tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62908963239905512182024-03-04T21:48:51.901-08:00okie mom“Okie” is Latin for HOT!!!okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-54813521851247220322011-04-07T20:49:00.000-07:002011-04-07T20:55:42.638-07:00watch out over in that general area<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Last night after I put my boys to bed, I felt something squishy on my foot. I wasn’t sure what it was but it certainly didn’t belong there so I got a washcloth and sat down in the chair. As I was washing my foot, Wesley came back into the living room to ask me something very important, like “What is the main ingredient in mayonnaise?” <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Then he noticed that I was washing my foot and asked what I was doing. I told him, “There is something that looks like a booger on my foot and I wanted to wash it off before bed.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">He looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, “Have you been walking over there?” as he gestured towards the half of the living room beyond the coffee table. I didn’t like where this was going…<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">“Yes, Wesley, I have. Is there something you need to tell me?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">“Well,” he explained, “sometimes I get a little disappointed and can’t remember where the Kleenexes are, so I just have to wipe my boogers on the floor.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">I just about threw up. Clearly we need to discuss a couple of things: what the word disappointed means, and <i>acceptable places to put our boogers</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p>okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-8995733866648190662011-02-16T19:44:00.000-08:002011-02-16T19:45:24.174-08:00I brake for butterfliesI wasn’t one of those lucky kids who turned 16 and got a set of keys to her very own car. Instead, on my 16th birthday, I got a key to my mother’s car which I was welcome to use any time she wasn’t using it herself, and I had asked for permission, and the moon was full and Mars and Jupiter were in perfect alignment. THEN, I could drive the car.<br /><br />One night when all those things made it possible for me to drive the car, I was driving home from some kind of late night practice at school. I can remember this so well: I was driving down the highway and out of nowhere a huge raccoon ran in front of me. I didn’t know what to do so I just plowed over it. The sound and feeling of plowing over that animal made me feel terrible. Of course, I went straight to the car wash to wash away any evidence of my “crime” and never mentioned it to my mother.<br /><br />Years later I was driving down a highway in Colorado. Surprisingly, it had been almost ten years and I hadn’t hit anything since the unfortunate raccoon. Well, on this snowy morning I was driving to church and a prairie dog ran out in front of me. Remembering how it felt to hit that raccoon, I panicked. I swerved hard, lost control of the car, and crashed into the concrete barrier separated me from oncoming traffic. My car was totaled but, darn it, <em>that prairie dog lived</em>.<br /><br />So there I was in the emergency room in a state where I had no family, having an EKG while a police officer was writing me a $400 ticket. I no longer had a car and wasn’t even sure how I was going to get home. But I promised myself something that day – the next time an animal ran out in front of me, I would not swerve. Especially not for a cannibalistic rodent which is known for carrying the plague.<br /><br />I had my chance on Valentine’s Day. I was driving to meet Bryan for dinner at a restaurant about an hour away. The boys were with me and my dad was in the passenger seat. As I drove past a house in the middle of nowhere, I could see a little cat running out towards the road. It was all happening in slow motion. I didn’t know whether to slow down, speed up, or swerve the car off the road and into the woods. But then I remembered, “I will not swerve!” I kept on a-going and closed my eyes, hoping desperately to miss the cat. Not because I am a lover of cats or anything but because I had just washed the car. Ha ha. Then a THUD, THUD and I opened my eyes. My dad said, “Well, I don’t think it was that cat’s day.”<br /><br />I was sick But I have to say I was relieved that I hadn’t swerved and totaled another car.<br /><br />Sorry, kitty.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-66596080275773529172011-02-10T08:04:00.000-08:002011-02-10T08:07:04.100-08:00I am reading a book right now about a woman who is a mother of five children. I would love to have five children, in theory. Reality is that sometimes my two boys use their magical powers to produce the same effects as five children. It’s a talent they have, really. But I am getting off the subject. In the book, the mom suggests that every mom make a list of 25 “things” about herself. She says that we should all make this list every few years because it will likely change as our phases of life change. I know it sounds kind of silly, but I really enjoyed reading her list and have been thinking about what would go on my own list. (And how a mother of five small children had time to make a list of 25 <em>anything</em> is beyond me…)<br /><br />1. I love to make lists. Bryan thinks it is an obsession and maybe it is, a little. I love making them – especially when I am bored or feeling motivated. I usually carry a purse-sized notebook with me and make lists of every kind – groceries, people I need to call, places I want to go this summer, etc. And isn’t it ironic that I am currently making a list of my lists?<br /><br />2. Despite the fact that I post on this site about once every three months, I think about writing every single day. Probably five or ten times a day, something happens or I hear something and want to write about it. I love, love, love writing and posting on okiemom. I like the satisfying feeling of “publishing” a post that might make someone laugh. I dream of having a site that lots of people read every day. What keeps me from actually writing more regularly is lack of focus. I can waste a whole evening better than anyone I know. I need to remedy that in the near future. <br /><br />3. The stack of books that I have and plan to read is taller than the Jolly Green Giant. I could probably get through them faster if I would throw a brick through my television.<br /><br />4. I want to be a runner. I used to subscribe to the magazine, “Runner’s World” just to read what real runners do. Unfortunately, it’s not like a club you can just pay your dues to and become a member. You have to actually RUN which takes a little more work that subscribing to a magazine and reading the articles.<br /><br />5. I like to look at my boys when they are sleeping – they are so cute when they are unconscious!<br /><br />6. I don’t understand why anyone would ever have their nipple pierced. Ever.<br /><br />7. I have always wanted to adopt a daughter from China. (Okay, maybe not “always” but at least since I was old enough to know that it was an option.)<br /><br />8. I like to watch movies with the subtitles playing. English movies. I don’t know why, but having the subtitles to read while I listen helps me follow the movie better. I know – I’m like an old man. Next thing I know I’ll be watching the weather channel for fun.<br /><br />9. I like to watch TV shows about true crime. I hope this is never used as evidence against me in court. As in, “Well you know, she was always interested in watching all those shows about crime…” I think it’s the psychology part of the cases that I like to ponder. Yes, I’m going with that.<br /><br />10. When I was in middle school, I wanted to be a dentist. I’m not sure why this was my goal at the time. Especially since my dentist growing up was a gruff man who smelled of cheap cologne and cigarettes. He was not a “kid person.” I think my dream of becoming a dentist faded after I realized I would have to spend all day looking at other people’s teeth. And that I would probably have to start flossing daily.<br /><br />Okay, I am going to continue this list tomorrow. I don’t want anyone suffering from “Laura List Overload.”okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-43472075343321793632011-01-18T19:25:00.000-08:002011-01-18T19:26:53.133-08:00Abstract, schmabstractConversation heard today in our minivan:<br /><br /><em>Wesley: Mommy, what does “disease” mean?<br /><br />Me: Well, it’s when someone gets sick. And it’s hard to get rid of.<br /><br />Wesley: Do diseases have names?<br /><br />Me: Yes, most of them have names.<br /><br />Wesley: If I ever get a disease, I want to name it Sparky. And keep it forever.<br /></em><br />It must be nice to be four sometimes.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-73893761205851777272011-01-01T21:33:00.001-08:002011-01-01T21:33:48.015-08:00Last night was New Year’s Eve, in case you just came out of a coma and weren’t aware of that fact. And in my usual party animal fashion, I rang in the New Year while watching taped episodes of Dr. Phil by myself. (Bryan was working and not able to attend the Dr. Phil marathon, which was probably okay with him.)<br /><br />I didn’t take any time to sit and reflect on 2010 or to ponder what kind of resolutions I need to make for 2011. But here are some of the highlights of 2010 for anyone who cares.<br /><br />1. Winnie came back home. Since the home daycare ended, there was no danger that our ferocious nine pound shih-tzu would bite someone else’s child while attempting to steal a chicken nugget. My dad brought her back from his house in Arizona and the boys were thrilled – I think the whole first week they took turns ”walking” her around the yard with a lasso around her neck. Winnie was probably in a state of shock after her relaxing time at the retirement park, where my father rubbed her belly constantly and gave her treats for difficult tricks like breathing and having a pulse.<br />2. Following the advice of a friend, we got a DVR. Her words were, “Laura, you have to get one – it changed my life.” And she wasn’t kidding. My life has changed, too. Now while I am watching Diego for the zillionth time, I don’t have to fume about the fact that I am also missing Survivor because I can record it!!! And then I can watch it whenever I want and never watch a commercial for Progressive again. I still watch the Geico ones though, because they are funny.<br />3. As I write this, I weigh thirty pounds less than I did one year ago on New Year’s Day. And that is a good feeling. It has been a long year of choosing popcorn over ice cream and spending my free moments at the fitness center but it has been worth it. And at the break-neck pace of losing two and a half pounds a month, I should be ready for bikini season just in time for my 85th birthday party. I can hardly wait.<br /><br />Happy 2011 to you all!okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-64902248257420856082010-11-18T19:52:00.000-08:002010-11-18T19:53:55.428-08:00low prices at a costBefore you even start reading this, let me apologize for the tone of it – I usually try to stay away from topics that could be considered political but this time I just have to open my big mouth, er… keyboard, and say something.<br /><br />A new Walmart Supercenter opened in our town. It happened a little over three weeks ago. I haven’t been there yet – and I plan to hold out as long as I can. You see, I am a reader of statistics and I know what a new Super Wal-mart in a small town means – it means that some small family owned businesses will probably close. And statistically, for every Supercenter that opens, two grocery stores will close. I’m not making this stuff up.<br /><br />I think Wal-mart started out as a well-meaning store. But over time it has become a dirty dealing, no good, yellow-bellied store. It is the retail equivalent of Satan’s little brother. If you don’t believe me, read some of these statistics! <a href="http://www.walmartmovie.com/facts.php">http://www.walmartmovie.com/facts.php</a><br /><br />These low prices are really available because they aren’t paying most of their workers enough to live without government aid. People, if you think you are really saving money by shopping at Wal-mart, you are being Punk’d! What you save there, you pay back in taxes to support the workers and their families in aid programs. Besides, when did it become so bad to support local businesses?<br /><br />This situation is complicated by the fact that we have a very, VERY short list of “other places to shop” in our town. I wasn’t opposed to the old Wal-mart – it came with the town as far as I was concerned since it was here before I was. But this new giant monster of a Wal-mart makes me mad.<br /><br />I remember once when I lived in Boulder, Colorado seeing some hippie women who demonstrated their distaste for the new Borders bookstore in town. These women chained themselves to the front door, which also chained the doors shut. I’m not this extreme (maybe because the doors at Wal-mart are automatic and there aren’t any handles to wrap the chains around…) but I do want to take a stand.<br /><br />So in the last three weeks, I have found other places to shop. At one point I thought I was going to have to break down and go – I couldn’t find those little metal hooks that hook Christmas ornaments onto the tree. But I used my amazing imagination and made my own from a box of paperclips. I felt like MacGyver!<br /><br />I will give Wally World one thing – they make it convenient to get everything you could possibly need in one place. NOT shopping there means that I have to make more stops. Like, instead of being able to go into one place to get canned beets, a big screen TV, and fishing bait, I have to go into (gasp) two stores. I know, I know – I am wasting so much time!<br /><br />You don’t have to jump on my bandwagon. I’m “just sayin….”okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-70024724352775410332010-10-02T21:13:00.000-07:002010-10-02T21:20:06.982-07:00there's a long line of cars...I worry. I am a worrier. I don’t deny it – I worry that people would see right through it if I denied it. I worry that the ceiling fan will come dislodged from the ceiling and fall on my head while I am sleeping. I worry that if I play Frisbee, it will hit me in the mouth and knock out my front teeth. I worry that the world will run out of instant mashed potato buds and that the wheel will come off my car while I am driving and that my husband will have the cable turned off without giving me fair warning. Phew!<br /><br />So this year Wesley started preschool. And as you can imagine, it gives me a few more things to worry about. But not the kind of stuff I should be worried about - like will my son pick his nose during circle time? I think I know the answer to that one already.<br /><br />The preschool he goes to is a great one with a genius setup for pick up and drop off time. Parents form a line around the block and one at a time, we drive through the preschool driveway where the director gets the child out/puts the child back in. This eliminates all that pesky crying time that would normally happen at drop off. The line of cars goes halfway around the block– and therein lies the problem for me.<br /><br />Flashback to Laura’s past: (this works best if you darken the room and turn off all background noise…) <em>I am in high school. I have just taken a month-long trip to Germany. The other high school students and I had a great time but are more than ready to get home, see our families, and sleep off our jetlag. Our trip ends with a school bus ride from Chicago to our hometown, Metamora, IL. After the comfy two hour school bus ride, we all step off the bus to be greeted by our adoring families. And everyone is – except that my adoring family is missing. This is the time of life before everyone has a cell phone so I try the high school’s pay phone to call home.<br /><br />Getting no answer at home, I stand there with the German teacher who was the trip’s chaperone and wait for</em> anyone I know <em>to drive by. Eventually all the other kids are gone and the teacher asks me if I want him to drive me home. And just as I am about to take him up on this, my mother drives up.<br /><br /></em>I don’t remember what the reason for her tardiness was but I’m sure there was a very good one – like that she had been hijacked by an albino three-legged clown who forced her to drive in circles around a Wal-mart parking lot and wouldn’t let her leave until he was sure she would be at least half hour late to pick up her sweet daughter. But even with such a good excuse, it was a little embarrassing to be “the kid whose parents forgot”.<br /><br />The thing is, I don’t know when to pick Wesley up for preschool. I can’t be the first parent in line because that says “I’m a helicopter parent who hovers over my child and has no life of my own.” But if I am the last one in line, it says, “I am a crappy parent” or possibly, “I was hijacked by an albino three-legged clown on my way here.”<br /><br />So I need to be in the middle somewhere. Right? Because that doesn’t really say anything. But how do I time getting there in the middle of the line? Do I park across the street and wait until some cars have gotten in line and then get in line myself? I don’t know.<br /><br />All I know is that I never want Wesley to be telling his therapist how his mommy was the last car in the pick up line in preschool.<br /><br />Lied to him about Santa Claus giving his pacifier to newborn babies? Fine. But last car in the pick up line? Not if I can help it.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-66564473755650924542010-08-07T15:50:00.000-07:002010-08-07T15:52:00.344-07:00customer service associate of the monthSeveral months ago, Bryan and I decided it was time for the Phillips family to get a new car. Or a slightly used car to be more precise. And being the cool cats that we are, we knew what we wanted was a mini-van. Ow ow ow!!!<br /><br />It wasn’t so much that we had money burning holes in our pockets, but more that our old car was falling apart. Literally. One morning after I pulled out of the garage, there was a giant disc-shaped thing on the garage floor. I couldn’t figure out where it came from so I just threw it away. Then a rock chip cracked the windshield almost in half. And we were adding a quart of oil each week. I was just waiting for the state-of-the-art cassette player to go on the fritz. And then I wouldn’t be able to listen to my Bob Seger tape anymore. And I wasn’t going to wait around for THAT to happen, yo.<br /><br />Being in Elk City, there aren’t a whole lot of places to browse when you are looking for a car. And mini-vans are even harder to come by. We had been searching for months and finally found one at a dealer in town. It was nice but Bryan was concerned about a rather large dent in the rear bumper. A few weeks went by and we still hadn’t found anything else so I convinced him to go test drive it – to a body shop to see how much it would cost to repair the dent. He was gone for a long time. He finally called and told me that the van had broken down on the way to the body shop and was being towed back to the dealer.<br /><br />Strangely enough, we were still interested and waited to hear from the dealer about the van being repaired. We never heard from them. We took it as a sign from God. Like, just in case the van breaking down on the test drive hadn’t clued us in, this did.<br /><br />So Bryan turned to the internet to browse for vans. I had sort of given up but he was determined to be riding in a rockin’ minivan before summer. He found a van that met most of our requirements in Oklahoma City which meant that we had to drive two hours to test drive it. Or rather he had to drive two hours to see if it was even worth it. This is not the interesting part of the story though, so I will fast forward to this week.<br /><br />Until last Saturday. I had been having a hard time getting it started. It was like: insert key, turn, nothing – crickets chirping. Usually it would start after a few tries but not this time. This time it was broken down in front of my in-laws’ house. And of course, Bryan had just left town for the week. I was all alone in Elk City with two little boys and no mini-van. (Shudder.)<br /><br />I had to have it towed the next Monday to the only dealer of its kind in town. (I am withholding the name because this is a very small town and I don’t want anyone to come cryin’ to me, all offended.) So it was towed to the dealer early Monday. Keep in mind this is the same dealer that never called us back after the first van broke down on a test drive. And on Tuesday after lunch, I still hadn’t heard anything from the dealer. So I decided to go ask what the scoop was.<br /><br />When I walked into the service office, there were three men sitting at the counter. None of them said anything to me. I just stood there for several minutes, waiting for someone to acknowledge that a live, breathing human had walked through the door. Eventually, one of the men asked, “Do you need somethin’?” without even looking up.<br /><br />“Uh, I’m here to find out about my van. It was towed here yesterday and I haven’t heard anything about what’s wrong or when it might be ready.”<br /><br />Silence. It was like waiting for an answer from The Wizard of Oz.<br /><br />After several minutes, he asked “What van?”<br /><br />“It’s the maroon mini-van,” I told him. And then I waited and waited. And waited. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there. And it’s not like these guys were busy – they were just sitting there. I finally asked, “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”<br /><br />“Oh. We couldn’t get that to start,” he told me. And that was the end of the conversation, it seemed. He resumed eating his peanut butter crackers. He didn’t say anything else and acted as if I wasn’t there again. He still hadn’t looked me in the eye. <br /><br />I desperately wanted to say, “Yes, that is why that big thing called a <em>tow truck</em> had to pull it here – because we couldn’t get it to start, either.” But I kept it in my head because these guys had me and I couldn’t risk ticking them off before they fixed my van and gave me a bill. So I explained the problem with it not starting and asked if they knew what might be wrong. One of them told me it was probably the starter and that he would have to order the part. Trying to maintain my nice voice, I inquired as to when that part might be arriving.<br /><br />“Oh, probably Thursday afternoon at best,” he answered with his slow southern drawl.<br /><br />Again, the voice in my head shouted out, “What, is it being shipped here by Pony Express?!?” I mean, I could ride my <em>bike</em> to Oklahoma City, get the part, and be back before Friday. But instead I just nodded and left.<br /><br /> Some things just can’t be said out loud. But I am still thankful for the voice in my head – its sarcasm keeps me sane.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-60172556907988430752010-08-01T20:37:00.000-07:002010-08-01T20:38:54.203-07:00big fun in a little townI keep seeing all these books/magazine articles/television talk shows that are telling us all to “slow down” and spend more time together. It is charming that suddenly everyone cares so much about us that they want us to slow down and enjoy life. The problem is: the Phillips family is not busy. Not even a little bit. It’s like a constant public service announcement telling me to breathe – I AM already!!!<br /><br />Maybe part of our slow pace is due to the small town we live in. But I remember when I lived in the Denver area, right smack in the middle of exciting things galore – I still never felt too busy. I could usually find time for a little afternoon siesta if needed. In fact, my life as a full time teacher living in a big city didn’t feel too busy at all. It felt like Baby Bear’s porridge – just right.<br /><br />Nowadays, when I have two errands to run, I do one today and save the other one for tomorrow. Not because I’m procrastinating, but because I may not have anything to do tomorrow if I use up all my errands today. I have time to rearrange the living room and water the flowers and alphabetize the medicine cabinet. And all with my darling children right underfoot.<br /><br />But sometimes, I get bored. Can you believe it?!?<br /><br />This week I was having a day which felt a little more like melba toast than focaccia bread. It was the kind of day that seems to go on and on and on. And on.<br /><br />Until Bryan came up with a thrilling idea. His idea was that we go to a nearby town and borrow his grandpa’s golf cart. And then we drive it around the tiny little town. If you are waiting for the exciting part, that was it – reread the second and third sentences.<br /><br />Having no other alternative with any more appeal than watching paint dry, we set out. What you need to know about this nearby town is that it is tiny. The size of a house fly’s press-on nail. The sign says the population is 500 although I suspect that might be wishful thinking. So we drove around that town and saw all that it had to offer – would you believe we saw houses, a school, and goats? Well, believe it.<br /><br />But here is the scandalous part. Aside from the moments when Bryan was taking corners way too fast and I was holding on to the boys for dear life, I had a great time. The song that says, “We’re from the country and we like it that way,” kept running through my head. And for a little while, I did like it.<br /><br /> And I wasn’t bored at all.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-90107164236895514392010-04-22T11:27:00.000-07:002010-04-22T11:33:21.661-07:00waiter, we need more jelly!Before I even start, I know what you are about to think – I can read minds in advance, among my other talents and skills. I know I have been writing about my own kids a lot lately. Before you throw a toy truck at my head for doing it again, you need to know that Wesley is like a little comedienne, only he isn’t even trying to be funny. I think lots of kids are like that but I hit the jackpot with this guy. He provides a lot of potential writing material.<br /><br />We were out last night and decided to have dinner at a little café in Elk City. And by café, I don’t mean romantic little restaurant with lots of charm and ambiance – I mean little restaurant with mounted animal heads on the wall and a salad bar chock full of iceberg lettuce. And no background music at all, which means you can hear every little sound in there. But the food is good and there aren’t a whole lot of choices, so…<br /><br />When we walked in it was pretty empty, only about three other tables had customers at them. We were led to the corner (they always put us in the corner – what is it about a frazzled couple with two young boys that makes them think we should be in the corner?!?). On the way to our table, we went past an older couple and I noticed with fear that the man had an eye patch. Not fear because I have a phobia of eye patches but because of what was going to happen next.<br /><br />Sure enough, when we got to the table, the chatter started and quickly turned into conversation about eye patches. Or maybe I should type it like it was spoken – EYE PATCHES. Because the volume of my son was more like the volume you would need to carry on a conversation during a Metallica concert. And with no background music at all, we were sort of stuck.<br /><br />I whispered to my son ,”We don’t talk about other people’s eye patches – it could hurt their feelings.” But it was answered like this: “WHY CAN’T WE TALK ABOUT HIS EYE PATCH? IS HE A PIRATE? CAN I BE A PIRATE FOR HALLOWEEN?” I finally let him eat the little packets of jelly on the table with a knife – it was the only trick I had to offer. The eye patch was quickly forgotten.<br /><br />Poor eye patch guy.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-82379978951305644082010-04-20T12:21:00.000-07:002010-04-20T12:22:04.410-07:00don't try this at homeBryan has been working a different kind of schedule lately. He has been gone for a week at a time, leaving me to be a single mom to our two youngsters. It is tiring. So last night, I collapsed into bed and noticed that I was feeling a little light-headed (probably from some serious chemical deficiency like potassium or chocolate). I thought, “Great, I’ll probably pass out in my sleep and Wesley won’t be able to wake me up in the morning.” And then I started thinking about what would happen if Wesley really couldn’t wake me up for some reason. I tried to imagine exactly what would happen and my little vision ended with Wesley wandering in the street until some neighbor found him…<br /><br />Well, that whole experience made me realize that we have never discussed what to do if Mommy trips on a toy car, breaking all her limbs, and passes out from the pain. It’s not like the old days when we were taught to “dial 911.” It isn’t that easy anymore. I mean, I can’t even find my own stinking cell phone half the time – how would I expect my three year old to find it in an emergency?<br /><br />I started the lesson by asking Wesley what he would do if Mommy couldn’t walk or talk and needed help. He just stared at me blankly – I could see that there were some ideas in his mind – ideas like climb up on the forbidden top bunk and play with the blender…so I tried to steer him in the right direction. I told him that he would need to call the police. Then I got my cell phone and gave him a lesson in how to dial 911 and hit “send.” It was complicated by the facts that he doesn’t know the number “9” yet and that he doesn’t really know which button is “send.” And that you can’t actually practice it or you call the police for real. Hmmmm.<br /><br />I also tried to impress upon him the importance of NOT dialing this unless there is really an emergency. I told him if he called the number and there wasn’t an emergency, the police would come to our house. Telling him this was a bad idea. Three year old boys WANT the police to come to their house – the only thing better than the police at your house is a pet elephant that can tap dance. Which led to this conversation:<br /><br />Wes: I need to use your phone a minute.<br />Me: Why?<br />Wes: I am going to call the police.<br />Me: Wes, remember, we don’t call them unless there is a real emergency.<br />Wes: I am going to tell them some bad news. That once a house was on fire somewhere. And that Wyatt hit me this morning with a block. It’s an emergency, Mommy.<br /><br />Three and a half might have been too young for this lesson. Suddenly the vision of Wesley wandering in the street and a neighbor finding him doesn’t seem so bad.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-85715075000754831562010-04-16T19:06:00.000-07:002010-04-16T19:07:17.834-07:00an important noteDear Man at the Fitness Center,<br /><br />I would like to speak on behalf of all the users of the cardio equipment and BEG you to stop walking around without your shirt. I don’t care if you have just come from the pool or if you have been lifting weights or even singing show tunes to nursing home residents – put your shirt on! This is western Okla-stinkin-homa, buddy, not southern California. You are pale and hairy. So please, put your “I heart BBQ” t-shirt back on before you catch a chill.<br /><br />Your friend,<br />Sweaty lady on the elliptical machineokiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-8398805853989928512010-04-15T19:55:00.001-07:002010-04-15T19:55:48.377-07:00rip it off!It’s been awhile since I’ve written and it feels sort of like ripping off a band-aid – I just need to do it fast and not think about it. And it will probably leave a little patch of hairless skin afterwards.<br /><br />Since it has been so long, I feel as if I need to update you on the cast of usual characters. So here goes:<br /><br />Bryan has quit his teaching job and now works in the oil field again. It’s the same kind of job he had a year and a half ago – the kind of job that makes money. He is still the same guy with perhaps a little less hair on his head. Don’t tell him I said that.<br /><br />Wesley is three years old, going on thirty. The other day we were driving and the radio was on sort of in the background and he exclaimed, “I haven’t heard this song in years!” He only eats grilled cheese, which makes him a grilledcheese-atarian. Not even chicken nuggets. It’s very un-American and irritating. He is outgrowing a lot of his fears so now we can drive through the automatic car wash without listening to him sob. That is nice. <br /><br />Wyatt will be two in June. His hobbies include crying for no reason, hitting people with random objects, and climbing things. He is trying to get a good jump on the terrible twos, apparently. Unlike his brother, he will eat pretty much anything, including mouthfuls of dirt. He is terrified of all animals, especially the neighbor’s dogs. He has his daddy wrapped around his sticky little finger.<br /><br />I finally sold enough of our personal belongings on ebay to purchase a nice camera. This purchase made me instantly into a professional photographer. Or at least I could be one for Halloween. The first couple months that I had the camera, I pretty much took a lot of crappy pictures for free because I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’m getting better. Now I only take crappy pictures some of the time. I still have the home daycare. I love it with the same fondness that one might love a lingering case of hemorrhoids.<br /><br />There now, that didn’t hurt a bit.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-73434101114911686422010-03-12T11:25:00.000-08:002010-03-12T11:28:26.974-08:00Okiemom is back on the prowlCough, cough. (That's from all the dust that just flew out of my keyboard when I opened it to type.) Well, in case you didn't notice, I have been on a little blog-cation for a few months but I am making my reappearance. Some of you have even mentioned my absence. This warms my spleen - makes me feel like if I really disappeared, someone might come check on me before my body had time to COMPLETELY decompose. Thanks, friends. I promise to be back in full swing soon.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-48594907832412768292009-11-10T07:40:00.000-08:002009-11-10T07:41:35.425-08:00what are you tryin to say, kid?Yesterday I was outside with the kids and we were discussing a very important topic – the superhero, Underdog.<br /><br />“Underdog is a good guy and he saves people and he can fly because he has a cape!” one little girl told me.<br /><br />So I asked the girls, “Does that mean that if I had a cape, I could fly?”<br /><br />The little girls looked at me and then at eachother and then one told me hesitantly, “Maybe, but you would need a <em>really big</em> cape.”okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-86128302146660930302009-11-04T12:04:00.001-08:002009-11-04T12:04:24.930-08:00letter to the chiefDear President Obama,<br />I’ve been watching the news a lot lately and have noticed that we seem to be having a bit of a “recession.” Have you seen the news coverage on it? Well, I am not sure how you plan on monitoring it and how all of you fellas in Washington plan to decide when it is officially over, but I have a little idea for you to think about.<br /><br />This morning I was sitting in the living room, playing with some of my “friends” and I felt something odd. It was a little breezy. I looked down and there, looking back at me, was my underwear. A giant hole had worn through my jeans. Perhaps this is because I only have two pair and I have to wash and wear them both so often. But here is the problem: my family’s $40 a month clothing budget has already been spent! It seems that my 15 month old son didn’t get the memo about hard economic times and has had the audacity to KEEP GROWING so I’ve already spent the $40 on pants for him. This leaves me at a loss about what to do now: do I make myself a nice pair of winter cut-offs or do I just go down to one pair of jeans? What would Michelle do?<br /><br />My husband and I are pretty average people. We both went to college. We have two kids and might even think about working on having the average 2.3 once this economy turns around. My husband is a high school science teacher. He used to work in the oil field and had a great paying job, which enabled me to stay home. The oil field jobs have mostly “dried up” since January of this year. So now he works as a teacher in Oklahoma, the 47th state in the nation for teacher pay, and I have a home daycare to try and make ends meet. It’s a stretch for us every single month.<br /><br />Here’s my idea for you: since Bryan and I are a pretty “average” American family (aside from the fact that we are actually married and neither of our kids were born out of wedlock – you will have to excuse that!), perhaps we can help you gauge when this current economic downturn is over.<br /><br />We will look for clues in our lives that tell us things are better. For instance, when I can go to the gas station and fill my car, it will be a good sign. Right now I have to put $5 or $10 at a time to make sure we have enough for the rest of the bills. Do you have to do that in the presidential limousine? That must be so embarrassing to have to stop so often if you do! I can also let you know when the cost of groceries stops steadily rising. And when I can afford to stop cutting Wesley’s hair myself (the pictures of my first attempt are pretty amusing, though) and when I can stop saving all those little free packets of ketchup to use at our house. I can get you a complete list of “good signs” in a couple days.<br /><br />Anyway, I hope we can help you out. And once we get this one taken care of, we can help you with the education system. You, Bryan, and I ought to be able to hammer that one out in no time flat.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Laura Phillipsokiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-31596274230200226662009-10-29T07:36:00.000-07:002009-10-29T07:38:59.003-07:00cause I'm feelin like a criminalAbout a month ago, I sat up in the middle of the night. A thought had flashed through my mind – a thought about my teaching license that was about to expire. My Colorado license was set to expire on October 12th and I’ve never gotten my Oklahoma license. I’m don’t even know what it entails to re-apply for a license that has expired but I’m pretty sure it requires things that I don’t want to have to do – like a three day long test to make sure I know the capitol of Las Vegas and the square root of infinity.<br /><br />The next morning I got up on a mission. I printed all the materials that made up the application and gathered all the necessary items: transcripts, copy of Colorado license, and checks for ridiculous amounts of money. The only thing missing was my fingerprints. Oh, my fingerprints, my fingerprints.<br /><br />I actually started the process of applying for my Oklahoma license back in 2005, while I still lived in Colorado. I submitted all the materials and waited. I finally got something in the mail but it wasn’t the certificate I expected, it was a sheet that said my fingerprints had been denied and needed to be redone. So I repeated the process and got the same result AGAIN. I gave up. I didn’t live in OK so I didn’t really need the license, it was just a precaution at the time and I still had four years left on my CO license. That was, like, forever away.<br /><br />But now I was forced to get my fingerprints again. I drove to the Elk City police station and decided to try my luck for a third time. I was paired up with an officer who seemed a little less than interested in taking some lady’s fingerprints. He took my fingerprints with minimal conversation and a whole lot of indifference. When he finished, I looked at the fingerprints. They were messy and blurred, even I could tell that. I could have saved myself the drive to the police station and taken my own fingerprints at home with a magic marker. I could only hope that this officer was a “good ole boy” and that somehow the fingerprint place would finally accept my submission. Third time’s a charm. I hoped.<br /><br />More than a month had passed since the day I sent them off. I took that as a good sign. Then yesterday, I got another big envelope from the OK Department of Education. This was it – I was finally licensed and could teach in Oklahoma (even though at this point I would rather pull every hair out of my head one by one than teach.) I ripped open the envelope and….guess what?!? It was yet another sheet telling me that my fingerprints had been denied and needed to be redone.<br /><br />This makes me think that instead of teaching, maybe I am destined to pursue a life of crime. I mean, the Oklahoma FBI can’t even read my fingerprints! So that would make me a perfect criminal, right? I wouldn’t even need to waste money on wearing gloves since I apparently HAVE NO FINGERPRINTS. And it probably pays way better than teaching, anyway.<br /><br />I guess I’d better forget about the prints and go shopping for ski masks.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-69808404316361691072009-10-22T18:04:00.000-07:002009-10-22T18:09:24.636-07:00snow in OctoberI’ve told you all before that one of my least favorite household chores is laundry. It is truly the chore that never ends. Because even if you were to wash every piece of laundry in the house, you would only be “caught up” for about half a day – and then your whole family would want to take off their clothes and put pajamas on, leaving you with another pile of laundry. Those turds!<br /><br />In my case, it is a little more fun to do laundry than it used to be. A few months ago, I was trying to dry a load of clothes and when I pressed “start” absolutely nothing happened. After investigating the situation, Bryan and I realized that our dryer had been overworked by a washer that wasn’t doing its job. Meaning we had a broken washer <em>and</em> dryer. At first I was really upset – if I don’t do laundry every day, we are buried under a mountain of it very quickly. Or worse, Bryan has to go to school wearing swim trunks and a coconut bra. So we didn’t waste any time getting to Sears to find a solution.<br /><br />I like to shop, that’s no secret. Now, shopping for major appliances isn’t my favorite, but I had been salivating over my friend’s front-loading washer and dryer for months and I knew that was what I had to have. And a week later they were in my house, washing my clothes. The boys and I sat and watched the clothes and the little soap bubbles go around and around through the window for a long time. It was love. I probably would’ve slept in the laundry room those first nights if I could have. This was WAY better than a new crock pot!<br /><br />So yesterday I was washing some clothes of the boys. Before any kids came, I put in a load while it was still dark, careful to not wake up the boys. I had stuffed the washer full to try and fit in everything. If you want to try this at home, fill your washer as full as you can. Then put in four more things. Then three more things.<br /><br /> As soon as the usual daycare chaos settled into a dull roar, I ran into the laundry room to change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. I pulled open the door and out spilled some laundry. But this laundry looked like it was covered in slushy snow. Wyatt picked up a chunk of the slush and ate it before I could even stop him. I knew what had happened – I had accidentally washed a diaper. Not the cloth kind, the disposable kind. And it didn’t take me long to guess who might have put a diaper in the laundry basket. I put my head down on the edge of the washer and tried to keep myself from crying. Not only was all my laundry covered in some mysterious polymer, but it had spilled out all over the floor, my son was trying to eat it, and five other kids were standing at the edge of the laundry room using tinker toys as drumsticks and “drumming” wildly on the door. The dull roar was over.<br /><br /> Thank the good Lord for dustbusters. And Tylenol. And cookies in the kitchen for everyone while Miss Laura cleans the laundry room.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-33957181611247026182009-10-16T05:45:00.000-07:002009-10-16T05:47:03.447-07:00like an episode of Beverly HillbilliesIt’s been raining here in western Oklahoma for about a week. We’ve been stuck inside and I’m starting to understand why Jack Nicholson went crazy in “The Shining.” Yesterday the boys and I took a driving tour of scenic Elk City, OK just because we needed to get out of the house.<br /><br />When we pulled back into the driveway something caught my eye as I took the boys out of the car. At first I thought it was the neighbor’s dog, coming to “visit” my bale of hay with pumpkins on it. Then I realized that this was much bigger than the neighbor’s dog. And it wasn’t visiting our hay, it was eating it. It was a giant goat!<br /><br />People, we do not live in the middle of nowhere. We live within the “city” limits. Granted, our community is very far from anything else, but to come home and find a goat standing in your front yard, eating your Fall décor is still a little shocking.<br /><br />Wesley was terrified. He is afraid of everything with four legs from a teacup poodle to a brontosaurus, including apparently, goats. I walked over to the hay bale and wondered what the protocol is for the situation. Do I call animal control or try to milk it? Just then a little old woman and a little old man came hobbling over to our yard. The woman had some kind of goat treats and the man had a little rope. They lured the goat back across the street and into their front door without saying anything to Wesley or me as we stared in silence.<br /><br />Now if our lawnmower ever breaks down, we can just borrow the neighbor’s goat. Perfect.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-89145541936780517162009-10-13T11:47:00.001-07:002009-10-13T11:48:47.906-07:00that's what I'm talkin' aboutI was looking back and realized my last posts were very loooong. Sorry for taking up so much of your time (I mean, if you actually read to the end of each of the posts, and if you didn't, you stink.) Here's a shorty post for you to enjoy.<br /><br />Who says life in the suburbs can’t be dangerous???<br /><br /><a href="http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,564945,00.html">http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,564945,00.html</a>okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-48077640151025689172009-10-12T07:41:00.000-07:002009-10-12T07:50:10.981-07:00no TV for us!Have you ever been so desperate for someone to play with you that you were willing to do practically anything? I remember once when I was little (maybe seven years old??) my parents tried to make me eat liver. It started out as a big slab of liver, at least it seemed like a big slab to me, in reality it was probably no bigger than a deck of playing cards. But it didn’t matter what size it was, it was not going in my mouth. The funny part is, I didn’t even know what liver was – I just knew it must be disgusting by the way my parents were so insistent that I eat it and wouldn’t be getting up from the table until I did. And unfortunately for them, I am stubborn. At age seven, I had the stubbornness to wear down the patience of Mother Theresa. So I sat at the table during the meal, then while everyone else cleared the table (except for my plate of liver, of course), and while they went about their days without me. I was prepared to sit there until the second coming of Jesus, if need be.<br /><br />My mother must have known what I was thinking, because eventually she cut the liver into pieces and fed them all to the dog <em>except</em> for four pieces. And she insisted that I eat those last four little pieces. God bless her for trying, but there was still no way I was eating that liver. Hours passed and I was still sitting there at the kitchen table, not eating the liver. My parents were wearing down. They had a little conference and came to me with the decision: they would give the dog three pieces of liver, I would eat the remaining piece. To them, it was a great solution. To me, it was never going to happen.<br /><br />Since the rest of the family left the table, my younger brother who was probably four at the time, was in the living room waiting for me to play. He kept peeking around the corner, telling me to just eat the liver so we could play. Finally when no one was around, he ran into the kitchen, came over to my plate, and without saying anything, he ate my piece of liver. I was free and there was nothing my parents could do because the dog had eaten all the rest! My brother had turned from bratty little brother to coolest kid on the planet in ten seconds!<br /><br />So this weekend, I wanted Bryan to hang out with me and watch TV or a movie. But he couldn’t because he had forty-five reports to grade. They were reports by seventh graders and they were on the differences and similarities of plant and animal cells. Blah blah blah. I could see the night ticking away while he read the reports with the speed of a sloth on benedryl. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I took some of the reports and started reading them myself. I am, after all, certified to teach kindergarten through eighth grade. I didn’t technically grade anything but I read each report and handed it to Bryan with a synopsis of which parts had been included or left out. My purpose was to speed things up a little so that we could watch some TV.<br /><br />Unfortunately for those seventh graders, I actually read their reports. I doubt they were counting on anyone <em>actually reading</em> something as dry as Plant Cells vs. Animal Cells. But I did. And after reading a handful, several of them started sounding familiar. In fact, a little too familiar. I thumbed back through the pile and found two that matched pretty much exactly. I pointed it out to Bryan. He groaned, as this isn’t a fun thing to deal with for a teacher. I left him with those matching papers and kept reading. My plan was backfiring in a big way. The more I read, the more I realized I was reading a lot of the exact same thing over and over again. In the end, there were 13 papers that were the exact same, except for the names at the top. This didn’t lead to Bryan and I relaxing and watching TV as I had planned. It led to Bryan in despair at the kitchen table until late that night, trying to figure out what to do with them all on Monday. We did figure out that they had all used the same website and just “copied and pasted” from the website to their reports. Ugh.<br /><br />So much for my plan to help and get things done faster so Bryan could play. I should have learned from my little brother all those years ago. I shouldn’t have read those dumb reports – I should have EATEN them.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-62055348273638109982009-10-08T07:12:00.000-07:002009-10-08T07:13:52.394-07:00alms for the poorBryan and I have been attending the Dave Ramsey class “Financial Peace University” at our church on Sunday nights. Anyone familiar with that? We’ve heard about it so many times and heard so many people say how good it is. (This is sounding like an advertisement and it is NOT. Unless Dave Ramsey would like to throw a little cash my way…) So when our church decided to offer it, we signed up. After almost five years of marriage and two kids, we decided it was time to have more of a plan about what to do with our money than, “Um, let’s spend it.”<br /><br />So we went the first week, not knowing what to expect. I went with a bad attitude because I figured no matter what, this class was probably going to mean a bit of a financial diet for our family. A little tightening of the financial belt, if you will. And I was right. Old Dave Ramsey gave me a couple of hard punches in the stomach – how dare he suggest we eat at home more?!? Doesn’t he know that just means more grocery shopping and dishes to clean and more hard labor in the kitchen? And he suggests that we start saving so we won’t have to sell one of the kids if the car breaks down. I mean, it’s not so much that we don’t have a budget - I’ve made a budget for our family lots of times. It’s that we’ve never actually <em>followed<img class="gl_italic" alt="Italic" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" width="1" border="0" /></em> one. It’s hard to stick to a budget as we all know. My personal weakness is the internet - there are just so many shiny and exciting things to buy on the internet. Things that I need. Like a couple of Sham-Wows and a blanket with arms and some thing that helps me hear what people are saying about me from across the street and…things that will change my life!<br /><br />I’m sure when it’s all said and done, I will want to thank Dave Ramsey for all his expert advice. But right now, as I’m doing extra dishes from our eating at home more, and cutting out scads of coupons, and sewing a hole in Bryan’s pants instead of just throwing them away, I want to give Dave Ramsey a knuckle sandwich.<br /><br />A knuckle sandwich made with bread bought at a discount from the day old bakery outlet store, of course.okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-87824429858912183002009-10-06T08:56:00.001-07:002009-10-06T08:59:00.207-07:00say cheese<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX3lkQU21BzQBNzP6fDHO1i3KxTVcsdYBMnBPTAlQvNM1Wv-csxHK1p9Y-_pK0UxpR8tAWiJfq4LN3ZuadZfwH5TKDS04m6DP0sJqK0fD4PJLJ7URsvI6aWAcZ4JQMVZX8rm6BA1TABE/s1600-h/kids+for+frames+014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389517044027601602" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX3lkQU21BzQBNzP6fDHO1i3KxTVcsdYBMnBPTAlQvNM1Wv-csxHK1p9Y-_pK0UxpR8tAWiJfq4LN3ZuadZfwH5TKDS04m6DP0sJqK0fD4PJLJ7URsvI6aWAcZ4JQMVZX8rm6BA1TABE/s200/kids+for+frames+014.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I have some aspirations to do photography. Not like sweet little fawns drinking water by a babbling brook, that doesn’t appeal to me at all. I didn’t cry at Bambi. More like pictures of kids (it always has to involve kids, doesn’t it?) or graduating seniors or family pictures. Heck, I’d probably take pictures of your Uncle Tom’s gangrenous foot if you paid me.<br /><br />Here are the problems I’ve encountered so far:<br />I don’t have a professional grade camera. And I have a feeling that people wouldn’t have much confidence in me if I showed up to photograph their wedding and pulled out my Barbie Snapshotz camera. I really need to get a good one but it turns out they aren’t cheap. So I’ve been trying to make money. This is tough as most of my time is already eaten up by my current job – child care professional/maid/short order cook/ninja. The only thing I could come up with that I can do from home and in my scant free time is sell my own personal belongings on ebay. And that is exactly what I have been doing. I’ve come to the conclusion that I could be 82 years old before I sell enough of my belongings to buy a camera. But I’m working on it. That just means I might have to “borrow” some of Bryan’s belongings to sell, too.<br />I don’t have a website. At least not a photography website. And I don’t know how to create one. Don’t even know where to start. I am quite computer impaired and this might be a difficult one for me.<br />I don’t have a whole lot of free time to take pictures to build a “portfolio,” with my Barbie camera.<br />I don’t really have a #4 but aren’t the first three enough? I’ve got to get moving on this goal before it becomes like all my other goals – learn to play guitar, become fluent in Spanish, sail my yacht around the world, grow a third arm out of my back…<br /><br />Anybody need pictures of anything? And I DO mean anything…</div>okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-25645548259734932512009-09-29T12:04:00.000-07:002009-09-29T12:05:46.563-07:00so what if she wouldn't eat CheeriosI need to take back every bad thing I ever said about Winnie. If she were here right now, I would take her tiny paw in my hand, look into her little brown eyes, and ask for forgiveness. But alas, I can’t. And here’s why.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, Wyatt was carrying around a chicken nugget. Since he is approximately two feet tall (he isn’t even on the charts for his height), that means that his greasy little chicken nugget was dangling right about at Winnie’s eye level. Wyatt offers to share just about everything he eats but his way of sharing is to hold it out to you, you <em>pretend</em> to eat some, and then he eats it for real. Only tell that plan to a hungry shih-tzu.<br /><br />So Wyatt is walking around with his nugget and Winnie tries to take it from him. Wyatt let out his, “I’m being eaten by a grizzly bear!” scream and in the end, there was a little bruise on his finger. A dog-tooth-shaped bruise.<br /><br />It made me worry a little for the first time. I know that if my kids get a nip from the dog, it is probably because of something they should not have been doing. Kind of like, don’t pull on the dog’s tail and the dog won’t growl at you. But it’s hard to get other parents to agree with that policy. And I don’t want to explain a dog-tooth-shaped bruise to anyone else’s mom.<br /><br />I thought about what the possible solutions were and I knew that my dad was the best option. So I sent him an email and he said he would gladly take Winnie. We arranged to meet over the weekend in Albuquerque and make the transfer.<br /><br />This is really a hard thing for me because Winnie is six years old. That means I got her when I was like, um, cough, cough twenty three. I’ve had her since she was a tiny puppy. We’ve been together through my first teaching job, marrying Bryan, having two kids, and I thought we would grow old together. Or at least that I would bury her in a box in my backyard someday. She’s my little bud.<br /><br />So the first week without her was really hard for me. I looked for her every time I went to lay on the couch – she always wanted to lay on my feet. I saved her chicken when I made dinner before I remembered that she wasn’t there to eat it. And during the day, don’t even get me started – that dog was like a Hoover vacuum, picking up all the crumbs and pieces of food that fall to the floor. I really missed her at mealtime.<br /><br />I called my dad and asked how she was doing. I was hoping he would say, “She mopes all the time and lays by the door.” And maybe that he keeps finding her spelling out “I miss my mommy” with her milkbones. But, no. Instead he tells me that she is wagging her tail all the time. They go for a walk three times a day, the neighbors all have treats ready for her when they go by in the morning, he took her for a haircut and she looks so nice…<br /><br />I wanted to say, “Look, old man! I know your house is like Disneyland for dogs, and that you are retired so you have nothing else to do all day but rub her belly and shop online for little dog sweaters and take her for walks, but I NEED that dog back! She picks up my crumbs and keeps my feet warm!” But I didn’t say that. Because I know that Winnie is probably pretty happy being the queen of the castle, even if that castle does smell like Old Spice deodorant and Ensure milkshakes.<br /><br />Winnie, I miss you!okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6290896323990551218.post-20280370539299424942009-09-23T06:51:00.000-07:002009-09-23T06:52:17.888-07:00break out the hand sanitizerOur lives are fixin’ to change. (Please know that I just used a bit of local vernacular and have never uttered that word as one of my own.) But they are fixin’ to change.<br /><br />Currently in our one horse town, we have a Wal-mart. Not the Super kind, just the regular kind, which are probably in danger of becoming extinct. Should this possible extinction make me sad? It doesn’t. Anyway, we go there often, as do most people in our town. We engage in a popular activity called Wal-martin’. This activity is kind of like a sport but it doesn’t have an official season – it’s all year round! You just load up the kids and head down to Wal-mart for some family fun. It’s best if you don’t have a list and just take your time browsing the aisles to see what has gotten $.12 cheaper thanks to “rollback prices.” The good news is that putting clothes on your children (especially shoes) is optional – a diaper will do, even if it is snowing outside.<br /><br />The closest Super Wal-mart before was an hour away. The downside is that it’s in a town with little else to attract visitors, aside from the McDonald’s playland. And the huge Bingo parlor. But now, there is a Super Wal-mart that has opened just 45 minutes away! Think of all the gas we can save!<br /><br />I hate to admit that this excites me because I am sort of anti-Wal-mart. Have you ever tried to go there and buy things only made in the USA? You probably wouldn’t have much in your cart…But nevermind that most of the goods you can purchase at Wal-mart reek of the sweat of the young Chinese children who work 16 hour days to provide us with Low Prices - Always – if I am honest, I will admit that it makes me tingly all over to think of a Super anything just 45 minutes away! Wheeee!<br /><br />So next time I wake up at 3 in the morning and realize that I need some turnips, a plastic lawn chair, and a box of suppositories for the dog, I am totally in luck! Because now there is a place where I can get it all only 45 minutes away.<br /><br />Now all we need is a bookstore, a Target, a decent restaurant,…okiemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00751840559858733844noreply@blogger.com2