This Full House Archive

Tag: new jersey mom bloggers

  • I’m Not Needy, I’m Just Giving Others the Chance to Be Helpful!

    Softball Mom's View

    She wears bright colors to help her mother find her on the field.

    I'm not very good at asking for help.  What, you too?!?  I know, me too!!!  Is there anything I can do to help?!?  Anyone I should call?!?  I know people.

    Aaaaaanyway, my SIL was over the other day.  I'm not sure which one, exactly.  I mean, I knew which SIL (she was in my wedding and everything) exactly which day it was, not so much. 

    They all sort of blend into a muted shade of "What the hell day is it, anyway?"

    Aaaaaand, we just came off a long weekend, which means I swore Tuesday…was really Monday…at least half a dozen times before my second cup of coffee, even.

    Ummmmmm, what was I saying?

    [glances at wall calendar]

    OH YEAH!!!  Sooooo, my SIL asks me about my youngest daughter's next softball game and I'm all, like, she plays softball?!?

    Heh, just kidding.  I like messing with people.  Which makes me calculatingly indecisive…albeit, equally annoying…and I really didn't know when her next softball game was…lack of surprise, notwithstanding.

    "It's on Wednesday, Aunt Pat."

    Thankfully, as the youngest of four, Hope is used to my NOT knowing this sort of stuff (off the top of my head, anyways) which is why I make sure to leave several pencils (with erasers intact) by our wall calendar and at least all of us can pretty much…you know…read Hope's writing, without much trouble.

    "Isn't my dentist appointment on Wednesday?"

    Seems my son has been keeping tabs on his schedule, as well, the little traitor.

    "Sooooo, we'll be a little late to the game."

    I can't be the ONLY one realizing that their car is running on empty (AGAIN!) a little too late, right?!?  RIGHT?!?

    Riiiiiiiight.

    "I can take Hope to her game."

    So, for the first time in, like, never, I took my SIL up on her offer to help with a solid, "Maybe, I'll let you know, okay?" and, well, it's nice to know someone has my back.

    I mean, other than my husband Garth (poor guy, I knew him well or at least four times anyway) nah'mean.

    "Do you need me to pick up Hope for softball, today?"

    My SIL just texted me a few minutes ago and, well, seeing as these last weeks of school are about to get a little crazier (more than usual, I mean) I really do appreciate her continued confidence in my knowing whether or not Hope has a softball game…let alone, remembering what the hell day it is…I truly do treasure my SIL.

    "Oh, no, thanks, that was yesterday."

    Suprisingly, I made it home from the dentist's office AND was able to get Hope to the game in time to notice that there were two different t-shirt colors on the playing field and one of them was…you know…NOT hers.

    THERE WAS NO GAME YESTERDAY…IT'S REALLY TODAY…YO!!!

    "Besides, Garth (not his real name) already promised to take her tonight."

    Because, I'm helpful like that.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

    Freshly-brewed elsewhere:  Partnering with International Delight in sharing a chance to win $1,000 for a kitchen makeover…DUDE!!!!…I would SO ENTER if I could 😉

  • The Sad World of the Misunderstood Euphemism, and Zombies

    Misunderstood-spider-meme-squish-wifeMy husband, Garth (not his real name) is a good guy.  I mean, like, Eagle Scout good and anyone who knows us (IRL) would most definitely agree adding, "Well, the man IS married to you."

    Aaaaand, I'm okay with it (the fact that he's married to me AND the aforementioned euphemism) because, trust me, I am WELL aware of my own limitations.

    Like, my inability to withstand the mechanical forces of the earth's gravitational pull (I fall down, A LOT!) or, my penchant for breaking things…okay…wait…for…it…A LOT!

    Then, my lack of patience (see also: previous paragraph) is legendary, which makes me simultaneously annoying and popular with the customer service set.

    Oh, and the fact that my husband left the house feeling a bit hacked-off (sorry, had kids home sick this week and have Harry Potter and The Deathly Hollows Part II on the brain) and I'm sitting here, acting all misunderstood and everything, with a bazillion OTHER THINGS I SHOULD BE DOING, LIKE:

    • Clean the house:  but, it's raining and the vacuum is very-nearly-dead.
    • Wash the dishes:  dishwasher is…wait…for…it…broken.
    • Fold laundry:  don't want to disturb the cat.
    • Wrangle the killer dust bunnies:  I believe in raising 'em free range.
    • Go grocery shopping:  although, I did find some hot dogs and sandwich bread.
    • Get my oil changed:  in the car I mean, mine is fine (I think).
    • Continue ignoring the fact I've got a kid graduating high school in, like, 2 weeks:  enough said.
    • Prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse:  it's coming, y'all.

    Aaaaand, this is the part where you guys should be all…like…dude, is your husband ever coming back?

    I hope so.  For as much as he thinks I hate him, at the moment, truth is I love Garth (not his real name) more than my Dyson (may it rest in peace) and can't imagine celebrating another day (above ground) without him.

    He is my good-er half.

    Also, our niece is getting married next summer and you know the part where the officiant happily declares the newly married couple as man and wife?

    It's going to take ALL of my strength NOT to holler out:  brace yourselves, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

    Besides, NO ONE is better at putting their hand over my mouth, without ruining my lipstick, than Garth (not his real name) and…wait a second…I really DID mean that, literally…although, on second thought…um…never mind.

    I can hear the zombies now, "No brains!  Move along!" 

    You are safe here, my friends, stupid euphemisms.

     © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Better Start Hoping for Rainy Days, B*tch

    Veggie Garden 1

    Growing up, my parents always grew their own vegetables in the summertime.  We lived with my grandmother before I started grade school and she had a vegetable garden. 

    Later, my father would build a greenhouse in our backyard, using plumbing pipes and sheets of plastic film salvaged from an abandoned work site (or believed to be abandoned, anyway) which would one day play center stage for make believe expeditions to Egypt and China, late night bug hunts and marathons of hide-and-go-seek.

    Veggie Garden 2
    My parents surprised us with plotting out and planting our first vegetable garden, a few weeks after my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I moved into this (not yet full) house and did so, on the sly, while we were both at work.

    "Our grandchildren are going to need a place to play."

    We've been on many, many lovely expeditions since then and adopted several frogs, hundreds of worms and scores of other less invasive creepy-crawlies over the years and, well, I can't imagine a summer without digging in the dirt.

    Veggie Garden 3
    "Yes, but your back can't handle it anymore."

    My husband suggested perhaps I should NOT plant a vegetable garden, this year (stupid busted up back) and we went to the mats…or, raised beds…on whether or not I would be able to handle worrying about…you know…one more thing.

    "But, I love digging in the dirt."

    Ripping out weeds by their roots, burying a spade deep into the earth, digging out my frustrations and casting them away with every rock and stone — it's cheaper than therapy, I tell ya'.

    This Full House Veggie Garden Planted
    It took me ALL day — what once would  have been only a few short hours of work — and, trust me when I tell you it is certainly NOT the most beautiful vegetable garden you will ever see…especially, in this part of Jersey…DAMMIT!

    Busted up back or not…yesterday…I made roughly 6 yards of dirt MY B*TCH and, well, I swear you could STILL hear her laughing.

    Turns out she is a bit of a sadist, the b*tch.

    "So, I see you're still insisting on growing a vegetable garden then."

    YES!  Aaaaand, I guess we better start hoping for rainy days…you know…so maybe I can get some housework done…or NOT!

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • At Our House, It’s Called a Blood Drive-By

    Teenager PostAs a mother of 3 teens, 1 kid in double-digits and Supreme Goddess of All Things Domestic (in my house, anyways) I feel it safe say that there is NOTHING worse than battling a foreign object, invading your child's body, that you canNOT see.

    3yo Heather:  Hey…wook…isn't that where you gave bwud, How-wee?

    Unless, you have to take said child to have their blood drawn and, well, game over dude!

    5yo Holly/How-wee:  I didn't give it…Heatherrrrr…THEY TOOK IT!

    Even years later, my two oldest daughters would play out this same conversation, every time we'd drive by the building, where they each got their "bwud tooken" and, well, How-wee…I mean…Holly will tell you…YES!..it was THAT traumatic.

    [pulls up sleeve]

    Me:  Dude…they won't take your blood here.

    I took my son to the doctor, yesterday.  Long story, short (you're welcome) he's got a nasty case of some sort of creeping crud she couldn't quite identify and, well, now it was his turn to have his "bwud tooken".

    Me: We have to go…you know…[whispers]…to that OTHER place.

    [eyes go wide]

    This is the kid that doesn't get sick.  He's only heard stories, from his oldest sisters, whenever we would drive by the place where they had their blood…you know…tooken.

    Receptionist:  Name?

    Me:  Glen  [whispering] he's never had his blood…tooken…I mean…taken.

    The receptionist just nodded her head and, thankfully, the place was empty. Except for this one kid, going ALL ape sh*t, and his sh*thead father:

    Kid, going ALL ape sh*t: BWAAAAAAAAH!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!

    His sh*thead father:  SHUDDUP!!!!  SHUDDUP!!!  SHUDDUP!!!

    So, my son and I just sat down and…you know…covered our ears.

    Medical Asst.:  Glen?

    It was funny to watch the receptionist's face, as he stood up and she handed my son a cup.  I swear, you could actually hear her neck muscles pop.

    Medical Asst.:  You can leave it on the bathroom sink and then go right into Room #1.

    [eyes go wide]

    Medical Asst.:  Oh relax, your friends probably hit you harder than this is gonna hurt!"

    Thank goodness for kind-hearted medical assistants, right?

    Glen:  Buuuuuut, no one said ANYTHING about peeing in a cup!

    [blink-blink-blink]

    Me:  Well, I didn't think it would be SUCH a big deal.

    [voice cracking]

    Glen:  Buuuuuut, it's a really small cup!

    Judging by the way the she was laughing…I guessed correctly…the medical assistant was a mother AND happened to have a teen boy at home…too.

    Stupid blood tests, dumbass creeping crud.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

    FRESHLY-BREWED ELSEWHERE:  I'm over at PlaydatePlace.com this week, confessing not teaching my kids how to ride a bike. Also, sharing a recipe for Angel Food Cake that does NOT suck!

  • I do not have a pain-management problem, I have a pain problem and maybe a slight case of Trypanophobia.

    House

    Blog title inspired by House. Picture, just because.

    I had my second doctor’s appointment scheduled for today. 

    That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to. 

    Just like last week. 

    Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.

    (HURL!)

    Me?  I watched the day float right on by and…you know…give me the finger.

    Now that I think on it some more, it’s sort of ironic, really:

    • We ALL had appointments
    • We ALL sought treatment for various neurological and/or spinal conditions
    • We ALL just sat there, way passed our appointed time(s)
    • Patiently listening for our respective names to be called
    • Shifting from one cheek, to the other
    • Or, in one guys case, shoulder blade
    • Came in an ambulance, wheeled in on a stretcher
    • He still complained
    • We were all, like, dude, at least you’re laying down
    • Shuddup

    Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of “WTH?!?” watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.

    Fast-forward 2 hours.

    “Elizabeth?”

    [cue choir of angels]

    “THAT’S ME, THAT’S ME!!!”

    Schmuck.

    Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already knew….my lower back…she is fubar.

    “You have substantially moderate damage to discs at L1 and L2.”

    In other words, less clinical like…my lower back, she is fubar…good news is, however, there are two options…other than surgery:

    Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.

    Ironically enough, they call it pain management.

    So, I’m considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear: 

    “SCREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!”

    It was my 13 year-old son.  I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar. 

    Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating:  “SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!” because…you know…he’s 13 and his voice is changing…SNORT!

    [eyes go wide]

    Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, “WTH?!?” at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.

    “EYE-YEEEEEEE, MOM, COME HERE, QUICK!!!!”

    But…I…can’t…get…passed…the…

    “A BEEEEEEEE STUUUUUUUUUNG MEEEEEEEEE, EYE-YEEEEEEEE!!!!”

    …laundry…on…the…stairs…wait a minute…a bee…seriously?!?

    “Come on down Bud and I’ll look at it.”

    Now, I’m hearing heavy panting.

    “I…I…NO…YOU…COME…UPSTAIRS!!!!”

    Fast-forward 2 hours…just kidding…but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn’t actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.

    “Wow, it popped you…twice!”

    Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee…5 times…would find the one bee…that got in the house.

    “Dude, calm down, it’s only a bee.”

    Mind you, as I’m scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing…beeeeecause:

    • The boy is nearly 6 feet tall
    • There is NO MORE ROOM in my bed
    • I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn
    • To take my parents to the hospital, tomorrow morning
    • Mom’s arm, she is fubar
    • Dad’s back, she…I mean…he is fubar
    • Aaaaad my back hurts

    “FOUND IT!”

    [get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]

    “See, it doesn’t have it’s stinger and woulda died anyways.”

    I know, I know, the boy is 13.  Still, he’s been stung 5…no, wait…make it 7 times…can you blame him?

    I’m just happy he did not puke.

    “I…[sniff-sniff]…feel like…[cough]…someone jammed…[sniff-sniff]…a couple of needles into my body”

    [eyes go wide]

    Aaaaand, then I puked.  The End.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Don’t Laugh At Me, If I Go All Loopy: Find Me a Bathroom, Frappe, Piece of Cake, or Something!

    UntitledLike the weather, I'm a little foggy about what happened, last night.

    At the risk of TMI (you're welcome!) suffice it to so that even at the lowest possible dosages of Demerol, my system shuts down and, much to the surprise of everyone (most especially, my obstetrician) I fall asleep.

    Yep, right in the middle of giving birth…four times.

    So, to me, non-drowsy simply means:  will render you comatose for at least twenty-four hours AND anything stronger than ibuprofen…well…I go ALL loopy-like.

    Which, for someone who suffers from seasonal allergies AND chronic lower back pain (like I do, dammit) is SO not a good thing, but sort of funny, too.

    "AH…AH…AH…AHCHOO…OWWWWWWWW!…great, now I gotta go pee!"

    Unless, I sneeze and, well, it's all over (literally).

    So, when the cat scan for "the little kidney stone that could" came back and showed a herniated disc in my lower spine and signs of stenosis (triple bonus points!) I was all, like, grrrrrrrrrrrrrreat, where's the bathroom?

    I finally met with a neurosurgeon, this week (came highly recommended by two of my husband's clients, with similar diagnosis, who also happen to be under the age of 50) the surgeon insisted I get an MRI, like, now.

    (more…)

  • Wordless Wednesday: Rooms for Rent

    Rooms for Rent

    No pets allowed, inquire within.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

    Freshly-Brewed Elsewhere:  Kellogg's Champions of Great Starts Event (Dude, I got to hang out with Olympians!)

  • The House Next Door: The Appraisal

    …continued from The House Next Door: Under Contract

    "Sooooo, are you guys going to allow the buyer make an offer on your house?"

    This Full House The House

    1993:  The real estate lawyer, who seemed very well-versed in the matter, insisted that investing in a "starter home" was the way to go and — considering I was pregnant with our first child, at the time — our timing could NOT have been better.

    "As long as you move before the kid starts kindergarten!"

    2012:  19 years, 4 kids, 3 cats, 3 refinances and 1 doofus-dawg later (give or take a couple of goldfish) my husband and I have FINALLY accepted the fact that…you know…we are in it…up to our collective chin hairs…and, frankly, with a lot of people losing their jobs AND homes (stupid economy) we are, pretty much, here to stay.

    Unless, Ty Pennington showed up (shows ending, enough said) or we hit the lottery (dreaming along with 6 billion other people, dammit) or if someone bought the house next door (it's under contract) and made an offer on our property.

    Aaaaand, now that the house next door is under contract…Miss Grace's 100+ year-old house will most likely be razed, to make room for a WAY BIGGER and much newer house, apartments or even a couple of townhouses…like they did down the street from us…you know…now what?

    On the one hand, our house?  It's just a house: 

    • in need of a new roof and paint job 
    • the front porch and back stairs are drooping a bit (okay, a lot)
    • the windows need to be replaced
    • not to mention 1/3 of the living room ceiling (stupid Hurricane Irene)
    • and that's only about half of the stuff we meant to…you know…get to…eventually

    On the other hand, the property is valued much higher: 

    • a builder could buy both our tracks of land
    • raze both our houses and put up another cul-de-sac
    • connecting to the ones behind our combined properties
    • and…BAM!…you got a whole new neighborhood.

    Then again, I've grown accustomed to the creaks, groans and killer dust bunnies (named a few of them, in fact) not to mention, the peace and quiet of our BIG backyard.

    Besides, how do you put a value on ALL the time invested in:

    • trading secrets under the shade of an old oak tree
    • jumping your cares and troubles away with an epic cannon ball
    • gathering onion grass, dandelions and Queen Anne's lace, used to prepare Sunday dinner for the fairies who live under the stump of a fallen birch
    • The blood, sweat and tears spent cultivating a piece of land, growing food for our table and flowers on the windowsills
    • perfuming the air with scents of lavender, basil, anise, with hints of lemon balm, sweet William and about half a dozen butterfly bushes
    • providing the perfect venue for outdoor celebrations with family and friends

    It's not just a house.  It's our home.  Now that there is a tiny (and I mean, the tiny-est of tiny-ies) chance we may FINALLY be able to move up (i.e. the 3 girls will not have to share a bedroom and the boy gets a real bedroom door) I'm not sure what we would do.

    "I heard Daddy tell Grandpa we're moving!"

    [eyes go wide]

    "Is that true?!?"

    ….to be continued.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • The House Next Door: Under Contract

    The House Next Door 2

    If houses could talk, ours would be complaining about that weird neighbor, too 😉

    My son had one of his buddies over for a playdate…ummmm, I mean…the guys were just sort of hanging out…you know…not doing nothing, together (got to be REAL careful how you blog about a 13-year-old, just sayin') which, of course, allowed me a chance to catch up with one of my momfriends.

    "Did the lady next door pass?"

    [eyes go wide]

    "Which lady?"

    Because, you know, there happens to be a house, with a lady living next door, on either side of us, and, well, you have to be REAL specific when asking me questions.

    "Your 103-year-old neighbor."

    I've blogged about Miss Grace many, many times over the past 9 years.  In fact, I got my first ever publishing gig outside this blog by submitting one of my favorite stories about her. 

    The last time I wrote about the house next door, however, I thought she was 104.

    "I don't think so, why?"

    Then again, age doesn't really matter (DAMMIT!) especially, once you've lived over a century and, well, good thing I have momfriends who know more about my neighbors…than I do.

    "Because, there's a for sale sign outside her house."

    Aaaaaand, momfriends can be a REAL asset…especially, when they are much more observant than…you know…I am.

    "I just thought they were helping her clean up the yard, or something."

    Long story short (you're welcome) Miss Grace is just fine (thank goodness!) but, she hasn't been able to physically keep up with the house (not for the lack of trying, either) so, her family was finally able to convince Miss Grace that she just should not be living…alone…anymore.

    "Hey, did you know that the house next door is under contract?"

    Another momfriend called me the other day and, well, this is where most folks would be surprised to learn just how much I really do rely on my momfriends…you know…for stuff like this.

    Not to mention, I have more than one momfriend.

    "Yeah, I know."

    The house has been on the market for only, like, a month.  Considering it is even older than Miss Grace (her father built it) and the property is HUGE (at least a double-lot, like ours) I'm guessing the house next door is being bid on by a contractor, or something.

    "Sooooo, are you guys going to allow the buyer make an offer on your house?"

    ….to be continued.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • So Emotional, I Blame Glee (and @BurghBaby!)

    Resident Gleek

    Just another Gleek rocking out to Whitney!

    Yes, yes, I know.  Then again, I am a total dork from waaaaaay back.  Who knew being dorky/geeky/nerdy/whatever-y would be so cool and would you believe that I have NEVER blogged about Glee?

    Truth be told, I sometimes forget it's on.

    Me:  Why aren't you in the shower?
    10 year-old:  Glee is on!

    Or our resident Gleek forgets to…you know…tell me…for fear of being subjected to my singing along and no, I do NOT blame her.

    Last night's episode, however, was a tribute to Whitney Houston and, well, the two of us?  We have a history.  In fact, we spent many nights on the dance floor together, singing our hearts out and insisting that…you know…it would be really, really, really nice to dance with somebody…DAMMIT!

    "Is the show going to end, you know, now that the kids are graduating?"

    My 13 year-old son?  Not a big fan. 

    [eyes go wide]

    Aaaaaaand…only then did it really hit me…like a ton of 45's (look it up, youngster!) Holy Hannah Montana, I've got a kid graduating, high school, this year!

    Aaaaaaand…oh, how I cried…and cried…OH!…and single-dad Burt's speech to his son, Kurt?  Admitting that he's not ready to say goodbye and how much he'll miss his only son?  I'M BAWWWWWWWWWWLING!!!!

    Which begs the question:  how in the heck am I going to get it through my own kid's graduation ceremony, without BAWWWWWWWWWWLING, IRL?!?

    Glee Whitney Episode Tweet
    Ditto!!! Because, in my head I'm still, like, 19 (never mind, just how long ago WAS that, anyways, whip-puh-snap-puh!) except, now I'm rocking out with shorter hair, looser clothing and better fitting shoes…DAMMIT!

    "Oh, I forgot tell you mom, a notice came home about my 5th grade graduation."

    [one beat, two beats]

    I'M BAWWWWWWWWWWLING…AGAIN!!!!

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House