Happy Thanksgiving iPhone

BT is the Cook in his Thanksgiving Play this year. Not be outdone by his older brother who played the stellar part of Lead Indian last year. And not to mention dear sweet ET who was a star in her musical last week.

It's amazing the depth of talent we have in the family. Who would have ever thought 3 children who have my blood coursing through their veins would ever have a flair for the dramatic -- so surprising and shocking I gasp as well.

Anyhoo -- BT is the cook in his school play today -- and in his words, "It doesn't end well fow the Twukey"

I just wuvs him.

Below you will be able to see for your viewing pleasure {ah hem, ah hem} his backstage (aka master bathroom) practice.

In which is vocal cords still needed a little warming up....he is his toughest critic.

The end salutation from BT also shows how much the poor sweet baby has an iphone stuck in his face. Bless his heart.

Wove Aways Wins

As a mother, most of my days are spent doubting that one single lesson I have tried to instill in my spawn has taken hold. The mere fact that my soon to be 13-year-old daughter has to not only be reminded DAILY to shower, but that I also must defend this medieval torture and explain the reasons every.single.time! confirms that the lessons are lost.

I truly believe that when they lay their sweet angel heads on their pillows at night, ever manner and sweetness I have taught them leaks out their ears. You just thought that was drool. It's not. It's "please and thank you and showers and hand washing." Amen

Anyhoo, but sometimes - just sometimes- God himself shines down in his glory and love and gives me hope that maybe, possible, there could be a slight chance that I am not failing at this freakishly hard thang called "motherhood"

My two boy spawn (Middle Twerp and Baby Twerp) were playing Connect Four in the playroom after we had spent the morning picking out granite and cabinet hardware. This only lead to me giving THE LOOK forty eleven times and inevitably making them call me Aunt Country Girl so it could not longer be assumed they were genetically tied to my womb.

Anyhoo -- it was not the best of days.

And I locked them in the playroom and said only come get me if there is blood. And it needs to be a lot of blood. A whole lot.

And soon I heard, "Nunt uh. Is not. You're cheating. I'm telling!!!"

And then... silence.

Silence.

Which all mother's know is worse than blood.

Much worse.

So I peeked in. Expecting to see someone decapitated. Or worse, covered in Sharpie marker while eating glue.

But what I saw was a sweet game of Connect Four starting.

And two angelic faces looking back at me.

ME: "What's going on?"

BT: "Nuffin. We's just pwaying." (says BT in his daring speech impediment voice)

ME: "Oh. Silly me. I thought you were fighting over who won."

BT: "Nope."

ME; "Oh who one the last game?"

BT: "No one. Just wove"

ME: "LOVE won?!?!?"

BT: "Yea, Wove always wins."

And at that moment, I melted. If he learns nothing else in this life, he knows that wove always wins.

Although I dearly pray he also learns his "L sound".

Amen.

I Am Moving to Boston

I've always been a tad bit "unique" let's say. I've come to grips with it in my life. Kinda.

Oh there are so many other words to describe it....but I believe I will stick with unique. Cause it's kinder. And I can spell it. And I feel the "q" is under-used in our language and I don't want to give her a complex and all.

But alas, through all my "unique" situations throughout my life, nothing quite confirmed my odd tendencies quite like my dinner party obsession last week.

And may I interrupt this regularly scheduled story to clarify a detail -- I don't think you can really classify it as a dinner "party" due to the fact there was no Casey and the Sunshine Band playing nor was there glitter. Therefore, technically - it was just a gathering. I dinner gathering.

Now I feel better. Honesty is always the best policy.

Anyhoo -- I am fighting (in a lover kinda way) a horrible cold. So toward the end of the dinner gathering I called my sweet little server over (Vladimir was his name, which coincidentally I called him Glad-a-mirror all night until my friend corrected me. In the Deep South, that is just how we speak Russian.)

Sorry, I digress.

So I call Vladimir over and said, "Vladimir?" (okay, actually I said Glad-a-mirror) "Can I please have a hot tea?"

"Most certainly, Ma'am"

"But I don't want iced tea, I want HOT tea."

"Why of course, Ma'am"

And he acted all like NO DUH -- in which instantly clued me in to the fact he was not from the Deep South. Cause if he was, he would have known there is only one kind of tea. And it has forty eleven pounds of sugar. And a lemon wedge. And is most likely to be serve in a Mason Jar. And he would have brought me cheese grits to boot.

The fact that he used a "V" for all his "S" and was from Russia secondarily clued me in he was not from the Deep South. I channel my inner Nancy Drew often. Contain the jealousy.

Anyhoo.... Glad-a-mirror soon brought me out a nice wooden box. And at first I thought he might propose. Cause that is the size of box I think I deserve. But much to my disappointment, when he opened it, a sea of tea bags was before me.

And I instantly knew I was in trouble.

Cause I can't make a decision to save my life.

Bless my heart.

So I grabbed the purple bag named Passion Tea. Cause it was purple and had the word passion in it and let's face it - it seduced me.

Then I put it back.

Cause there were about 6 of them.

But there was only one green bag, named Zen.

And I felt sorry for Zen. All by himself. No one wanting him. So I grabbed him.

But wait! Maybe there is only one Zen left because it is the most popular. Everyone likes Zen.

Yes - that must be it. Zen was the super cool tea that had a mom that bought him a convertible.

Zen did not need me.

I put him back.

At this time Glad-a-mirror was perplexed. I explained to him this is how us Southern Women pick our tea. We have to feel the package.

He accepted my lie.

So OBVIOUSLY I must pick Passion. My original choice. Which had the MOST bags in the box.

I had to pick it cause -- well -- no one wanted her.

She was an outcast. Like the last kid to get picked in gym. I HAD TO LOVE AND ACCEPT HER.

So I look her back. And Glad-a-mirror closed the box.

Then I thought of all 5 other Passion bags that may never get chosen.

So I stopped Glad-a-mirror, reopened the box.

And took the remaining 5 Passion tea bags. Cause I could not stand for Passion to be rejected yet again and spend another dark night in the box of shame. Being tortured by the heckling from Zen.

And Glad-a-mirror looked at me and sweetly said "All Vix?"

And I said "Are you judging me?"

And that settled that.

After the dinner gathering, I just could not leave well enough alone.

With five Passion tea bags in my pocket, I went back to my hotel room and googled to see the most popular flavor.

And to my startling surprise.

It was Passion.

{GASP}

I had been deceived.

Obviously Glad-a-mirror was KGB and this was all part of his communist plan!

So I ordered a case of Zen from amazon.com

And when it will arrive (or the Discover bill comes), Indiana Jones will see it. And I will have to explain.

That I mail ordered another man cause my Russian server made me.

I am certain this will lead to a divorce.

Drats you Glad-a-mirror! I'm moving to Boston.

Amen.