Unresolved

Ah, a fresh new year! It feels great, right? Have you all got your shiny new resolutions of losing weight, living in the moment, quitting smoking, and getting out of debt polished and sitting on your mantel so you can sheepishly hide them away in two weeks when you’ve given up?

I almost put mine out. Almost.

There are a million resolutions I could have chosen to start this here year of 2013. I am just as full of imperfections and problems as I’ve ever been. Usually, I make resolutions. Usually, I put mine up with bright lights, flags, and trumpets in the darkest corner of my basement for all (aka: me) to see. Usually, I am so busy thinking and writing resolutions down that I never actually get around to doing them (hence the reason I hide them in the basement in the first place). Usually, my resolutions list starts like this:

1. Be a better person
2. Be healthier
3. Be a better wife
4. Be a better mom
5. Be a better homemaker
6. Be a better daughter/sister/granddaughter/cousin/relative/whatever
7. Do more in my church callings
8. Learn new things (any number above 25 new things will do)

And then, after defining and specifying each category,

combing the net for inspiring blogs, Pinterest boards, and web articles,

breaking each category into multiple subcategories, 

defining and specifying each subcategory, 

listing [tentative] dates of completion, 

writing stepping stone goals for each,

and then lacing it all with good intentions, 

I end with this:

9. Simplify my life

I know. And then I subcategorize that one too.

I’ve tried not making resolutions. It doesn’t work. I write so many self-improvement lists, so often, that I eventually find myself titling some random page “New Year’s Resolutions,” and then my resolve to not make resolutions crumbles and, yet again, I am staring at a list of things I wish I already was.

So, as I am quite tired of my ring-around-the-rosie, never-accomplish-much resolutions, I have decided to make something called an “Un”-resolution.

What is an “Un”-resolution, you ask?

Well, I figure that in the past, I’ve always made resolutions to change myself, to do something new, to break a bad habit. And it doesn’t work very well for me.

So, what if I did the opposite of that? What if, instead of doing something to make myself a shining, wonderful example of all things beautiful, selfless, and healthy, I did something that could make me seem… worse?

That’s right. I’m gonna stick it to The Man (who is he anyway???) and drop the façade I have so carefully constructed over the years to make people love me. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do this year. I’m going to do things that will make people wonder what the heck kind of crazy I really am. I’m going to do things that will make other people (particularly my mom) embarrassed for me. I’m gonna do things like… like… like lick the spoon from the cake batter in someone else’s kitchen and then put it back in and do it again.

If making an un-resolution sounds like something you’d like to try, I’ve got a few more ideas for you, just to get you started. Pick one. Or make up your own. But don’t subcategorize, don’t research, don’t make a list, and don’t think about it. Just do it.

Some ideas for “Un”-resolutions in 2013:

• Eat a cookie every day. Or a donut. Or chocolate. Or all three.
• Scream at the top of my lungs once a week for no good reason.
• Say “no” to whomever I please, whenever I really don’t want to do something.
• Spend money on whatever I want once a month (the catch - there has to be money to spend).
• Let my kids get whatever it is they beg for in the store once in a while.
• Let people do things for me, even if I know I can do it myself.
• Stay in my pajamas all day and don’t put on any makeup (gasp!) whenever I feel like it.
• Don’t clean the house for a day or two once in a while.
• Take the biggest slice of pie/pizza/cake/whatever once in a while – before all the men come into the kitchen.
• Roll down my car windows every time a Taylor Swift song is on the radio and force everyone else on the street to listen as I sing along.

I hope you’re inspired. I can’t wait to get started.

Emergency Preparedness: 10 Things You Need to Survive the Imminent Zombie Apocalypse

I am a member of a church that places a lot of emphasis on a little something called “Emergency Preparedness.” I am encouraged by my church leaders to collect non-perishable supplies, stock up on space blankets and flashlight batteries, and have a plan for every emergency under the sun. Mormons don’t mess around, people.

Personally, I’m glad I’ve grown up with the motivation to be prepared. Preparedness is important. Preparedness keeps you safe. It keeps you alive when disaster strikes. It keeps you from showing up on the news after said disaster screaming, “Where’s Fema?! Where’s the Red Cross?!” It keeps you from being stuck with nothing but a foam cup of dry noodles when the Mayan Calendar ends.

           

Preparedness is serious stuff.

We’re all about preparedness at my house. And not just because our religion encourages it. I am personally motivated to stockpile 25 lb. buckets of dehydrated milk and egg products when a hurricane strikes on the other side of the country. I’m motivated to purchase large amounts of Betty Crocker cake mixes and Fruit Roll Ups when my local grocery store has a 4 for $5 sale. My husband is motivated to stuff a cabinet full of weapons and ammunition when a Democratic president is re-elected.

But nothing has ever motivated me more than watching this TV show:

Image courtesy AMC TV

If you haven’t heard of it yet, you probably will. I’m pretty sure it’s sweeping the nation (and if it’s not, it should be). The first two seasons are on Netflix as we speak. The third season is currently underway, and as the title suggests, it’s all about a seriously disturbing zombie takeover of our precious planet earth.

Honestly, although I’m totally into end-of-the-world, apocalyptic-type stuff, this is not a show I would normally dive into. It’s pretty darn gory, for one, and there’s enough cussing in it to make a dairy farmer squirm. Ok… maybe not.

But I was curious. Oh so curious. And I paid the price for my curiosity.

I COULD NOT. 

STOP. 

WATCHING.

That’s right – for two days, huddled in front of our 37” screen with the blinds closed and the kids watching mindless hours of Disney in their bedroom, the hubunk and I inhaled all 19 episodes of seasons 1 and 2. When we finally emerged again into the light of day, I knew our lives would never be the same again.

I have never been more motivated to prepare.

And I have therefore created this handy list of items you, too, will need when the world ends and a horrific zombie infection seizes all mankind. Call it a “Zombie Apocalypse To-Do List,” if you will. You’re welcome.

IN CASE OF ZOMBIE TAKEOVER YOU NEED:

1. Food, water, clothing, shelter, fuel. All your basics. Knowing how to grow and/or kill food yourself will also come in handy.
2. Tools, nails, screws, and boards to block all possible entrances to your stronghold. If you rely on a vehicle as your stronghold, you’d better be sure you’ve got enough gas in the ole tank to stay mobile.
3. LOTS AND LOTS OF GUNS. And please don’t forget the ammo.
4. To make friends with a doctor/surgeon and make sure this person will be a part of your survival group. Veterinarians may be substituted for doctors if needed.
5. Besides guns, you need weapons of silence (so as not to attract unwanted zombie attention). Swords, knives, hatchets, baseball bats… all valuable. Pointy sticks, screwdrivers, and other tools will also become useful in a bind.
6. To make yourself too valuable to leave behind as zombie bait. Are you a good watchman? A superb zombie-killer? Do you have a wide base of survival knowledge? Cultivate your skills.
7. The ability to break into abandoned buildings quickly and quietly to obtain supplies. Locksmiths and robbers survive well because of this.
8. To practice running, climbing, swimming, and otherwise keeping yourself fit. The fat kid always gets eaten first.
9. To be good at keeping your head in life-threatening situations. Quick-thinking. Anything you do (or do not) under severe stress (zombies chasing you through the woods, zombies trapping you in cars, zombies swarming your home) can make or break.
10. Hope for the recovery and future of the living. If you don’t have that, you’re just one bad zombie encounter away from driving yourself off a cliff.

Oh, and one more thing you’re really going to need in the Zombie Apocalypse – a strong stomach. Zombie blood/guts/bodily shrapnel get all over the place, ya’ll. No joke.

The Bystanders Guide to Helpful Bystanding

I’ve noticed some things since I’ve had kids.

To name a few:

Kids make every trip to the grocery store (/gas station/mall/fast food joint/etc.) take approximately 30 minutes longer.

There are very few things that cannot be solved by candy, toys, or holding bedroom doors shut until the screaming stops.

If you let your kids ride the bikes in Walmart, there will come a time when the “Cleanup on Aisle 10,” is definitely a signal to run to Aisle 10 and extract your child before he makes it worse.

Sleep is optional.

But perhaps the number one thing I’ve noticed since having children is that there are loads upon loads of “helpful” bystanders out there in this world.

I’m pretty sure that many of these people are just standing about in random public places, waiting for a slightly insane mother (aka: me) to stumble along with her little brood and create a scene worth “helping.” I have no doubt that most of them have the best of intentions. Many of them can likely relate to the train of chaos that follows me everywhere I go. Many of them genuinely try to help.

But some bystanders are more helpful than others.

There are three categories of helpful bystander:

1. Nervous Grandmother
2. Judge Judy
3. Mary Poppins

The Nervous Grandmother is certainly possessed by good intentions. She is sweet, careful, and wise. But she is also very nervous. Perhaps her own frailties have made her overly cautious and concerned for others. Perhaps her less than catlike reflexes have given her a sense of unease when she sees little children leaning over grocery carts and jumping down stairways. Whatever it is, bless her heart, Nervous Grandmother follows you everywhere. And Nervous Grandmother gives far too many warnings.

This dear old lady can be identified by such warnings, often directed at the children but intended for the mother’s ear:

“Sit down, Honey, I don’t want you to fall!” “Do you have a jacket, Sweetie? The wind is blowing out there!” “Oh, your little feet look so cold! Where are your socks?” “Don’t put your fingers in there, they might get stuck!”

But as wonderfully cautionary as Nervous Grandmother is, she’s got nothing on Judge Judy.

Judge Judy tends to be around age 50. She tends to have dark eyebrows and does not smile. She does not direct her sage advice at the children, but speaks to the mother. Judge Judy may have adult children she considers perfect, or she may have no children at all. Judge Judy speaks harshly or often just glares and makes annoyed sounds and gestures. Judge Judy is mean. Judge Judy makes mothers run crying from the grocery store and fret late into the night that their children are going to grow up and be serial killers.

Judge Judy says things like:

“Um, hello, your kids are pulling all that stuff off the shelf down there!” “Uh, did you lose a kid?” “Ma’am, you have got to get these kids out of here.” “Are you really just letting them run through there like that?”

I don’t like Judge Judy.

But in the midst of my darkest public crises, I praise Mary Poppins.

Mary Poppins is kind, but firm. Mary Poppins recognizes when help is actually needed. Mary Poppins sees a problem and fixes it, with little ado. Mary Poppins says little, but does much. Mary Poppins is experienced. Mary Poppins is smart. Mary Poppins is practically perfect in every way (I couldn’t resist).

Mary Poppins sees a child running into the street while the mother struggles with two others and a cart full of groceries, captures the child, and returns it before the mother even notices. Mary Poppins watches from the corner of her eye and assists a child who has his finger stuck. Mary Poppins simply rights a child who has flung herself over the top of the grocery cart. Mary Poppins catches items falling from shelves. Mary Poppins assists children in finding their lost mother.

Each of these people has their place in a mother’s life. Nervous Grandmother is great on sunshiney days when you’re on top of the world and just glad someone cares. Judge Judy is great on reality television where she can be turned off with the click of a button. And Mary Poppins, she is there in the moments when she is most needed, just in time to keep us all from going insane.

May we all be the Mary Poppins in someone else’s life.

The Walmart Apology

Walmart.

Love it, hate it, it is as American as apple pie and baseball.

It’s a place where all walks of life, all creeds and colors, can come together with a common goal. It’s a… a melting pot of sorts. The man, the woman, the child, the redneck, the businessman – all of us together. And Moms. Walmart is so good to moms.

As a mom, I can get my groceries, my wardrobe, my cleaning products, my cat food, my craft supplies, and my baby wipes in one place. THAT IS IMPORTANT.

Mothers, bless our hearts, spend every day taking care of the every need of those sweetest little beings called children (among other things). There are good days, when you cuddle up to your sleeping angel and sniff their soft, sweet skin and kiss their soft, sweet eyelashes, and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly wonderful could come from your very loins. AND THEN THERE ARE BAD DAYS.

Bad days are days when you count the minutes until you can tuck (strap) them into their beds, pray that they won’t get up once they are there, quietly collapse into fetal position on your living room floor to whimper (softly, so you won’t wake the demons children), and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly out of control could come from your cursed, wretched loins.

I had a bad day. And Walmart got to bear the brunt.

Someday I will write an apology letter to Walmart. It will say something like this:

Dear Walmart,

            I’m sorry my kids terrorize, vandalize, and otherwise violate your sacred halls. I’m sorry they pull things from shelves, break things, slobber on things, ride bicycles at high speeds through busy aisles, get lost multiple times in a single visit, run from your employees, and scream – really – loud – for – ages. I am sorry that they may have driven many potential customers out with their antics. I am sorry that no amount of purchases can make up for the pain I have caused you. And I’m really, really, really sorry for that one day.

That day was a doozy.

We were on our way home from a fun day at the state fair, all of us exhausted (as other battles had already been fought with the kids), and that man I’m married to wanted to stop once more to see if there was any good clearance on fishing gear. BAD. I. DEA.(IloveyouHoneyyouaremore
wonderfulthanwordscansayI’dnevertradeyouforanyoneexceptformaybe
ZacEfronbutyouknowthatalready)

My kids ran through their standard list of entertaining public displays:

Run amuck.

Scream and laugh.

Hide from Mom.

First potty break.

Hide from Dad.

Laugh some more.

Ride bikes.

Grab things from shelves. (We are not buying that. Put it back.)

Child #1 lost.

Child #2 dawdling while we try to get to the checkout.

Child #3 crying to be held.

Second potty break.

Repeat. Multiple times.

I could have handled it all. I usually do. But my final straw, the one that sent me completely and totally over the edge, was the dreaded moment in the checkout line.

Daddy Dearest wants milk to go with the cookies we are buying. He offers to take Little E with him while I stand in line with Big E and Sis. Sounds do-able.

FIVE SECONDS LATER… the disaster began.

Sis, perched in the basket of the cart, spills our little box of cookies all over the floor. Oh well, Walmart germs never hurt anyone. I scoop them up and put them back in the box with nary a crumb left behind. No big deal.

Suddenly, Big E needs to go potty. Again. I’m wedged between two families with full carts, and I don’t know how to get out or what to do. I send the tiny-bladdered child to the (nearby) bathroom alone (where he will hopefully not be abducted). After showing him where to go, I quickly return to Child #2, who is sitting in the grocery cart, eating cookies. Are you scared yet? It gets worse.

A moment passes as I wait for an old lady on a scooter cart (bless her) try to buy a protection plan for her new TV from the young, inexperienced cashier (bless her) with a large Walmart star sticker on her cheek (wth?). Suddenly, I hear a strange noise, like liquid hitting the floor. I glance around. I see the people behind me staring underneath my cart. I look at my daughter, sitting there, surrounded by the ruffles of her little skirt, eating cookies. I look at the floor. Puddle. I look at my daughter. I bend down and look below the cart. Waterfall steadily contributing to puddle. Coming from my child.

She didn’t even have the decency to tell me she had to pee. I’m sorry Walmart. So, so sorry.

TWO DAYS LATER, she peed in the toy aisle at Kmart. I picked her up. I walked away. 

Sorry Kmart.

It's the End of the World as We Know It

If you watch the evening news, you may have noticed something lately…

THE WORLD IS ENDING.

But I’m not talking about prophetic visions of F10 tornadoes, mountain-moving earthquakes, the Great Yellowstone Explosion (monitor that imminent disaster here), or hail the size of a beach ball crushing every WalMart from here to the moon. I’m talking about the life-altering, soul-crushing, inexplicable launch of the

CORN/BACON/BALLOON APOCALYPSE.

I first tapped into this horrible truth on my own evening news, only to have it reaffirmed the next half hour by World News with Diane Sawyer. Obviously, there is cause for concern here, people. Diane Sawyer knows stuff.

Perhaps you’ve heard about the shortages. The unfortunate lack of rain in our grand ole US of A this summer has left us with an unfortunate lack of some of our staple foods – namely, corn and corn. Let me tell you all a little something about corn.

EVERYTHING EATS IT.

For a greater understanding of why our lack of corn is affecting bacon and balloons, observe:

Lack of RAIN = Lack of CORN = Lack of PIG FOOD = Lack of PIGS = Lack of BACON = NO BALLOONS AT YOUR KID’S FIRST BIRTHDAY PARTY

Ok, maybe I’m not a scientist, but I think I’m on to something.

This is what the folks over at TIME Magazine have to say about our current helium situation:

“The U.S. helium reserve in Amarillo, Tex., controlled by the Bureau of Land Management, accounts for 30 percent of the world’s helium. But a current Senate Bill calls for the reserve to continue selling helium, even if it risks running out by 2018. Helium is a common inert gas, but for commercial purposes it’s usually generated as a byproduct from natural gas mining. But because the recession has caused a slowdown in natural-gas production, helium markets are facing a shortage; more plants will coming online by the end of 2012 in Qatar, Russia and Wyoming, but not in time to ease the current crisis.”

Got that? No?

Here’s my interpretation:

Basically, since we elect our government in this here land of the free, we have thereby given them permission to ruin any and all birthday parties from this day until forever. Thank you, democracy. I will now do my part by sacrificing the chance to hear my husband talk like Alvin the Chipmunk on his birthday in order to leave more helium for MRI machines to diagnose my ailments.

And now you see it – the Corn/Bacon/Balloon Apocalypse has begun. We were warned, guys, we were warned.

The Other Woman

So there’s this chick.

She’s got it all – she’s exciting, exotic, and really attractive.

She goes great with Doritos, Mountain Dew, and a big, fat slice of ego.

She stays up late, gets up early, goes all day and still finds the energy in-between to take away the one thing I care about the most.

My husband.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I know what you’re thinking:

How dare he that dirty rotten scumbag #%@$&&*#^$*&^% (insert your choice expletives).

But it’s not him. It’s her.

No, really. She’s got this undeniable draw. Even I can’t resist it.

Yes, I’ve met her. We’re actually kind of friends, if you want to know the truth. And, if you want to know more of the truth, this isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s kind of an on-again, off-again, deal-with-it-as-it-comes(-again) kinda thing.

Now, I don’t write this because I want your sympathy, empathy, casseroles, or whatever else you've got to offer (unless it’s money, then you can just fill that check out right now. I also take cash). I just wanted you all to know.

And we’re working through it. The three of us. Together. It could take some time. It could take some therapy. It could take multiple packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Like, a lot of packages.

But we’re determined to make this work.

And if someone has to go, well I guess we all know who it has to be.

HER.

By the way… that Other Woman? 

The Mistress? 

That Great Whore of the Earth?

Her name is...

“Hunting Season.”

Yes ladies, it’s that time of year again. Lock that man up.

What's [Not] Ailing Me

I’m a worrier.

I worry about all the typical stuff a woman/wife/mother tends to: dishes, laundry, bills, the hubunk finding a job, my children’s health, work, that fabulous yacht we’re going to buy and travel the world in… blah, blah, blah. The daily grind. It’s a worrisome life.

But I have this problem. Some might call it undue stress. Or obsession. Or compulsion. Or even hypochondria. My husband would probably say that I am a stressed out obsessive-compulsive hypochondriac.

Why? Well let me start at the beginning, my friends.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt that I could, and possibly/probably would, pass on at any moment.

Lights out. Kick the bucket. Give up the ghost.

DIE.

I remember being 8 years old, lying awake at night, panicking like no child should, believing I was having a heart attack and death was imminent.

And despite the fact that I quite obviously did not die back then, nor since, I still have my little problem.

I can tell you all right now, the hubunk is going to read this, and he is going to roll his eyes and moan because he has heard about my plethora of “ailments” since day one (and counting). In fact, it seems to have gotten worse since I’ve had children. I fear for their lives as much as I do my own (as a good mother should, right?). But poor Aaron. He is the unfortunate man called upon to be my diagnostic trash can, at whom I throw every symptom (real and imaginary), every speculative concern, every pathetic wail of “What is wrong with me?!”

Allow me to let you in on this wondrous part of his life.

If I get a headache that won’t seem to go away, I have a brain tumor. Or an aneurysm. There is a good chance I will have a stroke.

If I have a pain in my side for more than an hour, I have cancer (in various organs). Probably incurable.

Chest pressure? Heart palpitations? Shortness of breath? A pain in my left arm?! Certainly a heart attack.

If my hair seems to be falling out more than usual, it’s got to be lupus.

Leg ache? Definitely deep vein thrombosis.

Skin growth? Melanoma, without a doubt.

Fate has certainly been unkind, right? And who knows what I’ll contract next? The Avian flu? West Nile? That flesh-eating disease that works so quickly they have to hack off your limbs before it eats the rest of you? I’ll be pushing up daisies at any minute.

I could go on. But I won’t waste your time telling you all about the symptoms and diseases I [don’t] have. I’ve got WebMd Symptom Checker for that (and my stats are already pre-filled in those little boxes anyway).

And if I do happen to, shall we say, up and croak… no autopsy will be necessary. Just check my Google search history. Oh, and tell them not to play The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young” at the funeral. I’ve decided it doesn’t quite represent my life. Perhaps LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” might suffice?

P.S./Disclaimer: This post is in now way meant to be derogatory to those who actually suffer from these diseases. I just wanted to sarcastically point out the fact that I am a worrier without a cause, hopefully scare up a few sympathetic friends’ comments, and put my mind at ease. No offense is intended, so please don’t take it.

Or do, but don’t leave me any nasty feedback. I already worry too much, remember?