NEVERMIND I HAAAAATE FACEBOOK and might close the whole stupid account down.

I just finally checked a lot of facebookish emails I usually ignore. And I apparently sent out a youtube thing to everyone. Or a hacker did and blamed me…? And what is the point of that? I can’t even see what it was, which is not necessarily a bad thing. But I’m sorry for those of you who saw that. I just hope no one was naked. In whatever that was. Ick. And if any of you know what I should do to prevent that sort of thing, let me know. Otherwise, I am SO done with it.

A few days ago my mom and the three little boys and I were reading a book. We were waiting for concrete to dry. (yeah. really.) And reading a book helped pass the time. My mom asked the boys what was happening in a certain picture, and Caden-6yr had a surprisingly VERY long, detailed explanation that was perfectly correct. Usually those sorts of answers are given by Ethan-9yr. Ethan-9yr listened to his brother and then said, “Weeeeelll! Who’s the big talker?!” He meant it in an affectionate, surprised way.

So, to Geekwif, Tracye, and Elaina, I say the same thing.

Weeeeeellll! Who’s the big talker?! And how cute are y’all?! These 3 ladies had big stuff to say in the comments on this post.

Okay.

Geekwif. I do care if you make mac and cheese. From a box? Scratch?  I might not care enough to navigate facebook right now, but that’s more reflective about the hack job than any disinterest in your pasta creations. And if you want to EMAIL me whenever you make mac and cheese – I will care and be delighted. In my own pasta news, as long as we’re sharing – right now I’m making lasagna. Not that I’ll eat it, what with the meat and all.  But I have to start now, midafternoon,  because I am a firm believer in the boil-the-noodles-FIRST method.

Also? Saturday, I burned about $23 dollars worth of pine nuts.  I am an ahhsum cook.

Elaina. Yes. A book. Written under the name Kelsey Kilgore. And that is not my name. It’s not even my maiden name.  And my facebook stuff is under the same non-name.  I am the WORST book marketer type person ever. Mike even nicely had a few book signing events at homes and bookstores ready to go for me…. and I said no thank you.  Publishers kinda hate that. So shhh. Let’s not tell them.  But all the social! And the awkward! And really, it’s NOT A BIG DEAL so let’s not EVER have a gathering where I have to be the center of attention for any reason at all because it makes me crazy to even think about it and really I am NOT that special and never want to pretend to be.

Where was I? Oh yeah, your thing about fan pages for book and the rest of that? That scares me. I will never be that dedicated. Again with the shhhh. For the publishers.  But if I ever need help with facebook, I’m asking you, Elaina.  Hey, can you help me not get hacked?

Tracye. THAT IS CRAZY. I’m cutting and pasting just so no one misses this. THIS IS WHAT TRACYE DID, Y’ALL. (And how cute is this?)

Finally! Someone else who used a fake name on facebook!

When I first signed up (probably three or four years ago, then promptly forgot about it until a couple months ago) I was trying to come up with a good fake name.

One of the most powerful people in our county law enforcement was doing some pretty loathesome things, so I wanted something about “lawlessness.” That took me to “lawless,” and I settled on “Lucy Lawless,” even though it sounded vaguely familiar. I convinced myself it was because it was the perfect fake name.

But then I started getting all these friend requests from people I’d never heard of, mostly Romanian-sounding names. I couldn’t figure out why they wanted to be my FB friend. Then I looked at their pages, and realized they were die-hard Xena: Warrior Princess fans.

Uh-oh.

Yeah. I googled Lucy Lawless and realized she played Xena.

So I had to change it to a less-known fake name.

Really… there’s nothing else to add to that, except thank you so much for the laugh. I DID know who Lucy Lawless was and was horrified for you from the very beginning of that comment… but now I have no idea WHY i knew that.

Am mystified about her fan base though. Although she was way ahead of the curve on the bangs, you gotta give her that.

There was more to this post. And then I had an OH MY GOSH THAT SOUNDS WAAAAY BAD IN A BAD WAY kinda moment and I deleted it and am a bit thankful I had that revelation before hitting ‘publish.’  Wish I’d remembered sooner – but whatever.   Tomorrow is a new day.

His mercies are new every morning.

(And that’s good, because so are my OH-MAN-I-REALLY-SAID-THAT moments….)

This isn’t really a post. It’s just a public service announcement intended only for those of you who say you’re interested. Yes. Facebook. I don’t really understand the appeal, and I’m not very good at it and I can easily forget about it for months at a time. But if you don’t mind that, then look me up under Kelsey Kilgore. Even though that’s not really  my name. And I’ll try to remember to confirm or add or whatever it is I have to do to befriend you.

See?

Told you i was bad at it.  And I’m pretty sure the whole point of Facebook is that you DO use your real name.

But I don’t like that. And there is a noticeable lack of people from my past who figured out how to find me there. And i like that. Which is probably another reason I’m doing it all wrong.

My mom looked at it once and said something like, “Kelsey! You have, like, 42 ‘friends.’”

“yuh huh. That’s really not that many, Mom.”

“Oh I know. But for YOU – that’s a whole lot.”

There’s probably at least 9 reasons why I love that conversation. But I won’t list them.

It just makes me smile.

If I ever write a country song, it will be about the endless chivalry of men in pickup trucks. More on that in a minute.

I was GOING TO vote yesterday. Remember? I said I would. And I tried very, very hard. And at the end of the day, I was there – in the dark – staring at my designated, closed-looking polling place. I arrived  too late.

I drove away, enlightening Ethan-9yr on the importance of Early Voting whenever possible just in case your day goes all crazy at the last hour and a half and all your civically minded good intentions go all straight to hell and all.

I mighta not used those exact words.

How did this happen…?

Well.

Let’s see.

I was telling you yesterday that it’s about impossible for me to efficiently get from Point A to Point B, like EVER. I just can’t. So. I planned ahead.

Outside of our town is a little town with an odd name. And it’s so close it’s really just part of the same town, but they like their weird name and we all consider them part of US, but really legally they’re not. They’re them. With the weird name. And that’s where Ethan-9yr had a baseball practice last night. And where he got hit in the leg with a coach-pitched baseball and had some revelations about his true feelings about the game.

Anyway.

We’re in the small town with the unusual name. And my one and only polling place where i HAVE TO GET TO BEFORE 7 PM…? Is called “Same-Exact-Weird-Town-Name Elementary.” And it’s right up the street – this town that really isn’t it’s own separate place, but it likes to think it is.

So. I figured I’d drop Ethan-9yr at practice, go vote at the Elementary School and go back in time to see Ethan-9yr rethink the merits of America’s Favorite Pastime.

Except. The school is not in this little town. It’s WAY SOMEWHERE ELSE. I mean, WAY.

I drop Ethan-9yr off, put the address into the navigation system in the car and go a little ways before pulling over and thinking, “Um. No. This canNOT be right. But I’m really bad at stuff like this, so maybe…?”

And that’s about where I was when a guy in a pickup pulls over next to me and rolls down his window.

Sidenote: Men in pickup trucks are the guardian angels of West Texas. Seriously. It’s not like that everywhere in Texas. I know. I’ve lived other places and never met a guy in a truck under any circumstances, and I was just fine with that. But here? Oh. My. Gosh. If you pull over for any reason at all, regardless of weather, a small cavalry of men in pickups will surround you in no time, offering assistance, directions, need a tire change, and is everything all right, ma’am? It is the STRANGEST thing.   Previous Men in Pickup posts here, Mike’s in this one here, and the very first time EVER after I moved here and by far the strangest of them all can be found here.

So the guy in the pickup yesterday waits for me to roll down the window and asks if I’m okay.

I say yes and tell him the name of the school I’m looking for.

He decides he knows one that could be it, and he’s going that way anyway, and would I follow him?

Seriously? This is a new level of five-star service provided by the Guardian Angel Type Men in Pickup Truck Association (GATMIPTA). And? I like it.

I agree, and then he totally goes off-script and asks, “If that’s not the right place, are you going to punch me?”

Huh? I’m really harmless looking. I mean, I’m in a GIANT mom-mobile, but am wearing an argyle cashmere sweater from an after-Christmas sale. And I’m just trying to VOTE.

“Uh….? No?”

“I thought you looked familiar.”

“No! I just have one of those faces. Everyone says that.”

“You’re a kickboxer. And I’ve seen you punch.” He smiled.

“Oh! Yes! Sorry!” I’ve mentioned before how I don’t recognize anyone? Ever? It’s REAL helpful. I still can’t picture ever having seen him before. Ever.  But that didn’t stop me.

I followed him.

It was not the right school. I did not punch him. I said thank you instead and called two different people who might know. And that helped a LOT, since I was directed to the correct  place WAY FAR AWAY from the baseball field Ethan-9yr was practicing at.  Also, this person told me I couldn’t go to this place anyway due to safety concerns. Uh? Whatever. I have none of those. And even random guys in pickups have a healthy dose of fear of my punches so I didn’t listen to that anyway. (Okay, maybe not fear. But still.)

But I had to go back for Ethan-9yr. Who was hurt, and rethinking his decision to play baseball even though it’s only the second practice. I listened. I drove. We got all the way back to the elementary school (and really?  I think it needs to be renamed. Today. I suggest, “NOT THAT LITTLE TOWN, SO DON’T BE CONFUSED, Y’ALL ELEMENTARY.”)

And we stared into the mostly dark school  for a few minutes before leaving.

I realized two things.

I should always Early Vote.

And I should never go on the Amazing Race.

Not all places have Guardian Angels in Trucks hanging around.

Alternate titles:

Two Totally Separate Reasons Why I’m Feeling Kinda Dirty/Trashy Today.

or

If I Thought God Was Punishing Me For Having Watched The Bachelor, At Least He Spared the 3rd Graders.*

I’ve never been good at titles. Which makes it even stranger to try to come up with MORE bad titles when really, all I need is one.

Whatever.

I present: A list.

Because I’m tired. As my mother pointed out earlier. And I said, “Oh no. I’m fine. I just have Tumbleweed Hair because I didn’t have time…” and then she said, “No. It’s not your hair. It’s your face.”

Sigh.

She was right.  It’s my face. My tired face. So. A list.

1. I LOVE the Amazing Race. I could easily go on it and do all the crazy things they do. EASILY. With my mom.

2. But I’d stink at any Amazing Race Detours or Roadblocks that required eating meat, math, talking to people, drag queens (last season, remember…? yuh huh – that would have freaked me out), or getting from Point A to Point B in an efficient manner.

3. That last one is a total dealbreaker. I know. I can’t get ANYWHERE in an efficient manner. I can get lost going anywhere, at any time. Even if it’s to a church I’ve been going to for 10 years. And then have to call and say, “Hey, Pastor…? I’m driving by the prison. What happened and how do I fix it?” Or, like, a million other examples exactly like that.

4. My mother is the most well traveled person I know, and a former travel agent, and she eats meat and can do math. In her head. Like a normal person. And she can get places. She should totally go on the Amazing Race, but she’d be silly to go with me.

5. SOME reality tv – like the Amazing Race – I really love. And do not mind saying so.

6. OTHER reality tv – like The Bachelor – makes me feel gross and dirty and I can’t believe I even watched that and I need to pray and repent for the next year and a half** and then MAYBE I’ll be okay again and I’d rather no one EVER know I watched it.

7. Except I tell y’all everything anyway.

8. So. Maybe my face is tired from all the self loathing that comes with my having watched that particular show last night.

9. I didn’t find the main characters particularly appealing or likeable. Which doesn’t make it better in any way – it  just makes it a different sort of viewing experience than perhaps the show’s creators intended. If you don’t ‘get’ the people, it’s sort of like watching The Bachelor, but starring Shrek. And other green, female people you can’t relate to in the slightest. And that is somewhat entertaining all on its own – but not in a good way.

10. Also in the entertaining, but not in a good way, and what is WRONG with me already category (and yes there is SO. That. Category. Around. Here.) — a pair of black lace panties went to school today. Without permission. Without me.  Without anyone noticing at all. Ethan-9yr’s coat went through the washer and dryer and was pulled from the dryer this morning and put on his body, and off he went to school.

11. Ethan-9yr’s coat has velcro.

12. Black lace likes velcro.

13. Thanks to Mike, the black lace did not make it into the kids’ Christian school where it could have been quite the talk of the 3rd grade today.   (I mean… really? what’s next, Kels? I could just pack a few thongs in the kids’ lunches tomorrow with their sandwiches.)

14. Mike sent a text saying he hung them from the rearview mirror in his truck.

15. I don’t even care, I’m just glad they’re not making the rounds at elementary school today.

16. And yes… if you’re thinking this sounds a bit repetitive – it IS the 2nd public and embarrassing appearance of some highly personal piece of my wardrobe in seriously not very long at all.

17.  As for #14? Mike would never do that. Really. It’s just not him.

18. And I like that about him.

19. I’m going to try to salvage the rest of the day with

a) swearing off future Bachelor seasons

b) voting – somehow missed Early Voting and I never miss it…

c) going to a baseball practice with Ethan-9yr

d) finishing the laundry and putting all of my things away. Far, far away. Where they should stay.

*God does NOT work like that. I know.

** Or like that. I know.

I tried to like roses for forever. Because I should. It’s the right thing to do – to be a girl who likes roses. It’s like saying please and thank you. It’s just the only correct thing to do.

And then I gave up. One night about 8 yrs ago. I gave up all pretense of liking roses. I’m not big on pretenses. And when I give them up, I tend to go ALL. OUT.

I really, really hate roses. The way they look, smell, petal arrangements, color choices, and nothing justifies those stupid thorns. I hate them. And their names are stupid, too.

Also? Tulips are underrated.

Mike knows I hate roses and only sends them to me when charities he supports sell them. And then we both know it’s for the charity and not for me and it’s perfectly fine and I wouldn’t be bothered by that because it’s Mike being charitable and I really, really like that about him. And he doesn’t mind whenever I get rid of them as soon as they’re delivered. It’s a perfectly wonderful agreement with no hard feelings.

The house we lived in before this one had a row of old, red rosebushes growing in front of a dilapidated white fence. I couldn’t decide which I loathed more – the pointless ‘decorative’ fence or the perfectly healthy rosebushes growing in front of it. I decided it was the roses.

I flooded their flowerbed for hours before dark. I got the kids in bed and when they were asleep, I went outside in my oldest tennis shoes and heaviest gloves. This was a highly premeditated act.

By the time Mike got home hours later, I had managed to pull up every last blooming rosebush and throw them into a pile in the front yard. And then I pulled up the falling down white fence. And added it to the pile. All that flowerbed flooding had made it pretty easy to pull them up, roots and all.

We were new to the neighborhood at the time. The front yard probably scared most of the neighbors into thinking we were a really bad addition to the street. And I don’t mind people thinking things like that about me at all, so I kinda enjoyed the sight of the destruction in the sunlight the next day.

Not long after that we met the nice couple across the street and he became our attorney.

But that had nothing to do with the roses.

That I know of.

I drove by that house not long ago and was SO mad. Those stupid roses waited until I moved across town before COMING BACK. Thorns and all.  I hate them. Even though that was pretty smart of them. To wait like that. I’d love to go rip them out again for the second time, but then I’d really need an attorney since that would be illegal and all.

So I won’t.

But I really hate them.

Today… there’s three different practices for two different sports for two different boys and one awards dinner for two different boys who are assigned seating in two different sections. Meaning. Two parents must go. And also meaning. I’m still in bed, writing this, instead of getting up and facing the Way Too Athletic Saturday.

If it were MY athletic sort of Saturday, then I’d be out of bed already.

Question: How do you get a splinter in your FACE?  Specifically, left cheekbone area, kinda in the middle. I haven’t been rolling around on any hardwood floors. (ok, a little, but just playing cars with Seth-4yr in the dining room and I know I didn’t use my face.) I haven’t been smushing my face against the fence. So how does that even happen? It was a dark wood, 1/4 inch long, fully stuck right into my face, not the convenient sort of splinter that hangs out on one end so you can just grab and go. More of the sort that gets real comfortable and embedded. Or. Real uncomfortable.  However you want to look at it.

It bothered me so much that after removing the splinter, I carefully placed it on the lid of a moisturizer so I could think about it. Such an oddity needed to be preserved and archived for future study. And then a few minutes later I forgot about it and needed moisturizer and I don’t know where it went.

One time I got a mysterious splinter right between my two front teeth. Also unexplained, since I am not a toothpicky kinda girl. Or a “let’s chew on some two by fours” kinda girl.

No. I am the sort who will sit in bed with a laptop and talk about her odd splinter history rather than get up and face the Way Too Athletic Saturday.

I’m keeping my face away from the baseball bats.

Well. That’s probably a good idea anyway.

Am so tired I can’t stand it. Stupid, wannabe intruders can do that to a girl.

And then there was the whole Caden-6yr  Nose Injury thing. Caden-6yr throws himself right into Life, with very little regard for personal wellbeing. Not that it was his fault. This time. But it usually kinda totally is.

So last night was Parent Group – where parents all over have a group therapy session on the phone and online with the kids who are in the same program as Kim-15yr. Juggling kids, dinner, bedtime, and an online therapy thing is never easy, and worse if Mike is out of town. But it’s also a weekly thing, and totally doable. After dinner, I check on Caden-6yr and Seth-4yr and compliment how well they’re doing in the bath and look! no water on the floor! Thank you, yea, good job guys, etc!

{WARNING: WATCH OUT. IT GETS GROSS FROM HERE ON OUT.}

I’m barely back to the kitchen when the crazy hysterical crying begins. It’s BOTH of them. By the time I get in there, the bathwater is red with gallons of blood. Maybe not gallons. But definitely quarts. {Note: Mike is the parent who should always be around if there is blood, vomit, or would-be intruders. That’s just ideal. All of those make me really unreasonable. But, oddly, of the three – I’m best with blood.}

Seth-4yr did not really appear to be bleeding. But he was hysterical. Caden-6yr was covered in blood from his forehead to his bellybutton. It was IN his eyes so that the white parts? Were red. It was pouring from his nose, and gushing from his mouth. It looked like the sort of movie I do not watch specifically because I hate seeing stuff like that.

I grabbed a bright red towel (bright red towel – great for such times – always need a few in Caden-6yr’s bathroom just in case) and started mopping it all off. Seth-4yr nodded yes when I asked him if he was just scared. The three of us held hands all the way to the living room and I finally realized the source was Caden-6yr’s nose.

Of course it was. The child’s nose could have a blog of its own.

Anyway. Seth-4yr had managed to fly a metal airplane straight up Caden-6yr’s left nostril and do great damage. I squeeze the nose and use the special mommy voice that sounds really freaky but is really falsely calm and high pitched. It’s not a choice. It just comes out like that when I see blood. And it could be worse. Screaming could come out. But instead my eyebrows go way high up until my face hurts and this oddly calm but really NOT voice comes from who knows where and says all sorts of reassuring platitudes that I don’t really believe or think at the time. What I really believe and think at the time is more like, “DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY HE’S A LITTLE BOY AND THAT’S A LOT OF BLOOD. MULTIPLY THE BLOOD STILL IN HIS TINY BODY PLEASE. NOW! AND THANK YOU. AND I NEED MY MOMMY.”

Seth-4yr feels REAL bad about the whole Shove an Airplane Up a Nostril Thing, and gladly gets the phone so I can hang up the online, on the phone therapy session with Kim-15yr’s peers who are on speakerphone REAL LOUD in the kitchen because I just. can’t. handle. it. right. then.

The bleeding stops. I send a text to my mom that reads: “Bloody Emergency. Caden. Nose. Should b ok.”

I take pictures with my phone and send them to MIke with a similar text. I’m pretty sure that the nose is bruised, but unbroken THIS TIME, but last time it was broken I thought that, too. And I was really wrong. So I need another opinion.

Still holding the nose with the red towel, I use the crazy calm voice and call my mother, who did not respond to my text. I ask her to come over. I give few details. The crazy calm voice alone tips her off. She was there during the first Caden Nose Incident, and the next one after that, too – and she recognizes the signs.

Seth-4yr finally chills out and provides all the sympathy and comfort he can.  Eventually they’re both tucked in.

I check the motion light in the backyard, still very aware of the wannabe intruder and his possible return.

I’m very edgy.

Mom stays awhile, and I’m SO glad.

Later, i let Duke out. And because I’m so edgy, I let him out, lock the door behind him, and then watch him.

I never do that. And I wish I had, a few times.

Because he goes out to the edge of the concrete and stares into the darkness and puts his tail between his legs and won’t move. For five minutes.

And it freaks me right on out.

Surely he doesn’t do that every night? What’s with that?

Finally he does his thing and comes back and I lock the door behind him and set the alarm on the house and try not to think about blood. Or Duke’s tail between his legs. Or how the online Parent Group went, since Kim-15yr was supposed to talk and i missed it. Or the footprints of the person who jumped over the fence. Or if he’s coming back. Or what it would feel like to have an airplane fly up my nose.

I can’t sleep. Because of all the things I’m trying not to think about.

At 2 in the morning Duke needs to go out again.

He lets me know he needs to go out by walking around quietly and jiggling his collar just a little. He isn’t demanding. But I know what he means. And I’m ignoring it. I canNOT handle turning the alarm off and watching the tail between the legs thing for five minutes and all of that. Because it was scary enough at 10:45. And it would be worse at 2 am. Much worse.

So I whisper to him, “Duke, baby. Just this once, you just go ahead and twinkle on the carpet. ‘Kay? And I won’t blame you at all. I’ll clean it up tomorrow and you will not be in trouble. We are NOT going outside tonight. I am NOT opening that door.”

He laid down and went to sleep and left the carpet alone.

I was so glad.

Today was one of those days I just wanted to wrap the kids in bubblewrap (so that they can still breathe) and make them sit on big, fluffy pillows.  And not move. And not get hurt. And not play outside. And kiss me a lot with their sweet, non-bloody faces.

I wanted a really, really boring day.

It pretty much happened.

And everyone’s bored to pieces.

And safe.

So I’m happy.

And tired.

But really, really grateful.

Part 1 can be found here.

Okay. Well. I sorta was 95% sure that there was a real good explanation for the big footprints in the snow. Like, maybe one of the kids put on really big boots and ran around out there this morning when I wasn’t looking. Those kids. They’ve done stranger things.

Or.

I don’t know. One time I was walking around the neighborhood and some dogs got out and I put them back in their yard. I knew where they lived. So I was in a backyard unauthorized once, just doing the good deed of returning a couple of yappy dogs. Okay, fine, I did it so they wouldn’t come yap near our house.  But you get where I’m headed with this.

Except.

I asked all the boys separately if they had gone outside and made footprints larger than mine. They believably claimed innocence.

So I went back outside and looked around some more, before they totally melted away.

I discovered a few more facts:

1. the footprints appear outside the fence.

2. and REAPPEAR inside the fence, indicating someone jumped over. A big fence. Right on over it.

3. the person walked around, coming to the windows.

4. this?  these RIGHT HERE?  These are the footprints that instantly changed my mind about why it’s perfectly okay to have a gun. These were right outside the window of one of my kid’s rooms.

5. I’m a big believer in the 2nd amendment today.   BIG. I might join the NRA tomorrow.  Or buy Nerf guns. Or something.

6. The Dummy With The Big Feet picked a really bad time to do this trespassing business. Any other day and I never would have known. We don’t have snow that often at all here.

7. Finishing this little update seemed like a good idea. But now it’s 11 pm and I have freaked myself out all over again.

This was not a good idea.

Facts:

1. In the backyard there are lots of very big footprints in the snow.

2. The snow fell yesterday evening.

3. Footprints in snow appeared since yesterday evening.

4. No one with big feet has been in the backyard.

5. No one with small feet has been in the backyard.

6. Just the dog. Who has 4 feet. Which looks different in snow.

7. The poop picker upper people do not come on this day.

8.  Mike – who has crazy big feet – is not in town.

9.  Huh.

10.  #9 is not  a fact. Oops. But oddly #10 is.

11. I  just went and took pictures of the footprints and stomped around like Nancy Drew trying to figure it out.

12. Came up with nothing.

Whoever it is with the big feet, please go away.

UPDATE: Oh dear GOD, I just remembered that my mom said Seth-4yr told her this funny, imaginative story just this morning about how no one in the house had any clean underwear today (not true! put away three thousandy pairs just last night, thanks, Seth-4yr, makin me look bad). He said that the Underwear Guy came in a green and white truck and gave us all clean underwear this morning.   I wonder if he came in the back door. I wonder if he had big feet.

I need to go wake up Seth-4yr and grill him.

This morning i woke up to THREE little boys in the bed plus a very large cat who wanted me to notice him. The only ones missing were the husband and the dog. Thank goodness. About the dog. Not the husband. The husband was on his merry way to Minnesota, and the dog was snoring on the floor, with no interest in being on the bed.

1. Seth-4yr is making up for his previous lack of ear infections. Now. A lot. Let’s just cram it all into one weekend and be efficient.

2. Poor baby. When he’s really hurting, he sticks his tongue out when he cries. That is hard to do. Go ahead, try.  He’s done that since he was tiny.

3. He hates to cry and almost never will, no matter what.

4. It might be because he’s so bad at it, what with the tongue technique thing. But that’s okay.

5. Caden-6yr is all about the word, “embarrassing.” STILL. Everything is, yaknow.

6. And very few of his examples actually ARE embarrassing.

7. I would know this key difference. A couple weeks ago there was an incident where the neighbor from across the street came over as I was sitting in my truck opening mail.

8. I didn’t see him coming. And if I had, I didn’t think he’d just all, OPEN THE DOOR. He was being nice. My truck battery was dead, and he thought he’d help.

9. Did you know you can get deeply discounted lingerie from victoria’s secret if you don’t mind the really bright colors that are always in their online clearance?

10. I love discounts. I also love two shades of hot pink leopard.

11. Not when I pull it out of a large envelope and suddenly am in a highly inappropriate mini-scene starring the Neighbor Guy I Hardly Know who just opened the truck door out of the TOTAL BLUE, where’d that guy come from anyway, doesn’t anybody knock anymore, and there I am holding deeply discounted lingerie in two shades of hot pink leopard.

12. This, Caden-6yr, is called… embarrassing.

13. Neighbor Guy had a sudden coughing fit before we each said hello and tried to ignore the leopard.

14. Mike thought this was funny when I told him later.

15. I still don’t.

16. And he doesn’t understand my social anxieties. If he did stuff like that, he’d have social anxiety too.

17. Or no. He wouldn’t . But he probably should.

18. I have told myself that Neighbor Guy probably forgot all about that. But if there were only a handful of things I knew about someone, and one of them involved two shades of hot pink leopard, it would be really hard for ME to forget that about that person.

19. But I’m thinking that’s just me.

20. Take that little online shopping tip at your own risk, ladies.