Midwestern Mommy

Last week Thursday morning started like any other. The new a.m. routine for us is this: Seth awakens, comes into our room and announces he has to pee. He continues to repeat this until he hears me say, ‘Well, then GO POTTY already! He then happily wanders into the master bath and does his “business.”

The other day, after he closed the door, (because suddenly he’s become modest) we heard the usual potty sounds. But then we heard silence. This typically would make me nervous and I would get out of bed to check on him. But being that I hadn’t been sleeping well the entire week and had been having migraines, I continued to lay there — too tired to get out of bed, but not exactly sleeping. After a few minutes, we heard a flush. Then more silence. Then a sploosh, and then a panicky “waahhhhh”!

Upon hearing the “sploosh” Marc and I sprung out of bed. We found Seth on the floor crying. His face, hands, and sleeves were wet. Water was flowing over the toilet rim.

Apparently, Seth felt the need to deposit about half of a roll of toilet paper into the toilet. When it became clogged, he reached in to clear the blockage. Apparently he slipped and landed face first into the toilet. But got his head out of the water long enough to scream.

It scared him senseless. But we figure it’s a blessing in disguise. At some point in his life there will be a few boys that won’t like him. And odds are good they will feel inclined to give him a “swirlie.” We figure the event won’t be nearly as ego-bruising or scarey. Afterall, it will be a familiar path – he got to do the honors himself the first time.

My name is Lisa and I’m a bottled blonde.

Growing up, my hair was white blonde. When I was in my 20’s, my hair was a really pretty, NATURAL, light blonde. I hated my nose, skin, butt, breasts, (or lack thereof) and a myriad of other features but at least I liked the color of my hair. Sure it was too thin and too straight and too this or not enough of that. But the shade of blonde was something I was totally ok with.

And then I got pregnant and the hormones totally screwed with my hair. So my natural color turned into a dishwater, rat-colored, dingy, cigarette ashy, brownish color. So… I started doing what any other girl who’s been raised by penny-pinching, conservative, rural German Catholics would do. I went to Target and helped myself to the many dyes offered in the realm of “blonde”. And over time, I scorched my hair.

At one point, I cut it all off because it was so overprocessed and damaged. I also got tired of the many mishaps encountered when I’d decided to go with a “warm” shade or try a darker shade. I moaned about this to my cousin Linlee and my aunt Linette one night. That’s when they shared with me their secret — a color genius named Pat.

So ever since I’ve been going to Pat, I totally LOVE my hair color. We do something a little different each time. And it always looks natural and clean and pretty. But alas this week, I have NO TIME to deal with the two inch rat-colored roots I possess. They didn’t look all that bad last week, but come Sunday, it was making me cringe. So last night in a fit of desperation and memory loss, I grabbed a color/highlighting kit at Target.

The color was SUPPOSED to be a cool, dark blonde. What I got was a dark, ashy, reddish color not found in nature. This color can’t even be found upon the fur of a decayed carcuss with fifty different tire treads acrossed it.

This color isn’t even found in un-nature… Its a new hue all its own. Its like someone drank Cosmopolitans then vomited all over the bark of an oak tree. It is NOT pretty or remotely flattering. (On the positive side, at least it doesn’t SMELL like bark and puke.)

I cringe every time I get near a mirror. My hubby was diplomatic. He said, “It doesn’t look that BAD.” Translation: It doesn’t look good either.

I’ve tried washing it six times in the shower this morning, hoping to get most of the color out to no avail. I have been in this situation before and know that in two weeks, it will look slightly less horrific. But being that this week is freaking CHRISTMAS, that doesn’t help. Dying it again will make it look even worse.

And it looks like I’m not only in for a trip to see Pat — to grovel and beg her to fix this train wreck. But another haircut too IF she has the time. Because my normal, shiny, soft hair has been replaced with dull, fly-away straw.

And what sucks? Is that I’m half way through a big bag of candy and I STILL don’t feel better. Which means…. I may need alcohol. And alot of it. And oh, there might be some crying later too.

Once upon a time, less than a week ago, there lived a sweet and adoreable beagle named Dallas.

Now in light of the holiday season — and all of the entertaining that comes with it — Dallas’ mommy brought home a four- pound box of chocolates.

One evening while her family was out, Dallas settled in on the couch to watch Air Bud. Because that Retriever? With his long, silky golden fur? Is just SO DREAMY! She was also feeling a bit moody and bored. So she did what most women do when they are alone at night and feeling sorta “meh”. She sniffed her empty food bowl in dismay. But then she remembered the box of chocolates.

Like most women, she told herself, “Oh, I’ll just have one.” And while she watched her hot-looking hero, she continued to eat. And eat, and eat, and eat. When her humans came home, they discovered Dallas all splayed out. Chocolate covered her face and paws. And to make matters worse? She ate them ALL! She hadn’t saved them one damn chocolate! Not even the nasty ones with the orange cremes!

The family freaked out and took her to the vet. They waited and watched. Watched and waited. The only problem the sassy, sugar-lovin’ pup encountered was a bellyache and probably some constipation issues.

The vet pronounced the fact that Dallas is still alive a Christmas miracle.

So now Dallas and her dad (Bob) will most likely be out walking a bit longer in the evenings. We may even see them pass by our house three or four times an evening as the chocolate has probably settled into her lower abdomen and thighs.

But we’re all just happy she’s ok. And if Abbey wants to have her over for a playdate, I’ll be prepared — I’ll hide my chocolate stash.

This morning I had the most bizarre dream — I was 16 again and living with my parents. And that somehow, a strange cake made of CRACK was mistakenly delivered to our house.

When we realized that the cake wasn’t meant for us and that yes, the top layer of it was CRACK, I started freaking out. My parents? Were like, “Hey, free crack! Let the good times roll!”

I kept saying, “We’ve got to get this to the police! We can’t keep this! And we definitely can’t EAT this!” And my dad said something like, “Oh Lisa. What’s a little crack now and again? Its no big deal.” My mom added, while giving my little brother a slice, “It won’t hurt you if you have it once in awhile.”

So while they all heartily partook, I kept shouting. “You can’t eat this! It will harm your bodies! You will become addicted! It’s illegal! It will KILL you!”

They clearly didn’t seem to care and happily enjoyed the cake.

I woke up when a certain little boy hit me in the head with a Matchbox car.

My parents are very clean-living people. I get frequent lectures on how I should lower my sugar intake. And I don’t think that they could even spot “crack” or “meth” if it was served to them on a platter with a little sign indicating what it was. Actually, I wouldn’t know either.

Many, moons ago, (I was 13-ish) my mom returned home from a church garage sale all excited about the ugly, funny-looking vase she found. She wanted to give it to my aunt Joanne as a birthday gag gift. IT WAS A BONG! And know what? NONE OF US CLUED IN! (Apparently no one working the church garage sale did either.)

My brother, sister, and I eventually figured that out. And when we did, we couldn’t resist informing our mom (much to her horror) that she — actually supplied drug paraphernalia to our aunt.

I don’t know WHAT caused me to have that dream. But I’m thinking that I should probably stop eating powdered donuts while watching the snow fall before I go to bed.

While we moved into the new digs, Seth stayed at my parents’ house. Over the course of that weekend he tagged along to my dad’s family reunion.

My dad’s side gets together once a year. He has 10 (yes 10!) siblings so I have at least 30 cousins. A lot of my cousins are married and have children as well. The year Seth was born, eight of my cousins were also pregnant. I think there’s at least 60 children in the fourth generation. And there’s still more in utero.

The family is so big we hold the annual gathering in a grade school gymnasium. Yes. A gymnasium. (See. That thing I said a few posts ago about coming from a long line of dangerously fertile German Catholic Farmers is true.)

As you can imagine, these events are like five different circuses under one tent. And its really alot of fun. Throw in some booze and you’ve REALLY got yourself a swingin’ party.

According to my mother, after the first 10 minutes, she and my dad didn’t even see Seth for most of the night. He was hopped up on sugar/adrenaline and bouncing off the walls with the other crazed kids. He always has to be a part of the action.

But at one point, time stood still for young Seth. He saw a sweet little blonde girl with big blue eyes named Molly, (who is five months younger) sitting on a chair. He walked up to her, sat on the chair beside her and said, “Hi, I’m Seth. You have really pretty shoes.”

Apparently, he already knows how to talk to the ladies. And what woman can’t resist a man who appreciates her pretty shoes? He obviously hasn’t been taking advice from his father on that sort of thing. Because if he did, I would never have to worry about the whole birds/bees/abstinence/birth control talk. But it now looks like we’ll need a “you can’t date people you are related to” talk as well.