This Full House Archive

Category: It’s not the years, HONEY – it’s the mileage!

  • Because, I’m Awesome, My Husband Said So!

    I've been blogging for nearly a decade (because 10 years doesn't sound nearly as great as all the gray hairs I've managed to nurture, along the way, YO!) and I've seen lots of good things happen to some pretty terrific people.

    Some really craptastic stuff too, dammit.

    Focusing on the great, the thing I love MOST about blogging communities?  There is almost always someone ready to lift you up and out of [enter whatever has you in a funk, right at this particular moment, right here] by the very simple act of typing three little words:

    "I get it."

    Then again, there are times when the suckage starts to run REAL deep and, well, the damned gerbil refuses to slow down long enough for me to get the words out of my head.

    Never mind, having to worry about good grammar, proper punctuation and my terrible habit of using pretend words.

    See: craptastic.  See also: suckage.

    Besides, there is almost always SOMEONE ELSE who is most probably wading their way through some really craptastic suckage…worse even, dammit…and that someone may be reading this very blog post, right now, thinking:  

    "Duuuuuuuuude, you have NO idea."

    Sooooooo, I try to blog about stuff that perhaps help make OTHER folks (yes, maybe even YOU!) feel a little better about themselves. 

    Today is NOT one of those days.

    (more…)

  • Did I Ever Tell You About the Spider Eggs in Our Wallpaper?

    I finally caught up with Melisa, today — she's having a tough week — although, she'll tell you everything is okay, no really; she's fine.

    Still, girl could use a virtual hug.  G'head, I'll wait.

    Not for nothing, but having 3 out of 4 of my kids having attended, entering and/or graduating high school, this year (the boy is a freshman, our middle girl is a senior) I feel it safe to say that…YUP!!!…sending off "your youngest kid" to college is a really BIG deal!!!

    Personally, I hate to think what it will be like for Hope, when she's ready to fly the nest, with me still hanging onto her ankles and everything, just saying.

    Aaaaanyway, to help lighten things up a bit, I started telling Melisa this story, but she was running late (okay, fiiiiiiiiine, she said she was running late and I believe her…dammit!) and I was all like…that's okay, never mind…maybe I'll just blog it then.

    Why?  For two reasons: 1) as a cautionary tale and 2) for informational purposes, of the sort of crud that goes on…behind closed walls…especially, when you're not looking.

    (more…)

  • I Blog, Facebook & Instagram: Therefore, I Remember

    Cape Cod 2013 for Facebook

    I left for BlogHer13 on July 24th and I haven't been home, since.

    Okay, so I was home for a whole entire day and a half, before leaving for our first family summer vacation in, well, forever, giving myself enough time to:

    • unload my suitcases
    • wash clothes
    • drop Doofus-Dawg off at his country canine cousins' house
    • take my teens shopping for last minute vacation-y sort of stuff
    • [deep breath, exhale]
    • clean the house
    • because, coming home from vacation to a messy house is worse
    • and THEN reload suitcases all over again

    In an attempt to ignore the pain in my lower back and the constant throbbing in my pinky toe — long story, short (you're welcome!) I fell down the stairs at Melisa's house and we were both surprised to learn that I had only broken my toe — I tried to focus on stuff to help keep me from passing out while dodging packs of squeeing tweens at Forever 21:  

    • I cannot WAIT to sloooooooooow down and disconnect
    • to not have to worry about stuff other than whether it is low or high tide
    • which directly affects where we park our beach chairs
    • or not, whatevvvvvvvvvvvver

    Guess what?  Disconnecting is harder than you may believe — especially when traveling with teens, or pretending that social media has not become an important part of our life and perhaps not in the way that most people think.

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  • Simple Ways to Show Your Husband You Love Him: Then, There’s MY List!

    My husband's niece is getting married in two weeks and the kids are ALL invited to, what they've begun to very dramatically refer to as, "the wedding".

    They also get to witness their father (you know, my husband) officiate over "the wedding".

    Garth (not his real name) recently became an ordained minister (because his niece and her future husband asked him to) and for $25, or something like that, so can you!!!

    [ducks to avoid lightning bolt]

    Aaaaanyway, the kids CANNOT wait to be able to say, "That's our dad, Reverend Garth (not his real name) up there!" even if it is for just one day.

    In other words, "the wedding":  is a very BIG deal.

    I thought it would be nice to have each of us write a letter to Amy and Jim, expressing our gratitude for allowing ALL of us to celebrate their wedding…I mean, "the wedding"…together. 

    So, I searched the interwebs for some ideas and…holy hints from Heloise…I couldn't help but feel like an old fart (or a seasoned flatulent, for those with verbal sensitivities) especially, when reading newlywed advice like, "How to Show Your Husband You Love Him".

    After 20+ years of marriage (which is almost as long as when we were single, YO!) I'm all like, we still married?!?  GOOD!!!

    Still, I wish some seasoned flatulent would come up with practical marriage advice.

    [one beat, two beats]

    So, you want to see MY list?  Based on actual advice, for newlyweds, I found published on the interwebs:


    (more…)

  • So, What’s the WORST That Can Happen?

    I have a hard time believing that my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I have been together for 24 years:  we met on a blind date in July of…[reaches for calculator]…1989 and were engaged by November.

    Because any man who hands his date a handkerchief…in the middle of blowing snot during one of the most saddest movie endings in history…and then takes that same handkerchief back from her…all snotted up and everything…is worth hanging onto, verdad?

    Long story, short (you're welcome!):  what makes our relationship work (most of the time) is that Garth (NHRN) is very good at dealing with an emergency.  

    My husband has this awesome ability of assessing almost any situation in a very calm and rational Jedi-type manner, while my approach is much more apocalyptic in nature.

    Which makes me LOTS OF FUN at the end of the world-type disaster movies — World War Z, Walking Dead, I live there, every single day!

    Because, raising teens and a 12-year old who knows MORE stuff than I do, jumping to the worst possible conclusions is about the only exercise I get, these days.

    On the other hand, I am an expert at not sweating small stuff:  because I've already imagined the worst that can happen.

    For example:  hypothetically speaking, say one of our girls were to be asked out on a date, for the first time…like in, EVER!!!…my husband and I would both handle it very, very differently.

    Garth (NHRN):  if I am not home from work, make sure he comes in to meet your mother.

    End of story.

    Me?  Totally different scenario:  okay, so I'm going to visit with your aunt and you're going for sushi and the sushi place happens to be a couple of blocks from your aunt's house, so if you find yourself feeling uncomfortable or the date goes all weird on you, text me and I will call you back with some sort of emergency that requires you to come home right away and…WHAT?!?…why are you looking at me all funny like that?!?

    This is NOT your child and you know we're talking totally hypothetical, right?!?

    [one beat, two beats]

    Fiiiiiiiiiiiine, at least I don't have to worry about what we're having for dinner tonight, the other 3 kids LOVE sushi.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaaaand, thank goodness we live right on the water, don't even get me started on the subject of seafood sustainability in landlocked states (you're welcome)!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    With a fan page on Facebook and everything! 

  • I’m Married to a Saint, Literally

    Confession:  we're not a very religious family, in the sense that we have not attended church services in a very long while and are, what I often refer to as being, "in between churches" at the moment.

    If you were to ask me to give you a reason why we aren't, at the very least, involved with some form of organized religion, it would be a very solid….I don't know.

    We used to be.

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) served as a deacon, while I taught Sunday school when our two oldest were in preschool and I was pregnant with our son when the church elders asked me to apply as the director of the vacation bible school that same year.

    DID SO!

    Aaaaaand, it may even surprise some of you to learn that I actually got the job (clearly, when I used to be much more organized and stuff).  

    Long story, short:  we left the congregation soon after our son was born and then, a few years later, had our youngest daughter christened at the church where our oldest girls had attended preschool.

    We haven't been back since, for what my husband and I now consider to be very boring and undramatic reasons.

    The kids?  Well, over the last several years, they have each been either asked to attend various religious ceremonies and youth groups with friends or have participated in church functions…with OTHER families.

    I mean, why lay ALL our ecclesiastical baggage on them…right?!?

    Right.

    Soooooo, you can just imagine their surprise when Garth's (NHRN) niece and her fiancee asked him to officiate their wedding, this summer.

    No, he did NOT become a minister, since in between those last few paragraphs, or anything that can be even remotely linked back to his college degree:  Garth (NHRN) minored in religion, ironically enough.

    My husband was dumbstruck — literally, he did NOT know what to say — I, on the other hand, was all like…SURE!!!…Uncle Garth (NHRN) would LOVE to marry you guys…because I am ALL supportive and brave (mostly, for OTHER folks) like that.

    Garth (NHRN), on the other hand, is all…it's their wedding…I do NOT want to blow this.

    So, this weekend, we were invited out to dinner to discuss the wedding ceremony with our niece and nephew-in-law-to-be and, well, funny how some stuff sort of seems a lot less worrisome…to some folks…when discussed over a pitcher of white sangria.

    "So, what do you think Uncle Garth (NHRN)?!?"

    Also, I may or may not have started answering for Garth (NHRN).

    "SURE…that sounds like a GREAT idea…FUHGHETTABOUT what everyone ELSE wants…it's YOUR wedding…yada…yada…etc…etc…"

    But, NOT for long.

    "SHUDDUP, YOU!!!"

    Aaaaaand, without skipping a beat, his niece pointed out how I effectively managed to reiterate the very reason why she suggested Garth (NHRN) solemnize their marriage. 

    "Seeeee, THIS is what WE have to look forward to!!!!"

    Not just because he's lived with me for almost 23 years, which qualifies him for sainthood, in some circles…I'm pretty sure…more likely, because he is also smart enough to let me finish my sentence…FIRST.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Right.

    Saint Garth (not his real name): it's got a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?!?

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    With a fan page on Facebook and everything! 

  • Got Teens? You’re Gonna Need a BIGGER Puke Bucket!

    Yes, we have a puke bucket.  Actually, it's a very large mixing bowl (HUGE!) and, well, I'm going to stop RIGHT THERE, as the imagery may be way too much for some folks to consider…right now…if ever.

    Unless you have teens:  where it isn't a family meal, until someone belts out a fart joke (or twenty) and then my youngest (who is turning twelve, this month, EEEEP!!!) begins a rather graphic discussion on the EXACT origin, destination and natural biography of every bodily function known to man/womankind.

    Oh, hey!  Hiya!  Want to come to dinner?!?  BYOPB!!!

    Soooooo, aaaaaanyway, I feel it safe to say that there isn't very much left we parent-type folks can't handle…on a physical level, I mean.

    On the other hand, emotionally and mentally, I am an absolute train wreck.

    I'm talking full-frontal face-wipe, over here:  which starts out as a face-palm, and then you just sort of try to drag your eyebrows…to your chin.

    G'head, I'll wait.

    Aaaaaand, there isn't a font BIG ENOUGH to accurately convey the "WTF?!?" feeling of helplessness…whenever you decide to stand back and NOT do anything…other than allow your kids to just…you know…grow up. 

    This weekend was one of those days.

    Long story, short:  contrary to what some parenting experts will tell you (I am SO NOT one of them, btw) there is a very, very, very and I mean very fine line (infinitesimal, even) of being able to tell the difference between typical growing pains AND something much more sinister.

    Growing pains stink like wet poodle: sinister sucks wet, hairy donkey balls.

    [passes puke bucket]

    Even longer story, shorter (seriously, this vague-blogging is hard…YO!):  it was a looooooooooong weekend of "WTF(s)?!?" up in here, my friends.

    So, last night:  I sat down at my desk in an effort to get a jumpstart on the week, when my oldest daughter walked in from work and all hell broke loose AGAIN!

    "Alright, what happened?!?"

    Except, this time they were ALL snort-laughing with each other and…YES!!!…along with their penchant for cracking off a joke at the most inopportune moments AND making the mistake of not taking into consideration that maybe NOT everyone they meet is a hugger…they get that from me, too.

    "Holly got asked out at work!"

    Okay, but how is that funny?!?

    "She said NO!"

    Okay, still NOT seeing the funny.

    "Aaaaaand, when the guy turned to leave the shop, she hollered after him:  but, THANK YOU!!!!"

    The really funny part:  her voice goes up a couple of octaves and she then starts to smile this big toothy sort of grin when she's nervous (or angry) which is EVEN funnier…because it totally sounds like you're getting a smackdown from Snow White.

    "I was caught off guard, QUIT LAUGHING!!!"

    The part where I really lost it:  my son tried to mimick her; his voice is changing.

    [throws arms up in the air, closes eyes and SCREAMS]

    It's a roller coaster ride up in here, my friends…BYOPB!!!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    With a fan page on Facebook and everything! 

  • Middle School Drop-Off, Dropout

    Get thee to the bus on time!

    Get thee to the bus ON TIME!!!

    With multiple kids in school for the last thirteen years, we are at that point in our lives when — rather than referring to pregnancies as a timeline — my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I are beginning rely on graduations to help us remember stuff.

    Don't even get me started on the years when we had kids attending four different schools (redistricting, halfway through, yeah, THAT was fun!) and, well, a large chunk of that time is still a little fuzzy.

    I do, however, remember spending at least two hours…every day…either dropping off or picking kids up from school and a bulk of that time was spent witnessing/experiencing carpool lane ashattery of epic proportions.

    Entering middle school:  I waved each of my kids off to the bus stop and may or may not have reinacted the entire first scene of the Sound of Music…four times.

    [cue heavenly ray of light]

    Unless, my two youngest miss the school bus and…HOLY HANNAH MONTANA…I thought the elementary schools were bad?!?

    Middle school drop-offs are a whole OTHER level of hell.

    Then my oldest started driving and offered to help out getting her siblings to school on the days they miss the bus.

    [cue choir of angels]

    Until this morning when, upon entering the seventh level of hell, where everyone else's kid also seemed to be running late, she came home and then proceeded to blow a gasket.

    "How did you NOT go insane?"

    Yeah…

    "How did you NOT get into a car crash?"

    …um…

    "Seriously, the way THOSE people drive?"

    …I…

    "I can't believe you did THAT for ALL those years?"

    …know.

    "Seriously???"

    I showed her a couple…HUNDRED…previous blog posts to, you know, back me up.

    "Well, g'head and blog this then:  CARPOOLING SUCKS, I QUIT!!!"

    Which reminds me, my son is graduating 8th grade.  He'll be a "walker" again in high school (bet you didn't know hell actually had 8 levels, huh?!?) AND first period begins at 7:25 a.m.

    [face palm]

    Well, it WAS nice while it lasted…YO!!!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    New and improved with a fan page on Facebook and everything!

  • A Clean House Is a Sign of a Cluttered Mind

    Always There

    Artwork currently displayed in our library (a.k.a. bathroom)

    If I had to describe our house to you, in one word, and focusing on the positive, rather than ALL of the other annoying stuff that accumulates, when blessed, as a homeowner <—– that last part was for my husband, Garth (not his real name) —–> who sometimes needs help looking past all that other annoying stuff, bless his hardworking and very squishy heart.

    Sooooo, what were we talking about?

    [blows bangs out of eyes, stares at yet another big old water stain, on the ceiling above the dryer, don't ask]

    Oh yeah.  Focusing on the positive.  Right.  So, I would most likely agree with what other folks have described as some sort of super power for creating:  cozy.

    [glances at laundry, closes eyes]

    Clutter, on the other hand, is my kryptonite.

    I was raised in an even smaller house:  6 rooms (including the bathroom) so, we learned to be very creative when hiding stuff; especially, whenever friends and family would come over for a visit.

    Of course, unlike me or my children, my mother was MUCH better at remembering where she put stuff.  So, after 20 years of raising 4 kids and killer dust bunnies, spring cleaning has become quite the adventure.

    Every year, I find stuff like:

    • Family photos dating back to about 20 years — you know, the ones I've been meaning to put into that scrapbook I started, 20 years ago.
    • School pictures I meant to mail out to family — so THAT'S where they went!
    • A couple of years worth of report cards — before our schools went paperless (cue choir of angels, singing)!
    • OH LOOK!!!  One of my husband's Christmas presents — shhhhhh, I put it away for Father's Day (SCORE!!!) don't tell him, okay?!?
    • Pairless shoes, socks and a couple of bras — don't ask!
    • Petrified, sometimes unidentifiable, food — see previous bullet.
    • Stuff that looks like it may or may not have been alive, at one time.
    • What the?!?  Never mind.  I don't EVEN want to know.

    It's at this point, I begin to feel weak and imagine myself as an unwilling participant in some sort of twisted scavenger hunt.

    [pausing to allow those with younger kids and/or childless individuals to click away…QUICKLY…while you can]

    WAIT!!!  All is not lost.  There are times when I happen upon a real gem — like a poem, gifted to me by my teenage son:

    No matter what happens you are always there,
    You make us dinner,
    You clean our clothes,
    You help us with homework,
    You are always there,
    No matter what happens we can trust you to help,
    When you try and cover up pain we see it,
    You do not realize how much you mean to us,
    Please know that we will love you forever,
    You are an amazing Mother
    And you will always be there.

    I hung it in our bathroom…I mean, our library…because, I sometimes also need help looking past all that other annoying stuff that accumulates, when blessed, as a parent.

    Aaaaand, it happens to hide the hair dye…I mistakenly splashed ALL over the wall…really, really well…too. 

    Because, I am multi-functional like that.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    New and improved with a fan page on Facebook and everything!

  • Winter Photo Walk, Pre-Naptime Moments Edition

    Raising older kids, folks sometimes ask me about stuff I miss the most about their being…you know…not so little, anymore.  That's easy.  Naptime!!!

    Frozen clothes line

    Aaaaaand, those precious pre-naptime moments, when I would take them to the park, or drag them out into our backyard (2 out of 4 STILL hate bugs, me too) and just watch, as they race each other from tree to tree (protip for parents of younger kids:  best distraction tactic ever, works EVERY blessed time!) with little or no fear of their running into a sharp corner…or a wall.


    IMG_20130209_083010

    Now, it's me they have to worry about (or the dog, because he too forgets to slow down and look, before turning too quickly, sometimes)  and dang if I couldn't use a REAL good nap, right about now.


    IMG_20130209_141347

    Aaaaaanyway, now that they are older (not me, I'm still 19, in my head, anyways) the kids have their own agendas (none of which include me) and, well, snowy weekends were made for pre-naptime activity, yes?

    "No one will go outside and make a snowman with me."

    [insert sad face, extending lower lip, over upper lip, here]

    My youngest, on the other hand, would insist that no one never, ever…NEVER…wants to do anything, with her…EVER!

    "I will!"

    Judging by the skepticism, written all over her face (protip:  I don't think pre-teens EVER get rid of "the look" until AFTER they have kids) she probably did NOT mean me.

    IMG_20130209_141336
    See, it's written all over her face:  seriously, Mom???  YOU???  The woman who would not even be able to bend down (or stand up) without having to take a nap, afterwards?!?

    Winter photo walk 1
    Fiiiiiiiine, maybe I can't build a snowman worth a lick (stupid sciatica, dumbass herniated discs) however, we CAN go on an awesome wintertime photo walk and catch a few gosh-darned-mighty-fine-pre-naptime moments of our own.

    Winter photo walk 2
    Aaaaaaaand, guess what THIS weekend's project is going to be…g'head, I'll wait…unless it snows again and then, well, I call naptime!!!  Who's with me?!?

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Dumbass-delinquent drain pipe, stupid-ignorant ice.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House