The Pitch Contest

My daughter got off the school bus and hopped into my car.  "Mom, guess what?"

"What?" I asked.

"We had a pitch contest in school, today."

"A pitch contest?"  I imagined the class writing query letters to agents, trying to convince them to represent their manuscripts. That wasn't it.

"Yeah. We're learning about sound waves in school, so we had a contest to see who could produce the biggest sound waves.  We had to scream as loud as we could. Like this."  My daughter let out an ear-piercing scream.

"Oh my gosh!" I said, quickly covering my ears.  "Did you have to do that in the car?"

She grinned. 

My son thought that was hilarious.  So guess what he did?  He screamed.

Then they both screamed at the same time.

"ENOUGH!!!" I bellowed.

It got quiet. 

"Wow, Mom," my daughter said.  "I think you just won the pitch contest!"
 

Abe Lincoln Costume

My son, who's in the second grade, has a school project:  write a report on a famous person and then present it to the class.  But here's the catch - he has to dress up like the person, and he has to do it this week. Not a lot of time to come up with a costume!

"Who did you pick?"  I asked after he announced this little assignment.

"Abraham Lincoln."

Well, at least he was somebody we could find a lot of information about, and the costume shouldn't be too tough to handle - a suit, a top hat, and a beard.  I started scrounging around the house to see what I could come up with.  I found a suit, a sparkly gold top hat, brown felt, and black spray paint.

"Okay, Bubba," I said.  "Here's the plan:  You'll wear this suit.  I'll make a beard with this felt, and you can tape it to your face.  Then I'll spray paint this hat, and that'll be your top hat."

He looked at me like I was nuts.  "Mama, I am not taping one of your felt creations to my face!  And you  had better not do anything with that gold hat!  It's my special hat!"

"Okay," I said.  "What if I just cover the the gold with black foamy stuff that can be removed?"

"Mama!"

"What?"

"Just go to the costume store and buy a top hat and beard."

The kid obviously has no confidence in my creative abilities!      

 

The Meatloaf War

My husband decided that he wanted to cook dinner.  "I'm making meatloaf," he announced.

That was fine with me, because you all know how much I love cooking!

A short while later, we all sat down and began eating.  "This is the best meatloaf I've ever had," said my husband.  "Even better than Mama's meatloaf!"

"Hey, wait a minute," I said.  "I make a pretty darn good meatloaf!"

"Yeah, right," he said.  "A slab of meat with a little ketsup drizzled on it?"

"Excuse me?"  The man was starting to push my buttons. 

"I know how to make meatloaf," my husband continued. "I used two types of meat."

"I use three," I rebuttled.

"And I put peppers and onions in the meat, too."

My son, Bubba, spoke up.  "But Dad, I don't like peppers!"

I grinned.  "I put in onions, and a lot of seasonings."

Then my daughter commented.  "Mom's has a lot of flavor," she said.

"Mine is still better," insisted my husband.  "Isn't it?"  He gave my kids the look telling them they had better agree.

They looked at each other. 

"Tie!" they announced.

Aren't they just so diplomatic?   

   

Please Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself

 This is totally last minute.  I was just perusing the blogosphere, when I saw this neat little blog hop going on.  One of the hosts is Stephen Tremp.  If you want to participate, go see him and sign up.

So, for those of you who don't know me, let me introduce myself with this official bio from my webpage:

Official Bio

Sherry Ellis is a freelance writer and children's author.  Her book, That Mama is a Grouch, was honored as a finalist in the Parenting/Family category of the 2010 USA Book News Awards and as a finalist in the Parenting/General category of the 2011 International Book Awards. It was also awarded first place in the Parenting category of the 2011 Pinnacle Book Awards.

Sherry is also a professional musician who plays and teaches violin, viola, and piano. She has appeared as a soloist in Germany, and was a semi-finalist in the 2004 International Viola Competition held in Paris, France.

Sherry is a lifetime member of Cambridge Who's Who and was honored as a 2010 VIP of the year. In 2012, she was honored as a Woman of the Year by the American Biographical Institute for her contributions in the field of music education.



Blah, blah, blah.  Now for the interesting stuff:  I'm a mom, of course.  I have two lovely kids and 26 pets.  (Don't ask!)  I like SCUBA diving (I was a PADI Scuba instructor in my past life AKA before kids),   I enjoy hiking, biking, travelling, gardening, writing, and playing and teaching my instruments.  I used to do arts and crafty things, too, like scrapbooking and crossstitching, but honestly, I just don't have time to do that stuff anymore.

What about you?  Who are you, and what do you like?

A Cow in Toilet Land

My son, Bubba, was on a roll today. He was spinning all kinds of stories. Here's one that came out of the anals of his mind:  (Caution:  If you don't like potty talk, you may want to skip this post and come back tomorrow!)

There was once a cow who got flushed down the toilet.  (Insert sound effects here!)

He found himself in Toilet Land. There, the trees were made of turds.  The houses were made of turds.  Even the beds were made of turds. (Except for Bubba's which was made of fabric.)

One day, a giant poopsteroid from outer space crashed into Toilet Land. It left a giant trail of turds.

Not to worry, though, because an alien spaceship arrived with a giant toilet.  The aliens scooped up the turds and flushed them down the toilet.  Except the toilet got blocked.

Fortunately, there was another alien spaceship in the area.  This one had a giant plunger.  The aliens plunged the toilet, and all the turds went down.

The End.

 Hmmm.  What do you think?  I'm personally wondering what happened to the cow. Did it get flushed down the toilet, or is it happily living its life in Toilet Land, producing chocolate milk?  (Note:  I'd advise not consuming anything that was produced in Toilet Land!)  

Locked in the Mall

Before I tell you my story, I have an announcement to make. (No, I'm not pregnant - I don't think.)  Here's my announcement:  I passed hair inspection at the dance studio!  Do you remember the utter failure I was at my first attempt to get my daughter's hair in the appropriate hairdo for the competition dance team?  Well, I redeemed myself today.  The owner said it looked good, and I passed!  Yay me! 

Okay.  Now for the story.

"Mom," my daughter said last night.  "I'm out of clothes.  Nothing fits.  We have to go shopping."

"Now?" I asked, looking at the clock.  "It's late.  The mall will be closing soon."

"I need clothes," she said.  "We have to go now."

I sighed.  "All right. Fine. Let's go."

We drove to the mall and went in.  We had fifteen minutes until it closed.  "This is not a good idea," I said.  "You never find something in fifteen minutes!"

"Yes, I will!"

She didn't.

"Okay," I said.  "We have to get out of here."

"No, not until I find something!"

"We'll do this tomorrow.  Just wear what you have on now."

"Mom!"

I dragged the girl to the exit.  Except when we tried to get out, we couldn't.  The doors were locked.  We were stuck in the mall!

"Are you kidding?" I asked.

Long story short, we had to find the guard to let us out.  Could you imagine what it would have been like to have spent a night at the mall?  Major horror story!  Lesson learned - never listen to a tween!
  

 

Followed by Ghosts

Ghosts seem to like me this week.  I must have a sign on my back that says, "Haunt me."  What happened?  Well, let me tell you.

Last night, I was at Memorial Hall in downtown Cincinnati.  It was the night of the big recital.  I waited in the back room until it was time for me to go onstage to perform.  As I sat there, the security guard walked into the room and started talking.  "Did you know Memorial Hall is one of the most haunted places is Cincinnati?"

I shook my head.  "No, I did not."

"It is.  This was once the site of an insane asylum and an orphanage."

What a combination! I thought.  I wondered if they were in the same building.

"That's nice," I said.  "And you're saying there are ghosts from the asylum and the orphanage floating around here?"

"Yep," he said.  "I've witnessed them myself."

"Seriously?"

"Yes.  And there was a team of investigators here, and they witnessed paranormal activity."

Great.  "So what happened?"

"They asked the ghosts if they wanted to be left alone, and if they did, to give a sign."

"Did they get a sign?" I asked, intrigued.

"Yes.  The picture on the wall flipped."

Whoa. 

"They're here," the guard continued.  "You can feel them."

Just then, the lights dimmed.

I looked at the guard.  He looked at me. 

Okay, crazy ghost,  I thought.  Here's the deal:  You leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone!

I guess it worked, because there were no other incidents, and the performance went very well!



 

Rotting Coconut

I walked into my son's room and sniffed.  It didn't smell good.  "Bubba," I said.  "What is that putrid odor?"

He inhaled deeply.  "Oh.  It's a rotting coconut."

I looked at that kid.  "A rotting coconut?"

"Yeah." He walked over to his book shelf and pointed to a half shell of coconut, which was indeed decomposing and emmitting some awful fumes.

"Bubba," I said.  "Why is there a rotting coconut on your shelf?"

"Because I wanted to make a cup, but I never got around to it."

I shook my head.  "Okay, Bubba.  You can toss that thing in the garbage right now."

"But Mama, I might have time to make it later!"

Oy!

Ghost in the House

Something freaky is going on at my pad.  The light in my dining room cabinet keeps turning on for no reason.  Yesterday, when I came home, the fireplace was on.  Nobody was home, and it wasn't on when I left. (Schultz was in his crate, so he didn't do it.)  The basement light was on, too.  "Kids, did you leave the basement light on?"

"No," they said.

"Did you turn the fireplace on before we left?"

"No."

"Did you mess with the cabinet in the dining room?"

"No."

Hmmm.  It must be the resident ghost.

"Maybe we should call Ghostbusters," my son said.

I think he has a good idea , because next thing you know, there will be a giant marshmallow man in my house leaving sticky footprints on the floor!     

Head Sniffer

We were eating dinner last night when my eight-year-old son stopped, covered his nose with his hand, and pressed it against his head.

I looked at that kid.  "Bubba, what are you doing?"

"Trying to smell the inside of my head."

Okay.  "So,  how does the inside of your head smell?" I asked.

"It smells like oranges."

My husband laughed.  "No, Bubba. I think it smells like hamburgers because you're a meat head!"

Then my daughter put her two cents in.  "No.  I think it smells like rocks.  Because you have rocks in your  head!"

Bubba giggled.  "Mama, what does your head smell like?" 

"I don't know, Bubba.  I've never sniffed my head."

"Let me sniff, Mama."

I sat there patiently while he put his little nose by my head and sniffed.  "It smells like shampoo... And music notes...  And books."

Oh.  Well, I guess that's not a bad thing, is it?  I have to wonder though, how music notes and books smell.  I hope not too musty!

   

Cookie Thief

I caught a cookie thief!  She thought she was being sneaky.  But I'm sneakier!  Hee hee.  What happened?  Well, let me tell you. 

I was doing the dishes when I noticed a pink blur out of the corner of my eye.  It disappeared into the walk-in pantry.  Hmmm, I thought.  What could that be?  I stepped out of the kitchen, pretending like I was going somewhere else.  I hid behind the sofa and waited for the perpetrator to emmerge.  A few minutes later, a certain long-haired individual wearing pink pajamas came out of the pantry. And in her hand was a package of Oreo cookies.

"Excuse me," I said.  "Where do you think you're going with those?"

When the thief heard me, she bolted.

"You're not going anywhere," I said.  "I see those Oreo cookies!"

She stopped and put the package behind her back.  "What Oreo cookies?"

"The ones you're hiding.  I can see what's behind your back."

She looked at me like I was crazy.  "You can't see what's behind my back."

"Sure I can.  It's called Mom Vision.  Now put those cookies back.  It's way too early to eat them, anyway!"

She hung her head and slowly walked back to the pantry.  "Not fair!  I'm going to hide these where you don't know where they are, and I'm going to eat them whenever I want."

Ha.  That's what you think, kid! 

Chocolate Chip Latkes

Today I decided to make chocolate chip cookies.  Except I ran out of flour.  An intelligent person would have gone to the store to get more, but apparently I'm not an intelligent person, because I didn't do that.  I baked them as they were.  Needless to say, they looked a little odd when they came out of the oven.

"Mom," my daughter said.  "What the heck are those?"

"Chocolate chip latkes," I said.

She looked at me like I was nuts.  "Seriously, Mom?"

"Yeah, seriously.  They're perfectly flat like potato latkes.  But they're not potato latkes."

My son came over to investigate.  "You really made chocolate chip latkes?" 

"Sure," I said.  "Try one."

He grabbed one off the tray and took a bite.  "Mmmm.  These are good!"

"See?"

My daughter still wasn't buying it. 

"Go ahead, try one," I told her.

She did.  "Hmmm," she said.  "These are actually pretty good."

Uh huh.

Then my son had an idea.  "Mama, can you make these on Hanukkah?"

All right.  Potato latkes and chocolate chip latkes - a new tradition!  (Now if I can only remember exactly how much flour I used!)  

Monster Pile

I'm always harping on my kids to clean up their piles.  Today, my daughter decided to turn the tables.  "Mom, have you ever looked at your pile?"

"What pile?" I asked.

"Come here."  She dragged me to my room and pointed to the lower shelf of my night stand.  "That one."

I grinned.  Yes, there was a pile sitting there.  It started off harmlessly as a book and a manuscript.  But it's grown.  I now have four manuscripts, five books, a Kindle, a pile of CDs, and a bunch of pens and pencils.  How did that happen?

Well,  let me tell you.  Three of the five books are research books for my current WIP. One book I'm reviewing.  Another I'm reading on the Kindle, and the other, The Last Lecture, has been on my list to read for a long time.  I'm finally reading it. ( Okay.  So I know it's a little weird to read three books at once, but that's how I roll.)  As far as the manuscripts go, one is my WIP, two I'm revising, and the other is the one I'm trying to get published.  And the CDs?  Well, I have to listen to the music I play and teach, so of course I have to have a pile of CDs!  So there.

"Mom, what are you going to do about your pile?" my daughter asked.

"Absolutely nothing.  I want to see how big it can get.  I want a monster pile!"

Chicken Eggs

Warning:  this is another bizarre conversation I had with my daughter.

You still want to read?  Okay.

My daughter is learning about the human reproductive system in school. When she came home, she had some peculiar questions. (Are you still with me?)

"Mom," she said.  "Do humans really lay eggs?"

"Well, yes, human females produce eggs," I replied.

"Do they have hard shells?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because they develop in the body and we don't sit on them like chickens.  They don't need the protection of a shell."

She crinkled up her eyebrows and thought about that.  "Can you fry a human egg?"

Huh?

I took a minute to compose myself. "Um.  Human eggs are very tiny and you can barely see them.  And why would you want to fry one anyway?" 

"I don't know," she said.   "Why do we fry chicken eggs?"

"Humans eat chicken eggs.  Humans do not eat human eggs.  Got it?"

She nodded.  "But why do humans lay eggs?"

Oy!

Horse in the House

I was teaching violin lessons when suddenly the thunderous roar of hooves reverberated through the house. My student stopped playing and looked at me with wide eyes.  Her mother stopped reading her book and looked at me, too.  "What...is...that?" she asked.

I shrugged.  "Just our pet horse getting a little exercise."

They both looked at me like I was nuts.  "You have a horse?" the woman asked.

"Sure.  Along with a pet cat, bird, frog, fish, and hermit crabs."

"Oh."

Two seconds later, we heard a giant splash.

"Now what?" the student asked.

"It sounds like our pet horse is taking a bath."

I kept right on playing while the student looked at me like I had some serious mental problem. (Okay, maybe I do, but that's another story.)

A few minutes later, the galloping resumed.  It got closer and closer.  Suddenly, an enormous wet creature charged into the room.  His long, pink tongue flapped behind him.  He skidded to a stop and gave himself a big shake - all over my student's mom.

I grinned.  "Sorry about that.  At least Schultz is clean!"

(In case you're a new follower, Schultz is our enormous 100 pound German Shepherd!) 

Dumpster Diet

Sometimes I don't have time to cook.  (Maybe if I didn't write or blog, it would be a different story.) On those days, I cheat.  I pull out some kind of frozen food and heat it up.  Today, I pulled out a mini pot roast.  It was a boil-in-the-bag variety.  (Yeah, I know - kind of weird, but it works when I'm in a pinch.)

I plopped those things into a pot of boiling water and continued writing.  My daughter came along and peeked in the pot.  "Mom!" she said.  "You're boiling plastic bags!"

"Yep.  Only the best at this restaurant!" I replied.

She made a face.  "I'm sick of this dumpster diet of yours."

"Dumpster diet?  What do you mean?  This is good food!"

"Mom, I can crawl into a dumpster and find this stuff."

"Oh good," I said.  "Then you can go crawl into a dumpster to get your dinner, and I won't even have to boil water!"
         

Frozen Junebug

"Mama," my eight-year-old son said this morning.  "There's a frozen Junebug on our porch."

"Hmmm," I said.  "That's nice.  What's he doing there?"

"Well, he was crawling around inside, and I didn't want to share my food with him.  So I put him outside."

"I see.  You do realize it is 23 degrees outside?"

Bubba nodded.  "Yep."

"Bugs can't live outside when it's that cold. You killed him."

"Yeah, Mama.  I know.  When I put him outside, he took a few steps and turned around.  He took a few more steps and then he froze."

Poor bug.  He probably just wanted to get back into the nice warm house.  Next time my boy should share his food!

Mama Fails Hair 101

Most of you know that I'm a dance mom.  My daughter is on competition dance teams.  As part of the dance mom job, I have to know how to apply my daughter's stage makeup, and fix her hair into a multitude of hairstyles.  Today was practice day.  I took my $100 worth of makeup supplies and hair stuff to the dance studio to show the owner of the store that I could actually do this.

Ha.

We started with the makeup.  Do you know how hard it is to apply liquid eyeliner to somebody else's twitching eye?

"You have to stay still, or I'm going to end up lining your ears!" I told my daughter.

She made a face, which of course didn't help matters.

Then I tried to curl her eyelashes.  "Mom!" she said.  "You're going to poke my eye out!"

"Sorry about that.  Here.  You do it yourself."

"What do I do?"

"Put your eyelashes in the thing and squeeze."

Yeah.

Next was the mineral powder.  I put some on a brush and knocked off the access.  Of course my daughter started gagging.  "Mom, what are you doing?  This is like Mount Saint Helen erupting!"

"Deal with it," I said.

Somehow I managed to paint her face in such a way that was acceptable to the dance store owner.  "Pass," the lady said, and signed off on our chart that it was good.   

I breathed  a sigh of relief.

On to the hair.  The style was a very special twist with a side bun:  the signature dance studio hair do.  It is very important that I learn to master this.  Being the genius I am, I forgot the gel and hair net. 

"Mom!" my daughter complained.  "How could you forget those?"

I shrugged.  "We'll borrow somebody's gel."  (Not that they'd want used hair gel back.)

That's what we did, but unfortunately, it wasn't the good stuff.  It was more like water.  I parted my daughter's  extremely long hair and went to work.  I tried very hard to twist the hair just right, and position the bun against the side of my daughter's head, just behind the ear.  But of course, without the right stuff, it just didn't work right.  Nevertheless,  I sprayed it down with a half a can of hair spray.  "That'll have to do," I said and marched her over to the dance store owner for inspection.

She gave me a look.  I knew it wasn't going to be good news.  "First of all, the twist is supposed to start higher on the head," she said.

Okay.  Fine.

She continued.  "Second, I see a wispy (term for hair out of place)."

I nodded.  Couldn't argue that one.  There was indeed one hair out of place.

"Third, where is your hair net?"

"At home," I said.

"You failed," said the owner.  "Come back another day and try it again."

I'm crushed.  What an utter failure I am.   I'm going to go have a pity party now.  Would somebody else like to take over my job as a dance mom?


 

Mama Avatar

"Mom, I'm going to make you an avatar on Wii," my eleven-year-old daughter said.

"That's nice," I replied.  "Do you think I'll ever use it?"

"No, but I'll make one anyway."

She went to work creating a figure that was supposed to resemble me.  A few minutes later, she had something she wanted to show me.  "Come here, Mom.  What do you think?"

I looked at the creature on the screen.  It had black eyes and tiger stripes all over its face.  "Excuse me," I said.  "I don't have black eyes.  And what's up with the tiger stripes?"

"Those aren't tiger stripes, Mom.  Those are wrinkles."

"What?" I couldn't believe it.  "Listen kid, I know I'm old, but I don't have wrinkles like that!"

"All right.  Fine.  I'll fix them."

She went back to work.  She got rid of the wrinkles and then gave me pretty blue eyes.  I was about to say that it looked much better, but then she started messing with the lips.  I looked like a kissing gourami.  "Why did you give me fat lips?"  I asked.

"Because of your duck bill."

"Hey, that's gone!  I have normal lips now. Fix those lips!"

She gave me an exasperated sigh.  Then she went to work on my body.  When she was done, I had a fairly attractive face, but a big head and a teeny tiny body.

"That's a little disproportionate," I said.

"No, it's not.  You have a little body and a big head."

Okay.  Maybe she's right!      

Chess-playing Dog

Wasn't it just a couple of weeks ago that our German Shepherd, Schultz, was trying to play the piano?  Well, now he thinks he can play chess.

I found my marble chess set and decided to set it up.  Of course Schultz had to check out everything I was doing.  He stuck his big black snoot on the board and sniffed.

"Would you like to play chess, Schultz?" I asked.

He looked at me and cocked his head.  Then he nudged one of the pieces.

I looked at him and cocked my head.  "All right.  Let's see what you can do."  I took a turn and moved one of the pawns.  "Your turn."

Do you know what he did next?  He grabbed the king in his big jowels and tried to eat it. 

"Schultz, drop it!"

He dropped it. 

"Schultz, you're supposed to say, 'check' before you 'check mate!'"

Stupid dog.

Rat in the Tank

My eight-year-old son came running into the house.  "Mama, there's a rat in the tank!"

"What?" I asked.  "Where?  What tank?"

"The one outside, where the frog and tadpoles used to live."

Oh.  That one.  For a minute I was worried it was our fish tank or our African Clawed Frog's tank.  "Is it alive or dead?" I asked.

"Dead."

"So what are you going to do with it?"

My son shrugged his shoulders.  "Nothing."

"Okay."  I picked up a load of laundry and took it upstairs.

Bubba followed me.  "But, Mama, aren't you going to do anything about it?"

I shook my head.  "Not my department."

(So, ladies and gentlemen, how long do you think the dead rat will remain floating in that tank?)

Hauling Mama Up the Stairs

Last night, my husband got the brilliant idea to try to carry our eleven-year-old daughter up to her room. 

"No, daddy!" she screamed, and promptly ran out of the room before my husband could catch her. 

"Well, I know somebody else I can carry up the stairs."  He looked at me.

I looked at him.  "Don't even think about it!"

He thought about it.  Next thing I knew, I was over his shoulder, my head facing down and my tush facing up. 

"Oh my God!" I cried.  "Pleeeeeeease don't drop me!!!!!"   

Meanwhile, my kids thought that was the greatest thing ever.   "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" they chanted as he carried me across the house, up the stairs.

My life flashed before my eyes.  I could just see the headlines:  "Mom Killed after Crazed Husband Drops Her on Her Head ."

Somehow he managed to carry me all the way up stairs.  He put me down.  I gave him my best glare, (which was difficult, because it was actually kind of funny).  "You know, I just got rid of my swollen duck bill lip.  What were you trying to do?  Give me a goose egg on my head?"

My husband grinned.  "Aw, come on.  I wouldn't have dropped you.  I could've carried both you and your piano up the stairs."

Yeah, right.    

A Most Peculiar Window

I have some pretty strange conversations with my kids.  Here's one I had yesterday with my eight-year-old son:

"Mama, could I see anything when I was in your stomach?"

"Well Bubba, first of all, you weren't in my stomach, because if you were, the acid in my stomach would have destroyed you."

Bubba nodded.  "And then I would've come out as poop."

"Um, yeah.  Something like that."

I continued.  "You were in my uterus, and I really don't know if you could see anything."

"But what about the belly button?"

I looked at my kid funny.  "What about it?"

"Isn't that like a little window?  Couldn't I see out the belly button?"  

"Bubba, seriously?  Have you looked at your belly button lately?  There's no possible way you can see in or out of your body through your belly button!"

He grinned.  "But your belly button is special.  It's a Mama belly button!"

 

911 Emergency

My eight-year-old son has been eating me out of house and home.  During winter break, he never stopped pestering me about feeding him.  Yesterday took the cake.

"Mama, I'm hungry.  Can you make me a little snack?"

"No, Bubba," I replied.  "Dinner will be in about an hour and a half.  You can wait until then."

"No, I can't."  He walked over to the phone and began dialing.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm calling 911."

"What?  Put that phone down right now.  911 is for real emergencies.  You do not have a real emergency!"

"But Mama, this is  a real emergency.  If you don't feed me right now, I'm going to die!"
 

Evil Furby

Do you know what a Furby is?  I wanted to show you, but the thing is so evil, it wouldn't let me post a picture of it.  (Actually, my computer seems to be malfunctioning, but we'll blame it on the Furby.) 

A Furby is a supposedly adorable furry toy that has big ears, big eyes, is animated and talks.   If you ask me, I'd say it looks like a cross between an alien and guinea pig.  My dad got Bubba one for Christmas.
Last night, the thing was sitting on Bubba's bed in sleep mode.  It looked very sweet and innocent with its eyes closed.  I picked it up and put it on the  book shelf.  Big mistake.  It woke up.  Its eyes glowed with an insane white light, and it started muttering jibberish that only an alien could understand.

"Go to sleep," I told the creature.

It flapped its oversized ears and spun in a circle.

"Did you hear me?  It's bed time.  Go to sleep!"

It muttered something that I'm sure was alien profanity and made an evil Furby face at me.

"Bubba, come here and shut off your creature," I said.

Bubba skipped into the room.  He started giggling.  "Mama, he doesn't shut off."

"What?  What kind of moron would design a toy that doesn't shut off?"  Apparently a moron who's not a parent.

We sat there for five minutes while this creature hobbled and wobbled and stared at us with those scary white eyes.   

"Bubba," I said.  "Is it my imagination, or does that thing seem evil?"

Bubba grinned.  "He's evil.  I set him on evil mode."

So, we have  a twisted toy designer out there.  Nobody in their right mind would create a toy that doesn't have an off button.  And nobody in their right mind would create a toy with an evil mode.

Here's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to take out the batteries, and then I'm going to feed it to Schultz, our German Shepherd.  I'm sure he'll have fun tearing it to smithereens!    

Flying Mama

I bet you didn't know I could fly.  I can.  It's my new-found talent.  What?  You don't believe me?

Let me tell you the story.  Last night, when I was tucking my daughter into bed, my husband came into the room.  "Do you want to see me lift Mama?" he asked.

I gave him a look.  "I don't think I need a lift," I said.

Of course both kids squealed with delight.  "Yeah, Daddy.  Lift Mama!"

I sighed.  "Fine.  But it won't be much of a challenge because I'm such a feather weight." (I am.  Even my eleven-year-old daughter can lift me.)

My husband picked me up, and the next thing I knew, I was flying through the air.  I landed in the middle of the bed.

"What the heck?"  I said. 

My husband grinned.  "Next time I'll send you to the moon!"

Oy!   

Bugs in the Kitchen

There is an infestation of lady bugs in my kitchen.  Chocolate lady bugs.  I had given my daughter a candy factory kit for Christmas, because we all know how much she likes chocolate (recall the chocolate birthday party she had in October).

I gave her the chocolate pieces, the coconut oil, and all the other doo dads and what nots that go with candy production.  "Have at it, kid."

I let her loose in the kitchen and went about my business.  A half hour later, I checked to see how she was doing.  On the counter, were four trays of chocolate lady bugs.

"Mom, can you help cut the red aluminum foil so I can wrap the rest of these?"

"Um, sure."  I grabbed some foil and itty bitty lady bug legs and assembled the creatures.

We now have no less than 48 lady bugs on the kitchen counter and in the refrigerator.  I think I need to call an exterminator!

Dog in the Bed

"Woman!" my husband called this morning.  "Come upstairs!"

I wondered what the man wanted.  I walked up the stairs into my daughter's bedroom where I found an interesting sight.  My husband, son, and daughter were all snuggled in her bed...with our hundred pound German Shepherd, Schultz.

My jaw nearly dropped to the ground.  "You let that beast on the bed?"

My husband grinned.  "Look how happy he is!"

"Happy?  I don't care how happy he is!  First of all, he's not supposed to be upstairs.  Second of all, there is no way he's allowed on furniture.  Get him off the bed!"   

All three of them looked at me with sad puppy eyes.  "Don't give me that look," I said.  "You know the rules.  And look at all the hair he's getting on your bed!"

My daughter smiled sweetly.  "So?  You can wash it." 

Grrr!