This Full House

The Sad World of the Misunderstood Euphemism, and Zombies

My husband, Garth (not his real name) is a good guy.  I mean, like, Eagle Scout good and anyone who knows us (IRL) would most definitely agree adding, "Well, the man IS married to you."

Aaaaand, I'm okay with it (the fact that he's married to me AND the aforementioned euphemism) because, trust me, I am WELL aware of my own limitations.

Like, my inability to withstand the mechanical forces of the earth's gravitational pull (I fall down, A LOT!) or, my penchant for breaking things...okay...wait...for...it...A LOT!

Then, my lack of patience (see also: previous paragraph) is legendary, which makes me simultaneously annoying and popular with the customer service set.

Oh, and the fact that my husband left the house feeling a bit hacked-off (sorry, had kids home sick this week and have Harry Potter and The Deathly Hollows Part II on the brain) and I'm sitting here, acting all misunderstood and everything, with a bazillion OTHER THINGS I SHOULD BE DOING, LIKE:

• Clean the house:  but, it's raining and the vacuum is very-nearly-dead.
• Wash the dishes:  dishwasher is...wait...for...it...broken.
• Fold laundry:  don't want to disturb the cat.
• Wrangle the killer dust bunnies:  I believe in raising 'em free range.
• Go grocery shopping:  although, I did find some hot dogs and sandwich bread.
• Get my oil changed:  in the car I mean, mine is fine (I think).
• Continue ignoring the fact I've got a kid graduating high school in, like, 2 weeks:  enough said.
• Prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse:  it's coming, y'all.

Aaaaand, this is the part where you guys should be all...like...dude, is your husband ever coming back?

I hope so.  For as much as he thinks I hate him, at the moment, truth is I love Garth (not his real name) more than my Dyson (may it rest in peace) and can't imagine celebrating another day (above ground) without him.

He is my good-er half.

Also, our niece is getting married next summer and you know the part where the officiant happily declares the newly married couple as man and wife?

It's going to take ALL of my strength NOT to holler out:  brace yourselves, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

Besides, NO ONE is better at putting their hand over my mouth, without ruining my lipstick, than Garth (not his real name) and...wait a second...I really DID mean that, literally...although, on second thought...um...never mind.

I can hear the zombies now, "No brains!  Move along!" 

You are safe here, my friends, stupid euphemisms.

 © 2003 - 2012 This Full House

{nearly} Wordless Wednesday: Iris in the Morning

No edits, no filters, no iPhone, it's all Iris.

ALTERNATE BLOG POST TITLE:  Reason why I rushed out the front door early this morning and nearly beaned myself into unconsciousness (pro tip: check to make sure the storm door is actually unlocked!) I wanted to get this shot before the raindrops evaporated -- I blame all you more-expert-like photographers out there AND Instagr.am!

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House

Freshly-Brewed Elsewhere:  I am very honored to be working with Hallmark as a Life is a Special Occasion featured blogger, which allows me the opportunity to share personal stories, insights and inspirations in enjoying simple every day moments.  This month,  I'm sharing my celebrity crush(es) and how my LOVE for vampires runs deep.

Parenting Tip #8,913,256: Bogus Text Scammers Suck - We should throw old cell phones at them!

Loved the effect rain is leaving on windshield, so I posted it to Instagr.am (like a good blogger!)

I was waiting in the pick up lane for my youngest, when my cell phone doink-doink-ed (it's my tone, don't judge!) while I was in the middle of trying to upload a picture to Instagr.am.

What?!?  It was raining and, well, I get REAL bored waiting sometimes.

 It was a text message from my 16yo and I figured she wanted to either take a ride with me to drop off my oldest girl at work (who hates it when she has to drive in the rain, me too!) or she was texting to make sure I was driving my oldest to work, so that she can go with me to...you know...pick her up, as well.

Because I am THAT fun to be with, you betcha.

Heather:  Mommy i got this text...is it legit???  Your entry last month has WON! Goto [link withheld for blog posting purposes, bastards!] and enter your Winning Code: [code withheld for blog posting purposes, bastards!] to claim your Free $1,000 Bestbuy Giftcard!

Me:  No!!!

Me:  Especially, since we did not buy anything at Best Buy...bastards! [yes, I really texted that]

Heather:  I didn't click it, but are you sure.....

Heather:  But, what if I entered something on their site and forgot?

Aaaaaand, therein lies the rub. 

Raising 3 teens and with our youngest kid in double-digits, we are avid consumers and frequently apply for savings cards:  CVS, Game Stop, Modells, Petsmart, Pet Valu, Shop Rite, Sports Authority, Stop and Shop...you name it and I probably have a savings card for it.

Because we are equal-opportunity, like that.

We also register online with some of our favorite stores (I'm looking at you, Best Buy and Pier 1) for the chance to win free stuff.

Because parents of teens spend a butt-load of money, already.

Me:  Sounds like a scam.  Texting codes allows them to hack into your stuff.  You can always call Best Buy.

Heather:  Okay, because that's a loooooot of money.

Me:  I know, which is why you should call them to verify.

Aaaaaand, she did. 

Heather:  I will....ugh, if it's a scam that really sucks.

Me:  Agreed

The customer service representative over at Best Buy confirmed the scam:  they get tons of calls ALL THE TIME about it.

Aaaaaand, Heather's right, THAT TOTALLY SUCKS!

Heather:  Wahwahwaaaaaah.  If it's real, I'll cry tears of joy.

Me:  Me too, for you!

Because sending folks bogus texts or trick advertisements...promising our teens and tweens shiny new things, for free...is just all sorts of wrong...DAMMIT!

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House

Better Start Hoping for Rainy Days, B*tch

Growing up, my parents always grew their own vegetables in the summertime.  We lived with my grandmother before I started grade school and she had a vegetable garden. 

Later, my father would build a greenhouse in our backyard, using plumbing pipes and sheets of plastic film salvaged from an abandoned work site (or believed to be abandoned, anyway) which would one day play center stage for make believe expeditions to Egypt and China, late night bug hunts and marathons of hide-and-go-seek.

My parents surprised us with plotting out and planting our first vegetable garden, a few weeks after my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I moved into this (not yet full) house and did so, on the sly, while we were both at work.

"Our grandchildren are going to need a place to play."

We've been on many, many lovely expeditions since then and adopted several frogs, hundreds of worms and scores of other less invasive creepy-crawlies over the years and, well, I can't imagine a summer without digging in the dirt.

"Yes, but your back can't handle it anymore."

My husband suggested perhaps I should NOT plant a vegetable garden, this year (stupid busted up back) and we went to the mats...or, raised beds...on whether or not I would be able to handle worrying about...you know...one more thing.

"But, I love digging in the dirt."

Ripping out weeds by their roots, burying a spade deep into the earth, digging out my frustrations and casting them away with every rock and stone -- it's cheaper than therapy, I tell ya'.

It took me ALL day -- what once would  have been only a few short hours of work -- and, trust me when I tell you it is certainly NOT the most beautiful vegetable garden you will ever see...especially, in this part of Jersey...DAMMIT!

Busted up back or not...yesterday...I made roughly 6 yards of dirt MY B*TCH and, well, I swear you could STILL hear her laughing.

Turns out she is a bit of a sadist, the b*tch.

"So, I see you're still insisting on growing a vegetable garden then."

YES!  Aaaaand, I guess we better start hoping for rainy days...you know...so maybe I can get some housework done...or NOT!

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House

At Our House, It's Called a Blood Drive-By

As a mother of 3 teens, 1 kid in double-digits and Supreme Goddess of All Things Domestic (in my house, anyways) I feel it safe say that there is NOTHING worse than battling a foreign object, invading your child's body, that you canNOT see.

3yo Heather:  Hey...wook...isn't that where you gave bwud, How-wee?

Unless, you have to take said child to have their blood drawn and, well, game over dude!

5yo Holly/How-wee:  I didn't give it...Heatherrrrr...THEY TOOK IT!

Even years later, my two oldest daughters would play out this same conversation, every time we'd drive by the building, where they each got their "bwud tooken" and, well, How-wee...I mean...Holly will tell you...YES!..it was THAT traumatic.

[pulls up sleeve]

Me:  Dude...they won't take your blood here.

I took my son to the doctor, yesterday.  Long story, short (you're welcome) he's got a nasty case of some sort of creeping crud she couldn't quite identify and, well, now it was his turn to have his "bwud tooken".

Me: We have to go...you know...[whispers]...to that OTHER place.

[eyes go wide]

This is the kid that doesn't get sick.  He's only heard stories, from his oldest sisters, whenever we would drive by the place where they had their blood...you know...tooken.

Receptionist:  Name?

Me:  Glen  [whispering] he's never had his blood...tooken...I mean...taken.

The receptionist just nodded her head and, thankfully, the place was empty. Except for this one kid, going ALL ape sh*t, and his sh*thead father:

Kid, going ALL ape sh*t: BWAAAAAAAAH!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!

His sh*thead father:  SHUDDUP!!!!  SHUDDUP!!!  SHUDDUP!!!

So, my son and I just sat down and...you know...covered our ears.

Medical Asst.:  Glen?

It was funny to watch the receptionist's face, as he stood up and she handed my son a cup.  I swear, you could actually hear her neck muscles pop.

Medical Asst.:  You can leave it on the bathroom sink and then go right into Room #1.

[eyes go wide]

Medical Asst.:  Oh relax, your friends probably hit you harder than this is gonna hurt!"

Thank goodness for kind-hearted medical assistants, right?

Glen:  Buuuuuut, no one said ANYTHING about peeing in a cup!

[blink-blink-blink]

Me:  Well, I didn't think it would be SUCH a big deal.

[voice cracking]

Glen:  Buuuuuut, it's a really small cup!

Judging by the way the she was laughing...I guessed correctly...the medical assistant was a mother AND happened to have a teen boy at home...too.

Stupid blood tests, dumbass creeping crud.

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House

FRESHLY-BREWED ELSEWHERE:  I'm over at PlaydatePlace.com this week, confessing not teaching my kids how to ride a bike. Also, sharing a recipe for Angel Food Cake that does NOT suck!

If It Wasn't For the Graffiti and Hairy Legs, I Would Be Clueless

My youngest daughter is going to the 5th grade dance with someone and I know this for a fact because the front door told me so.

Hope has talked (and graffiti'd) about little else since, well, the 4th grade, really, other than maybe her oldest sister's senior prom (ACK!) her 11th birthday (UGH!) oh, and her 5th grade graduation (GAH!) all of which are happening in the same week, next month.

Aaaaand, I have absolutely NO CLUE how we will get through ALL these snot-worthy milestones (and by we, I mean mostly me!) because, the fact that I have a kid old enough to be graduating high school?  Blows...my...mind!

What's left of it, anyway.

"What's this about you going to the dance with someone?"

My husband came home from work, must have read the front door and, well, you know, his "Hi, I'm [enter daughter's name, here] dad, want to see my shot gun collection?" was showing.

"Oh, you know, just some kid in my class."

Because, really, at this age?  Kids get asked out at recess and break up by lunch time. 

"His name is So-and-So."

[eyes go wide]

"Really, but I thought you were going with What's His Name?"

I mean, his name wasn't written on the front door, or anything, but that IS what she told me last week.

"I was, but not anymore."

Long story, short (you're welcome):

• What's His Name asked another girl, first.
• She said no.
• So, What's His Name asked Hope.
• She said yes.
• Then, the other girl changed her mind.

So, the little jerk...I mean...What's His Name un-asked Hope to the dance.

"Oh, but he asked her first and I'm okay with it."

Because, you know, she's 10 going on 29, tough as gel nails and, well, I want to be Hope when I grow up.

"That's REAL grown-up of you, sweetie!"

[one beat, two beats]

"So, can I get fake nails for the dance?"

She is quick, this one.

"Nope."

However, it's NOT my first time driving the mean bus and, well, she has until her senior prom to get over it...you know...when I'll probably be all wigged out (AGAIN!) and blowing snot (DITTO!) to even care that she's wearing spiked-stilettos...on her ears...even.

"Fiiiiiiiine, but I am NOT going to shave my legs!"

Good.  Me, either.

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House

I do not have a pain-management problem, I have a pain problem and maybe a slight case of Trypanophobia.

Blog title inspired by House. Picture, just because.

I had my second doctor's appointment scheduled for today. 

That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to. 

Just like last week. 

Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.

(HURL!)

Me?  I watched the day float right on by and...you know...give me the finger.

Now that I think on it some more, it's sort of ironic, really:

• We ALL had appointments
• We ALL sought treatment for various neurological and/or spinal conditions
• We ALL just sat there, way passed our appointed time(s)
• Patiently listening for our respective names to be called
• Shifting from one cheek, to the other
• Or, in one guys case, shoulder blade
• Came in an ambulance, wheeled in on a stretcher
• He still complained
• We were all, like, dude, at least you're laying down
• Shuddup

Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of "WTH?!?" watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.

Fast-forward 2 hours.

"Elizabeth?"

[cue choir of angels]

"THAT'S ME, THAT'S ME!!!"

Schmuck.

Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already knew....my lower back...she is fubar.

"You have substantially moderate damage to discs at L1 and L2."

In other words, less clinical like...my lower back, she is fubar...good news is, however, there are two options...other than surgery:

Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.

Ironically enough, they call it pain management.

So, I'm considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear: 

"SCREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!"

It was my 13 year-old son.  I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar. 

Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating:  "SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!" because...you know...he's 13 and his voice is changing...SNORT!

[eyes go wide]

Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, "WTH?!?" at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.

"EYE-YEEEEEEE, MOM, COME HERE, QUICK!!!!"

But...I...can't...get...passed...the...

"A BEEEEEEEE STUUUUUUUUUNG MEEEEEEEEE, EYE-YEEEEEEEE!!!!"

...laundry...on...the...stairs...wait a minute...a bee...seriously?!?

"Come on down Bud and I'll look at it."

Now, I'm hearing heavy panting.

"I...I...NO...YOU...COME...UPSTAIRS!!!!"

Fast-forward 2 hours...just kidding...but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn't actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.

"Wow, it popped you...twice!"

Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee...5 times...would find the one bee...that got in the house.

"Dude, calm down, it's only a bee."

Mind you, as I'm scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing...beeeeecause:

• The boy is nearly 6 feet tall
• There is NO MORE ROOM in my bed
• I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn
• To take my parents to the hospital, tomorrow morning
• Mom's arm, she is fubar
• Dad's back, she...I mean...he is fubar
• Aaaaad my back hurts

"FOUND IT!"

[get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]

"See, it doesn't have it's stinger and woulda died anyways."

I know, I know, the boy is 13.  Still, he's been stung 5...no, wait...make it 7 times...can you blame him?

I'm just happy he did not puke.

"I...[sniff-sniff]...feel like...[cough]...someone jammed...[sniff-sniff]...a couple of needles into my body"

[eyes go wide]

Aaaaand, then I puked.  The End.

© 2003 - 2012 This Full House