Okay, so my birthday was a couple of days ago. I’m okay with admitting that I’m 35 now, unless my dad’s around and then I only admit to being 25 because, as my dad puts it, that’s a win-win situation for both of us. But, for the record 35 is not old.

It’s not!

Having a birthday on a Wednesday really sucks almost as much as having a birthday a month after Christmas. Which is why any formal celebrations of the day of my birth are scheduled for tomorrow, a Saturday, because that is more conducive to partying and merry-making than a freaking Wednesday.

Let me give you an idea of how much a Wednesday birthday sucks… first, unless you are Charlie Sheen – having a birthday on a day notoriously referred to as “hump day” just isn’t going to work out.

Everyone is still at work or in school even though Maggie tried to convince me that she should totally take the day off to help me celebrate. I got the old stink-eye look when I suggested that taking a day off from Spanish might just delay her plan of ruling the world a bit.

Around noon UPS pulled up in front of the house and I just knew better than to get excited at all. Good thing too, it was a delivery from Cabelas for Mike – a new fishing pole. My birthday – he gets a fishing pole. To be fair he ordered it weeks ago and it took this long to arrive and just happened to be delivered on my birthday.

I cleaned the kitchen, made lunch, worked and managed to scald my hand when hot tea sloshed out of my cup. By that afternoon I was desperate for a beer (or six) and I grabbed an ice cold St. Pauli Girl from the fridge and ninja’d my way upstairs hoping no one would stop me and ask me about dinner or any of the other 8 million tasks I handle on a daily basis. I had a backup plan. If anyone saw me I was fully prepared to clap my hands over my ears and sing, “La la la la it’s my birthday I can’t hear you la la la!”

I was on a mission – pure, uninhibited “me” time for MY birthday. I ran a bath but was so focused on lighting candles and burning my finger with the lighter (note – bring the candle TO the flame not vice versa!) that I didn’t pay much attention to temperature and while I’d have been happy scalding my rear end I instead ended up in something just slightly warmer than tepid. I soldiered on, determined to have my own little mini-birthday celebration and solidly refusing to let a poorly run bath put a stop to it. Twenty minutes later I had happily given up on my lukewarm bath and ended up in bed knitting while watching Two and a Half Men reruns.

Ahem. That should not be seen as defeat. I was alone, I love knitting, I had chocolate AND beer… it was not defeat. It was a carefully planned strategy to ensure peace, solitude and not having any bodies to bury later that night.

Most importantly, I’ve been assured that this does NOT indicate my being old because I wasn’t watching Wheel of Fortune and shopping for double recliners or things of that nature. I’m secure in my knowledge because I consulted both Google and Facebook! In spite of a couple of smart-assed friends I’m confident that knitting in bed at 6pm does NOT make me old.

It was my birthday, dammit!!!!

Sooo, it looks like Cabo San Lucas and St. Bart’s are the top hot spots for New Year’s for the A-listers this year. Those of us regular joes probably aren’t jetting off for Costa Rica vacations and are instead opting to stick a little closer to home on what my husband calls, “amateur drinking night.”

Our New Year’s eves are notoriously (ha) quiet and laid back. Not that we won’t make it to midnight. Although, I’ve completely given up on champagne as the last time I toasted I had a slamming headache within five minutes of finishing my one and only glass. Riding a migraine into the new year isn’t my idea of fun so I’ll probably stick to a nice dark beer or glass of red wine.

At any rate here we are at the start of another new year. Easter is just around the corner and summer vacation will shortly follow. It amazes me how quickly the years fly by the older I get. Still I’m not quite ready for winter break to be over since Monday’s arrival with signal a return to the daily grind. At least there are more than a few three-day weekends to look forward to.

Mike and I have plans for the next year. We’re going to start hitting the gym together and then try not to peer pressure one another into stopping for a pitcher of beer after. We also have some camping trips to plan and book sites for – family time is top on the priority list this year, especially with Katie half way through high school and Ethan in college. It makes a parent wonder where all the time has gone.

I’m really looking forward to spring and barbecues. We spend so much time outside in the spring and summer I’m already getting a good case of cabin fever since the weather has been almost unbearable with all the rain. It’s cleared up a bit but the weatherman promises the return of downpours by New Year’s day, Maggie’s 7th birthday. It was raining the day she was born so it seems only fitting for the rain to return on her birthday.

What are your plans for New Year’s eve? I hope you have wonderful plans for New Year’s and that your celebrations go off without a hitch, safely and splendidly. Happy New Year’s!

It’s that time of year… my Halloween decorations are put away, I’ve got my Thanksgiving/Fall stuff up already and Christmas carols playing. I’m starting to get that giddy feeling I usually get this time of year and I know I’m only a few weeks away from pulling out the Christmas decorations and reliving all the happy memories of Christmases past as I “Oooo” and “Ahhh” over various ornaments when they come out of their boxes headed for the tree.

What kind of preparations are you making for the holidays? It’s funny we always see / hear the term “spring cleaning” but hardly anyone ever mentions the cleaning that happens in the fall. Aside from having the kids clean out their closets and toy boxes and getting rid of the broken toys and board games with missing pieces since a whole fresh load of stuff to be broken is due to arrive in December. Actually, my two favorite cleanings of the year (among the weekly and day in, day out cleaning) are in the spring when the house is opened up after the winter and all the fresh air comes pouring in and the cleaning right after Christmas when the tree goes out (as sad as that is) and everything is all fresh and set right to start out the new year.

The big chore I never look forward to is carpet cleaning. I’m just about done with carpet in general these days. I really see few redeeming qualities anymore. I think I mentioned in a post a long time ago that I was wanting to do stained concrete on our bottom floor. I’m still determined to do that. But, sadly it’s not going to happen this year so my husband will probably go rent a carpet cleaner and he and Ethan will clean the carpets while all the girls stay upstairs out of their way. I’m not even the one doing it and I hate the whole process. I’d much prefer that I be the one down there mopping the floor than having carpets cleaned and waiting for them to dry and so on and so forth. Which is another excellent argument to expedite the exorcism of the downstairs carpet.

Sure we could have the carpets cleaned professionally, but then I’m forced to wait around while the guys clean the carpets and give us all sorts of advice on how to vacuum and how important “carpet combing” is, and how you really need to have your carpets cleaned every six months just like your teeth. What they really mean is that they want us to hire them to come out every six months because who doesn’t want repeat business twice a year? I don’t blame them it’s not that they don’t do a good, quality job of cleaning the carpets… I just hate the cost involved.

But, as long as I’m dealing with carpet I have to admit that there is nothing quite so nice as freshly cleaned carpets. Not that I care for the antsy way I follow everyone through the house reminding them to wipe their feet, take their shoes off at the door, and don’t carry that drink any further than is absolutely necessary!!

Clearly, I’ve given this whole carpet thing far too much thought and it’s really time for it to go.

Hear that, Mike?

“I saw the destruction of Dresden. I saw the city before and then came out of an air-raid shelter and saw it afterward, and certainly one response is laughter. God knows, that’s the soul seeking some relief…

Humor is an almost physiological response to fear. Freud said that humor is a response to frustration – one of several.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, “Man Without A Country”

And, I quote that to tell this story.

There I was newly wed, happily married but still adjusting, of course. Mike and I had been together for a year and half when we were married. He had an unusual past and part of that was due to his father.

The father-in-law I knew and liked a great deal was not the man who married my mother-in-law or sired two men that are complete polar opposites. When I met Pops he had an almost Cary Grant-like charm, adored children (especially toddlers) and was incredibly proud of his eldest son.

This was in direct contradiction to the man who surfed in southern California, grew up hot-rodding around San Pedro, and in some strange sort of twist became obsessed with hunting and moved his young wife and 2 young sons up to a remote mountain town.

Pops raised hounds, he hunted bears and mountain lions and was so well respected that the Department of Fish and Game hired him to guide them on surveys of the mountain lion population. By day he was an oil lease operator for Shell Oil Company, every other spare waking moment was spent with his hounds somewhere in the mountains carrying a gun and leaping creeks and ravines as if he had been born and raised on the mountain itself.

In short, he lacked that special parenting gene one requires to be an active and involved parent. Sure, he provided for his family… financially and if you compare to what is expected of a father in today’s society, Pops probably didn’t cut the mustard in that department. Although, he did instill a healthy respect of nature and firearms in both of his children. And, years later my husband continues to make gatherings of teenage boys laugh pretty hard at stories of Pops’ exploits and adventures.

While Pops might not have lived up to what we expect in fathers today, I have to say that I credit this man with almost all that I consider wonderful and good in my husband today.

My husband’s parents divorced when he was in his early teens. Pops lost his job at Shell and eventually stopped hunting. He gained interest in other sports, specifically women, booze, drugs and motorcycles and not necessarily in that order.

Pops led a wild and freewheeling lifestyle. He became a biker, rode a Harley and protested all things helmet law related. Occasionally, he would disappear for days at a time but always managed to turn up. Mike, who by now was in his early twenties, was a regular attendee and partaker of most of Pops’ escapades. After all, an “illegal” was just a sick bird. (If you don’t get it say it out loud)

Somehow through the radical changes and over a period of several years he and Mike established a relationship that was part affection and part frustration on Mike’s part. The frustration came in when Mike decided he was done partying and wanted to straighten out his life and become a productive member of society. Pops never had a desire to give up the partying and it occasionally became a source of irritation for Mike, but Mike is an easy-going person by nature and he always managed to laugh it off and genuinely like his dad anyway.

If you don’t get anything else from this post at least go away with that, my father-in-law was an incredibly likable guy.

The first time I met Pops I was at Mike’s bachelor pad making dinner. Mike had run to the store and there was a tap at the door. When I answered I found a tall, thin man with a friendly smile dressed in a denim jacket and black cowboy boots. He introduced himself as “Mike Sr.” and was polite, sweet and charming… basically the opposite of what Mike had told me to expect IF (big IF) I were to ever meet Pops.

About that time Mike arrived and had the most horrified look on his face. He barely choked out, “Hello Pops, I see you’ve met Amy. Sure hope you’ve been on your best behavior.” Pops seemed to find a great deal of amusement in Mike’s obvious discomfort, he gave a mischievous grin and assured Mike that he had been a gentleman. Behind Mike’s worry it was obvious that this was a guy who really loved his dad and the affection seemed mutual.

Almost a year later we were awakened late at night by the phone ringing. It was Pops calling to tell Mike that he had been diagnosed with cancer and that the prognosis was grim, to say the least. The following spring Mike and I were married and Pops was in one of the front pews of the chapel.

Another year and half went by and Pops was spending more and more time at our house recovering from chemo treatments and doctor’s appointments. He seemed to rapidly deteriorate right before our eyes. Still he was always as sweet and charming as the first evening I had met him. He told us funny stories and always had time to cuddle Kate on his lap and tell her stories. She loved Pops… and Kate was rather funny about people, in fact, she didn’t like very many at all.

It wasn’t long after that Mike and I woke up in the middle of the night. We sat there in the dark silence of our bedroom and we both just knew that it was over. Pops was gone. About fifteen minutes later we got a call from a hospice nurse to let us know that Pops had passed away.

Mike got up and drove the 45 minutes to Pops’ house. Back at home I had most of the funeral arrangements in the works by 9am. It was the least I could do for my husband, I knew Mike would be an absolute mess.

I admit that my family can be strange. We have always found a way to laugh at the most inappropriate times. Pops’ death was, unfortunately, a situation that was ripe for laughter.

Typically, when you go to make funeral arrangements, you make them with the funeral home where the body already is. By 9am the body had been removed and no one knew where it might be. I didn’t dare call my husband because I knew he was in no position to deal with it. Unfortunately, being in my early twenties, with only one very traumatic experience with a funeral at the age of 8, funerals were not my expertise and I was ill-prepared to make these arrangements myself.

Let’s face it… you’d have to be a very… special person to want to be a pro at this sort of thing anyway.

I called the first funeral home and explained that my father had passed away… the funeral agent who answered the phone was very sympathetic and seemed well versed in making all the politically correct, polite noises.

Me: The problem is, well, I’ve lost my father-in-law.

Funeral Agent: Yes, dear, I understand that. This can be a terrible time for any family.

Me: No, you don’t understand, I’ve lost my father-in-law.

Funeral Agent: Perhaps grief counseling might be helpful. The first step in the grief process is usually denial…

Me: Look, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand me… I’VE LOST THE BODY… THE BODY IS MISSING!!!!!!!!!!

Funeral Agent: *silence* (I could almost hear her blinking)

Me: Hello?

Funeral Agent: uh… well… this is unusual…

************

This same conversation was repeated with 3 other funeral homes before I finally found one who was helpful and knew the hospice that had taken care of Pops. They finally tracked him down for me. In between each of these calls I would call a friend with an update and we would end up giggling almost hysterically for several minutes.

It was weeks before I finally told my husband that I had lost his father for several hours the morning after he had died.

He laughed (a lot) and said, “Well, I guess Pops couldn’t go out without one last disappearing act. He sure would have gotten a kick out of that. ”

I have to be thankful that we had Pops interred instead of going with cremation. At least now we always know where he is.

Last weekend was the big event… the one we’ve been practicing for, the Bakersfield Biggest Baddest Barbecue Championship 2009! After months of tweaking websites and eating loads of Mike’s barbecue everything came down to late (very late) Friday night right up to noon on Saturday.

They say that competitions are won or lost within the 15 before the first turn in. The rules are strict, the judging is fierce, and the garnish nearly caused me more than a few gray hairs.

The good news is that we took 10th place in Brisket.

The picture above is not our brisket. In fact, I only have ONE picture of our brisket and only ONE picture of a finished presentation because I was just THAT STRESSED over it being my first time doing boxes with garnish and being judged and all that jazz!

Of course, in the normal realm of things 10th isn’t so great, but we were up against PROS! And to place AT ALL our first time out was WICKEDLY AWESOME!

And, after going over all the data and scores (extensively) we found that our ribs actually beat out a few restaurants here in town. Which, at the very least, secured us some bragging rights.

Saturday morning I attended a class on garnish by Harry over at Slap Yo Daddy Barbecue. Harry is a super nice guy, very informative, and very helpful. He was also the grand champion of the event. There are all kinds of tricks and tweaks that go into these competitions and we were nearly blindsided if it weren’t for Harry’s demonstration Saturday morning. Needless to say… Ethan made great friends with a produce guy at a local supermarket and that is probably what saved the day for us.

We didn’t go into it expecting to win or even place we just wanted to have a good time. We did… probably too good thanks to Jeremy Tucker over at T-Bones Ranch House. Jeremy is an old friend (he was at our wedding helping to run the reception) and one of the sweetest guys on the planet, donating a lot of time, blood, sweat, tears, and talent to cater the event and help out for a really great cause.

Jeremy showed up at our spot with a bottle of Patron and by the end of the night Mike was nearly useless. Jeremy’s awesome wife, Lora, had to drag him off to find a designated driver since they both had to be up early at their restaurant the next morning and then back out at the event again!

Most of the grill teams stayed up all night cooking (and drinking) which was pretty fun. We’re already looking forward to next year’s event. By 10am Saturday morning one of the guys from another team took a run through all of our “cook sites” to let us know they were setting up 10 O’ Clock shots of Jager, Goldschlager, and God only knew what else to “take the edge off.” He reminded me of one of Mike’s old buds, Fed (think I’ve told a few Fed stories around here) because, and this won’t be as funny as the actual thing was because you can’t HEAR him say it, “Everyone takes this shit too seriously, like babies in China are dying because you’re out here barbecuing…”

Aside from the 12, 12:30, 1pm, and 1:30pm turn in times on Saturday when things were a little tense (UNDERSTATEMENT!!!) everyone was out there to laugh, enjoy some live music, drink and have a good time. We met some great people and had a really good time and that even takes precedence over the fact that we placed!

I wish I had gotten more pictures. I was also twittering for the event (not on my twitter on the event’s twitter) and of course, helping Mike prep, grill, and present so by the time I could dig in for pics my batteries were croaking and I was just having too good a time.

After all that, we’re woefully addicted to BBQ competitions. We’re looking into a competition in October for our next venture!

This has been running around so I snagged it from Laura @ Snerkology and am running with it!

How Well Do You Know Your Significant Other?

Pt. 1 – Amy on Mike

1. He’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Bonanza or some prison show like “Locked Up Abroad”

2. You’re out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Bleu Cheese

3. What’s one food he doesn’t like?
Oatmeal and cereal in general.

4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does he order?
Always a salad, sometimes a steak and a beer. Commonly Arrogant Bastard or Pyramid Hefe

5. Where did he go to high school?
Bakersfield, CA

6. What size shoe does he wear?
Men’s 10

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?
Motorcycles and fishing equipment

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
Sandwiches in general are a favorite food of his. Probably a really good pastrami or turkey.

9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
Every day? Steak, fish, soup, salad.

10. What is his favorite cereal?
See #3

11. What would he never wear?
A speedo.

12. What is his favorite sports team?
HAHAHAHAHAHA.

13. Who did he vote for?
No comment.

14. Who is his best friend?
Me!

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do?
Accidentally walk in front of our bedroom windows with little to no clothing on.

16. What is his heritage?
Irish!

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
Cheesecake.

18. Did he play sports in high school?
Uh, his nickname in high school was Spiccoli.

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Fishing.

20. What is one unique talent he has?
He has the patience of a saint with Maggie.

— See, I was sweet, honest, and complimentary, Mike on the other hand…

How Well Do You Know Your Significant Other?
Pt. 2 – Mike on Amy

1. She’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Some creepy ghost show.

2. You’re out to eat; what kind of dressing does she get on her salad?
Ranch and sometimes bleu cheese, but mostly ranch.

3. What’s one food she doesn’t like?
Sausage.

4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does she order?
Beer usually, if it’s a mixed drink it’s some multi-booze, rooty-tooty, super fruity knock your dick in the dirt in three drinks, drink.

5. Where did she go to high school?
Bakersfield, CA

6. What size shoe does she wear?
Women’s 9

7. If she were to collect anything, what would it be?
Things I can’t afford.

8. What is her favorite type of sandwich?
Tuna on wheat.

9. What would this person eat every day if she could?
Me.

HAHAHA.

Ok, chocolate

10. What is her favorite cereal?
Oatmeal

11. What would she never wear?
My fishing hat.

12. What is her favorite sports team?
The Dodgers, they have a really good goalie and they make a lot of touch downs. :devil:

13. Who did she vote for?
Ralph Nader or Ross Perot, I really can’t remember.

14. Who is her best friend?
Me!

15. What is something you do that she wishes you wouldn’t do?
Wake up. :rotflmao:

16. What is her heritage?
Female… WTF?

(he is not taking this seriously, obviously)

17. You bake her a cake for her birthday; what kind of cake?
Chocolate

18. Did she play sports in high school?
Sure, tonsil hockey.

19. What could she spend hours doing?
I’d tell you but I don’t want to commit myself.

20. What is one unique talent she has?
:gagged:

I made a roast last night. It was wonderful. Especially with horseradish. It’s been raining off and on since yesterday and is supposed to rain all weekend, I might do another roast tomorrow or Sunday. There is just something perfect about roasts when it’s rainy and stormy outside.

Why is it that when you accomplish something that you instantly find 5 (or more) things that need to be done? It’s bonkers!!! I’ve been moving through the house, organizing, reorganizing, cleaning things out and every time I get one thing right the way I want it several new things spring to mind to do.

The kitchen still needs to be reorganized and a rainy weekend would be great for that… except Mike wants to fish this weekend. The man acts like his fishing license is burning a hole in his pocket, er, fishing hat.

Which reminds me, you might recall the story of how I broke my ankle fishing. I fell off the bank at a small, local lake. It’s really not much of a lake, more like a really big pond or something. When we were there a couple of weeks ago I took a picture of the bank I slipped off of:

For your convenience, I have added visual aids to the picture. Click for the bigger version.

:whistle:

Anyway, I have mentioned numerous times about how I fell down the bank but I think it’s nice to have a picture so you can really see what I fell down exactly. I ended up in the water looking at my foot thinking, “Wow, I don’t think it’s supposed to bend that way.”

Turns out, nope, my foot was not supposed to bend that way.

Yep, I think I will make another roast this weekend.

Somehow Mike heard, “Let’s go fishing!”

He also managed to wrangle me into going to the most evil place on earth (aka Wal-Mart) where we waited for TWENTY MINUTES for someone with keys to the sporting goods counter to show up. The guy in front of us actually called the store on his cell phone 4x before anyone showed up. No joke.

The next time you see Wal-Mart complaining about sales plunging – remember this!!!

*shakes fist in air*

I honestly can’t understand why my husband wants to drag me off to the lake… again. After all, I’m the woman who made fishing a contact sport! I went searching for the post describing how I broke my ankle, but apparently it was left behind on a now vanished blogspot blog I had long, long ago.

Long story short, I was standing on the bank, it was a beautiful day yadda yadda, just caught a fish and proceeded to make another gorgeous cast, slid off the bank (less than 2 foot drop) and snapped my ankle dislocating my foot. Mike thought I broke the fishing pole because he heard the bones break. My ankle? Twas no more. Enter hysterical drive to hospital, morphine in my IV, and two large men twisting my foot back into place before binding my leg up in a temporary cast.

The story of my recovery (actually more entertaining than the break story) can be found here.

Yes, I can tell if it is going to rain, you can almost hear my ankle screaming.

After I got my cast off what do you suppose my husband did? That’s right, decided I needed to “get back on the bicycle” and dragged me out to the lake again. Only this time he made me sit in a chair and any time I got up he either ran over to make sure I didn’t fall down or yelled at me to sit down.

I still out-fished him!

So, one might think he wouldn’t be so keen to drag wifey-pie back out to a bank on some God forsaken lake to spend an afternoon casting and cursing. But, not so, my friends. As I type this he is happily whistling, “So Happy Together” and re-stringing my rod.

———–
BTW, the other day I was interviewed and I totally forgot to ask if anyone wanted me to interview them. It seems like everyone keeps going through bouts of blogger’s block lately and that interview gave me something to write about, so if you want me to interview you leave a comment saying so, please.

There is no question that if you are married to a strong personality that there will be times that you look at that personality, that person and say, “OMG, you are just the hugest asshole I have ever laid eyes on.”

Yeah, I’m married to one of those.

But, he also happens to be one of the damn, coolest assholes I’ve ever met. He’s laid back, very easy, with a charming personality, in fact, he’s just so damn nice sometimes that people often mistake it for stupidity. Personally, I’ve never made that mistake because I’ve seen the man angry (ok, I’ve MADE the man very angry) and I’ve seen that stubborn streak that runs a mile wide. He’s actually the epitome of, “Walk softly and carry a big stick.” Without a doubt, my husband is a man’s man to a “T” and still wickedly cool enough to sit down and watch “Brokeback Mountain” and NOT be ashamed to say that it brought a tear to his eye and pang to his heart.

Through all the trips back and forth to UCLA (hold on, it’s not another cancer post) he hung by the phone if he couldn’t be there and he went through hell and high water to get to us when our car broke down on the Grapevine with giant semi trucks bearing down on us and me attempting to coast a big ass suburban with ZERO power over to the side of the road.

So this last trip I finally got to sit in the passenger seat without panic rising in my chest and many tortured thoughts permeating my brain. Not that he saw it that way as I nervously pointed out the off ramps and noted the turns all the way to the medical building. On the return home as we approached Magic Mountain and Valencia aimed for El Torito (and me, aimed for a big margarita) I was anticipating the “interchange reconstruction” and the many detours to navigate to get to a stupid, chain restaurant with many “helpful suggestions” directed at my (believe it or not) much adored husband who sat patiently behind the wheel.

It never fails that after all of these years together the man can still make me blush like a virgin on her wedding night. For the millionth time that evening I pointed out the detour or some such nonsense and my husband said to me, “Baby, why don’t you stop worrying and let Big Daddy Mike Man take you home?”

I blushed and Ethan started snickering from the dark of the backseat.

So I let him take me home. :love:

And, it was totally worth it.

I admit, I’m not the perfect wife. I try. I really do. I’ve been cooking more lately, screeching (or is that sniping? I’m totally being sarcastic because neither is all that true) less, I’ve even attempted to be *gasp* rational. No really, I have. It’s not fun, it’s a lot more like being a man than most of us women ever really want to be. Nope, give me good, old-fashioned, raw emotions any day, those I can totally handle.

Things have been pretty stressful around here and just as we find out that the light at the end of the tunnel most likely isn’t a train, we find out that the tunnel is another 5 or 10 miles long. It’s not surprising that the stress is beginning to take a toll on all of us, but lately Mike is looking a little raggedy around the edges.

I have extreme powers of observation. I can tell the difference between a “no coffee yet” grumble and a “don’t poke the bear” grumble. I’m just that good. Being the kind, loving mother that I am instead of throwing the cubs to the grumbly bear and escaping with my ass intact, I instead chose to warn my offspring that their father is just a bit edgy.

“Your father is starting to worry me a little.” I said to our oldest after the girls had escaped to Nana’s for a nice swim. “I think the stress is finally getting to him and… well, I think he’s losing it a bit. So, no jokes, don’t get in his face, and for God’s sake, don’t poke the bear. Ok?”

My eldest nodded with a knowing glance that told me he had already ventured near the bear with a long pointy stick and decided even if said stick was 10 feet long and he had a really good head start, there was a really good shot that the bear would still leap on to his back and rip his little pointy head off and howl.

I gave my son this wise advice as Mike was outside poking around in the yard, not unlike a hungry bear. I started cooking dinner warily watching my husband (now inside) nosing around the kitchen, not unlike how a hungry bear might sniff around a dumpster. I finished my salad and stuck it in the fridge to chill.

The bear was making egg rolls with Ethan’s pizza cooker. I asked if he was hungry and he grumbled. I backed away and went back to sneaking bites of the salad out of the fridge while waiting for meat (that Ethan forgot to thaw earlier) to finish thawing.

I glanced over and noticed that the bear was smacking his lips and emitting a low growl.

“Hey, watcha doin?” I said in a throaty sort of sweet/sexy voice.

“Eating an egg roll.” Came the growly reply.

“Huh. That is amazing. I never would have thought you could eat with that giant stick up your ass.”