Midwestern Mommy

Once upon a time, in a small midwestern town, there lived a 21-year-old, flat-chested, highly insecure lass by the name of Lisa. During Lisa’s college years she dated an outgoing party dude named Mike.

Mike was a very sweet and funny young man. But he was also a very gassy man. In fact, Lisa was convinced that he was the gassiest guy in all the land.

One night Mike and Lisa double-dated with their best friends Jim and Angie. The foursome decided on a Sunday night viewing of “The Pelican Brief”. As usual, Mike fell asleep 20 minutes into the movie.

In the middle of a very intense scene, (toward the end of the movie) as the crowded theater fell silent, Mike unknowingly “let one fly”. And fly it did. He farted so loud he woke himself up. The sound echoed throughout the theater.

Lisa was startled but not entirely surprised. She kept looking straight ahead at the movie. She worried that if she’d react, everyone would suspect her beau or (worse yet,) her! Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her boyfriend slump further down into his seat. The seats in front of her, inhabited by several young teens, were shaking violently — the kids were trying very hard to laugh without disrupting the show.

Lisa looked to her left only to see Jim and Angie give her an incredulous look while giggling. Lisa then looked straight ahead for a few more seconds. Then she leaned to her right and whispered to Mike, “That’s quite a performance you put on there.”

Poor Mike slumped into his seat even further. At this point, the 6′2, 230-pound man had slumped down too far to even see the movie.

This caused more peels of laughter from Angie and Jim. Lisa tried not to laugh. She knew Mike was horribly embarrassed.

Soon after, the news of Mike’s “performance” spread like wild fire through his large group of friends.

Although Lisa hasn’t talked to Mike in several years, she’s willing to bet that he has never let himself fall asleep in a movie theater EVER again.

And although Lisa, at the time, swore Mike was the gassiest man on the planet, she was mistaken. That dubious title, (ironically) should be given to another outgoing, fun-loving, nice guy… the man she ended up marrying.

Happy Friday! So… Do you notice anything different about this site?

Some people have already remarked on it. Midwestern Mommy done got herself a cool new ‘do. (As opposed to the serious “hair don’t” MM’s “owner” is currently sporting.)

Danielle, aka Makeover blog diva, was the mastermind behind this little slice of sass. So if you are in the market for a little “freshing up”, send her an e-mail. (She’s also done Mrs. Fortune’s site too.)

She’s got her logo toward the bottom of the right column. Click on it for more info.

Have a great day!

I was looking at some recent photos of my little man. I got a bit misty-eyed when I realized he’s no longer a baby. He’s not even a toddler anymore. He’s a full-fledge kid!

“I’m A BIG KID, MOM,” he often asserts. He’s like a terrier who thinks he’s a St. Bernard.

But where did my “little bun” go?

Don’t get me wrong. He still likes to snuggle. He still giggles when I give him a big, fat kiss on the cheek. He still wakes up sometimes, convinced monsters are under his bed. But he dresses himself now. He brushes is own teeth. He even gets into his booster seat and fastens his own seatbelt. He is definitely his own person. And he’ll let you know that too.

He has a fondness for polysyllabic verbage. He doesn’t say, “car”, he says “vehicles.” He’ll sometimes say, “spectacular” instead of “great.” He sometimes even uses the word, “phenominal.” (But it comes out sounding like, “Ben-ommmm-in-o”.) He knows how roads are made, what type of tractor is needed for what farming chore and can tell you whether the field he’s looking at contains bean, wheat or corn. And he knows what he wants to be when he grows up. I don’t even know what I want to be when I grow up.

There are days when I think in exaspiration, “When are you going to leave for college and only call when you need money?”

But there are many, many more days when I look into his eyes and see boundless enthusiasm, energy, love, and happiness. And I think, “Oh God. Someday you’re going to leave for college and only call when you need money. I’m not ready for that!”

Dig if you will the picture…

I don’t know if you can read the sign but it says “WE HAVE CHICKEN POOP.”

Friday I had a script filled at the Wal-greens in Crestwood. And I couldn’t resist taking a pic of this sign. (Camera phones come in kinda handy, yes?)

And in case you are wondering, they really DO have “Chicken Poop.” Apparently its some sort of ointment or lotion.

Which begs the question, would YOU buy Chicken Poop?

Dig if you will the picture…

For quite some time, I’ve been encouraging my hubby to start a blog. He’s smart, funny, good-lookin’ and (I think) has a great “writing voice.” He just needs to work on punctuation. (Yeah, I know ME, of all people saying somethin’ like dat.)

But don’t tell him I think he’s funny. When he makes dorky little quips, I typically respond with an eyeroll, a giggle, and then say, “You know, you’re lucky to have me as your wife, because you’re not really all that funny. I only laugh at you because I llloooovvveee ya baby. That and I want you to “put out” tonight.” He knows I’m kidding. Sort of.

I hope he keeps up with his blog, because if he does, you will soon see that if his sense of humor was a real person, it would resemble the love child of Dennis Miller, Jon Stewart, and Larry the Cable Guy. Smartass-ish, liberal and just a dash of “pull my finger.”

So check out “The Bun Wrangler”. For some reason I can’t link it here (crappy Blogger!) but it is the last one on my links list.

I had a dream a few days ago that I still can’t get out of my head. Mostly because it is so preposterous. Plus? I have NO idea where it came from.

In the dream I am 20 or maybe 21. And I have the body of a Playboy centerfold — seriously perky, pouty breasts and a tiny yet curvy butt. I look freaking hot! (In other words, nothing like I look in real life.)

Anyway… In the dream I also live in California in a 1920’s type mansion outfitted with lots of beautiful antique furniture. There’s a HUGE kitchen, which has been transformed into a ginormous bar. There’s a big stage with a king-sized bed on it in the center of the dining room. Because I? Am (and this is where, if you knew me, you’d spit out your drink) a burlesque dancer. Yes, in the dream, I dance around slinkily and gyrate my hips wearing skimpy, skimpy things and tease men for money. And the bartender? Is my college sweetheart. In the dream he has very long thick hair pulled back in a pony tail. He’s also very muscle-y. And apparently, we have this little business endeavor together. He’s bouncer/bartender and I’m the “entertainment.” And what’s really screwed up is that the place is PACKED!

I have NO idea where any part of this dream came from. And not a clue as to what it means. But I have to laugh because not one part of the dream is even close to my reality. Anyone care to take a guess as to what this dream means? Anyone have a wierd dream they want to share? Anyone? Anyone?

Dear Seth,

You are a charming, adorable, smart little boy. But like your father, you can be a bit clueless. So I’m gonna fill you in on a little bit of info.

Mommy is NOT a morning person. Neither is daddy really. Waking up before 7:30 a.m. is TOO EARLY. And when I say, “Seth. Its too early. Go back to bed,” this means you need to play quietly in your room for least 15 more minutes — but preferably for another hour or so. I know you are awake so its not like I really let myself fall back to sleep. But I still need some time to psyche myself up to get out of bed. Because most days it feels like as soon as my feet hit the floor there’s a mess to clean and someone or something needing, whining and wanting something from me. This chaos doesn’t typically stop until I go to bed at the end of the day.

So if I don’t get this time to wake up, I get insanely bitchy. And the next time you, your father, or the dog want food, attention, clean clothes or for me to find something, I fear I may scream, “Here’s a piece of my f*cking soul. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW!?”

Crawling into the bed with your daddy and me is cute, as long as you fall back to sleep. Trying to engage in conversation, whining for food or toys, and driving over my face with Hotwheels isn’t wise. And it sure ain’t going to net you that little sister you’ve been begging for.

You see, mommy might look all peaceful on the outside when you see her sleeping. But that’s just a ruse. Mommy is really a cranky troll on the inside — at least in the morning. And if you poke or prod, or try in any way to aggravate the troll, you will either get roared at or eaten.

I could set the bed on fire and your father wouldn’t wake up. So don’t count on him to protect you.

But just so you know… that’s the way it works with me. I curse your maternal grandparents each morning for the “early bird” gene you mistakenly aquired. If I could get into your body and mess with your DNA you’d better be sure I’d yank out that strand.

Love you sweetpea — but remember, I love you lots more after 9 a.m.

Mommy

I’ve been tagged. (This is for you, mommy@home and Jenn of Maniacal Days.) If you didn’t realize how big of a dork I am, you will in a few minutes. Also if you want to play along, please do and let me know!

6 Wierd/interesting things about me:

1.) My arms are double-jointed. This does not make sex kinkier but it does help me scratch the hard-to-reach places on my back.

2.) I have always had a thing for really, really smart guys. Even in grade school. But unfortunately, the really, really smart guys? Were too smart to want anything to do with me — until Marc came along. He’s extremely smart. I spent most of our courtship convinced that at any moment, he’d realize what a moron I truly was and dump me.

3.) I sleep in long-sleeved shirts, long pants and socks every night. I also use a comforter and a very thick, heavy blanket — even in the summer. Now that its getting warmer, I wake up each morning in wet clothes because I’ve sweated through everything.

4.) I used to be a fanatic about working out. I LOVED to sweat and push my body to see how fast/far I could run or how strong I could get. (I’m not the type that gets all muscle-y so I never looked that way or anything.) I was running 6.5 miles 4-5 days a week. But I had to stop because I was getting migraines. Now the “fun” and challenge is out of the mix, I have a hard time making workouts a priority.

5.) Every few years, I’ll get nine to twelve months of chronic migraines — as in 20-25 A MONTH. To say that this sucks is a gross understatement. And then I am put on heavy migraine meds, anti-anxiety drugs (to help me sleep because bouts of insomnia are one of my triggers) and I feel like a zombie. Over time, I figure out my “triggers” and then come off the meds. Right now I have about 9 triggers. And I only get about 4-5 migraines a month now — even trying to avoid all of my triggers. The migraines are inherited and have been traced back four generations. And I can’t wait until I turn 40 because my dad said that’s when his started decreasing in duration, frequency and intensity. Only 6 1/2 more years!

6.) I have a few scars on my chin and two near my nose. When I was 14, while at Carlyle Lake, I dove off of a buoy. I dove too deep and my face hit a big rock. I remember hitting it — felt like someone took a rake and clawed at my face. And when I emerged from the water, my first thought was, “Oh good. I can see.” I seriously thought I lost my left eye. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. So my parents didn’t take me. I still have bits of dirt and sand trapped in the scars by my nose. My face was bruised and swollen. I had scabs all over the bridge of my nose and the left side of my face. It happened two weeks before I was to start my freshman year of high school.

Ok. Not all that interesting. But then again, I’m not all that interesting either.

Seven years ago I promised Marc I’d put up with his stinky feet, abusive digestive system (he can literally stink up a house if he eats White Castle) and the kind of snoring that causes avalances. In turn, he promised he’d put up with my nasty migraines, continuous whining, and abnormally cold tootsies forevermore.

So far, we’re still married.

It has not always been easy. During the first two years of our marriage we had a business we owned and I operated. And I HATED it. Marc also had a horrendously demanding job/travel schedule. There were many screaming matches (and much crying/stomping on my end) during that time. One night, after arguing with him for 6 hours or so, (actually at about 4 a.m.) I threw one of his shoes at the door in a fit of fatigue and frustration. It hit and broke a window instead.

But we never gave up. God knows we wanted to.

Then we ditched the business and had a baby. Marc’s work/travel schedule was still chaotic. We also had a house so tiny I was convinced on a daily basis that I would lose my mind if I spent another week living in it. Our finances were complicated due to the former business and the fact that we had also bought stock in the company my hubby worked for/helped grow. There was lots of crying at this point too (again, on my end) but not as much screaming as before. The fights that started at 10 p.m. and carried on until 3 a.m. started to dwindle. But because we never really resolved alot of our issues, resentment built up on both sides.

This is where I mentioned that we’ve spent time in and out of marriage counseling. Did you know that if you choose someone who isn’t specifically skilled in this arena he or she can do even MORE damage to your marriage? Yes, we’ve learned that lesson too. We had two therapists that did more harm than good.

But we’ve perservered. And thanks to our dear friends Jeff and Irena, we met Nancy our current therapist. Nancy is a GODSEND. She is brillant, has a PhD in marriage counseling and has been helping couples for many years. We adore and respect her. And she has helped us so very much. (If you live in St. Louis and are in need, I can give you her info.) Because of her, we were able to deal with years of hurt. She’s taught us constructive ways to solve our problems and ways of talking to each other about sticky subjects. She’s taught us how to keep our minds and hearts open to each other.

When you tell most people you are in counseling, they assume you are teetering on the edge — that you have a lawyer on speed dial and you are willing to push the “divorce button” at any given minute. But that wasn’t us. We just saw that we weren’t feeling the kind of love for each other that we used to. We were drifting more and more apart — if we continued on, we’d wind up in divorce court.

Our marriage isn’t perfect but we’ve learned some healthy ways of dealing with our emotions and voicing our needs to the other. I’ve also learned I am stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. And I’ve learned Marc loves me alot more than I have ever given him credit for. We work well as a team, have a blast when we are out together, and are finally finding our way back to being each other’s best friend.

So happy anniversary my dear, sweet Marcus. I love you so very much. You are a wonderful man with a happy nature, a quick wit, and a generous heart. I love how you stay calm when I freak out. I love your twisted sense of humor. I love my life with you and I feel very lucky to have married you.

Picture this!

As a child, soda and candy were taboo items in the houses of my parents and Marc’s. As a result, our house is always stocked with about 5 different kinds of candy and 4 kinds of soda. There’s also always either ice cream or some sort of baked good to boot. We both have admitted that whenever we prepare a soda or eat a piece of candy — especially at breakfast — the five-year-old within does a jaunty little happy dance.

So far, we’ve always lived within a two-minute drive from a Quik Trip. And this, my friends, is where the five-year-old trapped in Lisa’s body is secretly unleashed. Because I LOVE fountain soda. But not just any concoction will due. I love me a “Coke cocktail.” Basically this is 3/4 Diet Coke and 1/4 regular mixed in. (Still sweet but not all of the calories.) But lately I’ve favored a “Dew-ster cocktail”. This is 3/4 diet Mountain Dew with 1/4 Rooster Booster. Mmmmmm. Marc is very, very good at making my cocktails. I’ve often told him that bringing me a cocktail in the morning is better than sending me roses. And yes, I am serious.

When he hands it to me I often ask, “Did you make it with love?” And sometimes he’ll say, “No I made it with contempt.” And I’ll answer, “So that’s why its so tart.”

But more often, when I ask that silly question he’ll shoot me a look of mocked sheepishness and say, “Why yes….” And I’ll take a sip and say, “Taste alittle salty. You made it with the wrong love this time! Stop putting your penis in my damn soda.”

And then we laugh. This is why I love my hubby. Not only because he brings me sodas sometimes but we “get” each other’s sense of humor.

Lowbrow? Indeed. But we’ve never pretended to be anything more.

Here’s the cutest Easter Bunny I’ve ever seen. Course he was less than a year old when this was taken and didn’t have the verbal skills to say, “Mommy. Stop calling me bunny I’m a big kid now!”

Sigh. I miss these days.

Picture this!

Its that age-old dilemma. You and the honey are both “in the mood” but you don’t want 10-15 minutes of fun to turn into 21 years of responsibility and expense. Birth control pills give you migraines and/or nasty mood swings. Condoms dull the sensations. And that whole rhythm method? Got you “in trouble” the last time. If you utter the word “vasectomy”, your man accuses you of being a terrorist.

I have an idea for a new method of birth control.

A doctor places a tiny television into the woman’s cervix. This tiny tv (an LCD with high definition, of course) would serve as a big screen and would broadcast sports, science fiction shows, or “Baywatch” 24 hours a day.

Typically as sperm enter the cervix, they’re all gung ho shouting things to themselves like “Come on boys, she’s not a monster. She’s just an egg. And we be egging sperm!” (Do you like the Moby Dick reference? heehee)

But once they’d see the big screen, they’d stop in their tracks and watch the TV. And watch and watch and watch. When a few spermies would die, a few thousand others would happily trample over them to get a better view of the TV. (The Ultra version — for those seriously fertile gals would also include free sperm-sized servings of beer.)

As for the “girl” spermies, I suggest the doctor also add a teeny, tiny shoe/purse store with the word, “FREE” written in its window. Because what woman (sperm or actual woman) could resist? (The “Ultra” version of this birth control would also include a small store next to the original one featuring free chocolate and salty snacks.)

Either way, NONE of the sperm would ever make it to the egg. Viola! Both parties get lucky. Plus, no weight gain or ugly side effects for the women.

I’ve got to get my hubby working on that… Or someone…