Tag Archives: Hilarity

On the Short Side

Let me start out by saying I’m used to being the short kid on the block. I’m 5’2. I’m so short that it actually weirds me out to meet people shorter than I am. It’s like I’m suspicious that they’re suddenly going to unzip their skin and a taller person is going to unfold and step out like something out of a cartoon. Because…you know…that could happen.

I’m also used to being the weird kid on the block. It’s cool.

But what I never seem to get used to is all the problems that crop up when you’re short. Here’s my list of annoyances in no particular order:

1) When tall people put things on shelves. Seriously. My husband is 6’2. He puts things on high shelves because to him it’s eye level or just above. To me, it’s Siberia. I know it’s there but I couldn’t tell you anything else about it. This becomes a huge deal when he does things like move the coffee filters from the bottom shelf of the kitchen cabinet to the top shelf and I can’t make my morning coffee. Don’t mess with my caffeine. It makes up half of my genetic material at this point.

2) Trying to kiss a tall person. I mentioned my husband is 6’2. That’s a foot taller than me, folks. The logistics of trying to land a kiss correctly gets pretty interesting. Calf cramps hurt, and I have no sense of balance. I’ve been known to tip over trying to make out with him. It may have been cute to him the first couple times, but five years later not so much. At least not to me. I’m a fully grown woman; I don’t want to fall over like a heavy-headed toddler.

3) Capris. THEY LIE. They do not hit you at the right place in your leg and you either wind up looking oompa loompa short or like you’re wearing rapper shorts. Man rapper, not the tiny little things the girls in the video wear. It’s not attractive.

4) Regular pants. “Short” lengths seem to only go to my ankles and regular lengths go an inch (or more) past my shoes. It’s a hazard! I once got my pants stuck in a door that slammed shut behind me and almost depants-ed myself because I was moving and my pants were not. Instead I wound up faceplanting while trying to hang into my jeans so I didn’t show everyone I work with my underwear! Jeebus. Someone had to open the damn door for me so I could even stand up. My life is ridiculous sometimes. Just last night I caught my toe in my pajama pants, tripped, and left a faceprint on my balcony door.

5) The sun visor in your vehicle. It’s a damn tease. You want it so bad, but nope, it isn’t gonna help you even a little bit.

I’m sure tall people have their problems too (I have personally seen my husband whack his head numerous times on low doorways. It’s funny every time.) but short people have our own unique problems with the world. Maybe that’s why we tend to rant on when we’re angry? ๐Ÿ˜‰

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Marriage and the Antibiotic Olympics

I’ve mentioned before how the Mr. has been struggling with his health, especially over the last year. First he had digestive issues and then he developed a diabetic ulcer on the ball of his foot that he’s struggled with for nearly a year now. He took as much sick time and short-term disability as he could from his job, but eventually it reached a point where his job felt forced to let him go and he lost his insurance. Trying to get insurance through the state (my job does not offer any health insurance) has been a whole other herd of lions to fight, and in the meantime, he was unable to keep receiving the medical care he had been getting and things got bad for him – and then they took a turn for the worst.

He wound up being hospitalized for three weeks, guys. Diabetes, bone infection, and sepsis are no joke. They will take your body and hold it hostage. The man has been through so many powerful antibiotics that I almost believe he could be immune to herpes at this point.

When a bone becomes infected, there isn’t much they can do. Even with aggressive antibiotic therapy it can still spread and spread quickly – even to your blood. And since your blood goes everywhere in your body it is extremely dangerous. He wound up having the second toe and some of one of the long bones in his foot amputated and was still so septic he had to remain in the hospital for an extended amount of time.

So much time that we wound up spending our very first wedding anniversary in the hospital. I had a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and a piece of cheesecake, in case you were wondering. It was delicious.

It was also not at all how I expected our first wedding anniversary to go, you know? Not that I ever put too much thought into my expectations for it, but still. Everybody always hints around that when you get married your relationship changes, but I didn’t really expect mine to. We had been together for four years beforehand. We had weathered serious issues in that time – the death of his father and subsequent family turmoil, a child custody arrangement on my end, moving in together and job changes. Getting married never mattered much to me but it was so important to him that it became important to me as well. It was less than two months later he developed the ulcer and the issue continued to snowball from there. I certainly didn’t expect the “in sickness and in health” portion of those canned wedding vows to become so front and center so soon.

And while those canned wedding vows may be the standard in wedding ceremonies, I am still me and I still have my shining sense of humor that has gotten me through the many shitty hands of cards that life has dealt me over the years. This whole experience has taken its toll on the Mr., and it breaks my heart to see him so down.

So I made it my personal mission to make him smile in some way every day. The man is my best friend and he puts up with all of my shenanigans and special quirks. He knows my house may be messy, but by god my towels will be folded just so and put in a certain place in the closet. He knows I like sweet, cold things just before bed and that I will always throw my leg over his in my sleep, almost like I’m afraid he’s going to jump up and make a run for it. Losing a toe and some bone? That’s ok, babe. It doesn’t change a thing about how I feel toward you. I’m still going to treat you the same and make fun of you just as much. It’s how I show my affection.

And with that in mind I contacted a friend of mine who makes shirts upon request. And BAM, these beauties came into fruition:

 

 

I know that second one has a small print, but it says “You can count on me, but only to 19!” ๐Ÿ˜‰

Everyone who snickered at me when they said marriage changes things was absolutely right. That man is stuck with me now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

The Pasta on the Floor

With school having started back up now, I am determined to cook more meals for my family. It sounds great, but half the time I’m running around like a crazy person and then I realize it’s time for dinner and I dint have a plan for it.

Yesterday I decided to make my chicken pasta – one of the girls’ faves and there’s aways leftovers to heat up for lunch the next day. I was excited. I went to the store, got my ingredients, came home, and got busy. I’m frying bacon to crumble, I’m cooking chicken, I’m even chopping veggies up to make the Mr. his own meal since he’s diabetic and can’t have all the carbs pasta brings to the table. As soon as my chicken gets done I throw my pasta in to boil while I crumble bacon and shred chicken. I make my sauce and toss is the whole shebang in a pan and sprinkle on parmesian cheese so it can bake for a bit and all the flavors mix together.

Twenty minutes later, the small wafting through my apartment has me drooling. I’m done waiting. So I throw open the oven, grab my potholders, grab onto my pan…and proceed to slip and flip the pan upside down as I pull it out. I now have pasta all over the bottom of my oven, all over the oven door, and trailing onto my kitchen floor.

The Mr. hears all of the commotion and comes running, worried I injured myself, and finds me staring blankly at this disaster and trying not to cry. I see him, panick for some weird reason, and reach down to grab my pan. I immediately throw it back down because, of course, it’s still blazing hot from being in the freaking oven.

I am the reason we can’t have nice things. Also, our pizza last night was delicious, thanks.

Upcoming Birthday Shenanigans

I have an idea.

Scary, I know. But I’m really excited about this. 

My mama’s birthday is coming up in November and she truly needs some fun in her life right now. And today on my lunch, it hit me: an intervention.

Don’t get me wrong. She doesn’t have a substance abuse problem. It won’t be that kind of intervention.

It’s for shooting opossums.

Let me explain: she owns a farm that’s about 70 acres and keeps getting stray cats dumped on her. She feels terrible for them, so she leaves food out so they don’t go hungry. Of course, since there’s food around, it attracts scavengers like raccoons and opossums and they attack the cats. So my mama shoots them. 

Let me tell you, I have seen my mother run across a house with a gun and no pants waaay too many times. #farmerproblems?

I’m just in the beginning stages of this little plan, but so far I plan to have friends and family writing letters explaining how her “problem” has affected all of our lives (mine is going to be about having to help with body disposal) and consequences if she doesn’t stop (I’m going to make her bag up her own dead critters), a cake in the shape of an opossum that’s been shot – not in the head though (gross!), and varment-themed snack foods.

I’m ridiculously excited to put this together!

Morning Shenanigans

I got up at five this morning to shower and try to do something with my face to make it more presentable, and had a little bit of time before waking up the girls.

I got bored.

I had already slathered my hair with theย  plethora of products to try to tame it down and still had the hair gel by me. I look at it.

I look back at Darrick, looking comfy as all get out with his arms propped up behind his head and snoring like it pays him money.

He has no hair on his head….but he has armpits.

This morning, he woke up to teeny, tiny dreadlocks in places I’m pretty sure he never expected.

L is for Look, An Idiot

I love to make people laugh. It’s just how I’m wired; it must be the Sagitarius nature.Today, the new materials planner at work came over to my square of the plant floor.

I think he was sorry.

I happened to be speaking to the receiving coordinator at the time, and he joined in our conversation. At one point he said, “I’m quick!” and we both heard, “I quit.”

The receiving coordinator freaks out and the poor guy immediately backtracks to correct our impression. Then he gets to joking around and says, “What would I do with my three kids?”

I chip in with “Well, you eat them.”

He looks at me aghast. I have to continue.

“That way, you can survive longer since you have no money for food, and you don’t have to worry about feeding them or what they’re doing.”

Probably not the right thing to say, but boy was his face hilarious.

D is for Door. Mostly Because I Just Walked Into One.

We have a lot of automatic doors at my workplace. Usually, it isn’t a problem. They’re actually entertaining. The sensor doesn’t see you if you come at it from an angle and it’s funny to watch people wave and jump to get its attention. Occasionally people walk into it because they don’t realize the doors didn’t open. One day when I came in, a big panel was missing off of one – turns out someone had hit it with the forks on a hilo because…idiots? I dunno. I’m sorry I missed that one.

But I’ve never had a door start to open and then just stop until today. I had ny head turned talking to a lady driving the tugger cart and damned if I didn’t slam into it with my left boob. She dies laughing and actually has to stop the tugger before she accidently hits someone, I’m hopping around hanging onto my very sore and angry lady bit, and I realize that’s going to leave a bruise.

Well, shit. How am I going to explain that one?

Because while I didn’t mind being the butt of a joke because of my ability to hurt myself in strange and often inexplicable ways, I do occasionally like to be taken seriously by my fiance and I’m not sure he can do that if he finds out I walked into a door that automatically opens…even if it wasn’t my fault.

Stupid door.

Maybe I’ll just tell him a stray llama bit me. That’s believable, right?

B is for Beauty Disasters

I am not a girly girl. Hell, I never even realized clothes should match until maybe fifth or sixth grade. I had no idea about hair products until junior-highish. It’s pretty safe to say I don’t really know what I’m doing.

I’m also one of those people who will spend two hours looking up hairstyles on Pinterest before having a “Eureka! I can do that!” moment.

I should really know better by now. Remember my Minecraft birthday cake? It’s just a few entries down if not. It was so bad I actually looked for a toy dinosaur to blame the wreckage on.

So I really shouldn’t have been surprised by my morning experience two days ago…but I was.

I had a plan to use a round brush while blowdrying my hair so I would have these big, bouncy curls instead of confused, almost corkscrewy Medusa-like creations that I just try not to anger in the mornings. It was gonna be great. I washed my hair, I had all my stuff together, and I even had a brand new brush all ready. I was so excited.

I took off the towel and picked up the brush, started at the end of my wet hair,curled upward to my scalp, and started blowdrying. I was almost trembling with excitement (yeah…it doesn’t take much to thrill me. I know).

And then I tried to roll the brush back down.

It was stuck.

I don’t mean a little bit. I mean it was stuck so bad there was no give. In the next five minutes, I go from “what the hell?” to “omg, how did my hair somehow wrap around this thing in both directions?” The next fifteen minutes are spent yanking and wiggling and trying to pry my traitorous hair out of the bear trap disguised as a hairbrush. It was so bad I almost woke Darrick up and tell him to get some butter or something. Anything. I was desperate.

It was starting to look like my choices were either a new pixie cut or go to work with it still in my hair and act like I meant to pretend I was a demented unicorn, but I finally got it out. I did.

I lost a big handful of hair, had a horrible headache from yanking my own hair, and had some swollen places on my scalp…but I got it.

Lesson learned. Don’t try to normal people when I am NOT one of them.

Is ‘Help, my child has been possessed by a gremlin on crack’ too strong for a title?

Do your kids ever make a mess and when you clean it, you realize how much you really needed to clean anyway?

That’s why I hate to clean.

Tonight was interesting. And by interesting, I mean horrible and hilarious in ways that fellow human beings should take pity on me and buy me some ice cream.

The littlest one came home from her dad’s today. Usually, those are grumpy days. She’s tired, she’s emotional, and it’s hard for her to get back into mommy routines instead of daddy ones.

However, when she came home today, I noticed something different. It didn’t seem to be her that came back… instead, I got a gremlin on crack.Remember that movie? It was full of mean little monsters who were out to get you.

She started off with some spectacular and exhausting meltdowns, graduated to dumping milk all over her sister’s food when she got up to go pee, smooshed globs of ketchup all over the dining room chair she was sitting in, and then, for a grand finale, pooped in the bathtub.

And in case you’re wondering, no, she was not taking a bath and had one just slip right out and go floating.

Nope. My child pulled her pants down, backed her cute little tush up over the edge, and let it go.

She probably sang the song while she did it.

I had no idea until about an hour later when I was tucking her into bed and realized her feet had a certain smell wafting up. Suspicions were confirmed when I saw a strange smear on the bathroom floor and, while moving closer, I got a good view of what was waiting for me inside the tub.

(Dear Lord, I am a good person. Why do you punish me? Is it because I didn’t adopt a child over the television that you make a monthly payment to like I’m promised to if You stopped the toilet from overflowing last week?)

So I calmly walk back into her bedroom and ask her very politely and non-judgement-ly if she pooped in the bathtub. Of course she denies it, but I know I didn’t poo in the tub, my fiance surely didn’t, and I’m pretty sure my ten-year-old didn’t do it either.

Darrick puts on his serious expression and tells her that we’re going to judge to put a sample of the poo in a bag and take it to the police station so they can tell us who did it.

She immediately confesses.

So now everyone else is in bed. I’m still up. I mean, if you’re gonna scrub and disinfect the bathtub, you may as well hit up the sink and toilet as well. Right? Only… then you see that the mirror is all dirty too. And since you’re already mopping, you may as well hit up the kitchen and entryway too. And jeez, when was the last time I washed out the trash can? May as well do the kitchen one too. Why is the door all dirty?

Is it bad that my place is a lot cleaner since my kid pooped in the tub?

He’s Just Jealous I Didn’t Bring Him One

Last night, Darrick wasn’t feeling well enough to go to my mama’s with me to pick up the eldest and bring her home.

No biggie.

It was a gorgeous day and I wanted to get the kids outside to play. I left around five thirty, nabbed some pizza on the way (always a big hit!) we stuffed our faces and headed out into the big world.

First, swordfights. It’s a must. Everybody grabbed their sticks, made obligatory karate noises, and the chase was on.

You’d think having two girls would mean I’d never have to break up fights about whose stick is bigger. You’d be wrong.

During the swordfights we notice Mamaw’s gutter extensions had blown off due to the massive wind we got the day before. Search and rescue mission underway! After spying it trapped against the back fence, Anya and I trot off to drag it back.

It’s about a six, seven foot black tube with ridges. Not real heavy. She grabbed one end, I grabbed the other, and we started pulling it back to the house.

Then we got distracted yelling into it like it was a giant empty paper towel roll.

A couple minutes later, Sophie was doing something much more interesting than I was. Anya threw her end down and started running. Of course, I couldn’t let her get away with that! So I flipped the gutter around and pretended it was a giant snake chasing after her.

It was hilarious, especially when everyone else picked up their ‘swords’ and beat on it until my hand went numb from the vibrations.

Playing hide and seek inside the house, my mama remembered she had some alligator hats she’d come across at the dollar tree a while back, so we threw those on and roared at each other while we put on our shoes and sweatshirts to go home.

Along the way, I made sure to stop at a gas station so we could go in and show off our hats. Sophie refused to wear hers and was embarrassed Anya and I did, but she’s ten and will survive.

Coming through the door to the house, Darrick sees us, hops up, and asks what in the world we’re wearing. We model them just for him, he shakes his head, and then calls us weirdos.

Deep down, I think he’s just jealous I didn’t bring him one too.