One Minute at a Time
cause that's all I can handle
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Hi! My name is Anne and this is my blog.
Living Life One Minute at a Doggone Time
Desperate Times Call For Mashed Potatoes
I am a victim of my own optimism. I like to call it Disney World Disease.
It's not that I am a day-in-day-out optimist. Oh no, in general, I am a pretty negative person.
"Wow, Self, that just hurts. "
"You know it's true."
"Yeah, so?"
Um, moving on. But there are some scenarios in which the disease rears its head. The symptoms consist of me convincing myself that it is all going to be perfectly wonderful....this takes place in situations where I REALLY REALLY want something, so I choose to avoid admitting what the reality might could end up being. No, that's not being delusional. It's having Disney World Disease.
And if you don't believe me, look it up in your Merck Medical Manual, ok? geesh.
The Disease causes you to subconsciously believe that Tinker Bell is flying overhead and spreading her magical dust that will make all of your dreams come true - in whatever scenario it is.
Just like when I want to go to Disney World. And I plan the trip to the minute. And I make the assumption that all will run smoothly and perfection will reign supreme. Healthy adults take into account what might go wrong with the "plan".
Like, for instance, that it will bloody hot, or that lines will be mind-numbingly long, or that your children will throw tantrums of epic proportions. But thinking about all of that stuff, why that just takes all of the fun out if the anticipation, if you ask me.
Or like when I want to have a third child and I assume that said child will just obviously be a go-with-the-flow kind of person and will fit right in and cause me no trouble WHATSOEVER. And then William shows up and bashes me over the head with the reality that is his little self.
Or like when I REALLY REALLY want another puppy and so I choose to ignore all of the ways that said puppy
will make my life difficult. Make accomplishing anything, at all, difficult. In my mind's eye, she was always either sleeping or entertaining herself or playing with Tilly, our older dog. Or the kids are playing with her - joyously content in their desire to love and care for her. You know what? My mind's eye sucks and I'm going to stab at it with a pencil when I'm done typing this.
She DOES sleep. We've established that. So SCORE! And she DOES entertain herself, true, by EATING MY SHOES, or my chairs or the wooden table legs, or the knobs on my desk.
To her credit, Gracie WANTS to play with Tilly, but unfortunately, the Devil, himself, has taken up residence in Tilly's canine form:
and she is now wholly consumed with her new job as HEAD SOUL DESTROYER and DOG KILLER, not wrestling with a punk ass puppy, so...that sucks.
And my children are all just a pack of LYING LIARS who promised on the lives of all of their relatives (hey, sorry guys) that they would do dog duty - and now have to be FORCED with the butt of a gun (no, not really) to take any sort of responsibility for the puppy. So in between worrying about my doomed relatives and doing all the work myself, I'm a little tired and frustrated.
So, sometimes, in my SHEER desperation to have 10 minutes UNINTERRUPTED to do the dishes or make a bed or mop the sweat from my brow, I whip up a batch of instant mashed potatoes - a small batch. And I smear it all around the inside of a pot and I set it down. In front of Gracie. And she spends those next 10 minutes licking every atom of mashed potato off of the pan. And yes, sometimes I feel the pangs of guilt that accompany this senseless act of substituting food for love. But only just a little.
But, herein lies the problem. I never anticipate just how fun it is going to be to watch her do this. So I just end up standing there staring. For 10 minutes. I watch her lick up all of the tiny mashed potatoes with her tiny little tongue. And then my 10 minutes are all used up.
And at that point, she starts looking around for what to destroy next...
"Hey, I think those hardwood stairs just gave me a dirty look."
And I'm looking around for Tinkie so I can shove her pixie dust up her nose and spray paint her green dress black.
Here's to another Magical Day!
Eternal Questions and Portrait of a Shoe
There are so many questions I want to ask God one day when I get to Heaven, and I realize I am assuming a lot about God's grace in making that statement, but still. So anyway, when I'm standing there at the Pearly Gates having a one-on-one with my Father I will hopefully have the opportunity to ask him these questions:
1. Why are little children allowed to ...<< MORE >>
Not Dead, Just Dog Tired
Hell-oo! Is anyone in there???? I think I hear an echo.
I'm pretty sure that my Mom is the only person on the whole internet who still checks my blog on a daily basis. No doubt the only 2 other people who have ever even read it have given up- having been slowly starved to death by my lack of updates.
So, to the three of you, I am ...<< MORE >>
the dog days of summer
SOOOOO, if a picture is worth a thousand words, than this picture is a blog entry, all on its own.
I do think this accurately depicts the older dog's feelings and general intent about younger dog.
In time, she will be happy about the new addition... but for now....it's DRACULA DOG!!!!
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Puppy Pickin'
Today was the big day. We went to Rowlett, Texas to pick up our puppy. We only had 2 females to choose from, thankfully, because they were all so cute (males included) that we had a hard time even with that. We wanted them ALL.
Here is Gracie. She will be 7 weeks old in two days. She is sweet and has that wonderful distended puppy tummy and has the best PUPPY BREATH ever!
And here is Tilly, our resident dog, staring at her while Gracie is conked out. I'm pretty sure Tilly's wondering how to kill her silently and dispose of the body while nobody's looking.
Actually, she was pretty good about the newcomer - though she did growl a bit at first. And anytime Gracie tried to get a drink of water, Tilly would RUN over at breakneck speed and drink it ALL as if to say, "HA! My water." She seems ok, other than that, as long as I am ignoring the little punk - which, by the way, is quite hard to do, as you can imagine.
Man In Black
This week was Football Skills Camp. It was run by the coaches of the highly nationally successful high school football team here in our hometown. Did I mention that football is SERIOUS bid-ness here in Texas? Whoa doggie. They ain't messin' around. EVERY single SUV within a 40 mile radius sports a Dragon sticker like this on it:
I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. And, yes, I realize that isn't the greatest looking mascot, but DUDE, they rule. When we first got here, we thought it was some weird Department of Motor Vehicle requirement to have these on your car or something. And I know that isn't the case, but I still harbor an unreasonable fear that a policeman will pull me over and issue me a citation for not having one, just the same. FAILURE TO BE A REAL DRAGON FAN.
There is a lottery to get a seat to watch these games. Just ask my husband, who waited all night long in the line only to find out in the morning, he was out of luck. Seriously, fanatical fans drive all day long from all over God's creation to come watch football here in Texas. High school football. Children. In green outfits with a big goofy dragon as their mascot. Seriously. When we lived in NC we watched this team on t.v. They played their last championship game at the Dallas Cowboy stadium. Here is their little ol' football field:
So, imagine my trepidation, no, make that MY SHEER TERROR at the thought of WILLIAM going to this camp and not quite cutting the mustard (oh there I go again), that is, not really being as skilled as the other 2nd graders who have been being groomed in the art of football skill acquisition since the moment of their conception on their Mama and Daddy's neon green colored bedspread.
Well, I was worried, but not because I couldn't handle it. Clearly, I am used to my kids not being in the top 10% of, well, anything. But THIS CHILD just wouldn't do well, let's say, if he failed miserably. My eyes are crossing and a wave of nausea overcomes me just imagining the scenarios. I guess I haven't mentioned this about him before, but William is utterly and completely OBSESSED (and not in the healthy sense) with PEYTON MANNING and football in general. He writes books about Peyton in his spare time and spends the rest of his time making football play books. You know, with X's and O's and arrows and what not.
One day I spent my entire day printing out GOOGLE images of Peyton on my printer for him. Somehow I'm sure that tagged me as a stalker and the FBI has deemed me a "person of interest" as a result. He doesn't watch cartoons like other normal children, he watches some special NFL channel we pay for - where there are rerun NFL football games on for his viewing pleasure - 24/7. And he watches them, 24/7. And there are times, when I have to lay down the law and, I am like, "It is TIME TO WATCH Sponge Bob Square Pants!" I mean as a mother, it is my job, to create a healthy, balanced childhood for my children, right?
As it was, on the first day of camp, when the coach called all of the kids to the middle of the astro turf indoor stadium - and all of the other mini Peyton Mannings and Brett Favres go flying out like baby birds to their Mama - William turns to me and starts bawling. I pointed. AT THE OTHER CHILDREN. AND THE COACH. and I said, GO. NOW. And he fled, wiping tears with his little baby bird wings. If I'd had an ice pick handy, I would have rammed it into my own skull. He's SO INTENSE. It's only 8:45 a.m. It's not 5:00 ANYWHERE.
After 3 hours of wondering and worrying, I drive back to the set of the new reality t.v. series: "The Making of a Dallas Cowboy" - I mean "football skills camp" and find the varsity players handing out various awards... there are 2 awards for each grade level. This isn't good. Call me a pessimist, but I instinctively know the following two things:
1. William will not win one of these awards. and
2. He will spend the next 7 years of his life in complete and utter anguish as a result.
I want to run at the coach and shake him and shout, "WHY THE AWARDS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY, MAN?" I wonder if it is too late to slip someone a twenty? AAACCCKKK! I prepare for the worst. The announcements are made.
"2nd grade: Punt, Pass and Kick Award goes to CHANDLER FIELDS.
Pacesetter award goes to : Brandon Smith.
Award for most severely depressed child goes to : William" (okay I am making that last one up.)
To my great surprise and delight he doesn't even mention the award ceremony afterwards. He is happy. Very. He had a great time. Aliens have abducted my mini-dictator. Thank you, aliens. Oh, and I do NOT accept returns, so um, have fun with that in Mars, ok?
Fast forward to the next day's awards ceremony.
"2nd Grade Pacesetter Award: Dylan Meyers.
2nd Grade Punt, Pass, Kick Award: William (our last name)."
I have a mini-heart attack. I'm wondering if there is another Will with the same last name. But no, it is my kid. Who wins the award. He looks at me through the sea of green and black sweaty cotton t's and beams. Very cool. I sigh a great sigh of relief. He won his award for the week. Now I can relax.
Today was the last day of camp. I didn't realize that, previously. I figured it went through Friday. Guess I should read me flyers a bit more closely, eh? Anyway, I had a doctors appointment that I could only squeeze in very quickly at the time his camp would be ending, so I left my oldest son, Nick, there to receive William and watch over him until I could get there.
I showed up right as everyone was filing out and I'm able to pick out my two little love machines in the vast crowd. One is gigantic and put-upon looking and one is tiny and clad all in black, and grinning wildly and holding a trophy. A TROPHY????
Apparently, he won the much-coveted, end of camp, "Best Camper Award" for 2nd grade. This highly prestigious award is given to the one person in each grade who most exhibits the qualities of leadership, encouragement to teammates, and overall football skills. How in the love of Pete did HE get it? I kid. I kid.
I spend the rest of my afternoon admiring the trophy at his behest and conducting a photo shoot for one very fussy and particular photographee.
Poor James Taylor, Nobody Likes His Song
We went to our first church service (in our new town, that is) last Sunday. I've loved the church ever since we moved here. When I drive down the main drag, it looks like the steeple is hovering right over our house...it's been kind of my landmark for locating our house.
Here's a side view:
So we tried it. My first taste of Texas church. I now understand what a resident of the area meant when she described the area churches as akin to "Six Flags Over Jesus". Church is a big deal here - as it should be. These Texans take it SERIOUSLY. Most churches look like enormous corporate headquarters. And there is one on every block and they are all HUGE and SUCCESSFUL.
The looks of this one are a bit deceiving from the outside. We walk in and a wonderful man greets us and apparently we have NEW! and VISITOR! stamped on our foreheads because we get swept into the fold faster than mayonnaise into a tuna salad.
The nice man provides us with all kinds of good information including the fact that we get to choose between 3 services at this one time slot. "One is very traditional." "One is more "James Taylor-ish" and "One is in kind of a warehouse and is all "Nickelback".
My head is swimming at this and I am so confused, and I'm all, "What is nickel back?"
HONEST to Pete, I am thinking that we'll get coins in return for attending this service. My kids AND my husband look at me in horror. Even the balding Christian greeter looks offended. Apparently they all know the popular band, "Nickelback", and are embarrassed beyond all imagination that I don't. They all say they want Nickelback. I wanted to say, "Well, I want Quarterback!" But I figured they'd leave me for good, so I shut it.
We are led down to a cool building which is like a warehouse and it is dark, save for the lights flashing all around and the simulated smoke in the air and the band on stage.
I've never had church THIS WAY! But it was pretty cool. OBVIOUSLY it was geared more toward young folk who know who Nickelback even IS, but I enjoyed the band, who by the way, sounded EXACTLY like Rascal Flatts. VERY COOL.
All of that is to say that Wiliam, who never misses a word in any conversation, picked up on the James Taylor comment earlier on.
So last night was Game 1 of the NBA Championships between the Lakers and the Celtics. In case you missed it, James Taylor was singing the National Anthem. I like him and it really wasn't good. It was poor. I just don't think his laid back-smoke a doobie-style is a good fit for a song that is supposed to whip people into a heated patriotic frenzy. Instead of wanting to take up arms and defend my country, I wanted to lay out on the beach and have a margarita.
William apparently didn't think much of the rendition, himself. Today, we were driving past the church and I said,
"Oh, we get to go to that neat church again on Sunday. I think we should try the "James Taylor" service, this time."
to which he replied,
"Okay, but we probably shouldn't tell him that HIS SONG SUCKED last night."
I'm not sure how to break it to him that THE James Taylor won't be at church on Sunday.
Dog Bites Self?
Oh wow. This is why I love animals. The sheer volume of humor they provide on a consistent basis. Watch this clip - at around 1:10 there is a dog who has a bone and is just certain that
his own leg wants to take it from him. ...<< MORE >>