’d ever held.

What was I doing?

How was I expected to be responsible for such a tiny little human being when my ability to take care of myself was likely questionable?

My husband and I were practically kids with a kid, really.

The baby is awake?

Why is he awake?

What am I supposed to do?

Didn’t he just eat?

How much is he supposed to eat?

Is he eating enough?

Is he ever going to stop eating?

Why won’t he sleep?

Why is he still asleep?

Why won’t he go back to sleep?

Is he teething?

Is he hungry?

Why won’t he stop crying?

Does he hate me?

Oh my God. 

My baby hates me.

I’m the worst mommy in the world!

Sniffle, sniffle…sniff.

Oh.

Ewwww!

Oh, I’d read What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

And then I read What to Expect the First Year.

No other book series can make a person feel like such an epic failure so quickly.

Even if the baby was only a mere twelve days old.

If anything, those books made me a nervous wreck.

I was convinced I’d be going through my child’s life as a sleep deprived, anxiety-ridden zombie.

A zombie who’d inevitably make all the worst choices, and ultimately screw up her child’s entire life because of said sleep deprivation.

So I stopped reading.

So what if my baby preferred sleeping in his car seat over using the nice bassinet we’d bought him?

So what if I wasn’t dragging him out on stimulating play dates at three months old?

So what if he liked to shove Mega Blocks in his mouth when nobody was looking?

So what if I secretly hoped he wouldn’t eat all of his of delicious banana baby food so that I could finish it off?

I had relatively little idea of what I was doing.

But I had lots of love.

And patience.

And sheer determination.

We’ve managed to survive, so that’s gotta count for something.

In spite of all the sleepless nights.

I’ve never been one who could thrive on broken sleep.

It makes me scary.

But you know you’d reached a whole new level of exhaustion when you watch Plaza Sesamo halfway through at 2 o’clock in the morning before realizing that it isn’t actually Sesame Street.

And that it was entirely in Spanish.

Huh.

No wonder nothing made sense.

But the good news is a person can eventually adapt to existing in a zombie-like trance.

I do sometimes marvel at how we’ve managed to make it this far in life.

And all things considered, I think we’re all turning out A-OK.

From day one, these boys of mine have been teaching me more than I could ever possibly teach them.

And that’s saying a lot.

Motherhood is the biggest, scariest, most rewarding roller coaster ride of my life.

And I am happy and honored to be on this magically maddening adventure.

Even if it makes me crazier than I already was in the first place.

It’s totally worth it.

~Happy last Friday of the month! Hope you guys all have a terrific weekend!~

That Eeyore rattle in the middle? I honestly wasn't joking when I said I'd packed him in my hospital bag. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment.

That Eeyore rattle in the middle? I honestly wasn’t joking when I said I’d packed him in my hospital bag. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment.

Sadistic Shopping Frenzy

/ Quirky Girl / 45 Comments

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

/ Quirky Girl / 29 Comments

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

/ Quirky Girl / 28 Comments

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.

Reeling and Rolling

/ Quirky Girl / 46 Comments

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…

Jarring Judicial Jitters

/ Quirky Girl / 45 Comments

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 I truly 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

/ Quirky Girl / 37 Comments

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.