My kinda luck…

For as long as I live I may never understand why I have such strangely humorous luck.

Or in other words, why it is that people don’t listen to me when I speak.

My latest example is the children’s division coordinator at church asked if I’d do story time one week this month at church. I said yes, but not the second weekend. I won’t be at church. I’ll be traveling for a wedding.

Which weekend was I put on the schedule for?

The second weekend. Of course!

Anyone else out there suffer from this type of craziness? Or is it just me? (I have other examples, too. This happens all the time. This was just the most recent.)

“Mom, can I cut the couch?”

Imagine this…

Monday morning we were at the table chowing down on our cereal.

“Mom,” Linc says between bites of cereal.  “You know how things fall into the cracks on the couch?”

I nodded. The remote to the DVD player is currently MIA and if I had to guess it’s camping out in the company of some spare change and lint in the deep, dark crevices of the sofa. It’s what it is. We’ve all dropped our remote down there and every few days have to fish it out.

I digress.

“So last night Abe and I were moving the couch–”

“Why?”

“Because we wanted to see if when we dropped something behind the cushions if it’d fall straight to the floor.” His matter of fact tone was almost more than I could bear.

“We’ve had that sofa for six years, don’t you think if it worked that way, we wouldn’t have spent so much time blindly groping into the interior of the sofa for lost objects?”

“That’s because there’s a liner,” he says as if he’s just made the greatest discovery in the world.

“Yes, there is.” I tried to keep the sarcasm from my tone, but I’m pretty sure I failed. “Hence, why we have to fish…”

“OK but see, the liner goes so deep down the couch, Abe nor I can reach our hand down there, so…” He shrugs as he trials off.

“And?”

“Well, Abe and I want to cut the bottom of the couch so things just fall out the bottom.”

Mom, can I cut the couch?

I’m sure the look on my face spoke volumes of the annoyance and disbelief I was feeling.

“See, it’ll be great,” Linc says as if he really thinks he’s convincing me of this. “Then we won’t have to reach down in there when we lose stuff, it’ll just fall out the bottom.”

“Uh huh, I see.” I seriously just lied to him. I don’t see. I do see his brother Abe nodding his head in agreement like a bobble head dog. I see Linc looking all excited that he thinks he just won me over. I can almost my blood pressure rising. But what I don’t see is the utility it a huge whole in the bottom of a leather sofa so things that are dropped can fall out the bottom!

“So we can do it?” Abe asks, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Sure.” I smiled. “Just as soon as you both do enough chores to earn the money to buy that sofa.”

My two youngest boys both looked at me as if I’d just taken away their puppy.

“Sorry, guys,” I started. “There isn’t any use in this modification other than just destroying the furniture.”

Let me pause here to say, at least they asked me first. I do have to give them credit for that. There are several people of my acquaintance who’d be telling this story a little differently–like after they’d discovered a freaking huge hole in the bottom of their sofa. So at least there’s that.

Back to the story…

“But what about not having to reach down into the cracks?” Linc persists. ” Remember the time you found the grilled cheese?”

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth at the memory of the an ancient, cold and partially deteriorated grilled cheese that I once pulled out from the back corner of the sofa. “That’s what I have you guys for. You eat on the couch, you can be the ones to dig in the crumb abyss.” I tried not to grin at their disgusted faces. “The answer is no.”

Linc’s eyes lit again as if he’d just had such a brilliant idea that I couldn’t say no. “What if Mickey gets stuck back there?”

“Son, if you think asking me if your guinea pig crawls around on the couch and gets stuck back behind the cushions and so far down your arm cannot reach is going to convince me to allow you to cut a hole in the bottom of the couch, then I think it’s time to go find her a new home before you can be so negligent.”

And THAT is how you stop the nonsense. I know, I know Imma Mean Mom. But good gravy, what the hell is the obsession with destroying the furniture? I’ve seen so many dang sitcoms I almost feel shamed into having little debates with my kids about things that I’m never going to allow to happen just to be “fair”. However, in my world, no means no and Mom’s word is final.

So, what crazy request have you received from a kid that you felt like an idiot debating? Imma curious and I wanna know so comment below!

Imma B.

Hell in the Frank Household

I’m currently living in an inferno. It’s bad enough I live in the deep south, but now my air conditioner is on the fritz so it’s definitely become an inferno.

I started to notice the A/C hasn’t been able to keep up at the end of July and August the past two years, but this year it hasn’t kept up at all. In the past it’s just been a little warm in he house. This year…

Trapped in Hell

This has been us this past week. (Well, some of us, I’ll get to the rest in a minute.)

I was thinking it was time to suck it up and get a new unit when one of my boys came up and said, “Mama, I think I’d like a buzz cut.”

His hair isn’t THAT thick. Nor that long. I checked my thermostat. It was 78 in the house. That was with all the fans on and the poor air conditioner blowing as hard as it could, bless its heart.

The final nail in my poor A/C’s coffin came yesterday when I went to pick my eldest son up from summer camp and he was wearing a hoodie. Yes, a hoodie. It was 95 degrees outside and the air conditioner was blowing like crazy in his cabin to keep it 72 degrees in there and he was cold! My poor baby.

Captain Underpants–Yes, I saw the movie

Okay, so the #1 thing about having boys is: tighty whities are no big deal. And neither is potty humor. It just does with the territory.

So of course my youngest son wanted to see Captain Underpants and because I love him, I agreed to not only watch it, but pay the big bucks and see it at the theater!

Trying not to die of humiliation, I proudly walked up to the ticket counter and said, “Um, can I get three tickets to–” my mind totally went blank. “Um, the movie about underbritches.”

The guy had a totally serious look on his face. “We don’t have a movie about underbritches.”

“Yes, you do,” I said, frowning. “The underwear movie.”

Still holding out with a grim face, he shook his head.

My eyes scanned the movie list above his head. “Captain Underpants.” Gracious, he knew what I was talking about and the grin on his face told me he’d been messing with me. How sweet.

He told me a price. I gave him the moola, then cackling, yes he was, cackling, handed me the tickets and said, “Enjoy!”

Trying not to curse the wretched man, I forced a smile and went to go endure what I never thought I’d be subjected to: an animated movie with a superhero whose costume was an oversized pair of underwear.

To be truthful, it wasn’t the a bad movie, and certainly not the worst I’ve ever been subjected to (The Big Lebowski, Spanglish, Home Fries, all come to mind). For what it was, it was actually pretty well done. Obviously it’s a movie, one based on a comic book written and illustrated by two third grade boys, so suspending reality is an absolute must. Graphics were great. And as much as it pains me to say it, the jokes and plays on words were actually rather clever. And…even more painful to admit, I found myself laughing–sometimes at the witty banter, sometimes because I couldn’t believe I was in there watching that and actually entertained. Who knew.

Overall, the plot is simple: cranky principal wants to separate two troublemakers. A bit of magic transpires and the principal becomes Captain Underpants, a nice guy who does whatever the boys want. Until the villain Professor P shows up, then they have a real mission.

I won’t soil…oops…I mean spoil it for all of you who I know are dying to go see it, but overall it was entertaining. I’m not sure if I didn’t have a 10 year old boy (and a big boy 😉  ) who wanted to see it that I’d have gone, but if you have a boy aged 6-12, he’ll love it. Best part, I didn’t have to explain a single sexual innuendo when we left!

Enjoy and be sure to eat tons of popcorn for me!

Imma B.

The Joy Thief

I have this relation who I secretly refer to as the Joy Thief. Why? Because anytime anything good comes my way, she has to cop an attitude for why it didn’t happen to her.

Example: one day one of my novels hit the USA Today Bestsellers list. I shared the news (this was the last time I shared such news with her) and her response, “Oh, that’s nice. It must be nice to have a job you get paid for even when you don’t work.” She was referencing my receiving royalties after the book is released. Uh, excuse me? I worked my ass off to write said book and to market said book to get that many copies sold. It didn’t just happen.

She isn’t a writer so she really doesn’t understand how much time and even money goes into writing a book. Yet, every chance she gets she remarks how jealous she is of me for not having to have a real job. Again, 25 books didn’t just write, publish and market themselves. If she wants to be a writer and collect royalties, then shut up and write a book…or two dozen.

Another circumstance, I got food poisoning from eating at a restaurant with my ex-mother-in-law (a mere coincidence? I’m not sure….). Anyway, I had to cancel my plans to help her move some lawn furniture because I was camped out in the bathroom, calling Huey on the big white phone. Instead of a “Oh no, I hope you’re okay. Is there anything I can bring you?” She texts: “Lucky you. I wish I could have gone to eat at XXXXXXX.”

Really? She really wants to play that card? She goes out to dinner probably 5-6 times per week and only a week ago, she was bitching to me about it because it was making her fat. She’d moved up two bra sizes in the past three months because her husband had been taking her out to eat every night. I eat all my meals at home except two days a week I’ll eat lunch out because I have to travel two hours from home for some medical stuff that takes a few hours before I have to drive two hours back home. Then this particular night I went to a $9/plate large-chain Mexican restaurant because my ex-mother-in-law was in town for one of her two yearly visits and get deathly sick and she’s bitching that she’s never gotten to eat there?! Next time she can take my spot. I don’t know what was more uncomfortable sitting at the table with all my ex-inlaws (my ex-husband wouldn’t take my kids, so I had to and got roped into staying) OR driving home and feeling like three pounds of crushed glass was working its way through my intestines. I’ve never clenched my cheeks so tight in my entire life. I prayed my asshole wouldn’t fail me on the way home.

Thankfully, it didn’t.

The examples could go on and on:

She came with me once to a craft fair. I paid for everything I purchased with cash, she used her credit card for most of hers. She commented how lucky I was to just have money to blow. I spent $75 total (admission, lunch for both of us and a few nicknacks) because that was all I had in my pocket. She came with only $20 in cash used it at the first booth, then fished out her credit card for 3-4 other shops where she bought so much crap we couldn’t carry it all. I’m not lucky, I came prepared and stopped when I reached my limit.

She got in my car once and saw I had a DQ Blizzard cup in my cup holder. “I wish I could have gone with you to Dairy Queen.” I didn’t even eat the damn Blizzard one of my kids did.

I helped her move stuff all day and when we were done I said I was going home. “You’re so lucky you get to go home. I have to stay up all night and unpack.” Well…I did just use my back and my gas to move you. Not to mention it took longer than it was supposed to because she was running late so I had to ask another friend to pick up my kids from school Now I need to get home to my house full of kids and cook dinner and do homework.

I wore a dress to church that I bought from the clearance rack at Dillards three years ago. “Oh, I love your dress. Where did you find it?”  I inwardly cringed. “Dillards.” “It must be nice to go to the mall so much. I buy all of my dresses at yard sales.” That’s an outright lie and I know it. I’ve seen her plunk down $150 for a dress at a department store and at the fair and at a boutique. She also swears flip flops that are at least $40-50 a pair. Who the hell pays that for flip flops??? I clearly got into the wrong business if that’s what people pay for flip flops. I can string you up a pair for that! I honestly don’t care how much her dresses cost compared to mine. I don’t care where she gets hers or where I get mine. I shouldn’t have to justify wearing a department store dress to anyone. Period.

She gets her feelings hurt if someone buys her a greeting card priced below the $3 mark. It’s a freaking piece of paper. In my family, we do The Nana. Meaning we send the wrong cards for different holidays.  Then we just keep them and re-circulate them. It’s great.

If I’ve had a bad day, hers is worse. If someone compliments me on something I bring to a potluck, she has to tell everyone about when she made that same dish and what she uses so I could improve. When I wear anything she hasn’t seen before, she says it’s cute and asks when I went shopping.

I have come to learn not to say anything other than how the weather is. Otherwise, I cannot enjoy a treat. I can’t talk about writing or she’ll bring up how lucky I am not to have a “real job”. I don’t tell her when I’m going anywhere fun or when I’ve done anything fun because she has to suck the fun and joy and life right out of it! And she wonders why she doesn’t have any friends except me…

I’ve bitched for about a 1,000 words to say this, if you’re a fun-sucker and do this crap, stop! You seriously won’t have any friends left. If you have (or had) a friend like this, advice please!!!

May your day be merry and your friends treat you right,

Imma B.

THIS is life with boys!

I went into my boys’ bathroom to hang up signs to remind them of proper hygiene and manners:

 

 

(Yes, they were ALL necessary. 😉 )

After I placed my signs, I peeked in the tub and found…

Lego Bath

Seriously?! Why are the Legos going for a soak in the tub? None of the boys have had a bath in ages so all I can imagine is they were either A. trying to clean them in a very strange way; B. they did this to get a rise out of me. I didn’t say a word!

Friday is almost here, enjoy it and your weekend!

Imma B.

Daily Post Writing Prompt: “Taper”

I have yet to do one of these Daily Writing Prompt so I shall endeavor to join the ranks of the scores of others who do the post.

Here goes. Not really a story…merely an unnecessary fact about me and a new definition!

Sadly for me, when I was 13 my height hit a plateau or a taper, thus leaving this vertically challenged woman at the impressive height of 1/4 of an inch below 5-feet! But if anyone asks, I am 5 feet tall. I don’t care what the measuring stick says. I am 5-feel tall, I tell you.

Hick from the Sticks Definition of Taper:

When wrapping presents for Christmas with the young’uns, we mamas hold our finger on the seam of the paper and say, “Taper up, hon.”

Life enriching, I know and you’re welcome.

Imma B.