Didn't you get the memo on religion and politics?

Perhaps I do not see eye to eye with you in the areas of religion and politics. The thing is, I usually don't care.

As long as you actually know what it is you believe and why, I generally respect you even if I don't agree with you. I expect the same courtesy.

Fortunately, most of us have dubbed these topics taboo and have quietly agreed not to discuss them.

There's a select group of people I will openly discuss religion and politics with. It's safe because we're all on the same page and pat one another on the back for our brilliance.

Outside of that group, I basically keep my mouth shut so as not to wind up in a fist fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone got the memo (or chose to ignore it if they did). So, once in a while, I find myself being pelted with the religious and political beliefs of people who passionately believe the exact opposite of what I believe.

Most of the time, they assume I believe everything they do and speak to me as if they are spouting universal truths instead of political or religious opinions.

It happened to me yesterday. A man assumed I agreed with him and bombarded me with 20 minutes worth of rhetoric that I found truly heinous and offensive. He even said, "I'm full of good ideas like that." Wow lucky me that you chose to share.

I'm a lady (ahem), so I smiled politely and changed the subject instead of calling him names and kicking him in the shin (which is what I actually wanted to do).

Lesson: do not assume the world agrees with you. As a matter of fact, it's probably best to assume they disagree with you and handle yourself accordingly. Otherwise, you could catch me on a bad day and wind up with a broken shin.

There's a reason people say, "never discuss religion or politics." Broken bones are that reason.

Roadtrip with the Mini

This past weekend, Silas and I had our first mommy-son roadtrip. Let me recount our adventure:



We get a late start (because I suck and do everything at the last minute). Silas plays with his teething toys until we get to the freeway, when he promptly falls asleep.



I am completely paranoid about stopping with him because I watch too much Criminal Minds and First 48, and I'm always paranoid that someone is lurking behind something waiting to kill me or snatch my baby and put him in a basement. BUT when we cross the state line, I cannot hold in the 40 ounce Sprite for another moment. Plus, Silas is starting to SHRIEK, "change this diaper, woman." So, we stop at a rest area, and I do the fastest pee, diaper change, sanitize combo I have ever done. I have parked away from the other vehicles only to emerge and find a PANEL VAN (i.e. the transportation of choice for serial killers) parked right next to my car. I look around for other people and notice some bikers. (I trust bikers because they always protect damsels in distress in movies.) So, I make sure they are within shouting distance and get Silas buckled in as quickly as I know how while also looking over my shoulder and preparing to knee someone in the groin every three seconds.



Safely buckled in, and my co-pilot passes back out and leaves me to serenade myself with Mariah and Britney.

When we make it to Little Rock, I go in search of a Target I have been to 100,000 times. I get lost. In my home town. On roads I have driven since before I had a license. Whatever. iPhone, get me to Target so I can get this cranky baby out of this carseat.

We finally make it to Target, spend too much money, listen to Si scream himself to sleep, then request the iPhone get us safely to Conway. It does. Silas wakes back up and REALLY wants to play with Carson. Carson is 5 weeks old. Silas does not care. I decide to take him to another room and avoid fighting with him.

Bedtime comes and goes with only two middle of the night wakings.

Saturday morning, Silas is wide awake at 7:30. Good thing Lizzy and Carson are too. We lounge around until Alyson kicks it into high gear and people start showing up for the shower. I spend some time with Christen and try every trick that works for every other child to try to get Si to take a nap. NO! is his response to every attempt. So, we spend the majority of the actual shower in a back room hiding the screaming baby.

People filter out, and I play back and forth about whether I'm going home or staying until it get's too late to drive, and I stay. I have fun. One margarita gets me pretty woozy, and I pass out at eleven. Silas sleeps like a rock and only wakes up once.

Seven a.m. on Sunday, and my son is wide awake again. Pack the car, say goodbye to my dear friend, Christen, get in the car, make it to Maumelle....phone call..."You left Silas' walker." SOB!!!! Dear friend Christen graciously points me in the direction of a Starbucks and tells me she will meet me in Maumelle with the walker. I give up trying to find Starbucks and get McDonalds instead. Eat McGriddles and read Dr. Suess books to Silas.

Walker delivered!!!

Back on the road. iPhone, please get me to Michael's aunt's house. Arrive to a house with no house numbers and decide after unloading my (very heavy) son and his bag, If this is not Aunt Nancy, let's hope these people are nice and up for a little visit.

Turns out to be Aunt Nancy. So, we visit until it's time to move on to our next stop. Silas is already getting cranky.

Call my dad. No answer. Go to my grandmothers. Have a nice visit and get a bunch of books from my childhood (bonus!). Call my dad. No answer. Done waiting.

Back on the road headed home. Silas passes out for a couple of hours and then wakes up and promptly poops. It's raining, but I wouldn't want to sit in a poopy diaper either. So, I locate a gas station and change him. Once we're buckled back in, the rain picks up substantially. I call Michael to let him know where we are and glance over at Silas. He's making his pooping face again. Seriously????

There is NO WAY I'm stopping at another gas station and dragging him back through the rain, but Silas is screaming his head off. I decide to pull off the freeway and find a place to change him on the side of the road. I travel past several driveways until I see one that looks like it leads to an abandoned house. Pull in, unbuckle Silas, begin the changing process (in his carseat, thank you very much!) when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. The tractor I had barely noticed when I pulled in is moving. Damnit! In the cab is a very bewildered looking woman talking into a cell phone. Crap! She is probably calling the cops! So, I finish as quickly as I can and don't even button Si's onesie back up.

We high tail it out of there.

We're making great time until:


The freeway shuts down about 35 miles from my house (I know that because I did a google map search on my location just to further infuriate myself). That's when Silas decides enough is enough:



(Notice the exposed diaper from the diaper-changing fiasco?) I didn't cry, but I imagine I looked like a snarling pit bull.

We do eventually make it home, both tired and cranky. Michael is excited to see Silas, and Silas is excited to see the dog. Michael is annoyed, and I am amused. Silas tells his tale to Penny while I curl up on the couch and drift off to sleep.

As promised...

I knew it wouldn't take me long to find something to bitch about.

Male species:

We will never, ever understand your obsession with video games/golf/sportscenter (enter your annoying obsession here).

The same way you tune out and hear "blah, blah, blah" when we start talking about purses or shoes or our mothers? Yeah, we do that when you start talking about MLB the Show or what an amazing round of golf you played. AND YES we will pout and (on one particularly over-the-top occasion) hide the controller to your PS3 (golf clubs, whatever) if the ratio of time spent on your annoying obsession to time spent doing whatever it is we want to do starts tipping in your direction. So, expect it, embrace it, plan accordingly.

You have been warned....and you don't want me to have to address this again. Ask the skinny bitches.

Bucket List

Phone call around 1:30 yesterday afternoon confirmed that I have a little more time to work on my bucket list (i.e. no cancer):

1. Go on a trip to a place I cannot reach via Kia Spectra or Carnival Cruise Lines

2. See my son graduate, get married, have a child of his own

3. Graduate law school, Pass bar exam, Practice law

4. Own a home

5. Get something published

6. Learn a second language

7. Meet someone I have admired from a distance

8. Celebrate my fifty year wedding anniversary

10. See all the touristy landmarks I have never seen (that means every touristy landmark period)

11. Take a vacation with my best friends

12. Learn to play piano

13. Take more literature classes

14. Surf

15. Live on a beach

16. Throw a really great party

17. Own my own business

18. See the Cowboys win the super bowl

19. Watch my son achieve something he has worked hard for

20. Drive a standard without sweating bullets

Obviously I was scared for no reason, but I want to achieve my goals more than ever now. Better late than never.

P.S. I promise to cut out the emotional crap and return to bitchy commentary and humorous child-rearing anecdotes.

Yeah, maybe I am scared

Let me start by saying I still don't know anything.

Perhaps my last post came off as flippant or me making light of the situation, or perhaps you saw it for the masked fear it really was.

If I give the thing the gravity it may deserve, the fear wins, and I spend my days and nights worrying about something that may never be. So, yes, I'm going to joke about jinxing myself via the annoying duck insurance, and I'm going to keep on waking up and telling myself I don't have cancer until someone shows me a pathology report proving otherwise.

I do my best to tell the tales of my life in a way that I hope brings a smile to your face, but I'm human and scary stuff happens. So, sit tight while I pretend not to be scared to death and humor me until I get that phone call that gives me permission to drink to my good health.

Afff-Lac

While I'm trying to be all motivated and conquer the world, my doctor is doing her best to diagnose me with something scary.

This morning, I went for a physical. Just routine business. Until doc started asking a bunch of questions all suspicious like and then said the word "cancer." No one has diagnosed me with cancer. They tried three years ago, but they did a biopsy and came back with "dysplasia" instead. Not cancer. Just pre-cancer. Just keep an eye on it so it doesn't turn into cancer.

So, I know there's some weird stuff floating around in my body that could take on a mind of its own and turn into cancer. I just operate under the assumption that it never will. However, this doctor decided that my symptoms warrant checking to see if it has. I'm not sure why she felt the need to tell me. Especially since I'm all, "everything happens for a reason" and I bought a cancer policy last week on the off chance that my "weird stuff" did turn into cancer. My gut reaction when she said (like she was ordering lunch), "we're just going to do some testing for ovarian cancer and h pylori (which I totally googled and found out that it can cause ulcers and/or......stomach cancer)" was, "Oh God, did I jinx myself via Aflac?"

Because I said so!

J (step-daughter) upon seeing me put her 3T clothes in a bag: Hey! What are you doing with those clothes?!

Me (being logical adult): The clothes are too small for you now. So, we're going to give them to a little girl who can wear them.

J (being three and unphased by logic): No! Those are my clothes!

Me (trying new tack, i.e. bribery): I know, but they don't fit, and they're taking up room in your closet. We need to make room to go buy you new clothes.

J (thinking her authoratative hierarchy is also mine): But MY MOM SAID they still fit me. (She has also told me I have to give her cookies because Pappi said I have to).

Me (growing tired of this conversation): your mom hasn't seen you in these clothes in a while, so she doesn't know they're too small yet.

J (crying now): Uh huh! My mom bought me those clothes, and you can't give them to anyone else!

Me (officially done with the coversation now): The clothes your mom bought you are in the dryer. They're going home with you. Brooke gave us these clothes, and we're giving them to Kate now.

J (not done with the conversation): why?! They're mine!

Me (officially turning into my mother) Because I said so.

J: Stops crying, leaves kitchen and resumes toddler activities.

The reason "because I said so" was invented: its sheer power to end unwinnable arguments with toddlers.