It’s taken many years, but I think the girls have finally beaten Mike down almost completely. Three of us in very different life stages makes for a constant, demanding, eye rolling, “if looks could kill”, screaming, “who took my gray eye liner?”, hot mess kind of life.

More than once someone has joked that if Maggie is bad now, no one wants to imagine her with PMS. Kate is probably the most easy going out of the three of us but that is no invitation to cross her. And, let’s just be honest, when the time comes I have a feeling I won’t be the only one in the house searching for menopause relief. (Amberen on twitter. Amberen on Facebook)

It was never more clear than last night. Kate was on her way to a friend’s house and I noticed Mike silently navigating traffic as Kate and I discussed pictures from formal on facebook. We were debating dress lengths and you could actually feel the testosterone draining from the vehicle. I expected to look over at my husband and find a withered husk driving the car any second.

Surrounded by women, Mike always seems to have a grin on his face either from sheer enjoyment or the “never let them see you afraid” strategy. Which, for the record, almost never works because women can smell fear in men and the bead of sweat on his upper lip is always a dead giveaway. In this house he might not always be wrong but he’s certainly never right.

I’ve observed Mike taking great comfort in “A Christmas Story” as the Old Man blusters through the house, making everyone quake in his wake, and proudly displaying a leg lamp in the center of the picture window declaring it, “a MAJOR AWARD!” Mike has no leg lamp. Mike does not bluster through the house, although he has been known to yell at the neighbor’s dogs who are more Bumpus like than Mike can tolerate.

I had a moment of sympathy while we were cleaning the kitchen. I said something about how it must be a difficult life for him, Mike replied, “I don’t even argue anymore…”

The arrival of Mike’s Harley seemed to provide some sort of testosterone boost. He strode about the house with a renewed sense of manliness, we were amused until this new invigoration took on an air of cockiness. We don’t play fair, it was a game of cat and mouse that the girls enjoyed until they got bored. Now the displays of manliness are kept to the garage and an occasional tirade on facebook.

Not that we have him beaten completely. He’s just become sneakier about it, he knows better than to fight the women on open ground. He admits, he’s no match for us. His strategies are subversive and almost ninja-like. The rare moments of defiance are often subtle, like finding a new project in the middle of a current project where his help his needed or fiddling around in the backyard “waiting for the grill to warm up” when we are all starving. Oh! Lest I forget one of his favorites; after quietly waiting for us to be ready to leave the house he leaves us all assembled at the front door to do some last minute chore or to find that one hat that he just has to wear.

More often than not his silent protests are usually performed in the most absurd way possible. Like insisting on leaving the house in cargo shorts, a t-shirt, sandals and a Harley-Davidson beanie… in January.

There was also that moment after Christmas while we took down outdoor decorations and barked orders for Mike to “check this bulb” and “take this apart” when he clearly couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I looked up just long enough to see our car going down the street dragging the Christmas tree behind it. We stopped and stared as he rounded the corner, our 9 foot tall tree bobbing and weaving behind the car silently, Mike behind the wheel, window rolled down and arm hanging out nonchalantly as if degrading the last vestige of our holiday season was just another errand he had been sent on.

In this house, passive aggressive isn’t just a character flaw, it’s become a survival tactic.

Aside from having a fondness for George Strait’s “Amarillo By Morning” I can’t say that I’ve ever been all that excited about Texas. It’s not that I have anything against Texas, politics/politicians aside, it’s just not a state that has interested me. Sure, lots of history, the Alamo… uh, Chuck Norris?Texas Rangers?

Seems like a lot of people from Texas come here to Bako and a lot of them go back – thank you! (Kidding! Don’t send lynch mobs or a posse to Cali, please)

We have a lot of rich, Hispanic culture here in the San Joaquin Valley and I know my way around authentic Mexican cuisine. We have a lot of the real deal around Bako and to that I say, “Muchas gracias!” So I can’t say I’m going to be traveling to say, Dallas or doing a search for Mexican restaurant Dallas any time soon.

Then I hit this website Republic of Texas and I’m currently on a low carb diet so, of course, I was struck by the chocolate dipped Oreos because nothings says “carb binge” like taking sugar and fat laden chocolate cookies with cream filling and dunking them in milk and white chocolate.

Mike is the resident Pit Master around here and he knows his way around the deep pit, smoker and grill so I don’t get all excited over smoked meats, sausages, etc. I do, however, keep an eye out for unusual barbecue sauces, salsas and other jarred goodies so I spent far too much time at Republic of Texas Company Store. Looks good, check it out!

I’m all about nurturing the self-esteem of my children. No really, I am. You know, when it’s necessary and all that jazz.

Normally, I would give pause and really become concerned about what telling a story involving a burn that looks like a hickey might do to the child with the burn-that-looks-like-a-hickey. Except, the moral of the story (yes, even burns-that-look-like-hickeys have morals) is that said wearer of said offensive burn clearly has solid self-esteem. Here’s how I know that now:

Katie was curling her hair with her ginormous, super hot curling iron that does not curl her hair all that well but does, in fact, burn her skin brilliantly. We found out later at the hair salon that everyone has done this, it’s awesomely funny and yes, Katie needs a curling iron that gets far hotter than the one she has. We need the hair to curl and the burns to blister instantly to avoid burns-that-look-like-hickeys and also, your mother writing blog posts like this. Moving on.

A side note to this story is that I am taking my life in my own hands writing it. This was more of a subconscious fear until Katie walked through the room in her crazy plaid pajama pants and I broke out in a cold sweat hoping she might not ask what I am typing so furiously over here in my little corner.

Our story begins in the bathroom one morning as Katie was getting ready for school. Katie was curling her hair with the crappy, but super hot curling iron and she burned her neck. Not enough to blister, because everyone knows hickeys do not blister, but enough to leave a rosy, red blotch on her neck.

Surprisingly, kids in high school do not care if you have a red blotch on your neck, under your ear. Not because everyone is sporting them but because hickeys are just so darn cliche` and “The Breakfast Club” called and would like their teen angst and fake ID back.

Guess who does care? Your father picking you up from school. Not because he thinks you have a real hickey but because you complain you have a giant burn that looks like a hickey.

Mike asked, “Do you want to run some errands with me?”

“Sure.” Kate replied.

“Then you’ll have to cover up your hickey.”

Kate, not skipping a beat, “Bitch, take me home.”

So you see, my child is not lacking in self-esteem. Even with a hickey-burn which has now faded to a lovely golden crisp that no longer resembles a hickey.

That bit of ridiculousness was brought to you by me, courtesy of Katie who has played it roughly 8 billion times and turned lines from it into the most obnoxious earworm on the planet. I swear. Personally, I thought it was just “okay” the first time I saw it. What made it funny was our good friend, Nate, who would recite lines in response to completely unrelated conversations.

Which, brings me to my next thought, I know what you’re thinking out there, oh yes, I really do. Something like:

“Zomg. She never blogs anymore and when she does it’s this cheesy drivel or nonstop talk about fishing and OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG… that SUCKS.”

Indeed.

Why you’d almost never know that I am a huge fan of Russell Brand as a stand up comedian (Arthur, sucked out loud, I’m afraid) and that I really love a good dirty joke, would you?

*seagulling*

Bwahahahaha.

Nope, around here it’s all glitter and unicorns and ridiculousness.

You see, the interesting happens when I am safely ensconced in my Facebook tower of magnificent ivory glory. The interesting often includes uninhibited snarky, bitchy rants and yes, the occasional tipsy utterance that even then is safely relegated to only a few eyes on a very exclusive list. Said list is fairly tough to get on, I either have to know you very well or you have to happily imbibe on a regular basis.

The number of wonderful souls who actually fit into either category is far too small.

I was watching Jim Jeffries (a standup comedian from Australia that my darling, Nate-R-Tots turned me on to) the other night, look him up on YouTube only if you have a legit sense of humor and are not a prude of some sort. Sadly, THAT list is far too long! Nevertheless, you’ve been warned.

Anyway… *sigh* he has a great bit about how you just can’t trust people who don’t drink. Lord, isn’t that the truth? You really can’t. Most of the people I adore most imbibe now and again. Now, I’m not talking about sloshing around fully-loaded all the time or full-blown alcoholics! I’m talking about people who know how to loosen up and have a good time. If you can’t manage that… well, get on with yourself then and no, don’t give me the old stink-eye because I enjoy a lovely pint of Stella Artois or Peroni with my pizza on Friday nights.

or a gorgeous Modelo with my chile verde.

or a cold, dark Guinness on a chilly winter evening.

Time and place, people. That’s all I’m saying.

Time and place.

I have attempted almost everything imaginable to break my husband of this blasted obsession with fishing, including breaking my ankle WHILE fishing. His interest goes away for several months to a year at best and reappears out of nowhere with the enthusiasm of someone just offered a full-time job drinking beer and fishing for trout at a secluded mountain lake.

I used to enjoy fishing when it was part of an annual family vacation with my grandparents. I enjoyed it when it was part of an annual camping trip with the kids. When it becomes an every other weekend ritual of blood worms, sand worms and what the kids are now referring to as “stAnky bait” (said with annoying southern accent that only a kid from California can muster up) it starts to lose it’s sense of fun.

A couple of weekends ago I allowed my husband to wrangle me into a Catfish Derby out at Buena Vista Lake about 30 minutes from our house. It’s a man made pit of a lake that I grew up water skiing on. Since the Derby started at the ass crack of dawn my husband thought it would be great to camp out at the lake as well.

The weather report had claimed “cloudy, overcast with a chance of showers” and temps in the high 60′s. Being the good sports that we are, the girls and I trooped out to the shoreline, cast out and plopped into chairs. Katie and I brought books and our knitting bags, Maggie had her backpack with video games and books. Mike was gleefully going through his fishing bags pulling out his “highly recommended” jars of vomit colored bait paste and the special hooks with sponges meant to soak up the questionably colored miracle bait.

Mike looked at me with a gleam in his eye that I’m pretty sure is strictly reserved for 13 year old boys who have just discovered their dad’s stash of Playboy magazines. He said, “The guy at Bob’s Bait Bucket said that this (motioning to the jar) is the guacamole and these (motioning to the sponge hook contraptions) are the chips!” He opened a jar of bait and people 20 feet down wind from us gasped. Mike stood over the jar with his eyes watering, “Hoooo! This stuff stinks!”

Understatement of the year. I swear.

By 9am the sun was in full force beating down on the tree-less shore line with a blinding ferocity usually reserved for late July. I had forgotten sunscreen and couldn’t help but be reminded of the camping trip to the middle of mosquito infested nowhere when I had forgotten the mosquito repellent.

For hours we sat in the sun looking up and down the shoreline at our fellow fishermen, disappointment had settled over the lake not unlike the stench of “stanky bait” and possibly even more putrid. People who fish are a dedicated lot and will withstand all sorts of disgusting conditions as long as they are getting nibbles on their lines. They don’t even have to be catching anything as long as they feel an occasional tug and someone across the lake is reeling something in every once in a while. The sad truth is that at the end of the day fishing is really a game of hope.

But, the game was going badly and hope was dwindling that Saturday. It was so bad that a ranger cruising through with a bullhorn reminding everyone of the 4pm “weigh in” time paused to ask someone to pull up their net that had a few carp in it and said, “See! For those folks out there saying that the fish aren’t biting – show ‘em your net there. Now, get back to fishing this ain’t a CARP derby!”

The rest of the guys on the shoreline didn’t find that nearly as funny as Kate and I did so we kept our chuckles to ourselves. By noon I was more lobster and less Amy. The fish weren’t biting either and Maggie was on the verge of staging a full blown mutiny that would have ended with Mike left in standing on the shore with a jar of stanky bait jammed somewhere pretty uncomfortable.

We headed back to the campsite where Maggie and I fell asleep for most of the afternoon. We woke up in time to find Mike trying to make it up to us by grilling some killer steaks. Then Kate and I discovered those creepy looking earwig bugs crawling all over our campsite. It’s not much fun to have a good case of heebie jeebie, crawling skin when you’re sunburned to a crisp.

We had a group of jet skiing teenage / twenty-somethings next to us that we dubbed “the bros” and proceeded to narrate their adventures as they climbed the trees in their campsite, swung on ski ropes, and played some strange version of “extreme duck, duck, goose” with a lit stick. It was honestly better than any reality television I’ve ever seen.

Around 4am the rain finally showed up. We had forgotten to put the rain canopy over the tent. Maggie slept soundly while Kate, Mike and I shivered in the wind putting the canopy on. Around 5:30 we woke up to winds so strong that part of our tent was caving in. We decided to call it a day and packed up camp in the wind and rain, thirty minutes later we were home and fighting for the showers.

Here I am a week or so later. The sun burn has faded to a nice tan but I’m still peeling which has me walking around looking like a dandruff machine – YUCK. I have yet to catch a fish this year and am starting to think the 2011 fishing season is going to end up a lot like that whale watching tour Mike suckered me into a few years ago.

A friend on facebook recently mentioned that her toddler daughter’s favorite song is Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain.” She sings it to her as a lullaby every night and often catches the little girl singing it during the day as she goes through her various activities.

It got me thinking about lullabies I sang to my kids. I usually sang songs that I learned from my grandmother, many of which I later found out were from popular musicals. “Bushel and a Peck” from Guys and Dolls, is one. Another is K-K-K-Katy, originally a WWI song that I’m pretty sure she picked up from a movie with Betty Grable called, “Tin Pan Alley” and of course you can probably imagine which child heard that one – a lot, my darling Katie. “K-k-k Katy, beautiful Katy, you’re the only only girl that I adore.”

Of course, Katie is a doll and the song fits her perfectly and she’s the easiest of all three of my children. I can’t gush enough about my wonderful redhead.

Then Miss Margaret came along, all blue-eyed, blonde and angelic looking. I’m pretty sure we just sang stuff like “Back in Black” and “You Shook Me” by AC/DC. It’s the only explanation I have.

I’m joking, I sang to Miss Maggie but I mostly remember her happily perched in her bouncy seat listening to her father and brother play guitar to those songs. That’s her attitude, she just bolts through life like a bull through a china closet taking no prisoners and having no regrets. Oh, to have that energy and that zest for life!

The other day Maggie told us she wanted to be a ninja/dog groomer. Ethan is still holding out hope she’ll become a super, secret spy/assassin for the government. If you watch “Bones” at all… Ethan is sort of our resident Hodgins. I emphasize “sort of” because Ethan loses his mind around bugs and slime and whatnot, it’s mainly the deep suspicion of the government and various conspiracy theories that are near and dear to his heart. Which is odd, because I don’t recall singing anything strange to him.

You should have heard Ethan during the whole “swine flu” fiasco! Of course, Mike still swears he had “swine flu” the time he ate some questionable fish tacos from a restaurant when he was out of town. I had to explain to him that just because he ate like a pig and got sick – did not make it swine flu!

Speaking of viruses… the dreaded “V” word of the internet world. I’m curious – what virus protection are you using? AVG? Norton? McAfee? Dear God, personally I wouldn’t be caught dead using Norton or McAfee! Anyone using Trend Micro – trend micro voucher codes?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a post about Maggie. Shall I catch you up a bit? She’s no where near her desired position of “World Ruler” but she’s gaining ground. Currently, she’s learning Spanish, I suspect Italian will be next followed by French and then God knows what but I really doubt it will be Latin unless her plan is to make it the new world language and then eliminate anyone without the mental capacity to learn it fluently.

If so, I’m sure I have some pull with her and in which case, I’ve got a list of people to spare and an even longer list of people to put at the front of the other line. Said line will probably follow her sister’s plan which goes something like:

“a rather long list of people to be punched is being formed… I will need a long line with one of those annoying zig-zag things like at Magic Mountain..”

If anything, Maggie has just become more resourceful and school has given her the ability to read – which is only a good thing when discussing children who don’t want to rule the world, hoard animals and torture unsuspecting family members. Let’s be honest, everyone suspects and Maggie doesn’t care if we do or not.

The other night Mike was finishing off the remnants of soup from lunch because he cannot stand for anything to go to waste. I finally shouted from the other room, “If I hear any more slurping I am going to break something!” Then I saw Maggie run into the kitchen… she didn’t want soup, she just saw an opening. Her plan was to slurp loudly to see exactly what I might do to her father. Thank God he caught on because I was already picking up my stapler.

Later on (same evening) she was loudly trouncing her brother while playing Mario Kart and Mike was on the phone a room away but within unfortunate earshot. It was clear that Maggie was totally and completely swept up in the moment when I heard her shriek (and simultaneously Mike’s eyes bulged and his chair sucked right up his arse), “AHA! Take THAT BITCH!!!!!!”

Thank goodness it was not a serious phone call, just someone wanting to buy some fishing poles Mike had listed on Craig’s List. Let’s face it, men and fishing poles, there is a solid chance Maggie’s scream wasn’t even a blip on his radar. Wish I could say the same for her father, although he must not have been that fazed by it because he got off the phone and said, “I’ve got someone coming over to look at my pole!”

And, yes, I snorted and giggled like a 13 year old.

At any given time I have a large stack of Better Homes and Garden magazines and catalogs next to a chair in my bedroom. When most people go have pedicures and manicures for “me time” I like to curl up with a stack of magazines and plan ways to change or re-decorate my house. This house has been a work in progress since we moved in. I’m fortunate in that I haven’t completely redone anything I did originally as much as I just sort of kept adding to it or refining it. Thus far, I’ve been really happy with how it’s turned out. Although, I’m still far from finished… and we’ve only been here almost 4 years.

I have always had a thing for Adirondack chairs. I love them. My only bitch is that they are pretty large. Mine is solid wood and painted a deep, chocolate brown. I used to have it on the deck outside our bedroom but a few years ago I painted it and moved it into the bedroom in the corner of the room with a pillow and throw blanket. Next to it I have an adorable red cabinet with a cute lamp on the top. It makes for a comfy reading corner.

I like to keep things kind of eclectic. I like using some outdoor things inside here and there – like the Adirondack chair or the antique glass insulators from a telephone pole that we cleaned up and my husband uses as a paper weight on his desk. We have several of them, Ethan has a matching set that he uses as book-ends on his book case.

I also like some industrial touches here and there, not that I have many at the moment… but my plans for doing stained concrete flooring might fall under the “industrial look” a little bit, I guess. Although, I probably won’t trade out my traditional sink for utility sinks any time soon, but I’m definitely not adverse to stainless steel.

At one point I was really hoping to replace our tile counters with granite or some type of solid surface counter top. Until I saw a show on HGTV recently where a homeowner replaced her counters with butcher block. Now, I’m investigating butcher block counter tops and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the prices I’ve found so far.

I think I would love to have butcher block all the way around the kitchen and then do a bright, multi-colored, small glass tile backsplash. Although, I think I might like an old-fashioned looking farm house sink with the fully exposed apron in the front.

But, the next thing to get tackled is the flooring – definitely.

Doesn’t matter how long I lived here (my entire life) by the time we hit September I’m done with summer. I’m tired of heat. I’m ready to bake pies and make roasts in the oven all the stuff I usually avoid doing in the summer. The weather is finally changing, cooler temps have arrived. I’m on the verge of putting flannel sheets on my bed. *squee* You’ll have to excuse my weather-related enthusiasm.

All summer long comforters spend the nights on the floor at the foot of the beds. You know that the temps have gotten chilly overnight when the beds look almost made in the mornings because the comforters are all nicely spread out and barely even in wrinkled across the bed surface.

Now is the time to take the throw blankets out because you have to have them handy to curl up with a good book. Unlike summer when there isn’t a throw blanket in sight and in order to read a book one must be completely stretched out with at least one fan pointed directly at you.

I’m still following along with FlyLady prepping to “cruise through the holidays.” This month is focused on removing extra clutter, flinging stuff you don’t need or use anymore, and basically anything to lighten the usual loads on surfaces you are going to want to decorate for the holidays.

I’m waiting for the perfect moment to sneak in and act like the “Anti-Santa Claus.” Anti-Santa is when you clean out the kids’ toy box to make room for all the new stuff they will accumulate through the holidays. Maggie is a massive pack-rat. She still has a paper crown that Ethan brought back from Medieval Times last year. I tried to throw it away this morning and she fished it out of the garbage, slapped it on her head and said, “This is MY CROWN! You cannot go throwing MY THING AWAY just because they are PAPER or something!!!!”

*sigh*

I’m going to talk her father into taking her out for ice cream so I can unload 10 or 20 pounds of accumulated Maggie junk.

In our spare time we like to disc golf. Not to be confused with playing frisbee, of course. Disc golf involves several different types of discs like putters, drivers, etc. They are weighted differently, some are shaped slightly different and they each have unique uses.

I don’t practice enough. It can be a fairly long distance between cages and it takes me a respectable amount of throws to make it to the next cage. The problem is that once I get there I can’t get a disc into the cage no matter how hard I try and thus my score goes in the toilet.

We’ve been disc golfing for several years now and even Maggie has the cutest disc bag and a few discs of her own.

Traditional golf has never really interested me beyond watching “Caddy Shack” I’ve always found it a bit stuffy and boring, actually. Disc golf is great because it’s usually free to use the course and the course in our area is right off the local bike trail. Our course has loads of hills and trees so walking the full course really takes some effort. I always have to rely on Mike or Ethan to let me know where the next cage is because there are some points where you can see several cages and the disc golf course signage is almost nonexistent beyond having signs where the cement pad to start your throw is located.

The downside to our local course is that it also runs alongside a really busy street with several lanes of traffic. One of the cages is located just off the sidewalk and a couple of years ago Ethan managed a power throw that ended up going out into the street and lodging the disc into the grill of a passing car. Seriously. Thank goodness for insurance and umm, well they don’t make grills as tough as they used to, I suppose.