Pushed to the Edge
October 12, 2007

I wouldn't call James a difficult child--not by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, he's naughty every now and again, but I think that's normal--after all, the kid is two. He's generally very calm and surprisingly polite. And not to rub it in your face or anything, but James even knows how to accept and return a compliment:

Me: James, you have cute feet.

James: Sank you, Mommy. (translation: Thank you, Mommy)

-pause-

James: Uhhhhh, Moyee? I yike yo hayo. (Uhhhh, Mommy? I like your hair)

We had that very conversation at the park earlier this week, and I've got to admit, it brought a little tear to my eye.

**side note: It also brought uncontrollable tears to the the mom sitting next to me--her kid was the evil little six-year-old who was chasing a girl with a stick**

Unfortunately, James wasn't his normal self yesterday. He transformed from 'the cute little boy with the curly hair' to 'that nasty little monster with the big, greasy afro.' He was whining and pushing. He was stealing toys and running away. Basically, he was being bossy and aggressive with a little hint of violence. Cute, huh?

James was being terrible, but somehow, I was hanging on. My rationale was still in tact, I was maintaining my calm, and I hadn't given in to my very strong urge to post him on the "swap" section of Craigslist--because honestly, a rottwiler or a Buick was seeming SO MUCH EASIER by that point. I was a downright pillar of patience. Until...

James and I were sitting at the kitchen table eating grapes. He picked a teey-tiny little grape off the stem--it was only about this big: O. He looked at me, smiled and said, "Dat's a baby gwape!"

Ok, kind of cute.

Then he took another, slightly larger grape. This time, it was about this big: O. He smiled at me again and exclaimed, "Dat es a daddy gwape!"

Alright, that was sweet.

But can you guess what happened next? I'll give you a clue...the cuteness came to a sudden, screeching halt.

My child took the biggest grape he could possibly find--the damn thing was like this: O. Then he lowered his voice to the same grumbly tone you would use to imitate a giant saying "Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum!" And he said, "Dis is da MOMMY gwape!"

I was like, "EXCUSE ME?!"

And he repeated himself, only louder. "DIS is da MOMMY GWAPE!"

"Is Mommy big like that?" I asked.

"Yup."

"No James. Is Mommy really THAT much bigger than Daddy?"

"Yes. Mommy es SOOOO big!"

I had that child changed into his pajamas and tucked in bed withing sixty seconds.

He won.

He broke me.

Do you know why? Because it's true--I currently outweigh my husband by fifteen pounds, and I certainly don't want to hear about it from my two-year-old monster.

Ode to Grandma
October 11, 2007

Happy birthday to my very favorite person in the entire Milky Way Galaxy--my mother. I genuinely wish that you could all spend some time with her in person, because I guarantee that you'd never forget it.

Everyone loves my mother.

If you quickly glance above, you'll see a picture of my mom dressed up as a giant birthday present--tissue paper and all. Does your mother ever dress like a life-sized gift?

Probably not.

My mom drives a sleek, black Jetta by day and a convertible, antique sports car by night. Does your mother do that?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

My mom often gets accused of being sloppy drunk at weddings when she's ingested nothing but two Diet Cokes and a cocktail wiener. Does that happen to your mother? Does your sober mom get cut off by the waiter?

Mmmm, I don't think she does.

When I was fourteen years old, my mom mistakenly sent me to my cousin's bachelorette party. She thought it would be like a bridal shower. Nope, not so much. I lost my innocence that day, as the party featured edible underoos, four chocolate peenies (in varying sizes), and a stripper who bore a striking resemblance to Richard Simmons. Did your mom ever make that mistake?

No, no, I'm quite sure she didn't.

Does your mom email you ten to twelve times daily, to relay messages like these?

The YOU'RE ALWAYS ON MY MIND email: "I had a dream James was on a quick space shuttle trip w/ the president and we were waiting on this runway for him to land! xo"

The I'LL ALWAYS BE YOUR MOTHER email: "hey Amy-Sam's Club recall on beef patties.xo"

The I'M EXASPERATED BY YOUR FATHER email: "I'm having fun as dad is making me look up winged ants online....now he is in the shower..so should I read and study all 258,000 articles...xo"

Nope, I bet she doesn't.

I'm telling you these details about my mom for one reason only: to make you sad that she's not your mother, too. If you're feeling empty right now because you wish that Kit was your mom, or even just your pal, hop over to her blog and tell her about it in a comment. I know she'll appreciate the sentiments.

Oh, and I almost forgot...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

I LOVE YOU A MILLION!

Vote for Amy!

October 10, 2007

Good morning gang! Today, I'm asking for a little favor. My new best friend Lynette emailed me to let me know that she nominated the Lawsons do Dallas! for a funniest blog award. Can't you see why I like her so much?

So here's where you come in: Just click on the following link, and once you get to the page click the "Funniest Blog" link to the left. That will bring you to the nominations page. Once you get there, look for the nomination from Lynette/tnmommy26, it's about the tenth from the bottom, and you'll see this site's url address. Click on the little plus sign, and I'm one step closer to winning a trophy...and you all know how much I love trophies!

I have no idea who she is, but some Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper woman is kicking my trash in this contest, so I need some serious help. In the mean time, I'll be purchasing gifts for Lynette.

Thanks for the lovin'!

Marathon Training: Incident #4 (with fabulous illustrations!)
October 9, 2007

First, I'd like to apologize to all of the non-runner-readers out there who have had to deal with the recent surge in running-related posts. I know it must be snoring-boring for you to read about this junk, so I've tried to spice up today's post with some original illustrations.

I hope you enjoy!

Last weekend I went for a twelve-mile run with one of my very favorite running partners. Due to the graphic nature of this story, I feel a pressing need to protect her identity--so for the purposes of this post, we will call her, oh, I don't know, Victoria Beckham (only because I find the real Victoria Beckham strangely alluring, and I like to use her name as much as I possibly can).

Victoria Beckham had a few kids fairly close together, and as a result, she suffers with some serious weakness in the nether-regions. In other words, she has a hard time holding it. Having been her running partner for a few months I'm very familiar with this special need of hers, and consequently I go out of my way to plan routes with a multitude of convenient pit-stops.

Based upon my casual observation, Victoria prefers to make her pit-stops at 7-11 stores. I will never understand why. 7-11s generally smell like sha-dang-dong, the clerks tend to be completely creeptastic, and they sell hamburgers in the shape of hot dogs. The hamburger thing really gets me the wrong way, and for that reason alone you will NEVER catch me taking a wizz at 7-11.

Anywho, there is one 7-11 that we tend to stop at most often--you know, the one where I almost hit the overly aggressive pan-handler with my car a few months ago. As we were approaching the store, Victoria looked me bang in the eye and said, "I've got to go!" She took off running so fast that I didn't even have the time to confirm if it was number one or number two--must've been a true emergency.

Victoria bounded through the front door, and this is what happened:

As you can tell by my illustration, I don't think the pooper was really busted. I think the cashier with the mullet was just tired of helping my friend, so she sent her to the gas station one block down the street.

Victoria hobbled the entire block, and almost broke into tears when she realized that the gas station was closed. No bathroom for her. In a moment of desperation, she looked me in the eye and said, "I'm going behind the dumpster." And off she went.

For some reason, I had a bad feeling about this plan, so I followed my friend to the dumpster and stood about twenty feet away. She scooted behind, and just as she was about to drop her shorts I spotted a pair of black boots, attached to a man, lying on an old mattress.

"Oh damn" I thought. "She's about to take a dump right next to that sketchy dude."

I was like, "Victoria. Victoria! VICTORIA! Pants up! Let's go! I'll explain later!"

This was the scene I saved her from:

Crazy, huh?

As we ran away, I was all, "NEVER pull your pants down behind a dumpster in East Dallas! That's just not safe!"

She was like, "Oh, ok. You're right. But can I go pull them down behind that post office over there?"

The State Fair of Texas
October 8, 2007

On Saturday afternoon, we took our annual family outing to The State Fair of Texas. I really like fairs, but I really love The State Fair of Texas--and when I say "really love," I mean I love the fair as much as I love my legs, my lungs, and my ability to speak.

Here are some pictures for your viewing pleasure. Thoughtful, descriptive comments are conveniently located below each image.


The reason behind my love of the fair is very, very simple--it's the fried food. If you'll kindly glance above, that's a [blurry] picture of me eating a foot-long-corn-dog. I had that twelve-inch-beauty in my hand within twenty seconds of entering the main gate. How was I so fast you might wonder? It wasn't easy. I prepared by using the fair's online food finder and dutifully plotting my course on a map. I had a corn-dog, tornado taters, funnel cake, fried oreos, fried cookie dough, nachos, a turkey leg, and corn-on-the-cob all within a four hour span. I felt fabulous.

The moral of the story? Good things come to those who prepare.


This is a picture of me (with some fabulous hair), James eating french fries, and my best friend Jerome holding his prize-winning chicken named Mrs. Dinger-Doodles.


This is a picture of a young man driving a small donkey in some sort of competition. I think they won, and it's no wonder they did--that's one fine piece of ass he's got there.

Here is an older gentleman, dressed in some very smart-looking business casual for the donkey driving competition. After the race, I'm guessing he was going to drive his asstastic pet straight to the office for a very important conference call.

This is a large pig.

A large, boy pig.

A large, boy pig with gigantic schnuts.

You might not believe this due to the lack of a reference object, but this pig's cojones were the size of cantaloupes--and I'm not talking about the wimpy little melons that go on sale for ninety-nine cents a piece. These were like farmer's market melons.

That pig needs pants, and now I will say no more.

Here is a picture of me on a race car ride with James. Yes, it's a kiddie ride, and yes, I'm screaming my head off. Please note that I wasn't screaming out of fear. I was screaming because 1) my arm flab was ALL OVER the place, and 2) I was still think about swine balls.

And this is just a cute picture--Jared and James on the airplane ride.

Now can't you see why I love the fair so much?