When Did I Become Wyatt Earp?

I was cleaning out my closet a couple of weeks ago, and I came across some very cute things: sassy skirts, sexy high heels, flirty sundresses and even a few little trendy tops. I, at some point, was apparently a good dresser.

So when did I become Wyatt Earp? As a mother of three boys and a preschool teacher I spend A LOT of time enforcing the rules, but seriously? When I went to get dressed for Rodeo Day at my preschool today, I found the task to be way too easy. I simply put on my boots (which, thanks to my farm-girl best friend, I will forever call sh!t-kickers), my regular faded jeans, my red Huskers button-down, my brown leather belt with the swirly but large belt buckle, and my “beach hat” which is a very worn straw cowboy hat.

I got dressed and I checked the mirror. OK. So I looked just like Herbie Husker, except that I am a girl. I am not sure if I am okay with this or not. So let’s make a list

Pros:

Easy costuming for preschool

I bleed Husker Red, so looking like Herbie is OK

Comfy

Cons:

I love my Huskers, but what woman wants to look like Herbie!?

I had to explain to people at lunch why I looked fresh from the ranch

Hat hair

OK. Pretty even split there. The bad part of this is that I looked pretty much like I do every day. Yep. Somewhere along life’s journey, I gave up skirts and peep-toe wedges for jeans and cowboy boots. They are authentic cowboy boots, too, because I bought them at store that sells horse feed.

I reserve the button-front Husker shirt for Cowboy Day since, even for me, it is a bit over-the-top. It is at least as country as pearl snaps, but not quite as bad as 90’s Brooks and Dunn. Everything else, though, falls into rotation of my regularly worn clothes. Only I usually wear a tee shirt and hoodie with the jeans and sh!tkickers. So maybe I look more like the Unibomber than Wyatt Earp.

Either way, I am pretty sure that my fashion style is not terribly flattering. Hmmmm. Maybe I should add some sassy skirts, sexy high heels, flirty sundresses and even a few little trendy tops.

Wait. I just put those in a giant trash bag to donate.

Nevermind.

Where is my hoodie?

There Are Not Actual Paper Pages in the Notebook Computer

In all of my 33 years, I have never had a computer class; nor has my husband. Porkchop (my husband’s nickname from his fender-lizard days—another blog post for another day) and I have managed successfully to live in a technologically modern home.

We have an old desk-top computer, and two (somewhat low-end but still decent) laptops, one of which is primarily used to hook up to the TV and watch football games on ESPN3. We managed, by ourselves, to “go wireless,” and stream Netflix through our video game console. Not going to get a write up in some computer magazine, but not too shabby for a guy called Porkchop and his trophy wife (OK. Trophy wife might be stretching it, but a girl can pretend).

Well, now my mother is moving on up. In a giant leap sort of way. She is getting a laptop and going wireless. Which is why she has called me 842 times this week. (I know that she is going to read this, so I want to make two things clear: 1. I, in no way whatsoever, mind helping her. For all of the babysitting and free meals, I would do anything she asked. That in no way makes this less humorous. 2. She is the one who kept pushing for me to write. Did she really think she would get to avoid becoming fodder my work?)

As an aside, my computer hates that I write like I speak, because there are a lot of sentence fragments. Sorry, spelling and grammar check.

My mother is not a technology moron or a technophobe. She has been using email since everyone had AOL (You’ve got mail!), and we have had a computer in the house since I was in elementary school (I am 33 now). She even made sure we had a mouse before we knew what the heck we were supposed to do with it. And it only had one button, a cord, a trackball, and no scrolling wheel. She functions pretty well on the basics.

Now for the flip side. The other day, she used her digital camera that my brother and I gave her approximately 300 years ago to take a picture of one of my kids. I asked her to please email it to me once she got it downloaded to her computer. Her solution to this was to get into her car, drive to my house and hand me the camera and the data cord. Megaprops for remembering the cord. And no, I still have not downloaded it and it has been a week.

So we shall see how this learning process goes. So far most of her questions have been about what kind of computer to get (“Mom, I really don’t think you need a $1200 MacBook  to use Word, check your email and play solitaire”), how one goes wireless, (“You have to plug the modem into the router, and ta-da!”), and what the difference between her DSL and my cable internet it (“Think Airtran versus the Millennium Falcon”).

The best part of her transformation: her printer. Though I am ridiculing my mother in a public forum, I am utterly impressed and jealous of her mad skill in the thrifty department. So far in the process, she has called the cable company to upgrade her connection. And bought a $200 wireless printer. Or rather, she stole it. Said printer lists for $199.99 and was on sale for $99.99. Mom had $50 rewards card, and you got $50 off if you brought in an old printer. Where she found the old printer, I don’t know, but girlfriend walked out of the store without spending one red cent.

Here is my next task: Once the new computer is procured and the wireless connection is in place, Mom should move said computer from the desk and use it as it was intended:

1. To provide information conveniently. So when she is watching White Collar and they reference an unfamiliar artist, she can look up information right then.

2. To enhance daily life. Three words: Food Network Recipes.

3. To connect with others: Girlfriend needs to be on Facebook so that she can read all of my hilarious and thought-provoking posts. Oh yeah, and she does have a couple of friends, too.

4. To waste hours of time playing pointless computer games and puzzles: This one won’t be too hard.

So while I try to move Mom ahead (I started to say teach the old dog new tricks, but that might be insulting, and my Mama raised me better than that), I will be in prayer for patience for us both. And together we will explain to Dad why there are not actual paper pages in the notebook computer.

Dinner Always Has Two Menu Choices

I have 3 awesome little boys. The six year old is reading at the top of his class. The four year old is extremely talented athletically.  And the two year old has more than his fair share of charm and humor. Unfortunately, none of them like food.

I fully understand that this is not a rare situation. In fact, as far as families go, mine is about as average as they come. This piece of knowledge in no way makes our nightly dinner routine of whining and bargaining less annoying.

 If you are what you eat, my kids are hotdogs, bread, cake, Kool-Aid and applesauce. Never mind that in the last week the hubby and I have cooked baked chicken with beans and rice, homemade chicken noodle soup (twice), vegetable soup, cornbread, pot roast with veggies, scratch biscuits, garlic cheddar biscuits, hamburgers, french-fries, pan-fried chicken, roasted potato wedges, scratch mashed potatoes, broccoli, and the list goes on. So nightly we face the whining and crying.

 “I don’t like it!”

“This is yucky!”

“Do I have to eat it?!”

“Can I just take one bite?”

“Bleck!”

“No! No! No! You are a mean mommy!”

“Can I have a hotdog?”

I like to think I am a fairly patient woman. But this, THIS, makes me crazy. I mean no-wire-hangers-ever crazy, but without the physical violence (Google “Mommy Dearest” if you need help with the reference).  

So tonight I had a thought—sloppy joes and French fries! Should be perfect, right? They love bread and ketchup, and a sloppy Joe is nothing but bread and ketchup with a little meat stirred in. And what kid does not like French fries?!

That would be my sweet children.

Dinner has been the biggest blow to my self-esteem nightly for approximately six years. However, tonight we had a breakthrough. The baby loved the sandwich but avoided the fries (totally uncharacteristic—He liked the sandwich so much he just forgot the fries. That is what I am going with.) The other two sucked down the fries and actually tried the sandwich without whining. They both said that they didn’t really like it, but each ate half without argument when I told them, VERY calmly, that they needed to eat some of their dinner.

So I am not sure if the turnaround was because I lost it earlier this week when I told them that if they whined about dinner (chicken legs, macaroni and cheese, and corn), they would go to bed. Immediately, in their clothes, do not pass go, do not collect $200.  That may have been a bit harsh, but no one complained and everyone ate.

And that is why, should ever come eat dinner in my house, you will have two menu choices: Take it or leave it.

Is there a potty in the Mystery Machine?

Welcome to my initial post on what I am sure will be such an amazing blog that your week will simply not be complete if you have not read all updates.

I had a teacher in high school who would never allow us to disclaimers about what we had written, so as a nod to her wisdom, "This is the best damn thing I have ever written."

Or maybe it won't be, but I see it as being humorous for some and therapeutic for me. I figured I would kick it off by introducing you to the depths of my subconscious mind. I woke up this morning in a cold sweat from a horrible dream. I was Freddie (the one from Scooby Doo, not Nightmare on Elm Street. My kids my argue that), and I was running away from a really mean Vampire (as much as modern fiction wants us to believe otherwise, I am pretty sure they are all really mean on some level). Somehow I was actually outrunning this supernatural dude, and I jumped into the Mystery Machine. Apparently I was living in the van because the Vampire could not come in without an invitation. Yes! Score one for the Fred-Meister!

Or not. Because then the vampire, with his super-vamp strength, picked up said Mystery Machine and toted it, and me, off into the blue. What the heck!? How am I supposed to get out of this one?! BEEP BEEP BEEP. Apparently I am supposed to get out by making lunches and breakfasts and waking up cranky children.

That said, I think I have figured out my dream pretty well thinking about it throughout the day. I think I was Freddie because he is the leader of the gang, and I view myself as the leader of my little family gang. I can assure you that I was not Freddie because of my athletic prowess or my beautiful golden hair. Perhaps my affinity for scarves played into it, but I am getting side-tracked.

As the leader of my little clan, I can say that I have been feeling lots of pressure lately to make a pretty big decision. Big decision equals vampire in this little scenario. I have been praying and crying for months trying to decide if I will continue to teach preschool (MOST WONDERFUL JOB EVER) or stay home with my amazing family. There is a lot more that goes with that, but I will save that can of worms for a day better suited for fishing in that pond. So I have been feeling like I just can't get away from this vampire!

Over the weekend Hubby and I made the decision, and today I had to tell my boss that I will not be back next year. Yes, I cried. And I will be going home (remember I lived in the Mystery Machine). Well, the vampire can't get in, but I have feeling that I will still get carried away sometimes by making the tough calls. The good news, home is still safe. And vampires still have to sleep during the day, so I can make my escape. In the meantime, is there a potty in the Mystery Machine?