I’ve required prescription eyeglasses since I was 16.

But then–a few years back–I got lasik.  I absolutely reveled in my 20/20 vision.  I gladly kissed my geeky eyewear goodbye.  I threw out my contact solution and did a happy dance.

Time passed.

And then one day, I woke up and realized I couldn’t see the alarm clock.  I made an optometrist appointment and there it was there that my worst fears were confirmed: my vision had reverted right back to where it had been pre-lasik.  Apparently, I can thank Jayce pregnancy hormones for that.

The bad news?

I’m not a candidate for a “fix-it” surgery because my corneas are too thin.  {Nevermind my patience}.

Back to square one for me.  Glasses.

These were the cutest I could find.

Watcha think?

This was the year in which I started using Facebook.  For most intents and purposes I can say that I enjoy it. But, like everything, it certainly has its downside.

Think Farmville. Or, more specifically, people posting about lost sheep. Or lonely pink clownfish. Because really I could care less about Farmville fungifts and anything and everything else even remotely associated with Farmville.

Sorry. Just sayin’.

Another downside? Friends who become fans of the most ridiculous things known to man.

Not that I have any friends like that. (Ahem.  Ali).

I thought I’d put together a list of the fifteen most ridiculous fan-able things I’ve come across on Facebook.

If you find my list entertaining, feel free to fan it.

Just kiddin’.

15.  I hate getting texts that only say k. Yep.  That’s really something you can fan.  Wish I knew the cell phone number of the person who started that.  Betcha can guess what I’d text them.

14. I hate waking up during a good dream and it won’t come back. Thanks for sharing.

13. Pretending to text in awkward situations. Do I sense a texting theme here?  Gee.  I wonder the demographics of those who are starting these groups.

12. Not being on fire.  Wow.  Talk about Nobel Prize worthy.

11. I hate battery low.  Then charge it dear Henry, dear Henry, then charge it dear Henry- charge it!

10. Flipping the pillow over to get to the cold side.  I wouldn’t know about that.  Here in Arizona there is no cold side.

9. That was NOT your last piece of gum stop lying. Fine.  You got me.

8. I will name my son Batman if this page gets to 500,000.  I’m not sure that the world is ready for another balloon boy’s dad.

7.  I use my cell phone to see in the dark. Well.  If he wasn’t such a dim-wit maybe he wouldn’t have to.

6. My door was closed when you came in, don’t walk off and leave it open.  I wonder if there is a similar group for ‘the light was off when you came into the kitchen, don’t walk off and leave it on.’  Not that I live with people who do that.

5. I will go slightly out of my way to step on a crunchy looking leaf.  Or kick a rock.  Or step on a crack.  Yeah.  So?

4. I hate bathroom stalls with doors going in.  Me too, if I’m being honest.  Somehow I wasn’t compelled to fan it (and therefore broadcast it to my entire network) though.  Go figure.

3. So many empty seats on this train/bus, why do you have to sit next to me? Clearly it’s because you are so intellectually stimulating.  Why else?

2. How drunk was that guy who invented PEZ? All the way to the bank baby.

1. Why do people with bad breath always wanna tell secrets? Or better yet.  Why are they the ones that I end up seated next to on a long flight?

Surely you have a friend that fans a plethora of dumb pages.  Which ones have I overlooked?

If you are a frequent reader of my blog, surely you’ll remember this post.  The one in which Jayce’s menis was getting on his nerves.

Don’t you hate that?

Yeah.  Me too.

So today, Jayce and I took my mom (who is here visiting) to our favorite burger joint for lunch. (And I hate to be parenthesis heavy, but I know someone is bound to ask.  So…I can do either a veggie burger or turkey burger.  No dead cow for me).

Anyway.

So my mom gets up to use the ladies room (the one with the peeping paparazzi).  And while she’s gone Jayce asks where Grandma went.

And I tell him that she went to the bathroom.

To which he very matter-of-factly responds, “Oh.  Cuz’ her menis.”

If he were my first baby I probably would have taken the opportunity to correct him.  I might have used the opportunity to educate him on the differences between boys and girls.  Maybe I’d have reminded him that girls don’t have menises.

But I didn’t.

Because it was too cute.

So I just nodded.  And smiled.  “Yep.  Cuz’ her menis.”

Poor Jeff.  When it comes time for that birds and bees talk, he’s gonna have lots of explaining to do.

So Kennedy has these two baby molars clinging to life in her mouth.  Two baby molars that have held up the orthodontia process (which, by the way, is just fine with me).

I should say had.  As in, Kennedy had two baby molars clinging to life in her mouth.

Because now there’s only one.

And a half maybe.

She lost one tonight.

Sort of.

It came out alright.  But just the cap of it.

The roots were not attached.  And are currently MIA.

That can’t be good, right?

They may very well be in her gums still.  It’s hard to tell roots from the tooth erupting behind them from that hamburgery fleshy gum that’s rippled up like a ribbon in there right now.

And yes.  I do get the heebie jeebies even talking typing about it.

Tell me you’ve seen this happen before.  A hundred times over.

No biggie.  Right?

It happens all the time.

Anybody?

If you were a fly on the wall in my house, you’d live a pretty decent life.

There’d be plenty of crumbs to nibble on.

You’d have multiple opportunities to escape.  Considering my children leave the doors standing wide open many times throughout the day.

And the chances of you getting swatted would be slim to none.  Since splattered flies seriously gross me out.

The best part though?  You’d be entertained.

You’d overhear conversations like this one, that took place moments ago:

Jayce: I haf ew go poddy.
Me: You do?
Jayce: Yes.  I haf ew go poddy.  A’cause my menis (he can make the “P” sound only selectively) is gettin’ on my nuhrve.

See.  At least you’d laugh.  Assuming flies have a sense of humor that is.

Dear Target Store Manager:

Hello Mr. Manager sir. It’s me.  The mom of four who visited your store today.  I know you’re probably busy ironing your khaki pants and red shirts so I won’t keep you long.  I just wanted to send along a helpful hint that may save you a few dollars in the way of lawsuit settlements down the line.

Let me begin by asking, sir, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of opening a store on Black Friday.  Given your expansive resume bullets, I assume you have.  Surely, then, you must be familiar with the mobs of frenzied shoppers that, quite literally, shove their way through the store in an effort to hoard the flat-screen TV’s and newest video game consoles.  You know as well as I that Black Friday deals can be found throughout the store, scattered among the toy, electronics, and home departments.  Imagine, for a moment, the scenario should those crowds of Black Friday shoppers find themselves all gunning for the same thing: school supplies.

Better yet.  Don’t imagine it – visit it.  Right there in the back corner of your store where sporting goods and domestics cross paths.  But be forewarned: it’s a jungle back there.

You’ve heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?  Well.  Nor does hell haveth fury like a mother on a mission for those elusive dividers.  Or dry erase markers (blue – why have you no blue?!).  Or reinforcement labels that little Johnnie may or may not need in the fourth quarter but will be docked points for if he doesn’t show up with them on MONDAY!

Look at that.  I’m getting off topic.

My reason for writing is this: I’d like to suggest that you offer complimentary body armor suits to mothers and children intending to shop for school supplies in your store.  While I understand that you cannot reasonably prevent every black eye or busted toe, at least the major casualties could seriously be reduced if you provided proper equipment for those brave enough to “go in.”

Another option would be to hire armed guards.  Perhaps even designating your Back to School headquarters as a mom-free zone would work.  After all, dads are perfectly capable of handling up on the pencil purchases.  And yes.  I realize that a nation of dads doing the school supply shopping would seriously cut into your profit margin.  Because no dad I know is actually going to buy into that teacher’s request for hand sanitizer and Kleenex, citing something about “when I was a kid…”  But really.  In spite of the profit loss – it’s the right thing to do.  For the sanity and safety of all your loyal customers.

I urge you to consider my input.  Before your store is the site of the next postal-like rampage.

Sincerely,

A Concerned (black-eyed) Mom.

Jeff has come up with some great ideas in his lifetime.  At least in the portion of it in which I’ve known him.  Ideas that we could totally market – if we were ambitious like that.

Our infamous game, for instance: a Jeff original.  Really, it was a collaborative effort – but mostly him.

Our Disney shirts?  Same thing.

His most ingenious idea yet though?  The Eggsacutor – a bumper mounted egg launcher that he insists should come as standard equipment on each and every vehicle in production today.

Drivers would have three eggs per month at his or her disposal.  With the simple push of a button, you could launch eggs at offending drivers – all from the comfort of your plush leather seats.

Presumably I need not explain the motivation for his brilliant idea.

I, for one, am a huge fan.  And you can play all high and mighty like you aren’t.  But I know better.  I mean, it’s a way more effective method than a honk of the horn.  A flip of the bird.  Angry gestures tossed at inconsiderate drivers via their rear-view mirrors.

Effective because, if your car was sprayed with egg after cutting off grandma in the beige Buick, well, you’d likely think twice before you pulled that again.

Right?  Right.

I already have a few people in mind.  You know.  For when the Eggsacutor becomes more than just a dream that dances through my husband’s road rage dreams.

Here’s my list:

-Anyone with an Obama bumper sticker.  Better yet – I’d launch the vomit from when I throw up in my mouth after seeing their sticker.
-Those with “Another Mama for Obama” stickers would get two.  Eggs that is.  One for Mama and one for bambino.
-Trucks with those über klassy ball sacks hanging from the trailer hitch.
-Anyone with a naked woman silhouette sticker.  Including those adorned with angel wings or devil’s horns.
-You know those people who proudly display stickers boasting that their child can kick my honor student’s @$$?  Uh-huh.  Them.  I’d have my honor student press the launch button.
-Guess who I’d save all three eggs up for though? The morons who have the nerve to drive around with “Short Bus” bumper stickers.  And yes.  Those do exist.  That’s all I have to say about that.

So spill it.  What kind of deserving driver would get your egg?

We had one of those weekends that flew by.  Probably because we packed it full of fun stuff.  Like seeing Up.  Followed by lunch at a new burger/shake find.  And then we visited the Sonoran Desert museum (which is more of a desert-ish zoo actually) for their Saturday summer nighttime hours.  We saw snakes and scorpions and javalina-oh my!  It was a full day.

Then, yesterday, we tried a new church (which wasn’t as awkward as I’ve been imagining) followed by an all-day marathon of errand running and shopping in town.  And not shopping for fun stuff like shoes and clothes either.  I mean Costco shopping.  Not so fun.

While we were at that burger restaurant on Saturday I had to use the ladies room.  Earth shattering news, I know.  But I’m telling you because it is one of the most unnerving restrooms I’ve ever seen.  First of all, there are no stalls: it’s a one-woman kind of place.  When you walk in, you see the commode directly in front of you.  The wall to the left of it is all mirror from the waist up.  The wall to the right is…  Well.  See for yourself.

I kid you not.  The Pee Pee Paparazzi squad.

Because of the mirrored wall it seems as though your are completely surrounded by these guys as you sit (or squat in my case; public toilets aren’t my thang) and do your business.

It’s a tad unnerving.  Even though you know full well that it’s wallpaper.  Something about it creeps me out.

But it’s funny though.

Don’t ya think?

Since it’s Saturday and I don’t usually post on Saturdays anyway (heck I barely post anymore period) I thought I’d go with something light on brain power.

So, as requested, here is a picture of the shoes I ended up going with for the promotion ceremonies:

And the recipe for the chocolate cake shots:

1/2 oz. Frangelico hazelnut liqueur
1/2 oz. Vanilla Vodka
1 wedge of sugared lemon.

Shoot it back and then promptly suck on that lemon.  The lemon part is what (inexplicably) gives the chocolate cake vibe.  Seriously.  Don’t overlook the lemon.

And last but not least, the picture (courtesy of Gram via Gramps) of us rednecks after having imbibed a bit.  I was mistaken in that ex #2 sat this round out so he’s not pictured.

From left to right: my one time almost father-in-law Mike, Jeff, Mom, one time almost mother-in-law Carol, me, Torri’s dad Shawn, brother Luke

Hello Such the Spot.

No.  I’ve not forsaken you.

It may seem that way.  But really, I’ve been busy getting things back in order after our super-fly promotion weekend.

The day started out innocently enough.

Really.  It did.

See.

I told you.  Completely innocent right?

But sitting through not one, but two promotion ceremonies, and the obligatory reading of names, and long, drawn-out slide shows takes a toll on a gal.  Kwim?

So by the time the gang (and by “the gang” oh do I mean the gang) came together for a big celebratory shindig at the house afterwords, we were all ready to cut loose a bit.

I should pause here and explain the gang.  The gang, in this case, consisted of my grandmother, my mother, two exes, a set of ex in-laws, our mightaswellbeadopted daughter, and her mom and grandma.

Quite a motley crew, wouldn’t you agree?

Lots of people questioned whether inviting two exes to an event that included a fair amount of alcohol was a good idea.

Oh ye of little faith – it was fine.  Fine I tell ya.

Especially after Jeff’s house specialty margaritas began a flowin’.

We all got along swimmingly.

See.

I know the picture quality isn’t great but those of you with a keen eye will recognize that yes, that is my husband, piggybacking my ex around our recently vacuumed grass in the backyard.

It’s really rather unfortunate that I didn’t capture the other memorable events on film.

They included:

-my other ex and my grandmother making their way around the patio table as they rocked the “row your boat” dance moves.
-my ex father-in-law serenading my brother (on one knee, as they held hands btw) with a romantic love song.
-my mom calling my dad (from whom she is recently divorced) at nearly midnight to ask if she had permission to stay out past curfew.
-countless rounds of chocolate cake shots had by all, glasses raised in rambunctious toasts every time.
-our neighbors wondering what the occasion was as they were subject to our rowdy “drink…drink…drink” chant every so often.

And you thought I led an upstanding life.  Ha.

In actuality all of the aforementioned instances were part of an uber fun party game that Jeff and I created a couple of years ago.  Because it’s sort of reminiscent of truth or dare (and because I had two exes in attendance) I wasn’t sure that the venue was an appropriate one for the playing of our twisted little game.

With truth categories like, “MILF,” “If This Vans a Rockin’,” and “Caught In The Act,” you can understand my hesitation.

Jeff rocked the ultimate husband role though and insisted we give our game a go.

It all worked out in the end.

Honestly.

Even Grams stayed up till the last baby daddy had left the building.

And we unanimously decided to do it again in four years.  When Torri graduates high school.

No doubt she’ll seek the solace of her bedroom once again when we pull out the game and she shudders to imagine what her parents’ answers will be to those colorful questions.

Who says I can’t keep it real?

And PS.  If you ask really nicely in the comments, I bet we can convince Gram to email me the group shot she took of all of us toasting our third round of shots.  Not that you’d want to see such a thing.