I'm Mama Bear!

So the other day at work I went into the lunch/break room to make myself an afternoon cup of tea, and there in the sink, was MY coffee cup, the one that went missing off my desk about 2 weeks ago. I know it’s mine; no-one else here in the office has a mug celebrating 115 years of Whitwell First Baptist Church. And someone had obviously been using it because it was dirty and coffee-stained. Eeeeewwww!

So I washed my mug (several times), rinsed it out with bleach water, and took it back to my office where I will look for a safe hiding place for it…. I’m feeling a wee bit like one of the three bears… sniff…. Mama Bear, perhaps!

Do you think they would notice the butterflies???

Mornings in our house need to run like clockwork. That’s just the way it has to be. So we have honed things to a precise routine that involves having breakfast, packing lunches, and heading out the door. Things that break the routine are, well, horrible….

So this morning James comes bopping down the stairs, holding just the pant legs from a grey pair of cargo pants/shorts. These are the type of pants where the legs can unzip to make shorts… And he asks me "...are these pants khaki?" Sensing impending doom, I say "No. Why are you asking?" What I really want to say, but don’t, is “…Um, hello! They’re NOT EVEN PANTS! They’re just the legs!!!!” But I know what he is about to say and I can feel my stress level rising.... This is not going to be good. "Well,” he continues, “Today is choir sharing and I need to wear khaki pants to school". The monkey wrench has been thrown into my morning routine. I know for a fact James doesn’t own a single pair of khaki pants, and I’m mentally churning through Rachel’s wardrobe, desperately hoping she might have a pair he can wear.

Now it would have been nice if James would have mentioned this requirement for khaki pants earlier, say, like this weekend, or even yesterday when we were buying him sneakers and socks, but he waited until this morning – ten minutes before we need to leave the house to announce this need. AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!

So up we traipse to Rachel’s closet (yes, I’m that desperate) but the only pair of khaki pants she has is 1) too big for him and 2) decorated with embroidered flowers and butterflies…. I hold them up, thinking, maybe.... perhaps.... would his shirt cover the butterflies... But even I know that is not going to work. Rats.

Sigh… So, we drive to school, drop Rachel off, James and I drive back to Wally World, and buy him a pair of khaki pants and a white polo shirt, and I drive him back to school. Late, but in khakis, sans butterflies. He has no idea how lucky he was that Wal-Mart had ONE pair of khaki pants in his size.

Is it just my kid, or is this a common thing with boys?

...and a side of humiliation please!

I don't have many pet peeves, but one of them is ordering at drive through restaurant windows. They just reduce me to a dithering idiot, as no matter how clearly, slowly, distinctly, and LOUDLY I speak, it seems the poor soul on the other end never understands what I am saying. Every. Single. Time.

So today, I took Rachel and James for their dentist appointments, just cleaning and a check-up. Aside - no cavities (yeah!) but James needs some baby teeth extracted (yuck!) to make room for those huge adult-sized choppers that are coming in... Seriously, he looks like he is getting ready to channel Simon, Alvin, or Theodore….

I've digressed.

So after their appointment, we decided to make a quick stop at the Popeye's right by their school so Rachel could have a piece of Mardi Gras cheesecake, so named because of the layer of colored sprinkles that festoon the top of the cheesecake. Yes, I believe in rewarding my kids for "no-cavities-dentist-visits" by plying them with sugar-laden treats; that's just the kind of mom I am, thankyouverymuch.

So, we pulled up to the squawking menu box in the drive-thru lane at Popeye's. And wait. And wait. Finally the speaker crackles, and it's time to place my order. A raspy voice comes out of the speaker, "Welcome to Popeye's, can I take your order?" Now I'm just assuming that's what she said, because what I really heard was more like "waruummoppp do popeyes… bamm ur tark wor morter?"

So, I said in my most clear and chirpy voice:

"Hi! I'd like one slice of Mardi Gras cheesecake please!"

Silence. Then static. Then the raspy voice: "Fries???"

Rachel starts to snicker. James points at me and laughs. They have witnessed this before. I try again:

"No, that was one slice of cheesecake, please."

More silence. More static, then the voice, "Did you say diet Slice ma'am?"

Rachel and James are laughing and snorting now. So I give them an evil glare, then turn and screech at the speaker:

"I SAID CHEESECAKE!! MARDI GRAS CHEESECAKE!!!!"

“Please pull around to the window!” I think the voice says. And so we do. The girl who takes my money calls her co-workers over to get a glimpse of the idiot who can’t order cheesecake. I try to avoid eye contact as she hands me Rachel’s cheesecake, and then off we go.

But this silly story doesn’t end there. Unfortunately not. After dropping my still-giggling kids off at school, I start heading back to work, and as I’m driving by the Popeye’s, I am hit with this huge craving for a piece of fried chicken, which is strange because I haven’t wanted fried chicken in ages. Perhaps it is a subliminal thing from my previous perilous trip through the Popeye’s drive-thru; the smell of fried chicken must have triggered this when it wafted into the car. Whatever... it’s killing me. So I give in, swing into the parking lot, and find myself back in the same drive-thru lane. I pull back up to the menu. And wait. And again, the static, and the same raspy voice:

"waruummoppp do popeyes… bamm ur tark wor morter?"

This time I decide to skip the nice polite order and just bark out my order at the top of my lungs in slow, well-ennunciated syllables, complete with frantic hand gestures, just in case Ms. Popeye is watching.

“ONE BISCUIT AND ONE PIECE OF WHITE MEAT CHICKEN PLEASE!” I even point to the items on the menu, like that is going to help.

Silence. Then static.

“dooooo ur wurnt hmmm umna LEG er WING um amba THIGH ummmm BREAST?”

The four chicken parts were the only words I could recognize…

“BREAST PLEASE!!!” By now I am hanging out the car window trying to get closer to the microphone.

Silence. Then static.

“Leg?” the voice says.

“BREAST! BREAST PLEASE!” I shout. I am waving my hands around, feeling ridiculous.

“Thigh?” the voice rasps.

Sigh. “FINE!!!” I say, realizing that further attempts are futile.

So I pull up to the window, the drive-thru-window-person stares at me in recognition, then tries not to laugh as I meekly take my box of chicken (and yes, it was a thigh) and biscuit, and head out on my way.

Y’all, next time I’m parking and sending the kids in. I’m going to wear my sunglasses and scrunch down in the car in the parking lot. Either that or we’ll stop at the grocery store. They sell cheesecake there too, you know. And sprinkles...

Blessings,
Adrienne

The Pied Piper goes BANG!

To get to our house, you have to drive down a long gravel driveway, about a quarter of a mile. Our house is set off in the very back of our neighborhood, and we like it that way. We don't have any neighbors right next to us, and that makes it possible for our dogs to roam pretty freely on our property without bothering the neighbors or getting into trouble. Dogs, I've noticed, are actually pretty lazy.... When given the choice between laying in the sunshine in the grass for a snooze, or mustering up the energy to chase birds or rabbits, they seem to prefer the former.

Which is why I found it strange that in the last week or two, our border collie, Missy, has developed a mad passion for chasing the car when we leave the house. When she sees us loading up in the car, she lies in wait, and when we head down the driveway, she races alongide next to the car, and she is FAST! I had mentioned this annoying habit to Hubs, and he promised me he would "...take care of it."

So this afternoon, Hubs asked me to jump in the truck and ride with him down to pick up the tractor, and when I got in the truck, there on the console in the front seat I saw the strangest thing: a lighter and a small box of fireworks, the kind that just make a noise when they go off.

And then things got stranger when he said, "Now when we start down the driveway, you have to light a firecracker and throw it out the window