Happier Meals…

Happier Meals…

Billy and I have been entertaining the idea of getting a dog lately. Tossing around types and temperaments and asking ourselves whether we really need to bring another living thing into this house. For the love, isn’t seven humans, six fish and one hamster, enough? Stella just wants one SO bad. And dogs are supposed to be therapeutic, right?

Billy won’t let me get another Welsh Corgi – that’s what we had when we first got married. They are awesome dogs. Happy and clever but they shed a ton.

I like the miniature schnauzer. Doesn’t it look like it’s judging you? Like, it’s saying ‘I can NOT put up with your shenanigans, woman.’ I need it to keep me in line.
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Valentine’s Day saw us sitting in the McDonalds parking lot in Scottsboro, Alabama eating Happy Meals. We had a sitter but hadn’t gotten reservations anywhere so decided to travel up to Stevensville to watch the Varsity boys play in sub regionals for basketball. That may seem like a ridiculous thing for people that have a sitter to do but it gave us over two hours in the car alone without kids which was actually pretty fantastic.

Plus, I just knew that if we stayed in town we’d eat dinner and then send a thousand texts to the sitter asking ‘are the girls asleep yet?’ Then we’d promptly fall asleep watching Netflix until one of us woke the other up angrily for snoring too loud. It’s wild times around our house, I tell you. Wild times.

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Awww…look how handsome Billy is. We’ve also got the studious ‘Doug Madison’ photobomb in the background. He’s a teacher at the kid’s high school. That man is teaching AP Statistics and five sections of Calculus. Doesn’t that sounds absolutely mathrifically horrifying. My brain hurts just hearing those words.

What didn’t hurt my brain was winning. Unfortunately, we lost Monday in the next round.

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We celebrated Damien’s birthday at Casa Blanca Sunday night. Thirteen looks pretty good on him, doesn’t it?

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Speaking of shenanigans Gracie was loving all the singing that accompanied the waiters bringing out Damien’s birthday dessert.

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I’m not a huge Casa Blanca fan but I guess it’s better than Happy Meals in flipping Scottsboro.

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“You’re a grown up. Stop eating Happy Meals.”

I told y’all that dog was judgmental.

Instead of Blogging…

Instead of Blogging…

Two months. TWO MONTHS? Mother of Pearl, how has it been two months since I’ve blogged. That’s just crazy talk. It’s crazy embarrassing talk. So, what have I been doing besides blogging?

Weeeellll, let’s see.

I’ve been super busy throwing away all our socks that don’t have matches.

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Consider this post me giving you permission to do the same thing.

I’ve been folding loads and loads of laundry.

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Dear Scientists, Please make disposable clothes a thing. Also, six kids feels like six thousand.

I’ve been trying to explain Game of Thrones to Billy.

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This is super legit, right?

Game of Thrones is a quandary. I spend a quarter of the episode with my hand covering his eyes and the other three quarters of it explaining who Daenerys is…again. He’s a little late to the Game of Thrones party.

Also, since we’re on the subject of things that probably shouldn’t be allowed in the house I would estimate that seventy five percent of my texts with James, the thirteen year old, involve me telling him he’s not allowed to play something.

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‘Wut’

Wut, my booty! Why is he even asking about Grand Theft Auto? Ain’t no way, no how. Not on my watch, mister.

Also, Instead of blogging we visited the new restaurant the ToyBox Bistro on Jordan Lane. It’s byline is ‘Eat, Drink, and Be Nerdy.’ Between Supper Heroes, Pints and Pixels, and ToyBox Bistro, Huntsville is rocking the themed restaurant category.

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How awesome is this ceiling?

Another thing I’ve been doing instead of blogging is driving a plethora of kids around to see a Counselor. Here’s the deal: When you ask my boys how they are feeling about foster care and adoption their responses usually run the gamut between ‘whatever’ and ‘I don’t know.’ Sorry boys, but Mama needs an opinion. Enter the counselor.

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Oh, they did fine. Stella, who swore she wasn’t going to say anything, sang like a canary. Even the boys stated opinions. Therapists for the win!

So, are any of these things legitimate excuses for not blogging? Meh, I don’t know.

Well, at least I haven’t been out honky tonking. 

A PSA About PYARS

A PSA About PYARS

Friday night we went to Priceville to see WCA, the kid’s school, play the…the…the dang it, I can’t remember what Priceville’s mascot is called. The…The bulldogs! Yeah, that’s it. So, we went to Priceville to see the Wildcats play the Bulldogs.

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For $5 to get in the door everyone certainly got their money’s worth. Good gravy, is there anything better than high school basketball? So. Much. Fun. There’s drama and intrigue and sweating and swearing – and that’s just what’s going on in the stands.

It was a tight game throughout. The ending was especially exciting. There was nail biting, hands being thrown in the air, tempers, and lots of friendly tension.

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Unfortunately now I’m experiencing PYARS. You’re familiar with PYARS, right? Post Yelling At Ref Syndrome
WCA versus Priceville 2016Sheesh, can you think of  a more stressful job than referring? Billy and I got to laughing during the game – imagining what it would be like if other jobs were like the referee’s job. Like, what if every time you made a decision at your job people stood up and yelled “BOO! You suck! Get some glasses!” How would that fly in the corporate world? Getting heckled at work would probably be pretty awkward.

 

“Here are those reports you wanted.”

You used comic sans? BOOO!!!!!!!!! You’re terrible! My toddler makes better decisions!!!!”

I walked out of the game tonight and thought ‘yikes, I was possibly a little out of control with the yelling.’ I’m blaming it on Emily. She was egging me on!

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She looks innocent but don’t let her fool you. She was yelling too.

Ya know…let’s not call it yelling. Let’s call it…er…uh…aggressively encouraging. Yeah! We were being aggressively encouraging towards the refs. Those ‘boos’ were really just us saying…Uh…

Nope. I can’t sell that. Aggressively encouraging my Aunt Fanny. We were booing.

PYARS – it’s a real thing. Consider this blog post your PSA about it. Don’t let it happen to you.