Tuesday, August 30, 2011

While The Iron's Hot

Morning Readers,
     In America, women have the right to vote, progress carved out with the sweat and tears of our corset-wearing predecessors.  Teenie, tiny waists everywhere banded together, made giant signs and demanded that women be given the same right as men. And to them I say...

What the hell were you thinking?

     Thanks to you, I have the right to walk in and punch a chad, but that doesn't stop Husband from asking me to iron his pants. He doesn't know how. And you want to know why he doesn't know how? Because you didn't make it so.I will now jump in my DeLorean, gun it to 88, and deliver my proposal.

Monday, August 29, 2011

The NFL Widows Club: Coping With Losing Your Man To The Draft

Morning Readers,

     I'd received the call at eleven a.m. Cellphone pressed to forehead, lips delicately grazing the mouthpiece, I muttered, "Uh huh...yes, I see. Well, just know that I love you...and if you don't make it back, I'm taking the good side of the bed, in your memory." I hit "end", clutched my shoulders, slid down the oven and huddled in the corner. When the babies toddled in, I decided to tell them straight out. Wiping the last of my tears with the broom bristles, I said, "We've lost your father to the draft. Be strong and take a graham cracker. They're cinnamon-sugar. I hope they make this moment less bitter for you." Sundance responded by handing me a patch of hair I'd torn out in my grief. "Ma?"

Friday, August 26, 2011

There's A Coupon For That : My Three Tips And Tricks

Morning Readers,
     Recently, I was advised we're in a recession. I've never had money, so I hadn't noticed much of a change, although, the mailman leaving us IOUs, the trashman only taking our soda cans, and the dog offering me half his breakfast all made more sense. We were poor. I flew to the internets, typed in "broke" and waited for Google to tell me which child needed to be adopted out. Instead, it brought me results for coupons, couponista, and extreme couponing. Coupons?...sounded easy enough, so I gave it my best shot. If this is something you're looking to try, dear Readers, please refer to my tip sheet, before you don your Eco-bag and pad out the door. Life's not always a bowl of .39 bananas...

Thursday, August 25, 2011

To Shoe A Baby

Morning Readers,

    Did you know that horseshoes last only 6-8 weeks? Too bad. I was hoping I'd found an answer to my problem. Thanks for nothing, Seabiscuit... My ridiculous babies are growing without so much as a thought for their poor mother. Just last week, their feet were the size of mini corn dogs, and lo and behold, Sundance came strutting in on Monday, and thrust her big toe towards my wallet. "But, I bought you shoes three months ago." I reasoned. She puffed out her cheeks and turned to watch Elmo, a shoeless creature, who also, I've noticed, doesn't have a mother.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

For Louder Or Worse

Morning Readers,
     I've just finished going over the laminated card with my vows on it. Took me a second to find it between my credit card and my Liquor of The Month Club punch card (almost time for a free coaster), but I managed to recover it and find what I was looking for under a subsection:

For Better Or Worse: To interpret this section properly, please understand "better" is used here to mean "happy", "fun", and "not crappy". As such, "worse" is used to refer to circumstances which, generally, make one or both spouses want to dig their eyeballs out with melon ballers. See also "unpleasant", "crappy" or "say that one more time and I'll light your baseball car collection on fire".
     b.) Better - Skip to next section. Take a happy face sticker as you exit.
     a.) Worse - One must put up with aforementioned circumstances, no matter how ridiculous. Please see the following:

Monday, August 22, 2011

Letter From the Editor: Laundry and An Honorable Mention

Morning Readers,

     Today's situation is far more dire than usual. Normally, I keep just enough clean laundry around to make sure no one's using their Sunday slacks as a washcloth, but, I let it get away from me, this weekend. I can't be sure, but I think Husband might have had to provide himself with make-shift socks comprised of old envelopes and staples. That would explain the crinkling sound as he left this morning.
     Because of having to go to battle with the laundry, I have no story for you today. However, I got the happy news, yesterday, that a piece of mine won an honorable mention in the June/July contest and was published on HumorPress.com. For my Readers who've been with me for a while, you'll recognize it as one of my posts, Pardon My Baby's Hand In Your Purse. For all my new Readers, please enjoy. You can read it here. Now, off to show all that underwear who's boss...

Until Next Time, Readers!

Friday, August 19, 2011

Cash On A Hot Tin Roof

Morning Readers,

     Yesterday, I called Husband, earlier than usual. When one's house is surrounded by twenty-five men with power tools, it's best to let someone know, before your life story's adapted as the screen play for Nightmare On Elm Street XXI. While Butch and Sundance ate waffles, I peered out the door and assessed the situation, while I dialed. "Morning, Sweetheart."

     "Hey, Babe..how's it goin'?" He yawned.

     "Good good. The roofers just got here."

     "They're there already? Wait...remember to wear clothes, ok? Like, you know what I mean...a bra and stuff."

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A Quick Dinner

Morning Readers,
    Today the roof is being replaced, which means I've got roughly eight-hundred cattle milling about above the kitchen. By the time I post this, I fully expect to see a pair of work boots fly through the ceiling, land in my sink and ask me for lunch. So, I've decided to dig back into my recipe filofax, and share with you, my Readers, what we had for dinner last night. Enjoy, I've got to go see why the lights are blinking on and off...

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

That's the Impressionist I Get

 Morning Readers,

     No mother likes to be disillusioned. It hurts like a new pair of stilettos, stilettos that smell like crushed dreams and peppermint...possibly new car smell....possibly poop. No matter, new moms carry around false hope like bulk gum from Costco, constantly trying to get people to take a piece. "You want one? You sure? You sure? You toootally sure? Try it try it try it! Fine..more for me." 

     "They're really smart, aren't they? Probably the smartest babies I've ever met."

     My mother looked at me like a person looks at stray dog with one ear missing, and patted me on the arm. "Yes, honey. They're very bright."

Monday, August 15, 2011

Under The Wire: The Death and Re-Birth Of Bob

Morning Readers,

     "Say it ain't so...." I looked at my old friend, his straps hanging sadly from my pointer finger. A moment later, my head was in the washing machine. "Crap." With a tug, I extracted the half-moon-shaped piece of metal stuck to the side of the whirlpool like the spindly arm of a Gucci model. The washing machine had killed Bob, my one and only bra. For a moment I let the emotions wash over me, reflected on all the good times: his constant support, his smile...the way he'd always seen to whisper, "You're up and even, now get out there and raise those kids, champ."

Friday, August 12, 2011

Sea Monsters Vs. Aliens

Morning Readers,

     Anyone who's been married for more than two seconds knows about recurring arguments. Marriage therapists like to tell people that having the same fights over and over means something's wrong - I'm starting to realize those stupid arguments are the glue which binds and fills the boredom void. For example, when two people are still dating, they've got dinners, movies, bars, really fun stuff, no worries, miniature golf, a non-existent mortgage, imaginary kids, and love-blind compliments to fill their time. Once you both compliment each other enough to say "I do", Saturday night sneaks up, and finds you sitting on the couch, filling your time with this conversation:

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Dear Blog, Happy Birthday...

Morning Readers,

     Today, the blog turns one. Yep, thanks to all of you, the last three-hundred-sixty-five days (wait...was last year a leap year?....Oh...ok...thirty days has Septemb -..). Yep, three-hundred-sixty-five-days and one-hundred-fifty-one posts later, There's More Where That Came From rolls on to another year - hold on, I think I just heard the internet send up a collective "huzzah"...
...no, that was the refrigerator dying a slow death. At any rate, I'd like to evaluate the past year's progress, by taking a look at what I was up to, this time, last year. Ahh, here's a page from my imaginary diary. And it says:

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Would Somebody Hail My Kid?

Morning Readers,

     The only thing I love better than grocery shopping is dragging everything home, unloading it, at seven o'clock at night, and realizing someone's already opened my brand new milk; the cap positioned so the tiniest amount of cow juice dribbles from car to counter top. It's a good thing I love it so much, or dragging the babies to the store, to return it, would've been an ordeal. Would've been embarrassing delivering it in a little, yellow taxi. Would've been inconvenient to rely on the cashier to catch my baby like a fly ball...

Yep, good thing I love it so much....

Monday, August 8, 2011

I've Got To Mail the Sheets

Afternoon Readers,

     It's Monday. I don't mean to state the obvious, but I thought I'd be open and share the first thought that popped into my head this morning. "It's Monday." Staring at the ceiling, I contemplated it again. "Monday means...'sheet/bill day'." I pulled my own sheets over my head and made a little tent of self-contemplation where three things were clear. a) I needed to brush my teeth and b.) Sleeping in jogging shorts causes ride-up at about three in the morning and c.) Hiding in bed all day was not an option. How I wished it was an option.

Friday, August 5, 2011

A Bachelor's In Baby Talk

Morning Readers,

     Back when I was a young college pup, I used to play a little game called "Wait Till the Very Last Second To Do a Project". Dangerous, but fun, this game usually found me doing things like Googling random facts in the library, scratching down some notes, and charging, in my pajamas, up three flights of stairs, screeching to halt in front of the class, and pulling off what my teacher said was "An extremely thoughtful take on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's short story, complete with satisfactory elaboration on symbolism." Still achieving most important things in my pajamas, I've always thought of myself as fairly eloquent and off-the-cuff. But, that was before I found the sippy cup.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Raise High the Roof Prices, Carpenter

Afternoon Readers,

    There's a reason they say a dog is man's best friend. Because, it's definitely not a roof. Roofs are not man's best friend. They won't drag you out of a well or warm your slippers for you. Admittedly, they won't poop in your backyard, but, why do that when they can wait for a passing hail storm and practically throw themselves at it, like a two-bit hussy, without so much as a dinner invite? This past spring, our roof handed out its shingles like vouchers for free ice cream. Which, in turn, led us to filing our first claim on the Split-level....which led to this joyous conversation, and the reason I will never make my roof a friendship bracelet.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Alas Poor Naptime! I Knew Him Horatio.

Morning Readers,

     Today's post will have to be a little short, mainly because I'm standing up. Because I don't work out, I've got about enough stamina in my legs as a chicken with osteoporosis, and the need to collapse on the floor should be hitting me anytime now. Why don't I sit down to write? On a normal day, that would be a stupendous option, enlightened, magical. Today it means being clung to tighter than Rose hugged that door in Titanic. Let me paraphrase:

     "Jack, Jack! The babies are clinging to me, Jack. If they don't let go, I fear my arms will be confined to my sides and I'll be typing with the unrefined tip of my nose, forced to compose something even worse than that nude drawing you #2 penciled of me..."