Archive for March, 2010

One Fork-Wielding Volunteer, Please.

March 11th, 2010 at 5:03 pm » Comments (3)

Last night Seth-4yr and I went out for nachos. We are a highly unlikely pair to go out for nachos. We are both a bit intolerant of food touching our fingers. Well. Messy food. And nachos are messy.

Seth-4yr’s nachos had meat, refried beans, queso, tomatoes, and sour cream. Messy.

Mine had all of the above except the meat and with guacamole. Also messy.

Other people would have been SO annoyed to eat nachos with either one of us, but we sat there happily together  - using forks whenever possible even though, yeah. they’re forks. and it’s nachos. WHATEVER.  We stopped every few moments to grab more napkins.

We’re not prissy. Both of us LOVE to be dirty and covered in dirt or mud.  I am often mud or dirt streaked from whatever it is I’ve been doing outside. But food? That is SO different. Don’tyathink? I can have a mud clod drying on my face and not mind one bit. It kinda makes me happy. Okay, it REALLY does. But a tiny dot of sour cream on my finger and I can’t stand it. I can practically feel it ooching its way under my fingernail where maybe I won’t notice it and then it’ll turn even more sour creamier and maybe go undetected and bleh i just shudder at the thought.

Seth-4yr really gets this. He’s a nacho with a fork kinda kid.

We share the same belief about waffles/pancakes. And it’s a strange belief. And not one I ever told him, or modeled for him, since I try to limit my strangeness so it doesn’t rub off on innocent kids more than absolutely necessary. He just came to the same, odd conclusion completely on his own in a totally weird way.

This shared belief is simple: Waffles/pancakes are good with syrup, but only if someone else feeds them to you. And if no one will feed them to you, they are not worth it. Ever.  Do not eat them without a Willing Waffle Feeder.

And we’re a busy house. It’s not often where Mike wanders in and says, “good morning, honey. would you like it if I stopped my life completely in order to feed you waffles?”

But yaknow. Sometimes it kinda happens anyway. Like when he is eating them and he realizes that I’m staring a hole through his plate – like a dog – and then he’ll usually hold his fork my way for a bite or two. And then make fun of me. But that’s what you get when you won’t eat waffles on your own.

I just realized I didn’t explain WHY. And I totally overlooked this explanation because to me – and to Seth-4yr – the WHY is abundantly obvious. If you feed yourself waffles with syrup, it is absolutely hands-down, 100% going-to-happen that the syrup will sneak right on up the fork handle and GET ON YOUR HAND. Specifically, it will get BETWEEN your fingers. With the sticky. And there’s no getting it off with a napkin, you have to run calmly to the nearest sink while trying not to scream. And that? THAT IS NOT WORTH IT. EVER. NEVER.

I could hyperventilate right now just thinking about it.

I’d prefer that whenever eating waffles with people, that the person seated to my right and left ALSO not be waffle eaters, but that’s just a preference and not a rule.

Breakfast anyone? I am SO hungry.

Who’s the Big Talker?

March 8th, 2010 at 2:35 pm » Comments (3)

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.


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.


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….)

A PSA for the social networkers

March 5th, 2010 at 2:06 pm » Comments (8)

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.


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.

A HUGE Thank You to the Many Members of GATMIPTA.

March 3rd, 2010 at 2:58 pm » Comments (2)

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…?


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.


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.

Black Lace Panty Scandal, Averted. Thank you, GOD. (And Mike)

March 2nd, 2010 at 2:49 pm » Comments (4)

Alternate titles:

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


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.


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.”


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.

The Night the Roses Died

March 1st, 2010 at 2:25 pm » Comments (1)

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.