What To Do When The Snorchestra Begins

snoring man

I took off my glasses and turned off the light.  I pulled the covers up, rolled on my side and closed my eyes.

That’s when it started.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

It was like the sound my car made when the alternator died.  But unlike the noise that stopped once I realized turning the key with greater frequency would not revive the lifeless battery, this sound continued.


The cacophony, which I feared would rattle my glasses off the nightstand, jeopardized not only my martial bliss, but my pre-menopausal ability to catch some Zzzzs without sucking on an Ambien.

The Husband was asleep on his back, which meant – he was snoring.

He denies that his supine slumber treats me to the occasionally nasal symphony.  But that night, I stared Eyes Wide Open into the dark listening to his mournful Call of the Loud that sounded like the guttural musings of a small wounded rhino.  [Read more…]

Coming Clean

ratherroar than clean 001 copy

As my mother and I watched TV one night in the early 70s, I never suspected that the Flip Wilson Show would change my life. As we tuned in and adjusted the foil-covered rabbit ears, the fuzzy image on screen became clear. It was Helen Reddy belting out I Am Woman, the anthem that encouraged a newly empowered generation of females to roar. My mother watched, transfixed. When Helen stopped singing, my mother stood up and let out a barbaric yawp of her own. “I’m going to college,” she announced and left the room presumably to burn a bra before matriculating.

Watching mom navigate being a full-time student while also being a full-time parent and wife, I learned a lot of things. I learned how to entertain myself when she dragged me to her classes because the babysitter bailed. I learned that in the name of time management you have to set priorities. Given all she had to do, it’s no surprise that teaching me how to clean was never very high on mom’s to-do list. Thus began my blissful oblivion to dirt. [Read more…]

Lost – The Home Game

man fridge

By the time I heard the refrigerator door open for the fifth time in less than a minute, I knew what was next.  Footsteps were heading in my direction, just like clockwork.

“Mom,” Older Boy asked, “Where’s the ketchup?”

There are only two possible answers to this question at our house – the fridge or the cabinet. Being in charge of condiment procurement and storage, I knew the correct answer was the fridge.

“Follow me,” I said. I opened the door and scooted the single gallon of milk a mere three inches to the right on the shelf.  This nearly imperceptible move immediately revealed a Costco-sized tankard of Heinz.

“Hmph,” he said grabbing the bright red plastic bottle filled with enough ketchup to liberally douse every French fry served on the 3-11 shift at any McDonalds.  “I didn’t see it.”

The reason, of course, is obvious; I spend my free time moving household items around to confuse him.

But I’m starting to wonder if we need to schedule a family visit at the eye doctor.  Because Younger Boy and The Husband also routinely experience this unique visual disturbance when looking for things.

Just last week, I heard what sounded like cabinet doors opening and closing in the other room.  A few minutes later, Younger Boy entered the room where I was sitting and asked, “Have you seen my tuba?”

Pause for a moment, if you will.

A tuba is not your typical household item.  Nor is it a diminutive and easily misplaced musical instrument like, say, a clarinet or kazoo.  When properly housed in its case, it bears an uncanny resemblance to a Volkswagen parked in a corner of my living room.  So, yes, not only have I seen the tuba, I’ve tripped over it in the middle of the night most notably when Younger Boy deposited it in the center of the room. At those moments in the dark of the night, I’m not usually referring to it as a tuba.

“Follow me,” I told Younger Boy, walking toward the living room.  He nearly tripped over it when we entered the room.

“So that’s where it is,” he said with relief. “I didn’t see it.”

So I wasn’t the least bit surprised the next morning when The Husband walked in the kitchen and asked, “Have you seen my wallet?”

Of course I’d seen it, when I was removing a couple of twenties.

“It’s on your desk.”

“I just looked,” he told me.  “It’s not there.”

“Follow me,” I said.  As we stood in front of his extremely tidy desk, I lifted a file folder to reveal his wallet.

“I didn’t see it,” he said grabbing his wallet and shoving it in his back pocket just before leaving the room.

I don’t know why they come in search of me when it’s time for Household Lost and Found.  Apparently, they believe I’m equipped with a homing device.  Sadly, boys, ovaries are not GPS enabled.

Then it dawned on me, eyesight isn’t the problem.  Their vision is just fine.  And it didn’t take a doctor visit to figure it out.  It’s obvious.

They can always find me.

So I have a plan.  I’m plastering a picture of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model, Kate Upton, on every object they might need to find. I guarantee I’ll never have to look for anything again.

I speak from personal experience; it worked for me.

Because I haven’t misplaced my car keys once, – since I got my Brad Pitt keychain.

It’s All In The Planning

Dear Older Boy and Younger Boy,

It’s hard to believe you’ll both be in high school next year.  People told me how fast this would happen.  I didn’t believe them.  Folks told me a lot of things back then.  But I’m glad no one offered me this child-rearing statistic – how much it would cost to raise you.  Because I never would’ve believed it.

In 1996, when you were born, Older Boy, the USDA projected a pre-college cost of $149,820 to raise you to age 18.  Two years later, the cost jumped to $156,690 for you, Younger Boy.

Now I’m becoming a believer.  Especially when I consider our monthly grocery budget since you two became teenagers.

I point out the money, not because I’m cutting you off when you reach your USDA limit.  Instead, I write because your Father and I want to discuss an important issue that involves matters of currency.  [Read more…]

Mommy Needs A Drink – Part Deux

My Friday?  Surgery to fix Older Boy’s broken nose.  Check.  Doctor visit to examine Younger Boy’s ankle in cast – referral to orthopedic surgeon. Check.  The Husband, who also blew out a calf muscle last week playing basketball with Younger Boy, down for the count with stomach flu. Check.

Mommy needs a drink.

Only I am warped enough to make my bruised, bandaged and possibly  hurling family sit down and pose for what might become our Christmas photo.  And looky, Mommy found a drink!

Mommy’s day is getting better.

this is wrong on so many levels

What You See Is Not Always What You Get

After The Husband inadvertently sucked a sock into the vacuum cleaner* and promptly killed the motor, I had to go to Costco to buy a new one. This purchase in no way was based on my cleaning expertise. Trust me, I’m the last person you’d want cleaning advice from.**

Nor was this purchase based on my vast consumer products research. I bought it because it was the only one Costco had. And since I have two fur children, let’s just say I have massive dog hair issues and needed one without delay.

So after seeing the picture on the box, I was a little surprised to find this inside:

Can you say some assembly required?

Is this what Contents May Settle During Shipping means?

The good news is, the vacuum is now put together, it works, and The Husband is happy because he’s vacuumed up the equivalent of three Great Dane puppies. And he’s still not finished.

*The Husband likes to vacuum, knows how to clean and will even use that cute attachment thingy on the steps. He also knows, and has constantly pointed out to me, that you have to change the vacuum cleaner bag. I’ve never used that particular appliance enough to even fill a bag.

**Actually my mother is the last person you’d want cleaning advice from. She would agree. But today in the spirit of domestic helpfulness, I will offer the only two cleaning tips that I do know. (1) Dog barf, in any state of matter, should NEVER be vacuumed; and (2) Do not purchased a bagless vacuum because you can no longer be in cleaning denial. What were you expecting, I never said I was Martha.

How’d I Wake Up Married To An Old Dude?

The Husband is 51 today. Fifty-one.  And that begs the question how did this happen?

I have absolutely no idea.

After the great ski incident of 1987, we ended up married 6 months later.  Not long after that, we took off on our extended honeymoon in the middle of the South Pacific as Peace Corps Volunteers.


We ARE what to wear in Western Samoa.

Fast forward twenty-two years, twelve moves in five states, two kids and here we are in Montana. But strangely enough it feels like we’re still 28 & 25 like when we first met.

Every now and then, I like to put on my Delusion Goggles and believe we still look like we’re 28 & 25 too.  But, of course I know better now – I have reading glasses.

I can always take my glasses off and believe whatever I wantI don’t care how old The Husband is, he rocks.  He’s also my hero too.

Hair Raising – Part 2

 This is the original haircut in Samoa.


Awhile back, I had written about The Husband learning to cut my hair in Samoa.  Now that I have a scanner, you can see the real deal.


This, I’m sorry to say, is when I gave him the Stare Cut.

Happy Pappy’s Day

The thing that makes pappy happy. . .
I don’t think he’s all that interested in lawn beautification. I think it’s just because it’s the only time that he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.

Open Season

It’s that time of year where Gus transforms into Caddyshack’s groundskeeper, Carl Spackler. He wanders the yard mumbling incoherently. And the only thing that will make him happy is greasy, grimy gopher guts.When we got home last night, the gophers looked like they were having a beach party. I fully expected to see tiny beach umbrellas, coolers and a little gopher volleyball game there were so many of them. This threw Gus into a complete tizz and he and the boys raided the garage for the gopher smoke bombs.The neighbor, who was also out battling gophers, offered them his pellet gun. Being a city dweller, and a female, I just don’t get it. (this reminds me of the guy at the hunter safety class who said his gun would turn the gophers into a “red mist”) Watching them (the boys, that is) you would think they were on the trail of an 8 point buck, not a rodent that weighs mere ounces.Watch out Carl, Gus is going to give you a run for your money. If I hear the strains of Kenny Loggins’ “I’m Alright” and see a dancing gopher, I’m outta here.

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