I don’t need to tell you how I feel about the football blaring loudly from the TV.

What I do need to tell you is why, in spite of all that, I’ll be glued to our HDTV come game time.

I’ve taken an interest in the Cardinals.

True story.

I can barely believe it myself really, seeing as how I’ve not shown allegiance to any football team since having retired my pompoms years ago (Go Bearcats!).

It’s not that I never liked football.  Back in the day I was all about the touchdown.  And the adrenaline.  The fight song.

I never was a fan of professional football though.  I just didn’t get the draw.  The Packers, the Cowboys, the Broncos?  They were all the same to me: inflated morons in tight pants and shoulder pads.  They weren’t like the guys I knew on my high school team, real people who I saw every day in algebra class.  No.  The only time I heard anything about those buffed out NFL players it was just that they’d been arrested for drunk driving.  Or were engaged to marry a supermodel.  Far from the hometown heroes I knew and loved.

Fast forward to present day.

My husband happens to be quite the football fan.  Not only does he watch the games at home but we also have the pleasure of listening to them on AM radio Sunday mornings when we drive home from church.  He keeps multiple fantasy football teams and spends hours concocting elaborate spreadsheets to keep them all straight.

Not my cup of tea really.

Until he found a way to give me a vested interest that is.

He knows I’m a sucker for a good story.  Be it a movie, a book, heck, even a commercial that tugs at the heartstrings can get me.  And so just before the championship games two weeks ago he told me a story that gave me a reason to find fandom.

Apparently the Cardinals have not enjoyed many a victory throughout the history of their fumbling franchise.  They’ve been a laughing stock of sorts, not even deserving of a loyal fanbase.

And then, of course, there’s the warm fuzzies story of their all-star quarterback, Kurt Warner.  His unlikely rise to fame came only after having the door slammed in his face a time or two.  While that certainly is something Disney movies are made of, the rest of his story is far more impressive.

Kurt Warner married a woman who was already raising two children on her own.  He went on to adopt them both, not hesitating for a moment in spite of the fact that one of them has special needs.  By all accounts he is an upstanding citizen, an amazing husband, and a selfless father.  Oh, and a strong Christian to boot.

See what I mean.  Stories like these?  Well, they get me.

And then, of course, there’s also the fact that I call Arizona home.

So you can see why I’ll be joining my husband on the couch, spinach artichoke dip and a margarita in hand.

The Cardinals have given me a reason to pick up my poms again.  And, lucky for me, the Bearcats were red too.

Torri had an after school dance today.

Today’s after school dances are different from the middle school dances of yesteryear, seeing as how today’s versions take place, well, after school.  Back in the day it was a nighttime thing.  Not that I’m opposed to the after schoolness of Torri’s dances – sneaking past the chaperons into the corridors is much more difficult in the light of day thankyouverymuch.

When we went to pick her up (at 4:00 by the way – SCORE!) I was asking Jeff if he thought they bring up the lights in the gym at around 3:45.  You remember how those gym lights take about fifteen minutes to warm up and they get progressively lighter?  It was always rather awkward because by the time that last slow song ended, the lights, in all their flourescent glory, were up and at’em, fully exposing last dances that seemed so much softer in the dark.

Ah, but I digress.

This afternoon when Torri walked out to the car she did so with a certain bounce in her step.  A bounce that I didn’t so much care for quite honestly.

And at home?  She came and sat at the bar while I began the prep stage of dinner.  She blushed when I asked her how the dance went.  I swear to you she blushed and I totally called her on it.

She deflected and made an excuse to run off to her room.

Oh friends.  I’m not sure God gave me the innards to handle this sort of thing.

Attitude?  I can deal with attitude.  Dirty clothes on the floor?  I’ve mastered.  Texting and the iPod?  Check and check.  The boy thing?  Oy.  Lord give me the wisdom I need because I know not how to handle the boy thing.

This girl of mine?  She’s always been mine.  I’ve not had to share her.  I don’t want to share her.  Not yet.

You remember that little lesson I gave you on how to manipulate your man into doing what you want him to do?

Oh no, no.  Please don’t send payment.  I insist.  It was my pleasure.

Go ahead and grab a pen though because I need you to jot down a few very important things.

The ‘do it myself method?’  Seems it doesn’t work so well on teenagers.  Apparently there’s some sort of miswiring in their brains that prevent them from comprehending guilt or any conscience feeling remotely associated with it.

Weird, I know.  I don’t know all the specifics but it has something to do with self-absorption and vanity.  That’s not important though.  What is important is what I’m about to tell you.

There is a way to coerce the teen species to comply with the needs of the household at large.

The teen in my house, for instance, without fail frequently discards her dirty clothing on the floor of the bathroom.  She steps over her wrinkled t-shirts and jeans to exit the bathroom after her shower.  She steps back over them in the morning (time and time again actually) as she goes about applying her make-up and vowing to shave her head so as to avoid bad hair days.  There her expensive name-brand jeans remain, piled in a heap at the base of the sink (or worse yet but I’ll leave that to your imagination).

How do you remedy this problem?

You hit her where it hurts, of course.

Over the course of this past week I’ve begun collecting said teen’s clothing from the floor.  I’ve deposited them into a large bag in my closet.  One day soon she will run out of clean underwear jeans.  And when she does she will search high and low through the shelves in her closet and the drawers in her dresser.  When she does not find them there she will, as a last resort, rummage through her hamper, willing to wear a pair from the depths of it if only to save herself from having to wear a clean, no-name brand.  But alas, her search will be fruitless.  The jeans, you and I know, will be safely tucked away in my sealed bag, withering in filthy stench with the rest of her haphazardly discarded clothes.

Eventually she’ll come to me, as she always does, and ask if I know what has happened to her clothes.

(Insert sly smile and evil laughter here).  This is where we come to the coercion.

When she comes to me, I will hint that I might know a guy who knows a guy who could arrange for the safe return of her cherished Abercrombies.  It’ll cost her of course.

I’m thinking along the lines of a quarter for her unmentionables.  Fitty cents for the t-shirts.  A buck for the sweatshirts.  And the jeans?  I’ve really got her by the cojones there.  Even second-hand market demand says that I could probably go as high as ten, fifteen bucks a pair.  But since I’m sorta partial to her I think I’ll cut her a break.  Two bucks a pop sounds fair, yes?

That should solve the clothing problem rather quickly I think.

The makeup and assorted styling accessories that clutter the bathroom counter tops?

Hmmm.  Perhaps a cell phone ransom is just what the doctor ordered.

I hope Martha is taking lessons.  Because this?  This, my friends, is how you manage a household.

Jeff said I should blog about all of the ways in which I am a freak.

What are you talking about?  Give me an example.

I’m not going to deny my freak status.  But I needed something to go on.  General freakishness does not a blog topic make.

Like, how you worry about things.

Like what?  What do I worry about that equates to me being freaky?

Like not putting 200 pounds on the top bunk.

That’s not freaky.  The kids’ bunk beds weren’t made to withhold 200 pounds.  They’re made to withhold, like I dunno 80 or something.  And when I changed the sheets today I had to climb up on the top bunk and I noticed it was way more wobbly than it used to be.

See?

See what?  That’s so not freaky.

Blog about how you freak out when Jayce is choking.

Jayce doesn’t choke anymore.

Blog how you used to freak out when he was choking.

Right, because I’m surely the only mother who freaks out when her infant son is choking.  Uh huh.  That totally proves your point.

Blog about how you don’t want me to take Jayce camping in the desert because you’re afraid he’ll step on a snake.

Hmmm.  My only son camping, primitively mind you, in the desert.  Miles from a hospital.  Surrounded by rattlesnakes on all sides.  Totally a legitimate concern.

It’s not like the rattlesnakes are going to stage a sneak attack.

He might happen upon one.

He won’t.

He might.

Blog about how you always freak out when you get something in your eye.

Who doesn’t?

I don’t.

You’re the freak then.  Eyelashes were meant to protect the eye.  Not swim around inside of it.  I could scratch a cornea that way.  And anyways, I don’t freak out.  I just head directly to a mirror so I can remove the eyelash.

But you won’t let me talk to you while you remove the lash because you say it breaks your concentration.

It does.

You’re proving my point.

You don’t even have a point.

My point is that you’re a freak.

News flash.  Have you not seen the Me and My Spasticity category on my sidebar?  I know I’m a freak.  These things though?  These things have nothing to do with my freakishness.

Okay.

Seriously.  My blog peeps will back me up on this one.  Chocking children and snakebites are legitimate concerns.

And the top bunk collapsing?

Legitimate.

Swimming eyelashes?

You gonna teach me braille when I lose my eyesight?

Yep.  But we won’t start at the letter A.  We’ll start at F.  Then R.  E.  A….

Oh just be quiet.

I’m just sayin’.

Go away and let me blog.

You gonna blog about being a freak?

Actually I thought I’d blog about withholding.  Withholding for a freakishly long time.  How’s that sound sweetie?

(Crickets chirping).

I thought so.

Miss Jo-Lynne at Musings of a Housewife is hosting a new carnival.  Normally, I’m not so much a fan of carnivals (corn dogs aren’t my thing and toothless carnies sorta creep me out) but the theme for the housewife’s carnival is (drum roll please…) What I Learned This Week.  Seeing as how I’m a virtual fountain of knowledge I really can’t help but participate.  I wouldn’t, after all, want to deprive all of you from the benefit of knowledge passed along.

I learned three things.  One was virgin knowledge – something I’d been clueless about before.  One was reinforced knowledge.  And the last thing I learned was just plain painful.

The virgin knowledge?  Craigslist rocks.  Seriously.  It rocks.  I posted two ads yesterday morning around 10:30.  By the time my head hit the pillow last night I had traded out some junk from the garage for seventy smackaroos.  Yep.  SEVENTY.  Seventy bucks closer to the shiny new front load washer and dryer duo of my dreams ain’t bad for a days work.

Reinforced knowledge?  The law of equalization.  Okay, you got me.  I don’t really know if there is such a thing called the law of equalization.  There totally should be though.  It should read like this: When you think you’ve pawned off one of your children for a sleepover at a friend’s house, one of your other children will, without a doubt, ask to invite a friend for a sleepover.  Just when you think your household will run smoothly at slightly less capacity for the evening, you are reminded of the law of equalization.  Don’t be fooled.  There will be no slightly less capacity.  It’s a Jedi mind trick.

And as for that plain painful knowledge – be warned: a faux drawer (you know that drawer front thing that just clips into the cabinet to make it look like there’s actually a drawer there?), when pulled from its clasps by your toddler son and dropped from counter height onto your sock-clad big toe won’t actually break the bone.  It may chip a piece of aforementioned bone off and leave you wishing for actual breakage.  At least breakage heals.  Chipped bones?  No healing.  They just hang out and pierce the surrounding tissue each time you take a step.

Okay, okay.  You got me again.  I’m not a doctor.  Nor have I been examined by a doctor.  This toe though?  It feels like chipped bone.  Or maybe permanently indented bone.  Whatever.  The point is, it hurts.  I advise against faux drawer fronts.

Please.  Don’t keep the wealth to yourself.  Pass it along my friends.  Join the carnival and share the tidbits you picked up this week.  You’ll be glad you did.

Like most every other blogger in the blogdom I’m taking part in this quarter’s bloggy giveaway carnival.  Oy.  Do you think I could have fit the word ‘blog’ into that sentence one more time?  Probably not.

Since I’m the kinda gal who gives gifts that I’d enjoy receiving I’m giving away one of my favorite gifts to get: a gift card.

Starbucks.  Ten smackaroos.  Yours for the winning.

Unfortunately for you I’m also the kind of girl who appreciates a contest more than a sweepstakes.  So a simple “pick me, I heart Starbucks” left haphazardly in my comments won’t win you this prize.

What will? Give me an idea for a creative hostess gift.  It’s random – I know.  We’ve been invited to a party though and seeing as how we’re sort of hurtin’ in the friends department I want to make a good impression.  Ya know, so we’ll get invited back and all.  Heck, if it’s a good enough gift maybe some of the other guests will be envious and invite us over just to score a hostess gift of their own.  I’m not above bribery.

Have a look around while you’re here.  Thoughtful comments on one or two other posts will definitely improve your chances of winning.  I’m partial to the “My Faves” posts over there in the right hand column…

Thanks for stopping by my spot!

*****Edited to add that I will choose a winner Thursday, Jan. 29th at 7:00 Central time.*****

I had another run in with the broom guy at Fry’s today.

Normally I don’t post on the weekends but I couldn’t not fill you in on the latest encounter with my grocery store groupie.

So there I was, picking up the limes I forgot to buy yesterday so that my resident bartender could whip me up his house specialty: azul margaritas with grilled tequila lime chicken.  It’s a delicious concoction, and not just because it features a double dose of Cuervo.

Back to the broom guy though.

So there I was, all alone at the grocery store, having just come from a hair appointment.  I was already walking a touch taller with that just-left-the-salon groove going on.  You get that too right?  That whole celebrity’ish feeling that washes over you as soon as you step foot out of the salon.  It comes hand in hand with a few extra tosses of the hair, a bit more of a sway in the hip department.

Yeah, that feeling.

I’ve already grabbed my limes and I’m headed to pick up a canister of oatmeal because I used the last of it this morning and that’s when I see him.  I haven’t seen him since the last awkward run-in so when I do I sort of avert my eyes.  I’d really rather not make eye contact with him just because it’s a tad uncomfortable seeing as how the last time I saw him he congratulated my husband for his matrimonial conquest.

My attempts at nonchalance proved futile though.  This is how it went down:

Are you finding everything alright ma’am? (Apparently that’s his go-to pick-up line)

Yeah.  Great.  Thanks.

Okay.  Well…welcome back.

Uh, yeah.  Oh, okay.  Thanks.

Seriously?  Welcome back?  Welcome back to the grocery store in which I can easily be found four times a week picking up bananas and toilet paper?  Welcome back?

They’re building a new grocery store closer to where I live.  After this second run-in I don’t think I’m going to be able to switch grocers.  I wouldn’t want to give up my ace in the ego boost hole.

Pssst.  I’ve got something to show you.

It’s my purse.  Or handbag, as slightly more sophisticated people than I choose to call it.

I suppose that if I spent slightly more on my purses they could be referred to as handbags.

I’m one of those who has never paid more than $25 for a purse.

If the day comes when ever I spend upwards of a hundred bucks on a bag, (oh dear Lord knock me upside the head) then I suppose I will refer to it as my haundbag. Spoken just like that, fancy accent and all.

I have nothing against haundbags.  If you’re in a giving mood feel free to give my way.  I’d gladly carry a designer bag.  Only I refuse to gladly fork over the big bucks for one.

That’s just me though.

I can tell you for sure that I will be entering into Jo-Lynne’s contest next week in which she’ll be giving away an Orla Kiely haundbag.

And speaking of Jo-Lynne {Musings of a Housewife} , she’s tagged me for a meme.  A fun one at that.  One in which haundbags play a starring role actually.

First things first, here are the rules:

1) Post a picture of whatever bag you are carrying as of late. No, you cannot go up to your closet and pull out that cute little purse you used back before you had kids. I want to know what you carried today.

2) I want to know how much it cost And this is not to judge. This is for entertainment purposes only. So spill it. And if there is a story to go along with how you obtained it, I’d love to hear it.

3) Tag some chicks. And link back to this post (Beth @ Total Mom Haircut) so people know why the heck you’re showing everyone your diaper bag/non-diaper bag.

You with me still?  Simple enough right?  So here goes…

This is what currently rests on my shoulder.  It’s red.  It’s big enough for all my stuff.  I like it.  But the factor that pushed me over the edge in purchasing it was its price.  I paid a whopping $13.78 for it.  I know.  It’s a wonder I can still pay the mortgage.

Okay, so I’ve checked off rules 1 and 2.  That leaves me in the tagging department.  Jo-Lynne tagged me because I was pictured in a photo with her and the haundbag (hers totally qualifies as a haundbag) she posted about.  Since nobody is pictured with my purse, I guess I’ll have to be creative.  I tag:

Stephanie {Metropolitan Mama} and Nicole {Apron Strings Aflutter} because I’ll be getting together with them next week and I’ll have the chance to verify that they didn’t run and pull out something cute just for the meme.  No fair cheating.

Of course, I’d love to see your purse (or haundbag as the case may be) too if you’d like to play along.  Just be sure to let me know in the comments so I can come by and have a looksee.

I think a colony of bees has invaded our jacuzzi.

Spa.

Hot tub.

Whatever.

I went out to chlorinate the water this afternoon.

Chlorinating the water is not normally my duty.

Let me clue you in on a little secret though.

The best way to get your man to do what you want him to do is not to ask him.

Or sweet talk him.

Or even bribe him.

The best way to get your man to do what you want him to do is to do it yourself.

If you do it yourself one of two things will happen.

#1 – You will do it wrong.  If you’re lucky, you’ll just fail miserably.  If you’re not, you’ll do irreversible damage.

#2 – You will guilt him into never, ever making you do it again.

(We all know that #1 isn’t really an option.  Of course you’re going to do it right.  We do everything right.  If you don’t think number two will work for you though, screw up the chore and make him think you did it wrong.  He won’t want you tinkering with stuff again and therefore he’ll do the dang chore in the first place.)

Back to the bees though.

Asking the man was doing me no good so I had to resort to the ‘do it myself’ method.

So I went about the doing it myself.

I lifted the cover and saw a dead bee floating in the water.

I poured in the chlorine granules and the other chemical stuff that reacts with the chlorine to add pH to the water thereby creating yada yada yada, you see where I’m going with this.

When I turned on the jets to toss the chlorine around a bit I noticed a few more bees.  They were hanging out by the water filter.

Did I just say the bees were hanging out?

Any-who, then they started coming out of the little air hole in the cover.

Bee after bee after bee.

And then I remembered hearing once that funny sounds can aggravate bees and cause them to swarm.

As the jets blasted away.

I picked Jayce up and made a beeline for the house.

Beeline.  Get it?

So anyway, I had to work up a whole lotta courage to go back out and shut the dang thing.

And for this experience, my friends, the man will pay.

As for the bees…I’m unsure of how to proceed.

I’m guessing they like the heat and moisture our hot tub/jacuzzi/spa provides.

Problem is, so do I.

And since they aren’t contributing to the monthly costs of keeping up the hot tub/jacuzzi/spa…I’m totally gonna win this one.

Just not quite sure how to manipulate the bees the same way I manipulate my man into doing what I want.

Somehow I doubt the ‘do it myself’ route will work with them.

For those of you who live under rocks and have not been bombarded with the daily doorbell ringing courtesy of your local Girl Scout, I thought I’d share a little tidbit: It’s cookie time.

I have nothing against Girl Scouts.  Really.  I don’t.  I used to have one.  In fact, I used to lead a whole troop of them.

The cookie sales though?  Eh, I could sort of do without.

Before you stone me with three dozen boxes of last year’s frozen Thin Mints, let me assert my position.

I understand that these girls need money for camp.  I understand that the Girl Scout organization as a whole is a totally worthwhile endeavor that provides a plethora of virtuous activity opportunities for girls of all ages.  And I totally get that those cute little Brownies are learning important lessons, even if fifty-two of them have already attempted to fatten my family all while depleting my wallet.

Get it.

What I don’t get?

Why, come February, they will position a table full of miniature sales tycoons girls at each entrance of the grocery store, effectively cutting off my ability to enter/exit the store without being made to feel like the devil incarnate should I explain that I’ve already stocked my pantry (and freezer thankyouverymuch) from here to kingdom come with Samoas.  And Thin Mints. And even a box or two of those second rate peanut butter sandwich cookies (but only because the guilt got to me!).

We have our own neighborhood Girl Scout and we choose to patronize her for two reasons.  Number one, she is a good friend of my oldest daughter.  And number two, because I think it’s pretty darn cool that at fourteen, she is still a Girl Scout.  Talk about sticktoitiveness.

Here’s my dilemma though.

My Girl Scout rep?  She possesses not the common sense to thank me.

It’s a little thing.  I know.  But it bugs me.

When she asks me to buy the cookies she neglects to thank me for my support.

When she delivers the cookies she fails to thank me when I hand over the check.

In fact, I thank her for delivering them.  You’d think it might prompt her to offer a thank you of her own.

It doesn’t though.

Am I mean for being annoyed by that?

So I’m thinking of spending my cookie dollars elsewhere this year.  Perhaps I’ll spread out my purchases over the many trips to the grocery store.  At least that way I’ll avoid the accusing eyes of those little sales mongers and their moms perched next to the cart corral.

So give it to me straight up.  What would you do?

And while you’re commenting, pay no mind to the fact that I’ve suddenly become so inept and pathetic that I’ve succumb to soliciting advice on the internet as to how I should proceed with my Girl Scout cookie purchase.

Because I’m an independent thinker like that.

Come to think of it, perhaps I could have benefited from a few more years in Girl Scouts myself.

At least I would have thanked my customers.