Summer, Summer, Slumber Time

Glory, glory, hallelujah school is out.  I hate the school year.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am very thankful that we live in America and our kids have the opportunity to go to school and learn stuff and all, but the school year sucks.  Between all of the projects, the field trips, the tests, the report cards, the lunches, the extra-curricular activities, etc, it is exhausting.  We basically get sucked up into a tornado of ‘crap to do’ in August, and get spit out in May battered, beaten, and broken.  This past year we had five kids in school.  Starting in August, with Stella going to K4, we’ll have six.  That’s six different humans constantly dealing with school related problems.  Not to mention our oldest is nineteen and our youngest is four, so we’ll be dealing with problems ranging from dorm room assignments and nursing school issues to a kindergartener’s overinflated sense of self-confidence that was brought on by…..

Me: Stella, how do you spell cat?

Stella: R-F-B

Me:  That’s right!! Good job!! You are soooo smart! And pretty! And wonderful!

I’m sorry. I just don’t want to be the one that rejects her.  That's what school is for. Anyway, school sucks.  Bring on summer.  However, summer does present its own set of challenges; i.e. sleep schedules and whatnot.  You see, my sleep schedule stays on Eastern Time Zone over the summer but the kids apparently immediately switch to Hawaii-Aleutian Time which is six hours behind.  Seriously, I wake up six hours before them and they go to sleep six hours after me.  Last night the girls started watching a movie, STARTED watching a movie at 10:30pm!  I can’t stay awake for a movie that starts at 10:30am.  So whatever, watching a late movie seems harmless, right?  Well it would be harmless if they didn’t set the volume on the TV somewhere between ‘motorcycle parked in my bedroom’ and ‘747 taking off from my roof’.  It was so loud I thought the characters’ voices were coming from my own head.  What possesses someone to raise the volume up that high? 

Can you hear it?

Yeah.

How bout now?

Yeah.

Now?

YEAH!

NOW!!

YEAH!!!!!!!

OKAY THAT’S PROBABLY GOOD THEN!!!!

Luckily I didn’t have to get out of bed to go yell at them to turn it down because Jaxon came in the room to wake us up so I could enter the Hulu password into his Kindle for the 9,000th time.  I made him go downstairs to tell them to turn it down.  He went down the stairs and still had to yell at the top of his lungs for them to hear him.  

The movie alone wouldn’t have been that bad, but the night before I was awoken by the sounds of a male voice talking in my house.  I checked the time on my phone and it was 3:00am. I hopped up thinking I might get to shoot an intruders, but when I walked out into the hallway I realized it was just Cole talking on the phone to his girlfriend.  At 3am.  And don’t give me any of that, “Awww  puppy love.  That’s so sweet” crap.  I’ve read their text messages to each other.  They’re not that interesting.  Here’s how 99% of their conversations go: (translation in parentheses, for all of you who don’t speak ‘teen’)

Cole: wyd (What are you doing?)

Destiny: nothing hbu (I am not currently doing anything.  How about yourself?)

Cole: nothing haha –laughing crying face emoji- (I am not doing anything either.  It’s funny because we’re both doing the same thing, yet nothing at all)

Destiny: haha –laughing crying face emoji-  (I also think this is funny)

Cole: I miss you –sad face emoji- (I’m not really sure what to say, but I’m pretty sure you want me to miss you)

Destiny: ikr. I miss you too! –sad face emoji- (I know, right?  We are in agreement again. I too am sad)

Cole: I can’t wait to see you. Maybe this weekend –praying hands emoji- (I would like to see you this weekend.  God and parents willing)

Destiny: that would be lit (I would enjoy that)

Cole: ikr (I concur with your last statement)

Destiny: hahaha (I don’t really have anything else to say but I really want to keep this text going)

Cole: haha (I don’t know what to say either but I’m glad we’re communicating)

Destiny: -red heart emoji- (I have strong feelings for you)

Cole: -blue heart emoji- (I also have very strong feelings for you, but they’re also different because my emoji is blue)

 

You get the idea.  And it goes on like that for sixteen hours a day every day.  They weren’t exactly solving the financial crisis on that 3am phone call.

To make my sleeping matters worse, my beautiful wife, who I love dearly, decided to drink a gallon of coffee at 6pm yesterday evening in order to have the energy to lead our group of 12 elementary students at vacation Bible school last night.  This seemed like a good idea for the short term because she did, in fact, have plenty of energy for VBS.  Long term, however, it was probably not such a good idea.  She could not go to sleep. At all.  We tried everything to tire her out.  Some things I minded, some things I didn’t mind so much.  –winky face emoji- After I fell asleep, every thirty minutes or so, I’d get a nudge:

Rach: Babe, did you see there was a terrorist attack in Tel Aviv?

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach:  Isn’t that awful?

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

 

Rach: Babe, did you see that alligator that had a person in its mouth?

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach: I wonder who it was. Can you imagine? 

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach: Isn’t that awful?

 

Rach: Babe, babe, did you see that lady fight off her daughter’s kidnapper in that store?

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach: Isn’t that awful?

Me: Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach:  I don’t think I should bring more than one kid with me to TJ Maxx anymore.  Because what if while I was fighting off one attacker, another attacker took one of the other kids.  Do you think they would…Babe….babe?

Me: Huh?

Rach: Do you think I should avoid TJ Maxx altogether?  What about Ross?  Do you think a kidnapper would try anything at Ross? Maybe I'll just bring one kid to Ross, but save multiple kid trips for Marshalls. Babe?

 

Rach: Babe, hey…..I can’t sleep.  

Me: (no response)

Rach:  Hey did you hear me?  I can’t sleep.

Me:  Mmmm Hmmm.

Rach:  I just can’t go to sleep.

At this point I check my phone and it’s 4:30 am—a whopping 45 minutes before I’m supposed to wake up.  Should be angry, right?  Of course not.  Why?  I didn’t have to wake anybody up.  I didn’t have to pack any lunches.  I didn’t have to wake anybody up again because they didn’t get up the first time.  I didn’t have to send any teenage girls back upstairs to put on real shorts.  I didn’t have to dole out any money for a “field trip” that someone “told me about yesterday”.  I didn’t have to find anyone’s shoes.  I didn’t have to wake anybody up again because it’s time to leave and they didn’t wake up the last two times. I simply got up out of bed.  Quietly got ready.  Quietly packed up my stuff.  And quietly walked out the door with a giant smile on my face.  Man I love summer.

Sick Baby

Our 3 year old, Stella, is sick. Having a sick 3 year old is the worst. Sick teenagers are way easier. With teenagers it’s like, “Oh you have a fever? Here’s a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Watch some Netflix and call me when you’re ready to crawl out of your hole.” But sick 3 year olds are different. They’re so sad and pathetic and cute, and you have to make sure they don’t run a fever for too long so their organs don’t shut down. Having a sick toddler is like carrying around a new iphone without a case. A sick teenager is like having an otter box on your phone. Sure you want to take care of it, but it’s not as life or death.

 Anyway, Stella was running a pretty high fever, so we let her sleep in our bed last night. At first she started off in the middle of the bed between Rach and me. Rach was angling for a back rub so she asked Stella if they could trade spots. 

Rach: Stella, can you and Daddy switch spots so he can rub my back?

Stella: No thanks. I like it here.

Rach: Stella?

Stella: No Daddy needs to rub my back.

 At this point Rach got up and went to the other side of the bed, putting me in the middle. Then I heard, “Babe, rub my back.” “No, Daddy, rub my back!” “Rub my back!” “No, mine!” So I did what any self-respecting father would do. I pretended to go to sleep. (Which was immediately followed by me actually going to sleep). The joke was on me, however, because at around midnight, I awoke to find myself the only one under the covers unable to move because they were both on top of the covers. I look to my right, and there is Rach’s face about 2 inches away from mine, breathing on me as if I was a mirror that she was about to wipe off. I look to my left, and there is Stella’s face, also 2 inches away from mine, breathing just the same. I felt like I was strapped to a gurney inside a hot air balloon. It wouldn’t have been as bad but I could actually hear the germs laughing and high-fiving as they left Stella’s mouth and flew into mine; the equivalent of the Syrian refugees being shown the red carpet to America just as I was trying to make my immune system great again.

 So I wiggle out from under the covers and Kung Fu Panda my way to the open side of the bed next to Stella. Since I had reached my maximum number of germ visas I decided to face away from Stella toward the outside of the bed. This would’ve been a great plan but I did not anticipate that Stella would be perfectly content being the big spoon. I outweigh her by close to 200 lbs. It would be like me trying to be the big spoon with a brontosaurus, but there she was, knees in my back and her feverish hand on my shoulder; inching closer and closer to the point that I couldn’t lay back flat without crushing her. She wasn’t so much trying to be the big spoon as she was trying to crawl inside me like a freezing rabbit trying to find warmth in a bear carcass. We 'slept' like that for a few hours until about 3am, Rach wakes me up and says “I think her fever spiked again. We have to find the thermometer.” This July we will have been married for ten years. I know good and well that ‘We need to find the thermometer’ actually means 'You need to get up and go look for the thermometer while I lay in bed and hollers out places for you to look."

I look in the medicine cabinet. It’s not there. I look in all of the bathrooms. It’s not there. I look in the medicine cabinet again. It’s not there again. Rach calls and wakes up our 18 year old Tori, who is sleeping in her dorm, because she may have been the last one to use it. She says check Stella’s night stand. I look there. It’s not there. I check under the bed. It’s not there. At this point I know that Rach won’t let me back in the bed until I find the stupid thermometer, but I’ve checked every rational place that it would be. So I just start checking random places, like under the kitchen sink, and in the silverware drawer, and behind the entertainment center. Rach finally comes downstairs and says she woke up our 13 year old Scarlett, and she said it’s in the medicine cabinet. I start to tell Rach that I checked the medicine cabinet 3 times already and it’s not in there, but just as I start to speak I see her walk to the medicine cabinet, open it, grab the thermometer, and shoot me a dirty look as she walks back upstairs. Dang. Now she’s thinking that I’m either a jerk or an idiot. Lucky for me I’m just an idiot. 

Her temperature is 102.5 so we pump her full of medicine and make sure it comes down to a non-organ-threatening level. Stella slept for the rest of the night and Rach and I were able to get a full 2 hours before we had to get the other kids ready for school. At this point in the story, I’m supposed to come up with some anecdote about how rewarding parenting can be. Or how at some point in the night Stella groaned and said, “Daddy?.....”, “Yes sweetie?”, “…..I love you.” (which really did happen) And my heart melted and made it all worth it. Or I should say something about how she’s only going to be little like this for a short time, and we need to enjoy it because we’re going to blink and she’ll be grown. I’d like to tell you that we learned a valuable lesson, or blah, blah, blah. But I can’t. I’m tired, and the only thing in my brain right now is one of those empty cloud thought bubble emoji’s. Or maybe the zzz emoji followed by the sick face emoji followed by the gun emoji. I need to stop sign emoji. Praying hands emoji for me.

eParenting

In many ways technology has made parenting massively easier.  Communicating with your kids, knowing where they are at all times, keeping track of their grades, etc is much simpler now than it was when I was growing up.  This particularly comes in handy when you have six kids, and most, if not all, of those kids have some sort of activity going on every weekend.  Such was the case this past weekend when Cole and Gavin had their football banquet/awards ceremony, Scarlett had a dance recital, and Jaxon had a Saturday/Sunday soccer tournament an hour and a half away in Columbia.  It’s always fun leading up to the weekend when Rach and I try to figure out which kids we’re going to disappoint.  Basically, it’s all about playing to your strengths.  We knew Rach had to go to Scarlett’s dance recital because there was no way I would be able to do her hair or makeup.  I’ll never forget when Scarlett was 3 trying to put her hair in a ponytail and she looked back at me with the most disappointing face you could imagine, “I got it, Daddy, you’re not very good at this.” And she snatched the brush out of my hand.  I haven’t done her hair since.  We also knew I had to take Jax to his tournament on Sunday because we had to leave early and if Rach leaves the house before 7am she will spontaneously combust.  (That might not be true but we’ve never been able to disprove it either).  So Sunday was covered, but Saturday I had to decide between the tournament and the football banquet.  That decision also happened to be made for me because the football team was holding their banquet at a paintball facility.  Then plan was to play paintball for four hours then have the awards ceremony after.  Paintball sounds awesome, right!?! Umm, negative.  First of all, I’m old.  I’m not quite ‘socks and sandals’ old, but I’m definitely creeping in on ‘only watch Fox News and the Weather Channel’ old.  Second of all, I’m not a small person.  I’m a little over 6 feet tall, and probably about 3 feet wide.  I’d basically be a like a lumbering sheet of plywood out there for kids to shoot at.  There’s no way I’d leave that place looking like anything but a Sherwin Williams paint swatch.  Paintball?  No thanks I’ll pass.  Lucky for me, the school Periscope’d the awards ceremony so I was able to watch Cole and Gavin get their awards.  Gavin even gave a speech.  Just kidding.  Gavin only says about eight words a day, and three of those are “What’s for dinner?”.  (Oh by the way, if you don’t know what Periscope is, turn off the weather channel for a minute and do a search on the google.)  Score one for technology. 

On Sunday, Jax’s team made it to the championship game of their tournament (which they won by the way), so I wasn’t able to get back in time for the dance recital.  

If this were 20 years ago I’d have to rely on the explanation of others to hear how good Scarlett did, but within minutes of the performance being over Rach had it on Youtube.  I actually watched the video while driving back from Columbia.  And before you start to judge me, you should know that watching a video while driving wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the ugly cry I had going while watching the video while driving.  Don’t bother calling the cops, I’m sure the statute of limitations is up by now.  Score 2 for technology.

One of the major flaws with technology, however, is that you have to know it exists in order to adequately make use of it.  Jaxon also had a school project to do this weekend, which involved taking a stuffed animal with him everywhere he went and taking pictures to document their adventure.  He would then bring in the pictures to share with the class.  Pictures…on paper…that you could hold in your hand…without your phone….like the old days.  How do you even print a picture nowadays?  Do they exist?  Would we have to go to a museum to get them printed?  I had no idea.  And before I go any further with this story, let me just state that I take full responsibility for this mishap.  This was my fault.  I could’ve used the google to figure it out but I didn’t.  I listened to my mother, who is wonderful, and awesome, and we love her, and we couldn’t do life without her.  However she is not the most technologically savvy person that I know.  She told me that you can buy those disposable cameras to take pictures and then they’ll develop them right there in front of you.  Now based on my knowledge of printing out pictures, this seemed totally legit.  The last time I had to put a picture on a piece of paper, I was in college and Bill Clinton was president.  Red flags should have been raised, though, when I went to Rite-Aid and found one lonely, dusty disposable camera in the ‘Ghosts of Electronics Past’ aisle right next to the fax machine toner.  Fast forward to Monday afternoon when Rach is driving around all of creation looking for a 1-hour photo developer and at every stop FaceTiming me to show me the electronic Do-It-Yourself photo stations that print out digital pictures from phones, thumb drives, CDs, SD cards, etc.  And in the most disappointing voice you could imagine, “You’re not very good at this.” Technology 2, Jeff 0.   

Time Management

Time Management

The line between being good parenting and horrible parenting can be a bit blurry.  Being a good parent can sometimes feel horrible, and being a horrible parent can sometimes feel fantastic. For Example, it feels terrible when I tell my 3 year old, Stella, that it’s too late for her to have a cookie and then she gives me the quivering bottom lip, or worse, runs upstairs and cries with her sweet little face in her hands. 

On the other hand it feels great when I tell Stella to make herself her own peanut butter and jelly sandwich because Daddy’s too busy setting his fantasy football lineup for the weekend.  I digress….

On Wednesday nights, Rach and I have a small group at the church.  We scheduled it on Wednesdays because it's the same time that the kids go to Fuel, our teen ministry.  Of all of our kids, Scarlett enjoys Fuel the most.  She's our little social butterfly.  No, really, she dressed up for Halloween this year as a Social Butterfly.  (She's very clever). 

So last night we were getting ready to leave and Scarlett was not downstairs. 

Side note:  Getting ready to leave at our house is a giant mess 100% of the time.  We hardly ever know how many cars we have to take, which kids are coming with us, who has to go where after, which cars have car seats in them, how many of our kids have friends over, who has shoes on, etc, etc. So we view our downstairs as kind of like a doctor's office waiting room.  Maybe you’re waiting 10 minutes, maybe it’s 2 hours.  Either way, it's always a point of contention.

Side Side note:   We are late to our destination approximately 85% of the time.  (FYI, 50% of all statistics are made up) The reason we are late so often is that Rach thinks we have a magic carpet, or a teleportation device or something.  If we have to be somewhere for noon, we leave at noon.  If we have to be there at 11, we leave at 11.  It doesn't matter how close or far away the destination is, Rach thinks we can get there in zero minutes.  Unfortunately, the magic carpet gene is hereditary.  Scarlett is a carrier.  

So back to the story.  We're walking out the door, I'm holding Stella, Rach is holding Stella's shoes, Gavin is holding Rach's purse, and so I yell up the stairs to Scarlett that we're leaving.  We all file into the clown car, get Stella buckled, etc, then I turn around, "Where's Scarlett?"  I look back and get nothing but shoulder shrugs as if I asked who left their plate on the counter.  Rach and I proceed to have this conversation (Now keep in mind that at this point it is 6:45, we’re supposed to be there at 6:45, and our magic carpet is in the shop so it’ll take us 15-20 minutes to get there)

          Rach: Did you tell her we were leaving?

          Me: I yelled up to her. 

          Rach: Well she knows what time we have to leave.

          Me: She was downstairs earlier.  Should we leave her?

          Rach: It’s up to you.

          Me: We’re going to be late.

          Rach: It’s up to you.  I don’t care either way.

          Me (starts to back out of the driveway): You sure?

          Rach: It doesn’t matter.

So we left.  And I’m driving down the road, just conflicted as all get out in my head, “It’s probably the right thing to do, right?  No, that’s mean.  But it will teach her a lesson about punctuality.  Or it will teach her to hate your guts.  At least she’ll hate both Rach and I…” Just then Rach’s phone rings and it’s Scarlett trying to Facetime.  Crap! Rach answers, immediately points the phone at me and says, “Look, your dad is driving.  He left you.”  Ruthless!! So she hands me the phone and now I have to look her in the eye as I give her the crap dad lecture about how she knows what time we have to leave, and we’re going to be late, and responsibility, shmesponsibility, blah, blah, blah, I am a horrible person.  

One more side note: When I was a kid, the idea of video telephone calls seemed amazing. 1980s movies about the future always featured video phone calls as if to say 'Look how cool the future is going to be!' I waited so long for it to exist, and now I'm stuck using FaceTime to awkwardly stare at my 13 year old as she shoots evil eye daggers back at me. Screw you technology. 

Anyway, I try to talk myself into the possibility that maybe she’ll learn a lesson about being on time, and this will resonate into her adult life.  Then I resigned to the fact that it’s more likely that she’ll be on her psychiatrist’s couch in twenty years trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong.  But maybe, just maybe, she’ll be on time to that appointment.  Small victories.    

A Fair Chance

I realize that this is a bit of a contrarian viewpoint, but I hate the fair.  Seriously, I hate the fair.  I don’t just dislike it.  I hate hate hate hate it.  It’s gross.  It’s expensive.  It’s dangerous.  And it’s gross.  I feel the same way about fair season as I do about flu season:  I try my best to avoid it every year, but eventually one of my kids is going to suck me in.  And despite having exhibit 1, exhibit 2, and exhibit 3 in my fair-hating defense, people still react to my fair hating opinion as if I told them I hate puppies. (For the record, I do not hate puppies).  Last night, against my better judgment, I agreed to meet Rach and the three little kids (Scarlett, Jax, and Stella) at the fair.  Rach and I agreed that it would be best if we didn’t tell the three big kids (Tori, Gavin, and Cole) where we were going.  Even though they were all at basketball practice and wouldn’t have been able to go anyway, they were sure to be jealous and angry.  And living under the same roof as three angry jealous teenagers is not my idea of a picnic (But it might be worth it just to hear, for irony’s sake, “That’s not fair!”).  So I left straight from work to the Ladson Fairgrounds, which as far as I can tell has absolute zero usefulness the other 350 days out of the year.  I guess that’s how long it takes for the fair smell to go away.  As I pulled into the park the parking attendant directed me into the ‘Corn Dog’ parking lot.  I called Rach to see where she was, and she informed me that she was in the ‘Cotton Candy’ parking lot.  Now I am not a parking lot scientist, but I would imagine that normal parking lots on planet earth are separated into distinct numbers and letters so that a person would be able to easily navigate their way through the parking lot.  For example, if I pulled into section 3B and Rach pulled into section 5F, I could reasonably deduce her location using my knowledge of both the alphabet and the English numbering system.  BUT HOW ON EARTH DO I FIND THE COTTON CANDY PARKING LOT IF I AM STANDING IN THE CORN DOG PARKING LOT?!?!?!  Am I supposed to guess?  Did these geniuses organize the parking lot sections based on fat calories?  At least that would make some sense.   If you started in the ‘Bottled Water’ parking lot you could make your way right up to the gate past the ‘Fried Butter’ parking lot.  But alas, this was not the case.  Instead, I wandered aimlessly from section to section in what I now refer to as “Type II Diabetes” Parking Lot until finally Racheal called and said she was already inside the gate.  My fair experience was not off to a great start.  Things smoothed over a little bit once we got inside though.  We met up with some friends, Jax and Scarlett were running around riding rides (This may come as a shocker, but I don’t particularly care for the rides at the fair.  You want me to pay you $20 so I can hop on a hunk of sheet metal that you assembled in the middle of the night for a little more than minimum wage?  Umm, no thanks.  But my kids want to ride!) Even Stella seemed to be legitimately enjoying herself.  However it is pretty tough keeping a toddler in her stroller when the sky is lit up like Redneck Las Vegas.  She wanted to run around just like her brother and sister.  After all, why should they be the only ones that have a chance to win the prize known in the medical community as Hep-C.  So I spent the next hour chasing Stella around, making sure she didn’t go where she wasn’t supposed to go, and making sure she didn’t touch anything that she wasn’t supposed to touch; which was everything.  The fair is not solely about riding rides that spin you around until your eyes pop out of your head and you want to vomit. It’s also about gorging yourself on fried food until you want to vomit.  Some of the gourmet fair cuisine that we ate: chicken wings, pulled pork, a corndog, sweet potato fries, an elephant ear (which are not actually made from real elephants, who knew?), a Stromboli, a cinnamon roll the size of my head, fried cookie dough, and we washed it all down with a 327oz souvenir cup of lemonade. ‘Merica.  Apart from the rides and the food, I’m not sure what else you are supposed to do at the fair.  We walked around for a while.  There was a band.  And a flower exhibit.  And a lady riding a horse.  And a bunch of games that you could play to win an inflatable smurf, but that was about it.  And I couldn’t even tell which smurf it was.  It wasn’t Papa Smurf, or Smurfette, or Hefty, or Brainy, or even Vanity.  It looked like a generic smurf that stayed in the background.  Who wants to win an inflatable smurf that isn’t even a main character?  Pfft.  But I digress.  By now we had been walking around for about an hour and Stella was too tired to walk, but not tired enough to stay in her stroller, which basically meant I had to hold her for the rest of the night.  Being that it was already past Stella’s bedtime (and mine too), I volunteered to take Stella home to give her a bath and get her in bed.   A small part of me feels guilty for using Stella as my ticket to escape.  But a bigger, much smarter part of me thinks that is silly, and left before you could say ‘clogged artery’.  During the 25 minute walk back to the Corn Dog Parking Lot, Stella would point at anything that was lit up (which is everything) and smile.  She’d talk to me, then she’d talk to the lights.  Then she’d say something that made herself laugh and I’d laugh with her.  When we got outside the gate and there were no more lights to laugh at, she put her head on my shoulder and patted my back.  The walk back to the car couldn’t be long enough.  I even slowed down.  At that moment and that moment only, I thanked God for the fair.

A King-Sized Chicken Coup.....

I know what you're probably thinking. You're probably thinking:

Hey genius, chickens live in a 'coop', not a 'coup'.

And my response would be:

Stop being so condescending. And I know that chickens live in a coop, but these chickens are literally TRYING TO TAKE OVER MY LIFE! I'm caught in the midst of a chicken COUP!

Oh wait? You thought I was joking when I said that Rach wanted to get chickens, didn't you? Why on earth would I joke about Rach wanting to get a bunch of chickens and build a chicken coop for them in the back of our garage? Why would I joke about that?

So yes, Rach went out and bought 4 baby chickens. And yes, they sleep in our room. And yes, they really do chirp all night long. And yes, I wake up 400 times throughout the middle of the night thinking that it's morning time on a farm. And yes, I think all of this is crazy. And yes, this is a recent photo of Rach and I.

People who know and love my wife often ask me how I can stay calm in the face of one of Rach's ridiculous plans. It's quite simple, actually. As soon as Rach starts telling me about one of her hair-brain schemes (For example, I want to raise chickens in our garage so we don't have to buy eggs anymore......), I just start looking around for cameras. No, seriously. I start checking the walls, the lights, the air-conditioning vents; any place that has a good vantage point that you would be able to hide a tiny camera. Because it is hard for me to believe that Rach is unilaterally coming up with some of these hijinks. I'm convinced that I'm the subject of something along the lines of The Truman Show. I'm not even joking. Rach starts diving into her plan to raise chickens, and I immediately think of Ed Harris sitting up in his moon studio, coming up with ridiculous plot arcs just to get ratings. Rach is describing how she's going to cut a hole in the back wall of the garage, and I'm mentally retracing my childhood to make sure that none of my friends were actually actors.

Anyway, just to stay engaged in the conversation, I ask Rach, "Well what are these chickens going to eat?"

And she responds in a I-can't-believe-you-don't-know-this kind of way, "Pffft, I mean, there's more stuff that they can eat than stuff that they can't eat."

Wait? What? What does that even mean? Does that mean that these free-loading chickens are going to start digging in my refrigerator? Am I going to have to start competing with the chickens for the last piece of......steak? (Ooops, I almost said chicken). Do we just feed them hot dogs and macaroni and cheese every night like we do to the other kids? There's so many questions.

So then Rach starts telling me how she is going to--correction-- how she already cut a hole in the back of the garage so that she can build an indoor/outdoor chicken coop for LuLu, Lola, Lyla, and Sassafrass. (Yes, those are the chicken's names. There's no end to this ridiculousness. Jax wanted to name one of them Uncle B-Lo, but I'm not sure if my brother would've gotten offended or not.) Anyway, as Rach is telling me about the indoor/outdoor chicken coop, I am looking at her the same way that I would be looking at a unicorn that was telling me this same story; just utter disbelief. She senses my disbelief, so she says, "No really, I talked to your dad about it already. He thinks it's a great idea. He's going to help me build the chicken coop!"

I hear this, and the first thought that pops into my head was, "Oh, great. There are exactly TWO people on planet Earth that do NOT think this is crazy; I'm married to one of them, and I share 50% of my DNA with the other. What chance do I have to be sane? I should just give up."

But in all seriousness, she really does love these chickens (okay, maybe not in 'all seriousness'). I know she loves the chickens, because she tells me all the time. She'll say things like, "I love these chickens. Look at how cute they are. Look. Seriously, look at them. Look at them! I mean, really, have you ever seen anything so cute?" And I want to say, "Actually, YES! Yes, I have!" But I don't. I just smile, and stare at it the way that I would stare at pictures of a stranger's baby. Maybe they're a little cute right now because they're so small, but chickens don't stay cute. You don't ever see paintings of chickens playing poker. Nobody makes full calendars of cute little chickens playing with balls of yarn. They're not traditionally adorable animals.

And it throws me off when she asks me questions like, "What do you think they're thinking about right now?" And of course, my response is, "Well, if I had to guess, I'd say HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY THIRSTY I HAVE TO POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP POOP HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY!"

That's probably what they're thinking, but this is what we humans hear: CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHEEP CHIRP CHIRP!

Then, the other night, when I actually started typing up this blog, Rach was on the internet trying to figure out why LuLu has indigestion (I swear, I couldn't make this stuff up). So Mrs. Old McDonald and I had this exchange:

Rach: Oh, look, here's a lady that is having problems with her chicks too.

Me: What website is that?

Rach: It's, umm, www.backyardchickens.com

Me: Oh, really? Someone at backyardchickens.com is having problems with their chickens? How silly of me to think that this whole chicken fiasco is ludicrous.....

So there's an entire website devoted to raising chickens in your backyard. Something tells me that this is not what Al Gore had in mind when he invented the internet. But it got me to thinking: What if Rach is on to something? What if the whole world really has gone crazy? What if our economic system DOES collapse in the next five years and we're forced to live off of the land? Maybe we SHOULD take steps to be prepared. Maybe owning chickens in our backyard is the LEAST crazy thing that I could do. Now if you'll excuse me, Rach and I are going to look at a goat that we found on craigslist. Isn't she the cutest thing you've ever seen?

A King-Sized Salvation.........

About two and a half years ago, Rach started dragging me to church. And when I say dragging, I mean dragging. Most of the time, I would stop short of kicking the dirt; whining and crying and throwing a tantrum like a 2 year old who just got told he can't ride the merry-go-round outside of Wal-Mart because he's too young to understand that you don't touch anything at Wal-Mart that you don't have to. MOST of the time I wouldn't react like that, but I would try to sabotage the church outing. It was easy at first. I just wouldn't wake Rach up. I would 'accidentally' sleep past my alarm (even though I wake up at 4:45 every morning with or without an alarm). But Rach wouldn't buy it. She'd get mad at me. And if there's one thing in life that I try to avoid, it's Rach getting mad at me (if there's two things, it's Rach getting mad at me.......and cockroaches), which made my life miserable. So then I started to wake her up, but I would use her sleepiness against her. In my quietest, sweetest voice imaginable, I'd whisper, "Rach, Rach, It's 7:30. Do you want to wake up? Or keep sleeping?" And she'd let out a bear-like grunt. Then I'd say, "Grunt one more time if you want to keep sleeping." She'd let out another grunt, and I'd go to the gym. But she would still get mad at me. And my life would still be miserable.

So then I figured, Eh, it's probably just a phase. Rach goes through crazy phases like this all the time. For instance, lately she's been convinced that the entire world economic system is going down in flames. And she's probably right about that. But the crazy part is that she wants to convert our garage into a chicken coup, and hide goats in our backyard so that way we can have eggs and milk after the apocalypse. For mine and my neighbors' sake, I'm hoping this is just a phase. Because I can foresee myself three years from now, sitting in my backyard, trying to milk my goat, wondering where my life went wrong, and then my neighbor comes over to tell me to stop letting my chickens crap in his yard.

So anyway, we went to a couple of different churches, but just couldn't find one that we liked.....or that could keep me awake. After about 5 different snore-fest churches, we found one that was more my speed. The first thing I noticed when I walked through the front door was a full service coffee shop style cafe with homemade muffins. HOMEMADE MUFFINS! And it must've been around Thanksgiving time, because there was a sign on the wall advertising for the new Pumpkin Spice Smoothie. So at first, I didn't look at it so much as 'going to church' as I did 'eating a banana nut muffin and drinking a pumpkin spice smoothie'. So every Sunday, I'd get my muffin and my smoothie, and we'd go up to the balcony to watch the service. And apart from the deliciousness of this church, the production value was astounding. Week after week, the pastor would make me laugh, there would be something like a 70 person musical act, some kind of dramatic performance, and a message at the end that tied it all together.

And more and more I started to relate to the message; the relationship building, the marriage tips, the importance of family, the roles of parenting, the community involvement. It turned into a weekly life-coaching session. A sort of guide to help me be a role model to my kids. I've never been a religious person. I didn't grow up in the church. And I've read all the stories about corrupt churches and morally questionable church leaders. I'vve had a hard time fully immersing myself into the idea that Jesus was anything but just a great man. But this church; this church was helping me become a better person. And for a long time, I was able to separate the 'good deeds' message from the Jesus message. I didn't have to believe EVERYTHING, did I?

And I went on feeling this way up until about 2 weeks ago, when Rach was in Israel. (Read more about that here) During the Sunday service while she was gone, they showed a video message from Israel of our head pastor. As I was watching, I kept hoping they'd pan out and show Rach, just so I could see her, but they didn't. But I remember thinking that seeing that video, and being in the church made me feel a lot closer to her. She had dragged me to that church for so long, that it felt like she was there with me. The service ended, and we left, and I didn't really think about it much after that. But the following Wednesday, I got a strange call from one of the pastors at the church, Luke. It was weird, I had never spoken to him directly, but I immediately recognized his voice over the phone from all of the speeches that he's given over the past few years. He proceeded to tell me that they were putting together the Easter production, and one of the other pastors said that I would be a perfect fit for one of the parts. He said,

"Hey, uh, I was talking with Dave, and we feel, with your physique, and your look, that you would would make a great, umm, Satan."

I quickly responded with, "So Dave thinks I look like Satan, huh?" But only kidding.

Anyway, we talked for a minute about the role, and what it involved, and we decided to meet up at the church later that night to meet with he and his wife, Megan. And I immediately began to think of that past Sunday, and how I felt being at the church. This couldn't be an accident, could it? Then I started thinking of ways that this could all be part of one of Rach's mastermind schemes, and that she was just tugging on her puppet strings from halfway around the earth. But either way, what are the chances that they call me NOW, when I seemingly needed it the most?

And so I start thinking to myself: there has got to be a reason for this. Just like there's a reason for everything else that has happened in my life up to this point. There's a reason that I'm not dead or in jail for some of the stuff that I used to do. There's a reason that Rach decided to take a chance on a smart, lazy guy with no car or no job that lived with his parents (well, maybe there's not a reason for that. That still seems like a bad decision to me). But there is a reason that we've been blessed with so much. I refuse to believe that I'm just really lucky.

And so I get to the church that night, and everyone I meet seems unbelievably welcoming, and warm, and positive. And I felt that same feeling wash over me that I had felt on Sunday. That feeling of comfort, and of closeness. That comfort level allowed me to talk to Megan and Luke as if I had known them for years, even though we had just met. I told them about our family, and about my struggles with my faith, and how I was just starting to 'get it'. Even though I don't fully know what 'it' is.

After the meeting, we decided that I'd go ahead and try to be Satan, but if I didn't feel comfortable, or if they thought I was terrible, that I didn't have to do it, no hard feelings. A few days later, at the first rehearsal, I was amazed at all of the gifted young people that they have at this church. Singers, dancers, musicians; you name it, they got it. It was unbelievable. I figured that even if I was terrible, they had enough talented people in the building that no one would even notice. And it was interesting to peel back the onion a little bit and witness the kind of effort that went into all of those productions that I had been watching over the last few years.

And after the first practice, Luke pulled me aside to talk. He wanted to make sure that I was comfortable being Satan (or acting like Satan, I'm not actually BEING Satan). We talked about the meaning of the play, and the message. And then he asked me, "How long have you been a Christian?" And I really didn't know how to answer. I hadn't really been a Christian. Sure I had been baptized, and I received my first communion, but I had never made a conscious decision as an adult to put God first. But I do know this, for the past six or so years, I've made a concerted effort to be a great father, and a great husband. To put Racheal first. To put my kids first. To put my family first. I've wanted to be the perfect husband. I've wanted to be the perfect dad. But I'm not. I am a failure. I've been trying my absolute best for 6 years, and I've failed. I am not perfect. I make mistakes. I make mistakes all the time. Just ask Rach, she'll tell you. She may even have them alphabetized. But God doesn't care about my mistakes. He just wants me to keep trying. He's got my back, whether I'm aware of it or not. No matter how far away from Him I've gotten, He's been there for me. And that's when I decided, that I would like to thank Him for that. I'd like to honor him for watching out for me.

And so I looked at Luke and said, "I don't know. I don't think I have been a Christian. I think I'm ready to, but I'm not really even sure how I would go about doing it." And he said very matter of fact, "Well are you ready now?"

And without any fanfare, or any ceremony, or any fireworks, Luke put his hand on my shoulder, and he prayed for me. And just like that, I gave my life to God. I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart. I am a Christian. If you knew me ten years ago, you probably won't believe it. But it's true. Rach's 3 year plan has finally come to fruition. (She's like a long-haired Yoda).

And as my first act to honor Jesus, I'm going to be Satan. And I'm excited about it. This production is going to be amazing. I think everyone should come check it out. If you want to see a great Easter service, or if you want to see a great show, or if you just want to come see me dressed as Satan, or if you like Pumpkin Spiced Smoothies, or if you know my wife and you don't want her to be mad at you, I think you should come.

We're doing 4 shows this weekend at Cathedral of Praise on Ashley Phosphate. You can get more info here. I hope to see you there.

The King-Sized Longing......

As most of you already know, Rach is in Israel right now. Yes, that's right, Israel. Trust me, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking,

'Really?! She went to Israel now?! Does she have any idea what is going on over there right now?!'

But don't get confused, Israel was not her first choice for a vacation. But apparently there weren't too many flights going to Libya or Japan right now. Just kidding. I realize that it's not exactly an ideal time to be traveling to the middle east right now, but Rach has been wanting to go for years. And if she waited to go to Israel until there was peace in the middle east; well that would be like postponing your Mardi Gras trip because you're waiting for New Orleans to adopt prohibition. It's just not gonna happen.

Anyway, I'm sure your next question would be,

'How on earth would you let your wife go to Israel by herself?'

And my response would be, If you think that I've ever 'let' Racheal do anything, then you don't really know her too well. I 'let' Racheal do stuff about like the coyote 'let' the roadrunner get away. There's not much I could do about it. Besides, we talked about it back in September when she was thinking about going. In fact, we had this conversation:

Rach: The church is going to Israel in April. I really want to go. Would you want to go?

Me (Using the default high pitch voice that you only use when you're stalling; trying to come up with an excuse, and as you repeat yourself, your voice gets higher and higher. And you end up sounding like a mix between Adam Lambert and Rain Man.): Oh, Israel? Umm yeah. Yeah, absolutely, yeah, definitely. Definitely Israel.


Rach (sniffing out my lie like a drug dog): Really? Would you really want to go?

Me: Umm, no, not really. I don't think I'd like to go.

Rach: You really wouldn't want to go?! Why Not!?!

Me (now just trying to stay above water): Well, you know what? Maybe I do want to go. It could be fun. Yes, I think I would like to go.

Rach (At this point, she's working my brain like a speed bag): Do you want to go because you really want to go? Or do you want to go because you don't want me to go by myself?

Me (waving the white flag): Umm, pretty much because I don't want you to go by yourself.

Rach: Well I don't want you to go if you're just going to ruin my trip...

Ouch. Ruin her trip? At first, that seemed pretty harsh. But it only took me 2 seconds to picture myself in Israel, taking a tour of some ancient temple in the desert; waiting until the end of the tour, then raising my hand, and in my best Pee-Wee Herman voice, saying, "Where's the basement? Aren't we going to see the basement?" And then Rach looking at me in disgust. And then I thought to myself how many Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome references I'd make. Or how many times I'd quote History of the World: Part III. And then I realized that, yes, I would definitely ruin her trip.

Besides, logistically, it made sense. If I didn't go, we didn't have to find babysitters for the kids. And it cut the trip expenses in half. So that was that. It was decided. Rach was going to Israel. For ten days. Which is an incredibly long time for us. It's the longest amount of time that we've been apart since we got married. So this whole week, it's just been me, the kids, and my parents; who moved up here last week. Well, by 'moved up here', I mean they have their camper parked in my driveway, Eddie Griswold style. My dad and I could've had this conversation.

Clark: So, when did you get the tenament on wheels?
Eddie: Oh, that uh, that there's an RV. Yeah, yeah, I borrowed it off a buddy of mine. He took my house, I took the RV. It's a good looking vehicle, ain't it?
Clark: Yeah, it looks so nice parked in the driveway.
[Raises glass to his mouth]
Eddie: Yeah, it sure does. But, don't you go falling in love with it now, because, we're taking it with us when we leave here next month.

I'm just kidding. Actually, my parents have been great. My dad gets up and brings the kids to school and picks them up. My mom brings Scarlett to dance practice. I've got it made. I haven't had to cook dinner one time since they got here. It's like I'm on my own mini vacation (without the 16 hour flight). Sadly, though, most of my vacation has been spent thinking about my wife. All day long, I look at the clock and add 7 hours, just to see what she might be doing. When I wake up, I think, 'Oh, I bet she's eating lunch.' When I'm eating lunch, I think 'She must be getting to her hotel right about now.' And I've even been waking up at night at around 11 or 12 just because that's around the time she'd be waking up in the morning. I know, it's sad. But don't laugh, I think this is probably what dogs do when their humans go on vacation. Just pacing around the house; going from one couch to another; getting water, making long, pathetic sighs, "HHhhhhhhhhhhggggmmmmm". The only difference between me and a lonely dog is that I have a job.....and a gym membership. Seriously, I've never gotten so much work done, or played so much basketball as I have this week. It's the only thing that I can do to keep my mind off of her.

And I'm not just saying this because I know that she'll read it. I really do mean it. I really do miss her. It IS somewhat comforting to think, though, that after 5 years of marriage, I want nothing more than to be with my wife. I know it sounds hokey. But a lot of people don't get there. A lot of people don't get to say that. And then I start to think to myself, 'Maybe I should've gone with her. Maybe I should've just sucked it up and pretend to enjoy myself just to be with her.' But then, just as I'm second guessing my decision to stay on American soil, Rach sends me this text message:

"I can't wait to bring you back here next year"

And I immediately think to myself, "Noooooooooooooo!!!!"

And then I think, "Well, at least I have a year to think up an excuse this time."

And then I think, "And maybe I'll just be able to copy and paste this blog post."

And then I think, "Or maybe she'll change her mind."

And then I think back on this past week and think, "Or maybe I should just go get my passport".

The King-Sized Alarm Clock.....

I don't really require a whole lot of sleep. I usually try to go to bed between 10 and 10:30, and Rach usually lets me go to sleep by at least 11:30. What are we doing for that hour, you ask? It usually goes something like this:

10:15 pm - I fall asleep.

10:16 pm - After just coming out of the bathroom, Rach says, "Hey babe, can you go turn off the bathroom light?"

10:17 pm - I return from the bathroom and get back into bed.

10:18 pm - I fall asleep again.

10:19 pm - Rach says, "Hey babe, have you seen the cat? I think she's outside. Can you go let her in?"

10:24 pm - After finding the cat, I return to bed.

10:25 pm - I fall asleep.

10:26 pm - Rach says, "Hey babe, can you go put Jaxon back in his bed?"

10:28 pm - I carry Jax to his room, and return to bed.

10:30 pm - I fall asleep.

10:37 pm - Rach says, "Hey babe, would you rather have another baby? Or a new house?"

10:57 pm - We wrap up that gem of a conversation, and I fall asleep.

10:58 pm - Rach says, "Hey babe, can you rub my back until I fall asleep?"

11:14 pm - Fingers cramped, Rach falls asleep.

11:15 pm - I fall asleep.

You see, if there's one thing that Rach hates about me, it's my uncanny ability to fall asleep at a moments notice. She hates it. She hates it more than she hates when I quote Joe Dirt. Dang. She hates it so much that sometimes, when she runs out of creative ways to wake me up, she'll just kick me.

So anyway, last night, I got to sleep at about 11:45. It actually took me about 2 minutes to fall asleep, though, because it was so hot in the house. It was about 75 degrees and balmy outside last night, and I think it was about 80 degrees inside. Why no air conditioner, you ask? I'll explain. In November, we had a $400+ electric bill, so we cut the circuit breaker to the AC off. When it's cold, get a blanket. When it's hot, turn the fan on. Rach and I decided that we're not flipping the breaker back on until we all look like the cast from A Time To Kill. Remember how sweaty everybody was in that movie? I can't watch that movie without taking a shower after. But we're not turning the AC back on until I look like this.

So at some point in the middle of the night, I'm laying in a puddle of my own sweat, and I hear a phone ringing downstairs. But it doesn't sound like a cell phone, it sounds like an old rotary phone like the ones from the '60s. It takes me a second for me to realize what it is, but then I remember that Scarlett had told me she was going to set her alarm to wake up early. I roll over to look at the clock....4:00 am....4:00 am? Really? So I went in to her room and woke her up, "Scarlett...Scarlett...Doonie....wake up. Wake up, baby." She started to slowly, confusedly open her eyes, "What daddy?" I said, "Scarlett, your alarm is going off downstairs. I wasn't sure if you had an important appointment at 4 in the morning that I didn't know about. Maybe you should get up and go turn your alarm off." And she stumbled downstairs to turn off her alarm. So I go get back in bed, and at this point, it's about 4:15. I usually wake up at 4:35. Oh well, twenty minutes of sleep is better than nothing. 20 minutes of sleep is also better than 14 minutes of sleep, because at 4:29 am, I get abruptly woken up by the extreme loudness of "CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKA CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHIT CHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKACHICKA!" So I think to myself, some inconsiderate shmuck turned on their sprinklers at 4:30 in the morning? Who on earth would be crazy enough to do that? Then I realized that the sprinklers were hitting OUR windows, and remembered that Rach was working out in the yard yesterday. And I realized that I was married to the inconsiderate shmuck. Did I say schmuck? I meant lovable, eccentric queen. So I get up and run downstairs, because in between the CHITs and the CHICKAs, I can hear the water hitting the neighbors' car. And in an effort to keep them from hating us any more than they already do, I went outside to turn off the water. It was still pitch black outside, so I could barely see, but I though I could make out the trajectory of the sprinkler. But keep in mind, it's 4:30 in the morning, and I don't think I had all of my wits about me. I made it to the side of the house without getting wet, but just as I got to the spicket, I got smacked in the face with about 4 CHITs, "CHIT! CHIT! CHIT! CHIT!" And I'm soaked. From head to toe. I walked back inside, wet and deflated, ready to start my day. I had to go back upstairs first, so I could get dressed like a ninja in the dark. You know, because I wouldn't want to wake Rach up. And as I'm walking up the stairs, I hear a bell tower clanging in my room. Bell tower? What the...why? Apparently, Rach set her alarm for 4:45 for some reason. I don't think she had any intentions of getting up, because she was still sound asleep. No, I think she was just making sure I wasn't getting any sleep. Out of spite. But I just gotta keep on keepin on. Because......

"Life's a Garden, Dig It!" (Joe Dirt, 2001)

The King-Sized Birthday Surprise.....

Last week, Rach asked me, "What do you want to do for your birthday?"

I'm not real big on birthdays, so I said, "Oh, I don't know, maybe take the kids out to eat or something. It doesn't matter."

"Okay, good. Because I made plans already. Do you think you'll be able to leave work by 5?"

Looking back, I realize now that she was just asking me as a 'courtesy question'. You know, when your wife asks you something just to keep up the facade that you actually have any kind of real input to your existence. Things like: "Which shoes should I wear with this dress?" or "Do you think we should rip out all the carpet in the house?" or "Should we sell this house and move to a place called Wassammassaw?" My answers don't really matter. The outcome stays the same.

Anyway, on Monday at five o'clock I texted Rach to tell her I was leaving work. She texted me back and said not to go home, but to go straight to the mall. The mall? Really? Is she taking me to the food court for my birthday? Is she going to treat me to some Chinese food samples? Maybe the arcade? Whatever. If there's one thing I've learned during our marriage, it's that it is pointless for me to try to guess what's going to happen next. When I got to the mall, she texted me, 'Go to Express. Ask for Christi.'

At this point, I'm starting to feel kind of like a secret agent. But the kind of secret agent that can only accept mundane missions from his wife. So maybe not so much secret agent-like. When I walked into Express, I must've had the same blank, lost expression on my face that Obama had when he walked into the White House the first time, "I think I'm supposed to be here, but I have no idea what I'm doing." Luckily, my confusion was tacitly written on my face, because the girl working there came right up to me, and said, "Are you Jeff?" I responded with, "Ummm, yes?", as if I was confused by my name at this point. "Okay, come with me." She took me to the front section of the store and gave me the option of 3 different types of shirts, and 2 different types of pants. Apparently, Rach had called ahead, and explained to the girl that my current wardrobe consisted mainly of colored wifebeaters and camouflage shorts. Limiting my options was a good idea in theory, but unfortunately my fashion ineptitude foiled their efforts. I still picked out pants that were too big and a shirt that didn't match my huge new pants. Even Jaxon has a better fashion sense than I do at this point.

After I mishandled my wardrobe outing, Rach texted me the address of where I needed to go next. The text led me to a nice elegant seafood restaurant where Rach was waiting for me. The restaurant was so nice that Rach and I were less than half the age of the next youngest person there. Seriously, everyone in the restaurant was in their 60s. Even our waiter looked like he had a bad hip. When he read us the specials, he spoke very loudly, complained about the poor lighting, and confused himself. Okay, maybe not, but the whole place was old. The food was good though, but Rach kept looking at her watch because she was worried about not being able to make it to our next "appointment". She kept referring to our appointment. 'We're going to be late for our appointment.' Appointment? What kind of appointment? A movie maybe? What else could it be? A concert? A comedy show? But it's a Monday night? Oh well, I guess I'll find out soon enough.

So when we left, I gotta say, I was pretty anxious about our next 'appointment'. But a happy kind of anxious. It had been a nice relaxing night up to this point, and I had a feeling Rach was going to outdo herself. As she was directing me where to go, it didn't make sense. We were heading back to an area that I knew pretty well, and there wasn't anything exciting going on there. Just a bar, a couple of night clubs, a few restaurants, and a.......oh no........no.......no........can't be.......NOOOOOOO!........It's a.......a.......COUPLES SPA! Awwww CRAP! I didn't see that one coming. I felt like a dog that just realized he was going to the vet.

See, here's the thing. I don't like people touching me. Especially strangers. I'm weird, I know. But it just gives me the heebie jeebies. That's why I've never gotten a massage before. Not to mention that I'm sort of ticklish. Rach knows all of this, but apparently she thought that my dislike for stranger-rubbing was akin to my dislike for coffee. Because she doesn't believe me that I don't like coffee either. She'll ask me to taste her coffee. I'll decline. She'll tell me that I'm gonna like it. I'll decline. She'll tell me that "I'll barely be able to taste the coffee in it". I'll decline. Finally, my distaste of coffee will be trumped by my eagerness to get out of the merry-go-round conversation that I'm stuck in. And I'll taste it. And it'll disgust me. And she won't believe me. We've done this about nine different times with various coffee-containing substances.

But maybe this would be different. Maybe I WOULD enjoy it. Maybe I just needed to give it a chance. Maybe my reluctance to have my body parts kneaded by a complete stranger would go away. Maybe. But I doubt it. After we signed our release forms, they walked us into our dimly lit torture chamber. The lady told us to strip down to whatever we're comfortable with, and then lie down face-down on the table. And that prompted this exchange:

Me: Strip down to whatever you're comfortable with? Does that mean I should leave my socks on?

Rach (already completely naked as if she was wearing breakaway clothes): Just take all your clothes off. Don't be stupid.

Me: Shouldn't I just leave my underwear on?

(But on the inside, I was thinking: Why would I take my underwear off? Are they going to massage any lower than the top of my underwear? Or even worse, any higher than the bottom of my underwear? What kind of place is this? What if there's a fire, and I have to run out of here in my birthday suit. Get it? Birthday suit? I kid.)

Rach: Relax, it's going to be some girl massaging you anyway. You don't want your underwear to get in the way.

Me: Get in the way of what!?!

At this point, I wanted to tell her that the gender of my masseuse wouldn't (at least I thought it wouldn't) matter. I would feel just as skittish (or at least I thought I would feel just as skittish) with a girl masseuse as I would with a dude masseuse. I wanted to tell her that, but I knew that I was running out of time to make my underwear decision. The masseuses (Is that the correct plural form of masseuse?) would be coming in any second. I couldn't decide what to do. Underwear? Or no underwear? I was frozen. Could not decide. I would be a horrible bomb technician, by the way. Finally, in a gut reaction, I threw off my underwear and jumped under the covers. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

A split second later, two masseuseses walked in; a girl masseuse, and a man-sseuse. And as the man-sseuse walked towards me, I noticed that he wasn't slowing down near Rach's table. And then he passed her up and came closer. Oh, I thought, he must need to grab something from this side of the room. Then he put some lotion on his giant meat-hook man-hands, started rubbing his hands together, looked at me and said, "Well I guess I'll be working on you today."

........Wait.......What??????

It happened so fast, I didn't really get a chance to think about it. It was probably the same feeling Andy Dufresne had the first time The Sisters cornered him in the shower. And just to recap, in case you weren't paying attention; I'M LAYING BUTT NAKED ON A TABLE WITH SOME STRANGE DUDE ABOUT TO RUB LOTION ON MY BACK!! AND NOTHING BUT A LITTLE BLANKET IN BETWEEN HIM AND MY JUNK!! And this is supposed to be relaxing? Really? He asked me if I was hurting anywhere, and I was so distraught, that for some reason I thought to myself, "Tell him no. You don't want to show him any weakness." Seriously? Show him weakness? I'm pretty sure the only way I could've seemed more vulnerable at that moment is if that Sarah McLaughlin 'Adopt-a-Puppy' commercial would've came on the radio, and I started crying like a little girl. But even so, I blurted out, "No! I'm fine!" Like an idiot.

Much to my chagrin, he started 'working on me'. So in my mind, I had to try to block out my stranger-touching phobias, and also all of my ticklishness. The last thing I wanted was for me to giddily twitch when he was loosening up my hammys. Anyway, the whole thing made me pretty uncomfortable. Rach claims that she heard me snoring at one point. My response to her was that I was just pretending to be sleeping. You know, like when you're being attacked by a bear. A bear with really, really soft hands. And then, out of nowhere, a bell rang and the guy kind of lifted his hands and said, "Alright, your time is up. Make sure you drink a lot of liquids. Good night." And he walked out of the room and out of my life forever. And that was it. Drink a lot of liquids? I don't understand. Did my skin feel extra dry? Do they always say that at the end of a massage? Does he ever switch it up any, and say something like, "Make sure you don't mix your lights and darks in the laundry."? Was this just his catch phrase? Did he do something to me while I was pretend sleeping that would've dehydrated me? Somebody please explain this to me. Why exactly do I need to drink a lot of liquids? I never got that answered, but that was it. No more. We got up, put our clothes back on, and we left.

Rach was uber-relaxed. I was just confused and oily. I guess I can understand why people would enjoy getting a massage, but I'm just not one of those people. I'll just put it up there with all of the other things that other people like but I don't particularly enjoy; like cappuccino, and Glee, and family Christmas cards, and The Notebook, and cats, and plastic toilet seats, and pickles, and Geico commercials, and neck tattoos, and european vacations, and NASCAR, and Meryl Streep, and shopping sprees, and tempurpedic mattresses. They're just not for me.

But I will tell you this: the next time Rach asks me if I want to go get a massage, I'm definitely going to say no. But I'm also going to go put on a nice pair of underwear, just in case it's merely a courtesy question.

The King-Sized Anticipation......

In the words of Lou Brown, "It's starting to come together, Pepper...Starting to come together." (If you don't know who Lou Brown is, watch this.) You see, Lou Brown knew that something big was about to happen with his Indians team. Lou Brown could feel it. Lou Brown was giddy with excitement.

(And don't make fun of me for referencing a ridiculous 1980's baseball movie. Major League pretty much shaped my childhood. To me, it represents a better time. A simpler time. A time before Corbin Bernsen was doing guest spots on The Young and the Restless. A time before Rene Russo's face was made out of play-doh. A time when Wesley Snipes still paid his taxes. A time before Charlie Sheen's were so upsetting. And when I say 'upsetting actions', I don't mean falsely imprisoning hookers and keeping his cocaine in a giant briefcase. No, by 'upsetting actions', I mean being the star of a really crappy television show that every non-funny person will swear up and down is a good show. I don't see the appeal. And that show is ruining his Hot Shots! Part Deux legacy.)

Okay, by now you're probably asking, "What does the movie, Major League, or more specifically, Lou Brown's quote, have to with anything?" Well let me tell you. Up until a couple of months ago, all we had was a pipe dream; an idea that, sure it might happen eventually, but it's too far away from reality to really sink our teeth into. We could only talk about it in hypotheticals, like, "It'll be great when this happens." Or "Some day, we'll be able to do this or have the freedom to do that." But now we have a date. An actual, finalized date that we can plan around. It's not often that you can look ahead to a specific date and say, "That's the day that our lives are going to change." And we're not looking back. March 26th. That's the date my parents are moving to Charleston. March 26th. That's the date we get access to unlimited free babysitters. March 26th. That's the date Rach and I can go on weekend getaways (or even weeknight getaways!). March 26th. That's the date that we'll have someone to cook real food for us. (Anyone who has eaten my dad's food knows what I'm talking about here.) March 26th. That's the date that Rach will finally have someone to go on marathon shopping trips with. (Anyone who has gone shopping with either Rach, or my mom, knows what I'm talking about here.) March 26th. That's the date.

And like I said, up until a couple of months ago, it was just something that my parents eventually wanted to do. But then things just started rolling into motion. Around Christmas time, my mom decided to put her house up for sale. But that's not really anything for us to get our hopes up about. Trying to sell a house in the New Orleans area is like trying to sell birth control pills to the cast of Basketball Wives. It's not easy. I mean, my parents' next door neighbor has had their house up for sale for over two years. But within the first week of being on the market, my parents had two offers. And after a short negotiation and a few appraisal hiccups, they are set to close on the house next week.

But where are they going to live when they get here? Well, a couple of weeks ago they came up to South Carolina to look for a house. But before they even got here, Rach hooked them up with a real estate friend of hers, Chip, to help them research what areas they were interested in. Well, at least I thought Chip was a friend of hers. I'm starting to question their friendship, because no true friend would recommend my parents as clients. Chip sent my mom about 80 different listings. My mom then whittled the list down to 32 and organized it into a spreadsheet of houses to visit. Chip would've been better off being Goldilocks' Realtor, "This house is too small!" "This house is too big!" "There's not enough closets!" " There's not enough landscaping!" "There's too many stairs" "The laundry room is too far away from the bathroom!" Nothing was good enough. But at the same time, they didn't really know what they were looking for, so they couldn't rule anything out, either. I met Chip and my parents for lunch when they were halfway through their first 9 hour house-hunting session. Chip's demeanor was that of a parent whose kid keeps wetting the bed. As frustrated as he was, he knew he had to be patient. His face stayed calm, but deep down, I got the sense that he wanted to scream at my parents, "Just pick a damn house!....And stop pissing in the bed!"

Anyway, on Sunday night, after close to 30 hours of looking at houses, my parents found the perfect house. It was EXACTLY what they had been looking for. They wanted a house that was about 1800 square feet. This house was almost 3000. They wanted a 1-story house. This house was a 2-story. They wanted a place that they could keep their 5th wheel camper. This house didn't have anything like that, in fact, the 5th wheel could barely fit in the driveway. This house was everything that they didn't know they wanted in a house....and it had a pool. So they put in an offer. And it got rejected. So they put in another offer. And it got rejected. So they put in a third offer. And it got rejected. So they put in another offer. And it got accepted. So now they're under contract, and are scheduled to close at the end of next month.

So now the only thing left to complete the move is for my mom to find a job up here. And it's going to happen, too. Soon. I have no doubt in my mind. I can feel it. Because it's starting to come together, Pepper....Starting to come together.