No Novocain? No cavity!

I haven't done a Not Me post in a while, and thought it might be time for a bit of silliness. I'm not always reflective and spiritual you know! :) (Ok, you really didn't have to agree with me so quickly!)

So humor me, please....

I have always taken pride in a cavity free mouth. Every time I visit the dentist, they comment on my beautiful mouth of teeth. (Thanks for the braces, mom and dad!) I brushed and flossed regularly as a kid and my worst nightmares included my teeth falling out. Well, there was that one time I had a tiny cavity. But it doesn't count. It was so small I didn't even need Novocaine when it was filled.

See? Nice teeth.  But not nice double chin...

And, yes, I laugh a lot.

Given my pride in this area there is no way I am going to admit that I had 4 cavities filled this week. Not me! I spent $700.00 to get sealants repaired, not to get cavities filled. My mouth has a reputation to uphold, you know.

I did not go so far as to convince the dentist to agree with my definition of "cavity " just to make myself feel better. I needed no Novocaine, so there is not a chance I'm calling them cavities! Not ME! And not him, either!

So if you could just keep this quiet for me, I would appreciate it, and so would my mouth. It has a reputation to uphold, you know.

~

Alright, back to regular programming. Thank you very much. If you want to read other Not Me nonsense, head over to Jennifer's place.  It's a great place for some laughs on a Monday morning!

The Doll I'll Never Admit is Better

There was a rule. It was unspoken, but it grew from a childhood of scorn for all things branded. Whether it be chips, toys, or electronics, if it was a popular brand, our family probably didn't have it. Despite my attempts, I did not inherit this rule. Not me. I do not believe cheaper is better.


Not me. Really.


I have not broken this rule. I did not break the no way will anyone in our family ever own an overpriced, over hyped doll rule.

I did not let my daughter buy an American Girl doll. Not me. What a waste of money. It's just a doll.

Now, when I want to feel better about myself and my silly rules, I remind myself that at least I didn't buy it for her. Nope. She bought it herself.

~

Megan  literally vibrated with excitement while I grabbed a Starbuck's mocha (conveniently across from the store entrance) to help me survive the experience. Mocha in hand, I followed Megan as she marched in to American Girl with her wad of cash, fresh from her birthday card, hand in mine, and with a bit of prodding, approached a gentleman and asked, "Can you show me where Lanie is?"

He  led us to the middle of the store, past fantastic glass encased displays of dolls, to her choice: this year's doll that looks amazingly like my own girl. Blond with long curly hair. And a penchant for outdoor adventure. And bugs. At least, that's what the book about her says.


Megan took her time. She looked at the accessories, weighed the cost of doll plus one extra. Is the doll laptop worth $26 or is the hammock? If she had a couple hundred more dollars, would she buy Lanie's camper and where would she put it? She made a full sweep of the store, admiring doll couches, puppies, sunglasses and endless matching outfits.

She chose carefully. The doll and the hammock. Oh, the decisions of a nine year old.

She filled her big red bag and checked out, chatting comfortably with the cashier.We made our way to the van, and I clicked the light on so she could immediately open the box. She fretted that the doll's hair would be mashed in the back just like a Barbie's straight from the box. No worries. Lanie came complete with a hairnet, and bouncy hair.

For days, she's done her schoolwork with Lanie nearby, admiring each detail.

 

It turns out you often do get what you pay for. But I will never admit it. Not me.

Farmer + Husband + Tractor > AAA

Yesterday I packed the kids up to head off to piano lessons. Wednesdays are busy: finishing schoolwork, making sure everyone is dressed and combed and somewhat presentable, grab a bite, make sure kids have piano books, lists for errands.

We head out of our driveway and I punch R to dial Robb.  I begin telling him of my morning. Of Mitchell's meltdown and how well I handled it.

Then he hears my voice say, without exclamation or changing tone,

"And we're going in the ditch."

And then the sound of snow flying.

We had done a 180 into the ditch.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and says, "I'm on my way."

The kids cheer, "That was fun!"

I open the windows to avoid asphyxiation. You know. In case the exhaust pipe is full of snow. Then I decide to check the damage and the exhaust pipe. It's clean so I shut the windows. It's cold here, ya know.

I text twitter that we're in the ditch, cause I'm sure that's more interesting than other things I've tweeted lately. Too bad I don't have internet on my phone or I could actually blog from the ditch....or answer the well wishes of friendly tweets.

But instead, I wait.

On his way to me, Robb picks up a tow rope at our repair shop. They're such nice small town guys.

I take a couple pictures:

Neighbors drive by offering help. One says he did the same thing this week. On this road. So at least I'm not the only one. Except he hit someone. He blames the county, of course. "If they'd just take care of the road!" Did I mention he's 22?  Does that mean I drive like a 22 year old?

Did I mention I used to teach driver's education? Ya, forget I just said that.

A girl from the nearest farm comes tearing down her driveway offering their tractor. I tell her my husband is on his way with our pickup, but we'll let her know if we need the assistance of the tractor. I have to give my husband the chance to be the hero, you know. He'd want that, I'm pretty sure.

Robb arrives, and I tell him how glad I am that he doesn't have a "real" job so he can come and rescue me. He's good at rescuing.

He hooks up a tow strap, and the truck doesn't budge the van. It fishtails on the ice packed road.

The guy with the tractor arrives.

They try the tow strap with the tractor and it promptly snaps. The strap, not the tractor.

They shovel around the van.

They shovel some more.

All the while with three kids and a grinning lady watching.

Poor guys.

Did you know we have lots of snow here? Yeah.

Robb's shovel breaks.

He drives the 1/2 mile home to retrieve another.

But he does not grab a coat. Or boots. Fleece vest it is. It's like his own strange uniform. Always.

They shovel some more.

Out comes the old frayed tow rope from the repair shop, and I take more pictures.

Of my knight's shining armor:

In no time About one hour after our slip up-  we are out.  I think that's still faster than AAA!

Tonight, I think I'll call my husband Robb Deere, Rescuer of the Ditched.

Tomato Soup Fiasco

My freezer if full of frozen summer produce, my old fashioned pantry lined with jars. And there it sits. My husband still buys canned tomatoes for his taco soup and I forget I made pickles and applesauce and fruit salsa. The freezer is clogged with zucchini from this year and last year and green beans galore. I'm not sure my family even appreciates beans, unless slathered in cream soup and topped with fried onions.

So yesterday I decided to used some of the overabundance. I'd heard a friend rave about homemade tomato soup with grilled cheese, and though that flavor of soup is not my favorite, I gave it a try. Frozen tomatoes went in the pot with an onion and carrot and garlic and basil. It simmered and simmered down. Smelled good. I had hope.

I poured the boiling, chunky liquid into my blender. I knew this was dangerous, but I started slow. It gurgled slowly out the top. I spooned a good cup off the top to allow room for fierce blenderizing. I turned it on.

Who was it that was so careful, calculating her blender approach only to be startled by tomato puree sprayed all over an entire corner of the kitchen? Ummm, that certainly could not be me. But it was me and there I stood covered in tomato soup. Also covered was the wall, the cupboard, the stove, the recipe box, the canisters, the mixer, and the grill that was awaiting grilled cheese.

I wiped up. The counter. Not me. My clothes could wait. Supper could not. I finished the soup, timidly blending, not as confidently as before. The sandwiches were made after the fried soup was wiped off the griddle, and the kids came to eat. They eyed the soup.

"Who wants to try my new soup?" I ask.

"Not me," they all reply.



To read more ridiculousness click here:




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Christmas is all about Spankings

 Today I have a guest post by my sister Laura for you. Enjoy!

Ahh, Christmas memories... once a year they all come flooding back. I will never forget our church's Christmas Eve service the year my niece Megan was five years old. That was the year they decided to do something a little different from tradition and included a children's sermon as a part of the service. All the little kids, including Megan, were called up to sit on the stage while the pastor talked to them about Christmas. One of the first things the pastor did was ask the kids, "What is Christmas all about, anyway?" Being the talkative, uninhibited child that she has always been, Megan raised her hand and declared, "My daddy said that Christmas is all about spankings!"

Megan and Laura 2008

The congregation lost it. I don't think anyone in my family even heard the rest of the children's sermon, and I don't remember anything else about that service. The funniest part is that it was true; her dad had told her that Christmas is all about spankings. If I remember the story correctly, it happened just before they left for the service: Megan was being willful and disobedient and would not put on the proper clothing, so her dad told her, "If you don't get dressed right now, you are going to get a spanking, because that's what Christmas is all about- spankings!" Of course he said it in jest, but the words stuck.

We still laugh about Megan's statement, yet, as I think about it now, she may have been more right than we were inclined to believe. At one time we, also, were willful and disobedient. We, also, refused to clothe ourselves in righteousness, and our Heavenly Father reminded us that there would be consequences for that disobedience, consequences much greater than spankings. That's why He sent His Son. Perhaps the Holy Child received no spankings, yet He came to embrace that much greater punishment we had earned. He came that we might be clothed in His righteousness.

Christmas is not really all about spankings. But it IS about disobedient children. It IS about a loving Father. It IS about forgiveness and a punishment that has been wiped away. In this remembrance, we truly do have something to rejoice in!

No postage due. Not me.

When on vacation recently I REALLY DID write sweet notes to all my small group ladies to let them know I was thinking of them. I did not however hand them through a vehicle window to my father-in-law while driving through town because he was going to the post office. I did not ignore the sweet little voice in my head telling me to call him and tell him that those precious notes needed stamps. Nope. I did not figure carelessly that he would look at them before mailing them and I could pay him back for postage. Nope, wouldn't do that. I did not (really I didn't) ask him later if he mailed them without stamps. My husband did. We did not have a conversation about it, wondering if the bar code where the stamp should be was a prepaid stamp-code-thing.

I did not have to visit the post office the next morning and wait in line for thirty minutes, all the while with a crabby old lady behind me who constantly whined about waiting. I did not have to wait all that time only to be told that the stamp-code-thing was not a valid stamp. I did not ask the postal lady to go looking for my postcards. Nope, not me. She DID look. Very graciously. But my cards were long gone. I did not almost cry out of embarrassment from the thought of twenty postcards to my Bible Study ladies arriving postage due.

I did not post a pre-apology on Facebook. Nope, not me. My friends were gracious and said any note I send would be worth paying for.

But the cards did not arrive postage due. (For real.) And I am not at all upset about my unneeded apology. Not me!

Hello again! Time for a funny story or picture....or something.

Today I shall reveal to you a bit of family history.

I bet this has never happened in your house!

Our family was at our cabin (which we no longer own, so don't invite yourself to it!) and my husband was preparing the kids for bed after a trip to Walmart. He began to bathe them, filling the tub with hard, rusty, stinky well water that is so typical of cabins. Yuck. As if that wasn't bad enough to give them a bath in, he decided to add something to the water. Now, usually we would add bath salts, bath oil, or bubble bath. That's what I would expect, at least. Nope, my husband was in an unusual mood. He decided to find out whether the leftover cotton candy from Walmart would turn the bath water interesting colors. So in it went. With the kids. Not sure what to think of his strange behavior, I collapsed on the sofa. I couldn't decide whether to cry because my husband had lost his mind, or to laugh because he was crazy funny. But Robb was not done. As long as the bath water was messed up and his wife thought he was crazy, why not put all doubts on the matter to rest and add potato chips to the bath? Which he did. With a smile and a laugh (at me). And a promise to clean the mess up completely. Which he did.

It's a "not me" Monday!

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by McMama. You can head over to www.mycharmingkids.net to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

And now for my little bit of denial:
When on the computer blogging and facebooking this week I did not tell my children I was "working." Because that would be a bit of a stretch. Possibly even a lie. And I never lie. Nope. Not me!

I did not skim a novel looking for the highlights and then read the end just so I could go to sleep instead of staying up until the wee hours finishing the book! Nope not me! I never skip ahead. And I never get so engrossed in a book that I forget to live my own life. That would be irresponsible. And I'm never irresponsible. Not me!

I did not wait till the weekend to finish my Bible Study homework when class in on Monday, because discussion leaders never do that. And I never procrastinate. Not me!

My 8-year-old did not tell my 5 year-old "Stop hovering over me!" because she has heard me say it all too often. Because I never get frustrated or need my own space. Not me!

Memory Monday: Where there's smoke, there's always a fire, right?

Memory Monday: my opportunity to share humorous tidbits from our family's history. This one is from Oct. 2006.

So, the kids and I were upstairs- me cleaning, and them, riding their sleeping bags down the stairs (a pastime of which I am quickly tiring ) when Megan yells from the bottom of the stairs, "It smells like smoke down here!"

I rush down and she's right. The kitchen is hazy and definitely smells like smoke.

The problem is, I can't figure out where the smoke is coming from or why. I hadn't cooked anything that morning except a mean bowl of Rice Krispies! And everyone knows those aren't cooked!

The oven was off, the stove was off and there was not a spark in sight.

I yell at the kids to go outside, which, of course, is freezing cold, and they are dressed in tutus. OK, Mitchell's not wearing a tutu, but he IS shirtless. They bundle up with blankets in the van and I start a movie to keep them occupied.

I proceed to go back in the house to find out the source of the smoke. It occurs to me that the house was recently rewired and maybe the problem is hidden. I can't find anything, so I do what any normal person SHOULD do: I call 911.

The fire department comes out. Just great for a newcomer to the neighborhood. The first responder goes through the house with me, looking for the fire. We find nothing. We determine the source is most likely the kitchen and by the time we get back there, the whole fire crew is there in full firefighting garb, including a member of our church.

The first responder asks his crew, "What do you smell?" The police officer on the scene thoughtfully replies, "It smells like burnt plastic." In that instant I think, "There are two places I've seen plastic burn in the kitchen, the top of the stove and (here's my light bulb moment)....the....MICROWAVE!"

A firefighter opens the implicated appliance and pulls out a well-charred, melted  bottle of Costco brand children's vitamins. The true guilty party: none other than our precious two-and-a-half year old, Madison.

The fire crew was kind to offer encouraging words that I did the right thing to call them. My true consolation comes from the fact that it took a kitchen-full of burly men, and a lady police officer, a full ten minutes to find my fire.

What was she thinking?

No pictures for this post.
That would be illegal.
Curious yet?

Last night, Robb, in his anxiousness to restart the show our family was watching together, went to check on the girls, who were taking a potty break. He hears through the bathroom door Madison talking to Megan. Assuming she is guarding the door for Megan(the door doesn't lock), he gently opens it. To his astonishment, he finds Madison awkwardly perched over the pedestal sink relieving herself. She is just as surprised to get caught in such a mischievous act. What is a parent to think of such a thing? Very naughty to be sure. But hilarious in a bewildering way.  What was she thinking?!

And what am I to think? Have I failed as a mom? Do I need a childproof sink? I never could have guessed I needed to instruct my children not to EVER pee in a sink. Well, I may have mentioned it to my son once. I just never thought it was necessary to tell my daughters. I thought only boys did crazy, gross stuff. Guess I was wrong.

STUPID SNOWBANK!

We native Minnesotans are known to go out in any weather. What, a blizzard? No problem! Visibility is low with blowing snow? No big deal! We just go slow and plunge ahead. (Unless we have a 4-wheel drive truck. Then we go fast!) We go on with our lives and go where we need to go.

Last Sunday was one of those days. It was not snowing, but you'd never know it, because the top layer of snow was blowing fiercely across the open fields. Mostly, the roads were blown clear, but there was an occasional drift. We had just left our house to go to church and were driving down our gravel country road: I saw the drift coming and told Robb to go around it--too late. We plowed into that drift. We had no trouble staying on the road, but I scolded Robb for going through it. He claimed he didn't see it coming. (I have my doubts about that!) The kids thought it was great fun to see the billow of snow, and so they chatted about it as we made our way to church. Robb didn't see the damage till later.

Now, I'd like to know if you have a "stupid snowbank" story....SARA?

A Snake at the Zoo

Yesterday we went to the Zoo. We took in the dolphin show, the tropical fish feeding and the shark feeding. We traveled through the air on the monorail, and we walked the MN trail. We felt anemones and sharks. But the best part was when the kids and their fifteen year-old buddy darted into a short, dark, observation tunnel and found a loose snake curled up in the corner sleeping. They ran out to report the loose animal. The fifteen year-old's concerned mother went to inform a zoo employee of the escapee. She came back with interesting news: the snake was a fake!

A mere cup of coffee

In the beginning, this story will seem to be about getting a cup of coffee. It is. But read on.

On Sunday we had a family gathering at a couple's home. They shall remain nameless to protect the guilty. We had a lovely dinner of taco soup (provided by us), conversation, and the kids played outside. After dinner Mr. X made coffee. It was unusually strong, but I can't hack regular coffee, so I went to the fridge for some milk. There were two full jugs, and I didn't want to open a new one, so I took out the third, almost empty jug. I poured a little into my mug until I noticed it was not milk. It appeared to be water. Robb joked, "Watch out! It's probably bleach water!" But, knowing that Mrs. X often drinks water out of large jugs, I assumed it was water. I opened a new jug of milk, poured some into my coffee and added sugar. My coffee tasted just right.

We continued the enjoyable afternoon until Miss x (10) interrupted, held out the nearly empty milk jug, and said, "What is in this? It smells like bleach and I drank some." I now realized I had consumed bleach water as well." She and I pondered our fate. I didn't want to take any chances (would you?) so I made a call to poison control.

Did you know that you could drink a whole gulp of bleach straight from the bottle and all you would get is a stomach ache? I learned that from poison control. Thankfully, the only stomach ache I got was from the beans in the taco soup.

Chickens

I have recently entered a new phase of self sufficiency. I now know how to butcher chickens. Yep, I helped a friend kill and clean a few of her birds. It's really not that bad. I expected the chickens to fight a bit more, but they were quite subdued. Maybe they were half frozen! Maybe they figured dead was better than being cooped up in a tiny shed with 16 other birds. Anyway, they didn't protest their end much.

Call me twisted or whatever you wish, but I have harbored a secret wish for many years to see a chicken running around without a head. Yesterday their feet were tied, so they only flopped. The kids watched from a distance and laughed. Debbie thanked Jesus for dinner. I was just satisfied the job was done. For that day, anyway. There are 12 birds left. Maybe we'll leave their feet untied.