The Arizona (dead-tree) Chainsaw Massacre

My mom will have a heart attack when she sees these pictures of her daughter wielding a chainsaw. She is fearful that I will cut off a toe or my whole leg.

The only near-accident that occurred is that, while I was cutting one end of a propped-up tree and Paul was cutting the other, my end snapped back and almost knocked me out cold to the ground. Almost, Mom. My superhero-like reflexes had me ducking before I took a punch to the face.

What a tiring but fruitful wood-getting day! Next time, Paul can take other men and boys with him. I'll stay home and bake cookies instead.

Oh, What Do You Do with a Two-year-old?

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who puts ear swabs in the sink?

Do you spank him away,

saying no all the day,

or just laugh and go buy some more?

Without a two-year-old, life would be a bore.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who hits and kicks and cries?

Do you try a time out,

or scream, swear, and shout,

or tell him that it's not nice?

Flopping on the floor myself, I've done once or twice.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who makes a shrill sound at Wal-Mart?

Do you wearily smile

at the people in the aisle,

or duct tape his mouth quickly?

I hurried out of the store, but that's just me.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who's addicted to Nemo and Cars?

Do you watch them again,

letting him win,

or see if he'll play in his room?

I'm hoping he will love Up, pretty soon.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who blames his toots on his Da-ee?

Do you laugh right along,

making up a song,

about how your husband's gassy?

This sounds like it might be fun and sassy.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who rules your house and lives?

Do you let him be in charge

and a pain-in-the-rear that is large,

or do you give him boundaries?

If you know how to do the latter, tell me please.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who sweetly says "Mom" often?

Do you kiss him a lot

and be grateful you got

a son whose personality shines bright?

Even if he takes off his diaper at night.

The REAL (really?) Housewives

I have a confession to make. I watched this past season of "The Real Housewives of New York." In a moment of weakness and alone-time, I was channel surfing and looking for something mindless to have on in the background while I read a book. TRHONY had a marathon going on that day, so I decided to give it a try as my white noise.

I had never seen an episode of any of the REAL housewives, so I expected women doing dishes, changing diapers, and doing the laundry, ala a housewife. Um. Nope. Here were these glamorous women going to fashion shows, attending cocktail hours with their friends, taking a jaunt on a yacht, launching new skin-care products, inventing cocktails, and dressed to the nines each day. Of course, being women, there was no shortage of cat fighting, name-calling, backstabbing, and psychotic episodes, which makes it so entertaining, right?

I got hooked. My husband looked at me in dismay last night when he saw the three-part reunion show set to record on our DVR. I justified to him that it is good to have idiotic shows on while I exercise each morning because it makes it go faster. Truthfully, I have to see what Bethenny says to Jill about their damaged friendship and if Ramona makes her weird-eyes face again. Will Kelly flip out like she did on Scary Island? I have to see!

Don't judge me.

It did get me to thinking, however, that "The Real Housewives of Apache County" might be the next big thing. Move over, Orange County, Atlanta, and even New Jersey, here comes the REAL thing. Apache County it must be for two reasons: It sounds better than "The Real Housewives of St. Johns," and, if we fail to produce enough excitement, the crew could venture off to RV, Alpine, and Sanders for more stories.

What do you think, ladies? Shopping at Wal-Mart and Alco, lunch at Speedy B's, on a canoe at Lyman Lake, making homemade oatmeal and avocado paste face masks, getting a snow cone, and dressed in sweats scrubbing the toilet. Hey, we could even throw in a scene or two of Mom and Tot swimming hour for kicks.

We would just have to make one change to the way we currently conduct our female relationships here in our small town. We would actually have to confront one another face-to-face about issues and problems instead of psst-ing it behind backs.

There's the kicker.

Even though TRHONY are catty and mean to each other, at least they have the decency and courage to be honest with one another. Heck, some of them even fight and make up and forgive. Gasp! Some of us have so many knife wounds in our backs that we don't even want to sit down in public anymore for fear of additional pain.

Let the cameras roll...Let's show them what a REAL housewife is. REAL vacuuming. REAL kids driving us nuts but making us grow. REAL smiles. REAL laughter. REAL tailgate parties. REAL casseroles to the neighbors. REAL manure on our shoes. REAL hugs. REAL friendships. REAL niceness. REAL empathy for our sistas going through the same things we are. REAL reality.

BRAVO won't really pick it up, but maybe we could pretend the cameras are watching anyway, because they truly are...

...in the lenses of our children seeing and aping how we treat each other.

...through the scope of young people trying to find out how to act like a grown-up.

...and in the clear ever-watchful eye of the most important Viewer of our lives.

Holy Macaroni!

I am shocked that I haven't posted anything since January. I knew it had been a long time, but this is ridiculous. It is definitely not that I have nothing to say. I have too much to say, believe me. Stay tuned... there are thoughts a plenty coming soon.

My Husband's New Mistress

On Saturday, a young man came to our home, took down our old satellite dish, installed a new dish, removed our old receiver, connected a new receiver, and made my husband the happiest man alive.

Yes, he has a new love, HDTV.

We have had the televisions capable of such a picture for over two years now, but we had never upgraded. Bless his heart, he said it was okay, that we didn't need to spend the extra money. Yet, when I said he should call to get it done, he moved faster than I have seen him move in the over three years we have been married.

I left early that afternoon and returned later that night, after my girls' time, and I don't think he knew I was gone.

"Can you see the difference?" Not really, I want to say. "Yes, sure, dear. I can see the armpit hair on the UFC fighter. That's neat."

"Football tomorrow. mmmm. Good."

He has resorted to grunts for conversation as he ogles the crisp picture.

At least he is happy with it, which makes me just grin. He deserves it, and I really can tell that it is much better than what we had, even though I am the girl who was happy with my fifteen-year-old Funai T.V. when we were first wed. Yes, I know, you ask, what in tarnation is a Funai? Exactly.

A true friend tells you when you have a booger in your nose and other tales of honesty in sisterhood...

Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to join a dance class.


As the instructor of said dance class told the woman about this new opportunity, the woman felt her stomach fill with butterflies in anticipation. "It is good if you can kick up to your hip at this point," the instructor told her. Well, I can kick up to my shoulder easily, the woman replied in her head, flipping her hair to show her confidence. "We will be learning one eight count a week in class." Five, six, seven, eight. She counted in her head, envisioning herself picking up on the moves so quickly that she was assisting others with their own learning. "If you can keep your arms and hands positioned correctly, you will be ahead of the game." Who? Me? HA! I was cheerleader captain for THREE years in high school, thank you very much. "We will be performing in May at the dance recital I hold for all of my classes." What?! Are you serious? I am going to shine! Look at me! Look at me! "We will change formations often, so the same women aren't in front the whole time, so nobody is self conscious." Whatever. I'll stay in front the whole time. Me and my cheerleader smile. "It would be great if you would join us." There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be there. I will be your star student. Look at her, you will say. Watch her. She knows how to do it.


Oh, the butterflies were about to take over the woman's body, but she retained her calm, cool exterior. "Let me talk with my husband, and I'll get back to you," she told the maker of her day, her year, her decade. Whatever, let me talk with him. I am doing it. Woohoo! Five six seven eight. She danced back to her seat.


She sat down next to her friend. She shared her great news, bouncing up and down as she spoke, trying to release those internal winged flappers. "And, and, and ..." She told her everything, waiting for her support, her excitement to match hers, her nodding head. She waited for that response. And waited. And waited.


Chirp. Chirp.


"No. You. Are. Not." was the reply she finally received.


"What?" The woman shockingly retorted. "Why not?"


"Um, you are not going to dance in front of everyone."


"But, but, but..." The tears swelled in the former cheerleader's eyes.


"No. You are thirty-seven years old. That is for little girls. Little cute girls."


"But I am cute."


"You are a WOMAN."


"I am going to do it."


"I will drive by the dance class to see if your car is there. If it is, I will go in and drag you out by your hair."


"Then I will just get a ride."


"Um. No. That was twenty. TWENTY. years ago. Grow up, and let it go."


Silence. Bubble burst. Recycled dream squashed like a little gnat.


Her friend was right. What had she been thinking? The leg kicks would hurt her hip, anyway. She got tired just thinking about the number of eight counts they would be doing. That part of her life was over long ago. Now, she just danced for herself in front of the mirror. Or for her son occasionally. Sometimes an interpretive number to an Enya song for her husband after a particularly inspiring episode of So You Think You Can Dance. But not in front of a crowd of people who had come to see their little girls, with pigtails and without other developed parts, perform.


She flashed her never-to-fade-no-matter-how-many-years-pass cheerleader smile at her true friend, the one who slapped her back into reality and back into 2009, and she said, "Thanks."

NOYB

Isn't it time for another one?
You need to have a little girl.
When is the next one coming?
He needs a brother or sister.

I just don't understand why other people think they know what I, my child, and my family need. I don't question your decision to have no kids, two, or ten, at least to your face, so please leave mine and my husband's choice in our hands. It is so nosey, so rude, and so annoying to hear this over
and over
and over again lately.

Not even my mom asks, nor my sisters, not to mention my closest friends.

Maybe we had trouble conceiving the first time, and our child is a miracle. Perhaps we have been told we can't have more children. It may be that we have received confirmation from above that we are a complete family. There is always the possibility of the snip-snip already being performed. Or we just want one kid.

Whatever the reason or reasons, how insensitive for those not in our shoes to ask.

Mind your own, please, and I will mind mine.